“Big cities have big temptations,” cautioned Robie.
“And associate pastors have more time to spend with their families.”
He nodded at Robie, turned, and left.
Robie reached the street and saw it.
The prison van was coming around the corner. The sole passenger was Dan Robie.
He was shackled to the last seat. He looked out the window as the van slowed to make the turn.
Father and son were eye to eye, at least physically if not in any other way.
This time Robie looked away while his father still stared at him, his look inscrutable.
Then the van and his father were gone.
Robie stood there on the street gazing at the place where his father’s face had been moments before. A part of him felt he was living someone else’s life. This couldn’t possibly be him back here in Mississippi. He had been gone for twenty-two years. It might seem to some that no family rift could be so bad that the son would have made no contact with the father.
After Robie had arrived on the East Coast, his life had changed drastically. He had hoped to start a new life with Laura Barksdale. That had not happened. He had arrived at his new life alone, and both confused and angry.
His life and future had been saved by a confluence of events that had propelled him into the beginnings of the career he now had. He had thought of his father several times over the years. But his work involved a level of secrecy that had prohibited him from contacting his father or thinking of going back to his old home.
But things had changed. His father’s being charged with murder had been the catalyst for him to deal with a past that he probably should have confronted long ago. And he had been unable to complete his last assignment. His finger couldn’t pull the trigger. And it hadn’t been the face of the little girl that had held him back.
So now, to go forward, it looks like I have to go back.
And so here I am.
I’ve executed many missions over the years. But I always went in with a plan.
Now, I have no idea how the hell I’m going to do this.
Chapter
23
Tiara street.
It was full of tiny, ramshackle houses with dirt patches for yards and not a trace of hope in sight.
Robie had always thought the name of the road had to have been somebody’s idea of a very bad joke.
Billy Faulconer’s house was just as small and run-down as all the others. Robie didn’t know what his former teammate had done after high school, but it apparently didn’t pay much money.
And then the cancer hitting him probably meant he could no longer work. He might be drowning in medical debt. It was a sad situation for anyone, but even more so for a man in his early forties.
Robie knocked on the front screen door. There was movement inside, and a black woman appeared in the doorway. She was tall, thin, and worn. Her long hands were veined, her nails short, and her forearms wiry. Her dark, curly hair was rapidly spreading to gray. The lines in her face spoke of a hardscrabble existence on this little patch of Mississippi soil.
“What can I do for you?” she asked, wiping her hands on a not-overly-clean cloth.
“I’m here to see Billy Faulconer.”
“He’s not seein’ nobody right now. He’s not well.”
“I know. His son told me. I’m Will Robie.”
She clapped a hand to her mouth and dropped the towel. Tears sprang to her eyes and she gripped Robie by the hand.
“Oh my God, Little Bill told me you were in town and might come by, but I never thought you would.”
“I’d really like to talk to Billy.”
“Come on in, Mr. Robie, please.”
“Just call me Will.”
“I’m Angie.”
“Did we go to school together?”
“No. I’m not from Cantrell. Billy and me met up in Oxford. He was a trucker and was passin’ through and had some lunch at the diner where I worked. Then he came by again and again. Pretty soon we was married. And then I come to live here.”
“You had kids early.”
“Well, we just got the one. I was twenty when Little Bill was born. We wanted more, but God had other plans for us.”
While they chatted, she led him through the tiny house and out the back.
“When did Billy get sick?”
“A year ago. Lung cancer. Too many cigarettes, I guess.”
“He’s been seen by doctors?”
“The one here, yes. He said there was nothin’ to be done for Billy.”
“Did you get a second opinion?”
Angie stopped and looked at him. “No. I mean, the doctor here said the cancer had spread and that was that.”
“Did he go through an operation? Is he on chemo or did he undergo radiation?”
“None of that stuff. Billy said he’ll die like a man. He won’t hang on and suffer, and give us pain by watchin’ him suffer. And all that costs a lot of money. Money we don’t have.”
“Do you have insurance?”
“No. When Billy lost his job the insurance went too.”
“You could get a policy. They can’t refuse him now for a preexisting condition.”
Her face tightened and she said stiffly, “I think we’re okay on that score, Will. But thanks for your concern.”
They had by now passed through the backyard and turned a corner.
There stood a battered, old Airstream trailer.
When Robie looked at her, Angie averted her gaze and said quietly, “Billy likes bein’ out here. He got that old trailer from a friend of a friend. Fixed it up and now he lives out there. Says he’ll die there. We can just close it up and leave him there when he does. Least that’s what he says.”
Her words were said lightly, but Robie could see the undeniable pain in the woman’s face at this terrible thought.
She led him up to the Airstream and rapped her knuckles on the door. “Billy, I got a surprise for you.” She turned and smiled at Robie. “Got me somebody you used to know real good.”
Then she opened the door and motioned Robie to pass by her. “Thank you for comin’, Will, know it’ll mean the world to him.” She turned and hurried back to the house.
Robie stepped up into the Airstream and looked first right then left.
Right was a small table with dirty plates and cups on it.
Left was in shadows, but as he moved toward the darkness, it lifted a bit.
“Son of a bitch, Will Robie,” came the weak voice.
Robie moved closer and the man came into full view.
Billy Faulconer had been one of the biggest human beings Robie had ever known growing up. Now he looked like someone had deflated him to barely a third of his former size. His skin was far darker than his son’s or wife’s. Back when they were teenagers, folks in Cantrell would come to cheer the team on, every game. They treated all the players the same, black or white. But when football season was over, things went back to the old ways, meaning that Billy became simply black and thus shunned by white society.
He was lying on an old, raggedy couch, his head propped up by a trash bag that was filled with something. Robie hoped it was soft.
He had on an old, tattered robe and his bare calves and long feet stuck out from below the hem. His short hair was filled with gray. His face was gaunt, his sunken chest drawing in and out in slow, elongated movements. There was sweat on his skin and not much life in the eyes. An oxygen tank on a little rusted roller sat next to him, its attached lines running up to his nostrils. He seemed to suck greedily on the air.
Robie looked around. He found a little stool covered in junk. He set the items on the floor, pulled it up next to Billy, and sat down.
Wheezing, Billy said, “Shit, man, you look like you could still suit up for Cantrell High.”