“But how could that be? Why would he call Pam and then meet with her if he was going to do something like that?”
“Ever heard of meeting under false pretenses to gain some inside intelligence? You folks in the government contracting arena seem to have made a science out of it.”
Tuck said slowly, “Oh, yeah, I guess I see your point.”
“Have you told the FBI any of this? About Cassandra and the guy you saw with Pam?”
“Of course not. Wait a minute, do I have to?”
“Don’t ask me, I’m not your legal advisor. And when I get back to town you and I are going to straighten some things out with your sister.”
“Back in town? Where are you?”
“In Tennessee.”
“Why?”
“A funeral.”
“Jesus, I just remembered. We’re burying Pam on Friday. Jane is taking care of all the arrangements.”
“I’m sure she is.”
“Will you be back by then?”
“Yes, I will. But guess what, Tuck.”
“What?”
“I’ll be there for Pam. Not you! Oh, and while we’re being so truthful here, tell me this, was Willa the adopted child?”
“What!” Tuck sounded shocked.
“The postmortem confirmed that Pam only had two C-sections and she couldn’t deliver the normal way. You’ve got three kids, so which one was it? Willa?”
Tuck hung up the phone.
“Thanks for the answer,” Sean said to himself.
CHAPTER 36
QUARRY SLID his fat key ring out, found the right one, and opened the four-inch-thick door that had been built almost two centuries ago. Atlee was a jumble of dynamics; part southern baronial, part white trash, and part American history. This last part was demonstrated by the room he was now stepping into. It was in t
he bowels of the main house, dug so far down into the earth that one could never escape the sickly sweet smell of damp, hardened red clay. It was in this room that Quarry’s ancestors had sent their most unruly slaves for lengthy stays so as not to incite the rest of the “unfree” population. Quarry had removed the leg and wrist irons from the walls, and also the wooden partitions of cells that had separated slaves from each other lest they gain any strength in numbers. That part of his family history he could live without.
People had died down here. Quarry knew this to be true from the excellent records kept by his slaveholding family. Men, women, and even children. Sometimes when he was down here at night he felt them, thought he heard their moans, the tailings of their final snatches of breath, their barely audible farewells.
He closed the door behind him and locked it. He noted, as he always did, the long and deep scratches on the thick hand-sawn oak; the fingernails of folks trying to gain their freedom. If one looked close enough, one could see the lingering dark traces of old blood on the wood. From the records he’d seen, Quarry also knew that not a single one of them had been successful in escaping from here.
The walls were now covered with painted plywood. He’d studded and framed the walls and then used a sturdy hammer and his own strong arms to nail in the half-inch plywood that came in eight-foot-long sections. It was heavy work, but the sweat had been welcome to him. He’d always embraced projects that made him tired at the end of the day.
And set forth on the painted plywood was work that represented entire years of Quarry’s life. There were chalkboards he’d salvaged from torn-down schools and magic-marker boards he’d gotten cheap from a company going out of business. These surfaces were covered with writing, Quarry’s precise, homeschool-learned cursive. There were lines connecting to other notes, and still more lines intersecting with other collections of facts. Pushpins colored red, blue, and green were all over the place, each of them connected by string. It was like a mathematician’s or a physicist’s work of art. Sometimes he felt he was the John Nash of his little corner of Alabama. Except, he hoped, for the paranoid-schizophrenic part. One clear difference between him and the Nobel Prize–winning physicist was that there were no intricate formulas or numbers other than calendar dates on the walls. The bulk was simply words that still managed to tell a complex story.
It was here long night after long night that Quarry had pieced everything together. His mind had always worked in flows and movements, ever since he could remember. When he’d torn down his first engine, it was like he could see where the initial spark of energy ignited the fuel and then everything that followed as the internal combustion system worked its magic. The most complex schematics, or mechanical diagrams, while constituting unfathomable puzzles to most folks, had been as clear as water from the tap to him.
It’d been the same way with everything else; planes, guns, farm equipment so complicated and with so many moving parts that qualified mechanics would sometimes drink themselves into a stupor because they just couldn’t figure something out from a million different possibilities. But Quarry had always been able to figure it out. He believed he’d inherited this gift from his tongue-talking mother, because his adulterous, racist father couldn’t even figure out how to jump-start a car. Quarry was one of a fast-disappearing breed of Americans. He could actually build or fix something.
As he surveyed the greatest work of his life, it occurred to him that it represented a definite slice of time, place, and opportunity, a treasure map of sorts that had taken him to where he needed to go. Made him have to do what he had done. And would do in the future. The near future.