Churches had gossip networks more efficient than any intelligence agency. If he and William met there, word would spread, and word spreading meant Wade Kimball hearing about it. " My garage. Say 4:00." " I'll be there."
The line went dead. Garrett set the phone down, checked his watch. 1:30. Two and a half hours to figure out exactly what he was going to ask for. He spent the time doing what he always did when he needed to think, working on an engine.
This one was a 1973 Honda CB750 brought in by a college kid who'd inherited it from his grandfather and wanted to get it running again. The carburetors were gummed up with old fuel. The points were corroded. The battery was dead as a brick. But the engine was fundamentally sound, good bones.
Just needed someone willing to put in the work to bring it back to life. Garrett lost himself in the process. Disassembly, cleaning, inspection. Each part examined, evaluated, cleaned, or replaced as needed. Methodical work.
Satisfying work. The kind where you could see progress in real time. Sarge watched from his spot near the door. Occasionally the dog would stand, stretch, make a circuit of the garage, then settle back down. Patrol behavior, making sure the perimeter was secure.
At 3:55 a car pulled into the driveway. Garrett didn't look up from the carburetor he was cleaning, just listened to the sound of the engine, four-cylinder, smooth idle, recent oil change, and the door opening and closing. Footsteps on gravel. Then William's voice. " Knocking seems redundant when the door's wide open.
Come on in, Pastor." William Hutchins was 73 years old and looked like central casting's idea of a small-town minister. White hair, warm eyes, cardigan, despite the Arizona heat, hands that were surprisingly strong from decades of shaking hands and moving furniture for church potlucks. He'd been pastor at First Baptist for 31 years. Knew everyone in Ridgmont.
Was trusted by everyone in Ridgmont, which was exactly what Garrett needed. " Coffee?" Garrett asked, not looking up from his work. " If you're making some." Garrett gestured at the ancient coffee maker in the corner. "
Help yourself. Fair warning, it's been sitting since this morning." " I've drunk worse." William poured himself a cup, took a sip, made a face. " Barely."
Garrett allowed himself a small smile, set down the carburetor, wiped his hands on a rag, turned to face the pastor properly. " Appreciate you coming." " Appreciate you calling. Been wondering how you were doing out here." William took another sip of coffee, grimaced again. "
Alone." " Working?" " Not talking to anyone." " Been managing." " Managing isn't living, Garrett." "
Didn't call you here for a sermon." William raised both hands, peace gesture. " Fair enough. What did you call me here for?" Garrett told him all of it.
Evelyn's struggling up the wheelchair ramp, Sarge's instant protective reaction. The notice for property seizure, the two men at Evelyn's house, Wade Kimball, the 43 families, the sheriff who was Wade's brother. William listened without interrupting. His face got harder as the story went on. By the end he was gripping his coffee mug tight enough that Garrett could see white knuckles. "
Wade Kimball," William said quietly. " Yes, I know about Wade." " Dorothy said he's got a reputation." " Reputation." William laughed.
No humor. " That's one word for it. Predator would be another. Vulture, parasite. Pick your metaphor.
Wade Kimball has been bleeding this town dry for 12 years, and I've watched it happen. Watched good people lose everything. Watched families torn apart. Watched three men put guns in their mouths because the shame of losing their homes was more than they could carry." " You tried to help." "
I did what I could. Counseling, food bank, church discretionary funds to help with small emergencies. But Garrett, we're talking about debts in the hundreds of thousands. The church doesn't have that kind of money." " Nobody in Ridgmont does, except Wade."
William set down his mug. " I've tried going to authorities. State Attorney General's office. FBI. Every time, same answer, need more evidence, need victims willing to testify, need proof of federal crimes.
And every time I get close to finding someone brave enough to speak up, Wade gets to them first. Threatens them, pays them off, makes them disappear." " Evelyn said seven of the 43 committed suicide." William's eyes went distant. " I buried four of them." "
Good men." " Veterans. People who'd served their country and came home and thought they were safe. Thought the system would protect them." " They were wrong."
The garage went quiet. Outside a motorcycle went past, not a Harley, something Japanese, higher-pitched engine note. Sarge's ears tracked it until the sound faded. " I need names," Garrett said. " The other victims, the ones still alive, the ones still in Ridgmont.
People who might be willing to testify if they knew they weren't alone." William looked at him carefully. " You're really going to do this." " Take on Wade Kimball." " Don't have much choice.
He's coming for Evelyn's house in five days." " And after that?" Garrett shrugged. " After that, he'll find someone else. And someone else, until someone stops him." "
Why you? Why now?" Garrett thought about how to answer that, about Kate's voice in his head, about Sarge's instant certainty that Evelyn needed protecting, about 20 months of choosing not to care because caring hurt too much. " Because I'm tired," he said finally. " Tired of watching good people get crushed.
Tired of doing nothing. Tired of being the kind of man who turns away when someone needs help." William studied him, reading something in Garrett's face that Garrett hadn't put into words. Then the pastor nodded slowly. " I can get you names, addresses.
But Garrett, most of these people are scared. Some of them signed NDAs as part of settlement agreements. Some of them are still paying Wade reduced amounts just to keep their homes. Asking them to testify is asking them to risk everything all over again. I know.
And if Wade finds out you're organizing against him, he'll come after me. I know that, too. He won't just come after you. He'll destroy you, your home, your savings, your reputation. He'll make you wish you'd never heard Evelyn Brennan's name.
Garrett met the pastor's eyes. Let him try. Something shifted in William's expression. A decision made. He reached into his cardigan pocket, pulled out a small notebook similar to Garrett's, spiral-bound and worn, flipped through pages covered in neat handwriting. "
I keep records," William said quietly. " Every family that's come to me for help, every conversation about Wade Kimball, dates, names, amounts owed. I told myself I was documenting for the day when someone finally did something. Started to think that day would never come." He tore out three pages, handed them to Garrett.
22 names, 22 addresses, 22 brief notations about circumstances and current status. " These are the ones still in Ridgmont," William said. " Still alive, still struggling. Most of them elderly, all of them ashamed. But maybe maybe if they see someone willing to stand up to Wade, they'll find courage, too."