The same ambulance that carried Cady from the beach to the medical clinic arrives at Brogan’s beach house eight minutes later. With the same EMTs. And from the looks on their faces, they’re surprised to see me again. Or maybe just surprised we’re at Brogan’s house—with no Brogan.
Lanette and I guide Aunt Charlotte down the wet front stairs. By the time we reach the bottom, Officer Merrimack is pulling up in his Ocracoke Police cruiser. He jumps out, slams the car door that says Protect and Serve, and splashes right up to me. “We’ve got some serious talking to do.”
I hand Aunt Charlotte over to the female EMT. She guides her into the back of the wagon, and climbs in with her.
I look at Merrimack. “The first thing you’re going to do is arrest the guy tied up on Brogan’s deck.”
He looks at me like I spit in his face.
Inside the EMT wagon, my aunt looks frail. Her red hair anemic from rain, her movements saying that beneath all her heartiness every bone is made of glass.
Lanette climbs into the ambulance with her. Then looks out at me. “Raleigh, your arm.”
Blood drips. But I can’t feel any wound. “I’m fine.”
The male EMT leads me past Merrimack to the wagon’s open back door. An antiseptic odor wafts out. And the faintest scent of patchouli. For the first time in my life, I’m glad to smell my aunt’s musky perfume. She is alive.
“Not a deep wound,” the EMT guy says. “You’re lucky.”
I stare at my aunt. Lanette. If luck existed, then, yes, I’m lucky.
The EMT washes my wound with a clear liquid. I stare down, wondering if he’s using sterile water when the sting hits. Alcohol. I suck air between my teeth, close my eyes.
“Hurts?” He looks up. “Bad?”
“No.” Good. I can feel. “Thanks.”
He tapes gauze over the wound, tells me to press down to staunch the bleeding, and makes me promise to have a doctor check it later.
I nod. “Can you help my aunt now, please?”
As he closes the ambulance’s back door, I see the female EMT giving Aunt Charlotte something. He climbs in the driver’s side, turns on the whirling red-and-white lights, and leaves.
“Get in my car,” Merrimack says.
I climb into the front seat. It smells like old socks.
He opens the driver’s door. “You’re supposed to get in back.”
“And you’re supposed to get the guy off the porch. He’s riding in back.”
Merrimack slams the door. Light flashes through the back window. I turn to see another police cruiser pulling up. Two young guys get out, although only one’s wearing a police uniform and it doesn’t fit him right. The pants are two inches short. Merrimack leads them into Brogan’s house.
Six minutes later, they come out with Luis. They’ve removed the net, but Luis’ hands are cuffed behind his back. They place him in the other police car, and Merrimack gets behind this wheel.
He flicks on his windshield wipers. “How could you let all this happen?”
I watch the rubber blades scrape the glass. The rain’s slow. The storm’s passed.
When I don’t reply, Merrimack shoves the gear in Drive, and heads for the main road. The other cruiser follows. “You’ve got nothing to say?” he asks.
I fix my eyes on the blurred pavement ahead and think of my dad’s courtroom, where I’ve heard lawyers who make everything sound like somebody else’s fault.
“You should’ve called me.” Merrimack stomps on the gas pedal, throwing me back into the seat. “What were you thinking, not calling the police?”
“Nothing was really clear. Until now.”
“Clear?” He sneers. “It’s not your job to make things clear.”
I wish my dad was here. He could pound his gavel. And I wish it was okay for me to lean over and whap this guy on the head. Instead, I stare out the side window. The Irwin S. Garrish highway shines black with rain.
Merrimack starts to say something else, but his radio crackles.
“Merrimack, you there?”
He snatches the handset, thumbs a button. “Yeah, on my way to the medical clinic. Two people needing attention.” He glances over. “Maybe three.”
“Feds called. They’re on their way.”
“Feds?” His foot slips off the gas pedal. The car slows. “What kinda Feds?”
“FBI.”
“What do they want?”
“Called to confirm Brogan’s yacht blew up. They’re sending a helicopter with two agents. They’ll be landing at the med clinic’s helipad.”
Merrimack rams his foot back on the gas. “Why are the Feds coming?”
I stare out the window. Merrimack needs some time in my dad’s courtroom. You can learn a ton about chain of commands. Local, state, federal. I’ve learned that when the feds get involved this fast, they already knew something—without any local authorities realizing it.
“They asked about a girl.”
Merrimack looks over. His fatty eyes look meaner than ever. “What girl?”
“Some girl who knew what Brogan was doing, they said. Do you know where she is?”
I’d like to stick my tongue out. Instead I wave my hand.
“She’s here.” He does not sound glad. “I got her.”
“Good. Feds want to talk to her.”