Charley Clay was sitting in the screened-in Carolina room at his beach house when Brad Coleman’s call came. It was a call he had been waiting for with anticipation. If Coleman gave him the right answers, money would rain down on Charley Clay and friends.
“I was wondering when I’d hear from you,” Clay said. “How’s the world traveler?”
“I’m fine.”
“Everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine.” It was a go. The product was available; the price was right, the logistics and the boat were acceptable. Brad Coleman had answered all of those questions with two little words.
“Good. When are you coming back to South Carolina to finalize things?”
“About a week. Are the papers ready?”
“I got a million of them. How long do you plan to stay?”
“Maybe a day or two. I won’t book a return until I see how things go.”
“Plan to stay at my beach house. I know you like the beach and privacy. You’ll have it all to yourself,” Clay offered.
“I appreciate that. By the way, what was the name of that woman you introduced me to out there?”
“Morgan Hannah. Run into her, you might stay longer than you plan.”
“That remains to be seen,” Coleman said. Morgan Hannah had passed through his thoughts more than once.
“Fax me your schedule, and I’ll have you picked up.”
“Not necessary. I’ll get a car and call you when I get in.”
“There will be a pass for you at the gate in case you want to head on out to Sangaree. The house is never locked.”
“Amazing.”
“I’ll look forward to seeing you.”
When he hung up the phone, Charley Clay was smiling. “I love it when a plan comes together,” he thought, stealing a line from Hannibal Smith. Everything was looking good. The only missing pieces were finalizing the off-load site, setting up a crew and making sure Reichert had accomplished what he set out to do in Mexico.
It was just after noon, but he felt like celebrating. He went to the bar, poured a generous two inches of Edradour Single Malt Scotch over a couple of ice cubes and went back to the sun room to take care of business. There were two problems that needed to be resolved. Turner Lockett’s money and the lady officer who, according to Turner, seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time at Sam Larkin’s place. With an off-load a couple of miles down the creek, she could present considerable risk. Newcomers were always ambitious, and he didn’t want to go through the process of buying her.
He picked up the phone and dialed Ray Breslin’s home number. Although it was a weekend, Breslin seldom worked Saturdays and Sundays in the off-season.
“Hello?” A worn woman’s voice answered the phone.
“Miz Breslin? Ray there?”
“Sure. Just a minute.” Clay heard the phone being put down and the woman calling her husband. “Ray? Telephone.”
“Who is it?” he heard.
“I don’t know who it is.”
“Damn it! I’ve told you to ask before you let them know I’m here. How many times do I have to tell you?” The phone was picked up. “Hello? Who is this?” The anger was obvious.
“Charley Clay, Ray.” There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Oh, Charley. Hey.”
“You doing all right, Ray? Sound a little stressed.”
“No, I’m fine, Charley. Just bein’ home with the old lady. You know.”
“Then you won’t mind my asking you to do a little work.” Clay’s voice was cold. He envied Ray Breslin’s being home with ‘the old lady’. Breslin was an ass, but he was useful.
“Any excuse, right?” Clay could imagine him smiling, as if they shared a good ol’ boy philosophy.
“Dudn’t have to be today, but a couple of things need checkin’ out.”
“You name it.”
“Turner’s money. You heard anything about anyone else goin’ out there?”
“Not a soul I’ve heard. The guys from the Sheriff’s office ain’t said a word, and they’d ask me. I did tell ‘em I’d checked it out and didn’t find nothin’ of interest. That’ll probably be the end of it far as they’re concerned. Turner wudn’t exactly important.”
“Well, he was important to us, and we can’t be too careful. Who knows what he did with it. I just want you to make sure nobody else finds it. It would create a lot of questions.”
“Right.”
“Ray, we’ll split whatever you find. That fair?”
“More than. I owe you, Charley.”
“And we won’t say anything about this conversation or the money to anyone.”
“Sure, Charley.”
“I figure maybe sometime in the next couple of days would be soon enough. Now the other thing. Turner mentioned that new female officer in your department was spending the weekend at Sam Larkin’s. What do you know about her?”
“Not much. Came up from Florida. Dudn’t seem to know much. I thought she was a lesbo. Guess I was wrong. Been wrong before.” He laughed.
“She worries me with Larkin being so close to Crewe’s place. I’d like for you to check her out. I get the feeling there’s something funny about her replacing Jimmy Lee out of the blue, and her being friends with Larkin makes me uneasy.”
“I’ll take care of it. It’ll be a pleasure.”
Clay hung up the phone feeling like he had just had an in-depth conversation with Dumbly Do-right. There was one more call to make, and it wouldn’t be as simple.
“It’s going to be a tough situation, Charles,” Cedrick Hamilton said after hearing that it was time to move on Skeeter Crewes with their proposition. “I know the man pretty well, but it’s been a lot of years since we were close. It’s exposure, and you know how I feel about that. A lot of people take this stuff more seriously than you do; they’ve got a lot to lose or think they do.” He sounded cynical.
“I know. I don’t have anything to lose,” Clay replied tersely.
“I didn’t mean that, Charles. I meant—“
“You’re right. I’ve been thinking lately, and I really don’t have a lot to lose.” There was impatience in Clay’s voice. Sometimes Hamilton’s “I am wiser than thou” attitude got to him. “I been comin’ to the beach house for the last couple of weeks, and it’s brought back a lot of things. I think about what I’m doing and can’t believe it. Other times, ‘Why the hell not?’ What other kind of a life do I have? You know, we go along thinking about the future and all its possibilities, and then one day, without warning, there it is. The future. And it’s not a damned thing like what we expected. What do you think about then? The future doesn’t last forever. Pretty fragile really.”
“Charles, I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant. But you, Cedrick? I don’t think you have a choice. Think back a little. Back to when you were fresh out of school with all those degrees, not knowing a damned thing about anything, wanting to come home, broke as a church mouse and in debt. Think about that insignificant arrest record for possession in DC that magically disappeared when I suggested you apply for the assistant superintendent’s position down here. Remember that female principal who threatened to kill herself and then did because you dumped her when you didn’t think a black and white situation would work in Covington politics. And how long did it take you to become head man? One year. Oh, and all the money we’ve made together. You’re a damned millionaire. I don’t have anything to lose, but you do. Having nothing to lose makes me dangerous, Cedrick, but not dumb. I don’t like to have to talk you into anything, but I do what’s necessary.”
“You’re right; I can never repay you, and I’m grateful for all of it. I’ll see Skeeter this week and get back to you.”
“Thank you, Cedrick. I apologize. I don’t know where all of that came from.”
“From inside, I guess, but what you feel in there might not always be right.”
“I know. I’ll wait to hear from you.” The man was getting skittish.
It would be like walking on the proverbial eggshells, Karen Chaney knew, as she crossed the Marion Bridge onto Matthew’s Island in her dark blue, almost black, Mustang. Her mind was in turmoil, yet it was important to bring some kind of fixity of purpose to whatever was going on with Sam Larkin; this dinner would either be a beginning or an end. Both prospects made her nervous. The thing to keep in mind, she told herself, was her reason for being in Covington, South Carolina. The job came first. What she had learned from Neil Dougherty only left bigger questions about Sam Larkin. Realistically, an ending would be better. Where could a beginning really go?
The major problem was how to get Sam to expose himself, discuss his past and clear up the vague suspicions surrounding him, without blowing her cover. He was smart and protective; but there was no way to open herself and trust him—even in the most favorable of circumstances against procedure—without knowing every detail of the life and times of Sam Larkin.
The drive out Route 37 to Osprey Landing Road was foreboding on nights such as the one she was experiencing. The rain stopped about four o’clock, but the sky had moved to full dark. The heat in the earth and on the macadam of the road combined with the moisture to create a fog that was almost impenetrable. Though no rain was falling, the storm surrounded her. Overlapping claps of thunder, like the roll of a timpani, rocked the car with their impact, holding quiet for only seconds at a time and then shocking with staccato bursts that caught her by surprise. Lowcountry weather, she thought.
Several times she found herself flinching at the volume of the noise. Flashes of radiant, white lightning revealed glimpses of dilapidated mobile homes, nestled hidden among live oaks hanging heavy with wet moss that veiled them from view. Sights appeared ghost-like and menacing in the electric illuminations and just as quickly disappeared. She pushed the switch that locked all of the doors on the car, praying she would find a pair of tail lights to follow as the car behind her was doing. Whoever it was laid a responsibility on her. If she went off the road, they would surely follow.
Sam, wearing a pair of faded, green safari shorts and a light blue denim shirt, stood barefoot under the overhang on his deck watching the light show as the first drops of rain began to fall. Big drops, flattening on the surface of the water like soft-nosed bullets hitting an impenetrable obstruction. For a time in the late afternoon, he had wished Karen was not coming, actually dialed her number once to cancel then hung up before the phone began to ring. Now he was glad he made that decision. They would talk, as she asked; he was as anxious to reconcile their relationship as she, only he didn’t think the final determination he had in mind was, in any way, similar to hers.
Dinner was already prepared. He looked at his watch. The rain was intensifying, and light, bleeding from the spotlights on the roof corners of his deck, exposed leaves being blown from the trees like dust motes in a ray of sunshine. Hanging moss performed ritualistic dances in the wind, and the rain began to impinge on the area in which he was standing.
Karen Chaney was having a difficult time seeing. The rain had begun to fall so fast and furiously that deep puddles covered the low spots in the road and eliminated any steering efficiency the car possessed. At times she felt the car was in control, and she was just along for the ride. It was foolish not to pull over and wait it out, but after virtually inviting herself to Larkin’s for dinner, she didn’t want to leave him waiting. There wasn’t much farther to go. The visibility was so poor that only the sign on the Exxon station at the intersection of Route 37 and Osprey Landing Road allowed her to recognize her turn. The car behind her turned also. She hoped whoever it was knew where they were going; there were not a lot of houses on the road.
If Route 37 was dangerous, Osprey Landing Road was treacherous. Traversing the uneven macadam with its potholes and dips was little better than trying to blindly walk through a minefield. She had driven through lots of storms, but this was the worst. Hunched over the wheel, she tried to get her face closer to the windshield, but it didn’t help. The wipers had little effect on the wall of water that was falling from the sky.
Suddenly the lights in the rear-view mirror grew brighter, coming far too close in the conditions they were experiencing. Either her tail lights had failed or the driver was an idiot. The answer came quickly. She felt a firm nudge on the rear end of her car. A drunk maybe? She tried to accelerate to put more distance between them, but couldn’t see well enough to go any faster. The driver behind her speeded up as well and hit her again. It was all she could do to stay on the road. The business of driving was losing ground to fear. The lights behind her dropped back. Maybe stop, get out and flash the Ruger. Not smart in this weather. Her thoughts stopped when she saw the lights coming on fast. She braced herself for the hit and it came. Hard and constant.
Her car hit a pocket in the road and, even though she was traveling at a low rate of speed, launched itself in the air, coming down on a section of road that was completely submerged from side to side. The wheels could find no purchase. When they did, the car lurched to the right, ran up a dirt embankment, lifted on one side and hovered at a threatening angle that threatened to flip it. At the last moment, it circled down off the embankment, caught traction and shot across the road toward a drainage ditch. She saw the headlights flash by her. When her car hit the ditch, it leaped forward and stopped suddenly. Her head hit the windshield, and she saw spider cracks developing before her eyes, slowly moving out from the center of her forehead. Everything was reduced to slow motion and then she lost consciousness.
Walking from the shed in the side yard of his house, Skeeter Crewes saw lights dancing in the trees along the road. The movements were so erratic that it looked like a possum hunter’s flashlight, scanning the limbs for quarry. The dancing stopped with unnatural suddenness and focused on one tree, white beams turned upward like the decorative lights rich people used to show off their oaks.
It was an accident; there was no doubt in his mind. The weather, the road, the huge pothole he had been after the county to repair for two years. It was bound to happen. He just hoped no one had to get killed to push the county into action. He left the shelter of the shed and ran in the direction of the lights. Even on foot it was tough going. Two times he stopped himself just short of running into one of the massive oaks on his property. It took several minutes to get to the accident. The car had not gone head-on into a tree, which was what he feared, but the back half of the automobile was submerged in the drainage ditch, which was the reason for the lights’ angle.
It wasn’t a local; Skeeter didn’t recognize the car; however, he knew that if it sat where it was for very long and the rain continued, it would be flooded. There was no movement he could see, but the rain made that determination tenuous at best. Not enough time had elapsed for anyone to exit the vehicle and leave the scene. The rain-drenched, packed red clay had turned to a glass slickness, which made getting to the door difficult. He held on to a small wax myrtle that grew on the edge of the ditch and tried to ease himself down without slipping into what was becoming a swift-moving current. He leaned out toward the car and let go of his anchor to fall forward to reach it.
The doors were locked. A woman was behind the wheel, but he couldn’t make out anyone else. Her head had hit the windshield. He pulled himself up on the hood, feet toward the driver’s seat and began kicking the glass.
Kick by kick, the glass began to give until finally, when he was near exhaustion, one foot broke through, showering the person sitting there with small, geometric pieces of glass. He managed to remove enough of the windshield to reach through and flip the locks open, then worked his way back around to the door, holding on tightly to keep from being knocked down and swept away in the current. When he opened it, he recognized Karen Chaney. There was blood covering her face and she was perfectly still. For a moment he panicked. Having no idea how badly she was injured, he was afraid to move her. He removed his shirt, which was soaked with rainwater, and gently dabbed at the source of her bleeding. Head cuts bleed, he thought. It might not be as bad as it looks. She began to move.
“Quiet now,” he said. “Can you hear me? Try not to move. I’ve got to get to the house and get some help out here.”
“Sam?” she said, sounding as if she had awakened from a sound sleep.
“No. It’s not Sam. This is Skeeter Crewes from down at Harry Tom’s Boat Dock. You okay now. I gotta get some help. My house is jus’ over yonder.” He pointed in the direction of his house though he didn’t know why. She didn’t move her head. “I won’t be gone a minute. You jus’ try to stay still.”
Karen Chaney’s eyes opened. She was wet and it was cold. She tried to right herself, but couldn’t. She looked down to see what was holding her and saw her blouse was covered with blood. She was confused. What happened? She was driving down Osprey Landing Road to Sam Larkin’s house, and... Her memory went blank. There was a man leaning over her talking, but now he was gone. She put her head back and tried to remember, figure out exactly what had happened, what her situation was. Nothing came to mind. She felt the rain coming through the broken window and closed her eyes. She was very tired.
Sam Larkin was in the kitchen checking on dinner when the telephone rang. He was sure it was Karen saying the storm was too bad to drive all the way out to his house. He didn’t want a cancellation; he was mentally prepared for whatever was to happen.
“Hello?”
“Sam?”
“Skeeter? Your electricity gone again?” He laughed.
“No, Sam, nothin’ like that. That Miss Chaney, the wildlife officer, she ran into the drainage ditch in front of my house. The car ain’ move, and she’s bleedin’ pretty bad. I’m afraid to move her; I don’t know how bad she’s hurt. I need some help out here.”
“Hold on. Karen’s hurt?” Skeeter was speaking too fast for Sam’s mind to assimilate all the man was saying.
“Yeah. Her car’s in the ditch in front of my house. I got to get back out there and stay with her. She’s bleedin’, an’ the water in the ditch is gettin’ deeper.”
“Did you call emergency?”
“You know they ain’t comin’ out here tonight in this mess.”
“Just stay with her; I’ll be right there. She hit her head?”
“Yeah. That’s where the blood comin’ from.”
“Stay with her, Skeeter. Keep her awake. Don’t let her go to sleep.”
“I’ll try, but hurry. And be careful, man. I ain’ real good with this stuff.”
“I’m on my way.” Larkin hung up the phone, grabbed his keys off the counter, a high-beam search light from the utility closet and headed out into the night.
It took only minutes to get to Skeeter’s house. Sam spotted the headlights pointed at a forty-five degree angle into the trees. He stopped the Rover in front of Karen’s car and left the lights on. Skeeter was standing next to the driver’s door leaning in. He straightened up as Sam came around the door.
“I couldn’t keep her awake. She was already out when I got back out here. I been tryin’ to keep a towel on the bleedin’ and talkin’ to her, but she ain’ come around,” Skeeter said, backing off to give Sam access to her.
“Looks like she’s jammed under the steering wheel.” He had to holler to be heard over the rush of the water, rain and thunder. “It doesn’t look like she hit anything solid; we’re going to have to take a chance nothing’s broken and get her out of this mess.”
“What you want me to do?”
“Go around to the other side and get in. I’ll need you to put some leverage under her, so we can lift her out.” The rain, if anything, had intensified. Water was cascading down Sam Larkin’s face, making it difficult to see.
When Skeeter climbed into the passenger seat, Karen’s weight shifted, and the angle of the car rolled her body slightly toward Larkin. The movement gave Skeeter just enough room to get his hands under her and push her legs from beneath the steering column.
“I’ve got her,” Sam said and lifted her free. “Open up the back of the Rover, and let’s lay her out flat in there.” Skeeter did as he was asked and climbed in to take her shoulders when Sam brought her around. He lifted and Skeeter pulled her inside. She lay with her head resting in his lap, his right hand applying direct pressure with a towel to the wound on her forehead. Sam got in the driver’s seat and headed back to his house.
They carried Karen Chaney’s limp body up the stairs and put her into bed. That done, Sam wanted to drive Skeeter home, but he refused, saying it was more important for Sam to stay with her. Nor would he take the Rover. The bleeding from Karen’s forehead subsided, but she remained unconscious. Sam checked her pulse and it was normal. He gently bathed her wound, which wasn’t deep. There didn’t appear to be any glass embedded in it, but it was located at her hairline, which made it difficult to clean.
His primary concern was her state of unconsciousness. He didn’t know who to call, had never been to a doctor in Covington other than the school doctor who gave him his tuberculin shot when he began teaching. He tried that number and got an answering service. The young lady promised to have him call as soon as he checked in, but Larkin’s natural skepticism made him doubt that he would hear from the doctor for hours, if at all. The service suggested the emergency room at the hospital in Covington, which was out of the question.
He removed her blouse and brassiere, both of which were soaked with blood, and her shorts. He cleaned her body with a warm, damp cloth, covered her with a light blanket, then sat down beside the bed to wait.
A soft moan brought him to awareness. She was moving beneath the blanket. He put his hand on her face to check for fever, but her temperature remained normal.
“Karen?” he said softly. There was little response. “Karen?” It looked as if she were trying to open her eyes, but they seemed glued shut. He squeezed out the cloth that was soaking in the basin next to the bed and began wiping her eyes. From the color that was showing on the cloth, he realized that her eyelids were sealed by dried blood. Gradually they loosened, and it wasn’t long before they opened. “Hold still,” he said and washed the rims of her lids.
“Sam?” She looked into his face.
“You’re okay,” he said. “Just a bump on the head.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know; I wasn’t there,” he said and chastised himself for trying to add humor to a serious situation. “You had an accident on your way out here and wound up in a drainage ditch.”
“The Exxon station. I turned at the Exxon station. I got that far. I remember lights and someone looking through the window of the car. I was lying on my back. There was a lot of blood. Was that you?”
“No. Skeeter Crewes. He found you and called me. He helped me get you here. Why don’t you just try to be quiet and relax. We can talk later. Right now you need rest.”
“My head feels like it’s coming off my shoulders,” Karen said.
“I’ll get some aspirin.” He left and came back with a glass of water and two tablets. She got them down in one swallow. “Rest.”
“Sam?”
“Yes?”
“Hold my hand.” Karen made a move to lift it and he took it into his own as she went back to sleep.