CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The river ran low beside the trail, its brown-green water moving around pale stones that should have been covered by June.
The banks had shrunk into cracked shelves of mud and root.
Fallen branches lay half exposed in the shallows, snagged in places where the current lacked the strength to carry them on.
Connor drove with one hand on the wheel and the other near the window switch, though the window was already down.
Hot air pushed into the cruiser and carried the dry smell of river weed and sun-cooked timber.
Sweat gathered under the brim of his hat.
He took it off, set it on the passenger seat, and wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist.
The dirt track bent away from the river, then came back to it. Tire ruts hardened into uneven grooves. He let the cruiser crawl over them, slow enough to hear gravel spit against the undercarriage.
This was a bad idea, but Connor knew that didn’t mean it was the wrong one.
Victor Schmidt's face had stayed with him since the house. Warren had followed after. Two friends are gone, and two families are broken open. Selena would tell him to go back to the station, work the board, check alibis, chase paperwork, wait for evidence.
She would be right.
She had been right too often lately.
Connor glanced down, then slipped one hand into his trouser pocket. His fingers touched the bundle of cash. Thick. Folded tight. Bound with two rubber bands. Still there.
Six thousand dollars. More money than he wanted to be carrying down a road like this. It was all he had left in ready cash after years spent paying down the bad debt he had carried from his twenties.
He took his hand away and gripped the wheel again.
The first gate appeared through a break in the trees.
It was made from black metal and set between two square stone pillars.
Beyond it, the trail climbed toward higher ground, but the grade and the trees hid whatever waited at the top.
Two men stood in the shade near the gate.
Neither looked surprised to see him. That bothered Connor almost as much as the guns they were pretending not to have.
One was broad and shaved bald, wearing a short-sleeved shirt that pulled tight across his chest. The other had a thin face and a loose jacket despite the heat. Both carried themselves with the same careful balance. Weight on the balls of their feet. Hands-free. Eyes moving.
Connor stopped beside them and rolled the window all the way down.
The bald man stepped closer. “What’s your business, Sheriff?”
Connor looked at the gate, then back at him. “It isn’t official.”
That made the second man shift. Not much. Enough.
The bald man leaned a fraction closer. “Then what is it about?”
“I want to see Mr. Morimer.”
“Mr. Morimer’s a very busy man.”
“I know.”
“Then you also know he doesn’t see people who drive up uninvited.”
Connor reached into his pocket slowly. Both men watched the movement. He pulled out two folded bills, held them between two fingers, and offered them through the window.
“This is important.”
The bald man took the money without looking at it. His gaze stayed on Connor’s face for another few seconds, measuring. Then he turned away and lifted one hand to his ear.
Connor heard nothing but insects and the faint ticking of the cruiser engine.
The man spoke too quietly for words to carry. Then he listened, nodded once, and stepped back.
The gate began to open.
“Follow the drive,” the bald man said. “Don’t wander.”
Connor put the cruiser in gear. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The road beyond the gate climbed through woodland, then opened into a wide slope of cut grass.
A large white house sat at the top, clapboard sides bright against the trees.
Wide porches wrapped around two levels. Green shutters framed tall windows.
From a distance, it could have belonged to an old judge, a tobacco baron, or a family that liked to pretend money had come to them politely.
The walls around the property had already hidden the world. Out here, the town did not exist unless Mr. Morimer allowed it to.
Connor parked at the foot of the front steps.
Two men came down before he had closed the driver’s door. One was older, with silver hair trimmed close and a linen shirt that looked too clean for the job. The other was younger, heavier through the arms, his expression set in a way that suggested patience was not among his gifts.
The older one nodded. “Afternoon, Sheriff.”
Connor nodded back. “Afternoon.”
“You’ll understand Mr. Morimer wants me to search you.”
“I figured.”
“Hands on the hood, please.”
Connor placed both hands on the cruiser’s hood and looked out across the lawn while they worked. The younger man patted him down with professional speed. Wallet. Keys. Radio. Phone. The cash came out last.
The man paused when the bundle appeared.
Six thousand dollars looked even worse in someone else’s hand.
The older man glanced at it, then at Connor. No smile. No question. He returned the money to Connor’s pocket as if it were expected.
“Your gun,” he said.
Connor straightened slowly and removed his sidearm. The weapon felt heavier leaving his hand than it should have. He passed it over grip first.
The younger man took it and stepped back.
“Anything else?” the older man asked.
“No.”
“We’ll keep the gun safe.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
No one smiled.
They led him up the steps and through the front door.
Inside, the house smelled of polished wood, cut flowers, and money old enough to have learned manners.
The entry hall held framed landscapes, a long table with a silver bowl, and a staircase that curved up to a balcony.
Connor heard no television, no music, no raised voices.
Only the soft pad of shoes and the low hum of an air-conditioning system hidden somewhere expensive.
They walked him through to the rear of the house and out onto a shaded porch.
Beyond the railing, the land dropped into woodland. The river shone in pieces between trees below. A ceiling fan moved overhead, stirring warm air without improving it much.
An elderly man sat in a wicker chair near the far end of the porch, reading a newspaper folded in half.
A glass of lemonade rested on the side table beside him.
He wore a pale seersucker suit, a white shirt, and no tie.
His skin had the delicate thinness of age, but nothing else about him looked frail.
Mr. Morimer lowered the paper.
His smile came slowly, revealing small, even teeth. An old wolf’s smile, Connor thought.
“Sit, Sheriff,” Morimer said. “I’d say this visit is well overdue, wouldn’t you?”
Connor remained standing for a moment. The two men behind him did not move away.
“It wasn’t planned like that.”
Morimer set the newspaper on his lap. “Well, I can’t say I didn’t take it as a slight that you ignored my overtures. You’ve been sheriff of Harlan County for years now, and yet not one visit?”
“I don’t visit men like you unless I have to. That’s not my thing.”
The old man’s smile widened. “Your predecessor did.”
“That’s why we got rid of him.”
A soft laugh left Morimer. “You are showing yourself to me... I wondered if you’d bring me the badge or the man. Sit down before you melt into my porch. Take a load off.”
Connor sat in the chair opposite him.
Morimer lifted one hand. A man in a white shirt came from inside with a tray, a jug, and a clean glass. Lemonade poured pale and cold over ice. The sound of it made Connor aware of how dry his mouth had become.
“Have some,” Morimer said.
“I’m not here to be social.”
“No. You’re here with cash in your pocket and no gun on your hip. That makes you many things, Sheriff, but social isn’t one of them.” Morimer nodded toward the glass. “Drink.”
Connor took it. Condensation slicked his fingers. He brought the glass to his mouth and drank.
The lemonade was sharp, sweet, and cold enough to hurt his teeth. For a second, heat and nerves gave way to memory before he could stop it.
“That reminds me of my Aunt Emily’s back in the day,” he said.
The change in Morimer happened so quickly that Connor almost doubted it.
The smile disappeared. The warmth drained from the old man’s eyes and left something flat behind. Deadpan. Dangerous.
“You think you can come here and have influence because you’re Emily’s nephew? She’d be ashamed of you wearing that uniform.”
Connor lowered the glass.
Morimer leaned back a fraction. The men behind Connor seemed to grow still. Even the ceiling fan sounded louder.
“Business before family, I’m afraid,” Morimer said.
Connor put the lemonade on the table between them. “No. That’s not why I’m here.”
“Good. Emily was a fine woman. She also had poor taste in men and worse luck with kin. I’d hate to think you were using her name like a key.”
“I wasn’t.”
Morimer watched him for a long moment.
Connor reached into his pocket and took out the wad of cash. The rubber bands snapped faintly against the bills as he placed it on the table.
“There’s six thousand dollars here.”
Morimer looked at the money, then back at Connor. The old grin returned, slowly this time. “Is there?”
“It’s all I have. I want to hire your services.”
“My services?” Morimer savored the phrase. “That’s a careful way to put something foolish.”
“I’m not here for a sermon.”
Morimer picked up his lemonade and drank. “What sort of services do you imagine I provide?”
Connor held his gaze. “Information. Eyes. Ears. Men who hear things before deputies do.”
“That sounds almost civic-minded.”
“I want you to help me hunt down a killer.”
Morimer’s glass stopped halfway to the table.
For the first time since Connor had arrived, the old man looked genuinely interested.
“A killer,” he said.
“Two men are dead. My friends. Warren Holt and Victor Schmidt.”
“I heard about Mr. Holt.”
“Did you hear about Victor?”
“Not until now.” Morimer’s expression offered nothing else. “You think the same hand did both?”
“I think someone’s choosing men with enemies and counting on the rest of us to chase grudges.”
“Us,” Morimer said softly. “How inclusive.”
Connor pointed at the cash. “Six thousand buys discretion and urgency.”
“No, Sheriff. Six thousand buys a nicer evening than I expected. But it’s a drop in the ocean.” Morimer set his glass down. “Discretion is more expensive. Urgency even more so.”
Connor’s jaw tightened. “You want more money?”
“I have money.”
“Then what?”
Morimer folded the newspaper and placed it neatly on the table beside the cash. “Before we discuss price, we discuss appetite. You came here alone. You bribed my gate. You surrendered your gun. You sat on my porch and asked a man you publicly despise to put his private machinery at your disposal.”
“I’m aware of what I did.”
“No, I don’t believe you are.” Morimer’s tone stayed pleasant. That made it worse. “A sheriff doesn’t come here unless the law has failed him or he intends to fail the law.”
Connor said nothing.
Morimer tapped one finger against the newspaper. “Which is it?”
“Two good men are dead.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting. Will you help or not?”
A trace of amusement returned. “Coming to me… Emily would have liked that.”
“Don’t.”
Morimer studied him, then nodded once, as if a private question had been answered.
“The county is frightened,” the old man said. “Not loudly yet. Give it another day. Fear travels faster than patrol cars.”
“That why you agreed to see me?”
“Partly. Murder unsettles commerce. People who owe money disappear when they’re frightened. People who move things become cautious. Men who talk too much become silent. Fear makes everyone inconvenient.”
Connor felt a chill despite the heat. “So, you do know things.”
“I know many things.”
“Do you know who killed Warren and Victor?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly to be a lie. Or it came from a man practiced enough that speed meant nothing.
Connor leaned forward. “Can you find out?”
Morimer looked at the cash again. “Perhaps.”
“I need more than perhaps.”
“You came to the wrong porch for certainty.”
“Then give me a name who has the answers.”
Morimer laughed then. Quietly. Almost kindly. “You still think this is a sheriff’s office? Ask, answer, file, arrest. That world ends at my gate.”
Connor glanced toward the two men near the doors. “Your boys carrying for show?”
“No.”
“Then I’m not confused about where I am. You run in circles I don’t. If this killer is a criminal, your boys will catch wind, fast. I want your help.”
“Good.” Morimer lifted his glass again and smiled over the rim. “Because if there is a man killing Harlan County’s business leaders, you and I may have a shared problem. That’s rare. Interesting, too.”
Connor waited.
Morimer took another drink of lemonade and set the glass down with care.
“But,” he said, “that’s going to take more than giving me money, Sheriff.”
Connor did not move.
Morimer’s smile sharpened. “A lot more.”