“Yeah, everybody’s got problems. But I’m still breathing, right? And look, don’t even mention I was here to anybody, okay? They’ll probably try to pull some bullshit about something that happened so they can screw me out of my last paycheck.”
“Hey, my lips are zipped.”
She fist-bumped him, went to her car, climbed in, and drove off.
Oh, Dwight, what a dumbass you are. And thank you for that, hon.
She settled her gaze on the road. Now she just had to find a new place to live. And she still had the little matter of the FBI looking for her.
She needed to do something about that, only what?
CHAPTER
14
ATLEE PINE AND CAROL BLUM PULLED into Huntsville, Alabama. Located in the Tennessee River Valley, it was a stately, historic southern town with a growing population and a modern veneer over the aged, antebellum underbelly. It had rich parts, poor parts, and in-between parts, just like every other town. Its economy had moved from cotton mills to textile plants to the space program and now centered on biotechnology. It was an interesting mix of old and new, storied families with long lineages and old sprawling homes with pillars out front and water views out back, facing a wave of diverse newcomers coming for good-paying jobs, interesting work, and cheaper housing than could be found in the Northeast, California, Florida, or Texas.
After skirting the downtown area and driving for a while, they pulled into the gravel drive of a one-story brick-and-siding rancher. It covered about twelve hundred square feet in a neighborhood of seventies-era homes that had probably cycled through several generations of families, and would probably cycle through several more before all was said and done.
Pine knocked on a door that had peeling paint and a tarnished and dented brass foot plate. A few moments later they heard a woman’s raspy voice through the closed door. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Atkins?”
“Yes?” The voice was now both worried and intrigued.
“I’m with the FBI. I’d like to talk to you.”
“The FBI? Is this some sort of joke?”
“No, it’s not.” Pine took out her shield and placed it against the dirty sidelight next to the door. She could see a woman’s blurred, wrinkled face studying the FBI badge through the glass.
“Okay, what is this about?”
“Your son, Joe Atkins.”
“Joe? He’s long since dead.”
“I know. That’s what we want to talk to you about. Please, it’s important.”
They could hear the lock being turned back and the door slowly opened.
Wanda Atkins was nearly eighty now, shriveled and withered by the years into something both hard and soft. She had on khaki pants and a white blouse, and wore thick white orthopedic shoes that looked as though they weighed about two pounds each. She was also using a metal cane with a curved handle and a wide bottom for support. Her hair had been permed beyond all reasonable recovery, with tufts missing and revealing pink scalp underneath. Her face was a mass of embedded concentric lines, and her eyes were set deep in the shrunken hollows of the sockets. Still, they were youngish eyes paired with the tanned skin and bedlam of wrinkles; the effect was a bit unnerving, like Pine was watching the woman age right in front of her.
She had a cannula in her nose, and a long oxygen line connected to it went down to the floor and then out of sight into the house.
“Now what is this about Joe?”
“May we come in?” asked Pine.
Atkins glanced at Blum, who said, “We’re just here for information, Mrs. Atkins.”
Perhaps comforted by Blum’s age and innocuous appearance, Atkins stepped back so they could move into the house. They were immediately hit by mingled odors of bleach, mustiness, and fried foods.
“You’ll have to excuse me. I have to give Len his medication,” said Atkins, moving past them. “He needs them right on time.”
They followed her into the next room. The house was cluttered with cardboard boxes stacked up and piles of unread, folded newspapers and magazines and what looked to be insurance and medical papers. Dust had accumulated on every surface that Pine could see. Two large oxygen tanks sat in holders against one wall, along with a portable oxygen concentrator that was connected to the line attached to Atkins’s cannula; there were also boxes of tubing and what looked to be a CPAP machine on a table. Two aluminum walkers were perched against a wall. A blood pressure monitor hung on a stand, and a gurney with collapsible sides was set against another wall. Prescription bottles lined one table and sat next to an elongated pill dispenser organized by days of the week. The dispenser’s bins were chock-full of pills.
It looked like an ICU room in the suburbs.
Strapped into a wheelchair was, Pine assumed, Len Atkins. His bald head and withered body listed to one side, his tongue was hanging out, and he was drooling onto a bib tied around his neck. He looked like the roughened shell of a human being nearing its expiration date.
Atkins poured some liquid from a brown bottle into a small measuring cup, eyeing the dosage carefully, and then poured that into a glass of water. She then placed a straw in the glass.
“Len? It’s time, sweetie. You need to drink this.”
Len perked up a bit, his gaze running around the room until it found his wife standing right in front of him. She put the straw in his mouth and he started to suck on it. It took about a minute but he got the liquid down. She wiped his mouth and put the glass down.
She turned to them and said in a very low voice, “He had a stroke last year. The doctors say this is as good as he’s going to be. He can’t walk or talk or do much of anything else, really. I think he can understand most things. We have an aide that comes in four times a week. But on days she’s not here, it’s tough. Most times I get the lady next door to help. She’s in her thirties and very strong. And I’m not without disabilities, either.” She glanced at the oxygen tank. “I have pretty bad COPD. Please, God, never pick up a cigarette. It’s not pretty. And I’m ashamed to say I still can’t kick the nicotine habit. But what the hell does it matter now?”
Pine said, “Well, with all this oxygen around, it might matter a lot if some of it leaks.”
“That’s why I vape. No need for matches. We can leave Len here if you want. And talk in the kitchen about Joe.”
“You said he can understand things?” said Pine.
“Yes.”
“Then if you don’t mind, I’d prefer that he listen in.”
Atkins stiffened at this remark, but raised no objection.
CHAPTER
15
PINE SHIFTED STACKS OF PAPERS and mail out of the way to make room for her and Blum to sit. Atkins perched on a piano bench in front of an old, scarred upright, its row of white keys yellowed by time, too much sunlight, and lack of care.
“Now what’s this about Joe?”
“We’ve been to your old trailer in Georgia,” began Pine. “It’s full of snakes.”
She scowled. “I’m not surprised. We didn’t even bother to sell it. We just left. Nobody would have wanted that thing. Over the years we got all new furniture.”
“And you moved here about, what, eighteen or so years ago?”