His employer led the way as they casually strolled to the other side of the atrium, commandeering a small alcove adjacent to one of the fountains.
“I wanted to give Mr. Bozin time to get to Concord and myself time to think everything through before we talked,” Lee said. “The board concurs with what I’ve already directed you to do. Find out if Reed has the list. If he does, get it back but we need to know if he’s deciphered it. Or even attempted to. We want this situation contained and kept quiet for now.”
He nodded an understanding.
“Also, Mr. Bozin will be in Concord for the negotiations. He’s asked that you report directly to him. Do it. But Jon, I want a report too, separate and apart—and first.”
He nodded his further assent.
“Mr. Hughes and I want you to keep an eye on Mr. Bozin. Without going into a lot of detail, suffice it to say we have concerns about him.”
He’d long sensed the tension among the three owners. Understandable given their differences. Bozin possessed a distinctly different philosophy from the other two. More cautious. Concerned with following procedures. He didn’t take chances and didn’t like others taking them either. Jon actually preferred that methodology.
“How involved should my surveillance of Mr. Bozin get? I don’t like being put in the middle. I work for all three of you, without favorites.”
“I wouldn’t be ordering this if I didn’t think it critical. Just monitor enough to know what he’s doing, who he’s talking to. We have a possible breach in our Priority system. A serious one. Needless to say, I don’t want to take any more chances.”
“Do I report the information on Mr. Bozin directly to you?”
Lee nodded.
“As to Reed, I have no authority to do anything other than observe and report?”
“Correct,” Lee said. “For now.”
DAY TWELVE
SATURDAY, JUNE 17
7:45A.M.
BRENT WOKE AND FOCUSED ON THE CLOCK BESIDE THE BED.HE’Dnever needed an alarm, his body blessed with a self-contained chronometer that could wake him at the precise time intended. The trait had been a godsend in college and law school—he never missed an 8:00A.M.class—and it came in handy for early court sessions too.
It was strange waking up in his old room after so many years away. He and Paula had lived in a house a few blocks over during the time they were married. He sold it just before leaving town. But lying alone, here, in his childhood bed, he imagined himself seventeen again. His first thoughts then were usually of breakfast, his mother, and the day of the week. Mondays were bacon and eggs. Tuesdays cereal. Grits and toast came midweek, French toast on Thursdays. Depending on her mood and the weather, Fridays were either oatmeal or eggs again. Saturday cold cereal. And Sundays pancakes and sausage, with church afterward.
But he remembered his father too.
Weekend mornings when the lawn mower or one of the table saws in the garage would wake him after a Friday night at the VFW playing pool or celebrating after a baseball game. Concord always seemed such a safe place. One he hoped that might, someday, provide stability for his own children. Yet here he was, in hisforties, with no wife and no kids. That longing had been another reason why he’d returned. It seemed his fate was inexplicably linked with this spot on the earth.
He rose, slipped on a pair of tattered gym shorts and an old jersey, and drifted downstairs. The house was quiet, his mother still asleep. After eating a bowl of cornflakes he headed out the back door toward the garage. The detached building was a full two stories, its second floor once his father’s woodworking shop.
He gassed the lawn mower, an old two-cycle job that his father had tinkered with for years. Since he’d left, his mother had cut the grass. She’d always loved yard work. But he wanted to contribute toward the household chores and lawn care seemed the most productive thing for him to do.
The morning was trademark middle Georgia, June hot. A thick coat of dew licked the grass and made the cutting a little slow. An hour later he was in the garage searching for the gas trimmer when he heard a vehicle enter the driveway. He stepped out to see Hank Reed climb out of a pickup.
“You’re up early,” he said.
Hank wore his usual starched khaki pants, shiny penny loafers, and a cotton, button-down shirt.
“And seriously overdressed. Where you headed?”
“You hear about Paul Zimmerman?”
He had not.
“Somebody blew his brains out in Solomon Swamp.” Hank shook his head. “A damn hunting accident.”
He shook his head. “That’s awful. Does the sheriff know anything?”
