CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

After leaving The Oyster Creek Inn on Friday afternoon, Bill Reichert got drunk. It was becoming a more frequent occurrence. So far it had caused no problems; he always managed to function if he were called on to do so, which wasn’t often. Usually, by one o’clock, he was gone from the bank for the day, and when he got home, Isabel was in bed asleep. It was never a struggle getting up in the morning; his body managed to repair itself quickly. At least until now.

He was in the guest room bed. It was Saturday and the sun was up. That was all he could be sure of. His head ached, and his face and all the muscles in his body hurt. If he had been in a fight or an accident he didn’t remember. A box. A cardboard box. He remembered something about that, but there was no definition to the memory. His brain was sore and empty. When he managed to sit up, he realized he was still fully dressed, still had his tie and jacket on, though the tie was loosened.

His clothes weren’t dirty, so he assumed he wasn’t in a fight. He didn’t get another thought in before he threw up. He pulled his knees together to keep the spume from getting on the carpet, but was only partially successful. Removing his pants while trying to not to make a bigger mess was impossible. He gave up and pulled them off, vowing to clean the carpet as soon as he got himself together. The acrid, whiskey smell of his vomit made his stomach lurch, but there was nothing left to come up. The dry heaves lasted for five or ten minutes. Tears were streaming down his face and drool was coming from his lips. He didn’t want to close them for fear of swallowing the taste in his mouth.

Wearing his shirt, tie, jockey shorts and socks, he went to the bathroom, turned on the shower and stepped in, not knowing or caring whether the water would scald him or send him into uncontrollable shivering. He needed wet, didn’t care what kind. The water was cold, but quickly warmed to the point that he had to adjust it to avoid being burned. He removed the clothes he was still wearing and let them lay in the floor of the shower, moving them with his foot when necessary to free the drain.

When the water began to chill, he turned it off and leaned against the stall. His head remained foggy, and the rest of him was no better. His stomach was cramping. He couldn’t control his fingers and his hands were shaking. He stepped out of the shower and lay down on the oriental rug that covered most of the tiled area between the shower stall and the bathtub and went to sleep.

Awaking a second time in the same day, shivering, again not knowing how he got where he was, frightened him. Looking at himself in the mirror, he surmised that he looked ten years older than he had two months ago. There were dark, grape-colored circles under his eyes. His cheeks were sunken from the fifteen pounds he had lost, his lips an unnatural crimson.

Going back into the bedroom, being hit by the sour smell of stomach acid and stale whiskey, seeing his trousers bunched next to the bed amidst the mess that came out of him, brought back the memory of waking and getting into the shower, but nothing else. He went back to the shower to wash, didn’t think he had done that the first time. He couldn’t stand his own stink. Bill Reichert, Compulsive Bill, best dresser in Covington, South Carolina, was a disaster.

While he was shaving and dressing, he attempted to reconstruct the night before. There’d been a meeting with Charley Clay and Woodson or whatever his name was in the afternoon. He recalled leaving The Oyster Creek Inn and starting back to Covington. Then he turned left instead of right onto Route 37. He headed toward Sangaree, lost his nerve halfway there, and went into The Sea Horse, a quasi-biker bar, not so rough that it was not frequented by other classes of people. That was where he loosened his tie. He clearly remembered doing that before he went inside. Funny.

And he was meeting Charley for breakfast in the morning to deliver the bearer bonds. That much was clear. There was also something about the bank, but it was vague. A brown cardboard box, but it was a blank. Nothing else. There was nothing of the night or going home or anything specific after he went into the tavern. His thoughts were like fireflies; they presented themselves and were gone. It was the third blackout in the last few weeks.

He went to the bedroom window to see if Isabel’s car was in the driveway. It wasn’t. It was Saturday; hair and nails would take her until at least two o’clock. By then he would be gone. He wondered if she had looked in on him before she left. The thought made him sweat. The telephone startled him. He debated whether or not to answer. Who knew what news might be out there awaiting him?

“Bill Reichert,” he said, trying to sound normal.

“Mr. Reichert?” Why would his secretary be calling him at home on Saturday?

“Yes?”

“I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?” His mind was racing, begging for memory. The moisture on his skin began to chill.

“Well,” she hesitated, “you seemed ill when you came back to the bank yesterday just before closing. I didn’t want to leave you there, but you insisted.” He felt like he was going to be sick again.

“I’m glad you called, Doris. I was just trying to explain to Isabel why I was late for dinner. It’s good to know I have a perfect alibi.” He tried to laugh, but it didn’t play. “What time was it exactly, when I got to the bank? About five o’clock?”

“Actually twenty after. I was just leaving and had to unlock the door to let you in.”

“Oh, yes, I remember. I left my keys on my desk.”

“Yes,” she lied, recalling his struggle to get his key into the lock.

“And what time did you leave?”

“I went to the storage room to get you the box you asked for, and then I left. That was about six.”

“Well, I had some work that needed doing whether I was ill or not, so I worked my way through it,” he said. The box.

“You were there until six-thirty. I waited in the parking lot to make sure you locked up. Since you were ill and all,” she added.

“I appreciate that, Doris. So, six-thirty.”

“Yes. You came out, put the box in your car and went back and locked the door. After you left, I checked to make sure.”

“Thank you. Can we keep this private, Doris?”

“Of course.”

“I think I need you to take care of me all the time. Thank you again. I guess I’ll see you bright and early Monday morning.” Monday morning. Monday morning, he thought. The boat would sail on Monday morning.

“Take care of yourself, Mr. Reichert.”

After he hung up the phone, he felt like collapsing or going to bed or dying or something. Instead, he went to the bar, pulled the top from a bottle of vodka and turned it up. It threatened to come back on him, but he closed his throat. He gagged, reached for the empty ice bucket, just in case, but managed to hold it down. His eyes were burning and watering. They felt tight, stretched.

“My God,” he whispered to the room. “What in Heaven’s name did I do? Where did I go after the bank? What the hell was the box for?” There was no recollection. He lifted the bottle again and took two big gulps, struggling to keep it down. It was beginning to burn away the fear, but it wasn’t clearing the mind.

Doris said he put the box in his car after the bank closed. He hurried down the stairs and out to the driveway. The car was there, which was some relief. It wasn’t locked, which was strange if he left something in it; he wasn’t that trusting. There was no box in the front or back seat. He popped the trunk and went around and looked in. There was nothing there. It was maddening. A box. A brown corrugated box. He could see it, remembered it, but had no idea why he asked for it, what he put in it or where he took it. His stomach was queasy. He climbed the stairs and went back to the bar. He turned up the bottle again and waited for the pain to stop.

With credit for service time Ray Breslin had six more years until retirement. He would be forty-five years old, young enough to build a whole new life. This was not a time to screw up. With what he had and at least half of what Turner stashed, he could live the kind of life his dreams were made of. The bonus thought was that he could take all of Turner’s money if he wanted, just tell Charley there was nothing to be found.

It was getting toward seven A.M. Neither of the kids had made a move. Friday was a loss because he chose to come by water and then going to Charley’s restaurant for lunch. The fact that Charley didn’t include him in the meeting didn’t sit well. Maybe he’d just keep Turner’s money if he found it. No loyalty to him? No loyalty to them. At seven-thirty he got out of the truck and walked to the door of Marvon Jeffries’ home.

Marvon and Bitta felt safe in the house. It was Saturday; Marvon’s momma and daddy were at home. Bitta slept over and by seven o’clock, the two boys were curled up on the couch with blankets wrapped around them to keep off the morning chill. The TV was on and two bowls of Sugar-Frosted Flakes were on the metal tray-table in front of them. They were hypnotized by the cartoon characters and never took more than one spoonful of cereal at a time before sitting back and readjusting their blankets. They talked during the commercials.

“You won’ go fishin’ dis aftanoon?” Marvon asked, taking a spoonful of soggy flakes.

“Be good, I reckon, but ain’ too smart.”

“You mean ’at ole po-liceman? He din’t even come back yestiday. We sat out dere all mawnin’ fo’ nuffin. He might not eva’ come back.”

“You funnin’ yosef, you don’ think he comin’. He be back. You watch,” Bitta said.

“Wha’ time we gone go to yo’ uncle’s Monday?”

“I don’ know. He probably get up early.”

“But s’pose de Po-liceman catch us while we on our way?” Marvon asked.

“I don’ know.”

The commercial was over and Deputy Dawg was back on. When it was Mattel-time, they talked again.

“Well, ’pose he do?” Marvon asked.

“Hafta be careful, I reckon. Make sure he don’t. If we stay off de road, he won’t see us. He don’t like to leave dat truck.”

“I wonder what happen to he face. Look like he got beat up or run into a tree or sumpin’.”

“He messed up; dat’s fo’ sho’. How long it gone take us to git over to yo’ uncle’s?”

“Don’ know. Ain’ never walked. Only been in de car.”

“We ain’ gone be walkin’; dat’s fo’ sho’,” Marvon said. “We bes’ be runnin’.” Marvon stopped speaking. It had nothing to do with the TV show. The shadow of a man appeared in the sheer curtain stretched from the top to the bottom of the front door window. Bitta turned to Marvon and then to the door. His jaw dropped and his mouth fell open. Neither of them moved or said a word. They hunkered further under the blankets,

The man knocked. When no one answered, he knocked again. The boys tried to hold their breath.

“Anybody home?” the man shouted. “Law Enforcement.”

Marvon’s daddy came out of the bedroom. He looked at the boys on the couch.

“Why’ didn’t y’all answer the door’?” He shook his head and opened it. “Yeah?” Ray Breslin flashed his badge. Marvon’s daddy didn’t look at it. “Wha’ you wont? Wakin’ us up this early.”

“I’m sorry ’bout that. You got a young boy name of Marvin Jefferies livin’ here?”

“Why you won’ know?”

“I need to ask him some questions. Now does he live here?”

“Firs’ of all, his name ain’ Marvin; it’s Marvon, and second of all, he ain’ a boy, he’s a child or a young man. Third of all, wha’ eva’ you got to axe him about, you axe me.”

“I believe him and his friend, Bitta Smalls, know somethin’ ’bout who tore up that trailer down on the creek yonder. Belonged to a Mr. Lockett. Drowned awhile back. Now maybe they know somethin’ and maybe they don’t, but you can bet, one way or another, I’m gonna find out. Are they here and can I talk to ‘em, or do I have to go get a warrant for their arrest?”

Marvon’s daddy began to laugh.

“A warrant fo’ dey arres’? You crazy? Dey little boys, an’ you don’ even know dey done nothin’. Now I could tell you to go get dat warrant, but I won’t. I’ll axe ‘em and dat will be dat,” he said.

“I’m ’fraid not. I got a bunch of questions to ask, and I think I’d get better answers if I talked to ‘em myself.” It wasn’t going the way Breslin hoped; he knew he was on testy ground.

“You might, but you ain’. Marvon, Bitta, come on ova here.”

The two boys clutched their blankets around them, the bottoms dragging the floor like bridal trains. They shuffled toward the door, their eyes as big as moons, their mouths open.

“Dis man say he wont to axe you ’bout a trailer down on de creek. Y’all ever been down there?” They couldn’t lie; the man saw them there.

“Seen it,” Marvon said. “Everbody know where it is.”

“You know anything ’bout who trashed it?” Breslin asked before Mr. Jefferies could say anything. Both boys looked at him; neither said anything.

“Do you?” Marvon’s daddy asked.” “Now don’ you be foolin’ with me.”

“Nawsuh,” Bitta said. “Don’t know nuffin’ ’bout no trash.”

“Tearin’ it up. You boys tear it up?” Breslin asked.

“Nawsuh,” Marvon said. “We ain’ tore nuffin’ up.”

“Pull wires out of the walls? Knock out the ceilin’?”

“Why anybody won’ do dat?” Bitta asked. “I gots to go to de bafroom.” He started toward the back of the house.

“Me, too.” Marvon said and followed him.

“Wait a min—,” Breslin started and was interrupted.

“I think they done told you, Officer. Dey don’ know anythin’ about it.”

“I believe they do, and I am gonna find out.”

“I been nice so far, but you ain’ gone come roun’ here and scare dem childrens. I don’ wont to see you roun’ here again less you got got some proof dey done it. Dey good boys. Ain’ neva been in no trouble. Dey do somethin’ wrong, dey get a whippin’ and dey know it. Now you get on and leave us alone.”

“I guess I’ll just hafta get the police to come out an’ get ‘em,” Breslin said.

“I guess you will, but you won’t. Police ain’ got no cause to come out here, an’ you know it. You go get ’em.” With that, he shut the door and left Breslin standing on the porch.

Mr. Jeffries went to the back of the house.

“Marvon? Bitta? Come on out here.” The two boys came out of the bathroom, not knowing who they should be most afraid of. “You know anythin’ ’bout all dis? Now don’t you lie to me.”

“We don’ know nuffin ’bout it,” Bitta said. It was easier for him to lie to Marvon’s daddy. A technique the two friends had used since they were little. Marvon did the lying to Bitta’s parents and Bitta to Marvon’s.

“If you lyin’ ’bout it, you know what you got comin’. I’ll do dat firs’, and den let the police take you to jail.” He turned and went back into the bedroom.

“Holy shit,” Marvon whispered when they were back in the living room. “He done come to de door.”

“An you say he ain’ comin’ back.”

“I say he might not come back.”

“Same thing,” Bitta said.

“Ain’ de same thing, Dumb-ass. Ain’ and might differnt.”

“I’m gone get under de cova an’ go to sleep. I’m tired,” Bitta said.

They pulled the covers over their heads and closed their eyes. They enjoyed the warmth, the closeness and the safety of being curled up together on the couch. They were both too afraid to talk about what happened.

“We ought to stay here ’til Monday,” Bitta heard Marvon say.

Breslin slammed his fist against the hood of his truck, got in and drove a mile and a half up the road and parked it on an old, farm road, overgrown by lack of use. He walked back through the woods and stationed himself where he could watch the Jefferies’ house. Perhaps his visit would cause some activity. If not, Daddy wasn’t aware of the money, and the boys were too scared to tell. At least that question would be answered. For brief moments, he wondered if he were chasing a pale horse, a scenario that existed in his mind only. Maybe the boys didn’t have it. They had to. His thoughts flip-flopped back and forth, but he was convinced they were his best bet. It was his money, and they stole it.

The pain in Jared Barnes head was getting worse. Sometimes he could sleep after the lights in the boy’s trailers had gone out, and when he awoke, it would subside for a few hours. On this morning it was excruciating, like steel beams being forced through his brain. His blurred vision was made worse by the pain-tears that filled his eyes as he watched the wildlife man go into the house and come out angry. He couldn’t leave the boys to themselves; the man wanted to hurt them and all because of Turner Lockett. He couldn’t let him do that, though he possessed no reasoning to tell him why.

Sam Larkin felt soft kisses on his back. He didn’t open his eyes. Karen was lying against him, her right leg across his, her skin warm against the fading night chill. For him, it had been a restless night, his thoughts vacillating between his feelings about the woman lying next to him and her news about Brad Coleman, which definitely added Bill Reichert to the growing list of those involved. The lady possessed so many qualities he admired. The difficulty lay in their goals and plans; they were polar opposites, and he couldn’t see either of them changing. For the present, her life was her job; she was in charge in most everything she did. Sam knew, from his own experience she would not give that up at this juncture, for his life of peace and solitary work. It would be wise to keep a governor on his emotions.

He turned over and looked up at her.

“Good morning,” he said.

“You were sleeping so soundly, I thought about feeling guilty for waking you, but decided not to.” She leaned over him allowing the nipple of her right breast to fall just within touching distance of his chest, coming in and out of contact as she breathed. Sam felt the heat rise in his loins and desire building within him.

“Are you looking for something?” he asked. Her hand slid down his stomach and grasped him.

“Found it,” she said, pushed back the light comforter and straddled him. She moved slowly, rising and falling. He watched the muscles in her stomach clutching and relaxing, the motion of her breasts. She began to bite her lower lip, leaned forward and increased the momentum of her movements. He felt her inner muscles contracting, tightening around him, pulling and pushing. He could hold off no longer and felt all his energy exit him, as she let out a soft cry and collapsed.

She stayed on top of him, her head tucked between his neck and his chin. They floated in a sea of comfort, no thoughts, no desire for anything, no wishes, no hopes. He felt himself slip from within her and she sighed.

“It’s gone,” she said. “I feel empty.”

“Resting from the rigors of battle, but not defeated,” Sam said.

“I’m glad to hear that.” She lay quietly, then said, “Where do we go from here, Sam?” He was staring at the ceiling, feeling their chests conflict as they breathed in opposing rhythms.

“You been readin’ my mind?” he asked.

“You, too?”

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid to say ‘I love you’,” she said. “It’s what I’d like to say. What I think I feel, but I’d screw it up and the two of us along with it.”

“How?”

“It’s me. Super girl. The job. I can’t imagine what I’d do if I didn’t do what I’m doing. It’s a jealous master and three on a horse doesn’t work for long. Everything inside me says go for it, but I know me, and I couldn’t do that to me or to you. What am I talking about?” She laughed. “I don’t even know if you’re interested,” she said.

“You’re not traveling alone. I know where you are with the job. I felt the same way until I was sidetracked, so to speak. If that hadn’t happened, I don’t know how things might have turned out. The strain was already beginning to show in little ways.”

“Think you’d ever like to get back into law enforcement?”

“Never given it much thought. Didn’t see the possibility. Living here and doing what I do is what I’ve dreamed of ever since I went to prison. That experience pretty well soured me on public service, law enforcement, the bureaucracy, the government and most other people.”

“A loner, huh?”

“But not a recluse.” He smiled. “Not yet.”

“I felt that.”

“What?”

“It moved. Back to the question. Where do we go?”

“For the moment right here is safer for both of us.”

“Can I say, ‘I might love you.’?”

“Yes.” They squeezed each other, holding on to a definitive moment.

They dressed for the beach and Karen packed a lunch. It was Saturday. No way to know when or where Charley Clay would make a move. Karen believed Brad Coleman was the centerpiece as long as he was around. If anything significant were going to happen immediately, he would be the motivating force. Once he left, it would be in Clay’s hands. A day at the beach with Sam would be nice. She wondered if the very conflict they had talked about in bed was already raising its head.

Daylight came and turned into mid-morning before Morgan Hannah opened her eyes for good. She was tired, and when she moved, she realized she was also sore. She couldn’t recount the number of times she and Brad Coleman made love. He was the consummate lover. Nor could she remember all the things they did, but knew they had each tried to reach into the other’s being, to solidify what they had for the moment. They both considered it fragile and ephemeral, something that could be lost as quickly as it had begun.

She looked at him, sleeping beside her. She was in pain emotionally and frustrated. This was their last day together, and what was she supposed to do? Put it all behind and chalk it up as an interesting time and good sex? Her head was spinning. There were a few unorthodox moments in her life to look back on, but this was different. All her life, by her own standards, she had maintained a relatively moral life; now she was being faced with a major moral decision unlike any other.

The man had turned her world upside down. She was not of an age to throw caution to the wind like an empty-headed teenager and gamble everything, including herself and everything she was, on passion and excitement. He was a criminal, a breaker of laws. No matter what she felt or what he might promise, that was a huge obstacle, and she didn’t believe she could overcome it or accept it. She wished he had never called, then was glad he had.

When he was up and dressed, they sat on the deck having breakfast and discussed what they might do for the day and the evening. The mood was different. Nothing was said of the conversation the night before, but it hung between them.

After breakfast, they walked the beach, feeling time chasing them. As a matter of habit, Brad scanned the people they saw, but took no notice of the couple who followed some distance behind them There were other things on his mind. The world was different, and he didn’t know how to deal with it. This new life was unfamiliar. He didn’t want to be who he was any longer; he wanted to be like Morgan or any of the other people he was seeing on the beach. He wondered what he would have to do to turn things around. Could it be done? How would he do it? Could he manage it? The evening stood before him like a gauntlet, as he imagined it also did for Morgan.