Page 60 of The List
B RENT CHECKED HIS WATCH.
His ten minutes were almost up. Hank should be at the barge dock any second. He had no idea what his friend had in mind, but he knew De Florio was closing in, so whatever Hank was planning had better damn well get them both out of here and fast.
He rounded the corner, the river in sight. Suddenly, to his left, Hank bolted out of the building and jumped from the loading dock. The two joined together for the last hundred feet.
“We’ve got company, Hank.”
“Don’t I know.”
“De Florio’s behind me.”
“And another’s on my tail.”
“Where we going?” he asked.
“Away from here.”
He shot a look back.
De Florio was rounding the corner and a security guard was exiting the building.
The barge dock was a stubby concrete slab that projected twenty feet out into the muddy Savannah River.
It was used mainly to off-load crude oil into three storage tanks nearby, but the company kept a small outboard tied to it for environmental testing of the river. No barges hugged the dock today.
They raced to the end of the short pier and up to one of the metal ladders leading down to the water. He looked below and saw a small boat manned by Clarence Silva.
“Get in the boat,” Hank said.
He looked back. De Florio and the guard were headed straight for the dock. A redneck who three weeks ago wanted to beat the shit of him waited below. He chose the lesser of two evils and descended.
Hank slid down the ladder behind him. “Hit it, Clarence.”
The engine roared to life and the boat shot out into the current.
J ON REACHED THE END OF THE DOCK.
He pointed to the company outboard and said to Jacks, “Use that and follow them.”
His associate slid down the ladder on the other side, jumped into the boat, and yanked several times on the outboard.
B RENT AND H ANK WATCHED WHILE THE GUARD TRIED TO START THE company’s outboard.
“Goin’ to be kind of hard without these.”
Silva held up the spark plug wires and smiled proudly through his trademark corn-kernel teeth.
“I never thought I’d be glad to see you,” Brent said.
“Only thing I hate worse than lawyers is them security guards.”
“Clarence is a good man,” Hank said. “A little warped at times, but okay.”
“I take back every bad thing I ever said about you,” Brent said.
Silva seemed to like that.
“Where are we going?” Brent asked.
“I’ve arranged for some ground transportation,” Hanks said. “Clarence is going to take us downriver where it’s waiting.”
Brent stripped off his coat, his dress shirt pasted to his body. He yanked off his tie and stuffed it in his jacket pocket.
“Pretty damn clever, Hank. That should screw up De Florio for a while.”
“What about the home front?”
“We’ll have to hope they get to where I sent them. I didn’t have time to check further. But I’m betting it’s me they want.”
“It’s both of us,” Hank said.
That was right, but the realization didn’t make him feel any better. He couldn’t decide if Hank was actually enjoying all the intrigue.
He knew he wasn’t.
They motored downriver about four miles, the water deceivingly peaceful, the warm breeze like a hair dryer.
Off to the east anvil thunderheads were building, blinding white above, ominous blue-black underneath starting to obliterate the morning sun.
They finally turned west and navigated up one of the countless tributaries that veined the river, the meander of muddy water twining through oak and cypress.
Waves of heat and humidity hovered. About half a mile inland a wrinkled dock arched out.
Beyond, a tattered single-wide trailer rested quietly under a canopy of mushrooming oaks ladened with moss beards.
Silva eased to the dock and tied the boat.
They climbed out.
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
“Clarence’s brother lives here,” Hank said. “We’re going to use that truck over there.” Hank turned to Silva. “Here are the keys to my mill car. You know the one. Use it till I get back. I don’t think anybody got a good look at you, but you know the program, you don’t know nothin’.”
“Don’t worry ’bout me. I won’t tell ’em a damn thing,” Silva said.
Brent studied the pickup, a dirty white Toyota with mud tires and no tailgate.
The bumper sticker read MY KID BEAT THE HELL OUT OF YOUR HONOR KID.
Why didn’t that surprise him. A tan Mustang with bald tires sat next to it, a dirty American flag for a front license plate, and enough dents to have been rolled down a rocky slope.
“What’s that, a ’67?” he asked.
“A ’66,” Silva said. “My brother’s.”
“I need it.” He reached into his coat pocket and found his keys. “There’s a maroon Jeep with a cloth top parked in the front lot at the mill. Tell your brother to use it.”
Silva caught the keys, then looked at Hank, who shrugged.
“My brother’s sleepin’ right now,” Silva said. “On graveyard tonight. But I guess it’ll be all right. Let me get the key.”
Silva disappeared inside the trailer.
Brent asked Hank, “Where you headed?”
“To find us a place to hide for tonight. I’ve got a couple of possibilities.”
“While you do that, I have to take care of something.”
“You want to tell me?”
“It’s better you don’t know, just in case they find you. Have you got that copy of the list?”
Hank reached into his pocket and handed him the folded sheet. As he pocketed it, Silva returned with another set of keys.
“My brother said it’s all right, what with Mr. Reed bein’ involved and all.”
Brent took them. “Tell him thanks and I’ll take good care of it.”
“You and your brother going to be able to get to work?” Hank asked, heading for the pickup.
“We’ll hitch a ride.”
He opened the Mustang’s door and tossed his coat inside. “Hank, call me when you get a place. I’ll check on the family while I’m out.”
He climbed in, roared the engine to life, and raced from the trailer down the dirt lane.
11:00 A.M.
L EE SEETHED. “W HAT DO YOU MEAN THEY’RE GONE?”
He and De Florio were back in the main conference room. Hughes had finally joined them.
“A boat was waiting. The company boat had been tampered with,” De Florio said.
“This is not good, Jon,” Hughes said. “Not good at all.”
Lee ignored him. He’d tried to get him to be at the meeting with Brent Walker earlier but the idiot overslept. “They must be found.”
“I realize that. But no error on our part let them get away.”
“No, just an underestimation.”
“Perhaps,” De Florio admitted, tone begrudging. “I’m going to review the entire files on Reed and Walker. What I had this morning were only excerpts. That information could point us on the right path to find them.”
He was not concerned with particulars.
“Find them, Jon. And quick.”
B RENT WASTED NO TIME GETTING BACK TO H IGHWAY 16 A .
B UT SINCE he couldn’t be sure of where De Florio’s associates might be lurking, the open expanse made him nervous.
He had to make a stop at home and hoped that all the players on the other side were busy at the mill.
What had Bozin written? Jon De Florio oversees the program.
There are two associates who work under him, however no one, other than De Florio, knows anything about them.
He knew where De Florio and one associate were, the problem came from not knowing where the other was located.
He had to bet that person was not watching the Walker house.
He drove back into town and, instead of parking in the driveway or even on the street, he left the car a block over and walked through the neighbors’ yards to his parents’ house.
He knew nearly all of them and no one was around at this time of day.
He made it to the garage and slipped inside, locating the envelope with the originals Bozin had entrusted to him with and hustling back to the car.
He then drove out of town, turning west off the medianed four-laned highway, retracing the same route taken three weeks ago when he first returned to Concord.
He moved fast, but tried to keep to the posted speed limit.
The southernmost shore of Eagle Lake paralleled for a long time, water peeking in and out from among thick stands of trees.
Finally, he left the lake behind, crossing the Ogeechee and entering Bulloch County, the image from the road sign— WELCOME TO WOODS COUNTY, POPULATION 12,894 —fading in the rearview mirror.
At the familiar fork in the road, instead of veering south toward I-16, he sped for Statesboro.
Twenty minutes later he entered downtown and headed straight to a squatty brick building marked UNITED STATES POST OFFICE .
He parked the Mustang out front and retrieved the envelope from the passenger’s seat.
Inside, a large wall clock read 11:58 A.M. His mother should have made it to his uncle’s by now.
He approached the counter and asked the clerk for an express mail pouch. He carried it to another counter and addressed the label to his former boss, the Fulton County district attorney. On the outside of the brown envelope Bozin gave him, he wrote
Please put this envelope in a safe place and keep it there until you hear from me. Tell no one about it and do not open it. If something happens to me, get it to the police immediately. I know this sounds cryptic, but you’re the only one I can count on right now. I’ll be in touch.
He signed his name and, into the envelope, which already contained Bozin’s handwritten notes and the flash drive, he stuffed the copy of the list Reed had provided.
Using the roll of tape on the counter, he sealed the envelope shut.
He slid it inside the express mail pouch and gave it to the clerk, paying the overnight fees in cash.
He stepped outside.