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air was thick with humidity, and a bank of angry dark clouds had gathered
in the west. It was a heavy, cloaking warmth, and I opened the second button of
my shirt and stood on the sidewalk and stared at the sleepy town square.
        Joshua
Cantrell is dead… bones found last winter… buried in the woods. Case still
under investigation.
        Without
leaving the front steps of Child's office, I took out my cell phone and called
Amy at the newspaper. For once, she was there. I asked her to do an archives
search for Joshua Cantrell.
        "The
guy who owns the house—"
        "Owned.
He's dead."
        "Lincoln—"
        "Run
the search, please. I'd like to know when they found the body."
        I
listened as she clicked keys and people in her office laughed over something.
It took a few minutes, and neither of us spoke. Then she found the right
article.
        "Looks
like a hunter found the body on the first weekend of December."
        "That's
just before Harrison wrote me the first letter. He knew. The son of a bitch
knew."
        "Lincoln,
there's stuff in here… hang on. It says that Cantrell is related by marriage to
organized crime. To the Sanabria family."
        "Yeah,"
I said. "I was recently informed of that."
        "What
in the hell is Parker Harrison trying to do—"
        "I
have no idea, but I guarantee you he knew Cantrell was dead when he sent me out
here. He knew, and he didn't tell me."
        "You
don't think he killed him— That he's playing some sick game now because the
body was found—"
        "I
don't know if he killed him, but, yeah, he's playing some sick game—and I'm
going to end it."
        
        
        I
called Harrison from my truck and told him to meet me at the office. I didn't
say anything else. The clouds built overhead as I drove back to the city with
both hands tight on the wheel and the stereo off, the cab of the truck silent.
The rain started when I reached the stoplight across from the office and was
falling steadily as I walked into the building, but the air was still warm,
reassuring us that this was a spring, not winter, storm. Harrison was already
inside, and he met me at the top of the stairs with a smile.
        "When
you said you'd be in touch, I was expecting a bit more of a wait."
        I
didn't say a word. Just unlocked the door and walked inside and sat behind the
desk and stared at him while he took the chair across from me, waited while his
smile faded and his eyes narrowed.
        "What's
the problem—" he said.
        "Did
you kill him—"
        If
I'd been expecting a visceral reaction to that, I was wrong. He lifted his hand
and ran his fingertips over the scar on his cheekbone, let his eyes wander away
from mine. "No, I didn't kill him. If you're referring to Joshua
Cantrell."
        "If
I'm referring… listen, Harrison, you twisted prick, what the hell kind of game
is this— Why do I need to play it—"
        "Hang
on, Lincoln."
        "Shut
up. I shouldn't have ever let you in the door, and when I made that mistake I definitely shouldn't have been stupid enough to buy your story. It was a
good one, though, compelling, and you reeled me all the way in with those
questions about whether I believed in rehabilitation, whether I believed in the
system. A nice, subtle guilt trip. I'm sure there's a better word for it, some
psychology term, and you probably know it because you had fifteen years to sit
in a cell and read books and come up with games to play. But you shouldn't have
involved me, Harrison."
        I was
leaning toward him, loud and aggressive, and if that made the slightest impact
he didn't show it. He waited till I'd wound down, then said, "I told you
the truth."
        "Like
hell you did."
        "Lincoln,
I worked for the Cantrells as a groundskeeper for one year, and ever since I've
wondered what—"
        "Oh,
stop it already." I waved him off. "All that may be true, and I