“Then you’re lucky to be alive.” Boomer pounded back up the drive in his size-thirteen boots, patting Marcus on the shoulder as he passed. “Good seeing you again, old son. Things have been awful dull around here.”
Charlie waited until they were halfway to Rocky Mount before saying, “You want to tell me why you went and did such a fool thing?”
“I was approached by a couple who are accusing New Horizons of kidnapping their daughter. I wanted to see if they were capable of rough tactics.”
Charlie fiddled with the cane, a gift from his son. The ivory top was carved in the shape of a ram’s head and dyed blue. “Why don’t they take something like that to the FBI?”
“They did, but the FBI can’t help much. The kidnapping allegedly took place in China.”
The fiddling halted. “As in the country way yonder over there, China?”
“The very same.”
The old man used both hands and the dash to swivel himself about. “All right. I’m listening.”
Telling what little he knew took them into Rocky Mount. Marcus threaded his way through empty Saturday streets, following Deacon’s carefully printed instructions to the fields and woodlands on the town’s south side. He concluded, “I read through the files last night. Whatever else she might be, Gloria Hall is a fine researcher. She followed the Richmond case from the outset. Had all the relevant data, including a confidential report from the state EPA advisory panel, something the defense managed to keep out of court. New Horizons was dumping a ton of poisons into that river.”
The old man’s response exhibited all the mental acuity that had made Judge Charlie Hayes a force in the legal establishment for more than forty years. “Long way to travel, from polluting the James River to kidnapping a student in China.”
“I realize that.”
“Do you have any concrete tie-ins?”
“Not yet.”
“Are you accepting the case?”
Marcus spotted Deacon Wilbur’s paint-spattered pickup and pulled to the side of the road. “I haven’t decided.”
Charlie squinted through the sun-dappled windshield, and said idly, “Sometimes you don’t have to win a case to succeed.”
Marcus turned to his oldest friend in the legal profession. Charlie Hayes looked every one of his seventy-eight years. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You just think on it a spell.” Charlie leaned over and called through Marcus’ window, “Deacon Wilbur. If I’d known you were going to be our guide today, I’d have been out here at midnight.”
The pastor smiled for the first time Marcus had ever seen outside of church. “Why, glory in the morning. If it ain’t Judge Hayes.”
“Get out of my way, son. I want to stand up and shake Deacon’s hand.” Impatiently Charlie allowed Marcus and the pastor to ease him from the truck. “How are you, sir?”
“Can’t complain, Judge. Can’t complain.” Deacon Wilbur clasped Charlie’s hand with both his own. “Marcus told me he was bringing somebody, but I didn’t have no idea it was you. My, but it’s good to see you again.”
“I hooked up with Marcus when he was still a shavetail recruit. Boy came down from some highfalutin college up north. Didn’t help him none. He looked ready to drown his first time in a Carolina courtroom.” To Marcus, “Deacon and I go way back.”
“That’s right, we surely do. My daddy fished with your daddy for more years than I know how to count.”
“Deacon’s daddy was the finest bass guide I ever hope to meet. How long has he been gone now?”
“Oh, he’s been laid to rest a whole passel of years. Resting easy, now that Marcus here saw to our cemetery.” Deacon then spotted the taped window on the Blazer’s other side. “What on earth’s happened here?”
Marcus replied, “A long story.”
Charlie demanded, “What’s this about a cemetery?”
“Another long story.”
“Come on, let’s get out on the river.” Deacon reached for a pole and a tackle box. “Ain’t no law says we can’t fish and talk. You all right with a little trail walking, Judge?”
“Fine. Grab my cane there, Marcus.”
“Ain’t far. Just round that bend up ahead.”
Within a hundred paces the swamp cypress and medieval oaks had closed in. The air became dank and rich with forest odors, and the morning light no longer accompanied them. The only signs remaining of the previous year’s floods were scattered debris and watermarks high up tree trunks. Ahead, the river moved dark and steady and timeless. Marcus helped Charlie down a slippery embankment, taking them farther into the timeless gloom, down to where a young black man held two aluminum skiffs.
“This here’s my youngest brother’s boy, Oathell. Mister Charlie, why don’t you join me right over here. Easy now, hold her steady, son.” The pastor slipped into the flat-bottomed boat and reached back, saying, “Hand me the judge’s pole, Marcus. Now Judge, you know I ain’t gonna let you work, so you can set that paddle right back down. You two climb in that other skiff and follow us on up the river.”
The skiffs were both powered by electric trolling motors, silent save for a high-pitched whine. They pushed easily upstream, traveling beneath a canopy of branches and sun-struck leaves. The river ran dark and slow as molasses, shining a ruddy gold whenever sunlight managed to glance through. From the bow of the second boat Marcus could hear the pair up ahead talking softly. Marcus remained content to float in soft silence within this green cathedral. The young man remained silent save for once, when the older pair up ahead almost shouted their laughter. Oathell humphed his disdain and muttered, “Yes sir, Mister Charlie, yes sir.” Speaking low yet loud, meaning for Marcus to hear and be forewarned.
They followed Deacon into a narrow inlet that Marcus would have taken for merely another crack between oily black roots. Only this one meandered through water-clad groves and veils of Spanish moss before opening into a hidden cove a hundred feet wide and ringed by gray pillars of long-dead trees. Far overhead nesting hawks cried their displeasure at the boats’ arrival. Otherwise the cove was close, fetid, still, and very beautiful.
“They might as well put up a sign,” Charlie said quietly over the water to Marcus. “Bass welcome here.”
“Wasn’t sure what we’d find after the floods. But it seems like all it did was perk the bass up a little.” Deacon ran out his pole. “Ain’t more than five, six people know about this place. So few it ain’t even got a name.”
“Them who know don’t talk about it,” Charlie agreed, grinning and pointing across the water. “Lookit your nephew there. Like he’s done died and gone to bass heaven.”
The pastor glanced over but did not smile. “Mind you don’t tell nobody ’bout this.”
“No sir, Deacon.” Subdued now. Respectful.
The pastor asked Marcus, “You aim on fly-fishing?”
“It’s been a while. But I’d like to try.”
“Run on over to that big cypress there to the other side. There’s fish been playing between them roots I can’t get to with my cane pole.”
Their boat flitted through the circle of sun and heat, then returned to the cool shade on the pool’s far side. Occasionally whoops erupted from the other boat. Marcus remained content with his own boat’s silence. He had more than enough to concentrate on just then, relearning the art of casting.
After he hooked and landed his second fish and Oathell his fourth, the young man said, “Uncle says you want to ask about Gloria.”
“You knew her?”
“Guess I did. We had us a thing going till she left for D.C.”
“What was she like?”
Oathell was using a spinning rod and a top-water plug. He flicked it expertly between cypress roots. Instantly the water erupted furiously. He pulled, hooked, reeled. Marcus plied the net, then raised the dripping prize over his head for the other boat to offer soft accolades. The bass hung over both sides of the net. “Must weigh over six pounds.”
“This is my reward,” Oathell said, accepting the net and fish, drawling the last word so it came out, ree-ward. “Been after Deacon to show me his secret place ever since I could walk.” A dark gaze flitted his way. “Uncle says, I talk to you, he’d bring me along. Wouldn’t tell me why he was letting you in on this.”