Filed to story: Return of the Reaper Story
In a studio pose, the face of a man in his early forties beamed from the monitor on several websites. Sometimes in a suit and tie, sometimes in an open-collar dress shirt. Sometimes with a carefully trimmed goatee, sometimes with his chin bare. But always the same fixed “so glad to see you” expression of satisfaction and welcome. There were a few pictures of him posing like a proud uncle with small children at Little League and youth soccer events.
Isaac hunched over a keyboard that sat before a row of monitors n the main room of the library. Other patrons were busy at their own computers along the row. A pair of teenagers stifled giggles over something they’d pulled up. An older gentleman played some kind of animated game with balls and gems.
Justin Hicks was the name given to him by the man in the tub at the Cedar Ridge Motor Lodge. It had taken some time to connect the name to a series of child placement services in Limestone, Madison, and Marshall County in the northeast corner of the state. Hicks was a lawyer with a degree from Loyola who’d passed the Alabama and Georgia bars eighteen years ago. He was currently the lead attorney of an agency called Heart and Home, an LLC incorporated in Nevada, with its home office in the Brookhurst section of Huntsville. He was on the board of several other agencies in that part of the state and had won several awards from church groups and non-profits, including a humanitarian award from the Department of Children and Families for Region Three.
Anyone reading his history of helping to find homes for unwanted children and the stories of his “caring and compassion” would have a hard time recognizing the man in the unlabeled video footage Isaac had found in the locked room at Dads Sherwood’s house. As evidenced by the dates on the video labels spread across more than a decade and dozens of different victims, Hicks had been a frequent visitor to the house. No doubt in Isaac’s mind that a lot of the boys seen in those videos were among the remains he’d found buried in the cellar under the Sherwood farmhouse.
That was why none of his tapes were labeled. He was a regular, maybe even in business with Sherwood. He wouldn’t be a subject for blackmail, but Sherwood would still want something on his partner in case he ever had need of it.
“You interested in adoption?”
Isaac turned from the screen. One of the library workers, a reed-thin woman in her forties, was standing behind him with an armful of magazines in plastic covers.
“My wife and I are considering it,” he said.
“You’d need an agency in our county.” She nodded at the screen displaying the home page of the child placement agency in Huntsville. “You’d do better looking at one in Haley.”
“Guess I followed the wrong link,” Isaac said, returning to the screen.
“Happens to me,” she said. She ambled toward the racks of periodicals. “Clickbait.”
He waited until she was occupied, her back turned, replacing magazines on the standing racks before getting up to leave.
This library was no good to him anymore. He’d been here often enough to be noticed and for a worker to feel familiar enough to remark on his presence. He’d have to drive farther now. Maybe a library in a bigger city like Huntsville since it looked like he’d be traveling there soon.
For now, he had what he needed.
It was time to meet Uncle Fern.
* * *
“I’ll bewith you in just a moment,” the skinny redhead assured them for the second time before stepping back into her glass-walled office and closing the door.
Isaac and Fern Kane sat on a lemon-yellow faux leather bench in the waiting area of the lobby of the Southway’s Bank branch in Haley. A thick paper folder bound with steel clips rested on the cushion between them.
“You coulda worn something more businesslike,” Fern groused. He was dressed in what he called his funeral suit, with a white shirt and a paisley tie. It hung loose on him due to the weight he’d lost following his recent gallbladder surgery.
“They’re not gonna lend us money based on what clothes we’re wearing,” Isaac said. He was, as usual, in his work boots, jeans, cotton shirt, and barn coat.
“It mighta helped some.” Fern feigned interest in a folder about retirement options that had a white-haired couple kayaking through whitewater rapids on the cover.
“We have more than enough collateral to secure the loan. Besides, if they turn us down, I can cover the start-up costs.”
“That wasn’t the deal, nephew.” Fern leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You need something to show on a tax return. That’s the whole idea behind this.”
“That and getting you into the liquor business legal for once.”
Fern made a fehsound and returned to pretending to read about investment accounts for seniors. Isaac watched the traffic on the highway through the two-story window wall that fronted the bank.
The skinny redhead stepped out of her office again and held the door for an elderly gentleman with a tripod-based walking cane who was helped along by a woman, presumably his daughter. Neither looked like they’d be going kayaking this afternoon. After goodbyes and assurances, the redhead turned her professional smile on Isaac and Fern.
“Gentlemen?” she called and gestured for them to step into her lair.
The loan manager, Karen Witcomb-Reese, looked over the business plan laid out on her desktop. It had been prepared with the help of Merry and had the look of a professional presentation. There was even a rough sketch of the proposed company logo for Blue Moon Whiskey, featuring a blue crescent moon shining over pine tops. Ms. Witcomb-Reese showed more interest in the list of collateral possessions than in the proposal and pie charts.
“You own this property outside Colby outright?” she asked.
“That note was paid off by my daddy, Isaac’s granddaddy, after he come back from fighting the Germans,” Fern assured her. “It’s an improved property with some new outbuildings and fencing. It’s all there in the county assessment.”
“And these vehicles? You have the titles for them?”
Fern nodded. “Free and clear, ma’am.”
“I see that neither of you is currently employed.”
“That’s true, ma’am. That’s true. But me and my nephew both get regular checks from the VA as we’re veterans.”
“You’re looking to borrow close to two hundred thousand dollars.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Fern leaned from his guest chair to point at the papers spread across the desk. “We’re planning on leasing an empty garage building in Colby for our distillery. We need money to clean that place up to the health codes, then there’s equipment, bottles, labels, advertising, and such as that.”
“You’ll be several months setting up this operation before making any actual sales?”
“Well, we don’t plan on offering aged corn liquor at first, but we’ll need some time to set up the vats for fermentation and like that.”
“How will you meet the initial monthly payments?”
“We read in your brochures about something called a grace period to give us time to get on our feet, so to speak?
“The bank would need some assurances that you would be able to make your monthly payments on schedule.” The redhead’s mercenary smile was more brittle now.
Isaac made a growling noise, and both Fern and Ms. Whitcomb-Reese turned to him. It was the first utterance either had heard from him since they’d all taken seats.
“What if we were to open an account here against the loan?” he asked. “It would be there as a guarantee that we had the funds needed to meet the note.”
“Well, I suppose that would go a long way to seeing this application approved.”
“My uncle can come in tomorrow and open a business account that you can include with other collateral. Would eight thousand cover us for the first three months?”