So what was this? A list of recently deceased employees?
That couldn’t be.
Hank gave him the list last Saturday, June 10. Maybe the fact that each person was dead didn’t matter? Just a coincidence that Zimmerman was included. Or maybe not.
He had to know more.
So he selected one name from the list, Tim Featherston, and found the man’s employment records, learning he was a former electrician who retired six years ago. His current address was in Reeling, Georgia. The 912 area code meant the town was somewhere in middle or south Georgia.
He grabbed the phone and dialed. Two rings later the familiar tone came through with the irritating announcement, “The number you have dialed is not in service.” He dialed again, just to make sure he’d dialed right, but got the same response. He checked the records again and saw that Featherston’s beneficiary, in case of death, was a daughter. She lived at the north end of WoodsCounty. Her contact information was there. He dialed. A woman answered and he introduced himself.
“I work in the general counsel’s office at the mill. I was trying to get in touch with your father, but the number we have on file no longer works.”
“I’m sorry, but my father died the week before last.”
He was surprised. “You have my deepest condolences.” But he had to know, “How did it happen?”
“A silly bee sting. He had a bad allergy to them, and some got into his trailer during the night.”
The question formed immediately. “Could I ask what day he died?”
“Sometime early on the seventh.”
“I’m so sorry for troubling you. Again, my condolences.”
He told her goodbye and hung up. Five out of eight were dead. That was no coincidence. That was a pattern. But he needed to know one other critical piece of information. Unimportant.
Until now.
When exactly had Hank obtained the list?
5:40P.M.
BRENT WAS IMPRESSED WITHHICKORYROW.WHITE-FENCEDemerald pastures held grazing sable thoroughbreds. Does and bucks wandered openly, unconcerned about harm. Wild turkeys, colorful ducks, and geese milled about under a thick canopy of enveloping trees.
Originally, he and Ashley had planned to go out for a pizza. But she’d understood the importance of Bozin’s invitation, and they decided to do something else over the weekend. He’d noticed Ashley’s edginess over the past couple of days. Last night he thought she’d wanted to talk to him about something, but the subject got changed and she never steered it back. She was like that sometimes. Secretive, quiet, withdrawn. Odd for a person with such anoutgoing personality. He’d tried several times to find Hank, but his calls had gone unanswered, his messages unreturned.
The security guard at the main gate provided a printed map with directions to Bozin’s cottage, informing him that it sat at the end of a paved lane bearing the owner’s name. Before heading that way he took advantage of the opportunity and drove around the entire complex, admiring the rustic opulence. Finally, just before seven, he found the house.
Long shadows from the surrounding trees stretched across a cut lawn littered with straw. Two peacocks with full plumage meandered about. The exterior was a mixture of brick, limestone, and mortar. On one end a stone chimney arched high, thick with ivy. Like a French manor house had been transported across the Atlantic and deposited in the Georgia woods. He parked in the drive beside a familiar crimson pickup. The same sticker that had been attached to the bumper for years was still there.AIN’T MAD AT NOBODY.Hank Reed’s truck. Now he realized why he’d been ignored. His old friend was trolling for bigger fish.
The front bell announced his presence in the soft chime of church bells. A moment later the door opened.
“Please, come in,” Bozin said. “Did you find your way all right?”
“Nothing to it.”
He entered the elegant foyer, the room ringed with lovely walnut furniture. “Hank’s here?”
“He’s waiting in the living room.”
Bozin gestured toward a short hall that led to a spacious den with a high, arched cathedral ceiling. His eyes were drawn to the rear wall, which rose nearly all in plate glass. Outside, a patio was rimmed with bright marigolds. Beyond rose tall pines, then a shimmer of a lake. It felt like they were outside.
“I didn’t know you were on the guest list for tonight,” Hank said, standing by a wall bar.
Bozin moved toward the sofa. “I have to confess, I arranged this dinner and didn’t tell either of you about inviting the other. I hope you don’t mind.”
Neither he nor Hank said anything. What could they say? Bozin was the boss. But he wondered what the old man was up to.
