Cemetery Road. Greg Iles
I don’t know what we’re dealing with yet.”
“Sure you do! Somebody murdered Dr. Buck. And they probably did it at the place we just left. Not at Lafitte’s Den, where I found the truck.”
“What’s your evidence for that? Some disturbed dirt on a building site?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it? He came back out here to find some more relics, and they deleted him.”
“Maybe,” I concede. “But we’re not going to tell anybody that. Not yet.”
Denny looks more than resentful of this restriction. “Isn’t there going to be an autopsy or something?”
“Eventually. Depends on the backlog in Jackson. I’m going to speak to the coroner after he’s looked at the body. The people who run things around here wouldn’t want me to, but I know Byron Ellis pretty well. Also, he’s black, which means he might not be as eager to do the bidding of the people who’d like Buck’s death to be ruled an accident.”
Denny is scanning Instagram on his phone. “So are you gonna go back out there tonight and hunt for evidence?”
“Hell, no. They put guards out there after Buck’s first discovery. There’s no reason to think they won’t be there tonight.”
“But—”
“Leave it alone, Denny. Please.”
“Just think about it,” he says, looking up from his phone. “In their minds, Buck was the threat, right? But he’s dead now. And they think they’re wiping out all the evidence right this minute. So tonight’s the perfect night to go out there and dig.”
“Jesus, I already regret getting you involved.”
He grins again. “You sound like my mom. Don’t worry, that feeling won’t last long. Just until you watch my drone footage.”
I hope you’re right, I think, speeding up so that I can get him home sooner. Into the silence between us flows my memory of Paul Matheson asking me if I think Jet could be sleeping with her paralegal. What the hell? And after Buck’s death. It’s like four hours ago, the world turned upside down.
We’re less than a mile from Denny’s mother’s house when my iPhone rings. It’s Ben Tate from the Watchman office. “What you got, Ben?” I ask.
“It looks like somebody broke into Buck Ferris’s house.”
“Last night?”
“No, today. His wife called the sheriff’s office about an hour ago.”
“Quinn Ferris?”
“Yeah. She was at the funeral home, working on her husband’s arrangements, when it happened. What do you think they were looking for? More artifacts?”
“Bones. They’re scared shitless that he found bones. Bones would halt the project. They’ve got a bunch of bulldozers out there tearing up the mill site right now.”
“Can we stop that? Get an injunction or something?”
“Not with what we have now.” Up ahead, the mailbox of the Allman house comes into view. “Hey, did you find out who posted the security guards at the mill site on Saturday?”
“No. I’ve talked to the Chinese, the county supervisors, and any other candidates I could think of. Everybody denies hiring guards. Are you sure they were out there?”
“According to Buck, they were.” Nothing about this is going to be easy. “Is there anything else going on?”
“Yes, actually. Quinn called here for you just a minute ago. She wants to talk to you.”
“She’s probably trying to call me now. Let me go.”
“Hang on, man. I heard a rumor that Jerry Lee Lewis might be playing that VIP party on the rooftop of the Aurora Hotel tonight. You hear anything about that?”
Ben’s a big music fan. “Something. But don’t worry about missing out. This is one of those rumors that doesn’t pan out. Besides, the Killer’s over eighty now.”
Ben laughs. “I hear you. Later.”
I start to summarize the call for Denny, but his young ears already picked up both sides of the conversation. He’s working hard not to look excited, but I can see the fantasy in his head: a viral reality podcast with web links to drone footage chronicling a “real-life” murder investigation. He could be famous before he enters the ninth grade. As I pull into his mother’s driveway, Denny turns to me, his face suddenly serious, his excitement gone.
“If you had a son,” he says, trying to sound casual, “would you leave him and stay away? Never come back?”
Whoa. I’ve wondered if he’d ever ask me something like this. I guess he figures his mom can’t give him the answer he needs. I’m not sure I can, either. Trying to formulate a coherent reply, I stare at his mother’s transportation, a battered Eddie Bauer Ford Explorer from the early nineties. Its navy-blue panels are dented, rusted through in some places, and the khaki cladding once so prized by yuppies has mostly been ripped away by countless fender benders. Thanks to the father who left long ago, this wreck is the vehicle that carries Denny through the world.
“I had a son, Denny,” I say softly. “He drowned in a swimming pool when he was two. My wife and I ended up getting divorced because of it.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. My mom never told me that.”
“I thought about him today for the first time in a long while. Because of Buck’s drowning. My son never got a chance to be a person. Not even a boy, really. I mean, he had a personality. I could see hints of who he might become. But that’s all. Still … he was happy while he lived.”
“He was lucky, then.”
“Yeah. Until he wasn’t.” I look out at the unmown grass in Denny’s yard. “When I was your age, there wasn’t much divorce among my friends’ families. But it accelerated pretty fast. Till now …”
“I know, right? More than half of every class at the school has divorced parents. It’s not like I’m the only one or anything. But still … most of them have dads. Around. Somewhere.”
“I know what you mean.”
He picks at something on his pant leg. “Wouldn’t you think my dad would just be curious?”
I’m tempted to lie, to paint him a rosy picture. But how could that help him? “Maybe I shouldn’t give you advice. But I’ll say this: if your dad doesn’t come around, it’s because he doesn’t want to. That’s got nothing to do with you. He’s missing something in his character. Divorce is one thing, leaving a wife. But a man who leaves his children is something else. I’ve got no respect for a man who does that. A father who leaves his children does damage that can never be repaired. That’s why you’re hurting now.”
Denny nods slowly, then wipes his eyes.
“My father didn’t leave our house,” I hear myself saying. “But he left me. You understand? He pretended I wasn’t there.”
Denny looks confused. “How come? Because of the thing with your brother?”
“That’s right. He blamed me for my brother’s death. Still does. You know who really acted like a father to me?”
“Who?”
“Buck Ferris.”
Denny’s eyes narrow. “No way.”
“Yep. He was my scoutmaster. I didn’t even know what depression was, but I was messed up. When Buck saw that my dad wasn’t doing his job, he stepped in and picked up the slack. He taught me how to play guitar, how to use tools. That guy was an artist with a chisel. And what a teacher. Hell, I built a guitar when I was seventeen.”