22

I PUNCHED HILTON HEAD INTO my unreliable GPS and found that it should take less than an hour to get there if I hopped on I-95 North. Excellent, I didn’t have to use the freakin’ bridge. I wasn’t on the highway for five minutes when my phone rang. It was The Palms. At first, I wasn’t going to answer it, but I did.

“I told you it wasn’t a good idea to take your father out.” Maryann’s voice was shrill. “He’s giving us a hard time insisting that ‘his friend’ is going to come to pick him up.”

“Are you telling me to come and get him?”

“I’m telling you something has to be done. We are not an Alzheimer’s facility.”

This was getting old. “And I had nothing to do with you taking him on as a guest. He has a contract with you. I wasn’t involved. What do you want me to do?”

Maryann’s voice softened a bit. “We have a tour coming through this afternoon with some extremely important people. I’m asking you to take him off our hands for a few hours. Please?”

Please? She actually sounded desperate. My first impulse was to tell her to go to hell, but that might come back to bite me in the ass. I agreed to make a detour to The Palms and pick up Big Al.

*****

I had promised Johnson that I’d keep him informed if I got a lead on Hicks. I sent him a text explaining that I was on my way to pick up my father, and then heading to Hilton Head to check out a place called the Bantam Gallery.

When I got to The Palms Maryann and another nurse had Big Al waiting outside. He was wearing his bush hat and holding the walking stick. It occurred to me that in his prime he was probably a pretty dapper PI.

When I got out of the truck the nurse told me that he was excited to be “working on a case” with his detective friend, a.k.a. me. Maryann was grateful for my help.

Everyone was happy. Except me. Especially after we got on the road and the GPS led me to the entrance of the Savannah Bridge. Apparently, Route 17 was the shortest way to Hilton Head from the Palms. I began to sweat. A few days before, I had heard on the news of a major accident on the bridge involving a logging truck. I thought of the truck that took out Psycho back in New Haven. A sign said there was an exit ahead to avoid the bridge, but it was getting late so I decided I would take the damned bridge anyway. As I passed the exit I gripped the wheel determined to make the best of it.

*****

“Look at that big bridge!” Big Al said as we got on the long, curved approach to the span. “The damned thing goes straight up!”

“Yeah,” I said as we merged on to the bridge, the horizon nowhere in sight.

He was actually bouncing in his seat.

“I mean straight up! Like a mountain. He-yah!”

“Yeah,” I said. I could feel my foot tapping the gas. The ride got jerky, but that only made the old man love it more.

“Look at those towers. And the cables. It looks like a sailing ship!” You would think he never saw a damned bridge before.

“Okay.” My voice came out like I had a frog in my throat.

“Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit! A giant ship is going under us. How damned good is that?” He lifted his hat and waved it in the air.

“Good. Now calm down. You’re distracting me while I’m driving.” I stole a side glance to catch a huge container ship approaching the bridge. I hoped the pilot knew what he was doing because it looked like it was going to be a close fit.

My hands were feeling numb and I shook first one and then the other to get the blood flowing in them again. I cracked the window open and took another deep breath. The sea air did the trick for a moment. I pushed on. Then with another stolen peep at my father, I could see he was staring at me.

“Are you doing okay? You look pale.” Big Al’s knitted brow didn’t do anything to build up my confidence.

“All of a sudden you’re concerned?” The words came out a little harsher than I had intended.

“Shit. I’ll drive if you want. I love this. Pull over,” he said.

“I’m not stopping on the bridge.” We reached the crest of the bridge and the road ahead looked like the downward plunge of a roller coaster complete with a sharp jog in it.

For a split second, my vision blurred then came back, like a digital hiccup that loses the signal and freezes up the TV screen. I turned on the air conditioner and dared a glimpse at Al. He was staring at the road ahead. I think he may have been praying. It seemed like an hour, but at last we got to the bottom of the bridge only to find another long, but thankfully low, bridge crossing into South Carolina.

“See, no problem,” I said. “I’m fine. Why is your seatbelt off?”

Had he been ready to bail out? He re-clicked his belt as we came off the bridge. As he did, my cell rang. I answered it with the Bluetooth.

“It’s Max. Is that you, Al?”

We both answered “Yes.”

“It’s for me,” I said to my father.

“Where are you?” Max said.

“We’re heading to Hilton Head at the moment,” I said. “I have my father with me. It’s a long story.”

“Hi Max. You know my detective friend, too?” The old man was getting on my nerves, and I vowed never to do a favor for Maryann again.

“I do know him, Big Al. Did you go over the bridge?”

“Of course. It was fine,” I said.

“He almost passed out,” Big Al said.

“Are you okay?” Max sounded worried. “Did you know you could have taken 95 to 278 to avoid the bridge? It would only take a few minutes longer.”

I knew. That had been my plan, but the GPS had a mind of its own. “I didn’t want to waste time. Besides, I don’t have a problem with the bridge.”

“I wish you had asked me to go along. I love Hilton Head. It’s so artsy.”

“I don’t need an entourage.” Oops. That didn’t come out right.

“Okay. You’re in a mood. I’ll let you work.” The Bluetooth went silent.

Damn, damn, damn.