Barry nodded. At the time, Clifford had been skiing in Colorado, and Barry knew this because Clifford had invited him to go. He lived alone in a big house with dozens of shady trees. The garage was a separate structure sitting by itself in the backyard. It was a perfect place, he had thought, because no one would ever suspect it.
And he’d been right — it was a perfect place. The feds hadn’t been near it. It was not a mistake. He’d planned to move it later. The mistake had been to tell Clifford.
“And you want me to send in three men to dig it up, without making a sound, and dispose of it properly?”
“Yes sir. It could save my ass.”
“Why do you say this?”
“Because I’m afraid this kid knows where it is, and he’s disappeared. Who knows what he’s doing? It’s just too risky. We gotta move the body, Johnny. I’m begging you.”
“I hate beggars, Barry. What if we get caught? What if a neighbor hears something and calls the cops, and they show up, just checkin’ on a prowler, you know, and, son of a bitch, there’s three boys diggin’ up a corpse.”
“They won’t get caught.”
“How do you know! How’d you do it? How’d you bury him in concrete without getting caught?”
“I’ve done it before, okay.”
“I wanna know!”
Barry straightened himself a bit, and recrossed his legs. “The day after I hit him, I unloaded six bags of ready-mix at the garage. I was in a truck with bogus tags, dressed like a yard boy, you know. No one seemed to notice. The nearest house is a good thirty yards away, and there’s trees everywhere. I went back at midnight in the same truck and unloaded the body in the garage. Then I left. There’s a ditch behind the garage, and a park on the other side of the ditch. I just walked through the trees, climbed across the ditch, and sneaked into the garage. Took about thirty minutes to dig a shallow grave, put the body in it, and mix the concrete. The floor of the garage is gravel, white rock, you know. I went back the next night, after the stuff had dried, and covered it with the gravel. He’s got this old boat, and so I rolled the boat back over it. When I left, everything was perfect. Clifford never had a clue.”
“Until you told him, of course.”
“Yeah, until I told him. It was a mistake, I admit.”
“Sounds like a lot of hard work.”
“I’ve done it before, okay. It’s easy. I was gonna move it later, but then the feds got involved and they’ve followed me for eight months.”
Johnny was nervous now. He relit the cigar and returned to the window. “You know, Barry,” he said, looking at the water, “you’ve got some talent, boy, but you’re an idiot when it comes to removing the evidence. We’ve always used the Gulf out there. Whatever happened to barrels and chains and weights?”
“I promise it won’t happen again. Just help me now, and I’ll never make this mistake again.”
“There won’t be a next time, Barry. If you somehow survive this, I’m gonna let you drive a truck for a while, then maybe run a fence for a year or so. I don’t know. Maybe you can go to Vegas and spend a little time with Rock.”
Barry stared at the back of the silver head. He’d lie for the moment, but he would not drive a truck or fence or kiss Rock’s ass. “Whatever you say, Johnny. Just help me.”
Johnny returned to his seat behind the desk. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I guess it’s urgent.”
“Tonight. This kid’s on the loose. He’s scared, and it’s just a matter of time before he tells someone.”
Johnny closed his eyes and shook his head.
Barry continued. “Give me three men. I’ll tell them exactly how to do it, and I promise they won’t get caught. It’ll be easy.”
Johnny nodded slowly, painfully. Okay. Okay. He stared at Barry. “Now get the hell outta here.”
After seven hours of searching, Chief Trimble declared St. Peter’s to be free of Mark Sway. He huddled in the lobby near Admissions with his officers, and pronounced the search over. They would continue to patrol the tunnels and walkways and corridors, and stand guard at the elevators and stairwells, but they were all now convinced the kid had eluded them. Trimble called McThune at his office with the news.
McThune was not surprised. He had been briefed periodically throughout the morning as the search fizzled. And there was no sign of Reggie. Momma Love had been bothered twice, and now she refused to answer the door. She’d told them to either produce a search warrant, or get the hell off her property. There was no probable cause for a search warrant, and he suspected Momma Love knew this. The hospital had consented to the wiring of the phone in Room 943. Less than thirty minutes earlier, two agents, posing as orderlies, had entered the room while Dianne was down the hall talking to the Memphis police. Instead of inserting the device, they simply switched phones. They were in the room less than a minute. The child, they reported, was asleep and never moved. The line was direct to the outside, and tapping in through the hospital switchboard would’ve taken at least two hours and involved other people.
Clint had not been found, but there was no valid reason to obtain a search warrant for his apartment, so they simply watched it.
Harry Roosevelt had been located in a rented boat somewhere along the Buffalo River in Arkansas. McThune had talked to him around eleven. Harry was livid, to say the least, and was now en route to the city.
Ord had called Foltrigg twice during the morning, but, uncharacteristically, the great man had little to say. The brilliant strategy of ambush by subpoena had blown up in his face, and he was plotting some serious damage control.
K. O. Lewis was already on board Director Voyles’s jet, and two agents had been dispatched to meet him at the airport. He would arrive around two.
An all-points bulletin for Mark Sway had been on the national wire since early morning. McThune was reluctant to add the name of Reggie Love to it. Though he hated lawyers, he found it difficult to believe one would actually help a child escape. But as the morning dragged on and there was no sign of her, he became convinced that their disappearances were more than coincidental. At eleven, he added her name to the APB, along with a physical description and a comment that she was probably traveling with Mark Sway. If they were in fact together, and if they had crossed a state line, the offense would be federal and he’d have the pleasure of nailing her.
There was little to do but wait. He and George Ord feasted on cold sandwiches and coffee for lunch. Another phone call, another reporter asking questions. No comment.
Another phone call, and Agent Durston walked into the office and held up three fingers. “Line three,” he said. “It’s Brenner at the hospital.” McThune hit the button. “Yeah,” he barked at the phone.
Brenner was in Room 945, next door to Ricky. He spoke in a guarded voice. “Jason, listen, we just heard a phone call from Clint Van Hooser to Dianne Sway. He told her he had just talked to Reggie, that she and Mark were in New Orleans, and everything was fine.”
“New Orleans!”
“That’s what he said. No indication of exactly where, just New Orleans. Dianne said almost nothing, and the entire conversation lasted under two minutes. He said he was calling from his girlfriend’s apartment in East Memphis, and he promised to call back later.”
“Where in East Memphis?”
“We can’t determine that, and he didn’t say. We’ll try and trace it next time. He hung up too quick. I’ll send the tape over.”
“Do that.” McThune punched another button, and Brenner was gone. He immediately called Larry Trumann in New Orleans.