I kept Armistead hooded until we got within sight of the cabin. We were counting on her training and discipline to provide a distraction if needed. I suppose we made quite a picture descending through the brush.
As we drew closer, we could make out a small puff of smoke curling from the cabin's chimney. Cat's Range Rover was parked in front. When we came abreast of the vehicle, I called out the way I would if we were greeting him on a chance encounter.
“Yo, Cat! It's Frank and Jake!”
No reply.
“We were up here hunting when we saw your truck!”
The cabin remained silent.
“Anybody here?”
Still no answer.
We circled slowly around the side then back by the car. No sign of movement from the windows. Armistead stirred a little on my fist but I held her in place. The sun was just beginning to poke over the ridge and, blocked by the cabin, caused the front stoop to remain in shadow.
“Yo, Cat! You home?”
With a creaking noise, the front door opened and the big man himself stepped slowly out. He wore a grin on his face, huge camouflage pants and jacket. Over his arm, draped in the carry position, hung a Bernadelli side-by-side, its twin barrels broken away from the stock, loaded. A bit much for squirrels. Enough stopping power for both Jake and me, one trigger for each.
“You fellas caught me napping,” he said. “I was just headed out.”
That meant he had decided we were alone. All we had to do now was get him away from the cabin. He might have had the same thing in mind.
“Why don't you come on and walk with us awhile?” I said. “You ever see a red-tail in action?”
“Can't say as I have. She's a beaut though, ain't she, Jake?” he said. “What's her name?”
“Armistead. This is her natural habitat,” I lied.
“That right?” He seemed to fiddle with the latch on the door. “Give me a second while I lock up.” He slipped a padlock with a key out of his pocket, put it though an outside dead bolt mechanism, and clicked it shut. The key went back in his pocket. He turned and took a step forward off the stoop. For a guy who'd been sleeping, his face was bathed in sweat.
“Jeez, Cat, you just get out of the sauna, or what?”
He grinned again, but said nothing. He was only a few paces in front of us now.
“Couldn't ask for a better day, eh,?” Jake said.
Cat was almost beside us when a loud thump, followed by what sounded like a chair scraping on a floor came from the cabin. I gave the owner a curious look. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Jake take an instinctual step sideways, setting himself.
“Damned dogs,” Cat said. “Never can keep ‘em quiet.”
But another sound penetrated the cabin walls, this one even more usual. We all heard it. Muffled, a little garbled. Faint at first, then a little louder. Until it could be recognized as a human voice.
“Da-ddy!”
Everything clicked into slow motion. Cat's eyes became obsidian, serpent-like. His huge hands came together as he slammed the barrels of the shotgun to the stock. I reached for my gun. Jake tossed a piece of quail in the air toward Cat as 1 cast off Armistead. With two powerful strokes the hawk bore down on the bait, her talons extended, causing Cat to turn and raise his arm to shield himself, not realizing the bird would cut away. By the time he recovered, both our guns were pointed at his head.
“Nice trick,” the big man sputtered.
We were all breathing hard now. He glared at us. The last time I'd seen such hatred from him was the night his partner died.
“Why, Cat?” I said.
He spat behind him. “Why? Gotta couple years to listen?” He laughed hoarsely. But there were tears forming in his eyes. “Y'all just been in the way from the beginning, that's all.”
A shout came from up the hill, a sheriff's deputy with Detective Ferrier, too far away for a decent shot. Priscilla was with them. I guess she had decided we needed insurance.
“Drop the weapon, sir!” Ferrier yelled at Cat. “Do it now! Put your hands where we can see them in the air.”
Cat's eyes flicked upward at the many others who must have also been approaching.
“Don't do it, Cahill,” Jake muttered beneath his breath. “It's over now. Don't be stupid.”
But the big guy grinned again as if he had actually planned it this way all along. He barely paused before he started to lift his gun.
The strange thing was, the actual act of pulling the trigger still felt no different than pumping target rounds at the range. The old training, the instincts returned. The impact of the bullets spun Cat around before the reports had even started to echo from the nearby hills, his bulk twisting down to come to rest against the foundation.
Only the sound was left then, rolling back to us like thunder, interspersed with the red-tail's distant cry.
33
Priscilla Thomasen and I were playing spades against Toronto and Agent Ferrier in a fifth floor visitor's lounge of Roanoke Memorial Hospital, sunlight pouring in through the unshaded windows. The Star City spread out below us, encapsulated in a cobalt sky.
“I don't believe it. The girl's going nil on us,” Ferrier said.
Priscilla raised her eyebrows for a second as if to say: You never know.
“Play it out, pardner. Just play it out,” Jake said, slapping down another sacrificial trump.
It was Saturday afternoon and a lot of healing would need to be done. Camille Rhodes had been moved from Intensive Care an hour before, looking like a rag doll with sunken cheeks, her prognosis uncertain. There had been some damage to her heart and she faced a long course of drug rehab from which there were no guarantees. Nicole, on the other hand, was being released from the hospital that afternoon. They'd had to do surgery on a wrist broken by Cahill. She'd suffered cuts and bruises and probably some psychological trauma as well during her captivity, but at least she had survived to tell the tale.
I had also been on the phone with Marcia and several others, making arrangements for her to transfer to Charlottesville High School to finish her senior year. In addition to the primary support team—Jake, Priscilla, and myself—Carla Turner, the Reverend Lori, and others from their church had mobilized on behalf of the sick, arriving in waves of comfort bearing food and flowers and cards.
Cat Cahill's funeral was scheduled for Monday. The restaurant had already closed for good, a
FOR SALE
sign in the window, listed by a Leonardston broker. Kerstin was rumored to be moving back to New York.
Priscilla lost another trick. I attempted to read her expression, but somewhere along the way, the Commonwealth's attorney had developed a decent poker face.
“Hear anything from Warren?” I asked.
“Sure. He wants to interview me for another article he's writing about gangs in the region. I told him no thanks,” she said.
“Hey, you two playin’ or just jawin’?” Ferrier said.
“We're just bored by the competition, that's all,” I said.
“Course. Any guy can hop around the mountains with a bird on his arm the way you two do gotta be wearied by cards.”
“I'm not bored,” Jake said.
“Nor boring,” Priscilla said, throwing him a wink.
“Wait a minute. No fraternization when you're trying to go nil,” I said.
“Absolutely.” She smiled. “Couldn't agree more.”
We were down to the last hand and everyone out of trump. Ferrier led with a six of diamonds. I followed with a jack of clubs. Jake put in a ten of hearts. Then Priscilla threw down a four of diamonds with a flourish.
She and I stood and high-fived across the table.
“Guess your luck is holding,” Ferrier said.
Priscilla looked at him and stuck out her tongue.
“You know, Frank,” she said turning to me, “that daughter of yours must be thinking about following in Daddy's footsteps. Guess what she asked me this morning? Wanted to know what I thought about a young woman getting a degree and some experience so she could become a private investigator.”
“Oooeee, child. Here were go,” Ferrier said, chuckling.
“Are Mrs. Turner and the Reverend still around?” I said. “I think I'm gonna need a lot more prayer.”
Jake was standing and stretching, smiling at me and shaking his head. Chad Spain entered the room, wheeling a briefcase on top of a rolling overnight bag. Ferrier said they had to get going back up to Richmond. We walked them out to the elevator.
“You keep in touch now,” I said to him as we shook hands.
“Count on it. I still want one of you guys to take me out hunting with one of those hawks of yours.”
“Anytime.”
“Before we go though, I want you to tell me one thing. … You knew this character Cahill for what, ten years?”
“More like thirteen.”
“You considered him a friend?”
“That's right.”
“And all the time you never suspected anything?”
“Maybe I was too busy feeling guilty and sorry for myself.”
“Guy lives a double life. On the take. Murders his partner.” He shook his head. “What makes a cop turn like that you think?”
I did think about it. “People perish for cold metal,” I said.
“Yeah … You make that one up?”
“No. Guy named Solzhenitsyn.”
“Sure.”
“I'm still going to miss the man he was as a friend.”
“I know what you mean,” Ferrier said. “I tell you one thing—if I knew the answer for a fella like that, I wouldn't be messing with this kind of stuff anymore. I'd have me a shingle hung on Monument Avenue in Richmond, driving a Benz and living out on River Road.”
After the two agents left, Jake and I accompanied Priscilla downstairs. We picked up a wheelchair from a nurse's station and made our way to Nicole's room.
“Hey, sport,” I said through the doorway.
The curtains in the room had been pulled open, the place already cleaned. Her belongings were packed neatly in the corner. She lay on the made bed, propping a magazine with her good hand against her cast, the bruises on her face and the swelling around her eyes mitigated somewhat by a touch of makeup.
“About time you guys got here. I was beginning to think 1 was going to have to call a cab.” She had on jeans and a light blouse, but over everything still wore a hospital gown.
“You look hot,” Jake said.
She punched him in the arm. “Liar.”
“I think you look remarkable, for a young woman who has been through what you've endured,” Priscilla said.
“Thank you, Priscilla. Dad, can I hire her as my attorney?”
“I'm afraid it doesn't quite work that way, Nicky.”
“Oh, boo.”
We gentled her into the wheelchair, then darted around back, making a show of tucking her in.
“This is more embarrassing than having to use a bedpan,” she said.
“Don't knock it,” I said. “Things could be worse.”
“Hey!” She was looking through the doorway at a new arrival. Regan Quinn stood there clutching a teddy bear and a box of chocolates. “What are you doing here?”
“These are for you,” Regan said. “And you can't say no to the candy.”
The both cried and hugged one another.
“Guess what?” Regan said.
“What?” Nicole was digging into the chocolates and passing the box around.
“I just had an ultrasound downstairs. It's going to be a boy.”
“Wow!”
There were more tears and laughter and congratulations all around.
We all wheeled Nicole along the corridor and rode the elevator to the ground floor, eliciting several sidelong stares. I bought both her and Regan balloons from the gift shop, over mock protests, and tied Nicole's to the arm of her chair. She thought it great fun to ride in the chair and challenged Jake to a race across the lobby, but an austere security guard standing at the entrance with his hands behind his back put the kabosh on that plan.
Regan said good-bye with kisses and hugs. Jake and I went to retrieve my truck and Priscilla's Saab from the parking garage. It was much warmer than it had been earlier in the day. When we pulled up behind one another outside the main entrance, Priscilla and Nicole were already by the curb, gabbing like old friends.
“What are you two so chatty about?” I wondered.
“Girl talk, for your information,” Priscilla said. “None of your business.”
It would be a brave new world having a teenaged daughter live in my house, if only for a year or so before she started college. How bad could it be? Nicole already had everything figured out, even down to finding a group home near C'ville, called Emmaus, where Regan could live while she had her baby.
Jake helped me hoist Nicole, with her balloon, onto the pickup's seat.
“Wheeee,”
she said. “I could get used to this.”
“You going to follow us?” Jake said, closing her door. We needed to swing back by Leonardston to pick up Armistead and the rest of Nicole's things.
“Lead on.”
“Oh. You know I almost forgot. Carla Turner asked me to give you something.” Priscilla was rummaging through her purse.
Before I could object, she had pulled out a silver chain and pressed it into my hand.
“Dewayne's cross. She didn't need to do that.”
“She said it would remind you.”
I nodded. She gave me a hug before stepping into the Saab next to Jake.
In the truck I buckled my belt and looked across at Nicky. “You okay?”
“I'm okay. You think Mom is gonna be all right?”
“I hope so, honey. We can come back to visit whenever you want.”
The Saab lurched away. I pressed the accelerator to follow. Suddenly, as if it were the most natural act in the world, Nicole's good arm draped across the seat, her hand coming to rest against my shoulder. Surprise, Daddy? Welcome home? Passing from the shade of the hospital portico, I could almost think so.
Nicole rolled her eyes and shook her head when I tuned the radio to an oldies station. The Vogues were in the midst of singing “Special Angel,” after all. The clean sky behind branches rushing past reminded us the season was new again, and for the first time I may have caught a glimpse of grace from a higher station, where eyes see earth more clearly and the hunter waits, her quarry known.