Walk the Wire (Amos Decker #6) - David Baldacci Page 0,86
the shit that comes with waking up every day and walking out the door.”
She said, “So your way of coping is focusing entirely on your work?”
Decker glanced at her, his features inscrutable. “My way of coping is just finding the truth, Alex. If I can do that, then I can deal with everything else.”
THE FARM LOOKED LIKE something out of The Grapes of Wrath, only with less dust and a modicum of water sources.
They pulled to a stop in front of the plank-sided house and got out. There was a dirty and ancient Jeep two-door parked in the front. They could see a barn in the distance, and corrals full of cows collected around a water trough and salt lick. There was also a paddock where some bow-backed horses nibbled grass. The overall operation looked neat and efficient.
The leaning mailbox at the end of the dirt road had said PURDY, so they knew they were in the right place.
Before they could reach the front steps, the screen door opened and a woman stood there, a Remington over-under shotgun in hand. She was in her midfifties, with long gray hair, a slender, wiry build, and a pair of piercing blue eyes. She had on faded dungarees, weathered boots, and a checkered shirt tucked into the pants. The belt holding them up was made of knotted leather. Her face was wrinkled and tanned. And full of suspicion.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
Jamison immediately took out her FBI creds and badge.
“FBI Special Agent Alex Jamison. My partner, Amos Decker. Are you Beverly Purdy?”
Instead of de-escalating the situation, this only caused the woman to raise the gun and point it directly at them, her finger near the trigger. “What the hell do you want? You tell me right now.”
Decker stepped forward, putting himself between Jamison and the gun. “We wanted to talk to Ben, if he’s here.”
She snapped. “He’s not. But why do you want to talk to him?”
“We’re not with the Air Force, if that’s what you’re thinking. And we have no interest in whether he might be absent without leave. We just want to talk to him about his last posting, in London, North Dakota.”
“Bullshit. You’ve come to arrest him.”
“Why would we do that?”
“You just said. AWOL.”
“We’re investigating a series of murders in London.”
“Ben didn’t kill nobody.”
“We’re not suggesting he did. He was long gone before the killings took place. But he said something to someone back in London. We just wanted to ask him what he meant by that. We believe it might have ties to our investigation.”
The woman slowly lowered the weapon. “He’s not here, like I said.”
“Was he here at some point?”
“He might’a been,” she said guardedly.
“Do you know where we could find him?”
She shook her head. “Got no idea. Haven’t heard from him in a while.”
“And so you must be worried?” said Jamison, coming to stand next to Decker.
“I’m his ma, ’course I’m worried.”
“Well, we’re worried about him too, so maybe together we can find him.”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“I get that you’re suspicious, Mrs. Purdy. So just to show our good faith, we’ll leave now. But can I give you our contact information so he could call us if you do see him? All we want to do is talk to him, not arrest him. That’s all.” He pulled a card from his jacket pocket and held it out to her.
She looked at the paper warily, as though if she touched it she might feel pain. But, apparently now satisfied that they were not here to arrest her son, Purdy said, “Look, do you all want to come in? I just made some fresh coffee.”
Decker glanced at Jamison and said, “Sounds good. It was a long drive. And it’s colder here than it was in North Dakota.”
They followed her inside. The front room was dominated by heads of animals mounted on the wall.
Purdy caught Jamison gawking and said, “My husband and Ben were avid hunters. Most everybody in these parts are. But it’s not just for show. We eat what we shoot.”
She led them into a small, plain kitchen with pine cupboards and dark, swirl-patterned, laminated countertops. The floor was aged linoleum and the furnishings rustic. The curtains around the windows looked to be about fifty years old. The whole place seemed locked in time from around then.
She set the Remington in a gun rack on the wall and pointed to two chairs around the table. “Take a seat.”