First Family by David Baldacci
that with a powerful roundhouse to the face, putting his whole body into it. Daryl fell back on his butt, his cheek ripped, his mouth bleeding.
Quarry almost toppled over with the force of his blow. He half spun around and squatted in the dirt, hacking and spitting up blood. “You couldn’t kick my ass even if I was in a damn wheelchair sucking on oatmeal through a straw,” he yelled.
Daryl eyed the stick of dynamite bound to a long cable lying on the floor of the mine. “You gonna blow me up too, old man?”
“Blow us all up if I have to, dammit!”
“I ain’t spending my whole life doing what you tell me to do.”
“You ain’t got no life but for me. The Army come looking for your ass and who saved it? Me! And then you screwed up with the woman. And you kept screwing up. Shoulda shot you back then.”
“Why didn’t you then, old man? Why!” shouted Daryl as he balled his fists and tears slid down his face to mix with the blood there.
“Killed Kurt.”
“And you ain’t had no right to do that! I was the one what killed that woman. Not Kurt.”
“I shoulda shot you instead,” Quarry said again, spitting up bits of his torn lip.
“So why didn’t you, Daddy! Why didn’t you kill me?”
Quarry wasn’t looking at him now. He put a hand up against the wall to steady himself, his breaths coming in short gasps.
“’Cause I need you, that’s why,” he said in a quieter voice. He bent down and offered Daryl a hand up. His son didn’t take it.
“I need you, Daryl. I need you, boy.” Quarry stayed bent over, his feet stumbling across the floor of the mine. Quarry looked over at his son and imagined him as a young, adoring boy with big blue eyes and a lopsided grin. Tell me what needs doing, Daddy.
When his eyes cleared, all he saw was a large, thickset, angry man struggling slowly to his feet.
“I need you, boy,” Quarry said again, offering his hand again. “Please.”
Daryl pushed past him. “Let’s just get this done,” he said, wiping the blood off his face with one of his filthy hands. “Sooner the better. Then I’m outta here.”
Quarry unlocked the door and stepped into the room. The light from the lantern on the table was turned down low so he couldn’t see her. But he felt her presence.
“I didn’t want to give her up,” Diane Wohl said as she emerged from the shadows.
Quarry came into the wash of light.
“You’re bleeding,” she said.
“Ain’t nothing,” said Quarry as he sat down at the table and ran a hand through his thick, sweaty hair. He was still wheezing a bit from his struggle with his son.
Damn smokes.
Diane sat down across from him. “I didn’t want to give her up.”
Quarry drew a long breath and sat back, studying her from under a tangled mass of eyebrows.
“Okay.”
“You scare the hell out of me. Everything about you terrifies me.”
“You scare me too,” he said.
Diane looked stunned. “How could I possibly scare you?”
“There’s lots of ways to be scared. Physical. In your head. Both.”
“So which way do I scare you?”
Quarry put his hands together and leaned forward, his big head dangling over the table center, as blood from his punctured lip plopped on the wood. “You make me afraid that this old world will never be good again. For none of us.”
She sat back, stung by his words. “I’m a good person! I’ve never hurt anyone.”
“You hurt that girl, even if she don’t know it.”
“I gave her up so she’d have a better life.”
“Bullshit. You gave her up so you wouldn’t have to deal with it.”
She reached across the table and slapped him, then drew back, a look of terror on her features. She eyed her hand as though it belonged to someone else.
“At least you got some spirit,” said Quarry, who had been unfazed by the blow.
“So I’ve ruined the whole world?”
“No, you let other folks do it. People like you let other assholes walk all over’em. Even when they’re wrong. Even when you know they’re wrong. That makes you as bad, as evil as them. People like you don’t stand up to nothing where you got to fight for what’s right. You just crawl into the dirt. You just take it. The shit they hand out. Take it with a smile and say thank you where can I get me some more shit please?”
A tear from Diane’s right eye hit the table where it mixed with Quarry’s blood. “You don’t know me.”
“I know you. I know you and people just like you.”
She brushed at her eyes. “So what are you going to do? Kill me?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m gonna do with you.” He slowly rose, his back killing him from where he’d hit the rock. “You wanta see Willa again? Might be for the last time. Things coming to a head now.”
Diane’s eyes were blurred with tears. “No, I can’t.” She wagged her head from side to side, her fingers coiled tight and shaking.
“Crawling in the dirt again, lady? Trying to hide? You say you’re scared of me? You just slapped me. Showed some backbone. You can stand up to folks if you want to. The people who think they’re strong, who look like they got everything? The rich and the powerful? They ain’t got shit. One time you stand up to them, they just run away,’cause they ain’t really strong, or tough. They just got stuff. They just got puffed-up pride based on nuthin’.” He slammed his big fist down on the table so hard it knocked the lantern over and the light went out. From out of the sudden darkness he said, “I asked you if you wanted to see your daughter? What’s it gonna be?”
“Yes.”
CHAPTER 61
THE COUNTRY CLUB was quiet and though the evening wasn’t chilly a fire crackled in the large stone-faced fireplace in the main restaurant. Sean and Michelle sat on one side of the table while Bobby and June Battle, a wisp of a woman in her early eighties, with snowy hair cut severely short, sat on the other side of them.
They had just ordered their food.
Michelle fired the first shot. “I’m glad you talked to Nancy Drummond. Because we really need your help.”
Instead of answering, June methodically swallowed a number of pills she had placed on the table, using a big glass of water to wash them down.
Perhaps sensing Michelle’s growing impatience, Sean slipped a hand under the table and squeezed her thigh and slightly shook his head.
June finished off the last pill and looked up at them. “I hate medicine, but it’s apparently the only thing keeping me alive, so there you go.”
“So you were walking your dog down the street where the Maxwells live on the night Sally Maxwell was killed?” said Sean encouragingly.
“Didn’t know she was killed then,” said June matter-of-factly. “Just walking Cedric. He’s my dog. Pekinese. Little dog. Used to have a big dog, but can’t handle big anymore. But he’s a good dog. Cedric was my older brother. Dead now. I liked him better than my other siblings so I named my dog after him.”
Michelle loudly cleared her throat and Sean’s grip on her leg increased in pressure.
Bobby said, “So I told my sister here that you’d talk to her only.”
“Don’t like police.” She patted Bobby’s hand. “Don’t get me wrong. I know we need police and all. But what I meant was that when the police are around, something bad happened.”
“Like my mother being murdered?” said Michelle, looking dead at June.
The little woman finally settled her gaze on her. “I’m sorry about your loss, child. I’ve lost two of my children and one grandchild, but to illness, not crime.”
“You saw something that night?” said Sean.
“A man.”
Sean and Michelle both hunched forward at the same time, as though connected by rope.
“Can you describe him?” asked Michelle.
“It was dark, and my eyes aren??
“Old, young?”
“Older. I think he had gray hair but I couldn’t be sure. I remember it was a warm night and I was surprised he even had a sweater on.”
“And in fact a pool party was going on next door,” said Sean.
“Don’t know about that but there were lots of cars parked up and down the road.”
“What time was this?”
“Always start my walk at eight o’clock. Always get to that point at about eight-twenty unless Cedric poops and I have to pick it up, but he didn’t. Poop I mean.”
“So eight-twenty,” said Sean.
He, Michelle, and Bobby exchanged glances.
“The ME puts time of death at between eight and nine,” Bobby reminded them.
“Which puts our guy there right in the sweet spot,” Michelle commented.
“Sweet spot?” said June, looking quizzically at her.
“Window of opportunity,” explained Sean. “So the guy was there. What was he doing?”
“Walking, walking away from me. I’m not sure he even saw me. The street was pretty dark. I bring a flashlight with me but I hadn’t turned it on because the moon was out and Cedric and I walk very slowly. We both have arthritis.”
“So he was walking away from you. Did you see anything else? Like where he came from?” prompted Michelle.
“Well, it appeared to me that he came out from between two houses. The one with all the cars parked out front and the one next to it on the right.”
“My parents’ house,” said Michelle.
“I guess so, only I didn’t know them.”
“What else?” asked Sean.
“Well, that was the strange thing,” began June.
“Strange?” said Bobby.
“Yes. I was on the other side of the street from him, but I could still see it.”
“See what?” Michelle asked, her voice shaking slightly.
“Oh, that’s right, I didn’t say. It was the flashes.”
“The flashes?” said Sean and Michelle together.
“Yes. The man was walking up the street, but he was stopping at each of the parked cars. Then he would raise his hand and a little flash would appear.”
“Was he next to each car when he did this, in front, in back?” asked Michelle.
“In back, and he bent over a little bit each time. Like I said, he was tall.”
Michelle looked at Sean. “He was photographing the license plates of the cars.”
“The flash was from the camera,” added Sean while Bobby nodded.
“And he did this at each car?” asked Michelle.
June nodded. “Looked to be that way.”
“Why would our perp be taking pictures?” wondered Bobby.
June’s face brightened. “Perp? I’ve heard the word before. I watch Law & Order religiously. I loved Jerry Orbach, God rest his soul. And that Sam Waterston. He played Lincoln, you know.”
“Did you see anything else?” asked Michelle. “Like where the guy went?”
“Oh, yes. He finished with the cars and then he walked back toward me, but on the other side of the street. He looked around, probably to make sure no one was watching. I doubt he saw me and Cedric. There’re some large bushes where we were and I was standing sort of behind them, because Cedric was peeing and he gets embarrassed if people see him using the facilities. Then he turned up the driveway and went inside the house.”
Michelle looked bewildered. “House? Which house?”
“The house next to the one where the cars were parked. He went right in the front door.”
Michelle, Bobby, and Sean all looked at one another.
The tall older man taking pictures had to be Frank Maxwell.
CHAPTER 62
AFTER THEY FINISHED dinner they needed to take June Battle to the police station to make a formal statement.
“You two take her,” said Michelle.
“What?” Sean looked at her in surprise.
“I just need a little time alone, Sean,” she said. “I’ll meet you back at my dad’s house.”
“Michelle, I don’t like splitting up with you.”
“I can take care of Mrs. Battle,” said Bobby. “No sweat.”
“Sean, just go. I’ll see you back at Dad’s.”
“You sure?”
She nodded. “Real sure.”
As the three left Sean glanced back at her, but Michelle wasn’t looking at him.
She sat at the table for ten minutes before slowly rising, opening up her jacket, and looking down at the Sig on her belt holster.
He had to know that his wife was lying dead inside the garage. And he was outside taking photos of car plates? What a callous bastard. What had he been doing? Looking to frame somebody for the murder he’d committed? He could easily have hit her mother from the left instead of the right to throw off the cops. Her father was a strong man. Either way Sally Maxwell would’ve been dead.
And he was out there somewhere. Her father was out there, and he had a gun.
She got up and walked with a purpose toward the exit. On the way she passed the trophy case for the golf club. She barely glanced at it but one glance was all it took. Her head snapped back around and she hurried over to the glass case. It was full of shiny hardware, plaques, photos, and other awards paraphernalia. Two items interested her deeply and she didn’t even play golf.
She bent low and drew close.
The first one was a photo of three women, with the one in the middle holding up a huge trophy. Donna Rothwell was smiling broadly. Michelle glanced down at the inscription on the bottom of the plaque.
“Donna Rothwell, Club Amateur Champion,” she read. It was for this year. They had her scores posted for the tournament on a laminated card next to the photo. Michelle didn’t know that much about golf, but even she knew those scores were impressive.
The second photo was one of Rothwell hitting a tee shot. The lady looked like she knew what she was doing.
As she was standing there a bearded man in khaki pants and a golf shirt walked by.
“Checking out our local golf legends?” he asked with a smile.
Michelle pointed at the two photos. “These in particular.”
The man looked to where she was indicating. “Oh, Donna Rothwell, right. One of the best natural swings I’ve ever seen.”
“So she’s good?”
“Good? She’s the best female golfer over the age of fifty in the entire county, maybe the state. There are even some pretty good thirty- and forty-year-olds she can consistently beat. She was an athlete in college. Tennis, golf, track, she could do it all. She’s still in remarkable shape.”
“So her handicap is low?”
“Nearly nonexistent, relatively speaking. Why?”
“So she’d have no trouble qualifying for a tournament here, I mean