“Hey, my lips are zipped.”
She fist-bumped him, went to her car, climbed in, and drove off.
Oh, Dwight, what a dumbass you are. And thank you for that, hon.
She settled her gaze on the road. Now she just had to find a new place to live. And she still had the little matter of the FBI looking for her.
She needed to do something about that, only what?
CHAPTER
14
ATLEE PINE AND CAROL BLUM PULLED into Huntsville, Alabama. Located in the Tennessee River Valley, it was a stately, historic southern town with a growing population and a modern veneer over the aged, antebellum underbelly. It had rich parts, poor parts, and in-between parts, just like every other town. Its economy had moved from cotton mills to textile plants to the space program and now centered on biotechnology. It was an interesting mix of old and new, storied families with long lineages and old sprawling homes with pillars out front and water views out back, facing a wave of diverse newcomers coming for good-paying jobs, interesting work, and cheaper housing than could be found in the Northeast, California, Florida, or Texas.
After skirting the downtown area and driving for a while, they pulled into the gravel drive of a one-story brick-and-siding rancher. It covered about twelve hundred square feet in a neighborhood of seventies-era homes that had probably cycled through several generations of families, and would probably cycle through several more before all was said and done.
Pine knocked on a door that had peeling paint and a tarnished and dented brass foot plate. A few moments later they heard a woman’s raspy voice through the closed door. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Atkins?”
“Yes?” The voice was now both worried and intrigued.
“I’m with the FBI. I’d like to talk to you.”
“The FBI? Is this some sort of joke?”
“No, it’s not.” Pine took out her shield and placed it against the dirty sidelight next to the door. She could see a woman’s blurred, wrinkled face studying the FBI badge through the glass.
“Okay, what is this about?”
“Your son, Joe Atkins.”
“Joe? He’s long since dead.”
“I know. That’s what we want to talk to you about. Please, it’s important.”
They could hear the lock being turned back and the door slowly opened.
Wanda Atkins was nearly eighty now, shriveled and withered by the years into something both hard and soft. She had on khaki pants and a white blouse, and wore thick white orthopedic shoes that looked as though they weighed about two pounds each. She was also using a metal cane with a curved handle and a wide bottom for support. Her hair had been permed beyond all reasonable recovery, with tufts missing and revealing pink scalp underneath. Her face was a mass of embedded concentric lines, and her eyes were set deep in the shrunken hollows of the sockets. Still, they were youngish eyes paired with the tanned skin and bedlam of wrinkles; the effect was a bit unnerving, like Pine was watching the woman age right in front of her.
She had a cannula in her nose, and a long oxygen line connected to it went down to the floor and then out of sight into the house.
“Now what is this about Joe?”
“May we come in?” asked Pine.
Atkins glanced at Blum, who said, “We’re just here for information, Mrs. Atkins.”
Perhaps comforted by Blum’s age and innocuous appearance, Atkins stepped back so they could move into the house. They were immediately hit by mingled odors of bleach, mustiness, and fried foods.
“You’ll have to excuse me. I have to give Len his medication,” said Atkins, moving past them. “He needs them right on time.”