By Wednesday, Lacy was bored and contemplating a return to work. Her face looked much better but she was still reluctant to be seen by her colleagues. Ann shopped and ran errands and did whatever Lacy wanted, but she was getting bored too. She drove Lacy to the grocery store and to a doctor’s appointment. She drove her to the office of an insurance adjuster who handed over a check for the Prius, a total loss. Ann was a terrible driver and poked along regardless of the traffic. Lacy was numb with fear of moving vehicles, and her mother’s dangerous driving didn’t help matters.
Lacy was sleeping well and without pain medication. Her physical therapy was progressing nicely and her appetite was returning. So it was no surprise when Ann announced over Wednesday dinner that she needed to go home. Very diplomatically, Lacy encouraged this. She appreciated her mother’s care and concern, but she was clearly on the mend and tired of the babysitting. She wanted her space all to herself.
More important, she’d met someone, a physical therapist who’d dropped by late Tuesday for a quick session, one carefully observed by Ann. His name was Rafe and he was in his mid-twenties, a good ten years younger, which didn’t bother Lacy at all. There was a spark or two as he worked on her knee, and perhaps another as he said good-bye. He did not seem the least bit bothered by her cuts and bruises. She e-mailed him a short hey-howdy Wednesday night, and he responded within an hour. Back and forth a few times, and it was established that neither was in a relationship and both were interested in a drink.
At last, Lacy thought, maybe something good might come from this catastrophe.
In bed, flipping through a magazine, Lacy was startled by an e-mail from Verna. It read,
Lacy—Sorry not to have written or called sooner. I hope you’re doing fine and recuperating. I’m so relieved your injuries were not as bad as they could have been. Me, I’m hanging on by a thread. Actually, I am completely overwhelmed with anything and everything. The kids are a mess and refuse to go to school. Pippin cries even more. At times they’re all crying and I want to give up. But I refuse to break down in front of them. They need someone to be strong, so I just go hide in the shower and bawl my eyes out. I can barely survive each day and I hate the thought of tomorrow. Tomorrow without Hugo. Next week, next month, next year without Hugo. I cannot comprehend the future. The present is a nightmare. The past seems so long ago and so happy that it makes me sick. My mother is here, along with my sister, so I’m getting plenty of help with the kids. But nothing is real; everything seems artificial. They can’t stay so they’ll leave soon and I’ll be here with four kids and no husband. I’d like to see you but not now. I need some time. When I think of you I think of Hugo and the way he died. Sorry. Please, just give me some time. Don’t answer right now. Verna
Lacy read it twice and went back to her magazine. She would think about Verna tomorrow.
Ann finally got away late Thursday morning, several hours after Lacy had hoped. Wonderfully alone for the first time in ten days, she fell onto the sofa with Frankie and enjoyed the stillness. She closed her eyes and heard nothing, and it was lovely. Then she thought of Verna and of all the horrible sounds echoing through the Hatch home—crying kids and ringing phones and kinfolk shuffling in and out. She felt guilty for the contrast.
She closed her eyes and was about to catch a wink when Frankie growled softly. There was a man standing at her door.
Lacy went to the front window for a closer look. The door was locked. She felt safe. One quick push of a button on the security panel and all manner of alarms would erupt. The man was vaguely familiar—deep tan, lots of long gray hair.
Mr. Greg Myers, she decided. On dry land.
She spoke through the intercom. “Hello.”
His voice was familiar. “Looking for Lacy Stoltz,” he said.
“And who are you?”
“Last name is Myers.”
She opened the door with a grin and said hello. As he stepped inside, she scanned the parking lot and noticed nothing unusual.
“Where’s the Panama hat and gaudy shirt?” she asked.
“I save that for the boat. What happened to all that beautiful hair?”
She pointed to the ugly scar on her head. “Twenty-four stitches and still pretty sore.”
“You look great, Lacy. I was so afraid you were badly injured. The newspapers have not said much about your condition, only that you had a head injury.”
“Have a seat. I assume you want a beer.”
“No, I’m driving. Just some water.”
She pulled two bottles of fizzy water out of the fridge and they sat at a small table in the breakfast nook. “So you’ve kept up through the papers?” she asked.
“Yes, an old habit, I suppose. Since I live on a boat I need some contact with reality.”
“I haven’t looked at a newspaper since the wreck.”
“You haven’t missed much. As for you and Hugo, they’ve already moved on.”
“I’m assuming I was easy to find here.”
“Quite. You’re not trying to hide, are you?”
“No. I’m not living like that, Greg. I’m not afraid.”
“Must be nice. Look, Lacy, I’ve just driven five hours from Palm Harbor. I want to know what happened. You gotta tell me. It wasn’t an accident, was it?”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Okay. I’m listening.”
“We’ll talk, but first a question. Do you still use the same phones you were using a month ago?”
He thought for a second and said, “One of them.”
“And where is it right now?”
“On the boat. Palm Harbor.”
“Is Carlita on the boat?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Can you call Carlita right now, tell her to get the phone and toss it overboard? Now! You have no choice.”
“Sure.” Myers whipped out a burner and did as instructed. When he ended the call, he said, “Okay, what was that all about?”
“It’s part of the story.”
“Let’s hear it.”
Throughout the narrative, Myers at times showed remorse, and at times seemed indifferent to the tragedy. “What a mistake,” he mumbled more than once as Lacy described taking the bait from the informant.
“Was there an autopsy?” he asked. As far as Lacy knew, an autopsy had never been mentioned.
“No. Why would they do an autopsy?”
“I don’t know. Just curious.”
Lacy closed her eyes and began tapping her forehead as if in a trance.
“What is it?” Myers asked.
“He had a light, a light on his head, like a miner or something.”
“A headlamp.”
“I guess. I can see it now. He looked at me through my window, which was shattered.”
“Did you see his face?”
“No, the light was too bright.” She covered her face with both hands and gently massaged her forehead with her fingertips. A minute passed, then another. Gently, Myers asked, “Did you see the other guy?”
She shook her head. “No, it’s gone now. I know there were two of them, two figures moving around. One with the headlamp thing, and I think the other had a regular flashlight. I heard their footsteps as they stepped on the broken glass.”
“Did they say anything?”
“Nothing I remember. I was stunned.”
“Sure you were, Lacy. You had a concussion. That’ll screw up your memory.”
She smiled, stood, walked to the fridge, and took out some orange juice. Myers said, “What kinds of cell phones?”
“Older BlackBerry models, issued by BJC.” She poured two glasses and set them on the table. “I have an iPhone but I left it here. Hugo used the state phone for everything. I’m not sure he had another. Our IT guy says it’s impossible to hack into the state phones.”
“But it can be done. For the right money, they can hire the hackers.”
“Our guy says not to worry. He’s also tried to track the phones but there’s no signal, which means they’re probably at the bottom of the ocean.”
“I worry about everything. That’s why I’m still alive.”
Lacy walked to a tall kitchen window and looked at the clouds. With her back to Myers she posed the question, “So, tell me, Greg, what did they gain by killing Hugo?”
Myers stood and stretched his legs. He took a sip of orange juice and said, “Intimidation. Somehow they got wind you guys were snooping around, so they reacted. As far as the police are concerned, it looks like an accident. But taking the cell phones also sent the message to you and BJC.”
“Could I be next?”
“I doubt it. They had you on the ropes and could have easily finished you off. One dead guy is warning enough. If something happened to you now it would bring the full weight of the federal government.”
“And what about you?”
“Oh, I’ll never be safe. Their first objective will be to find Greg Myers, whoever the hell he is, and take him, me, out quietly. But they’ll never find me.”
“Can they find the mole?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“A lot of uncertainties, Greg.”
He walked to the window and stood beside her. The rain had started and drops were hitting the glass. “You want to quit?” he asked. “I can withdraw the complaint and get on with life. Same for you. You’ve shed enough blood. Life is too short.”
“I can’t do that, Greg, not now. If we walk away, the bad guys win again. Hugo died for nothing. BJC would be a joke. No. I’m still in.”
“And what’s the endgame?”
“The corruption is exposed. McDover and Dubose and company are indicted and prosecuted. The mole gets his rewards. Hugo’s death is investigated and those responsible are brought to justice. Junior Mace walks after fifteen years on death row. And whoever killed Son Razko and Eileen Mace is put on trial.”
“Anything else?”
“No, that should keep me busy for the next month or so.”
“You can’t do it by yourself, Lacy. You need a lot of help.”
“Yes, I do, and that’s where the FBI comes in. They have the resources and expertise; we don’t. If you want this case cracked and the bad guys rounded up, then you have to ease up on the FBI.”
“You’re assuming they will investigate?”
“Yes, and that might be assuming too much.”
“When do you approach them?”
“It’s unlikely the FBI will get involved if we’re not involved first. As you know, the agency has shown an extreme reluctance to stick its nose into Indian matters. So, our plans are to serve your complaint on McDover. She’ll have thirty days to respond. We’ll take it one step at a time.”
“You must protect my identity at all times, Lacy. If you can’t promise that, then I’m checking out now. And, I’m not working directly with the FBI. You can, and I’ll feed you everything we get from the mole, but I will have no contact with the FBI. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“And you be careful, Lacy. These are dangerous people and they’re desperate.”
“I get it, Greg. They killed Hugo, didn’t they?”
“They did, and I’m sorry. I wish I’d never called you.”
“Too late for that.”
He pulled a thin burner from his pocket and handed it over. “Use this for the next month. I have one too.”
She held it in the palm of her hand as if it were stolen, then finally nodded and said, “Okay, I guess.”
“In thirty days, I’ll send you another one. Keep it close at all times. If the wrong people get it, I’m a dead man, and I wouldn’t like your chances either.”
She watched him drive away, in a rented car with Ohio plates, and gripped his cheap phone while wondering how in the world she had gotten herself into such a mess. During her first nine years at BJC, her most interesting case had been a Duval County circuit court judge who preyed on attractive women going through bad divorces on his docket. He’d also preyed on court reporters, clerks, and secretaries, any female, really, who had a nice figure and was unlucky enough to get near his courtroom. Lacy forced him to resign and he later went to jail.
But nothing like this.
The inevitable moment had arrived, and Lacy was not ready for it. Nor would she ever be; thus she had no choice. Simon, her neighbor, agreed to ride along and talk her through it. Tentatively, she approached the small Ford rental, a loaner provided by her insurance policy and delivered the day before. She opened the door and slowly eased herself behind the wheel. She gripped it hard and felt her pulse hammering through her hands. Simon got in, put on his seat belt, and suggested that she do the same. She inserted the key, started the engine, and sat paralyzed as the air-conditioning slowly came to life.
“Take a deep breath,” he said. “This is going to be easy.”
“There is nothing easy about it.” She gently pulled the gear shift into reverse and released the brake. When the car actually moved she felt a wave of dizziness and hit the brake again.
“Come on, Lacy. Let’s get this over with,” he said, a Brit with one of those stiff upper lips. “You have no choice.”
“I know, I know.” She released the brake again and inched backward. She turned and left the space free, then stopped and moved the gear shift into drive. No other car was moving in the small lot next to her building, but she feared them anyway.
Too cheerily, Simon said, “Now, Lacy, one must take pressure off the brake for the vehicle to move forward.”
“I know, I know,” she repeated, almost mumbling. The car began to ease forward, then turned and stopped at the street, which was lightly traveled on a busy day. “Take a right here,” he said. “I see nothing coming.”
“My hands are sweaty,” she said.
“So are mine. It’s hot as hell in here. Now, move along, Lacy. You’re doing fine. All is well.”
She turned onto the street and pressed the accelerator. It was impossible to ignore the memories of her last drive, but she tried her best. Mumbling helped, and she kept saying, “This is working. This is working.”
“You’re great, Lacy. A bit more speed if you will.”
She glanced at the speedometer as it topped twenty, then began to slow for a stop sign. She made the block, then another. Fifteen minutes later, she was back at the apartment, dry-mouthed and drenched with sweat.
“Shall we do it again?” Simon asked.
“Give me an hour,” she said. “I need to lie down.”
“As you wish, dear. Just give me a ring.”