The Devil's Bones (Body Farm 3) - Page 33

“Besides there being a lot of it?” He nodded, so I studied the map more closely. “Well, it’s got great frontage along Middlebrook Pike.”

“Keep going,” he said.

“It also backs up to the 640 bypass,” I said.

“Anything else?”

“And the railroad cuts through one corner. So potentially it’s easy to reach by road or by rail.”

“And if you were going to do something with that property, what would you do?”

“I’d expand the Body Farm,” I said. “We’re running out of space for all the donated bodies we’re getting these days.”

Cash laughed.

“If the neighbors wouldn’t let me do that, maybe I’d put in a fancy office park. Or a mix of office buildings, high-end retail shops, and fancy condos.”

“You missed your calling,” he said. “That’s exactly the master plan the developer had in mind for it.”

“What developer?”

“The developer Stuart Latham was talking to behind his wife’s back. You got any guess what that land would be worth?”

I thought for a moment. “Oh, I’d say at least several million.”

“More like twenty-five,” he said, and I whistled. “Land in that area’s going for three hundred thousand an acre, and that’s a unique parcel. Of course, it’s worth twenty-five mil only if somebody’s willing to sell it.”

“Mrs. Latham wasn’t willing to sell?”

“Bingo,” he said.

“Was Mr. Latham willing to sell?”

“Mr. Latham was eager to sell,” he said. “I guess he’d gotten tired of renting cars. He approached a developer-same folks who built the big Turkey Creek development-about three months ago. Stuart was a man with a plan.”

“But the farm wasn’t Stuart’s to sell-it was his wife’s family’s, right?”

“Right.”

I thought back to an earlier conversation. “You said Mrs. Latham didn’t have a life-insurance policy, but did she have a will?”

“She had a will.”

“Was he the heir?”

“He was.”

“Ah. Motive,” I said.

“Motive,” he said. He waited half a beat, then added, “We’re going to the grand jury for the indictment tomorrow. Stay tuned.”

CHAPTER 26

I WAS PICKING AT A HEALTHY CHOICE ENTRÉE-A TRAY of bland lasagna I’d overcooked in the microwave-when the phone rang. I jumped, which was my standard response whenever a phone rang or a door slammed these days, then reached for the cordless on the kitchen table. “Garland Hamilton’s hiding out up here in Cooke County,” Jim O’Conner’s voice said, and instantly I was on full alert. “He rented a cabin up on Fish Creek. It’s on a private gravel road all by itself, way off the highway.”

Part of me leapt to embrace the news. I desperately wanted Hamilton to be found, and Cooke County made sense: If I were a fugitive on the run, Cooke County-with its hills and hollows and frontier mentality-might well be my hideout of choice. Still, I was afraid to get my hopes up. “How do you know it’s him?”

“Two days after Hamilton escaped, this guy called a realty company in Jonesport that rents out vacation cabins. Asked if they had something really private, way off the beaten track.”

“Hell, Jim, if I were renting a cabin in the mountains, I’d ask for something like that, too.”

“He paid cash for the first week.”

“So?”

“Two days ago he paid for another week. He used a credit card this time.” I felt the hairs on my neck and arms stand up. “It’s Hamilton. Or else a guy who fits his description and stole his credit card. The TBI got a call from the bank, and Steve Morgan looked into it. Morgan’s convinced it’s him.”

“He had to know that the credit card was being watched,” I argued. “Why would he risk using it?”

“I asked Morgan the same thing,” said O’Conner. “We went round and round about it, but Steve finally convinced me. First, Hamilton’s probably out of cash by now. Second, this cabin-rental outfit is way back in the Dark Ages, technologically speaking-they use those old-fashioned mechanical gizmos to take an imprint of the card. Send it to MasterCard by carrier pigeon. Besides, who else could it be? Who else is going to be using Hamilton’s card and wearing Hamilton’s face?”

My hands were shaking. So were my knees.

“Bill? You okay?”

“Just a little jittery,” I said. “Now what?” I checked the wall clock; it read eight-fifteen, and the light outside was getting watery.

“We’ve called in the heavy artillery. A SWAT team is moving into position after dark, and they’ll go in at sunup.”

“What if he spots them and makes a break for it?”

“The SWAT-team commander? He was in the Army Rangers with me. For practice he used to sneak up on the guys in the squad. You’d know he was coming after you, but you wouldn’t know when-not till you felt the flat of his knife at your throat. If his guys are half as good as he is, even the owls and the coyotes won’t see ’em coming.”

“But you’ll wait till morning?”

“Safer that way. Besides the SWAT team, we’ll have helicopters, K-9s, state troopers, TBI agents, and every Cooke County coon hunter I can deputize between now and then. We’ll come down on him like the wrath of God.”

I felt my throat tightening, my heart pounding, and my breath coming in quick gulps. “You’re sure you’ll get him, Jim?”

“I don’t see how anybody but the devil himself could wriggle out of this noose.”

A shiver ran through me. “Damn, Jim, I wish you hadn’t said that.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll get him.”

“Be careful. Call me when you’ve got him.”

It took everything I had not to jump into the truck and head for Cooke County as soon as I hung up, but I knew I’d only be in the way and might even jeopardize the operation. So I paced around the kitchen awhile, stirring a fork through the congealed lasagna every few laps of the table and the island. Then I went outside and paced Sequoyah Hills awhile, winding my way down the mazy streets toward the river. Darkness was falling now, but the park along the riverfront remained lively. A young couple, their eyes better adjusted to the twilight than mine, tossed a Frisbee back and forth. A pack of dogs-friendlier than the ones that had chased Art and me out of the Georgia woods-raced and roughhoused across the field, occasionally colliding in a five-dog pileup of tumbling fur. A runner jogged past, lifting a hand in silent greeting, like some athletic priest conferring a sweaty blessing on me. “Peace,” the gesture seemed to say, but peace was nowhere within reach for me.

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