Ham raised his coffee cup. "On the day," he said.
31
A month passed. Holly noticed that the emotional detachment she felt from the experience of Jackson's death when she was working had begun to lap over into the hours when she was not.
She still had moments when she couldn't stop the tears, moments when she was alone in the dunes with Daisy, or sometimes when she woke up in the middle of the night and reached for Jackson, but they seemed to come less often and with less intensity. If she wanted to really feel sorry for herself, to feel what she had felt when Jackson had died, she could, but it took more and more effort. She wondered if time really healed all wounds, or if she was just becoming a harder person. She didn't want to become a harder person, but how else could she protect herself from the pain?
She found work less and less interesting, particularly since she had not been able to connect the Morris murders to the Winachobee group, or anybody else, for that matter. And as for the Winachobee group, they had gone very quiet. Ham had not heard from them, and they had not come to her attention again, except through an occasional call from Harry Crisp, and those were coming less and less frequently.
The Morrises themselves remained an enigma. Their fingerprints were not known to any law enforcement computer, nor were their photographs. The name Franklin Morris, with its corresponding birth date, did not appear on any legitimate birth certificate known to any county database in Florida or in any other state. The young couple were a blank, and none of the names they had used on various identity papers rang any bells with anybody, either. It was Holly's slowly developed opinion that they were not connected with the Wina-chobee group; rather, that they were a couple of freelance hustlers who were either new to the game or who had never been caught. Still, they were working with someone, she believed, or else why would anyone have had a motive to kill them? They had failed to share their ill-gotten gains with whomever they had promised to share it with and had been killed for it. Also, they must have learned what criminal skills they had-car theft, fake identities, loan embezzlement-from somebody, but who? Holly had no idea.
The phone rang. "Holly Barker."
"It's me," Ham said.
"Hey, Ham." She had not seen as much of him as usual, because it seemed better not to, if they were under scrutiny from the Winachobees.
"I'm on a pay phone. I got a call at home from Peck Rawlings," Ham said.
Holly's heart skipped a couple of beats. "Tell me," she said.
"They're having another one of their gun shows tomorrow, and they invited me to come out there. You, too."
"Great," she said.
"I said I'd ask you, but I think it's better if you don't come."
"Why?"
"Because I've told them we don't get along all that well, remember? I think I ought to tell them you weren't interested."
"Well, maybe you're right."
"I think you ought to check with Harry Crisp on this, though."
"Okay, I'll call him right now. Hang on, I'll make it a conference call." She put Ham on hold, got Harry on the phone, then pressed t
he conference button. "Everybody there?"
"I'm here," Ham said.
"Me too," Harry replied.
"Harry, they've invited Ham out to another gun show, and me, too, but Ham doesn't think I ought to go."
Ham explained himself.
"I think Ham's right," Harry said. "They need to get used to him without you-after all, you're the law."
"Yeah, I guess," Holly said.
"I know you'd rather be out there amongst 'em," Harry said, "but I think Ham's got to carry the water on this one."
"I guess you're right, Harry."
"What about me?" Ham asked.
"Oh, all right, you're right, too."