'What's that you got there?' Valentine asked.
Larry put a small metal box on the desk. It was old, the cadet blue paint chipped off, showing the gray primer underneath. A rusty lock held the top closed, but Larry easily opened it. 'I wanted to show you,' he said, indicating the contents. Sara leaned forward, seeing a tarnished silver spoon with the handle bent and several unused hypodermics. Tin foil, a few cigarette filters, and a butane lighter rounded out the drug kit.
Larry turned around, as if he'd just realized that Sara and Jeffrey were standing there. He explained, 'She's been clean about six months now. I just brought this to show you' – he turned back to
Valentine 'to show you, Jake. If she was using again, if that's why she left, then she would'a taken this. There's a pack in here.' He reached in and held up a small jeweler's bag of dirty white powder. There's no way she would'a left this if she was using again. You know that.'
Jeffrey asked, 'Mr. Gibson, I don't mean to interrupt, but why did you take so long to report that she was missing?'
Larry blushed, looking down at his shoes. 'I didn't want to get her into trouble. First thing I thought was she was back on the drugs. I started looking around the house, trying to see if she'd taken anything. All her clothes were still there. She'd even left her purse.' He looked at Sara when he said, 'She always took stuff when she ran off before – usually stuff she could sell. TVs, DVD player, iPod… she never left her purse. Women don't leave their purses.'
Sara nodded, as if she could speak for the man's wife.
Larry turned back to Valentine. 'I called around, talked to her mama, her aunt Lizzie. I guess I was just waiting for her to come back home. She always came back. She didn't want to leave the kids. This drug-' He indicated the bag of dope in his hand. 'It does things to your brain. You don't think right. She didn't know what she was doing sometimes. That's all it was. She just needed to let it run its course and then she'd come back and everything would go back to normal.'
Valentine asked, 'Where's her car, Larry?'
'See, that's the other thing. Her car's still in the driveway. If she just took a walk…' He rubbed his face with his hands. I called into the school and told them to get a sub, that she had the flu. I don't think Sue believed me.' He gulped, tears filling his eyes. 'It can't be her in that car on the football field, Jake. I mean, she's run off before. It can't be her. I don't know what I'd do if…' his voice was high-pitched, pleading. 'We're gonna put Boyd in the ground tomorrow. I thought for sure she'd come back when she heard about him. Boyd had his problems, but he was taking care of himself. He helped Charlotte get through her bad times…'
'Mind if I look at this?' Valentine asked, but he was already picking up the box.
Carefully, the sheriff emptied the contents onto his desk blotter. He used the tip of his pen to push the hypodermics to the side, then the bag of meth and other paraphernalia. Sara didn't see anything of value unless you were a cop or an addict. Valentine obviously agreed. He tapped his finger on the inside of the box, then picked up his letter opener and used the edge to pry out the plastic lining. The box was so old that it came out in pieces.
'Well,' Valentine said. 'What's this?'
Sara couldn't tell what he had found until he pulled it out – two light blue sheets of paper that had been folded in two.
Valentine scanned the documents before handing them to Jeffrey, apparently unconcerned with fingerprints. Sara read the pages over Jeffrey's shoulder, recognizing them as old applications for birth certificates. Doctors handled the applications now, but back in the seventies, parents were still allowed to fill out all the pertinent information on their own. They were given six days to decide on a name, then were expected to file the application with the birth registration office at the hospital. The registrar would verify the information, then send it to the state.
Obviously, they were looking at the applications Lena 's mother had filled out for her twin girls; Angela Adams had signed her name at the bottom in a feminine cursive. Everything seemed normal to Sara until she noticed the section marked 'Father's Name.'
The woman had listed Henry 'Hank' Norton.
LENA
TWENTY-TWO
Lena lay flat on her belly, hidden by the grass, taking pictures of the dilapidated warehouse at the bottom of the hill. Over the last forty-eight hours, she had documented it alclass="underline" the cars pulling up, the money going out the window, the dope coming back in. At night, it got downright congested. No one seemed afraid of getting caught. They kept their radios turned up, rap or country blaring from the speakers. Kids rode up on bikes. Couples strolled. One time, a sheriff's cruiser rolled by and there was a scrambling of bodies, a minuscule show of concern, but for the most part, the traffic in and out of the warehouse was pretty steady.
They might as well be printing money in there.
A white sedan pulled up and a man got out. His boots kicked up dust as he walked across the parking lot. Lena photographed every step until he went into the building, slamming the door closed behind him.
She put down the camera, checked the time and made another notation in the log.
10:15pm – CLINI arrives in white sedan. Enters building.
Lena had been lying on her back, waiting for Jeffrey to come, when she'd heard the men arguing at the end of the hallway. On the football field the night before, the man in the black ski mask had called the man with the red swastika Clint. Now, lying in the hospital bed, she instantly recognized Clint's harsh growl echoing up the hall. Black Mask wasn't too hard to peg down, either. His voice was soft, almost singsong, when he said, 'Clint, listen to me. We've got to get rid of her.' Clint had disagreed, said something about needing permission to kill a cop. In the end, nothing had been decided, though the two had gone at it for nearly ten more minutes, according to the clock radio beside her bed. Lena had lay there helpless, wrists chaffing from the restraints as she used every muscle in her body to try to break free.
Finally, the two men had walked toward the elevator, their heavy shoes scuffing the tile floor.
By then, Lena was in a full-blown sweat. What had Hank gotten himself mixed up in? These people had burned Charlotte alive. They had beaten Deacon Simms to death. It was only a matter of time before they decided that letting Lena live had been a big mistake. And who else would they take down in the process? Who else would Lena put in harm's way because of her inability to let things go?
Sara. Poor Sara. It had been absurdly easy to escape into the bathroom next to her hospital room. Clothes Lena found downstairs in the laundry, too-large tennis shoes in a nurse's locker. There was a wallet, a bunch of credit cards, but she left them, taking instead a screwdriver from a toolbox in the corner. Lena used the woods behind the hospital as a cut-through, running as fast as she could in the ill-fitting sneakers. She didn't know how much time she had other than very little.
The lock on her motel room door was easily jimmied with the screwdriver, which she tossed onto the table as she eased the door shut behind her. Lena was sweating from the run. She pulled off the scrubs and changed into her own clothes and shoes. She grabbed her cell phone and charger. Her Glock was under the bed where she had hidden it the day before. The keys to Hank's bar were on the dresser. The only time she hesitated was as she was leaving the room. Lena rushed back in before the door closed, grabbed one more thing that she needed.
She threw the scrubs and shoes into the hotel Dumpster en route to the bar. Hank's two thousand dollars was still tucked behind the cheap bottle of scotch. This time, she had no qualms about taking the money.