Which was exactly where he wanted it.
If the blow to the head didn’t kill, the water certainly would.
Drowning, boating accident, or any combination would each be an acceptable cause of death.
It really was like shooting bottles off a log.
His associate rolled out of the boat into the pool. The skiffsettled into a slow cruise, finally lodging in thick brush farther down Brooks Creek, motor humming in neutral.
He surveyed the scene.
Everything was according to the processing criteria.
He signaled his associate, who treaded water until finding the shallows of the creek beyond the limbs. The old man’s body floated facedown in the murky water, apple core nearby. He waded over and laid his fingertips on the carotid artery.
No pulse.
Confirmation.
He and his associate pushed through the creek toward the lake. Approaching the mouth, an increasing depth forced them to swim the remaining distance to the other boat. Their clothes quickly turned to anchors, but the distance was only a few yards. Once there, they climbed in, jerked off their gloves, and then sped away as the old man’s body floated farther down Brooks Creek.
THE PRESENT
DAY ONE
TUESDAY, JUNE 6
5:50P.M.
BRENTWALKER 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 thecar, 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.
