Found Money - James Grippando [105]
“I don’t think this is routine.”
“Trust me. Once the appointment is announced, the FBI moves very quickly on these background investigations.”
“No, listen to me. I was eating lunch, watching you and the President on television, when the agent came up to me at the restaurant. It wasn’t triggered by your appointment.”
“Then what did trigger it, Amy?”
She struggled, dreading what she had to say.
“He wanted to know about my contact with Ryan Duffy.”
“Oh, my God. Amy, I told you to stay away from those people. Do you have any idea what kind of scrutiny I’m under right now? Everyone around me is a reflection on my character. Especially someone like you. It’s no secret you and I are close.”
Amy’s voice tightened. “Just how close are we?”
“Very close. You know that.”
“I do, yes. But I’m confused. I was up all night. I couldn’t stop thinking about what you told me yesterday. I flat-out do not understand it. I have to ask: why would a man rape you almost forty-six years ago, and then send me two hundred thousand dollars just before he dies?”
“I have no idea.”
“Marilyn, are we…related?”
Stunned silence. Finally she answered. “I told you we can never talk about this. Please don’t try to force me.”
“I just have so many questions.”
“Sometimes questions are better left unanswered.”
“Better for you, maybe.”
“Better for both of us. Don’t make me ask you again, Amy. Do not go down this road. It’s a dead end.”
“Marilyn, please.”
“Goodbye, Amy.”
Amy was about to make one more plea, but the line clicked in her ear. It had caught her off guard. She gripped the phone, staring in disbelief.
For the first time in her life, Marilyn Gaslow had hung up on her.
48
Driving alone at night on Highway 287 was an exercise in monotony. It plunged south through the quiet eastern plains at insufferable stretches, flat as the oceans of darkened cornfields, moving only imperceptibly to the east or west. It was like being stuck on a treadmill. The only scenery was oncoming pavement that reached as far as the headlights. With the brights on you could see the first row of corn just beyond the gravel shoulder, maybe count telephone poles as they rushed by, one after another.
Brent switched on the squeaky wipers again. It was a little game he played with the misty rain. Tiny drops collected on the windshield one at a time. He’d hold his speed steady at seventy miles per hour and see how far he could go without having to wipe it clean.
Eleven miles that time. A new world record.
He cut off the wipers and played with the radio dial. The Denver stations had long since faded. He was almost home. He didn’t need road signs to know it. Where civilization ended, Piedmont Springs began.
Between static, he found a country music station and cranked up the volume. He glanced at the dial to check the numbers. His eyes were away from the road just an instant—just long enough to hit the piece of lumber in the road at full speed.
The tires popped on the long row of nails. The car swerved out of control. Brent steered left, then right, trying to bring it back. The car slid into the left lane, hit the gravel shoulder and spun completely around. He came to a sudden stop facing back toward Denver.
He had a death grip on the steering wheel, unable to let go. Finally, he took a deep breath and lowered his arms. He was shaken but unhurt. For a moment, he just sat.
The rain collected on the windshield. The headlights beamed deep into the cornfield. The plains seemed even darker now that the car wasn’t moving. He switched off the headlights and turned on the emergency flashers. He unlocked the door and stepped outside. Two tires were flat, front and rear on the driver’s side.
“Damn it,” he said as he kicked the dirt.
He walked back to the trunk and popped it open. The little light inside was barely sufficient, enhanced only marginally by the intermittent orange flash of the emergency blinkers. He knew he had a spare, one of those mini-wheels that looked like they were from a go-cart. Hopefully Sarah had one of those fix-a-flat spray cans back