Probably the night of his retirement party.
The brakes squeaked as Valentine pulled to a stop in front of Hank’s house. Sara frowned at the Mercedes in the driveway. The car looked older than Lena.
Valentine got out of the cruiser. He opened Lena’s door, then walked around to get Sara’s. He seemed relieved to be leaving the job and getting on with his life. She wondered what Jeffrey had said to him out in the parking lot.
The rain had stopped, but the sky was still overcast. Lena stared at her uncle’s house, asking, “Why are all the lights on?”
“What’s that?” Valentine asked.
“The lights are on,” Lena said, an edge to her voice. “I didn’t see them on this morning.”
Sara wondered why it mattered. She asked, “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she said, then, “No. I don’t remember.” She stared back at the house. “Hank wouldn’t want all the lights left on like that.”
“He’s barely coherent,” Sara reminded her. “I’m sure his electric bill is the last thing on his mind.”
Lena started up the front walk. “I’m going to check.”
“Hold on, lady.” Valentine trotted up ahead of her, hand on his gun so it wouldn’t slap his leg. “Let me just run in there and check things out, okay?”
Lena didn’t wait with Sara. Instead, she walked around Hank’s Mercedes, looking inside the windows, checking underneath, an air of paranoia surrounding her every move.
Sara followed her, asking, “What’s going on?”
“We had a deal,” Lena said, almost to herself.
“What deal?”
Lena stood on the far side of the car, watching Jake Valentine pull at the tape around the front door, trying to pick it open.
“What were you looking for under the car?” Sara asked, all of her senses telling her something was wrong. “Who did you make a deal with, Lena?”
“Hey,” Valentine called. “Anything happens”—he gave a little chuckle—“y’all know the number for nine-one-one, right?” He didn’t give them a chance to respond as he shouldered open the door.
Lena inhaled sharply as if to brace herself.
Valentine waved back at them. “It’s okay,” he said, holding his hand to his side. “I’m okay.”
Blood seeped into the material of his shirt where the metal flashing on the doorjamb had sliced open his side. Valentine kept putting his hand to the wound, then looking at the blood on his palm. Sara could tell from the bleeding that the cut was deep, but he assured them, “I’m fine. Y’all just stay here while I poke around inside.”
Lena waited until the sheriff disappeared, then opened the back door of Hank’s car. She reached under the driver’s seat with her hand, keeping her eyes on the house the entire time.
Sara asked, “What are you doing?”
Lena closed the door quietly, locked the car. She had obviously been checking for something under the seat, but she told Sara, “That cut looked pretty bad.”
The rain started up again. Sara raised her hand to shield her eyes. “You wanna tell me what the hell is going on here?”
Lena grinned, as if Sara was being foolish. “I think I just didn’t notice that the lights were on this morning,” she said. “There should be a first-aid kit in Jake’s cruiser.” She went to Valentine’s car and pulled the trunk release. The lid popped open, and Sara saw a rifle bolted to the floor. Beside it was the blue metal box Charlotte Gibson’s husband had brought into the station.
Sara remembered the birth certificate applications hidden under the lining, where Angela Adams had listed her brother as the father of her children. It took all Sara’s effort not to push Lena aside as the other woman reached into the trunk and picked up the box.
Still, Sara tried, “That’s evidence.”
Lena snapped open the lid before Sara could think of a way to stop her.
Sara suppressed a sigh of relief. The box was empty. Even the liner was gone. Rain splattered the metal bottom.
Lena asked, “Where did he get this?”
“It was brought in by Charlotte Gibson’s husband.”
Lena shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“All clear,” Valentine shouted from the house. He made his way down the porch, holding his side, obviously in pain. He saw the metal box, and asked Lena, “Have you ever seen that before?”
Lena shook her head and gently closed the lid.
Valentine holstered his weapon as he asked, “Any particular reason y’all are poking around in my trunk?”
The first-aid kit was strapped inside. Sara retrieved the kit, saying, “We thought you might need this.”
He took his hand away from his side, showing her where the flashing had ripped the shirt, sliced apart the flesh. “I think I need more than a Band-Aid, Doc. This thing is bleeding like a mofo.”
Reluctantly, Sara asked, “When was your last tetanus shot?”
“I stepped on a nail when I was twelve.”
Sara looked at the house, dreading the thought of going inside. She didn’t want to go back to the jail, either, but she couldn’t very well make him stand out in the rain.
She headed toward the front steps, telling Valentine, “You’re going to need another tetanus shot. I’ll get you patched up as best as I can and then you can drive yourself to the hospital.”
“Drive myself?” He seemed alarmed.
“It’s two minutes away,” she said, knowing she should offer to drive him.
Valentine scowled. “I hate hospitals.”
“Everyone does,” she said, leading him back to the kitchen. Sara was a plumber’s daughter and had been exposed to her fair share of sewage, but she had never smelled anything as bad as this. “I’ll clean it up and get a good look at it.”
“Is it going to hurt?”
“Probably,” she admitted, pushing open the swinging door to the kitchen. Trash was strewn everywhere, but the sink was empty and the light was good. Sara put the first-aid kit on top of a stack of pamphlets on the counter and asked Lena, “Can you find some clean rags?”
Lena frowned. “How clean do they have to be?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She put the metal box on the table and went back into the hall, the swinging door swishing closed behind her.
Sara lowered her voice, asking Valentine, “Is there any reason I should be worried about not having gloves?”
“What?” he asked, then blushed and laughed at the same time. “Oh, no, ma’am. I’m clean as a whistle.”
“Okay,” she said, hoping she could trust him. Sara turned on the faucet and used the soap in the tub of Orange Glo to wash her hands. “Go ahead and take off your shirt. I can at least get the bleeding under control.”
He put his gunbelt on the table and started unbuttoning his shirt. “Is this as bad as I think it is?”
“We’ll have to see.” Sara opened up the first-aid kit, glad when she saw large gauze pads and surgical tape instead of the usual Band-Aids.
“I hate needles,” Valentine continued. Lena came in, a couple of rags in her hand. He warned them both, “Y’all don’t let it get around, now, but I’ve been known to faint when I see a needle.”
“Me, too,” Sara told him. She ripped open the gauze pad and he flinched like a child. She was always amazed by how nervous cops got around anything that questioned their invincibility. The man could barely unbutton his shirt.
She asked, “Do you need help with that?”
“Aw, hell.” Valentine gave up on the buttons and slipped his shirt off over his head, wincing as he stretched, the wound gaping open.
“Careful,” Sara warned, a moment too late.
He looked at the blood dripping down the waist of his pants and joked, “I’m not gonna need a transfusion or anything, right?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Sara said, pressing the gauze pad to his wound. “If you do, I’m sure we can find some donors at the jail.”
“I don’t know about that,” Valentine s
aid. “I’ve got a rare blood type.”
The blood was already seeping through the gauze. Sara held out her hand for the rags, but Lena did not offer them. She was just standing there, frozen in place.
“AB-negative,” Lena said, her voice barely above a whisper. “His blood type is AB-negative.”
CHAPTER 25
JEFFREY PASSED HIS GUN to the guard behind the metal cage at Coastal State Prison. Ever since he’d been caught unarmed with Jake Valentine in the woods, Jeffrey had kept the weapon close. He’d even slept with it on the nightstand last night instead of tucking it under the mattress like he normally did. He suddenly realized that when the adoption went through, he’d have to get a gun safe, figure out a better place to store all of his guns. The thought made him smile.
“Anything else?” the guard asked, ejecting the clip in Jeffrey’s Glock and checking the chamber.
“That’s it.”
The man nodded, writing down the serial number from the gun and passing a claim check to Jeffrey.
Another guard opened the first of two gates, saying, “Through here.”
Once they were both inside the holding pen and the first door was locked, the guard opened the second door and they walked through.
The guard, whose name tag read, “Applebaum,” looked to be exactly the type of man you’d find working in a place like Coastal State Prison. Tall with broad shoulders, he walked with the kind of swagger that said he wasn’t afraid of anything.
Jeffrey told him, “I think you met one of my detectives a few days ago.”
“Nope,” the guard told him. “Just got back from vacation.” He stopped at another set of doors. These were operated from a central control station. Applebaum murmured something into his walkie-talkie and the door clicked open.
Jeffrey said, “There was nothing in Green’s jacket about drugs.”
Applebaum shook his head. “His boys don’t touch ’em. If you’re down with his crew and they catch you using or selling, you’d be better off running ass-naked through the yard than having them deal with you.” He shook his head. “Had this one skinhead, must’ve been seventeen, eighteen, who aligned with Green’s crew when he got in. He couldn’t stay off the needle, though; got caught red-handed. He knew they were after him, so he made a shank out of his comb and kiestered it in the shower.”
Jeffrey knew kiestering was prison slang for stowing something up your ass. “What happened?”
“They got a broom and shoved the comb up higher. The doc who did the postmortem says he found bits of plastic teeth practically in the guy’s tonsils when he cut him open.”
“Green did this?”
“He ordered it,” Applebaum admitted as he stopped in front of another closed door. “Somebody that high up, they keep their hands real clean.”
“Somebody could flip.”
The guard laughed as he took out a key and opened the door, revealing the interview room. “And J-Lo could fly down to Georgia and blow me in her private plane.” He turned all business as he escorted Jeffrey into the interview room. “Don’t touch the prisoner. Don’t get within five feet of him. See this line on the table? This is as far as he’ll be able to reach with the chains, but don’t trust that.”
“I don’t want him chained.”
“Warden’s orders.”
“I’m not afraid of Ethan Green.”
Applebaum turned around. “Listen, man, I sure as shit am, and you should be, too.”
Jeffrey nodded, taking his point. “Bring him in.”
Applebaum left, and Jeffrey sat at the table facing the metal ring bolted to the wall. He heard talking in the hallway and stood, not wanting to give Ethan a height advantage. Then, thinking he looked like he’d come with his hat in his hand, walked over to the wall opposite the door and leaned against it, hands in his pockets.
The door opened and Ethan shuffled in with Applebaum and three other guards. He kept his eyes trained on Jeffrey as Applebaum and the others guided him toward the chair. He sat, staring a hole through Jeffrey as he was bolted to the wall.
Applebaum said, “We’ll be standing right outside the door.”
The four guards left, taking all the oxygen in the room with them. The chains around Ethan’s handcuffs scraped across the edge of the table as he clasped his hands in front of him.
Ethan asked, “You scared to sit across from me?”
“Where the panic button is? Not particularly.”
Ethan’s lips curled into a sneer, but he nodded as if Jeffrey had made a point. This was what Sara was so afraid of—some stupid pissing contest that could quickly turn deadly.
Jeffrey pushed himself away from the wall and walked over to the empty chair. He pulled it out about two feet from the table and sat, legs apart, hands resting on his thighs.
Ethan snorted, leaned back in his chair. “You just gonna stare at me all day, Chief? You got a crush on me or something?”
“I want to know what you’ve been doing with Lena.”
He made a jerking-off motion. “Fucking around.”
“I know you’ve been making phone calls to Hank,” Jeffrey said. He’d seen them logged on Ethan’s file. “Why?”
“To get Lena here.” He clicked his tongue. “Worked, didn’t it?”
“The only problem is, a trick like that only works once.”
“I got other plans.” He held out his hands, indicating the walls around them. “I’m gonna get out of here one day, and when I do, I’m gonna find her.”
“She’ll put a bullet in your head.”
“She’ll die before she gets the chance,” Ethan returned. “You ever fuck her, Chief?”
Jeffrey didn’t answer.
“I know you wanted to. I saw the way you looked at her sometimes.”
Jeffrey did not respond.
“Let me tell you something,” Ethan said, leaning forward. “She may look hard, but she’s so sweet underneath all that. You know what I mean?” He smiled, satisfied. “Good stuff.”
Jeffrey remained impassive. Ethan obviously thought he was pushing a button, but Jeffrey had never been attracted to Lena. He’d never had a sister, but he imagined the feelings he had for Lena were about the same.
“What you gotta do is slap her around a little bit,” Ethan continued. “Bend her over and—” He thrust into the table, made a loud grunting sound.
“Bend her over, huh?” Jeffrey shook his head sadly. “I think you’ve been hanging out with the wrong men in here, little buddy.”
He cupped his nuts, shook them. “I’ve got your little buddy right here, cocksucker.”
“Fight or fuck,” Jeffrey said. “That’s what they call it in here, right? You either have to fight or fuck.” He glanced at Ethan, looked at his hands. “You don’t look to me like you’ve been fighting.”
Ethan laughed. “You see these tats, bitch?” He meant the swastikas, the scenes of violence that he’d carved into his skin. “Ain’t nobody gonna touch me in here, man.”
“That’s right,” Jeffrey said. “I heard you and your little girlfriends started your own cheerleading squad in here. What’s that mean, exactly? I mean, I know you wear the same uniforms, but I don’t guess y’all can sit around braiding each other’s hair. Do you do your nails together? Maybe give each other enemas and talk about how the white man’s gonna rule the world?”
“You watch yourself, son.”
“Watch what? A bunch of punk kids whose daddies never loved them? Jesus Christ, you’re a fucking Oprah episode. Give me a break.”
“Fuck that black bitch.”
“Fuck this, fuck that,” Jeffrey mocked, standing. “Lena was right. This is such a waste of time.”
“What?” Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “What did Lena say?”
“She sent me here,” Jeffrey said. “She wanted me to see what a pathetic little girl you’ve turned into.”
Ethan stared at him, obviously trying to make out the truth. Slowly, he sat back in his chair. “Nah, man. She didn??
?t send you.”
“Yeah,” Jeffrey said. He was standing by the door and he leaned his shoulder against it. “She said you were hooked up with this Brotherhood.”
Ethan’s lips curled in distaste. “What?”
“Brotherhood of the True White Skin,” Jeffrey clarified. “She said you hooked up with them in here to save your own ass.”
“Shit,” he said, practically spitting out the word. “Those pussies? They run meth.”
Jeffrey shrugged. “And?”
“Meth is the white man’s devil.” Ethan leaned forward, vehement. “You don’t give that shit to your own people. Fucks with your mind, makes you a slave. It’s part of Darkie’s conspiracy to take over America.”
“You really think that?” Jeffrey asked, walking back to the table. He put his palms down on the metal surface, leaned close to the red line. “See, I’ve met some of those Brotherhood assholes, and they don’t strike me as all that different from you.”
Ethan laughed. “You stupid waste of fucking air. You think I’m up with those motherfuckers? I told you, they sell meth to their own people. They smoke that shit like the niggers with their crack. Let them all fucking kill themselves. Wipe them off the face of the fucking planet so the true race can take over.”
Jeffrey kept eye contact with him, still leaning over the table. Ethan said he’d been calling Hank so Lena would come see him. If that was his plan, it had certainly worked. What connection did he have with Elawah, though? How did Ethan fit into the meth ring that the Fitzpatrick brothers were running through south Georgia and up the coast? Jeffrey knew Ethan’s arrest jacket backward and forward. The other man had never been up on drug charges. All of his piss tests had come back clean from the time he was in juvenile detention to the time he’d been on parole in Grant County. Applebaum, the guard, had even said Ethan wasn’t involved in drugs. Had Lena been telling the truth? Did Ethan just happen to be making the wrong phone calls at the right time?
Jeffrey pushed away from the table. “We’re done here.”
Ethan would not let him have the last word. “You think you’re a big man carrying a gun, Tolliver, but you know what you are? You’re shit on my shoe. You know Lena planted that gun in my bag. You know she set me up for a fall. You think you’re Mr. Law and Order but you broke the law, man. You’re just as bad as those faggots over in Iraq, those Abu Ghraib motherfuckers thinking they can toss out the Geneva Conventions because they got a hard-on to paint some Arab motherfucker in his own shit. You’re just as bad as them, man, maybe worse because you’re not ten thousand miles from home, eating meals out of a tin can and burying your shit in the desert. You just jammed me up in the morning and tucked right back up in your bed that same night, probably titty-fucked your wife and slept the sleep of the righteous, but you know what, motherfucker? You’re just as bad as all of them.”