Davenport’s face revealed no hint of what he felt. “Nothing,” he said. “And I intend to keep it that way.” He reached over and touched the tablet, causing the photograph to vanish.
I looked at him and then at the trail of dots on the flatscreen, the chart of his son’s wanderings. He had followed Fritz for years, keeping him under a watchful eye while letting the rest of his family believe Fritz was dead. I had thought Ren Middleton was Machiavellian, but this was a whole different order of magnitude.
“Why are you telling me this?” I said. “I could go tell people what happened, what you did.”
Davenport frowned. “That would be foolish, considering that Fritz doesn’t want to be found. That, as well as the fact that I could bury you if I wished. Really, Matthias, such a crude threat is disappointing.”
Before I could think of a response, Davenport raised a hand toward me as if he were offering something. “I know that you’ve suffered from this. That day in your dorm room, right after Fritz ran away, when I . . . confronted you. Shouted at you. I apologize. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I repeated. I wanted to laugh, to scream. “Wow,” I managed. “You abandon your son and lie to your family, but you’re apologizing for shouting at me.”
Davenport gave a pained, aching smile. “One must start somewhere,” he said. “A lifetime of secrets and subterfuge renders you rather unsusceptible to regret. It’s a luxury I cannot afford. Do you remember what Polonius says to his son? ‘To thine own self be true.’ As I am—true to my own nature. But I am . . . trying.”
Feeling slightly sickened, I remembered why I was there, the promise I had made to Fritz. I reached my hand into my pocket, pulled out a jump drive, and laid it on the table next to Davenport’s tablet.
Davenport looked at it for several seconds. “What’s on it?” he finally said.
“A video from Fritz,” I said. “For you and your brother.”
Davenport’s eyes were wide. “What does he say?” he asked, and for the first time his voice betrayed the slightest hint of doubt.
“Why don’t you watch it, Mr. Davenport?” I said. “I’ll let you do that in peace.” I turned and walked toward the doors. When I reached them, I glanced back. Davenport was turning the jump drive over in his hands, his expression a blend of eagerness and dread. I walked through the doorway and pulled it shut behind me.
I didn’t need to see the video. I already knew what was on it: a three-minute message from Fritz that included a series of instructions. Now I just needed to wait and see if Frank and Wat Davenport followed them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
An enormous Welcome Alumni sign hung above the lions, which sat atop columns now bedecked with red and gold streamers. The decorations seemed both festive and foolish, like putting a leather jacket on a wolf. The snarling lion looked ready to rip the streamers to shreds; the other gazed coldly at me, the missing eye conferring a sense of dignity unsullied by the crepe paper looped around its base. “Keep the faith, brother,” I said aloud, and as I drove slowly past the lions, I offered them a casual salute.
It was the end of a cloudless June day, the sunlight softly playing over the green leaves, birds flitting from shadow to shadow. I found myself once again wending my way through those trees, although now the sunlight and recent events made the way less haunted, less freighted by the ghosts of memory.
Just past the trees and the security gate, the athletic fields now served as parking lots, and though it was early yet, several cars sat in rows in front of the soccer goals. A police officer in uniform was directing traffic, his gaze lingering on me as I rolled past him, and I recognized Deputy Smalls. I drove down a short aisle, pulled into a spot, and killed the engine. I supposed that I could just sit there in my car until he was distracted, but this was my alma mater, my class reunion, and so I got out of the car, closed the door, and walked toward him.
“Mr. Glass,” he said, nodding affably as I approached.
“Deputy,” I said, nodding back at him. I felt a little like a cowboy who had been run out of town and was now riding back in, daring the lawman to do something about it. That feeling evaporated in the heat of my embarrassment when Smalls stuck out his hand to shake mine. “Glad to see you made it,” he said.
“You referring to my reunion or the whole drug-dealer misunderstanding?” I said. I was still holding his hand.
Smalls smiled. It wasn’t as radiant as Briggs’s smile, but it was nice. “Yes,” he said.
I smiled back, and we dropped our hands. “Okay,” I said. “Um, thanks.”
He nodded. “Someone’s looking for you,” he said, glancing over my shoulder.
Feeling uneasy, I turned, expecting to see Sheriff Townsend. Instead, I saw a uniformed Lester Briggs sitting in an old ladder-back chair. He waved me over impatiently, and I made my way down the aisle of parked cars to him. He looked thinner without looking feebler, as if he had burned away any superfluous weight, distilling his intensity. He had in his hand a clipboard of license plate numbers, which I presumed belonged to the cars parked all around us.
“I like the uniform,” I said. “All law enforcement-y. How’s the sheriff feel about it?”
Briggs snorted, like he was throttling a laugh in his throat. “He brought it to me personally,” he said. “We’re best friends now. The DA loves me, so Ricky Townsend loves me. DA’s not the only one looking to move into a bigger office. I got injured trying to make a citizen’s arrest and prevented a drug dealer from committing a murder. I’m a hero.”
“I’ll buy you a cape, maybe some boots. Your back doing okay?”
“Keep the cape. I’ll take a new pair of boots. And my back is fine.” Briggs eyed me. “You found him, didn’t you,” he said.
“Didn’t pan out,” I said lightly. “You were right. Kevin Kelly went to too many places out west. It’ll take me a long time to check them all out.”
Now he did laugh. “I’ve got a grandnephew just turned four. He lies better than you do.”
“Let’s say I had a talk with Frank Davenport and delivered a message to him. Justice was served, et cetera.”
He looked at me, and I looked back. “You’re not going to tell me anything else, are you?” he said.
I shrugged. “Nothing else I can tell you.”
Slowly, he nodded, and then stood up just as slowly, wincing. “Well,” he said, a whole raft of conflicting emotions behind that one word. He slapped the clipboard against the side of his leg. “You enjoy the rest of your weekend.”
“Will do. You watch your back.”