The Guardians(81)

Pfitzner wasn’t quite so oily. A raid on his home was temporarily slowed when his wife went nuts and tried to block the doors. She was finally subdued with handcuffs and threatened with jail. Bank records lead to three accounts in Miami where the good-ole-boy sheriff has almost $3 million in cash. A money market account has slightly over $1 million. Not bad for a small-town sheriff.

Agnes thinks there’s more. Ditto for Cannon. If Pfitzner was brazen enough to keep $4 million in dirty dollars in U.S. banks, imagine what he stashed offshore. And Cannon knows how to find it. While the FBI starts leaning on Caribbean banks, Cannon hires a forensic accounting firm that specializes in tracking dirty money funneled out of the country.

As confident as he is, Cannon does not make predictions. He is, however, confident that his new client will recover a substantial amount in damages, minus, of course, the obligatory 40 percent off the top that stays with the law firm. I am silently hopeful that Guardian might get a few bucks to pay its utility bills, but that rarely happens.

Quincy, though, is not thinking about money these days. He’s too busy trying to walk. The doctors have operated on a shoulder, both collarbones, a jaw, and he has thick plaster on the top half of his torso and around one wrist. They have implanted three new teeth and braced his nose. He is in constant pain but tries gamely not to mention it. He has tubes draining one lung and one side of his brain. He is so medicated it’s difficult to determine how well his brain is working, but he is determined to get out of bed and move around. He growls at his physical therapists when their sessions end. He wants more—more walking, bending, massages, rubdowns, more challenges. He’s tired of the hospital but has no place to go. Garvin has nothing to offer as rehab and the health care is far below sub-par. When he’s wide awake he quarrels with me about getting him exonerated so he doesn’t have to return to Garvin.





Chapter 41



Word has spread through the family, and some of the Tafts are not happy with the idea of anyone poking around into Vida’s haunted house. The feeling is that she hexed it before she died and filled it with angry spirits who can’t get out. Unlocking the doors now could release all kinds of evil, with most of it undoubtedly aimed at her descendants. She died holding a hard grudge against those who sent her to the asylum. She was crazy as a coot in her final days but that didn’t stop her from blanketing the family with curses. According to Frankie, one strain of African witchcraft believes that curses die with the witch, but another says they can last forever. No living Taft wants to find out.

Frankie and I are riding in his shiny pickup toward Dillon. He’s driving, I’m texting. On the console between us is a 9-millimeter Glock, properly purchased and registered by him. If we gain entry into the house, he plans to take it with him.

“You don’t really believe in all that witchcraft stuff, do you Frankie?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Wait till you see the house. You won’t be so eager to go inside.”

“So, you’re worried about ghosts and goblins, stuff like that?”

“Keep laughing, boss.” He touches the Glock with his right hand. “You’ll wish you had one of these.”

“You can’t shoot a ghost, can you?”

“Never had to. But, just in case.”

“Well, you go in first, with the gun, and I’ll follow, okay?”

“We’ll see. If we get that far.”

We pass through the sad little town of Dillon and wind our way deeper into the country. At the end of a gravel drive there is an old pickup parked in front of the dilapidated house. As we slow to a stop, Frankie says, “There it is. The guy on the right is Riley, my buddy. Don’t know but I guess the other guy is his cousin Wendell. He could be the troublemaker.”

Wendell is about forty, a working man in dirty boots and jeans. He does not smile during the introductions and handshaking, nor does Riley. It is immediately obvious that a lot has been said and these two have issues. After a minute’s worth of small talk, Riley asks me, “So, what’s your plan here? What do you want?”

“We would like to go into the house and look around,” I say. “I’m sure you know why we’re here.”

“Look, Mr. Post,” Wendell begins respectfully, “I know that house inside and out. I lived here off and on as a kid. I found Vida when she died. And not long after she was gone I tried to live here with my wife and kids. Couldn’t do it. The place is haunted. Vida said she put a hex on it and, believe me, she did. Now, you’re looking for some boxes, and I’m telling you you’re not likely to find anything. I think there’s a small attic but I never saw it. We were too afraid to go up there.”

“Then let’s have a look,” I say, as confidently as possible. “You guys stay here while Frankie and I poke around.”

Riley and Wendell exchange hard looks. Riley says, “It ain’t that easy, Mr. Post. Nobody wants those doors opened.”

“Nobody? As in?” I ask.

“As in the family,” Wendell says with an edge. “We got some cousins around here, others scattered, and no one wants this place disturbed. You never knew Vida, but I’m telling you she’s still around and she’s not to be trifled with.” There is trepidation in his voice.

“I respect that,” I say, but I only sound sincere.