The Empty Chair

it’d come from the mill, not the place where Garrett really has Mary Beth. But why would a mill have supplies of yeast? You’d only find those in a bakery . . . Or”—he lifted his eyebrow to Bell—“someplace they’re brewing that.” He nodded at the bottle that sat on the table. The liquid inside was what Rhyme had just asked Bell to collect from the basement of the Sheriff’s Department. It was 110-proof moonshine—from one of the juice bottles that Rhyme had seen a deputy clear away when he’d taken over the evidence room and turned it into a lab. This is what Ben had just sampled in the chromatograph.
    “Sugar and yeast,” the criminalist continued. “Those’re ingredients in liquor. And the cellulose in that batch of moonshine,” Rhyme continued, looking at the computer screen, “is probably from the paper fibers—I assume when you make moonshine, you have to filter it.”
    “Yep,” Bell confirmed. “And most ’shiners use off-the-shelf coffee filters.”
    “Just like the fiber we found on Garrett’s clothes. And the dextrose and fructose—complex sugars found in fruit. That’s from the fruit juice left over in the jar. Ben said it was tart—like cranberry juice. And you told me, Jim, that’s the most popular container for moonshine. Right?”
    “Ocean Spray.”
    “So,” Rhyme summarized, “Garrett’s holding MaryBeth in a moonshiner’s cabin—presumably one that’s been abandoned since the raid.”
    “What raid?” Mason asked.
    “Well, it’s like the trailer,” Rhyme replied shortly, hating as always to have to explain the obvious. “If Garrett’s using the place to hide Mary Beth then it has to be abandoned. And what’s the only reason anybody’d abandon a working still?”
    “Department of revenue busted it,” Bell said.
    “Right,” Rhyme said. “Get on the phone and find out the location of any stills that’ve been raided in the past couple of years. It’ll be a nineteenth-century building in a stand of trees and painted brown—though it may not have been when it got raided. It’s four or five miles from where Frank Heller lives and it’ll be on a Carolina bay or you’ll have to go around a bay to get there from the Paquo.”
    Bell left to call the revenue department.
    “That’s pretty good, Lincoln,” Ben said. Even Mason Germain seemed impressed.
    A moment later Bell hurried back into the room. “Got it!” He examined the sheet of paper in his hand then began tracing directions on the map, ending at Location B-4. He circled a spot. “Right here. Head of investigations at revenue said it was a big operation. They raided it a year ago and busted up the still. One of his agents checked out the place a couple, three months ago and saw that somebody’d painted it brown so he looked it over good to see if it was being used again. But he said it was empty so he didn’t pay any more mind. Oh, and it’s about twenty yards from a good-sized Carolina bay.”
    “Is there any way to get a car in there?” Rhyme asked.
    “Has to be,” Bell said. “All stills’re near roads—to bring the supplies in and get the finished ’shine out.”
    Rhyme nodded and said firmly, “I need an hour alone with her—to talk her out. I know I can do it.”
    “It’s risky, Lincoln.”
    “I want that hour,” Rhyme said, holding Bell’s eye.
    Finally Bell said, “Okay. But if Garrett gets away this time it’s gonna be a full-out manhunt.”
    “Understood. You think my van can make it there?”
    Bell said, “Roads aren’t great but—”
    “I’ll get you there,” Thom said firmly. “Whatever it takes, I’ll get you there.”

    Five minutes after Rhyme had wheeled out of the County Building, Mason Germain watched Jim Bell return to his office. He waited a moment and, making sure no one saw him, he stepped into the corridor and headed toward the front door of the building.
    There were dozens of phones in the County Building Mason could have used to make his call but instead he pushed outside into the heat and walked quickly across the quadrangle to a bank of pay phones on the sidewalk. He fished into his pockets and dug out some coins. He looked around and when he saw he was alone he dropped them in, looked at a number on a slip of paper and punched in the digits.

    Farmer John, Farmer John. Enjoy it fresh from Farmer John. . . . Farmer John, Farmer John. Enjoy it fresh from Farmer John. . . .
    Staring at the row of cans in front of her, a dozen