Redemption Road(64)

He beat again on the door; knew it was pointless.

So, wait for him.

“That’s your advice, old man? Wait for him?”

’Less you plan to beat the door down or converse with an empty house.

Adrian took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. He was here for information, an exchange of words. That meant Eli was right. No violence.

“All right, then. We wait.”

Adrian found a dark place on the porch and sat with his back against the wall. He watched the empty street and tried to let the anger go. But what else was there?

Answers?

Peace?

You don’t look so good.

Adrian’s lips twisted in the dark. “I don’t feel so good, either.”

You can handle this, son. You’re bigger than this.

“I’m an ex-con talking to a dead man. I don’t know anything anymore.”

You know my secret.

“They’re watching me.”

Not right now they’re not. You can walk this very second. Go anywhere you want. Have anything you want.

“Maybe I want to kill them.”

We’ve discussed that.

“If I don’t kill them, they’ll find me.”

That’s the inmate talking.

“I don’t want to be alone, Eli.”

He’s coming.

“Don’t leave me.”

Hush, boy. The voice flickered, faded. Motherf*cker’s right there.

Adrian opened his eyes as Francis Dyer stepped onto the porch. The suit was dark gray; the shoes glinted. He kept a shooter’s stance, weapon level as he checked the corners, the yard.

Adrian showed his hands. “Just take it easy, Francis.”

“Who were you talking to?”

“Myself. It happens.”

Dyer checked the corners again. His weapon looked like the same revolver he’d always carried. “What are you doing here?”

“I have questions.”

“Such as?”

“Where’s my wife?”

Tension showed on Dyer’s face; turned his fingers white on the gun. “That’s why you’re here?”

“Part of it.”

Adrian started to push himself up, but Dyer didn’t like it. “You sit until I say. Hands, again.”

Adrian took his hands from the decking and showed his palms.

“This is my house, Adrian. My home. Convicts don’t show up at a cop’s home. That’s how they get shot.”

“So do it.” Adrian put his hands on the floor; slid his back up the wall until he was standing. It was a small victory. He took it. “Where’s my wife?”

“I don’t know.”

“The farm’s burned. Liz says she disappeared.”

“I’m surprised she didn’t leave sooner.”

The revolver didn’t budge. Adrian studied the narrowed eyes, the tight lips. Catherine and Francis had been close. Hell, before the murder and the trial, they all had.

“You were her friend.”

“I was her husband’s partner; that’s different.”

“You want me to beg, Francis? We were partners for seven years, but fine. You want me to beg. I’m begging. Please tell me what happened to my wife. I won’t ask anything of her or ruin her life. I just want to know where she is, that she’s well.”

Maybe it was the tone of voice, or memories of their partnership. Whatever it was, Dyer holstered the weapon. In the gloom, he was all angles and dark eyes. His voice, when he spoke, was surprisingly soft. “Catherine wouldn’t talk to any of us after the trial. Not me or Beckett or anyone else from the department. We tried to keep up with her, but she wouldn’t answer the phone or the door. It went that way for three or four months. The last time I went to see her, the place was locked up tight. No car. Mail stacked up on the porch. Two months after that, the house burned. It was too much for her. She left. I think it’s that simple.”

“But, she still owns the farm.”

There was a question there, and Dyer understood. “The county took it two years later. Unpaid taxes.”

Adrian leaned against the wall. The land had been in his family since before the Civil War. Losing it to the same people who’d locked him away for thirteen years was an unbearable injustice. “I didn’t kill Julia.”

“Don’t.”

“We’re just talking.”

“Not about her, we’re not.”

Every angle in Francis Dyer seemed to sharpen. The shoulders. The jaw.

“Tell me about the beer can.”

“What?”

Adrian watched him, looking for the lie. “A twelve-ounce Foster’s can with my prints on it was found in a ditch thirty yards from the church. It linked me to the murder scene, but here’s the thing.” Adrian stepped closer. Dyer didn’t budge. “I never drank a beer near that church. I never left a can there, I wouldn’t. The last time I drank a Foster’s was here, in this house, two days before she died.”

“You think I planted evidence?”

“Did you?”

“There were other people here that night. Beckett. Randolph. Even Liz was here. I could name fifty people. It was a party. Besides, no one needed to plant evidence to convict you. You handled that part just fine by yourself.”