It was the hottest summer Sam Larkin could remember. Sunrises and sunsets came on like back-drafts from raging forest fires, painting the clouds scarlet against the purple-smoke background of the lowcountry sky. They punctuated days filled with oppressive heat and humidity. He loved the heat. It was August and there was still had no plan. Time and circumstances would tell him what to do. He took the days and nights like an alcoholic, one at a time, trying not to think about the “what if’s”, the “maybe’s”, or the “should have’s”. He was good at putting things behind him, but the past spring and early summer were hard to forget.
Bill Reichert told everything he knew without shame, justifying his actions by admitting he was too weak to stand up to what he might face if he didn’t cooperate. It was self-preservation, he said, and what guarantees did he have that others would remain quiet and let the government see if they could prove their case? For his information, the court would go easier on him, but Sam wasn’t confident Reichert would survive even the easiest of prisons. Intact.
The other twenty-seven persons, cited to date, all contributed to what Bill Reichert and Ray Breslin had told the authorities. When it came down to “save your own ass” time, it became a contest to see who could tell the most. It was a common phenomenon among part-time players.
The only holdout was Charles Clay. He decided, while he waited for the federal agents to pick him up, to remain silent. There was no doubt in his mind what the others would do. He figured on ten to fifteen years. He would be an old man by some people’s standards when he got out, God willing, but he felt like an old man already. He wasn’t concerned with the future. When he was asked if serving more time than the others wouldn’t bother him, he said, “I have nothing better to do.”
Turner Lockett’s involvement surprised no one. He was a lowcountry outlaw, one of many who would do whatever was necessary to live without compromise. Times good or times bad. What did create conjecture was what he had done with his money. Scavengers and treasure hunters had torn his trailer apart piece by piece until one morning when the dross that was left was burned. Ray Breslin never said a word. Karen Chaney arranged for a reward of twenty-five thousand dollars to be put in trust for each of the boys until they were twenty-one and a twenty-five thousand dollar reward for Skeeter Crewes; the remainder was quietly seized. All except ten thousand dollars. Skeeter had seen a mutilated man he thought was Jared Barnes at the boat dock. It had to be the man Bitta and Marvon described. No one else could look like that.
Bill Reichert found a pocket of redemption for himself by continually talking about the cardboard box he had lost in a drunken stupor. It was considered a product of his imagination or an hallucination until his secretary corroborated the story. Others believed he and his secretary had hidden it for future use. No one could prove anything. It never occurred to him that he had done the first loving thing for his wife in the course of their marriage. The “box” stories did, however, cause federal prosecutors worry about his reliability on the witness stand when the time came.
Covington County, South Carolina, and the City of Covington remained in a state of shock over the events of early summer. Most people were divided, depending on who they were talking to, over whether they had known what was going on or had no idea. It became attractive for one to “know nothing” because that made everyone else suspect they did. The morality of the operation was debated from the day the arrests were announced and would be as long as there were people of differing opinions.
Nothing was said when word of Isabel Reichert’s divorce became public before anyone knew she had even filed. Julia Prescott had worked her magic, and, with Bill Reichert’s agreement, rushed the divorce through in thirty days. No one could blame Isabel; no one knew how long her husband would be gone.
And there was Morgan Hannah. Of all the characters in the scenario, she interested Sam the most. He admired what little he knew of her. In a way, she epitomized what he was looking for: an independence she didn’t appear to compromise at any cost. That independence was exemplified, in his mind, when he heard that her beach house was for sale, and she had decided to live in France.
Sam was standing on the deck outside his bedroom as these remembrances rolled through his mind. The fire of the sun had transformed into the dead, gray dark of an approaching storm. Thunderheads had sprung from nowhere and created a fearsome sky. The moss on the oak trees waved with the grace of Sirens beckoning. He could hear the rumbling in the distance and knew it would rain before full-dark.
He thought about Karen Chaney and wondered what the sky was like wherever she was. It might be mid-day there for all he knew. She had remained in Covington for more than a week after the day of the first arrests, most of that time spent at Sam’s house. The future was on hold, and they let it stay there. There were no doubts about what they felt, but they were smart enough to know that Sam had been right when he said she couldn’t give up the job, and he couldn’t give up his quest for peace. At least at this time in their lives. One morning he awoke and she was gone. There was a note on the counter.
Have to go. I will call in a few days, Love. You take care of you, and I’ll take care of me. Maybe we can put it all together when I come back.
I think I “might” love you.
Karen.
She called, as promised, and they talked. Nothing significant. She had been reassigned and said she would call regularly. She hadn’t. There were a couple of messages left on his answering machine and a few mysterious hang-up’s, which he was sure was indecision. She would be back when the attorneys quit playing their games and the trials began, but there was no way to know when that would be.
He missed her, everything about her. In reflective times such as the one he was going through, Karen Chaney was larger than his quest for peace. At other times, he was happy just to be where he was. He would get through the night, and tomorrow would be another day. The rain began to fall as he stood there. Not the storm he anticipated, not yet. It began as a steady, warm, summer rain. Sam Larkin removed his clothes and stood naked, letting the water from the sky bathe him. It made him feel fresh and clean.