The Big Run-Off (Holden Burke #1)

Thirteen

Anthony Ramsey walked to my car with the stuttered weakness of having spent the last three days running his feet halfway across the state. His things were tucked under his arm—his denim jacket and a small but weighty backpack—and he left himself hunkered in the passenger seat of my car as I stepped out of the space where Wade Hamilton's front door used to be. I asked if he had any more business in town to take care of. He laughed without sound, and without looking at me.

I drove away from the house, away from the oil pumps, and with the town of Stone Creek disappearing in my rear-view mirror as if a chasm had opened in the crust of the earth and gradually sunk it into oblivion.

Before long we were driving against nothing but the silent darkness of the outback. It was still a couple more hours to town. Anthony Ramsey was laying against the door. He didn't say anything for a while.

'I guess that's it,' I said, nodding my head toward the backpack at his feet, even though his eyes weren't open to see me do so.

He made a sound. He knew what I meant.

'Twelve thousand of your father's money. Straight from his personal safe, no less. The police might call that grand larceny, you know.'

'Is this the interrogation?' he said.

I shrugged. 'It's a long drive past a lot of nothing. We've got to make some kind of conversation. And I've got a lot of questions I think you might have the answers to. So, where do we start?'

He smiled darkly. He rose his head and rubbed his eyes with a silent exhale.

'We'll start easy then: how long have you been camping out there?' I asked.

'Not long.'

'How'd you manage to get there?'

'Any way I could. I hitched. I walked. I stowed in the back of someone's sheep truck.'

'And it was worth it,' I said, not as a question.

'What's anything worth?' He made a grim sound and looked out the window. 'Was it hard to find me?—Did you get my note?'

'I did,' I said. 'And it wasn't very hard. In fact, it was even a little fun. Your socialist friends were a help, even if they didn't mean to be.'

'Did you see my painting?'

'I got a peek at it, yeah. That Darcy is a pretty good artist, if he's got nothing else going for him.'

'They're not so bad,' Anthony said. He sank back against the seat.

'I'll bet they're not at the best of times, but I guess the best of times wasn't when I caught them. They were busy telling people they'd kidnapped you. Did you know they were trying to ransom you off for half a million dollars?'

Anthony turned silent again, and didn't move. After a few moments he smiled a little, showing the tips of his teeth, and blew a huff through them. 'I'm not surprised,' was all he said.

'Why not?'

'Because,' he said, 'that's what money does to people. It corrodes them, like acid rain—sprinkle enough money on someone, or the idea of enough money, and they melt away entirely. All of them.'

'Is that what happened to your father?'

He nodded without looking at me.

'And that's what you were striking against, was it?'

Anthony's eyes darkened, as if I had veered far off-course again. 'You don't have to patronise me,' he said. 'I get it: I'm just a kid. I ran away from daddy because I'm a spoiled little shit. You wouldn't understand. Nobody would.'