“The problem is we don’t know enough about the actual events back then. If some people visited Harms in the stockade on the night the little girl was killed, there should be a record of that.”
Sara looked skeptical. “After twenty-five years?”
“And then there’s the letter from the Army that Harms mentioned. What sort of letter would the Army be sending a court-martialed con?”
“Do you think the letter somehow triggered this?”
“It could have had some information that Harms didn’t know about before. I don’t know what it could be or why he wouldn’t have known it before, though.”
“Wait a minute. If Tremaine and Rayfield are from Fort Jackson, why would they let that kind of a letter reach Harms? Isn’t a prisoner’s mail censored?”
Fiske thought for a moment. “Maybe it just slipped through.”
“Or maybe it didn’t come to the prison at all. Josh Harms seems to know all about it; maybe he got the letter, put two and two together and told Rufus about it.”
“And then Rufus maybe fakes a heart attack somehow, gets taken to the nearest hospital and that’s where Josh breaks him out?”
“That works.”
“I just wish we knew what happened at Fort Jackson that day. It’s pretty clear from what Josh and Rufus said that my brother visited him at the prison.”
“Why not call or go to the prison? Then we can find out if Michael was there.”
Fiske shook his head. “If those two guys are at the prison, they’ll have covered that up, maybe transferred anyone who saw Mike out of the place. And we can’t go to Chandler with it, because what would we say? Two Army guys are looking for a prisoner who escaped from their custody. So what?”
“Well, if Rayfield and Tremaine work at the prison, then Michael walked right into the lion’s den. Even though you two weren’t close, I’m really surprised Michael didn’t try to call you for help. He might still be alive if he had.”
Fiske froze at her words and then closed his eyes. He said nothing more as they drove along.
* * *
When they reached Sara’s cottage, Fiske went directly to the refrigerator and grabbed a beer.
“Do you have any cigarettes?”
She raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t think you smoked.”
“I haven’t for years. But I really need one right now.”
“Well, you’re in luck.” She pulled a chair over and set it next to the kitchen counter. She slipped off her pumps and stepped onto the chair’s seat. “I’ve found that if I make it as difficult as possible to get to my little stash, I crave them less. I guess I have a real lazy streak.”
Fiske watched as she stood on tiptoe and reached up over the highest cabinet, her fingers barely scraping the top edge.
“Sara, come on, let me do that. You’re going to kill yourself.”
“I’ve got it, John. Just about there.” She stretched her body as far as she could and Fiske found himself staring at the tops of her exposed thighs as her dress had risen. She started to sway a bit, so he placed a hand on her waist to steady her. On the back of her right thigh was a small birthmark, almost perfectly triangular in shape and a dull red in color. It seemed to pulse with each of her exertions. He glanced down at her feet as he continued to hold on to her, the bottom of his hand resting lightly on the softness of her hip. Her toes were long and uncramped, as though she went barefoot often. He looked away.
“Got ’em.” She held up the pack. “Camels okay?”
“As long as you can light one end, I don’t really care.” He helped her down, took out a cigarette, and then looked at her. “You in? You did all the work.” She nodded and he nudged one out for her. They took a moment lighting up and Sara joined Fiske with a beer. They went out onto the small rear deck that looked out over the river and sat down in a faded wooden glider.
“You made a good choice in housing,” he commented.