Silent Son Read online

  “Why?” The tone of voice was clinical, as if what he’d just heard was no big deal.

  “He’s after my ass!”

  “Still? He doesn’t have a thing on you.”

  “He’s not gonna give up tryin’.”

  “Don’t sweat it. Just be cool.”

  “I’d be a lot cooler if I had my money!”

  “I told you before not to worry. You’ll get the money.” The voice was steady.

  “You got three more days.” Roscoe replied.

  “You’ll get your money.”

  “Three days.”

  “Good-bye, Roscoe.” The calm voice ended in a click.

  “Damn!” Miller smashed the phone against the metal hook, bouncing it off and making it jump and twist like a headless snake.

  How could he have gotten himself into this? He was a tough guy. Always in charge. Always ahead of the game. But things had been switched around. He’d lost control, and there was not a hell of a lot he could do about it now.

  * * *

  Bowers Corner looked eerie at night. With no interior lights to soften the outline, it was as imposing as a witch’s castle on a stony mountaintop. The roofline jutted with sharp angles where the gables joined the structure, and the antique glass in the attic windows reflected a rippled moon.

  Brownie parked his van by the porch and got out. His meeting with Jenneane had exceeded any possible expectations. For some reason, the child had absorbed the day of the shooting like a sponge. All it took was a gentle squeeze, and the details had squirted out like rainwater.

  The Miller angle was puzzling. If it was Roscoe, why was he riding in the back of his truck? He guarded that piece of junk like a Rolls-Royce. It would be odd for him to turn it over to someone else, and then to take a seat in the bed. That didn’t sound like the Miller he knew. But it was a beginning. Maybe now he could start to put together a case that was more than speculation.

  Brownie mounted the porch and inserted a key into the lock. The tumblers clicked, and the glass door creaked open. He shone his flashlight into the room and looked for the switch that would illuminate the brass fixtures on the wall. He found it and threw the small toggle. Nothing. He crossed to the far side and tried the one by the back door. Again, nothing. There was no power. Someone had shut it off.

  Brownie beamed his flashlight around the room. Somewhere in there was the evidence of a third shot. The field detectives had assumed only two shots and never scoured the perimeter for another bullet. Brownie had thought the same thing and had not wasted time poking around the shelves. But Jenneane’s recollection was not to be ignored.

  Brownie walked to the position where the bodies were found, and began sighting possible trajectories. The shooter’s back had been to the rear wall. That much was obvious. The bodies had both lain with their heads toward the front door. Brownie sighted forward and down, to the place where the fragments were found, on the floor several feet past the victims. Brownie turned slightly and aligned himself with the chalk mark where Granville had fallen. It was at right angles to the other bodies. The officer stepped back and imagined the gun barrel pointed at Granville’s head. Then he sighted twenty degrees to either side. Then ninety degrees up. Then ninety degrees down. Following those sight lines he walked to the shelves that intersected the path. But nothing had been disturbed.

  Brownie walked back and adjusted the angle so that Granville would have been facing directly toward the spot where Addie was shot. Projecting trajectories from that location brought several additional shelves into view. He carefully examined each one, finally arriving at a high wall shelf by the front door. Using a chair as a stepladder, he slowly went from bottom to top, turning cans, moving boxes, looking for any sign of a bullet’s path.

  When he reached the top shelf, his light picked up a metallic glint on the side of a soup can. He grabbed it and pulled it out. There was a slight crease on the side, enough to cut the red paper label and expose the silver of the can. He pushed the other cans aside and illuminated the wall behind the shelf. There was a hole! A jagged hole blasted into the plaster. Brownie had a sudden vision of Addie’s and Henry’s shattered heads at the morgue. He swallowed hard and directed his light into the hole. As far as he could see, it was empty. He pulled out his penknife and inserted it into the opening. He probed and probed, looking for the bullet, but it was gone. Someone had gotten there first!

  Gardner and Jennifer sat at the dining room table of the town house, staring across their plates. Gardner’s baked chicken had been barely touched, and he repeatedly rubbed the back of his neck, a sure sign that the tension of recent events had lodged in his shoulder muscles. The interim police report lay to the side of his place mat, creased and rumpled by repeated handling.

  “Do you want more tea?” Jennifer was trying hard to maintain the appearance of normalcy. She had never seen Gardner so depressed as he’d been after visiting Granville.

  “Uh, no. No thanks, Jennifer,” Gardner replied, lost in thought.

  “Are you going to finish that, or do you want me to wrap it for tomorrow?” Jennifer asked.

  Gardner pushed the plate. “I’m done. Just can’t eat right now.”

  Jennifer stood and cleared her place.

  Gardner began to stand, but she motioned him down. “No. You sit there. I’ll take care of it. I have a surprise for dessert.”

  Gardner flopped back into his chair. “Surprise?” A brief smile flickered on his lips. Jennifer was a jewel: a brilliant attorney and a loving companion. She was tough as nails in the courtroom, and soft as satin at home.

  Jennifer soon returned with a chocolate eclair on a plate, his absolute favorite.

  “Thank you,” he said, pulling her down for a quick kiss on the cheek.

  Gardner took several bites of his dessert as Jennifer watched. When he was finished, he picked up the police report. “Did you read this thing?”

  Jennifer moved to a side chair, where she could see the writing. “You put me in charge, remember?”

  Gardner turned to the last page. “No suspects,” he quoted. “They’re not even referring to Miller as a suspect.”

  Jennifer touched the page and traced the words that Gardner had just read aloud. “Brownie’s hunch does not make him a suspect.”

  Gardner nodded. “But his instinct’s usually right on the money. I can’t believe they don’t have more evidence than this!”

  Jennifer’s hand moved to his arm. “Relax, Gard.”

  “God!” Gardner groaned. “Two people gunned down, Granville injured, and they still haven’t got any suspects!” Jennifer rubbed his arm. “Gard…”

  “Gotta do something. We, uh… you…” Gardner corrected himself. “It’s killing me. Just sitting here…”

  “It was your decision to step aside, and you know it was right,” Jennifer said. “I’m meeting with Brownie tomorrow. He has some new leads…”

  Gardner looked up. “Leads?”

  “A new witness. Possible identification of Miller and his truck near the crime scene.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because nothing’s certain yet. I’ll brief you after I get the facts—”

  “But—”

  “Obey your own directive. Please,” Jennifer said. “It’ll make it easier on both of us.”

  Gardner started to protest, but stopped and grabbed the arms of the mahogany chair. “It’s hard to do that,” he said more calmly.

  “I know,” Jennifer answered.

  “I’m sorry I got testy,” Gardner said.

  “That’s okay,” Jennifer replied, moving over and sitting on his lap. “I do understand what you’re going through.”

  “But what if the witness doesn’t pan out?” Gardner said. He had slowed down, but he couldn’t quit.

  “We’ll deal with that when it happens,” Jennifer answered.

  “But we still need an ID. A crime scene ID…”

  Jennifer squeezed his neck and felt the tension.
r />   Gardner closed his eyes. The investigators could search and search, but only one person could really solve the case. One person. The only eyewitness to the crime. Granville.

  five

  Granville was curled up in his bed, dreaming about bunnies. He had been home for three days now, and all his dreams had been dark and spooky. But this one was sunny. He and Dad were at the Bowers Corner petting zoo. Granville looked into the first cage. A large white fur ball with reddish eyes was looking out through the wire bars. His nose twinkled as he sniffed. Granville smiled and turned to see Dad. He was gone. Suddenly, a shadow came across the sun. Granville turned to the cage. A man stood on the other side of the enclosure. He was dressed in black, and was so tall that Granville couldn’t see his face. It was getting dark, and the rabbit in the cage began to hop around. The man opened the top of the wire and reached in. The bunny scurried to get away, but he was caught. It was getting darker and darker. Granville looked for Dad again, but it was too dark to see. The bunny was struggling. Kicking and squirming to get away. There was some writing on the side of the man’s hand. Granville yelled at him, but he wouldn’t stop. The bunny was shaking, its eyes wide with terror and pain. Dad! Dad! The darkness was turning to red. Red. Wet, sticky red all over. Dad! Dad!

  Carole awoke, and ran to Granville’s room when she heard him scream. She had been warned that this might happen. Nightmares were a common aftermath of trauma. She had left on the night light and kept the door open just in case, but the strangled voice still startled her.

  “Granny. Granny.” She shook his small body gently. His head was damp, and he’d twisted his covers into a tangled mess.

  “Mom…” He put his arms around her.

  “It’s okay, you just had a dream,” she said, stroking his matted hair. “Just a dream…”

  Granville blinked away the sleep. “I got scared…” “You’re fine now,” Carole said. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

  The boy hugged his mother tightly. “Can I sleep with you?” Carole didn’t answer immediately. Her son was eight years old, well past the stage where he had to cuddle with mommy in order to go to sleep. He’d graduated to his own room long ago, and not only accepted it, he liked it. Now he was slipping backward. Since the day of the shooting, ever so slowly backward.

  “Can I, Mom?”

  “Yes, Granny. You can.” Carole could not resist his pleading look. “But just for tonight. Tomorrow you have to go back in your own bed.”

  They gathered Granville’s teddy bear and walked down the long hall to Carole’s room, holding hands. The clock on her dresser said 2:15. Carole pulled back her covers and let her son slip inside. Then she got in next to him and reached for the light.

  “No. Please, Mom.”

  Carole considered switching it off anyway, but she retracted her hand. Granville was not playing games. The bedside lamp would burn all night because, among other things, Granville had developed an aversion to the dark.

  * * *

  The law office of Kent King was situated in the Veil Valley Professional Center, near the county’s upscale doctors, dentists, and attorneys. King had been the first tenant there when it opened two years ago, and he had selected the prime location, a suite of first-floor offices at the head of the main thoroughfare. His large two-sided sign could not be missed as the people came and went to have their teeth drilled or their taxes prepared. Sooner or later they came back to Veil Valley. And most of the time, it was to see King.

  “Mr. Edwin Charles to see you, sir,” his secretary called over the intercom.

  King leaned back in his tufted leather chair. “Thanks, Tanya. You can send him in.”

  The door opened and a distinguished-looking man entered. He was in his late fifties, with metallic gray hair, wearing wire rim glasses and tweed from shoulder to foot.

  “Mr. Charles, please sit.” King motioned to a leather captain’s chair.

  “Thank you.” Charles eased down into the seat. “You know who I am,” he began, “headmaster of Prentice Academy.”

  King nodded.

  “Been there twenty years,” Charles continued smoothly.

  King did not blink. The man’s name was synonymous with the academy.

  “What can I do for you?” the attorney asked.

  “Can you tell me if you drew up some documents for Henry Bowers?”

  King frowned. Client dealings were confidential.

  “Uh, a bequest to the school. Henry planned to leave us some money when he died—”

  King interrupted. “Mr. Charles, I’m not at liberty to discuss communications with my clients.”

  “But he’s dead,” the headmaster replied.

  “All the more reason,” King answered. “He can’t defend himself against false claims.”

  Now Charles was frowning. He pulled a piece of paper out of an envelope in his lap and passed it across to King. “We talked about it. Quite some time ago. Henry and I. He loved the school. What we were trying to accomplish there…”

  King looked at the paper. The date at the top was seven years earlier. “$500,000.00” was written in large print in the middle of the page.

  “Henry guaranteed it. When he passed away, we could get the money. That’s what he said.”

  “Who wrote this?” King asked.

  Charles hesitated. “I did,” he finally said. “But Henry signed it. At the bottom.” He pointed to an H with a squiggly line after it. “There. Right there.”

  King shook his head. “You’re not suggesting that this thing is enforceable, are you?”

  “Uh, no. I don’t really know. That’s one reason I’m here. Henry told me he was going to get it written up in proper legal form. Did he see you about it?”

  King shook his head again. “Mr. Charles, I’m not permitted to say. If I did draw up any papers, or if I didn’t is a private matter. But it’s really a moot question, isn’t it?”

  The headmaster’s expression turned quizzical.

  “I mean,” King continued, “Henry didn’t have that kind of money! A half a million? That’s ridiculous.”

  A shadow passed over Charles’s face. “You’re sure about that?”

  King smiled wryly. “He was broke.”

  “But Henry said…”

  King smiled again. “Saying and having are two different things. I’m sure his intentions were good, but you cannot give what you haven’t got.”

  Charles looked confused. He had not expected this.

  “Anything else?” King asked. “Anything else I can help you with?”

  Charles’s face was still blank, “Uh, no… I guess not.”

  King stood up and handed his business card across the desk. “Well, if you ever need any legal advice for yourself, you know where to call.”

  Charles stood and took the card. “Thanks, Mr. King,” he said. “I may just do that.”

  The meeting ended on that note, and Charles left the room. As soon as he was out the door, King picked up his phone and dialed the number for Purvis Bowers.

  “Hello?”

  “This is King. Mr. Edwin Charles just paid me a visit.”

  There was a pause. “What did he want?”

  “Money.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  King did not reply.

  “What now?” Bowers asked.

  “We just sit tight,” King said. “If he makes a formal claim, we’ll have to defend it. But don’t worry, Prentice Academy won’t get a cent.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  King went silent again. He hated for anyone to question his advice.

  “So we’re okay?” Bowers persisted.

  “So far,” answered King. “Just pray that no one digs too deep.”

  “I will,” Purvis replied.

  “Good,” King said. Then he hung up the phone. Their moves had been well planned; the money was safe, and it was all legal. With a little luck, the police would rush past it in their search for the killer.

&nb
sp; “Call your next witness,” Judge Danforth ordered from his lofty bench in Courtroom One. It was midafternoon, and the minor shoplifting case had dragged on all day. The assistant public defender, an inexperienced recent appointee, was making her debut against Gardner Lawson. So far, the blonde twenty-six-year-old had effectively stood her ground.

  But Gardner had fought back. Despite his lack of enthusiasm, he could not let this rookie best him on her first try. He was sleepwalking through the case, barely able to concentrate, but he knew how to draw on his storehouse of experience.

  And now Gardner was about to call his main witness, the store detective who had caught the defendant stealing a pair of designer jeans.

  “Stuart Ingram,” Gardner said wearily.

  A uniformed man in his early thirties took the witness stand and was sworn in.

  “State your name for the record,” the clerk droned.

  Gardner’s mind was far away. He was barely listening, hardly cognizant of the trial or the people around him. The voices were hushed, like distant whispers. He was lying in the hammock back at the Watson Road house, six and a half years ago. The sun lit his face as he rocked slowly from the shade into the light, and the tall pine trees whistled in the soft wind. He was peaceful. Content. Suddenly, something touched his arm. “Da Da.” Granville had escaped his crib, crawled down the stairs, and gone to find his dad. Gardner smiled and pulled Granville up into the hammock, laying him across his chest, belly to belly. The boy hugged his neck, and together they continued to rock from the shadows into the light.

  “Mr. Lawson!” Judge Danforth hollered. “Ask a question! We can’t stay here forever!”

  Gardner shook off his daydream and stood up. “Uh, Mr….” He had to look at the report to find the man’s name. “Mr. Ingram, please tell the court by whom you are employed.”

  “Cran Mart.”

  “Is that Crandall Market, Incorporated? A licensed enterprise doing business as Cran Mart?”

  “Yes, sir.” Exact corporate identity was a crucial element of proof. Without it, the case could be lost.

  “Uh, and were you working on the…” Gardner had to scan the report again for the date. “… fourth of March?” “Yes, sir. I was.”