Sunken Graves Alan Lee (reading e books .txt) 📖

have a big problem on your hands. And it isn’t me.

No. He couldn’t do it. Not right now.

He couldn’t call Murray either. The faculty would know instantly and tonight’s gala would be ruined. The Christmas gala.

It was Christmas, for heaven’s sake!

He replaced the receiver again.

He’d tell Jennings in person tomorrow. He’d offer him severance pay. Hell, he might even help the man pack and pay for a moving truck.

Why? Stone cold guilt and cowardice, that’s why.

You have a big problem on your hands, Gordon.

53

Jennings slept like the dead until his apartment’s phone won the battle. It rang until Jennings forced himself into the kitchen.

“Morning, my man. It’s your favorite attorney,” said Josh Dixon, loud and bright in his ear.

Hathaway was gone but she’d left a note with XOXO after her name. “Is something wrong?” Jennings mumbled.

“I’m guessing you just woke up and you won’t get there for your test,” said Dixon.

Jennings blinked stupidly at the sunlight pouring through his window. “My test?”

“According to the terms and conditions of your bond, you need to pass a weekly drug test. Your number popped today and you should’ve received a text about it.”

“My phone’s dead.”

“Not to worry, I’ll call them and reschedule you for this afternoon. District 15 Probation and Parole in Salem.”

“Thanks, Josh. I’ll get there.” He rubbed his face and leaned against the bedroom door jamb.

“You bet, what are friends for. And let’s talk after, huh? I can’t stop thinking about Peter Lynch, my man. I might drive out there myself and take pictures. You said it’s in a field? This could be huge.”

“Not a good idea. I’ll call you later this afternoon.”

“Why don’t I meet you after test?” said Dixon.

“Because I’m getting out of town. He’s a danger to Daisy Hathaway, the girl I mentioned. I’ll call you from the road.”

“You’d be breaking the conditions of your bond. Gotta stay in Roanoke. Let’s go to the field and you show me what you saw.”

“That’d be breaking the conditions too.”

“Fair point. The hell kind of lawyer am I?” Dixon laughed. “Can you send me the coordinates?”

Some inner voice cautioned against it, concerned at his attorney’s blind enthusiasm. “Maybe later. I’ll think about it.”

“Send some Google Earth photos too, of the field’s location. For evidence. Hey, that drug test today. You’ll pass, right?”

“Yes, I’ll pass the test. No drugs.”

“Good. Take the test and call me after. This is going to be huge, bud. For both of us.”

Jennings took a shower. Dressed and made coffee. Using the apartment phone, he called and left a message with Coach Murray, thanking him for his help. Then he called Hathaway’s phone but she didn’t answer. He left a message, telling her he’d be ready to travel after his drug test, and to call him back.

But she didn’t. Her reply never came.

54

A professional decorating crew was festooning Peter Lynch’s home in holiday cheer, and Chief Gibbs parked his unmarked cruiser beside their van.

He wiped sweat from his forehead and fumbled with another pill bottle he’d purchased that morning after a sleepless night. He worked the safety cap with thick, shaking fingers but the damn thing wouldn’t open so he threw it against the glass. The top popped off and pills scattered like confetti.

Good hell. Nothing was going right.

He scrabbled two caplets together, tossed them back, and drank from his coffee thermos. Deep breath. Opened the car door.

A woman dressed in a white parka and Isotoner gloves was wrapping blinking garland around Peter’s porch railing. She was about his age and she called, “Are we under arrest, officer?” the way women did to flirt with him.

Gibbs couldn’t force a smile. “Maybe. You look like trouble.”

Ann Lynch came running out of the house, arms raised. Such a little girl, such a big house, she often had it to herself. Her and Homer. Chief Gibbs picked her up, enduring the agony in his body, and kissed her forehead.

“What are you doing here, Chief?”

Gibbs wished she would call him Papa or Grandpa or something other than Chief. “I heard there’s a Christmas party. I don’t like to miss a good time.”

She stuck her lower lip out. “I can’t go. I have to stay upstairs with Homer.”

“Grownup parties are boring.”

“Did you bring me a present?”

“Not this time. Where’s your daddy?”

He wanted to carry her across the lawn but couldn’t, so she ran up the wide staircase ahead of him. The house opened directly into a massive great room. More square footage than the chief’s entire home. A den, a living room, the dining room, all together with a good view of the kitchen over a marble counter. The ceilings were high and the room lit with wrought-iron chandeliers. The house was decorated like a luxury log cabin.

Peter Lynch was in the kitchen shouting at his phone. Ann was inured to the shouting; she knew to shout back to be heard.

Lynch saw him and his face paled. He’d trimmed his beard short to match the hair growing back in patches on his cheeks. He said, “Fix it. Get her here now or I’ll bankrupt you. And she better be kissing my ass when she arrives.” And hung up.

“Afternoon, son,” said Gibbs.

“Hello, Chief. What’re you doing here?”

Gibbs noted the transformation, the tall angry man on the phone reducing to a frightened boy. It used to give him pleasure, but not today. “Your big party’s looking good.”

“The bartending service is balking.”

“I heard. Hope she shows, I could use a drink.”

“Tonight is the Christmas party for the Academy,” said Lynch.

“I know.”

“The only invitees are the faculty and staff and the trustees. And their dates.”

“Which means that pretty little Daisy is coming.”

Lynch’s eyes glanced toward the stairs, so quick Gibbs didn’t register it. “She is.”

“Which means you’ll do something stupid.”

“No I won’t.”

“Your brother told me you plan on proposing.”

“That’s not—”

“Don’t lie to me,” said Gibbs.

“That’s not…your business.”

“Like hell it ain’t. You do something stupid, it affects all of us.”

“It’s not stupid. She won’t say no.” Lynch was talking in a whine. He heard it and