Seeing Red(102)

“You have to ask?”

“He’s not going to go away.” The gruff voice reached them from beyond Hank in the direction of the kitchen. “You had just as well let him in.”

With unconcealed reluctance and dissension, Hank flipped the latch on the door, pushed it open, and stepped aside. Kerra went in first. Trapper followed, and, when he walked past Hank, said under his breath, “You ever hit me again, you’ll be preaching through extensive dental work.”

When Trapper entered the kitchen, Glenn was holding one of the dining chairs for Kerra. The kitchen smelled like the baking dish of lasagna that had been left on the stovetop. And of the whiskey in the glass on the table in front of the chair Glenn dropped back into.

Trapper was shocked by his appearance. He was disheveled and seemed to have aged twenty years since this morning during the questioning of Leslie Duncan. Trapper wondered if Glenn hadn’t suffered something more serious than an anxiety attack. It must have been one hell of one. It was also obvious that the drink in front of him wasn’t his first. Or even his second.

“Kerra, something to drink?” Glenn asked. “Soft or hard? Coffee?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

“Trapper?”

“Believe I will.” He excused himself to step around Hank, got a glass from the cabinet, and returned with it to the table. He sat down across from Glenn and adjacent to Kerra. Hank took the fourth chair.

Trapper asked where Linda was. Hank said, “She was exhausted. I made her go to bed with the promise that I would stay here overnight in case Dad needed anything or took a turn.”

“I’m not going to take a turn,” Glenn muttered.

Trapper poured himself a whiskey, shot it, then set the empty glass on the table and clasped his hands. Addressing Glenn, he said, “The next ten minutes or so aren’t going to be any fun for me. I want you to know that.”

Glenn topped off his glass and took a drink.

Trapper didn’t waste any more words. “Who told you that Kerra was the little girl in the picture?”

“Thomas Wilcox.”

Trapper thought his heart might stop. He hadn’t expected Glenn to come forth with an answer so readily. And although Trapper had had a premonition that this would eventually lead to Wilcox, it was a jolt to hear his name right off the bat.

As upsetting as it was to learn that Glenn had an association with the man, it was even more alarming to learn that Wilcox had known in advance of Kerra’s interview with The Major that she was a survivor of the Pegasus bombing. For all they’d talked about in Trapper’s office, he hadn’t mentioned knowing that when he and Kerra had first met.

Why not? Trapper wondered.

He could tell by Kerra’s expression that this disclosure troubled her, too.

“Who’s Thomas Wilcox?” Hank asked.

Trapper ignored him and focused on Glenn. “When did Wilcox tell you who Kerra was?”

“The night you told me about the upcoming interview. Soon as you left, I alerted Wilcox to it.”

Trapper leaned forward across the table. “Why would you do that, Glenn?”

“What is going on?” Hank said.

Glenn turned to him. “Hank, stop asking questions and let me talk. You had just as well hear this, too.”

“This what? What?”

Glenn went for his glass of whiskey, but Trapper moved it and the bottle out of his reach. “Start at the beginning, Glenn, and tell me everything. What’s your link to Wilcox?”

“It goes back several years.”

“I’ve got all night.”

“You wearing a wire?”

“I don’t work in law enforcement.”

Glenn held his gaze. “You wearing a wire?”

Trapper shrugged off his coat and raised his shirt. “Neither is Kerra.”

Glenn looked at her. She said, “I’m not recording this.” She took the cell phone she’d been using from her handbag. “It’s not even on, but you can check.” She set it on the table.

As she was about to pull back her hand, Glenn reached out and covered it with his own. “I’m sorry. Jesus, I’m sorry.” His eyes turned watery. “I didn’t know. I swear to God.” He glanced at Hank. “I’d swear on your Bible. I didn’t know that Wilcox would try to kill you and The Major. I didn’t think he’d go that far.”

“Talk to me, Glenn,” Trapper said. “And it has to be more than ‘I’m sorry.’”

Glenn gazed longingly at the whiskey, then dragged his hands down his face. “I’m ready to unload. I’ve been hauling around this guilt since Sunday night. Finally got to me today. Sent me to the hospital. I don’t want to live with it anymore.”

The word “guilt” had brought Hank to attention. He placed his hand on Glenn’s shoulder. “Dad, maybe you shouldn’t say anything. I mean if this is some kind of legal matter … Should I call a lawyer?”

Glenn shook his head. “Not yet. I want to get this off my chest. Trapper needs to know.” Looking across the table at him, he said, “You’re a target, too, I’m sure.”

“Talk to me,” he repeated, this time softly but with urgency. “When did you meet Wilcox?”

“What year did your folks move back here from Dallas?”