He felt for her. How could he not. And he understood the shock, anger, guilt, despair, confusion, and rejection. All those emotions had been triggered inside him by Paula’s death. He’d never sought any professional help. Instead, he’d used time and the isolation of moving hundreds of miles away to get through the aftermath. This woman had tried the same with her own move.
But what else could be done to help her?
Not much, probably.
So what would it hurt?
“I’d be honored to pray with you.”
12:15P.M.
HANK DRIED OFF.
He’d added the swimming pool a dozen summers ago, eliminating just enough of the pines and live oaks so the screened enclosure now swallowed the majority of his already compact backyard. A luxury, and definitely out of character for the blue-collar image of a working stiff he went out of his way to perpetuate. But given the length and intensity of the Georgia summers, what he calledthe twenty thousand gallons of chlorinated water held in place by a kidney-shaped concrete holebecame an understandable necessity.
He tossed the towel aside and slipped on a terry-cloth robe. He swam every evening after getting home from work and many times on the weekend. Living alone came with the privilege of doing what he wanted, when he wanted. Loretta had loved the pooland used it far more than he ever did. But after she was gone he came to enjoy it too. A day late and a dollar short. Which seemed the story of his life.
He sat and grabbed the clipboard off an adjacent table. Attached to it were hard copies of the documents Marlene had been lucky enough to snag from the company records. The memo from Hamilton Lee was downright shocking. Southern Republic’s lack of interest in any five-year deal was totally unexpected. He’d surely thought the company would again want those extra two years. His plan all along had been to trade for things like a percentage increase on wages and more benefits, then force a five-year agreement onto his membership. What was he going to do now? Take his people out on strike? Hardly.
In all the years of Southern Republic ownership no local had ever walked. That was bad for the company. Bad for the members. Bad for Concord.
He heard a car motor into the driveway. The screen door opened and Brent walked onto the pool deck. He was dressed in shorts and a Georgia Southern T-shirt. Tennis shoes protected his feet.
“What brings you by?” he asked.
“Did you know Peter Bates?”
“I had a few dealings with him. Not all that much. He did little with the unions. The general counsel handled us.”
“Was there anything at all suspicious about his death?”
“That’s an odd question. Should there be?”
“I’m just asking.”
He shook his head. “He shot himself. The sheriff told me it was clear as a bell. Nothing about anything raised any questions. Why the interest?”
He listened as Brent told him about the visit from Joan Bates and his own visit, earlier, with her.
“Now, Joan I did know,” he told Brent. “She was a regular at church. A real Bible thumper. Peter? Not so much a churchgoer. But her? Everybody knew Joan was one of the faithful. If you didn’t, she’d remind you every chance she got.”
“As she did with me.”
“You prayed with her?”
“I knelt with her. She got intense. I think she was speaking in tongues for a little bit.”
He chuckled. “That’s Joan. She’s been known to do it with the pews full. I think it may be one of the reasons she moved away, after Peter died. Don’t let her get to you. She’s harmless.”
“The whole thing was a little weird,” Brent said. “But I had to check it out.”
He nodded. “I agree. And as long as you’re in an inquisitive mood, take a look at this.”
He handed over the clipboard, the pages peeled back to the odd list of numbers he and Marlene had retrieved Tuesday night.
034156901
456913276
