“I’m not a law enforcement official, Mr. Savage. I’m with the FSIS, which is part of the USDA. I’m simply asking you if you sell meat to Nick Vegas.”
Sell. That was the word Blake heard and focused on. “I—deliver meat sometimes to him.”
“Meat from where, Mr. Savage?”
“From farmers up here. I deliver all kinds of things.” Blake felt himself having a good idea, felt the words beginning to form and flow with ease, filling him with confidence. He kept talking, feeling certain he could now talk his way out of any trouble he may be in. “I deliver fruits, vegetables, wine and sometimes meat from local farmers.”
“What meats?” Clint asked.
“Oh, we got fellas up here that raise grass fed beef, pasteurized chickens—”
“Do you mean pastured chickens?” Clint interrupted.
“Yeah, pastured chickens, wild turkeys, raw milk cheeses, beef...you name it,” Blake said.
“Okay, I will. Pork. Did you deliver any pork to Mr. Vegas or his restaurant? Specifically, any ham?”
Blake paused. He visualized himself on the final drive, the ultimate final drive. Instead of calling his plays carefully he had to choose his words with care, letting each word, each sentence move him closer to scoring. Victory in this game would be measured with freedom. A loss would...he didn’t want to visualize that.
“Honestly Mr., uh, Clint, I don’t usually know what I’m delivering. I just pick up them boxes from farmers and take ’em to him. If they’re open where I can see tomatoes and what not then I know, but most time they’re sealed and packed.” Blake was turning on the country, redneck, hillbilly know-nothing accent, laying it on thick to make sure Clint knew this was a trail that led nowhere.
“Surely you—” Clint began.
“I suspect Mr. Vegas would have invoices that would show all the deliveries and what he bought,” Blake interrupted, “because he pays the farmers for their stuff and not me. Ain’t that what you wanna know?”
There was a moment of silence.
“Perhaps, Mr. Savage. Please keep your phone available today, as I will likely need to phone you back. By the way, I have your address as one 13 Hale Ridge Road in Clayton. Is that correct?” Blake knew from Clint’s earlier message that he had his address, but hearing it said aloud made the hairs on his arm stand up. He felt the storm closing in on him, the noose tightening, even though he hoped he had just thrown the dog off his trail.
“Yes,” Blake said. “That’s right, but I’m not here−there today.”
“That’s fine,” Clint said. “If I need to visit and have my search warrant it won’t matter if you’re there or not.”
A lump formed in Blake’s throat.
“I’ll be in touch soon, Mr. Savage.” Clint hung up. Blake sat in his truck and replayed the conversation. In Atlanta, Clint Justice made notes on his pad and did the same thing.
***
A white Econoline van with a Black Rock Farm logo pulled into the driveway at 13 Hale Ridge Road at 10:15 a.m. The driver got out and walked to the door, holding his hand against his face to block sand and gravel that the wind had launched in his direction. He banged on the door loudly thinking that since he couldn’t hear with all the wind then no one else could. Angelica came to the door and greeted the driver with a smile.
“Howdy, ma’am. Name’s Gus...got a delivery for your husband.”
“Hello, Gus, I think we’ve met once before,” she said.
“Right. Well, howdy again ma’am. Looks like we got some weather coming.”
Angelica looked out at the trees swaying briskly in the wind. She had been immersed playing board games with the girls. “Sure does,” she said. “Looks like a good rain’s a comin’.”
Gus looked at her with a sense of puzzlement.
“Rain? You been hearing what they’re saying? ’Bout that hurricane?” Gus asked.
“Not since yesterday,” she said honestly. “They said it may hit the Georgia coast I think. Has it changed?”
“Hadn’t changed, just got stronger that’s all. And coming this way too.”
Angelica looked a little puzzled. “We can’t get hurricanes up this far, silly.”
“No ma’am, ’course not. But it’s a Cat 5 storm and they got the eye tracking this way. Saying it’s gonna bring a ton of wind and rain so you best hunker down.”
“Well,” Angelica said as she fingered the beads around her neck, “I think this mountain could use a good washing.”
Gus gave her a puzzled look and then looked at his watch. “Well, anyway, I got a delivery here for Blake. He’d asked us to bring it tomorrow but we’re rushing to get these all delivered on account of the weather. Where you want it?”
Angelica grabbed a light rain jacket.
“You girls stay put for a moment,” she said.
“Hmmm...Gus, can we put the boxes in the garden shed over there?”
“You betcha, ma’am.”
Gus backed the van up to the shed. Angelica walked inside to clear a spot.
“How many boxes do you have?”
“Let’s see. Three full boxes of organic bone meal, ma’am.”
Angelica surveyed the shed. Everything had a place and everything was in its place. She walked to a shelf that was just over the height of her head, about six feet high. There was a clearing on the shelf next to a couple of watering cans. She reached up to grab the cans. As she did she felt something soft brush the back of her hand. She pulled her hand down, mildly startled. A strong gust of wind slammed the shed with a loud bang and closed the door on the van with Gus in it. Angelica looked for something to stand on and found a milk crate. She turned it over so she could stand on it and raised her eyes to the shelf. Peering over the edge she saw a wadded-up piece of stained, blue fabric. She took it down and stepped off the crate. The door of the van opened.
“Almost got myself locked in here,” Gus said with a smile.
Angelica smiled back. “If you don’t mind, just put them up on this shelf next to these tomato cages.” Gus took three plain brown boxes and stacked them on the shelf. He looked at how well organized the shed was and reached back up to align the boxes.
“There you go ma’am. Just sign here if you please and I’ll be on my way.” Angelica signed the form. “Nice to see you again, Gus. Come back anytime.” Most customers in Rabun County were nice, Gus thought, but he was struck by how genuine Angelica’s smile was. “It was my pleasure, ma’am. Y’all take care in this storm.”
Gus drove away as Angelica unfolded the cloth. It was a blue jacket. A man’s jacket, she realized, though she had never seen it. It was spotted with dark reddish-black stains. She examined them closely and scratched them with one of her long fingernails. “Blood,” she whispered as she looked at the label of the jacket. “Large,” she murmured. “Blake wears extra large.” But it wasn’t the size that puzzled her. It was the initials J.S. that were marked on the label in permanent, black ink.
***
Blake pulled into the courthouse parking lot just before 11:00 a.m. After the call with Clint he had driven up and down the strip in Clayton, hitting the Dairy Queen and going back to the traffic light, turning right down Main Street and circling back once he hit the bottom of the hill. Just as he had done countless weekend and summer nights in high school. Only now he wasn’t cruising for girls, wasn’t hootin’ and hollerin’ after a game. He was stalling. Thinking.
Leaning against the wind, he pulled the door to the sheriff’s office open and walked in, the glass door slamming shut behind him. A steady rain had just begun and its sting surprised him since the hurricane wasn’t expected to make landfall in Savannah for another seven hours, and the eye, or whatever was left of the system, wouldn’t be near Clayton until the following morning. Blake looked out the door at clouds that seemed to be drooping and cascading down, smothering the valley. He turned and approached the woman at the front desk. “Is the sheriff in?” he asked Lucy.