anything if he could help it. He probably had Brandi check him before he peed in the morning, just in case someone had attached a subpoena to his manhood while he slept.
His weakness—and they all have a weakness—was his car. That was how I found him. He drove a six-liter black Bentley Flying Spur Speed: ten miles to the gallon in the city, 0–60 in 4.8 seconds, and $200,000 worth of vehicle, at the very least. It was his pride and joy, which was probably why he stood up so suddenly that he spilled coffee over himself when I walked into the Starbucks on Andrews Road and asked if anyone owned a hell of a nice Bentley, because I’d just knocked off the wing mirror on the driver’s side.
Hyram wasn’t a slim man, but he could move fast when the need arose, even with hot coffee scalding his thighs. He went past me at full sail and arrived at his car to find that, sure enough, the mirror was hanging on to the body of the car only by wires. It had been harder to knock off than I’d anticipated, requiring two blows from a hammer. The Bentley may have been expensive, but it was clearly built well.
“I’m real sorry,” I told him when I found him stroking the car as though it were a wounded animal that he was trying to console. “I just wasn’t looking. If it’s any help, I got a brother who runs an auto shop. He’d probably give you a good deal.”
Hyram seemed to be having trouble speaking. His mouth just kept opening and closing without a sound. I could see Brandi hurrying across the parking lot, still trying to struggle into her coat while juggling her coffee and Hyram’s jacket. Hyram had left her in his wake, but she’d be with us within seconds. I needed to hook Hyram before she got here, and while he was still in shock.
“Look,” I said, “here are my insurance details, but if you could see your way clear to just letting me pay cash to cover the damages I’d surely be grateful.”
Hyram reached out for the paper in my hand without thinking. I heard Brandi cry out a warning to him, but by then it was too late. His fingers had closed on the subpoena.
“Mr. Taylor,” I said, “it’s my pleasure to inform you that you’ve just been served.”
It said a lot about Hyram P. Taylor’s relationship with his car that he still seemed more upset by the damage to it than he was by being in receipt of the subpoena, but that situation didn’t last long. He was swearing at me by the time I got to my own car, and the last I saw of him was Brandi flinging her coffee at his chest and walking away in tears. I even felt a little sorry for Hyram. He was a jerk, but he wasn’t a bad guy, whatever his wife might have thought of him. He was justweak and selfish. Badness was something else. I knew that better than most. After all, I’d just burned a man’s house down.
I made a note to get in touch with Jude, then turned out the light. The post-adrenaline dip had passed. I was now just exhausted. I slept soundly as, back in Portland, Jude twisted on his basement rope.
CHAPTER
VII
Harry Dixon and Chief Lucas Morland drove to the burial site in Morland’s car. There wasn’t a whole lot of conversation between them. The last body Harry had seen was that of his own mother, and she was eighty-five when she passed on. She died in a hospice in the middle of an October night. The call had come to Harry at 3 A.M. , informing him that his mother’s last hours on earth were approaching and perhaps he might like to be with her when she went, but by the time he got to her she was already dead. She was still warm, though. That was what Harry remembered the most, the nurse telling him that he ought to touch her, to feel his mother’s warmth, as though warmth equated to life and there might still be something of her inside that shell. So he placed his hand on her shoulder, for that appeared to be what was expected of him, and felt the heat gradually leave her, the spirit slowly departing until at last there was nothing left
His weakness—and they all have a weakness—was his car. That was how I found him. He drove a six-liter black Bentley Flying Spur Speed: ten miles to the gallon in the city, 0–60 in 4.8 seconds, and $200,000 worth of vehicle, at the very least. It was his pride and joy, which was probably why he stood up so suddenly that he spilled coffee over himself when I walked into the Starbucks on Andrews Road and asked if anyone owned a hell of a nice Bentley, because I’d just knocked off the wing mirror on the driver’s side.
Hyram wasn’t a slim man, but he could move fast when the need arose, even with hot coffee scalding his thighs. He went past me at full sail and arrived at his car to find that, sure enough, the mirror was hanging on to the body of the car only by wires. It had been harder to knock off than I’d anticipated, requiring two blows from a hammer. The Bentley may have been expensive, but it was clearly built well.
“I’m real sorry,” I told him when I found him stroking the car as though it were a wounded animal that he was trying to console. “I just wasn’t looking. If it’s any help, I got a brother who runs an auto shop. He’d probably give you a good deal.”
Hyram seemed to be having trouble speaking. His mouth just kept opening and closing without a sound. I could see Brandi hurrying across the parking lot, still trying to struggle into her coat while juggling her coffee and Hyram’s jacket. Hyram had left her in his wake, but she’d be with us within seconds. I needed to hook Hyram before she got here, and while he was still in shock.
“Look,” I said, “here are my insurance details, but if you could see your way clear to just letting me pay cash to cover the damages I’d surely be grateful.”
Hyram reached out for the paper in my hand without thinking. I heard Brandi cry out a warning to him, but by then it was too late. His fingers had closed on the subpoena.
“Mr. Taylor,” I said, “it’s my pleasure to inform you that you’ve just been served.”
It said a lot about Hyram P. Taylor’s relationship with his car that he still seemed more upset by the damage to it than he was by being in receipt of the subpoena, but that situation didn’t last long. He was swearing at me by the time I got to my own car, and the last I saw of him was Brandi flinging her coffee at his chest and walking away in tears. I even felt a little sorry for Hyram. He was a jerk, but he wasn’t a bad guy, whatever his wife might have thought of him. He was justweak and selfish. Badness was something else. I knew that better than most. After all, I’d just burned a man’s house down.
I made a note to get in touch with Jude, then turned out the light. The post-adrenaline dip had passed. I was now just exhausted. I slept soundly as, back in Portland, Jude twisted on his basement rope.
CHAPTER
VII
Harry Dixon and Chief Lucas Morland drove to the burial site in Morland’s car. There wasn’t a whole lot of conversation between them. The last body Harry had seen was that of his own mother, and she was eighty-five when she passed on. She died in a hospice in the middle of an October night. The call had come to Harry at 3 A.M. , informing him that his mother’s last hours on earth were approaching and perhaps he might like to be with her when she went, but by the time he got to her she was already dead. She was still warm, though. That was what Harry remembered the most, the nurse telling him that he ought to touch her, to feel his mother’s warmth, as though warmth equated to life and there might still be something of her inside that shell. So he placed his hand on her shoulder, for that appeared to be what was expected of him, and felt the heat gradually leave her, the spirit slowly departing until at last there was nothing left
Similar Books
