The skies never cleared from the morning’s storm. When Sam Larkin and Skeeter Crewes started back from Charleston, it was just after one, yet every car had its lights on. The wind was fresh, and wild Pampas and marsh grasses leaned at a forty-five degree angle toward the East. Creeks and rivers had whitecaps, and flashes of lightning and thunder were so sharp and loud that the two men driving toward Covington flinched at the Armageddon playing out above them. When the rain came, the oncoming cars’ lights became ghost-like halos floating toward them and passing by.
“Looks like Judgment Day,” Skeeter said, as they passed down the two-lane road.
“Was for Ray Breslin.”
“That doc said a coupla more hours an’ he mighta been dead. I’da hated to try to explain that.”
“He took the first swing,” Sam said stoically.
“You’d lose that defense, lookin’ at him.” Skeeter was silent for a moment. “You were right scary, Sam.”
“Yeah.”
“Why? I didn’t know rightly what to do. I mean I know you was protectin’ us and the boys an’ all, but you’da killed him. I know you woulda.”
“It’s a long story, Skeeter. I’ll tell you about it sometime. Somebody tried to do something to me once that I didn’t want done. He didn’t accomplish what he wanted to, but he left me in worse shape than Breslin is. I vowed that would never happen again.”
“How’d you leave him?” Skeeter asked.
“He died. It was needless.”
“Maybe not.” They were quiet for a long stretch. When they made the turn onto Route 37 at Brownsboro, the rain began to let up, but the skies remained ominous.
“Wonder what Officer Chaney’s been doin’ since we left?”
“Getting ready, I guess.”
“You think they’ll move now or wait till the load comes in?”
“I’m not calling the shots, but I think, if they’re smart, they won’t wait. One of those people will drop, and then they can package it. Breslin, by himself, is not a lot of security.”
“It ain’ gonna stop, you know. The smugglin’, I mean.”
“No, it won’t, but it might take a vacation.”
“You think weed is wrong, Sam?”
“Doesn’t matter what I think; it’ll always be here. There’s no way on God’s green earth to stop that. Just seems there’d be a better way to handle it,” he said as they came into Covington. “I’m going to go by Karen’s and see what’s happening. If she’s there, I’ll let you take the Rover home. You can call Ettie and tell her you’re coming.”
There were three cars Sam did not recognize in front of Karen’s townhouse.
“Maybe I ought to wait out here,” Skeeter said.
“Come in with me.”
One question had not been addressed on the trip to and from Charleston. Skeeter was curious, and Sam was trying to figure out how to handle it. What would happen to the money that Bitta Smalls and Marvon Jeffries had shown up with that morning? It was the accident that appeared to have broken the whole thing open.
On Sangaree Island, Morgan Hannah walked in light rain. The beach was peaceful in the rain, hers alone, softer than when the sun baked the sand and people were about. The wet coolness was a balm to her bare feet and her spirit. The early morning hours had been spent watching the storm. There had been no sleep since Brad Coleman said good-by. The hours since then were a confusion of thought and decision-making. He had given her nothing, yet she was left with something: hope, some promise and wishful thinking.
Passing Charles Clay’s beach house, she looked at it wistfully, wishing Brad would step through the glass doors and wave. It wouldn’t happen; she might never see him again. The prospect of that gave her pain. He had simply walked away from her without looking back, perhaps out of her life. It was hard to know whether to be angry at him for being what he was or at herself for even considering him a part of her future. Her feelings changed from moment to moment. In some of those moments, she was glad she didn’t know where he was or how to reach him, fearing it might rush her into a bad decision.
A flight of pelicans glided overhead, carried along by invisible air currents. She watched them follow the shoreline out of sight. There was no effort in their flight; they sailed as smoothly as an ice cube on a piece of glass. No life was as calm and unruffled as the flight of those birds. Morgan struggled to put “if only” aside. She would wait, but not too long, and she would commit, but not impulsively. At best, she had found what she was looking for; at worst, she would be back where she had been a couple of weeks ago, a little more lonely, perhaps, a little harder and less vulnerable, maybe carrying a new emptiness, but Morgan Hannah had no doubts about surviving.
When Karen led Sam Larkin and Skeeter Crewes into the living room, Sam was uneasy. There were six men sitting in a room that he viewed as Karen’s private domain. As far as he knew, he was the only one to have shared it with her, which stimulated a feeling of invasion. He picked out the man he assumed to be Neil Dougherty before Karen introduced any of them. There was an implied comfort and familiarity the man’s body expressed without any words being spoken. He was correct in his assumption.
“I don’t know which cliché is most appropriate, but it’s good to meet you, Sam. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“I think that covers the field at both ends,” Sam replied as they shook hands. After the introductions, Skeeter looked uncomfortable.
“Why don’t you take the Rover and go on home, Skeeter,” Sam said.
“I’ll stay if you think you’ll need me.”
“No, go on. Ettie’ll start to get worried if you don’t show up soon. I don’t think anybody’ll come out there, but if they do, call here immediately and don’t open any doors,” Karen said. “I gave Ettie the number.”
“Okay, but I hate to miss the party.”
“Good to meet you,” Dougherty said.
“You, too. See y’all,” he said and left.
“He okay?” Dougherty asked.
“Don’t worry about Skeeter,” Sam said. “He’s as cool as the other side of the pillow.”
“Karen told me you had a little confrontation. I can see. You feeling all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“What about him?”
“You’ll have to ask him,” Sam said. He didn’t smile.
“Sam, I told Neil I wanted you in on this.”
“I can’t do that, Karen. I have no legal standing. Besides I think you have plenty of help here.”
“I want you in,” she said. “Unless you don’t want to be.”
“I think that’s up to Mr. Dougherty,” Sam said. “You told me he was your supervisor. Dougherty made a gesture of non-resistance with his hands. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on before I say yea or nay,” he said.
“You essentially know where we are,” Karen said. “We’ve got a confession from Ray Breslin, who’s in federal custody. Might get more from him tomorrow after he’s questioned further. We’ve got one primary dead by his own hand, a banker, two lawyers and numerous others Breslin dropped, and we’re tracking a large shipment at sea. Neil isolated that shortly after it left Jamaica.”
“Sometime you’ll have to tell me how you do that,” Sam said to Dougherty.
“Did I miss anything, Neil?”
“Only Brad Coleman, who, thus far, we have nothing on that we can prove. Even if Clay or someone names him, what can we really prove he’s done? We’ve tried to paper-trail him for six years and gotten nothing. I’d say unless we could catch him unloading, which Brad Coleman doesn’t do, we might as well concentrate on what we have here. The question is who can we break? Who knows enough to corroborate Breslin’s story? Then, if we can get an arrest announcement, the dominos may begin to fall,” Dougherty said.
“A thought just occurred to me,” Karen said. “Anyone seen a paper today?”
“I did,” one of the IRS people said.
“Anything about the superintendent of schools committing suicide?”
“Not a word. I would have noticed.”
“Somebody’s holding it out,” Karen said.
“Must be somebody with clout,” Dougherty said. “However, I’m sure it’s gotten out to the people who need to know. Any ideas on who’s the most vulnerable, Sam?”
“We really haven’t had enough investigative time to determine that,” Karen said. “It’s taken us this long just to find out who’s involved, but, from what Breslin said, Bill Reichert, the banker, has been shaky about this deal from the beginning. Breslin doesn’t like him or trust him. He also identified him as the money man, said he went to Mexico not too long ago, but nobody, including him, was supposed to know.”
“Mexico was money, for sure, but looking for a connection there is like searching a honeycomb. He’s probably our mark. Attorneys are particularly vulnerable to the IRS, but that will be slower. I think it’s Reichert.”
“I agree,” Sam said.
“You know him?”
“Just by reputation. From what I’ve heard, he’s not known to be strong or reliable.”
“How do we do it?” Karen asked.
“He’s a banker, and he’s got Charles Clay behind him,” Sam said. “I don’t think legal threats alone are going to do much.”
“The other kind are against the law,” Dougherty said.
“I think we can make him come to us without doing anything illegal.”
“You really think so?” Karen asked.
“Why don’t we go see?” He looked at his watch. “The bank will close soon. I don’t think you can wait. By tomorrow they’ll know about Breslin and Hamilton from somewhere. You and I did pretty well this morning, why don’t we go have a talk with Reichert? Worst that can happen is we go after somebody else tomorrow.”
“Take a warrant with you, Karen,” Dougherty said handing her an envelope. “It’s open and signed.”
Karen Chaney looked at Sam. “Any idea how to approach this?”
“Not a clue, but we’ll know when we get there. I just hope he’s in.”
Bill Reichert had managed to pull himself together after Charley Clay’s call, but only with the help of a couple of long pulls from the pint bottle of vodka he had left the office to buy. To his way of thinking, he was reacting rationally to a set of irrational circumstances. Cedrick was dead. He knew the impact of that had not yet set in. All of the preparations were in place for a permanent disappearance. That disappearance, he believed, was unalterable.
It was possible; there was some money remaining for a start. In addition to what he kept at the bank, there was a hundred thousand dollars behind the trunk liner of his car, his psychological safety net. It was still there. There was also the four hundred thousand Ortega had arranged for him to place in Mexico City and Guadeloupe. The documentation had come in and it was available.
Everything was ready. He would leave as soon as the bank closed. He opened his briefcase, removed the bottle, held it to his lips and took a long swallow. He could make it through the next two hours.
Reichert was clearing the drawers in his desk, when the knock came. Doris had been told not to disturb him. His anger flared, but he suppressed it. In two days, he would no longer exist. It wasn’t worth getting upset over. He went to the door and opened it.
The secretary, some kind of officer—not a policeman nor a deputy—and a scruffy-looking, long-haired man were standing there.
“Yes?” he said, trying to maintain his calm.
“These people would like to talk to you. They insisted, Mr. Reichert.” Doris said, her tone as disapproving and frightened as the look on her face. Reichert continued to stand in the doorway, shoulders back, assuming the authority of his position.
“May I ask what this is about?”
“I believe it’s a matter best discussed in private, Mr. Reichert,” Chaney said. The banker looked into her eyes and saw no quarter would be given.
“Of course. I have a few minutes. Come in, please.” He allowed them to pass, closed the door and went to sit behind his desk. His two visitors sat facing him, the desk in-between. A game warden; that’s what she was. He smiled at his concern and relaxed.
Everything would proceed as planned. These two would not take much of his time; he wouldn’t allow it.
“Now. How can I help you?”
“First, Mr. Reichert, let me introduce and identify ourselves. My name is Karen Chaney. I am a federal law enforcement officer attached to the DEA. This is Sam Larkin. He is a local resident, teacher, and holds no official authority.” Reichert stared at them without saying anything. The last two gulps of vodka had taken hold, but they weren’t enough to overcome this.
“And?”
“Just so you know who we are officially.”
“I think you’ve established that,” he said. “Now what’s this all about? You have me in the dark here.”
“I thought you would know why we are here, Mr. Reichert,” Karen said.
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“We’re here to talk about your involvement with Charles Clay—”
“He’s my attorney,” he said with irritation. He felt pain in his groin as the need to urinate exerted itself. He adjusted his sitting position and crossed his legs.
“Raymond Breslin, who is now in federal custody; Cedrick Hamilton, who is dead; Jerry Salyer, Brad Coleman, a fugitive;” Reichert’s banker’s face fell with every name. “Doctor Harry Townes, Turner Lockett, now dead; Doctor Winthrop Bailey, James Edwards, attorney-at-law and others to be named.”
There was silence. Bill Reichert stared at the green blotter, set so neatly in the leather corners of its pad on his desk. He squeezed his thighs together in an attempt to ward off the pain that threatened to overwhelm him. He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t ask to be excused because they would never allow that. They were here because he was a criminal in their eyes. They didn’t understand. He wasn’t that; he wasn’t a bad guy. He looked at the clock. An hour and a half. He would be gone. It wouldn’t happen. He knew it.
“Mr. Reichert?”
“Yes?”
“We can help you if you cooperate,” Karen said.
“I don’t think I could do that, Ms. Chaney,” he answered.
“Have you ever been to prison, sir?” It was the first time the man with the long hair had spoken. He was a nobody, no legal authority the woman had said. Despite his fear, he would not subject himself to the humiliation of being questioned by a long-haired school teacher. That’s what she said he was. Why was he even here?
“Have you?” Reichert asked. He looked at Sam, trying to assert some degree of power. “I guess you might have.” He looked away toward the window.
“Would you like me to tell you what it’s like? I’m sure you’re thinking of all the stories you’ve heard about country club prisons. You might get sent to one of those, and you might even see a golf course, but you won’t have a club in your hand. Maybe a rake or a shovel or a pair of clippers. That’s the easy part. Everybody serving time there will not be like you and Charles Clay. There will be some rough trade there, who just lucked out and should be in a more secure facility.”
Reichert felt the nausea in his stomach growing from the pain in the middle of him. His breath was becoming more labored. He had to work through it. For the first time in his life he would have to take care of himself, be responsible for Bill Reichert. Sitting there in his expensively furnished and sterile office, surrounded by all the symbols of respect where there was none, he realized he was being asked to do something he didn’t know how to do.
“I don’t think they’d put someone like me in with...”
“You ever hear of John Dean, Mr. Reichert?”
“Watergate?”
“Know what his greatest fear was if he was convicted? Rape, Mr. Reichert. And he was a presidential advisor. That worried him more than the time.” Again Reichert said nothing. Karen thought she saw his chin pucker. “But that’s not your biggest worry; maintaining your sanity is. You are losing your life. Solitude will become treasured and there is none. People outside are living by their own rules. Where you’ll be, everything in your life will be according to someone else’s rules. And you will live all your life in the presence of others, no time alone to think and reason. You’re going to have a hard time making it, Mr. Reichert Take my word for it. There will, of course, be ways to kill yourself if you’re clever, but I don’t think you probably have the courage for that.” Bill Reichert closed his eyes as if to shut the whole scene out. “You could make it easier on yourself. I’m sure Officer Chaney, here, can exercise some influence on your behalf.”
Reichert was silent. Eyes closed. The pain was becoming unbearable. He couldn’t speak, afraid he would lose control of his body if he opened his mouth. Bile, hovering in his throat, was threatening to explode all over his desk. He could feel tears forming in his eyes. Karen Chaney saw the transformation, the pain in the man’s face. He grimaced to stave off the disintegration she saw occurring before her.
“Mr. Reichert, are you okay?” She asked.
“I need to…I need to…” His eyes squeezed tightly shut. A look of helplessness overtook the pain on his face. He tried to stand and felt the warmth as his bladder began to empty itself. He sat back down. Pain and helplessness were replaced by humiliation. A flash of cognizance made him wish he were with Cedrick Hamilton. It was all over. Cliché of all clichés.
“Mr. Reichert?” she said again. His face was that of a shamed child. Sam and Karen were both aware of what had happened and were embarrassed for him. He looked at each of them and they saw the plea in his eyes. His mouth was tight and his chin was breaking up.
“I had an accident,” he mumbled as the first tears began their course down his cheeks.
“We know, Mr. Reichert. It’s all right.”
He took a tissue from the box on his desk and wiped his eyes. His chest heaved and a loud sob preceded his breaking down completely.
“We need to talk, Mr. Reichert. We can help you if you cooperate,” Karen said.
Reichert put his head down, looking for the right answer, but there was nothing there. He had to stay in his office. As long as he was here, he would be safe. That was the goal, he decided, to stay behind his desk. These two people had destroyed him and he hadn’t put up a fight, never even taken up for himself. He wiped his eyes again and sat up straight. He looked at Karen Chaney. She was his salvation.
“You would have to cooperate fully, Mr. Reichert, and it would have to be now. Everyone else is going to be arrested, too. The problem for you is that it’s first come, first served. If we get what we need from someone else, your information won’t be worth anything. And don’t think for a minute that no one else is going to talk.” Bill Reichert sat up straight in his chair, decision made. He wiped his eyes.
“I can give it all to you, Ms. Chaney, except Brad Coleman. Whatever I could say about him would be supposition and hearsay. I couldn’t prove anything except maybe that he came to South Carolina. How much time?”
“That’s not for me to decide,” Karen said, “but I believe I can assure your safety, if not your comfort, in prison.”
“What else is there to negotiate? I’m new at this.”
“There is nothing, sir. I have a warrant and will advise you of your rights here; however, another federal officer will be driving you to Charleston, where you will be formally arraigned and have your statement taken. Be aware that whatever you say in the car on the way up there will be Miranda-protected. That applies to any conversation with any law officer from this point on. Do you understand that?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.” He felt relieved. Knew it was coming and now it was here. “I guess I should get an attorney, but I don’t know who to call.”
“I would suggest someone in Charleston; I think things in Covington could get a little hot. Mr. Reichert, I have to advise you that any holding back of information or any attempt at further negotiation will render our agreement null and void. If you help us, we will help you to the limits of our power. That’s all I can guarantee. Once we have your information, a lawyer and a prosecutor might sweeten the deal, but I wouldn’t count on it. Don’t play games with us.”
“I understand,” he said.
“I hope you do.” There was a warning in Karen Chaney’s voice.
She advised him of his rights. When she was finished, the banker remained seated at his desk.
“We have to go now,” she said.
“I can’t.” Reichert looked down at his pants and then to Karen for help. His tears began again and he wiped them away.
“Take off your blazer. Now, where is your briefcase?” He reached down beside his desk and lifted it up to her. She opened it, took out the almost empty vodka bottle, which Reichert looked at longingly, and after examining them, emptied the papers into a drawer and closed it. “Put your blazer over your left arm and hold your briefcase in your left hand in front of you. I won’t cuff you, but we will hurt you if you try anything. We’ll make it through the office as quickly as we can. I don’t think anyone will notice. If they do, I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” he said as he did as she had suggested. “I’m not a bad guy am I? Like those real criminals you arrest?”
“You broke the law, Mr. Reichert. Put other people at risk. That makes you a criminal in the eyes of the law. One of the bad guys.”
The three of them walked out of his office. Doris Singleton sat at her desk, looking at him for an explanation, wondering if the bank were being robbed. He stopped for a moment and turned toward her.
“Doris, if anyone calls, anyone,” Reichert said with a smile to put her at ease, “Tell them I am going to be out of town for a couple of days. I’ll call you on Wednesday.” He looked to Karen Chaney, and she nodded her head affirmatively. With Bill Reichert in the middle, they left the bank.
As soon as they were through the door, Doris Singleton picked up the telephone and dialed Charley Clay’s number. It was busy.
“Mrs. Breslin?”
“Yes,” the woman said.
“This is Charley Clay. Ray around?”
“No. No, he’s not. As a matter-of-fact, I’m a little worried about him.”
“And why is that, Miz Breslin?” Clay asked.
“Because he hasn’t been home in two days. I s’pose he’s on some kind of work for the service, but he usually calls in.”
“Well, I wouldn’t worry too much. I imagine in his line of work it’s hard to tell when somethin’s gonna come up that you have to handle.”
“Yes.”
“Listen, if you hear from him, would you have him call me; it’s pretty important. He has my number.”
“Yes, sir, I will.”
“Just have him call.”
“I will, Mr. Clay.”
An uneasy feeling permeated Charley Clay’s thoughts. First Cedrick’s death and now Ray disappearing, and, beyond these things, Bill Reichert’s attitude. Too many unusual things were happening, and he wasn’t sure how to view them. Wanted to toss it off to coincidence, but found it difficult to convince himself of that. The risk he had always found exciting and invigorating was becoming uncomfortable. He was lost in this train of thought when the telephone rang.
“Charles Clay.”
“Mr. Clay, this is Doris Singleton. Over at the bank?” She sounded near tears.
“What’s wrong, Doris?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Clay. Two people came to the bank to talk to Mr. Reichert, and they just left with him in their car. He said he wouldn’t be back for a couple of days. One of them was some kind of police officer, and the other one, the man, looked rough. He didn’t look like a police officer. He had a pony tail and—”
“Hold on, Doris,” he interrupted. “You’re going so fast, I can’t keep up. He left with them? Did he say anything?”
“Just that he wouldn’t be in for a couple of days. Do you think it’s some kind of bank robbery? I don’t know what to do.”
“No, I don’t think it’s a bank robbery, Doris. Did he look like he was being forced?”
“No, sir. He wasn’t forced. What should I do? Call the police?”
“No, Doris. Please don’t do that. Just take care of business as usual. I’m sure everything will be all right. And, Doris, I wouldn’t say anything to anyone about those two people. Probably just taking him out to look at a property for a loan. Something like that. Don’t you worry.”
“If you say so, Mr. Clay. I’ll try.”
“You do that. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you, Mr. Clay.”
Clay sat back in the large swivel chair behind his desk, his hands clasped, fingers interwoven across his middle as though he were glorying in the satisfaction of having won a big case.
“Well, I guess that’s that,” he said to the emptiness of his office. He didn’t consider running though there was plenty of money. He didn’t have the energy or the desire. He reminisced about his wife—the one love of his life—their joy and excitement in building the house on Sangaree, his buying the restaurant, and her death, which he considered the end of both their lives. He felt drowsy and relaxed. There was nothing to do except close his eyes and wait for what he knew was coming. “No regrets,” he whispered to himself.
Bill Reichert was on his way to Charleston; two of Neil Dougherty’s team were on their way to Palmetto Island to pay a call on Jerry Salyer. Karen Chaney and Sam Larkin sat in her car, which was parked across from Charles Clay’s office. Neil Dougherty and one of the IRS agents had just been admitted through the front door. Once it began to crumble, it fell fast. Often on a case, she found herself building a relationship with the people she was after. With this case, she hadn’t had time, didn’t really get to know them.
“Sam,” she said as they waited for Neil to bring Clay out, “you know this case is as much yours as it is mine.”
“You’re wrong there, Lady. All I was trying to do was stay away from it.”
“You broke it, Sam. You got Breslin. You got Bill Reichert. I’m not sure what I did.”
“Plenty,” he said.
“You were pretty rough on Reichert. I don’t think I could have stood up under the pressure you put on him.”
“It was necessary for us and for him. He had to know what he was risking. I saved him. Maybe.”
“How much did you know before we hooked up on this thing?”
“More than I wanted to. It just kept comin’ at me and I couldn’t dodge it,” he said.
“I’m glad you couldn’t.” They were silent, feeling the same awkwardness they felt the first time they were alone together. “You know, I don’t think they really thought they were bad guys,” she said.
“Were they?” Sam looked at her.
“They broke the law.”
“Lots of good guys break the law. Do you think they were bad guys?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. That’s what bothers me. I don’t know how I feel about it. If it were heroin or coke, it would be easy, but this? I don’t know. I try to believe we stopped a lot of people from being hurt, but I think that’s wishful thinking.”
“You can’t save people from themselves. Who the hell knows what we did? I don’t.”
“What I can’t understand is why some of them got involved. I mean it couldn’t have been just for the money; most of them had enough before this ever started.”
“I’m sure greed had a lot to do with it. There’s never enough. And yearning for excitement. I’d guess they saw themselves as harmless outlaws. I don’t think these guys had a clue about what they were really doing, but that doesn’t make them innocent.”
“Accidental smuggling?” Karen laughed. “No, they’re not innocent; I’m just not sure how guilty they are.”
Neil Dougherty, another agent and Clay came out the door. The attorney was in handcuffs, which upset Karen Chaney. They weren’t necessary, but Neil didn’t know that. He went by the book. Sam watched every step Charles Clay took, felt the pavement under his feet. He had walked there.
“It’s a painful thing to see a man destroyed,” he said, “even when he brings it on himself.”
The car with the three men in it rolled away toward Charleston. Karen Chaney and Sam Larkin were left with the same sense of emptiness people feel in airports when they watch a plane taxi away from the terminal or wave goodbye to visiting friends as they depart for home. There is nothing of them left and nothing to fill the void.
“Sam, can we go to your house?” Karen said when the car was out of sight.
“I wouldn’t take you anywhere else,” he answered and started the car.