Garrett glanced at the clock on the garage wall. 4:30. " Where does Douglas live?" " I'll drive you. He doesn't take well to strangers showing up unannounced.
But if I introduce you, he'll listen." They took William's car, a sensible sedan that smelled like old hymnals and peppermint candies. Sarge rode in the back seat, alert and watchful. The drive to Elm Street took 7 minutes through quiet neighborhoods where lawns were brown from summer heat and American flags hung limp in the still air. Douglas Merrick's house was small, single-story ranch, paint fading, lawn unmowed, newspapers piling up on the porch, the kind of house that screamed, "I've given up" in every detail.
William knocked, three times, waited, knocked again. A full minute passed before the door cracked open, chain still engaged. " William?" The voice was rough, unused. " Not a good time." "
Never is with you, Douglas. But I've got someone you need to meet. Garrett Holloway, retired mechanic, Army veteran, good man." Silence from behind the door. " He's got a problem that needs a lawyer."
William continued. " The kind of problem you used to solve for a living, the kind that might give you a reason to shower and leave the house." " I'm retired." " You're hiding. There's a difference."
Another silence, then the chain rattled. The door opened. Douglas Merrick was 71 years old and looked like he'd been carved from granite left out in the rain too long. Tall, 6'3", but stooped, gaunt, gray beard grown wild. Eyes that had probably been sharp once, but were now just tired. "
5 minutes," he said, "then I'm closing this door and you can take your good man somewhere else." They went inside. The house was dark, curtains drawn, smelled like stale coffee and unwashed laundry, and the particular mustiness of a place where windows never open. Papers everywhere, stacked on tables, covering the couch, spread across the floor. Legal documents, case files, old prosecution records Douglas had apparently brought home and never filed away.
There was one clear space, a leather chair facing a blank television, an empty bottle on the side table. Whiskey from the label, expensive kind. " Sit," Douglas said, gesturing vaguely at a couch buried in paperwork. He didn't clear the papers, just waited while Garrett and William moved them enough to perch on the edge of the cushions. Sarge stayed standing, watching Douglas with that same assessment he'd given Evelyn.
Not guard mode, something else. Evaluation mode. " Talk," Douglas said. He hadn't sat down, just stood there, arms crossed, face closed. So Garrett talked, same story, same details.
But this time he pulled out William's list. 22 names, 22 families. Douglas took the list, read it. His face didn't change, but something happened to his hands. They started shaking, just slightly.
Just enough that the paper rattled. " Wade Kimball," Douglas said. " I know the name. Tried to investigate him 4 years ago. Spent 2 months building a case, loan sharking, usury, fraud.
Then the victims started recanting, withdrawing their statements, refusing to testify. Every single one. The case collapsed." " Wade got to them," William said. " Of course he got to them.
He always gets to them. That's how predators like him survive. They don't just threaten, they systematically destroy anyone who speaks against them, and they make sure everyone else knows what happens when you fight back." " So you gave up," Garrett said, flat, not quite accusatory, but not sympathetic, either. Douglas's eyes snapped to him. "
I didn't give up. I got reassigned. My supervisor, who I later learned was playing golf with Wade's lawyer every weekend, decided I was wasting bureau resources on a local matter. Transferred me to tax fraud. By the time I could circle back, the statute of limitations had run out on half the cases."
He dropped the list on the coffee table. " This is pointless. Wade owns this town. He owns the sheriff. He owns half the city council.
He's got lawyers on retainer who make more in a month than most people make in a year. You can't beat him. People have tried. They always lose." " Maybe they tried alone," Garrett said. "
Maybe they didn't have 22 other families willing to testify. Maybe they didn't have a former federal prosecutor who knows exactly how to build a case that'll hold up." " I'm not a prosecutor anymore. I'm a washed-up old man who couldn't even save his own son." The words hung in the air.
Raw, bitter, true in the way that deepest wounds are always true. William started to say something, but Garrett held up a hand. " Stop. Let me." " My wife died 20 months ago," Garrett said quietly. "
Kate, stroke. She called my name. I was in the garage working. Told her to give me a second. That second turned into 5 minutes.
By the time I got inside, she was dead on the kitchen floor. Doctors said there was nothing I could have done. Said the stroke was massive. Said she died instantly." Then he paused, met Douglas's eyes. "
But I'll never know, will I? I'll never know if that 5 minutes made a difference. If I'd been there when she fell, maybe I could have called 911 faster. Maybe she'd have gotten treatment that saved her life. Maybe not.
But I chose an engine over my wife, and I'll carry that for the rest of my life." Douglas was very still. " So yeah," Garrett continued, "I understand guilt. I understand regret. I understand looking in the mirror every morning and seeing the man who failed when it mattered most.
But here's what I also understand, that guilt doesn't bring them back. Kate's not coming back. Your son's not coming back. And we can spend the rest of our lives hiding in dark houses, drowning in whiskey and shame." " Careful," Douglas said softly, dangerously. "
Or we can honor them by making sure other people don't go through what they went through, what we went through. We can take all that pain and guilt and rage and point it at someone who deserves it, someone like Wade Kimball." Silence. Heavy, suffocating. Then Sarge moved, walked over to Douglas, sat down directly in front of him, looked up with those steady brown eyes that seemed to see through pretense straight to truth.
Douglas looked down at the dog. His face cracked, just slightly, just enough that Garrett could see the man underneath the grief. " I haven't practiced law in 8 years," Douglas said. " Riding a bike," William said gently. " Never really forget." "
I don't have an office, don't have staff, don't have resources." " You have knowledge," Garrett said. " You have experience. You have 22 families who need someone who knows how to fight." Douglas bent down, slowly, painfully, reached out and touched Sarge's head.
The dog leaned into the touch. " If I do this," Douglas said, voice rough, "if I help you, we do it right. No vigilante justice, no cutting corners. Everything by the book, federal law, proper procedure, airtight case." " That's what I want," Garrett said. "