'I'm serious about Florida.'
T'm serious about taking a left.'
He reached out to her, tracing his fingers along her lips. 'You're beautiful. Do you know that?'
She kissed his fingers, then put his hand back on the steering wheel. 'Left,' she repeated. 'Then take a right onto a road called Kate's Way.'
Jeffrey backed out of the space and turned onto Main Street. He slowed as they came to a gravel road, trying to read the handmade street sign. He did this at three roads before finding Kate's Way, a bumpy, one-lane path that looked as if it was seldom used. The scenery changed abruptly the farther they traveled. This part of Georgia was flat marshland, huge, big-bottomed cypress trees growing straight out of the tea-colored water. Spanish moss draped over the branches like lace and there was a constant sound of crickets, birds, frogs, and the occasional gator bellow that they could hear even with the car windows rolled up tight.
The curves in the road suggested they were following a creek that hadn't made it onto Nick's map. Jeffrey slowed the car to a meandering pace, careful not to speed lest he meet a car coming from the opposite direction. He imagined it would be a truck, and that the truck would contain a local who didn't cotton to someone being on his road, public right-of-way or not.
He didn't meet any such truck, and when Sara told him to take the next right turn onto yet another deserted-looking gravel road, Jeffrey made a joke about leaving breadcrumbs.
Two miles down, there was a large, rusted mailbox beside a dilapidated lane, and Jeffrey pulled over to check the number. The sign was so faded that neither one of them could read anything, but a quick scan of Sara's notes told them they were in the right place.
Jeffrey turned down the driveway, slowing to a stop to let a rabbit jump across the path. He went a few more feet, then slowed again for a couple of chickens. After the birds had taken their own sweet time moseying to the other side, Jeffrey accelerated, kicking up dust in his wake. He hadn't meant to draw so much attention to himself, but maybe it was wise to announce your presence to a man who had been firebombed out of his own home.
'Well,' Sara said, surprised when she saw the house.
Jeffrey shared the feeling. Pfeiffer's spread was a little more grand than what Jeffrey would have imagined if he'd let himself sit down and think about it. The house was on a rise, thick green grass carpeting the lawn, a stone path leading down to the creek. Built in a mini-plantation style, two large white columns held up a second-floor balcony. Large floor-to-ceiling windows let in the afternoon sun and opened for a crosswind on more temperate days. On the bottom floor, a wraparound porch completed the picture.
Jeffrey parked his car on the pad in front of the mansion.
'Nice digs,' Sara commented.
'Why don't you stay in the car?' Jeffrey suggested. 'I'll go make sure this is the right place.'
She opened her mouth to say something, then changed her mind and gave him a nod instead.
As Jeffrey got out of the car, he could hear the buzz of an air-conditioning unit coming from the side of the house, its insistent whirring blocking out the crickets and birds, though the rushing white waters of the creek managed to compete with the fan. He glanced around, looking for power lines, guessing they were buried in the ground. That would've set Pfeiffer back a wad of cash. It was three times more expensive to bury lines than it was to string them across the sky. Jeffrey assumed the man had laid a phone line in the process and wondered how he'd managed to have a phone number that Nick Shelton couldn't trace. Maybe he had put it in his wife's name, or a family member's. Obviously, Al Pfeiffer had gone to some trouble to make sure he couldn't be contacted.
Jeffrey put his hand in his pocket, trying to use the casual gesture to hide his trepidation. He felt the keyfob and realized he'd left Sara without any air-conditioning and no way to roll down the windows. He glanced back at the BMW. Sara waved and he nodded back.
He continued up the path. The closer he got to the house, the more he could see that there was something too new about the place, a crisp whiteness to the vinyl siding, a too-clean look to the porch stairs, that gave lie to its plantation roots. Climbing the cement stairs, Jeffrey figured that the house had probably been constructed by a local builder who specialized in slinging up little Taras. This far out in the middle of nowhere, it couldn't have come cheap.
Between the sheriff's pension, disability for his injuries, and whatever he had socked away, Al Pfeiffer was obviously living comfortably. This was certainly not the kind of place Jeffrey would choose for his retirement, but the isolation had its benefits, especially when you were the type of person to open your front door with a shotgun in your hand.
'What do you want?'
Jeffrey's hand had been raised to knock when the front door was flung open. The shotgun was pointed squarely in his face, about two inches from his nose. Now that Jeffrey thought about it, he'd heard the quick cha-chunk of the pump being jerked, a shell being loaded into the chamber, as he'd lifted his hand in the air. He had been just a few seconds off from registering the sound, though, and those few seconds could have meant life and death if the man behind the gun hadn't been more careful. Or maybe the man was just terrified. His eyes kept darting over Jeffrey's shoulder, checking to see if he was alone.
Jeffrey still had his hand in his pocket. He found the keyfob and pressed the lock button, hoping to God the BMW was within reach of the signal.
'You got to the count of three before I blow off your head and ask questions later.'
'Are you Al Pfeiffer?'
'Who the fuck else would I be?'
'I've got my-' Jeffrey slid his hand out of his pocket so he could reach for his badge. He stopped when the man moved closer, firmly pressing the barrel of the Remington under Jeffrey's right eye.
Saliva spit from Pfeiffer's mouth when he demanded, 'You think I'm stupid, boy?'
Slowly, Jeffrey put both of his hands in the air. He wanted to look over his shoulder. Where was Sara? Was she safe? His heart was beating so hard in his chest that he could barely hear his own voice when he told the man, 'I'm a cop.'
The weapon held steady, but the fear in the man's eyes was unmistakable. 'I know what you are.'
'My wife is in the car. I don't want her to get hurt.'
He glanced over Jeffrey's shoulder. 'I don't give a fuck who's in that car. She gets out, that's the last thing you'll ever hear.'
Jeffrey looked down the barrel of the shotgun at Al Pfeiffer, saw the way he struggled to keep the tremor out of his hands. He also saw the damage from the firebomb. Mottled skin slackened one side of his face, his left eye nearly closed from scarring. He was wearing a short-sleeved dress shirt, white and finely starched, the grotesque scarring on his arms showing where the flesh had been burned off the bone. There were tears in his eyes, but Jeffrey did not know if this was from pain or fear. This close up, it looked like a combination of both.
Jeffrey took a step back, away from the pressure of the barrel against his face. 'I'm the chief of police for Grant County.'
Pfeiffer held the shotgun steady at Jeffrey's chest. 'I don't care if you're the fucking President of the United States. Get off my land.'
'Why are you scared of another cop?'
'You wouldn't be here if you didn't already know the answer to that.'
'I just want to talk.'
'Do I look like I wanna talk to you?'
'I need to know-'
'You see this gun pointing at you, boy?' The man took a step closer, the barrel of the shotgun pressing hard into Jeffrey's chest. Pfeiffer was about half a foot shorter and twenty years older, but his voice was firm when he said, 'You listenin' to me, boy?' He paused, but not for an answer. 'I done told you I ain't got nothing to say to nobody. You hear? Nothing.'