Talbot pulled out a key on a large ring from his pocket. “This is a master. Fits all the ones they put on last night.”
“Cool. Okay, hand it over. I’ll pop the lock and let’s go in. You got the gun so you cover my back, okay?”
“Okay.” He passed her the key and took out his pistol.
“Just don’t shoot me by accident, Dwight.”
He grinned. “Hell, Donna, that ain’t gonna happen, hon.”
“Just checking.”
She unlocked the door, and they quietly made their way inside and up a short flight of steps. The interior was tiny with only two doors. Cain knew one led to her bedroom, the other to the bathroom.
“You check that door,” she said, pointing to the bathroom door. “I’ll do the other.”
“You sure you want to split up?” said Dwight. “You don’t have a gun.”
She slid out her baton. “I got this and I do MMA.”
“For shit, really?”
“Yeah, just won a match the other night.”
“Well, you look like you can take care of yourself, that’s for sure. Just holler if you need me, hon.”
He went left and Cain entered her room on the right. She eyed the floorboard and thought quickly. She opened the window and then stepped back. “Hey, Dwight, come quick,” she called out.
Talbot bolted into the room. “There was nobody in the bathroom,” he said. “What’s up?”
Cain pointed at the window.
“Just saw the asshole running into the woods behind here. He must’ve gotten in and then out through this window when he heard us coming. You look faster than me. Go after him and I’ll call this in.”
“Right! I’ll get the son of a bitch.”
Talbot bolted outside. As soon as Cain heard the door bang open she lifted up the floorboard, took out her cash, gun, and pot, put the board back, and ran down the stairs and out the door. She put all her stuff in her car and was back at the building when Talbot came huffing back.
“H-he must’a got away,” said Talbot, bending over and sucking in air. “Y-you call it in?”
“Been trying. Damn cell phone’s got no bars. You’re going to have to do it.”
“O-okay.” He straightened and made the call.
When he was done, Cain looked down at her phone. “Hell, now I get a call coming in? I hate AT&T.” She put it to her ear. “Yeah? What, yeah, this is Donna White. You’re shitting me, right? No, really, you’re shitting me? Okay, well screw you, too.”
She put the phone away in her pocket with a disgusted look on her face.
“What was that all about?” Dwight asked anxiously.
“Steele just canned my ass. And you want to know why? Because they saw on the film from last night that I dozed off for like ten seconds. Like no rental cop’s ever done that.”
“Sorry asses,” exclaimed Talbot.
“So, they just told me to get my butt back and turn in all my stuff. Yeah, I’ll turn it in. I’ll throw it in a fucking dumpster.”
“What I would do, no lie, hon,” said Talbot.
“Well, hang in there, Dwight, don’t let them screw with you.”
“Okay, Donna, hey sorry, gal.”
“Yeah, everybody’s got problems. But I’m still breathing, right? And look, don’t even mention I was here to anybody, okay? They’ll probably try to pull some bullshit about something that happened so they can screw me out of my last paycheck.”
“Hey, my lips are zipped.”
She fist-bumped him, went to her car, climbed in, and drove off.
Oh, Dwight, what a dumbass you are. And thank you for that, hon.
She settled her gaze on the road. Now she just had to find a new place to live. And she still had the little matter of the FBI looking for her.
She needed to do something about that, only what?
Chapter 14
Atlee Pine and Carol Blum pulled into Huntsville, Alabama. Located in the Tennessee River Valley, it was a stately, historic southern town with a growing population and a modern veneer over the aged, antebellum underbelly. It had rich parts, poor parts, and in-between parts, just like every other town. Its economy had moved from cotton mills to textile plants to the space program and now centered on biotechnology. It was an interesting mix of old and new, storied families with long lineages and old sprawling homes with pillars out front and water views out back, facing a wave of diverse newcomers coming for good-paying jobs, interesting work, and cheaper housing than could be found in the Northeast, California, Florida, or Texas.
After skirting the downtown area and driving for a while, they pulled into the gravel drive of a one-story brick-and-siding rancher. It covered about twelve hundred square feet in a neighborhood of seventies-era homes that had probably cycled through several generations of families, and would probably cycle through several more before all was said and done.
Pine knocked on a door that had peeling paint and a tarnished and dented brass foot plate. A few moments later they heard a woman’s raspy voice through the closed door. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Atkins?”
“Yes?” The voice was now both worried and intrigued.
“I’m with the FBI. I’d like to talk to you.”
“The FBI? Is this some sort of joke?”
“No, it’s not.” Pine took out her shield and placed it against the dirty sidelight next to the door. She could see a woman’s blurred, wrinkled face studying the FBI badge through the glass.
“Okay, what is this about?”
“Your son, Joe Atkins.”
“Joe? He’s long since dead.”
“I know. That’s what we want to talk to you about. Please, it’s important.”
They could hear the lock being turned back and the door slowly opened.
Wanda Atkins was nearly eighty now, shriveled and withered by the years into something both hard and soft. She had on khaki pants and a white blouse, and wore thick white orthopedic shoes that looked as though they weighed about two pounds each. She was also using a metal cane with a curved handle and a wide bottom for support. Her hair had been permed beyond all reasonable recovery, with tufts missing and revealing pink scalp underneath. Her face was a mass of embedded concentric lines, and her eyes were set deep in the shrunken hollows of the sockets. Still, they were youngish eyes paired with the tanned skin and bedlam of wrinkles; the effect was a bit unnerving, like Pine was watching the woman age right in front of her.
She had a cannula in her nose, and a long oxygen line connected to it went down to the floor and then out of sight into the house.
“Now what is this about Joe?”
“May we come in?” asked Pine.
Atkins glanced at Blum, who said, “We’re just here for information, Mrs. Atkins.”
Perhaps comforted by Blum’s age and innocuous appearance, Atkins stepped back so they could move into the house. They were immediately hit by mingled odors of bleach, mustiness, and fried foods.
“You’ll have to excuse me. I have to give Len his medication,” said Atkins, moving past them. “He needs them right on time.”
They followed her into the next room. The house was cluttered with cardboard boxes stacked up and piles of unread, folded newspapers and magazines and what looked to be insurance and medical papers. Dust had accumulated on every surface that Pine could see. Two large oxygen tanks sat in holders against one wall, along with a portable oxygen concentrator that was connected to the line attached to Atkins’s cannula; there were also boxes of tubing and what looked to be a CPAP machine on a table. Two aluminum walkers were perched against a wall. A blood pressure monitor hung on a stand, and a gurney with collapsible sides was set against another wall. Prescription bottles lined one table and sat next to an elongated pill dispenser organized by days of the week. The dispenser’s bins were chock-full of pills.