“Can’t blame you.”
“Is this because of my aunt?’ she said suddenly.
“Your aunt?” he replied innocently.
“Don’t treat me like I’m dumb. Jane Cox is my aunt. My uncle is the president.”
“You’re right. You’re sure right about that.”
“So is it about him?”
“I’m not gonna answer that. Sorry.”
Willa raised the sleeve on her shirt, showing a Band-Aid near the crook of her elbow. “Then tell me what’s this for?”
“I guess you got cut.”
“I looked. It’s just a little pinprick.”
He eyed her bowl and spoon again. “You done with these?”
“Is this about my uncle?” she snapped.
“Let’s get something straight right now, Willa. I don’t want to hurt you. It’s true I broke the law and brought you here, but I’d much prefer to see you walk right out that door and get on back home. But while you’re here, it’d be real good if we can just try to get along as best we can. I know it’s hard, but that’s just the way it’s got to be. Better for me.” He stared intensely at her. “And better for you.”
He scooped up the spoon and bowl, cradling them against his chest, and walked toward the door.
“Will you tell my mom and dad I’m okay?” she said in a softer tone.
He turned around. “I sure will.”
This statement made his growing anger harden intractably.
After he left, Willa sat back down on a cot set up in one corner and slowly gazed around the room. She had spoken bravely to the man, but she didn’t feel very courageous. She was scared and she wanted to see her family. She curled and uncurled her hands in anxiety. The tears began to slide down her cheeks as she considered one horrible scenario after another. She prayed and spoke out loud to her mom and dad. She told her brother and sister that she loved them very much, even if they did come in her room unannounced and mess with her stuff.
She wiped the tears away and tried to stay focused. She didn’t believe the man about the gloves and the eczema or the mark on her arm. She believed it had to do with her aunt and uncle. What other reason could there be? Her family was pretty ordinary otherwise. She began walking around the room, singing softly to herself; it was something she often did when she was worried or scared.
“It’ll be okay,” she said to herself over and over after she couldn’t sing anymore. She lay back down and covered herself with the blanket. But before she turned the light off, she looked over at the door. She rose, crossed the room, and stared at the lock.
It was a sturdy dead bolt, she noted for the first time.
And because of that, fear was suddenly replaced with a tiny spark of hope.
CHAPTER 9
QUARRY WALKED DOWN the mineshaft, one hand idly playing over the black rock of the walls where the remains of old bituminous coal seams were still visible. He unlocked the door to another room. Inside he sat at a table and lifted out the vials of blood from his knapsack and labeled each with different numbers. On a shelf hung on the wall he pulled off a box and opened it. Inside were more vials of blood. Some belonged to Pam Dutton, who now lay in a morgue in Virginia, he knew. Others were blood he’d taken from Willa while she had been unconscious.
He labeled Pam’s and Willa Dutton’s vials with numbers and placed them all in a cooler filled with ice packs. Next, he slid Willa’s bowl and spoon in a plastic baggie and put this inside another box.
Okay, the busy work’s done. I got to get on with things.
He rose, unlocked a freestanding metal gun safe that he’d brought here on his truck. Inside were automatic and semiautomatic pistols, shotguns, rifles, scopes, two MP5s, and a couple of AKs and rounds of ammo for all of them. The cache represented several generations of the affection Quarry men held for the Second Amendment. He looked carefully over the selection and settled on a.45 Cobra Enterprises Patriot. His hand gripped the polymer frame as he slapped in an extended seven-round magazine filled with standard 1911 ordnance. It was a light gun, though with plenty of power, and took twelve pounds of force to pull the trigger. Because of its imbalance with a twenty-ounce frame and a.45 round, it wasn’t the most fun pistol to shoot. But it was light to carry around and whatever you hit with it at close range dropped on the spot.
It was a nice, compact weapon for personal protection. But that’s not what he’d be using it for. As his hand gripped the loaded pistol it began to sweat.
His magazine carried seven rounds, but in truth he only would need two. And it would give him no pleasure. Not one damn bit.
He trudged down the rock corridor preparing mentally for what needed to be done. His daddy and granddaddy had hunted down humans before, though he knew they hardly considered black folks human. Killed’em probably without much thought, like they would a cottonmouth or a pesky mole. Yet that’s where the son and grandson parted company with his male relations. He would do what needed to be done, but he also knew the scars would be deep and he would relive the killing moment over and over for the rest of his life.