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Folded paper. Address written on it. The name “Delilah” scribbled across the top like a marquee banner spray-painted by a junkie. In my pocket.
I leave. Pick the cab back up four blocks away. I drop the other half along with another twenty and say, “For being timely.”
The cabbie nods, asks, “Where to?”
“Rail station.” Time to go back home.
On the ride home I find my eyelids heavy. The seat is too firm. My left suspender is too loose, and no matter how many times I tuck the tail of my shirt in it pulls out. My socks and pant cuffs are soaked through. My knees have wet spots on them. My
ears buzz from the gunshots. Headache that’s moved down into my teeth.
My cell rings. Derne. I almost let it go to voice mail.
“Hello, Mr. Derne.”
“Hello, Mr. Buckner,” he says, almost numb.
“What can I do for you?”
“Find her fast, Mr. Buckner—”
“I assure you I’m working as quickly as possible with—”
“Life is like this, Mr. Buckner,” he says this, not like before. I despise being interrupted but I’ve spoken with enough folks who have something to say to know to let this play out.
“Losing my wife like this...with her cancer we both knew she’d be...well, called home I guess. The fire...I hope it was painless.”
I can hear the void in him. Inside him. As barren as the soul of a mother who has lost her child. That same void filled me with its vast emptiness the day I laid my own wife to rest. She and I weren’t married an iota of the length of time Derne and his wife were. I’m glad I lost her so soon so I don’t have to sound the way Derne does now. No one would take me seriously.
“In the hospital, the doctors did a lot of tests,” he says. “Blood tests revealed a problem with my liver. I forget the fancy doctor terms they used. All I paid attention to was terminal.”
I see now.
“Find Delilah fast, Mr. Buckner. Seems my clock is winding down.”
39
The next day, bright and early: Elam Derne calls.
Tells me if I want I may attend his wife’s funeral. I can’t. Pierce White has been found.
In pieces.
40
Pierce White’s current wife is nowhere to be found.
Janet Richley, the former Mrs. White, had the kids this week. Lucky for Pierce Jr., age seven, and Felicity, age five. They should have been with their father and the new Mrs. White but Ms. Richley had a family reunion out of town and worked out a deal where she could bring her children along.
Clevenger has been in contact with Ms. Richley. She told him she traded Pierce a holiday for the reunion. Looks like she got the holiday back free of charge.
He leans against the doorway outside. Techs walk back and forth. Police tape and the lingering miasma of old blood and fingerprinting dust. We enter.
The crime scene: family room. A flat screen LCD HD TV set so large it requires its own stadium seating and concession stand. Carpet thick and lush enough to make a bald man green with envy. Tasteful original art hanging on the walls. Looks like oil to me. But anything outside of a comic book looks like oil to me.
“How is Molly?” I ask, rubbing my five o’clock shadow.
“Good. Taking a pottery class this season at the community college.”
