This Dark Road to Mercy: A Novel by Wiley Cash Page B

out paperwork. “It’ll be all right,” I said. “You’re in good hands.”
    “That went well,” Sandy said. He crossed his arms and leaned against the back of his car
    “She looks pretty rattled.”
    “She is. What about you?”
    “I’ve been through worse than this,” I said. “And you know all about that.”
    “Yeah, well, you’re not missing anything,” he said.
    “Is it that bad?”
    “Worse than you can imagine,” he said. “Unless, of course, you’ve seen a guy running around town with a sack full of money, about fourteen and a half million. If you have, I’m ready for his description.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out an ink pen and clicked it open like he was ready to write something down.
    “You’ve still got nothing?”
    “Nothing,” he said.
    “What’s it been, ten months?”
    “Almost eleven.”
    “That’s got to be killing you.”
    “It is,” he said. “But only because everybody, including the FBI and the Charlotte guys, thinks it should be solved by now.” He dropped the pen into his pocket. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Two guys spend all day driving around Charlotte in an armored car, taking pickups, making deliveries. The last drop of the day, one guy gets out, the other doesn’t, and then he drives off and disappears—dumps the truck right on the Gastonia side of the bridge.” He held a finger to his head like it was a gun. “Thanks, asshole.”
    “But that can’t be the only reason the Feds are all over you,” I said.
    “It’s not,” he said. “Some of the money’s been passed here in town. Here and up at the casino in Cherokee, but you can’t see anything on the security cameras. The FBI brought in NASA, and they still can’t see anything. It’s not like we know who we’re looking for anyway. The driver definitely had help, but he’s probably long gone by now, if he’s even still alive.”
    “Nobody’s passing big bills?”
    “No,” he said. “They knew what they were doing, and they’re way ahead of us. It’s kicking our ass.”
    I nodded toward the house. “That’s why you should let me lend you a hand on this case. I could take this one off your hands—one less on the books. Just help me out with what you can.”
    “I don’t think so, Brady.”
    “Come on, Sandy,” I said. “I help you; you help me. That’s how we work it.”
    “When, Brady?” he asked. “When do you help me? When do we ‘work it’ like that? You’ve never worked anything for me.” He jingled his keys in his pocket and turned and looked at the house, and then he looked down at his feet. “I’m sorry. It’s just these Feds,” he said. “They’ve got everybody paranoid. They come rolling into town, kicking down doors, asking all kinds of questions, getting up in your face to make sure you don’t touch anything. A few days later, they’re like, ‘Why hasn’t anybody done anything? Who’s in charge here?’ I’m telling you, man, it should make you happy you’re out.” He caught himself as soon as he’d said it. “I didn’t mean—”
    “It’s okay,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”
    He sighed. “All right. Look, I should be able to send you a few things today. I shouldn’t be doing it, but today’s probably not the best day to start following the rules, right?”

C H A P T E R   9
    I  spent the rest of the morning back at the office, filling out invoices on new systems and answering phone calls about installation appointments, but the whole time I kept picturing the black fingerprint dust on the window ledge and thinking about what kind of promises or threats somebody would have to make to get Easter Quillby to open that window and crawl out into the night.
    If twenty years as a cop taught me anything it’s that when folks disappear it usually means, one, they’re dead, or two, they don’t want to be found. Most of the time, when kids go missing, it’s the first, especially after they’ve been