Her hopeful lilt sent me scrambling to grab a memory. "Um, Buckner, sure. The super jock with Buddy Holly glasses just out of the army," I said. "Popular teacher."

"Very popular, yes indeed he was." She shot me a funny face. "I'm Kathy Fedor."

"Righto," I said. "Please, come inside, Kathy. My neighbors might get the impression you’re with the quarry."

Sidling past me, she trailed a bath soap scent in her wake. Sandalwood. "Quarry?" she puzzled.

"We live on the lip of a big hole blasted in the ground," I explained. "A phosphate pit. Nothing grows in these alkaline tailings and angry residents are suing the quarry company that owned it." Dodging her inquisitive stare, I gave her the once-over and saw blue Nikes with pink shoelaces, snug black jeans, trim waist, beige blouse with top drawer full, and a face seamed by anxiety. Only then did I meet her narrowing eyes gray yet clear as quartz chips.

"Frank, you don't know me from Adam's tomcat, do you?" she said. "Go get your yearbook."

I complied. Biting her cheek lining, Kathy flipped to a page about midway and pointed to her graduation picture. Twenty years ago, she'd signed it ending with "Love Always, Kathy." That brought it home fast. She'd sat in the third row from the windows, the sixth or seventh seat from the front. Oh yeah. Long legs were tan and supple from her championship hustle on the tennis team. A blue-eyed brunette, she was Catholic like me although nowadays I went unchurched. My armpits leaked sweat when we’d talked and I never scraped up the nerve to ask her out to a movie. Now here she stood at my right elbow, her smile quizzical.

"I looked for you at our reunion last night," Kathy said. "In vain, I might add."

I shrugged into a sheepish smile. "Too much fun right here, I guess."

"May we set down?" she said. "Thank you, that's better. You come recommended to me by Mr. Gatlin, a family friend."

"Ah, Gatlin," I said. The invocation of Robert Gatlin's name dispelled much confusion about Kathy on my sofa crossing her ankles. He was a self-made billionaire lawyer, a godfather-figure with a yen for defending underdogs lacking deep pockets to assemble their own Dream Teams. I owed my genesis as a private license to him. At times, such as now, I had serious doubts if that was a healthy thing. "Once in a blue moon, I service Gatlin as a PI. You're here, I take it, for the same reason.

"Yes-yes. Might we take a ride?" she asked me. "I-I-I have something to show you."

* * *

A greasy cold rain dumped on us riding in Kathy's Mitsubishi Eclipse along the two-lane out of Pelham, the tank town I called home. Kathy was behind the wheel and I fidgeted in the shotgun seat. As a rule, I drove myself. Tight-lipped, she fisted her pale-knuckled grip at ten and two on the steering wheel not saying a word the whole while. Arms extended, her elbows locked in place. I saw her free knee jiggle up and down. Her tension reminded me of a cigarette smoker going cold turkey as she pedaled the accelerator with grim purpose.

"Uh, Kathy," I said, chagrinned by the strain cracking my voice. "Traveling far, are we?"

"Not so very far," she said, after a little.

That didn't sound reassuring. "Wanna clue me in?" I tried again.

"You'll see, Frank," Kathy said. "Soon enough. Trust me."

A hundred crazy thoughts jammed my mind, the gist of them showing us plowing into an oncoming Peterbilt and vaulting up in a massive fireball. I focused my eyes on the seesawing windshield wipers and ordered my thoughts enough to catch Kathy speaking.

"On a day just as this, a drunk swerved over the center line and smashed head on into my little sister Karen. She was killed on the spot."

"Did the drunk die as well?" I asked for the lack of anything more intelligent to say.

"After slipping into a coma, she lived for three days."

"The drunk driver was a lady?"

"Does that amaze you? Women like their booze, too."

Kathy’s foot floated off the gas as she signaled over to the low shoulder, the brake slowing us to a gradual halt. Across the ditch I noticed a small white wood cross with plastic daisy chains dangling off its arms. It was one of those roadside memorials families erect to commemorate the sites of traffic fatalities. This one was fresh and recent. My sympathy went out to the anonymous victim as Kathy shoved the gearshift into Park and sniffled.

"Your sister Karen had her accident here," I guessed.

"Yes," said Kathy. "She was coming home from Pennsylvania."

"Just driving through Pelham, huh?"

"She was headed home in Richmond. You know, she never liked living here," Kathy said. "Pelham was too provincial. We were army brats and Daddy moved around a lot. We never stayed on a base for more than two years. Younger than me, Karen grew more attuned to living in cities. Richmond, Atlanta, the year we spent in Charlotte. I’m curious about something, Frank. Do you just work local?"

"No-no," I said. Rain beat down spattering the grime-flecked glass. The wipers trawled back and forth. "I've traveled to Toronto, Ankara, Bermuda, and Budapest. A few weeks ago I flew back from a case in New Zealand."

"You zip all around," she said. "A world traveler, even."

"Gatlin keeps me living out of a suitcase," I admitted. "Still, I am a reluctant world traveler, much more of a homebody."

"What I have in mind will be tame by comparison," she said. "It's about my sister's accident. As I said the other lady was tested and found three sheets to the wind. Her blood alcohol content was .29, more than three times the legal limit which is .07 percent. Yet the sheriff didn't rummage across any alcohol in her car. No bottles, no cans, no flasks. Odd, wouldn't you say?"

I shrugged a shoulder. "The old gal liquored up in a bar, then flew off in her crate."

"In Pelham? What bar?" she asked.

"What are you driving at?" I asked her, forgetting to filter out the sarcasm. "Somebody forced the whiskey down the lady's throat?"

Kathy's tough _expression brightened a degree. "Mr. Gatlin said you were fast to size up a situation. Karen wasn't just killed by a careless inebriated driver. I'm inclined to believe somebody got her drunk as a skunk, then put her behind the wheel. Who? Why? There are lots of unknowns. I need answers. After I went to Mr. Gatlin, he sent me to you. He called you ‘the answer man.’"

"I call him some things, too," I said. "Except I can’t repeat them in mixed company."

* * *

Pelham slid into one of its rainy gray periods. My seamed gutters leaked. A corner of the kitchen ceiling dripped until I climbed up a 12-foot stepladder to Bondo-seal the crack in the roof. The drench flushed water out of ditches and storm drains. The lagoon below in the played out phosphate quarry's bottom replenished its doleful pools to reflect my sour mood. I’d half a mind to ask Gatlin just what the hell was he thinking. In fact, that idea appealed to me so much that I next found myself punching in his number. The cell gargled and whistled in my ear before the wireless wonder somehow connected me to the fat man.

"Gatlin, Esquire," he answered with imperious smugness.

"This is Johnson. Kathy Fedor brought me a wild-eyed tale about her kid sister killed by a drunk driver. What do you know about it?"

"Very tragic accident," said Gatlin.

"It wasn't an accident. Kathy maintains the lady driver was force-fed alcohol and then shipped off in her car like a guided missile to do the killer’s bidding."

"Oh? Kathy didn't share that with," said Gatlin. "Then again I didn't wish to get bogged down in messy details. Her daddy has been a pal for years. Her tale is credible. I’ll vouch for it."

My irritation notched up. "I'm not calling for a character reference. If Karen Fedor was murdered, why would the killer concoct such an elaborate ruse to cover it up? A staged suicide or botched robbery are the usual favorite ways."

"Oh-oh, a camera crew just pulled up," said Gatlin. "Court TV is interviewing me about Wishbone Carter, the axe murderer I defended last month. The hometown jury found him innocent of all charges and Wishbone strolled out of the courthouse a free man. Two weeks later while up in the hills deer hunting, a young man bowshot Wishbone through the heart, mistaking him for an 8-point buck."

"Tough toenails. But you'd screw a snapping turtle at halftime in the Cotton Bowl if you figured the stunt would beam your face on television," I said. "Try to stay on topic. Karen Fedor's car pileup, accident or murder, counselor?"

"Frank, I simply don't know," Gatlin said. "It's your case, boy. If you need help, ring up Gerald Peyton."

"Oh yeah, a reckless bounty hunter would be a real asset," I said.

"Just power through it," said Gatlin. "Kathy deserves your A-game, too. Good luck and good bye."

I grew restless. Again I sifted through the folder of background material Kathy had left me. Her sister Karen, 35, was employed by a chain bookstore. She was single and had no kids, same as me. She liked Garth Brookes, unlike me. She went to Mass and aspired to own a Hummer. Fancy that. Nothing dangerous or controversial lurked in her life. I had no basis for suspecting her death was anything but a lousy twist of fate. Perplexed, I touched fire to a cigarette, sucked in to fill lungs near capacity, then coughed out smoke through my mouth and nose. Snubbed out, the cigarette joined the butt farm I cultivated in a cluttered tuna can for an ashtray.

"I wonder if Gerald is home," I said to the walls.

He was and we chatted. As always, Gerald was up for anything anywhere anytime. When I punched the cell's OFF button, rain drummed on my tin roof. Inside, the trailer grew cold and clammy reminding me of a troglodyte’s crapper. My yearbook lay open in my lap as memories filtered back about Kathy and Karen Fedor, big and little sister. They rode to school together in a brown Pinto and on occasion I'd see them take Communion at Mass. My next association was of Mr. Buckner, his hanging around that brown Pinto, once climbing inside for a ride. Hell, all three of them had passed out of my life by the next autumn and I'd never seen or heard of them until Kathy's coming by this morning.

In a matter of fifteen minutes, Gerald arrived. There he came tramping over the wet grass. His physique and manner I always equated with Manny Sistrunk, a big, mean African-American defensive tackle once breaking bones for the Washington Redskins. Gerald bounced through the door without bothering to knock and flung off a soppy windbreaker. He grinned in greeting at me. "S'up, Frank? You fixed to go tree a killer?"

"I don't know if that's the situation here," I said.

"Your client said some sumbitch drained whiskey down the lady driver's throat, sent her off in a car," said Gerald. "It makes sense to me."

"Fine. Now, how about motive? Why kill Karen Fedor?"

"The smart money is on to shut her up for good about something," said Gerald. "You got the drunk lady's home address?"

"Yeah. You got a search warrant?" I asked.

"Bounty hunters never heard of such a nicety," he said.

I frowned. "Don’t I know it but it's as good as any place to start. By the way, Gatlin is riding herd on this case, too."

"Well, shucky darn, that only adds to the zest," said Gerald.

We raced through the sheets of rain stoning down and piled up inside Gerald’s candy gold El Dorado. Later while moving along the two-laner, I explained to him what little else I knew about Kathy. Torrents of rain blinded the windshield but he held a steady wheel. "This U.S. government teacher, Buckner, the stud discharged from the army, what ever happened to him?" Gerald asked.

"I dunno. Probably took his teaching experience and moved on to Prince William or Fairfax County to earn a heftier paycheck. That was the usual progression."

Gerald drove on, working around a red swizzle stick in his mouth. "Popular teacher, eh? Popular teachers at my school were the ones tooling around in fast sports cars, always looking to score with the nubile girl students."

My heart rate spiked a little. "Sure, I heard rumors about his conquests." Just then, the roadside memorial to Karen Fedor blurred by us. We beat on over rainy macadam past fields clotted with new McMansions which I blamed on thirty-year mortgages tumbling below six percent. What was once quaint rural was now soulless sprawl as far as the eye could see.

"This Buckner," said Gerald, "keep an eye out for him in all this."

"Yeah. Now, the drunk lady was Zelda Weems," I said. "She lived alone in an old white farmhouse just up ahead."

"At the old Gordon place?" asked Gerald. "Passing by here, I've seen a lady out in the field riding a tractor bushhogging. Not hard on the eyes either. Zelda is a good southern girl's name."

"Like Zelda Fitzgerald," I said.

"Huh?"

"You know, wife to the Irishman who wrote The Great Gatsby," I said.

"Is it any good?" he asked me. "If it's a crime novel, I'll give it a whirl. Otherwise, it's just ass-wipe to me."

"Give it a whirl." I next pointed. "Okay, slow down. Her driveway entrance is off to your right."

"Where?"

"Just this side of the green TV cable box. See it?"

"Got it," said Gerald stabbing the breaks to squeal the rear end around in a nifty wet road fishtail maneuver. We next hammered down a short dirt-packed lane glutted with chuckholes. A side lip curled off his clenched teeth. "This could stand a little patch work," he said. "Zelda wasn't married, I take it."

"Nope," I said. "Gatlin tells me she ran a lesbian hideout out here in the farmhouse. You could pay to watch shows through portholes. Orgies roared on around the clock. Very hush-hush and exclusive. I came out once or twice. Didn't word get back to you? Man, I'm really sorry about you missing out on all that."

"Frank, shut up," said Gerald, parking us under a ginkgo tree. "I know you're full of shit. Now, hand me the lock pick set," said Gerald. "It's in the glove compartment."

We tried to dodge puddles hustling to reach the front porch but pulled up under it soaked to the skin. Gerald tripped the old-fashioned door lock and we breezed into a foyer. The resident smell was an overpowering stench. "Man, who crapped themselves?" asked Gerald.

I attributed the chilly shiver tracking up my spine to the wet clothes set to my body. We stood dripping on the pale oak floor for a few quiet seconds. Dripping reminded me of blood. Gerald snaked a hand underneath his windbreaker, drew it out again foisting a snub-nose .44. His words rasped out as a warning. "Stay on your toes. That putrid odor is from a human cadaver. "

"Right," I said. "Stay sharp."

We prowled into the first room off from the long, dim corridor. My nostrils shut down and my mouth breathed in toxic fumes manufactured by the dead man seated at the kitchen table. Gerald flipped on the overhead light. Mr. Buckner, aged by twenty years, was recognizable by the same out-of-fashion Buddy Holly glasses. At his elbow was a scrap of paper and my eyes read the first lines to suspect it was a suicide note.

"We can now scratch your prime suspect," I told Gerald.

Gerald: "I still feel heat coming off him."

"I don't understand anything in this mess."

"Nor do I," said Gerald. "Who else is left?"

"Kathy Fedor?" A weakness infused my knees. "She's our killer?"

"Times two," said Gerald. "You can bet smart money on it, hoss."

"But why in the world?" I wondered.

Snorting through his nose, Gerald waistbanded the .44. "Whoknows but try this on for size. Think about long-term loves,jealousy, revenge between two sisters and a popular teacher. Twenty years worth of smoldering heat like the coals found in a hibachi only it blazed up into this ugly ending."

"Kathy used Zelma to kill her sister in the car accident, then tried to frame Buckner for it," I said. "That was where I came in, to implicate Buckner. Only that wasn't enough because she returned to do in Buckner herself."

Call it in to the sheriff on your cell,” said Gerald. “All this here is a crime scene, including the telephone.”

“This the first time a client has tried to use me,” I said. “I hate being made a pawn, too.”