Wren waved his hand at the pickup in a loose invitation. He got in and waited for Ledger to walk around the hood and pull himself in the other side.
“It’ll be easier if you just let me drive you where you want to go,” Wren said as he started the engine. “The boss wants me to keep an eye on you, so I’d just have to follow you anyhow.”
The radio clicked on as Wren reversed out of the spot. Country.
It wouldn’t have been Ledger’s guess for what Wren listened to, but it did fit. Somehow. He buckled himself in and listened to the man on the radio drawl along over a bouncy guitar about his dog. There was a faint hint of salt in the air, but it was a clean, dry smell. Like Death Valley on a cool day. A neutral signpost that something bad had happened once.
“So Conroy was your dad?” Wren said.
Ledger glanced over at him. Lean, scarred hands were wrapped around the steering wheel, and his attention was on the road ahead. Probably, anyhow. It was hard to tell with how wrap-around black his eyes were. Ledger decided to take the risk and enjoy the view while he quickly sifted through the conversations they’d had so far.
He supposed they hadn’t circled back around to introductions until now.
“He was.” Ledger stuck his hand out on a whim and waited. “Ledger Conroy. Don’t worry, despite what some of the papers said at the time, I’ve never killed anyone.”
Wren glanced away from the road and at him. A brief smile tweaked the corner of his mouth, and he freed up one hand to shake.
“Wren Bones,” he said, repeating his side of the exchange. “Can’t say the same.”
That was… good to know, Ledger supposed.
* * *
The scarecrowthat Earl had worn last night still lay on the grass in front of Bell’s house. What was left of it. It had rotted overnight, cloth eaten away by mold and bugs, and the wooden struts that had held it up broken and crumbling. The grass around had gone pale yellow, the tips shriveled, and wet, obscene-looking toadstools sprouted in weird patterns on the soil.
“What good is this going to do?” Wren grumbled. He grabbed the doorknob and gave it a rattle to test the padlocks that Hark had installed. Then he wedged a screwdriver between the bar and the door and wrenched the screws out of the wood. “You said the original wasn’t here.”
Ledger took his jacket off as he headed into the house.
“That was when I was getting paid forty bucks,” Ledger said over his shoulder as he headed for the door. “Now I’m on commission.”
“And you get to live,” Wren tagged on to the end of Ledger’s sentence.
Ledger swallowed. His throat was dry, and he could taste the ghost of salt on his back teeth. He let himself into the kitchen and headed to the cupboard to get a glass. It was dusty, but he gave it a quick rub with the tail of his shirt before he took it over to the sink and flicked on the faucet. The first spurt of water came out yellow and gritty, with a sour smell to it.
“That too,” he said. “But like I told Earl, money is a better motivator than fear.”
“Not in my experience,” Wren said. He kicked one of the chairs out from the table and sat down, balancing it on its back legs as he swung his boots up onto the table. “But this is your gig.”
The water finally ran clear. Ledger filled the glass halfway and took a long drink. It tasted the way it used to, flat and like pebbles. He finished the glass and refilled it again. If he was going to do this, he didn’t need last night’s fear clotting up his attention.
“You know that’s not his name,” Wren said.
“What?”
“Earl,” Wren said. He dragged the word out, as country as he could make it. Then he tipped his head to the side and touched the tip of his tongue to his lower lip. Ledger watched the gesture, and his mouth went dry for an entirely different reason. He was so distracted he almost missed the next question. “Do you want to know what his real name is?”
Ledger thought about it for a moment.
“No,” he said.
Wren raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure?” he asked. “There are people who would cut bits off their dick for that information.”
Ledger drained the second glass of water, then put it upside down in the sink. “The fact you’d offer means I couldn’t do anything useful with it,” he said. “And I doubt any of the stories about him cover his rental properties. So, no. Like I said, I work better when I’m not scared. I want to know why he wants the deed.”
Wren’s face closed up.
“I told you,” he said. “When you need to know, I’ll tell you.”
