frustration draining away. “Give me your hand.” He took it without waiting, then used his teeth to pull the cap off a pen. “I want you to call this number.” He wrote a number on the back of her hand. “I’ll call him first. Tell him to expect you.”
“Who?”
“The warden. Call him in the morning, first thing.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re lost in the wasteland, Liz. Because you need a way out, and because you won’t believe the things he’ll tell you.”
11
Elizabeth left her partner on the street and drove west until the road crested a high ridge, and the sun flattened like a disk against the earth. Adrian was either lying or not, and Elizabeth could think of only one place to find the answer she needed. So she followed a two-lane out of town and ten minutes later turned onto the long, dark drive of a five-hundred-acre estate that bordered the river where it ran fast and white at the bottom of a tall bluff. Box bushes scraped paint as she pushed into the property. Branches hung low above the drive, and when it dead-ended, she climbed from the car. The house loomed beneath a dimming sky, and she felt the history of it as she stepped onto the porch. George Washington slept here, once. So did Daniel Boone, a half dozen governors. The current resident—though once equally impressive—came to the door in a poplin suit that looked slept in. He was unshaven, his face drawn beneath a cloud of thin, white hair that stirred as the door opened. He’d lost weight since she’d last seen him, seemed shorter, frailer, ancient.
“Elizabeth Black?” He was confused, at first; then smiled. “My God, it’s been a thousand years.” He squeezed her, took her hand. “Come have a drink. Have two.” The bright eyes twinkled. “Elizabeth Black.”
“Crybaby Jones.”
“Come in, come in.”
He turned into the house, muttering apologies as he cleared newspapers and law books from different pieces of grand, old furniture. Glass clinked as empty bottles and cut-crystal glasses disappeared into the kitchen. Elizabeth wandered the room, her gaze on walking sticks, oil paintings, and dusty guns. When the old man returned, his shirt was buttoned to the collar, his hair perfectly smooth and damp enough to stay put as he moved. “Now, then.” He opened a double-door closet that concealed a wet bar and a wall of bottles. “You don’t care for bourbon, as I recall.”
“Vodka rocks, please.”
“Vodka rocks.” His hands hovered by a row of bottles. “Belvedere?”
“Perfect.”
Elizabeth watched him fix her drink, then mix an old-fashioned for himself. Faircloth Jones was a lawyer, retired. He’d come from nothing, worked weekends and nights to put himself through school, and become—arguably—the finest defense attorney ever seen in the state of North Carolina. In fifty years of practice—decades of cases involving murder, abuse, betrayal—he’d only cried once in court, the day a black-robed judge swore him into the state bar, then frowned disapprovingly and asked the young man why he was so shiny-eyed and trembling. When Faircloth explained that he was moved by the grandeur of the moment, the judge asked that he kindly move his wet-behind-the-ears, crybaby self somewhere other than his court.
The nickname stuck.
“I know why you’re here.” He pushed the drink into her hand, sat in a cracked, leather chair. “Adrian’s out.”
“Have you seen him?”
“Since retirement and divorce, I rarely leave the house. Sit. Please.” He gestured to his right, and Elizabeth sat in a wooden-armed chair whose cushions were covered in faded, wine-colored velvet that had, in places, been worn white. “I’ve been following your situation with great interest. An unfortunate business: Channing Shore, the Monroe brothers. What’s your lawyer’s name, again?”
“Jennings.”
“Jennings. That’s it. A youngish man. Do you like him?”
“I haven’t spoken to him.”
“Young lady.” He lowered the drink onto the arm of his chair. “Water finds a level, as you know, and the state will have its pound of flesh. Call your lawyer. Meet with him tonight if need be.”
“It’s fine, really.”
“I fear I must insist. Even a young lawyer is better than none at all. The papers make your situation quite plain, and I don’t pretend to have forgotten the politics of state office. Were I not a million years old, I would have sought you out myself and demanded to represent you.”
He was agitated. Elizabeth ignored it. “I’m not here to talk about myself.”
“Adrian, then.”
“Yes.” Elizabeth slipped onto the edge of her chair. It seemed so small, the truth she needed. A single word, a few letters.