A/N: Heading into our final chapters.

Big Swamp

Chapter Twenty-One: Inextricable Difficulties

Wylie's smile is large — too large, and mobile. Sloppy.

He stumbles when he raises his hand to wave at Sarah and me. The wave somehow misses us and he sways. He's drunk, I realize, — as he realizes I'm wearing my shoulder holster, my gun. His eyes widen.

Sarah's face reddens, her eyes narrow. "Did you drive like that?"

Wylie speaks at the same moment. "Why's he wearing a gun?"

For a moment, each of them waits for an answer.

Sarah's question gets answered first; a woman enters the door behind Wylie.

I know who she is: she's a mover and shaker at the Club: Sherry Louden. Her wealthy husband died a few years ago. She's the most eligible widow in Lee County, willowy and elegant. She's got Wylie's car keys in her hand.

She smiles, her smile taut, brief, and embarrassed. "I drove him home. He's...um...tipsy. Too much whisky..."

Sarah gets up, goes to him. He's still staring at me, my gun, and hasn't stopped. Worry shows on his face, changing the character of his smile.

"Is he after someone?" He tries to point at me but points at Sarah's empty chair.

"No, Wylie," Sarah says after a lightning-quick glance at me, "he's a detective, remember?"

The worry slides off his face slowly as if claimed by gravity and forgotten. "Oh, right. Chuckee-boy, Dee-tec-teeve." He sings the comment, dancing wobbly. When he stops, stabilizes himself by grabbing the back of a chair, and he scans the kitchen, trying to assess the scene soberly — but he sways again, letting go of the chair.

Sarah and Sherry both reach out, steady him.

"Sorry about this, Sherry, I'll take him up to bed." Sarah offers, embarrassed.

Sherry's expression is complicated, a lot of thanks and a little disappointment leashed together. "Okay, Sarah. It was my fault. He was upset about something, and I tried to get him to talk about it, but only managed to get him to drink."

"It was good whisky." Wylie comments. "Good whisky. — Say, is there any whisky here?"

Sarah's responding sigh is exasperated. "Yes, but you clearly have reached your limit. Besides, it's a new bottle, and in your state, you'd never get it open."

"I'd figure it out. More than one way to skin a cat…"

That comment hits me funny. Funny weird, not funny ha-ha. Something clicks in my head. I stare at the tabletop.

Sarah notices. "It's okay, Chuck, he'll be fine." She looks at me with curiosity, worry, troubled by my stare, I guess.

I give myself a shake. "Do you need some help?"

She nods. Sherry slips to the side and I stand and take her place.

"Thanks for getting him home, Sherry. Take his car. We'll work it out tomorrow."

Sherry smiles at Sarah. "Glad to help." Sherry shifts her attention to Wylie, becomes unsure. "I'll call you tomorrow?"

Wylie seems to forget me and Sarah for a minute, grins at Sherry, nods. Winks. On impulse, Sherry takes a step to him and pecks him on the lips. "Bye, Wylie."

Sherry leaves, after a backward glance. The door closes, and Sarah turns her face to me. "Luckily, his bedroom's downstairs. C'mon, I'll show you."

We begin the trek to the bedroom, Wylie between us. He keeps looking from me, to my gun, to Sarah. She avoids his eyes.

We get him to his room and onto the bed. He picks up his head, studies Sarah intently for a split-second, and then smiles. His head drops onto the bed and he snores once, sharply.

Sarah looks puzzled, steps back from the bed, and makes a face. She's standing on one side of it, I'm standing on the other. "I guess I should undress him a little, make him more comfortable…"

The fact of who he really is looms in the room but neither of us seems up to facing it just now.

This has been as long a day as I have ever known, although it is now technically Sunday, no longer Saturday.

"It's okay. I'm done in." I meet her eyes. "I'll see you tomorrow."

She nods, scrutinizing my face, apprehensive. "Okay. You will, right...see me tomorrow?"

"Yes, I'll call. We'll go someplace private and...finish our talk." My appointment to visit Big Jim Sutton crosses my mind. "I've got to go see someone about the case tomorrow. So, we won't be able to meet until after that."

She nods but continues to consider my face. Her eyes are soft but store secrets. "I want to finish it, tell you it all, Chuck."

Wylie suddenly lifts his head again. "Tell him what, Sarah?" He grins enormously into Sarah's pencil frown.

"Nothing, Uncle Wylie. Nothing. Go to sleep."

His head drops again. Sarah comes around the bed, takes my hand. Tension in her shoulders releases when I squeeze her hand in response. "Let me walk you out."

We retrace our steps to the kitchen. Our beer bottles and the peeled label are on the table. I pick up the shovel from the floor. "Look, keep your doors locked, okay. Given what you told me, I'm guessing you can take care of yourself, CIA and all."

"I can, Chuck." She flips on the outside light.

We go outside and I turn to her. "My car's down the road. — So, the all the cons, all those years — you and your Dad, later, Bryce, — you guys were half like Robin Hood, right?"

"Robin Hood? Half?"

"At least stealing from the rich — if not to give to the poor?"

Her face in the dim light shows too many things for me to read. "We stole for ourselves, and from anyone we could con."

I sigh. "So, no kind cons?"

She gazes at me for a moment as if I'm some natural wonder. "There are no kind cons, Chuck, only unkind ones."

With that, she kisses me quickly, stiffly, and walks back to the house. A moment later, the door closes and the light goes off.

I walk slowly to my car. My mind feels wet and spongy, my heart too. I'm too tired to think; my feelings are boggy. I'll sort myself out after some sleep.

I get to my car, unlock it, take off my holster, and get inside. I unlock the glove compartment, take out my phone, and put the holster in. On the phone's a message from Ellie. She's at the house and wants to talk.

But she's surely asleep by now. I drive home, go inside, and fall into my bed without taking off my clothes or washing.

I'm dead as David Diamond. Almost.

Forgive me. Gallows humor's always a sign that I've reached the end of my rope.

I wake the next morning, late, and wake to the enormity of the day before. My clothes have bound me during the night, and my forearms and pants legs are dirty. I stare into the ceiling for a time, hoping to wring answers from it by my upwards gaze.

I'm reasonably sure about what Sarah — what is her name? — has left to tell me but I'm not dwelling on it, making assumptions. Last night's story contained surprises enough to caution me against that. A conwoman. I'm in love with a conwoman. A detective falls for a conwoman. I'd never write such a plot — it's too stale. But living it, I don't find it stale. I feel like I've plunged into inextricable difficulties.

Sarah and Wylie — what is his name? — are both cons, father, and daughter. — Who're they conning? (Who am I kidding?) David Diamond's in a disturbed, shallow grave up the hill from Noble Hall. Jane Peterson is dead, murdered, I'm sure. Someone knows Sarah and I discovered Diamond. Ellie and I each have ten million dollars in the bank and I've ignored all ten million of mine except the ones I promised Morgan for his raise. Someone hit Morgan and ran. Morgan has a girlfriend.

I'm certain I know who murdered Diamond and who murdered Jane Peterson, but I feel like there's more to the story than I currently understand, currents and eddies moving that elude me. Of course, I have no proof of who murdered Diamond, and I am still working out the mechanics of Jane Peterson's murder.

I stare upwards for a long time despite my discomfort, ruminating, and it is almost midday when I hear Ellie knocking softly on the door. "Chuck? Are you up? Are you okay?"

"Come in, El; I'm up"

She opens the door. If she's surprised to find me in bed with my clothes on, she doesn't say so. She sits down in the chair near the edge of my bed. "Sorry I've been gone so much the last couple of days." She pauses. "Devon." She manages to make the single name a full explanation.

"I'm happy for you, El, really happy. He's a great guy."

Her eyes sparkle. "He is, Chuck. And I am happy, holding-my-breath happy, worried it's all too good to be true."

I know my share of that sort of happiness. I look her in the eyes. "Is there something that worries you?"

She shakes her head. "No, not about him."

"About you?"

She bites her bottom lip for a moment. "Not so much me as the changes — all that money. I haven't told him about it."

"I haven't told anyone either — but, hey, at least you know he's not after your money," I say the final words and feel a certain sting.

She laughs. "I hope he doesn't think I'm after his. His family's wealthy. Not on grandfather's scale but they have money. And of course, he does too."

"So, what're we going to do, Ellie, with the money?"

She shrugs. "I don't know about yours, Chuck, but I've got charities to which I plan to donate. Big. I'm going to refurbish my office — but on a small scale. Add another exam room, redecorate inside. Maybe bring a nurse practitioner on board. Beyond that, I don't know, really. It's not easy to spend that much money. What about you?"

"The sum total of my thoughts on it are that I'm going to give Morgan a raise."

She laughs again. "How's Morgan?"

"When I saw him yesterday, fine, or as fine as could be expected. It'll take some time for him to heal up, as you know better than I do."

She nods. "Yes, it will." Her face shows mischief. "And he has a girlfriend?"

I nod back at her. "So it seems."

"The end times are upon us, brother of mine. Has she seen The Bikini Diary?"

"No, and Morgan's promised to get rid of that, make it up to you."

She looks horrified. "Oh, God. Who knows what that might mean?"

I make a placating gesture. "I honestly believe he's growing up — finally."

"Wow, whoever heard of a growth spurt at the end of your twenties." Before I can respond, she shifts topics. "And what about you, what about Sarah?"

I'm not sure how to answer. I want to tell Ellie what I know, but I'm worried about telling it before I know it all.

She notices my hesitation. "Well, at least you don't have to worry that she's after your money, either. She has money of her own, right?"

She has money — but I have no idea whose it is. Or was. Or how she plans — planned — to get more. (No idea?) "Right." I decide to keep all this to myself until I'm sure of it.

Ellie seems to hear a wrong note in my 'right'. She gazes at me for a second, into my eyes. I do my best to hold her gaze. She stands. "You should get a shower, Chuck. What were you doing last night? You stink of sweat."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," I reply — as if I were joking.

She shakes her head and leaves my room. I make myself get up and I take a shower.

I'm just about to leave for the Suttons when I get a text from Hannah.

Her dad's been called to the plant and wants to meet with me there. That doesn't make me happy. I'd been serious about wanting Hannah to run interference. A face-to-face with Big Jim is not what I'm in the mood for, particularly not in the industrial confines of Briggs and Stratton. But there's nothing to be done about it. I load myself in the hot-box Camry and head to the south end of Auburn.

Sundays are workdays at Briggs and Stratton. I park among the employee cars. I look for Peppers' rusty truck but don't see it, or Wade Peterson's yellow caddy.

I get out and go into the office. There's a large desk with 'Briggs and Stratton' on the wall above it. Below the sign and behind the desk sits Hannah. "Hey, Chuck!"

"Hannah, I didn't know you'd be here." I'm very happy to see her.

"I wasn't going to throw you to that hammerhead dad of mine without any help, Chuck. I'm just answering the phone until Rhoda gets back from the bathroom."

Rhoda — I take her to be Rhoda — walks in at just that moment. She's a middle-aged woman with a competent air. Hannah gets up and Rhoda takes her seat, thanks her.

Hannah nods at Rhoda and smiles at me. "C'mon, Dad's on the factory floor."

We go through a wooden door and into a short hallway. At its end, we go through a heavy metal door. As soon as Hannah opens it there's a furnace blast of heat and a concert blast of noise. The air-conditioned quiet of the office is obliterated.

The factory floor is a huge room with a high ceiling and a smooth cement floor. Various machines stand in an obvious order, although I don't understand it. The assembly line. Hannah raises herself on her toes and looks around, then waves. When she does, I see Big Jim near the far end of the building, talking to a man and a woman, both in coveralls. Big Jim's in a sweat-stained orange and blue Auburn polo.

Hannah leads me to him. I wipe at my forehead, sweat already beading on my eyebrows and running down my back. I can see that Hannah's sweating too. 'Glistening', I suppose, is the more polite Southern term. As we move the noise and heat decrease somewhat, and by the time we reach Big Jim I actually believe we might be able to hear him when he speaks.

He's standing beside what looks like an industrial drill, fitted with many different size bits. Some are almost needle-like. I'm not sure what part of small engine construction they play, but they look vaguely frightening. I begin to understand, as the conversation between Big Jim and the two employees finishes, that the machine is malfunctioning.

He shakes his head and leads us toward an exit. We step outside. It's hot outside but a little cooler than inside. The closing door all but eliminates the factory noise.

Big Jim fishes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his face. He offers it to me. I shake my head. "No, thanks, Mr. Sutton."

He shrugs and shoves it back in his pocket. "How's Grimes?"

"He's doing okay, Mr. Sutton. He's skinned up and sore but he's okay."

Big Jim's pleased. He smiles. He has a heavy face and a day's stubble. Hannah looks like her mom, but I realize her smile owes a lot to Big Jim's. She's listening to us.

"Good. I like that gremlin. Look, Bartowski," he says my name with distaste, but to his credit, he tries to disguise it. Hannah winces. "I'm worried that Bill Peppers might've been involved in what happened to Morgan. Morgan asked about him a few days ago, as you know, and on Friday, Rhoda — the woman at the front desk — said she stepped away for a few minutes and when she came back, Bill Peppers was hanging up her phone. That area's off-limits to floor employees, so she mentioned it to me. I haven't said anything to him about it — he's off this weekend — but I wanted to tell you that."

"Why connect that to Morgan?"

Big Jim blinks. "Because Morgan's stayed in touch about this theft business and he said he would call me on Friday, but I never got a call."

"Oh, right."

Big Jim looks at his daughter. "Hannah, can you get me a cup of water?"

Hannah glances at me then back at her dad. "Um, sure. Just from the cooler inside?"

"Yeah, thanks, honey."

"You, Chuck?"

"Please."

Hannah goes back inside with a trace of reluctance and I face Big Jim alone. I swallow hard.

"Bartowski, I hear you're dating Sarah Walker."

"Yes, I am."

He stares at me, inflates. "So you prefer her to Hannah?"

This isn't any of his business, and I know Hannah would hate him asking me, but I answer for her sake. "I wouldn't put it that way. I fell for one and not the other — I didn't choose. You must know how much I like and respect your daughter."

He shakes his head, exasperated, deflates. "I do, and that makes it all the more annoying. It'd be one thing if I thought you didn't see Hannah, or one thing if I really believed you were the asshat I often say you are, but I don't. I wonder, though, Bartowski. You aren't a man who lives fast — but Walker and that Uncle of hers, they strike me as people who do. You really believe you can keep up with them?"

I pretend that question doesn't bother me. "My eyes are open."

He keeps shaking his head. "It's possible for them to be open and for you to still not notice what matters, Bartowski."

Father Casey's line about the people who are blind even though they see comes back to me. He was quoting scripture, I guess. I'd like to talk to him.

"That's true, sir, but I'm doing my best."

Hannah comes back outside, carrying two plastic cups of ice water. Big Jim takes one and I do too. We both gulp them down. Hannah watches, trying to figure out what we've been saying.

"I've been looking for Peppers, sir, but haven't had any luck finding him at his apartment. Is there anywhere else I should look?"

Hannah's perplexed by the question but Big Jim isn't. "He has a little cabin, on the south end of West Point Lake."

"A cabin on the lake? Peppers?"

"It isn't much. His father built it up there years ago and Peppers inherited it. I was up there with him once. He even has an old air conditioner stuck in a window. His dad had a buddy at the power company and strung the line back to the place. It's well off the road, in the woods, beneath a bunch of tall trees. Better place to be on hot days than that Easy-Bake Oven apartment of his. I was up there once, hunting with him."

He tells me how to get there and then goes inside after giving Hannah a look.

"Did Dad drill you?"

I shrug. "Not so bad. It could've been worse."

"Okay, I'm going to go back inside; he's my ride home. See you, Chuck." She gives me a feathery kiss on my cheek and then she goes back inside.

I stand there for a moment ignoring the sun. I hear the muted, assembly-line noises from inside. And I know how Jane Peterson was murdered.

I should call Sarah, set up a time to see her, but what I now know makes me impatient to find Bill Peppers. I need him if I'm going to prove what I know.

I drive north toward Valley, a small town, and end up winding along a bunch of county roads, the final two unpaved, gravel roads. I find the marker Big Jim told me to look for — an old pine with a red stripe low around the trunk, and I turn onto the pathway that leads from the road. The Camry's not made for cart paths, and that's what this is, really. I'm jostled and tumbled as I slowly drive into the woods. I can see tracks in the ground; someone's been out here recently, maybe as recently as today.

Big Jim told me how far back the cabin is, and, when I'm near, I find a spot where I can park the Camry off the path. I leave it against a stand of young pines and honeysuckle, and I put on my holster as I walk.

I walk along for a few minutes then see the cabin through the trees. I marvel that the cabin could have electricity. I stop behind a bush and study the place. It's small, as Big Jim said, but it's in good repair. A porch, fairly deep, runs along the entire front of the cabin. A number of old trees stand near it, shading the cabin. Curtains, shut, are visible in the porch windows. The door's solid, covered in peeling red paint.

Heat hangs heavy in the air. A low drone signals the presence of many insects. But as far as I can tell, the cabin's empty. I crouch down and stay as close to the high grass on the side of the path as I can. I risk the final open section to the porch, and arrive on it with a small leap, landing carefully, making no sound.

I still hear nothing but insect drone. In the distance, car wheels go by on the gravel road but they pass and the sound disappears. After a moment, I realize I don't hear only insect drone. I hear an air conditioner running. Its drone has mixed with the insect drone. I step carefully to a porch window and put my finger against it. It's cool to the touch. I listen again more keenly but still hear only the bugs and the air conditioner.

I sidestep to the door and wrap my fingers around the knob. Holding my breath, I turn it. The door opens and I step inside. I don't see anyone. The cool air feels heavenly.

The one interior room is kitchen, living room and bedroom all at once, in different sections.

As I survey the interior, a gun barrel, cold, colder than the air conditioning, rests against my neck. Someone on the other side of the door. "Hello, Chuck! Nice to see you."

I know that voice, the hand that tightens on my shoulder.