Vandalism in the high school parking lot, suspect allegedly gouged the paint on a number of vehicles with a set of keys. Arson, suspect allegedly set some boxes on fire inside a hotel during a Christmas tree growers’ convention. Misdemeanor shoplifting and underage possession of alcohol, suspect allegedly stole two bottles of wine from a convenience store. Misdemeanor possession of a controlled substance, suspect allegedly caught smoking marijuana under the high school stadium bleachers. Obstructing and delaying a police officer, suspect allegedly gave his brother’s driver license during a traffic stop in an attempt at deception.
Arson again, this time at the construction site of a building under development by Warren Wells. Charges were later dropped when the fire was attributed to “accidental causes.”
The last arrest report was the most incredible, the most difficult to imagine. Cruelty to animals, suspect allegedly suffocated a cat by sealing it inside a plastic bag.
“Is that the one you were looking for?” the woman said, watching her.
Renee shook her head. This must be another Jacob Warren Wells. But the address listed on the reports was 121 White River Road, the same one Jacob had used the few times he’d mailed postcards home during college.
“That was the other Wells twin, wasn’t it?” the records officer said. “The one who lost the child in the fire?”
“It must be a mistake.” She didn’t push the microphone button, but the woman was close enough to hear her through the slot.
The woman drew back from the glass as if offended. “We’re not perfect around here, but we can’t be wrong that many times.”
“Jacob and Joshua,” Renee said, the papers like toxic freight in her hands.
“You know what they say about twins,” the woman said, speaking off the record for the first time, eyes like wet beetles behind her glasses. “One of them always turns out bad.”
Renee took her change and went outside, into a world whose sun was too brilliant to allow dark things to hide.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I sympathize with you, Jacob. Really, I do. If I could bend on this, you know I’d do it for you in a heartbeat.”
The words were spoken with a practiced precision. Rayburn Jones tented his fingers and leaned back in his leather chair, his eyes like oil drops, bald head gleaming under the fluorescent lamps. The computer monitor to Jones’s left had an aquarium screen saver across which sedate and colorful fish drifted without fear of predators. The maple top of the desk was like the surface of a still, dark lake. The office could have served as a museum set for the subspecies known as “insurance adjuster.”
“I don’t understand.” Jacob wiped at the stubble on his chin. He could smell the stink of his own sweat.
“I’m afraid we can’t pay out any more money until the case is settled. You know how it is. These things go back to the underwriters, they smell something funny, and they clamp down on the money flow.”
“That damned fire chief—”
“I’m sure you’re aware anytime there’s even the smallest doubt, we have to be a little more careful.” Jones leaned forward. “Please don’t take it personally, Jacob. Nobody’s saying the fire was deliberately set. But the paperwork has to go through clean.”
Jacob’s breath was rapid, the air in the room suddenly too thin. Blood rushed to his face. His side ached. He spoke through clenched teeth. “My daughter died in that fire.”
Jones glanced at a framed family portrait that showed his own three daughters wearing curls, ribbons, and smiles. “I appreciate the depth of your tragedy, Jacob. My Anne was on Mattie’s soccer team, remember? I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through.”
Jones’s steady tone was infuriating. Jacob slipped a trembling hand into his pocket, touched the cool metal flask. If only he could take a drink, he’d be able to handle this. “I’ve talked with the fire chief. She said there were some loose ends but nothing that would lead her to call in the State Bureau of Investigation.”
“She still hasn’t filed a final report and it’s been nearly three months. I’m afraid I can’t make any more disbursements until the official determination is made. Your wife received the short-term settlement to cover temporary living expenses, but that’s all we can do right now. Believe me, as soon as I get the nod from corporate, I’ll deliver the check to you personally.”
Jacob didn’t tell Jones he’d only seen Renee once since his release from the hospital. That encounter had been an accident. He was at the bank withdrawing a hundred dollars from their joint savings account when the teller signaled the manager. Renee was in an upstairs office that overlooked the bank’s lobby, talking to someone whose suit looked as crisp as new bills. She saw Jacob through the glass walls and mouthed his name, then ran for the office door and downstairs.
He ducked outside before she could catch him. The hedges and shrubs had become his ally, his natural environment, and he’d moved among them until he was several businesses away from the bank. She finally gave up the search. He waited until she finished her dealings and watched her drive away. Jacob had put that day’s expenses, for liquor and a motel room, on his credit card instead of paying cash. Prior success had given him one clear benefit in his new life: he had a $50,000 limit on his platinum VISA.
“The house was valued at three quarters of a million,” Jacob said. “A lot of custom woodwork. And contents were insured for another quarter million.”
“Please, Jacob. We go way back. Don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”
“It’s not difficult at all. You bury your kids and that’s that. No more crying over spilled milk. Fold the tent and move on.”
“Jacob.”
Jacob pressed the bottoms of his fists against the top of Jones’s polished desk. “You shook my hand at those Chamber dinners, pushed through the paperwork so my developments were covered, cashed my premiums like clockwork. Now when I need you, you’ve turned into a goddamned machine.”
“Check your policy. No one’s accusing you of negligence, but the fire could have had any number of causes, some that might not be covered. And, if you don’t mind a little advice from a friend, clean up the drinking. That’s not helping. If corporate sends in some investigators, that’s the first thing they’ll jump on.”
Jacob stood and reached for the ornately carved business card dispenser that had two brass pens protruding from it. He yanked one of the pens from its sheath and pointed it at Jones. “See if I ever write you another goddamned check.”
Jones stood, too, six feet three and outweighing Jacob by fifty pounds. “I knew your daddy, Jacob. A fine man. I see some of him in you. I watched you come along and get your foot in the door, and you were ready to really make something of yourself. You don’t know how proud he was when he learned you wanted to take up the business. But it’s getting lost in this mess you’re making.”
Daddy. That was the last person Jacob wanted to think about. Daddy had been cut from solid Republican cloth, as sentimental as a brick. Jacob always wanted to be better than him in some way, whether it was spiritual or psychological, but instead had ended up competing with the old man’s memory on the playing field of commerce, where the game always favored the unimaginative and the sociopathic. Whenever Jacob looked in the mirror, he saw some of the old bastard looking back at him.
And Joshua. Except Joshua was always smirking.
But he could muster no more rage, not at Daddy, not at Joshua, and not at Rayburn Jones. His heart, the last little bit that wasn’t completely dead, was still full of Mattie. He cherished the pain and let it nourish him in the dark hollow of his soul. The pain was a furnace that consumed the alcohol and ambition and even the anger. The pain was his comfort, the suffering a twisted blessing that dragged him through the days, his closest companion.
He felt a hundred years old. He’d lost everything and only money could make it better. Only money could make the problem go away. “Sorry, Ray. I just can’t think straight anymore.”