Page 2 of The List

DAY ONE

B RENT W ALKER HATED REDNECKS.

Not all, of course, but most, though by the most commonly accepted definition he probably was one too.

They were a peculiar breed, locally born and bred, with their own language, moral code, and pecking order.

To understand them took time and patience—two commodities he’d found himself in short supply of recently.

Making matters worse, the scrawny little pissant standing behind him was particularly annoying, complete with the trademark sunburned neck.

“Thought you were gone, lawyer,” Clarence Silva said.

“I’m back.”

“Lucky us.”

He quit sliding the plastic tray across the stainless-steel grid and stopped before the desserts spread out behind a glass partition.

He faced Silva, one of the last divorces he’d finalized ten years ago before leaving Concord for Atlanta.

Silva had been an electrician’s helper at the mill, who then had a wife and three kids.

Brent had represented the wife.

He reached for a slice of cherry pie and continued down the serving line.

The restaurant was rapidly filling with a dinner crowd. Day shift at the paper mill had ended two hours ago. Allowing for enough time to drive home, shower, and hustle the wife and kids into the car, six to seven had always been rush hour at most of Concord’s dinner establishments.

And there weren’t many.

The two motels had restaurants. In addition, there was a café downtown, a country buffet on the Savannah highway, Andy’s Barbecue near the mill, Burger King, McDonald’s, Wendy’s, and, his choice for the night, Aunt B’s Country Kitchen.

Being the first Tuesday of the month didn’t help with the crowd.

The Woods County Rotary Club was holding its monthly gathering just off the main dining room.

He once was a member, one of three lawyers.

“Pansy,” Silva said.

The idiot had crept close into Brent’s personal space, the aroma from Silva’s dingy clothes, like spilled milk, strong. A familiar waft. It came from eight hours at the paper mill. A mix of heavy bleaching chemicals and copious amounts of sulfuric gases. The smell of money, everyone called it.

He knew part of the unofficial redneck code was never to walk away from trouble—not now, not ever—so he turned and faced his past. “You got a problem, Clarence?”

His voice rose, the tone intense enough that it caught the attention of the people behind Silva. Good. He wasn’t the same man who’d left this town a decade ago and everybody might as well learn that on his first day back.

“Thanks to you, lawyer, I lost everythin’.”

He surveyed the fool. Not much had changed.

Black oily hair down to the ears. Still thin as a sapling.

Same long neck, like one of the pileated woodpeckers that built nests among the pines around Eagle Lake.

In contrast, Brent was six-one, a fit 190 pounds, every muscle toned from a steady regimen at the gym.

He liked working out. Sweating seemed to take the edge off, much like alcohol, tobacco, or drugs did for others.

Thankfully those three vices had never really interested him.

“As I recall,” Brent said. “You didn’t have much to lose.”

“You almost cost me my job.”

“Bullshit.” And he pointed a finger. “ You almost cost you your job.”

Ten years in Atlanta prosecuting criminals for the Fulton County District Attorney’s Office and he’d thought the middle Georgia in him gone.

Nope. Not a bit. Still there. Ready for a fight.

And though he hadn’t had a fisticuffs in years, he didn’t necessarily want to brawl right in the middle of Aunt B’s.

Bad for his new image as an assistant general corporate counsel.

A fancy title he was still trying to digest.

So he tried a diversion. “What happened to the wife?”

Silva smiled. Both front teeth were gone, and what remained looked like rotten corn kernels. “Married her again, six months after the divorce.”

Why wasn’t he surprised. The redneck code allowed a wide latitude for forgiveness, no matter the offense, provided a man’s pride had not been too soiled. Which seemed the case here.

“Got another young’un too, after.”

“How you must be proud.”

His sarcasm was clear, so he turned back and started down the serving line.

“Guess she just couldn’t go without it,” Silva said to him.

Another mantra of the code provided that no matter what the problem, sex was always the answer. Whether good or bad, real or not, didn’t matter. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t resist. “Killed any rabbits lately?”

He recalled during the divorce the wife’s testimony of how Silva liked to buy the children cute little Easter bunnies for them to play with.

Then he’d fatten them up, twist their necks, and cook them for Memorial Day.

Grillin’ Thumper, he called it. Needless to say the whole experience was traumatic on the kids and highly effective on the judge.

Silva’s visitation rights had been severely restricted.

“How ’bout you and me goin’ outside?” Silva said. “I always wanted to twist your neck.”

He stopped, turned, and considered the challenge. Why not? He wouldn’t mind beating the crap out of this idiot. Might be a good way to finish turning that page on his new life. Unfortunately, common sense cautioned otherwise.

“Since you got the wife and the kids back,” he said, “go get a life, Silva.”

“Got one. I’d just like to screw your face up. How about it, lawyer? You up to it?”

“I don’t think so,” a voice said from behind him.

Brent turned.

Hank Reed stood planted, all five foot nine inches of him, head jutted forward projecting that famous look of stern determination, like a face from Mount Rushmore, glaring at Clarence Silva.

“This ain’t got nothin’ to do with you, Hank,” Silva said. “Never liked this lawyer, and you know that.”

“I’m not here to argue. Get your food and move on,” Hank said.

He knew Silva wasn’t about to mount a challenge.

Silva surely remained only an electrician’s helper at the mill, while Hank was the most senior of the senior day electricians and president of Silva’s trade union.

Messing with that would bring nothing but a mountain of trouble.

So Silva moved on, shuffling past, angling for a table.

Good thing, because Brent was just about to head for the parking lot and crush the little bastard.

But he didn’t really want a bruised face tomorrow.

His first day on a new job.

New life.

No matter how much pleasure he would have derived.

6:05 P.M.

T HE A SSOCIATE ENTERED THE W OODS C OUNTY C ONVALESCENT Center.

The single-story building sat just outside Concord, near the regional hospital.

It had been built five years ago, replacing a facility that had far outlived its usefulness.

Its stats were impressive. Seventy-eight beds, a staff of fifty-one, its equipment state-of-the-art.

The average age of a resident was seventy-nine, the current population divided sixty/forty, women to men.

Everything was geared toward comfort. There were morning-coffee socials, craft classes, movies, video games, even candlelight dinners and birthday celebrations.

As the center’s promotional brochure noted, We work together with the family to provide ongoing therapeutic programs that meet every resident’s needs.

Sounded great.

But he was a long way from retiring and, when he did, it would be to a beach somewhere warm where he could enjoy the fruits of his many labors.

After all, he was a pro.

He’d timed his visit to coincide with the evening shuffle.

The file had indicated that 5:00 to 7:00 P.M. each day was not only a shift change, but a time when family members came and went, many dropping by either on their way home from work or after supper.

Nearly all the elderly residents were locals, most born and raised in Woods County, men and women who’d worked their whole lives either at the paper mill, or for the county, or in the school system.

Those were the top three local employers.

The first convalescent center had been built in the 1960s, fully funded by Southern Republic Pulp and Paper, which owned the local paper mill.

It was eventually remodeled twice. The company’s way to give back , was how it had been billed both times in the press.

The file he’d studied on the Priority had contained photographs, license plates, and physical descriptions of the nearest relatives, but none of those faces had arrived during the past three hours of his surveillance, and none of their cars were parked in the nearly empty lot.

He knew the building stretched a little over twenty thousand square feet under roof, spread across two acres of flat, wooded land that had also been donated by Southern Republic.

The Priority resided inside Room 46, in the building’s east wing.

His name was J. J. Jordon, seventy-four years old, suffering from severe blood clots in his legs, aggravated by gout and kidney failure.

He should have died three weeks ago when another Associate had paid a visit to Jordon’s home and switched out medications.

That was a common method for processing, since the only question it raised was the liability of the pharmacy that had filled the prescription.

Which wasn’t his problem.

In fact, the whole idea of the Priority program was to make a death somebody else’s problem.

He’d studied Jordon’s medical records, to which he had easy access, and noted that the old man’s condition had stabilized.

His family had chosen to admit him to the local convalescent center since they were no longer able to care for him on a twenty-four-hour basis.

The incident with the bad pills had taken a toll, aggravating things, but not to the point of being fatal.

So far, nineteen days of constant care had racked up quite a bill, the amount growing every day, with no end in sight.