I called Ruth, not Holt. I told her that a teenager had reported a forged purchase agreement and that I intended to make no further contact with the Lockwoods. She said that was wise. Then she asked whether I felt safe at home.
I looked at the kitchen window, the dark cul-de-sac beyond it, and the outline of the Mustang in the garage. I said I felt more tired than unsafe. Ruth replied that those were not the same thing, and that she would request a clear plan from the investigators for any contact expected at my property.
The plan, when it came, was simple. I would not confront Hadley, invite her onto the property, or help arrange an arrest. The county investigators would handle any warrant service and any new criminal complaint. If officers were dispatched to my address on an ordinary call, I would identify myself, show my registration, and let the facts be checked. Nobody wanted a situation in which the chief's personal dispute made the officers forget their obligations to any other resident.
I went upstairs after that conversation and found Tate leaning against his bedroom window. He had a small camera tripod on the sill and was looking down toward the garage. He said he intended to photograph anything that happened, just as he would if our house were burglarized. I asked him to stay inside, keep a safe distance, and avoid doing anything that could turn him from witness into participant.
"Dad," he said, "I know how to use a camera."
"I know. I taught you how not to drop one. Your mother taught you what to point it at."
He smiled at the memory. Then he asked a question that made me stop in the doorway. "What if they take the car anyway?"
I looked past him at the dark yard. The first answer in my mind was that nobody would dare. I had spent too many years teaching young officers not to make that kind of assumption. So I told him the truth.
"Then we'll use the law to get it back," I said. "And we'll still have what your mother gave us."
He thought about that for a moment and nodded. We both understood that the car was more than metal. We also understood that Marguerite had never wanted us to become smaller, meaner people in the effort to keep it.
Saturday morning came clear and cool. A cardinal sat on the mailbox, the air smelled of pine, and for a few hours the neighborhood looked exactly like the place I had believed I was buying. I made coffee, read the paper, and checked that the Mustang's insurance and registration remained in the glove-box folder. Tate came downstairs in a UGA sweatshirt and ate toast standing at the counter.
"You sleep?" he asked.
"Some."
"Mom would have made biscuits if she knew we were this nervous."
I laughed unexpectedly. "And she would have burned the first pan while explaining that we were doing everything wrong."
"She always blamed the oven."
"The oven was innocent," I told him.