Karen Chaney was sleeping soundly when the telephone rang. She glanced at the clock on the night table and reached for the phone. It was half past twelve.
“Hello?”
“It’s Sam.” His voice was strained and tired. The pain in his ribs and kidney was growing, making it difficult to speak. He had passed some blood earlier and wondered if Ray Breslin had done him serious harm.
“What’s happened? You sound awful,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“Sam...” His humor irritated her.
“We were right. Cedrick Hamilton showed up at Skeeter’s. Problem was, he brought Ray Breslin with him. I think Cedrick’s getting desperate.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not kidding. I got blind-sided.”
“Are you all right? What about Skeeter? Is he okay? Tell me what happened.”
“I caught a billy club on the back of my head and took a couple of kicks in the ribs. My stupidity; I got careless. I’ll live. And Skeeter’s okay. His wife and kids are at my house. I’m gonna be here with Skeeter for a few days; it’s going down this week. That’s when Cedrick told Skeeter to leave.” His breathing was getting difficult.
“That’s too soon. We need more time,” she said.
“You don’t have it. You’ll have to take what you can get and hope somebody turns.”
“What about Breslin? He can’t just let you and Skeeter walk.”
“I’ll take care of Breslin.”
“What are you going to do?”
“You don’t want to walk in that neighborhood, Karen.”
“Sam, I’m not hearing this.”
“You’re right. You’re not. I’d suggest you give your friend a call and tell him what’s happened. I think we need some help,” he said.
“I’m coming out there.”
“No. We’re okay. You need to watch Charley Clay tomorrow. Hamilton called someone and said they couldn’t use Skeeter’s place. I imagine that’s gonna stir things up. When Skeeter goes to work, I’ll call you. I think he’ll be all right there.”
“I think I should come out. Breslin might not wait that long.”
“He’s not ready yet. He knows he’ll have to choose his moment, and he thinks he’s got Skeeter panicked.”
“Anything, I mean anything goes on, I’d better hear from you, Sam.”
“Promise. Call Dougherty.”
“I will. If you don’t call by eight in the morning, I’m on my way.”
“Gotcha.” He hung up the phone and leaned back on the couch to ease the pressure on his ribs. Ettie had cross-taped them and wrapped him in an ace bandage while he was at the house. The wrapping was too tight to be comfortable, but he insisted it be that way. If he needed to move quickly, he didn’t want internal parts of him moving in the wrong direction. His head was still pounding, but he was no longer dizzy and his legs had feeling.
“You really don’t think he’ll come back tonight?” Skeeter asked.
“No. He knows we’ll be on alert. Go on to bed; I’m gonna sleep right here. I’m sure it’ll be more rest than sleep, but I’ll be okay.” The S&W lay on the table in front of him.
“Think you could use that, Sam?”
“I hope he doesn’t try me.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It would be his mistake.” Skeeter Crewes did not question the look in Sam Larkin’s eyes. He got up and went into the bedroom.
At one time during the sleepless night, Sam thought he heard someone outside the house, human footsteps. He got up, took the gun and went outside to look around. The halogen light out next to the road cast some light as far as the house, but not enough to see anything human or inhuman that didn’t want to be seen. It was probably imagination; all his nerves were on the surface. He went back inside and lay down, but his ears wouldn’t rest. He held the gun on his chest instead of putting it back on the table.
Neil Dougherty looked at the clock and picked up the phone.
“Good morning, Belle. I went to sleep, so you’d call and tell me what’s going on up there.” He waited for laughter, but there was none.
“It’s serious time, Blue.”
“What’s up? Our boy Coleman done anything of note?”
“Walked on the beach with the lady next door. Appears he spent the night.”
“I hope you didn’t call just to tell me that.”
“No, the off-load is happening this weekend; I just got word from Larkin.” She explained all that had happened with Cedrick Hamilton, Skeeter, Larkin and Ray Breslin. “It looks like things could get real nasty up here. It doesn’t fit the non-violent profile I was given when I was sent in.”
“Somebody’s gotten greedy or scared,” Dougherty said.
“Looks like. Neil, I think there are a lot more people involved than those I’m aware of. The load is too big for five or six people, but I’m not sure how I can put all that together in four days. I’m sure it’s not just here in Covington. If this guy Coleman is what you say he is, it’s got to go way beyond this town. I think Clay may just be a branch office. Whoever in Washington planned this operation for me didn’t do their homework.”
“It was the only way to play it. If they had sent in a cadre of agents, everyone in town would have known they were there. It’s a small town. A single person was the only way not to alert them. Hey, it worked.”
“It’s too big, Blue. I’m gonna need some help.”
“And you still don’t want the DEA ‘cowboys’ in on it?”
“They’re not all cowboys, but you know what happens. I don’t know which ones are and which ones aren’t, and I don’t have the time to separate them.”
“I agree. If it’s arriving this weekend, it’s either already at sea or leaving immediately. We’ll find it. I’ll notify the powers that be and tell them I think Coleman’s involved; that will allow my team to coordinate with you. I’m also going to get a couple of IRS people I can trust to come in on it. They are masters at turning people, which I believe is our only hope of a clean sweep. You’re becoming quite a gunslinger, Lady, uncovering all this corruption and crime.”
“You know what bothers me the most?”
“What’s that?”
“The only way we ever catch them is by accident.”
“Most of the time,” he said. “You’ll hear from me tomorrow.”
“Are you coming?”
“I don’t know. Let’s see what happens over the next forty-eight hours. And, Karen, if you page me, use the emergency signal. Don’t try to cover too much territory. Cover the people you’ve got: Clay and Reichert. The others will come to them pretty quickly if things are getting close. Good luck.”
“Don’t leave me out here.”
“I won’t.”
Two other people had a sleepless night, but it wasn’t because of physical pain or Sam Larkin’s kind of worry. After they made love, Morgan Hannah and Brad Coleman were back where they started, wanting immediate answers where there were none, fearing the insecurity of postponement and indecision. She wanted to go with him when he left in the morning, but he hadn’t asked. If he did, she would say ‘no’. That was where they were. They were quiet, holding each other, feeling naked skin, warmth, pretending to sleep, each listening to the other breathe. Afraid of words.
Through lidded eyes, Morgan felt the sunrise. She looked at Brad, but couldn’t tell whether he was asleep or not. She kissed his chest, his stomach, moved down and took him in her mouth. There was a soft moan from him, and she knew he had been awake. When he started to move his hips, she pulled him on top of her. The love-making was slow and the culmination a coda to all the thoughts and emotions that had grown within them during the long night that had passed too quickly. Afterwards, they lay looking at each other in silence, an occasional light kiss to a forehead, an eyelid, a neck or a breast. Whisper-kisses. The sun continued to rise. Unstoppable.
“I’ve never said ‘I love you’ to a woman,” Brad said after he got up and dressed.
“There’s time,” she said. “If you said it right now, after only three days, after making love for hours, I would have to doubt you, as I doubt myself. I’m feeling the same thing, but, having been there before, I’m familiar with my own caution and trust it. We have time if it’s supposed to happen.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s realistic,” she said.
“Think you could live in France?” he asked.
“I believe I could live anywhere under the right circumstances.”
“You want to tell me what those might be?”
“I would have to be in love or at least very much in ‘like’, which is what most people are when they think they’re in love. I’d need to think it was relatively stable. I have no desire to live a ‘jet-set’ life or be a gypsy.”
“I guess that lets out being a fugitive,” Brad said. Morgan paused and looked at him. He read the answer in her eyes.
“I couldn’t live like that, wondering every morning if my whole life was going to change by nightfall. I can’t imagine how you’ve done it all these years.” She smiled. “That doesn’t mean an ex-fugitive, who made his peace with the world and whom no one is looking for, couldn’t entice me to live abroad. I have no ties here,” she said.
“I’m working on that first part,” he said. “The second part’s up to you.”
“I gathered that from what you told me last night, but it has to be for you. Because you want it. The freedom of it. Not because you want me. You’ve already had me.”
“Not by a long shot, Morgan. I know that. It’s not ending here, but I do have a few things to do before I leave. That time I’ve been sweating all night is here. I tried to practice a speech, but it didn’t make sense because I was talking to myself, and I felt foolish.” He looked at her face-on. “I want you with me. Somehow, some way, I’m going to make this work, but you’re going to have to have a lot of faith. You won’t know when you’re going to hear from me, but you will hear, one way or another. If I can accomplish what I’m trying to do, I will send for you. Then it’s up to you. Don’t change your life. I won’t ask that of you, but know I’m there.”
“I’ll try. Don’t make it too long, Brad.”
“As soon as I can.” He took her in his arms and kissed her. “That’s worth everything I have.” No more was said.
When he was ready to leave, he handed her an envelope.
“If you ever need to reach me in an emergency, but only in an emergency, call this number. I will get back to you. I love you as much as I can right now, Morgan,” he said and held her.
“I’ll worry,” she said.
“Don’t. I think it’s meant to be.”
He turned, walked out on the deck and onto the beach. He didn’t look back as he walked to Charles Clay’s house. Morgan got out of bed and watched him all the way.
“You look like hell,” Skeeter Crewes said, looking down at Sam Larkin lying on the couch.
“That’s strange; I feel perfect.”
“You gonna protect me?” He said it with skepticism. “I’ll be surprised if you can get off that couch.”
“I can make it,” Sam said, struggling to get upright, which he finally managed. He wasn’t sure he’d be good for much, but he didn’t have a choice. What burned in his mind the most was Ray Breslin. In prison he had learned one primal concept and, though not proud that he did, lived by it out of necessity. “Allow no trespass on your personal space and freedom of choice go unpunished.” Several prisoners gained painful recognition of how strictly Sam Larkin adhered to that principle. Fortunately, no one had tested that resolve since he was released. Ray Breslin had trespassed, and Sam Larkin cringed at the thoughts that moved, like an unbridled storm, through his mind.
“Here. Take these.” Skeeter held out two aspirin and a glass of water. Sam took them without argument.
“Did you call Ettie?”
“Yeah. They fine. Say the massa’s house right comfortable, and the TV reception’s better’n here. ’Course I knew that.” Skeeter laughed. “Other than take me to work, what else are you gonna do today?”
“Find Ray Breslin.”
“I was afraid you would say that. You a crazy man? What are you gonna do with him when you find him? Point out the spots he missed and let him kick your ass again? You ain’ in no shape to take him on. You gonna get hurt bad this time.”
“You go after an animal like an animal. That’s not always the fair way to do it, but Ray Breslin is gonna wish he never heard of Sam Larkin.”
“Don’t sound like the Sam Larkin I know. What is it you always say, ‘Don’t go in that neighborhood’? You better take your own advice, and let it come down when it comes down. Let the law handle it.”
“I wish I could, but he’s not finished yet, and he is the law. He can’t leave us standin’ around, Skeeter. Not me, not you or your family. He’s in too deep. It’s the way he thinks. He’s got a little power runnin’ through his blood after last night, and he’s gonna try to use it. I’ve got to stop that.” Sam stood up awkwardly, bracing himself on the arm of the couch to gain his feet. “Come on. Let’s check on Ettie and the children. See if they need anything and then get you to work.”
“You reckon they gonna be...”
“Breslin won’t come to my house. He’s not smart, but he’s already been warned, and he knows better than to try to take a man on his own territory.”
There was no one Bill Reichert could ask, nowhere he could look that he hadn’t searched, no explanation hiding in his brain. He pictured himself on an ice floe, drifting into a warm sea with no way to save himself. The box was the key. Intuitively he knew that much. The key to what, he didn’t know, but he was certain finding it would solve all his problems.
After searching the house, the previous morning, he had gone to his office, but couldn’t unearth a clue to what he might have needed a box for. He spent the rest of the day drinking, but neither drunken solace nor his lost memory kicked in. He even asked Isabel if she had seen a brown cardboard box anywhere, she smiled and said ‘no’, didn’t ask what was in it, and dismissed him.
It was six o’clock in the morning; he lay awake, looking at the ceiling. In three hours he would meet Charley Clay and hand over a million dollars in bearer bonds. They were in his briefcase; he had checked them ten times. The briefcase was under his bed, and God only knew how many times during the night he leaned over the side of the bed and felt for it. A million dollars to get caught, which he had convinced himself would be the ultimate outcome.
After showering and dressing and checking to see that Isabel was still asleep, he went to the bar and took several large swallows of vodka. The heat of the alcohol coursed through his body. A couple more and his brain would be back to normal, the fears numbed, solutions—rational or irrational—available. He took two more swallows. If he could get through this one day, he would be okay. He made a decision during the night, and the alcohol was giving him the courage to believe he could follow through with it.
He was going to run; there was no other choice. Money was no problem, and he already knew how he was going to get it out of the country. In half a day, he could take care of the instrumentation and transactions that were necessary. Bernardo Hieronymous Ortega taught him more than he realized. He wasn’t even going to take any clothes. Bill Reichert was going to make himself disappear before the shit hit the fan. He took a couple of more hits from the bottle and began to feel good about his prospects. Fuck the box; fuck whatever might happen to the rest of them, and fuck Isabel. He wished no harm to any of them, but whatever came to them, they brought upon themselves. All except Isabel. He was beginning to feel better than good, confident again and superior. Leaving to meet Charley Clay, he paused in the driveway and looked at the house he loved. One more night in you, and fuck you, too.
Breakfast was uneventful. Looking at Charlie, who lived within his own pose of wisdom, shrewdness and good judgment, made Reichert feel like giggling. If the man only knew what he planned to do. He was angry that he couldn’t gloat over his new freedom. Most of his anger was directed toward Morgan Hannah. She was the only person in his life who had ever made herself more important to Bill Reichert than himself, and he knew she was lost.
When Charley Clay left The Covington House with the brown manila envelope containing one million dollars in bearer bonds, Reichert felt a great weight lift from his shoulders. It was over; he had performed his last act for The Company. Let them carry on without him. Only then would they realize what he did for them.
From the dining room, He watched Clay pull away from where he was parked and another car leave behind him. There was a time he would have taken notice; now he didn’t give it a thought. The alcohol was beginning to wear thin; it was time for another drink. There was a full bottle in the car; he was good for the day.
Most of the cars Karen Chaney saw on Route 37 on Sunday morning were filled with Matthew’s Island residents on their way to the numerous churches along the road. The sun was bright, its light creating gold doilies out of the Spanish Moss that hung from the limbs of ancient live oaks. She was concerned that Clay might spot her following him. Once they passed the turn-off to his restaurant, she allowed more distance between them, confident he was on his way to Sangaree. She looked down Osprey Landing Road when they passed the intersection, hoping Sam was okay.
Karen’s badge got her through the gate without question. She parked below Morgan Hannah’s house, which gave her safety and allowed clear observation of Clay’s front door. He was going up the steps carrying a bag of groceries when she arrived. She didn’t see the envelope he had with him when he left The Covington House.
Clay was in the house for less than thirty minutes, then came out and got back into his car. As she pulled out of her parking spot to follow him, she saw Brad Coleman come through the front door with a suitcase and a briefcase. Her heart dropped, not knowing who to watch. Coleman was leaving, and there was nothing she could do to track him. Clay was her object, and experience told her never to leave the object to chase a wild goose. With luck, Clay would go home or somewhere else that would give her a chance to call Dougherty.
Despite the beautiful day, Henry Bell State Park was not crowded. By mid-June, it would be difficult to find a parking space at any of the marsh waysides. Wilbur Crowder and his family arrived in the park a little before eleven o’clock. There was only one other car parked in the area. The plan was to spend the day bird-watching—their ten-year-old daughter’s latest fascination—picnicking and walking the park’s nature trail. While Mr. Crowder was getting his camera bag and binoculars out of the trunk, his wife and daughter walked toward the boardwalk that led to an observation gazebo fifty yards into the marsh.
He was closing the trunk lid, when his blood turned cold at the sound of a scream so shrill and terror-stricken that his first thought was that a member of his family had been lost. He dropped the bag and the binoculars, turned and saw his wife shielding their daughter against the sight of the car parked facing the marsh. The screaming continued as he made his way toward them on legs weakened by fear. When he reached them, they were sitting on the ground, holding onto each other and sobbing. He reached out to his wife who gave him a head gesture toward the car.
Looking inside, Wilbur Crowder felt his stomach turn and bile come up into his throat. He wanted to turn away, but his eyes were locked on the grotesque scene inside the car. It was a man, what was left of a man. The top of his head was gone, its detritus splashed on the windshield, the dash and the back of the seat. Pieces of the headliner, ripped and heavy with blood and human tissue, hung from the roof of the car. When he managed to turn away from the carnage, he fell to his knees and cried. He didn’t know why, didn’t know the man; it was the overwhelming sadness of it that overcame him.
After getting his wife and daughter back in their car, Wilbur Crowder set out to find a park ranger. The binoculars and camera case remained on the ground.