Not in the Heart (29 page)

“Because we were watching
Jeopardy!
and she kept getting up at the worst moments. I told her to sit down and relax and she would; then she'd get back up and check again, even right when they were about to give the final question.”

“She knew something was going on. She knew she was in trouble.”

The dog's mangy ears went up and his body went rigid. He climbed up Helen's front and looked over her shoulder and growled.

Helen struggled to stand and handed the dog to me.

“Where you headed?” I said.

“We need to call the police.”

I looked at the front door and thought I saw a shadow moving. “Wait, I've got my cell phone.”

I heard something click and looked up at a .38, cocked and loaded.

“You go ahead and call the police. I'm ready for Tompkins.”

I put the dog on the ground and he ran to the front door, barking and sniffing. Just as quickly he darted to the back of the house, yipping, the fur on the back of his neck standing on end. Murrow had never done that. Maybe there's something to this dog idea.

Helen turned, holding the gun out like she was ready for a fight with a rival gang of grandmothers. You've heard of the Bloods and Crips. She was with the Aarps. I had to admire the woman, and part of me wanted to stay with her because she made me feel safe, but I pulled the curtain and looked out a side window. Nothing. No Wiener schnitzel salesman with blond hair.

“If you're right, Mr. Wiley, there are going to be some people who are really unhappy you're telling this story. I'm not saying I agree with you. I still think Conley is guilty. But if you turn up dead at the side of the road or that pretty daughter of yours winds up missing, I want to be prepared.”

What a comforting thought.

“As a matter of fact, you'd better take this. You're going to need it. I got another one in my nightstand.”

You've heard of a pistol-packin' mama. Helen was the poster child. I thought for a moment about the implications, but only for a moment before I pocketed it.

Helen looked out the window and whispered, “What are you going to do now? The execution is Tuesday.”

“I'll think of something,” I said, unsure how to answer.

I drove home, looking in my rearview and side mirrors constantly, waiting for someone to cut me off or pull alongside with an Uzi. Though nothing happened, the feeling was there, and I have learned to trust that feeling and not push it down, no matter how far-fetched it may seem.

Abby's car wasn't in the driveway, but the front door had been left ajar. As soon as I walked in, I knew something was wrong. Call it my reporter's instinct if you'd like, but I immediately deduced that the stuff strewn all over the house was a clue. I went straight to my writing cave and just as I suspected, my laptop and jump drive were gone. So was the pile of pages by my printer. I hurried to Abby's room. Nancy Drew books and the rest of her bookshelves were trashed. The diary was missing. Ellen kept a small safe in her room and that's where we had stashed the copy. The bedroom was darkened and unlived in, almost a ghost town of forgotten memories. The safe hadn't been opened and rifled through; it was just gone.

I dialed Ellen quickly and she picked up. There was fear in her voice, a strain I could hear, and I asked her what was wrong.

“Oh, you know, just the usual. More tests. More prep. Trying to decide if his heart will hold out. What's new with you?”

“I need you to do something for me on your laptop.”

“Seriously? Tru, right now I don't think I can even find my laptop.”

“It's okay; I understand.” I said it compassionately, my heart racing, wanting to know the information, but also knowing she was not the one to give it.

“What do you need?”

“I'll call Abby.”

“Tru, Abigail is here. Tell me what you need. I have my laptop open.”

I gave her the website and my password and asked her to open my mail. She logged in successfully and asked what to look for.

“Click the in-box and tell me what you see.”

“There's nothing here, Tru. The in-box is empty. In fact, There's no mail at all.”

Other than the few pages I had given to Terrelle, I'd lost everything. My computer, all the files, my hard copy, the surveillance video, everything but the Piggly Wiggly bag. This guy had taken the last of the Who-hash and roast beast.

You might think this was the point at which a guy like me gives up. You would be wrong. This is the point at which a guy like me gets angry. And an angry reporter is not a good thing.

C
HAPTER
45

I probably should have called the police. I probably should have had them come over and catalog everything that had been stolen. I probably should have gone to a Gamblers Anonymous meeting a long time ago or gotten counseling about my bad childhood and alcoholic father. But I didn't do any of that.

Instead, with my trusty sidearm provided by the geriatric Helen Wright, I headed to the ground zero of evil: Tompkins's apartment. I had prepared my speech and was fully ready to pull my gun, or at least hold it out so he could admire it, and make threatening pronouncements about what would happen if he didn't hand over my files. I also expected him to wither into a mass of emotion and spill the facts about Diana and how sorry he was to have taken her life and swear that he would do anything to undo that wrong.

It was just after dusk and the orange glow of the sunset was in full bloom over the horizon. Of course I couldn't see the horizon for all the buildings and trees, but I could feel the glow in my bones.

I looked for a doorbell but the front door was unlocked. I took the stairwell to the third floor and stepped into a long, dimly lit hallway.

I chose my steps carefully to cut down on the creaking floorboards, but there's only so much a man can do. I stopped after a particularly loud creak and listened, hoping some madman with a chain saw wouldn't jump me from behind. All I heard was the sound of weird music.

As I got closer, I realized it wasn't just music, but also sound effects from what had to be one of Tompkins's videos made on the second floor. The door was open a few inches and I knocked, though I knew no one would hear me over the pulsing bass and the staccato shouts that were as fake as the hardwood floors in the front room.

I pushed the door closed behind me and said, “Hello?”

The sound overwhelmed my voice and I inched toward the living room. I fully expected to find Tompkins watching with a friend or two or maybe to see him walk from the kitchen in his robe.

The shades were drawn, no lights on except for the fifty-two-inch Sony. But I wasn't looking at the screen. I was looking at the floor in front of it, where the body of Tompkins lay in an expanding pool of blood. Fresh blood.

I backed to the door, wanting to run, knowing I couldn't, and knowing that life was about to get even more complicated.

C
HAPTER
46

7 HOURS BEFORE EXECUTION

Terrelle Conley was calm and collected, as much as any man can be who is about to lose his life. The prison staff had done their job well of prepping him. He walked with an IV bag behind him and looked more like an out-of-place patient than an inmate. It was not an actual breaking of the rules to let me speak with him, but the warden didn't want me upsetting his model prisoner in his last hours.

“They say you had your last meal early,” I said, trying to break the ice of my own heart. Trying to keep the emotion and fear in check. The kind of fear that comes with sand nearly gone from the hourglass and every one of my choices a dead end for someone.

He smiled. “Yeah, can't have anything right before the surgery, so they brought it yesterday. Fried shrimp and catfish. Hush puppies. Not as good as my mother's, but it was all right. Your boy might have high cholesterol for a couple of days, but he'll get over it.” He laughed like a condemned man, short and incomplete. “I heard you spent some time with the police over that salon owner.”

“Yeah, it's been a long couple days.”

“They know who did it?”

“I do, but they don't. They say it could have been any of a hundred people with what they found in the building. The police think it was a drug deal gone bad. Or it could have been about his video empire. Somebody who decided they didn't want to be a movie star after all.”

“That's not your theory.”

“No. But now the evidence I had is gone. Which I think is the point. Get everything out of the way.”

“Whoever it was did a good job.”

“Yeah, unfortunately for you.”

“I appreciate all you did,” Terrelle said. “I know you tried hard and that's all a man can ask. Don't beat yourself up for how this whole thing came out. You did more than anybody.”

His words brought relief. But they also brought torment that I was out of options. I asked him again about that day with Diana, trying to jog any memory of the blond man, but Terrelle came up empty. His first few pages of the book would be turned over to Oleta after the “procedure.” At least I had that.

“You're still going to be here this evening, right?” Terrelle said, a bit of pleading in his voice.

“I promised I would be,” I said.

“I knew I could count on you. Oleta will appreciate having you there—and the reverend. I can feel the prayers, you know?”

“What do you mean?”

“The prayers from all the people who care. Prayers to help me be strong and get through this. Prayers for your son.”

I couldn't believe a guy facing death would have the ability to get outside of himself to that degree, but that was Terrelle. He wasn't bitter. He wasn't angry. He was at peace.

The guard looked at the time and moved forward a step.

I thanked Terrelle and promised I would be back with Oleta that night.

“I know you will. And God's people will watch over her and my kids. Thanks again for what you've done with the book, even though it's gone. I've been praying you'll get it back.”

“I still have it up here,” I said. “They can't steal that. I feel bad you have to pay for this crime.”

“Tomorrow they're going to write that I'm dead. That my life was taken. Don't believe it. I'll be more alive than I've ever been. I'll just go to sleep here and wake up on the shores of glory.”

“How can you be so sure, Terrelle?”

“Because it's like I said—I'm not going to heaven because I've been good. It's because God has been good to me. Kind and merciful and full of grace. He's true to his word every time. If God says he'll do something, he does it. I put my faith fully in what he said about how to get to him. That's how I can go through this with my head up.”

The guard told him it was past time to go and Terrelle said one more good-bye. “See you tonight.”

I met briefly with Dr. Granger, who was ready for the transplant that evening. Aiden had been on artificial life support for fourteen days. It was touch and go; his condition slipped and slid down that ventricular chasm, and Ellen was right there. I was not, of course, but since he was in a coma, I felt okay about it.

I had managed one more visit to the hospital the night before to sit beside Aiden's bed and hold his hand. It was just him and me and the sounds of time ticking. I felt regret and shame for not being there for him. I felt hope for the future, but I wasn't sure why.

“One way or another we're going to get you out of here,” I whispered. “The doctor's going to fix that bum ticker. You'll be chasing nurses down the hallway.”

I almost saw a smile on his lips. Almost.

After the prison meeting, I joined Abby for a late lunch, though food was the last thing I wanted. I sat in the parking lot and waited for her car to pull in. One of those north-Florida storms was brewing and I was glad I had brought a jacket so I could be chivalrous to my only daughter and protect her from the malicious raindrops.

My phone buzzed and the number was restricted. I expected to hear a German accent but my reporter's intuition was way off. Instead of bratwurst, I smelled gumbo coming through the line.

“Truman, good to hear your voice again. I understand today is a big day for you and your family.”

“Yeah, thanks for caring. Did you send flowers?”

“I was thinking about that. Seriously. Give me the address. Well, I actually already know the address, so don't bother.”

Such a humorous fellow.

“I believe we had an agreement, Truman. And the time period for that agreement is about at its end.”

“You have impeccable timing, Mickey.”

“Yes, I've been told that. Have you made progress in the fund department?”

“Oh yeah, I've been racking up some deep debt with the hospital, with specialists, with my mortgage company . . . you'll need to get in line.”

“And what about this book? That should net you some kind of advance, correct?”

“If I had a book left, it would, but it was stolen. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?”

“That makes a lot of sense. Take away the very thing that will allow a client to pay his debt. You're becoming conspiratorial in your old age.”

“I get that way when people drop dead of gunshot wounds.”

“Well, how you come up with the money is none of my concern. I don't care if you rob a bank or get an inheritance.”

“You can forget the inheritance.”

“As I said, not my concern. But you do understand that we will collect.”

Abby rattled up beside me and parked.

“And how will that work out?” I said. “Your goons come back with a crowbar?”

“I wish it didn't have to end this way, Truman. Such a tragic legacy for your family.”

“Well, as they say, you make your bed, you lie in it. Do what you have to do, Mickey, and I'll do what I have to do. I'll be at the prison tonight. You're welcome to join me.”

He laughed and there was pity in it. “I'm sorry it has to be this way, my friend. You've hit your deadline.”

I hung up and got out to give Abby a hug. I tried to hide my feelings but she had been around me enough in the past few weeks to recognize the inner turmoil. In spite of everything going on, I was grateful to have reconnected with her. She'd grown a lot in that time. Or maybe she was the same. Maybe I'd grown to love her for who she was.

I gave her my coat and held it over her head as we ran to the door.

“We don't have to eat,” she said. “I don't much feel like it anyway.”

“Let's at least sit down and have water,” I said.

We were seated in a restaurant we couldn't afford, around people who had no idea what was happening, people living life with no gravely ill children or condemned friends. Nice people with no gambling problems. Marriages intact. Mortgages current. They'd never visited death row.

Abby asked about my meeting with Terrelle and I told her. The server, a young man with a prickly beard and blue eyes, focused on Abby and paid no attention to me. I hate prickly beards and blue eyes. But our order of two waters with lemons didn't seem to faze him, so I can't complain.

Abby withdrew the latest
People
magazine from her purse and leafed through it as we talked. An article had just been published about the execution and the role the governor had played. It was a new day in medical ethics and a majority in the public-opinion-poll-saturated society approved this procedure for the condemned.

She slid the article around so I could see. There were few words and pictures galore, as if the American public couldn't live without a colored collage that illustrated every jot and tittle. Just like television news, in a way. Leaning on the horrific video, the debris of a plane crash, a bull goring people on its way down the streets of Spain.

Abby said something about going back to the hospital with Ellen when Aiden went into surgery.

“You'll drive Oleta up afterward, right?” she said.

“Yeah, that's the plan. . . .”

I was stuck on something in the photographs. A blur of images sifting through the cerebral cortex, slipping through one by one, face by face. Something didn't fit. A stray image that wasn't supposed to be there. I'd found Waldo but didn't know what to do with him. Initials. Payment. Puzzle pieces that looked like they went in the left upper corner suddenly came together in the opposite corner—not fitting all the way, but I had found all of the edge pieces and the rest were right there in front of me.

“Dad, you're going to be okay tonight?” She said it with concern, compassion, and a generous measure of love. It was like water to my thirsty soul. But I couldn't enjoy the feeling because the world was suddenly spinning and dominoes were falling in my brain. Consequences of actions long ago.

I glanced at my watch. “Yeah. I'm going to be all right. We're all going to be all right.” I looked into her eyes. “Honey, I'm sorry about this but I have to go.”

“What? I came all the way—”

“Trust me, Abigail.”

I took the
People
magazine with me.

I left a message on Ellen's cell phone, then called the nurses' station and they looked for her. My phone buzzed.

“I was on the phone with Abigail,” Ellen said. “She's worried about you, Tru.”

Ellen was outside Aiden's room, of course. I told her to give him a hug for me and then asked her to listen carefully.

“I want to ask you a question that's not going to make much sense. A personal question.”

“Truman, now you're scaring me. What's going on?”

“This is about Terrelle. I think it could help him. It's going to come out of the blue and you're going to think I'm crazy, but I need you to trust me.”

“Okay.”

“How well did you know the governor? In college, before I came along. Were you and Carlton ever intimate?”

She paused and lowered her voice as if others nearby could hear. “We've been over this. You know I had a history.”

“This is not about your history. This doesn't affect my love for you. And I do love you. I know I don't say it and I sure haven't shown it. But answer me. Were you ever together . . . that way?”

“We went as far as you can go without, you know . . .”

“All right. Thank you. Now think hard. Did he have any . . . distinguishing marks on his body? Anything you recall?”

The phone made a crinkling noise as if she was cradling it closer, as if I had stepped over some invisible line.

“Please,” I said. “Does anything come to mind?”

“What do you mean by marks?”

“I don't know. . . . I don't want to suggest anything and plant a thought that—”

“There was a tattoo.”

My heart fluttered. “Where?”

She told me. I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. I pushed the accelerator to the floor.

“Truman, what's this about?”

“It's about Diana's murder. Everything has come together. It makes sense now.”

“What makes sense? What are you going to do?”

“Something I'm going to regret. Something that may mean we lose Aiden.”

“Tru . . .”

“Something I have to do.”

She was silent on the other end and I heard the
beep, beep
of the machines around Aiden's bed. “I need one more thing.”

“What?”

“Call Oleta. Tell her I have good news and bad news. The bad news is I'm not going to make the execution.”

“You promised her you would,” she said.

“But you haven't heard the good news. There still might be something I can do to save Terrelle's life.”