the vast concrete expanse of Hartsfield-Jackson Airport, then exited onto Riverdale Road.
“Was it just me, or did you notice something when the police lieutenant looked at the drawing last night?” Martha asked.
“Yeah, I saw it, too.” Jarrell drove with a languorous confidence, elbow propped on the door panel, exposing the impressive curve of his biceps. “Maybe he does remember the case. Maybe he just didn’t want to admit how few resources Atlanta’s finest allocated toward finding an underprivileged black boy from the south of town.”
Outside the Monte Carlo, suburban blight was encroaching rapidly: abandoned strip malls and gas stations, boarded-up houses. The few functional establishments they passed were fortified with enough iron bars across the windows and doors to hold back an invading army. Mostly, though, everything was deserted.
“Maybe we can get Erringer interested in the case,” Jarrell mused. “He could bring some resources to bear.”
“Do you think he would care about a missing-person case from six years ago?”
“No guarantee, but he does have a soft spot for the underprivileged of a certain race. He seems to carry a lot of inherited guilt because of his family history.”
“The diamond business?”
“Yeah. The Erringer empire was built on the blood and sweat of native South Africans who were forced to work in the mines under inhumane conditions. It went on for generations until apartheid ended in the 1990s. Conrad is apparently the first in his lineage with a conscience. He’s done a lot to improve working conditions in the mines. He’s also invested some of the company’s profits into good causes, like education programs, environmental causes, and the fellowship program. Of course, none of that changes the fact that he inherited one of the biggest blood-money fortunes on the planet.”
The scene outside had become even more desolate as they turned onto the road marked with a rusted green sign: LINEVILLE.
“Here we are,” Jarrell said, turning left. They followed cracked tarmac and passed one vacant lot after another, each overgrown with weeds and unkempt shrubs.
“I can’t believe families once lived here,” Martha said. “Where did everyone go?”
“Bought out, or forced out when the airport expanded. There used to be thriving communities here, predominantly black, but they were right in the flight paths, where the jets dump excess fuel as they come in for a landing.” The slow roar of a jet momentarily overwhelmed the thrum of the Monte Carlo’s engine.
Martha thumbed the map on Jarrell’s iPhone. “It’s coming up.”
Jarrell slowed at a corner so they could read the graffiti-covered street sign that said ALLENDALE . The eye of the
D
was punctured by a bullet hole.
He turned onto the street and they rolled by heavily overgrown slabs of pavement shaded by a suburban forest gone feral. Martha rolled down her window, watched, and tried to listen.
“Anyplace you want me to stop?” Jarrell asked.
“Not yet.” Martha had no address for the home’s former location, so from here on she only had her intuition.
They passed a yard with an empty swimming pool, cordoned with chain-link fence and DO NOT ENTER signs. The cement walls of the pool were lined with graffiti.
“Drive slower here.” Through the open car window, Martha caught the faint odor of tincture of jet fuel. There was a shed left behind in one yard, shrouded with vines. Next to it, a cloud of yellow jackets swarmed around a hollow in a poplar tree.
“Anywhere you want me to stop, let me know,” Jarrell said.
They came to an intersection of two wooded, deteriorated lanes. “Let’s try here,” Martha said.
Jarrell curbed the Monte Carlo and killed the engine. They both stepped out and looked around.
Martha took the softball from the shoebox and held it in her hand. She felt its weight against her palm as she listened to the ever-present static in the radio station of her mind, the
“Was it just me, or did you notice something when the police lieutenant looked at the drawing last night?” Martha asked.
“Yeah, I saw it, too.” Jarrell drove with a languorous confidence, elbow propped on the door panel, exposing the impressive curve of his biceps. “Maybe he does remember the case. Maybe he just didn’t want to admit how few resources Atlanta’s finest allocated toward finding an underprivileged black boy from the south of town.”
Outside the Monte Carlo, suburban blight was encroaching rapidly: abandoned strip malls and gas stations, boarded-up houses. The few functional establishments they passed were fortified with enough iron bars across the windows and doors to hold back an invading army. Mostly, though, everything was deserted.
“Maybe we can get Erringer interested in the case,” Jarrell mused. “He could bring some resources to bear.”
“Do you think he would care about a missing-person case from six years ago?”
“No guarantee, but he does have a soft spot for the underprivileged of a certain race. He seems to carry a lot of inherited guilt because of his family history.”
“The diamond business?”
“Yeah. The Erringer empire was built on the blood and sweat of native South Africans who were forced to work in the mines under inhumane conditions. It went on for generations until apartheid ended in the 1990s. Conrad is apparently the first in his lineage with a conscience. He’s done a lot to improve working conditions in the mines. He’s also invested some of the company’s profits into good causes, like education programs, environmental causes, and the fellowship program. Of course, none of that changes the fact that he inherited one of the biggest blood-money fortunes on the planet.”
The scene outside had become even more desolate as they turned onto the road marked with a rusted green sign: LINEVILLE.
“Here we are,” Jarrell said, turning left. They followed cracked tarmac and passed one vacant lot after another, each overgrown with weeds and unkempt shrubs.
“I can’t believe families once lived here,” Martha said. “Where did everyone go?”
“Bought out, or forced out when the airport expanded. There used to be thriving communities here, predominantly black, but they were right in the flight paths, where the jets dump excess fuel as they come in for a landing.” The slow roar of a jet momentarily overwhelmed the thrum of the Monte Carlo’s engine.
Martha thumbed the map on Jarrell’s iPhone. “It’s coming up.”
Jarrell slowed at a corner so they could read the graffiti-covered street sign that said ALLENDALE . The eye of the
D
was punctured by a bullet hole.
He turned onto the street and they rolled by heavily overgrown slabs of pavement shaded by a suburban forest gone feral. Martha rolled down her window, watched, and tried to listen.
“Anyplace you want me to stop?” Jarrell asked.
“Not yet.” Martha had no address for the home’s former location, so from here on she only had her intuition.
They passed a yard with an empty swimming pool, cordoned with chain-link fence and DO NOT ENTER signs. The cement walls of the pool were lined with graffiti.
“Drive slower here.” Through the open car window, Martha caught the faint odor of tincture of jet fuel. There was a shed left behind in one yard, shrouded with vines. Next to it, a cloud of yellow jackets swarmed around a hollow in a poplar tree.
“Anywhere you want me to stop, let me know,” Jarrell said.
They came to an intersection of two wooded, deteriorated lanes. “Let’s try here,” Martha said.
Jarrell curbed the Monte Carlo and killed the engine. They both stepped out and looked around.
Martha took the softball from the shoebox and held it in her hand. She felt its weight against her palm as she listened to the ever-present static in the radio station of her mind, the
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