First Family (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 4)

She continued imperturbably. “Did Hilal also tell you that he’s been desperate to buy Tuck out? That he wants the company for his own?”

Sean looked at Tuck. “Is that true?”

“Absolutely true. I won’t lie. I’ve had some financial reversals. David knew I needed money. He wants to buy me out, but at a price that does not reflect the value of the contract with DHS we’re working on. It would mean millions of extra dollars.”

“So you see, it’s in Hilal’s interests to implicate Tuck in this. If Tuck goes to jail, Hilal will get everything for pennies.”

“Not necessarily,” said Sean.

“But I’d be forced to sell at that point, just to pay the lawyer’s bills,” Tuck pointed out. “He would get it for next to nothing. And I built that company.”

Jane added, “Sean, you may want to redirect your attention away from Tuck and onto a more plausible suspect.”

Sean took a moment to process this. “You think Hilal orchestrated a kidnapping and murder just so he could blame it on Tuck and get the company? That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think? And why kidnap Willa?”

Jane came around and perched on the edge of the hospital bed. “I’m not going to try and reconstruct the mindset of what may be a psychopath. Yet it’s no more of a stretch than thinking my brother would have his wife murdered, his beloved daughter kidnapped, and suffer a blow to his head that could have easily killed him, simply because he was allegedly having an affair.”

Sean looked out the window again, his hands stuffed in his pockets. What she was saying did make some sense. He might have jumped to conclusions about what Hilal had said without corroborating it. And yet the computer password? Something jolted him. What if someone had changed the password and made it “Cassandra1”? What if Hilal had done it, thinking that Sean would try to break into the hard drive, guess the password, and conclude beyond doubt that the lady and Tuck were having an affair?

That, he concluded, was about as likely as his insurance company paying for his terrorist damage.

He whipped around. “Tuck, what’s the password on your computer at work?” Sean snapped his fingers to push the man’s answer along. “Come on, what is it?”

Tuck hesitated just enough. “Carmichael.”

Jane said quickly, “That’s Pam’s maiden name, isn’t it?”

Tuck nodded, as he lifted a hand and wiped a tear from his right eye.

You are both lying to me. They know somehow that I hacked the computer. They sent the reporter chick after me. To scare me off.

Tuck’s prevarication was not surprising. The First Lady going along with it struck Sean as very odd. He obviously had a lot more digging to do.

“Okay, I’ll check out Hilal.”

“Good.” Jane rose, gave Tuck a peck on the cheek and a hug.

As she walked toward Sean, she said, “I appreciate your continued cooperation on this.”

“Right.” He ignored her outstretched hand and walked out of the room.

CHAPTER 24

SAM QUARRY WIPED the streaks of sweat from his brow, angled his aching back just so and received a gratifying pop as pressure was released from his overworked spine. He was surveying his farmland from the highest point at Atlee, an anomalous rock mound that jutted about fifty feet in the air with access gained to the top by a series of stone steps worn smooth by the boots of his ancestors. It had been known, at least for as long as Quarry could remember, as Angel Rock. As though it were the stepping-off place to heaven and ostensibly a better life than the one granted to the Quarry family on plain earth. He wasn’t a gambling man, but Quarry would’ve bet a few bucks that almost none of his male ancestors had successfully made the journey.

Atlee, for all its historical significance was, at bottom, a working farm. The only things that had changed over the last two hundred years were what was grown and how it was grown. Diesel engines had replaced mules and plows and a variety of crops had taken the place of cotton and tobacco. Quarry was not wedded to any particular crop and would try something different so long as it could be profitable with small farms like Atlee had become. Like most efficient farmers he obsessed over every detail, from the soil composition, to rainfall, to harvest times down to the minute, to predicted frost levels to yield per acre in relation to expected market prices, to the precise number of hands to do the picking, tractors to do the hauling, and bankers to extend the credit.

He was too far north in Alabama to grow kiwifruit but he had taken a stab at raising canola because a milling plant had finally opened not too far away that could turn the collard-like plant into “value-added” canola oil. It was a good winter crop and produced more income per acre than the staple winter wheat. He also grew traditional produce like cabbage, pole and snap beans, corn, okra, squash, pumpkins, tomatoes, turnip greens, and watermelons.

Some of it fed the people who lived at Atlee with him, but most was sold to local companies and stores for income that was desperately needed. He also carried twenty hogs and two dozen head of forage-fed cattle and had found willing markets in Atlanta and Chicago that used the beef in churrasco cooking. They also kept some for their own consumption.

Farming was a risky proposition under even the best of circumstances. Folks who toiled in the dirt could do everything right and a drought or an early freeze could come and wipe them out. Mother Nature never apologized for her divine and sometimes disastrous intervention. He’d had his share of good and bad years. While it was clear that Quarry would never become rich doing any of this, money just as clearly wasn’t the point. He paid his bills, he held his head up, and he was fairly certain a man shouldn’t expect more than that out of life unless he was corrupt, overly ambitious, or both.

He spent the next several hours toiling with rented help in the fields. He did this for at least two reasons. First, he liked to work the land. He’d been doing it since he was a boy and saw no reason to stop simply because he was fast becoming an old man. Second, his workers always seemed to put a little more back into their labor when el jefe was around.

Gabriel joined him in the afternoon after walking a mile from the bus stop. The young boy was strong and focused and wielded a tool and drove the machinery with a steady, practiced hand. Later, over dinner, Quarry let Gabriel say the blessing while his mother, Ruth Ann, and Daryl looked on. Then they ate the simple meal, almost all of which had been canned or made from previous harvests. Quarry also listened to Gabriel expound on what he’d learned in school that day.

He looked admiringly at the boy’s mother. “He’s smart, Ruth Ann. Like a sponge.”