“He said he knew Atkins, and he’ll be glad to talk to you about it.”
“Well, thank you very much for your help.”
“Always glad to help fellow law enforcement.”
They walked out and Blum said, “What do you think Roberts can tell us?”
“Hopefully, everything.”
Chapter 72
THERE COULD NOT HAVE BEEN a greater contrast between the Atkinses’ old homestead and Dick Roberts’s place.
It was a neatly constructed log cabin with window boxes where fall flowers popped out in burgundy and gold. The grass was healthy and trimmed, and the flower beds were well laid out and meticulously weeded and pine mulched. A metal carport next to the cabin housed a new-looking cobalt blue Ford F150 pickup truck. Smoke was coming out of the stone chimney on this chilly day.
As they pulled up and got out they could hear a dog baying.
When they walked up the pea-gravel drive to the house, the front door opened and a large white-and-tan basset hound bounded out and continuing its baying.
A man appeared in the doorway.
“That’s Rosie,” he said. “She sounds all ferocious but give her a sec and she’ll roll over to get her belly rubbed.”
A moment later Rosie did just that. Pine knelt down and performed the rub while Rosie wagged her tail and smiled up at her.
“You folks come on in,” said the man.
“You’re Dick Roberts?” Pine rose and walked toward him as Blum and Rosie followed.
“In the flesh.”
Roberts was in his early seventies, around Pine’s height, lean and wiry with silver hair and a mustache of the same color that drooped around the edges of his mouth. He had on faded denim jeans, old leather boots, and a red flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows showing muscled forearms.
He had the eyes of a cop, thought Pine. Observant, suspicious, expectant.
They followed him into the house. The front room held a fireplace, which was glowing warmly and invitingly. On the wooden mantel were pictures of people, probably family and friends, Pine surmised. The furnishings were old, but they were well built and looked comfortable. A colorful rug covered part of the plank floor. A gun rack with an over-under shotgun and a deer rifle hung on one wall. There were some pictures and framed photos on the log walls. Everything appeared neat and clean and well organized to Pine’s eye. She hoped his memory was just as clear.
“You folks want some java? Just made a fresh pot.”
“Yes, please,” said Blum, and Pine nodded.
He got their drinks, and they settled into chairs around the fire while Rosie plopped down next to Roberts’s feet and promptly fell asleep. He gently stroked her head and said, “You can’t train a basset hound. No better scent dog in the world, in my opinion. But that’s why you can’t train them. No manner of obedience lessons can stand against their natural scent instincts.”
“Well, she’s very cute,” said Blum.
“We keep each other company,” said Roberts, settling back with his coffee.
“Is it just you and Rosie here, then?” asked Blum.
He nodded, his eyes crinkling a bit in sadness. “My missus died two years ago. Out of the blue. Alive one night and dead in the morning.”
“I’m very sorry,” said Blum. “Sudden loss like that is impossible to make sense of.”
“But you got to go on living,” said Roberts. “And we had a lotta good years together. Just not as many as we thought we’d have. We raised us a passel of kids and they’re all doing good. And they don’t live that far away. Three in Atlanta, one in Macon, and one over in Tennessee.”
“I’m sure having them close by is very comforting,” said Blum.
He nodded and then looked at Pine. “Len Atkins?”
“I understand that you know him?”
“That’s right.”
“Is he still alive?”
“That I don’t know. He’s long since moved from here.”
Pine’s spirits plummeted. “We went out to where he last lived. The trailer. Now it’s just full of snakes.”
“Didn’t know that. But I haven’t been over there in a long time.”
She showed him the photo. He looked it over carefully and nodded. “Yeah, that’s Len and Wanda for sure.”
“And the girl?”
“Don’t know her, at least I don’t think I do. You can’t see her face in the photo. But she’s a big girl.”
“The name says Becky. The picture is dated July 1999. You ever hear of a Becky?”
He shook his head, looking uncertain. “I’d have to think about that.”
“When did the Atkinses move from here?”
“Shortly after their son died.”
Pine and Blum exchanged a stunned look. Pine said, “But I understood that Atkins couldn’t have children because of an injury he sustained in the Vietnam War.”
“Well, that’s right. He did get shot up over there, from what I remember. I lucked out, my lottery number was really high, but not old Len. He had to go over to those damn jungles and fight for who knows what.”
“So his son?” prompted Pine.
“Len and Wanda had Joe before Len went to Vietnam. Hell, if I remember correctly, Len was only twenty or so. I guess he couldn’t have any more kids after his injury.”
“So when you went to visit Len and Wanda, was there anyone else living with them?”
“Not that I ever saw. I mean, their trailer was real small, I’m sure you saw that for yourselves. Barely room for them and Joey when he lived with them.”
“Did they ever come into town or anything? Were they ever seen with someone who looks like the girl in the photo?” asked Blum.
“Len didn’t really come into town. He was a rural postal carrier. Wanda did some sewing and cleaning for ladies and businesses here and there. But they kept to themselves. I knew Len, but I can’t say I really knew him, if you understand me. I don’t think anybody did. The war, I think, messed with him, like it did a lot of men.”
“And his son, Joe?”
“He lived with them till he got married. And Joe was young. Maybe nineteen. Oh, that was back in the eighties, I guess. Then he had his own little place not too far from them. He worked as a security guard at one of the big manufacturing plants we used to have near here, when they actually made stuff in America. Then after that closed, he started selling security systems and gadgets like that for companies and such. Made a pretty good living from what I understand.” His brow furrowed. “His wife was a strange one. Can’t remember her name off the top of my head. She was into all sorts of crap: voodoo and I guess what you’d call holistic stuff. But she had a mean streak.”
“How do you mean?”
“Got called out to their place one time—oh, this was over twenty years ago if it was a day. Somebody had reported screams and such. Well, that sick woman had tied down a damn dog and was branding the thing all over. Poor cuss. I cut it loose and it went tearing away barking its head off. Wrote her up for animal cruelty, but that was about all I could do.” He snapped his fingers. “Desiree, that was her name, all right. Desiree Atkins. Anyway, I remember her looking at me with these eyes. Dead eyes, I call ’em. Nothing behind them. Chilled me to the bone—and I’m no scaredy-cat, I can tell you that. I figured it was because of her condition.”