Chapter 18

The next day was Saturday. It arrived with a massive storm that swept across the Lowcountry with spears of lightning and crescendos of thunder that shook the building and rattled everything that wasn’t nailed down. Rain was driven sideways, hitting the windows like staccato gunfire that woke Connor from a dream in which M4s were blazing from every corner of his mind. He felt the dead weight of a buddy against him in a ditch, until he opened his eyes and realized that Clooney had jumped up on the bed and had burrowed against him as close as possible.

The tempest was so furious that he practically had to carry the old boy downstairs to do his business. Once they were back upstairs he made a pot of coffee and had just poured himself a cup when his phone rang.

It was Donna Ronson, who sounded overly animated about something, her voice bubbling like champagne. “I found him,” she said.

“Found who?”

“Joey Barber. After we talked yesterday, I remembered the name of the company he used to work for. Turns out he split a couple months ago, but the guy I spoke with told me where he thought the incel fucktard is working.”

“The what?”

“Incel,” she repeated. “Stands for involuntary celibate. Total dicks who can’t get laid, and are too stupid to figure out it’s because they look like cavemen and smell like piss. Think women are on this planet just to give ‘em sex. Anyway, this guy I talked to told me where he is.”

“You have an address?”

“Not exactly, but I know where he’s working. He got a temp gig at a plantation that does a lot of weddings and music festivals.”

Not as definitive as Connor would have liked, but better than he had just a minute ago. “This plantation. Do you have a name for it?”

“I do, but that’s not the way this is going to work.”

“I just want to talk to him—”

“And I guarantee you, that’s not going to happen,” Mrs. Ronson assured him.

“Why is that?”

“Cuz of the way he is. I know the rat bastard, and he’d just as soon shoot you as look at you.”

Her impression of Joey Barber was much different than Connor’s initial take. Sure, the guy had seemed reserved and reluctant to talk, but Connor had never felt threatened. Of course, that was before Ronson had been killed, before Cherine Dupree had mentioned Barber as a possible accomplice in the attempted copper heist. The stakes had changed, and Barber had cut and run.

“I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Ronson, but I can take care of myself.”

She made a noise that sounded like “huh,” then said, “Just like you took care of Will?”

“I already told you, whatever your husband was up to—”

“I know,” she interrupted him. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“And I still want to talk to Barber.”

“Which is why I’m going with you,” she announced.

“What? No way—”

“Look, Jack. Hope it’s okay if I call you that, ‘cause I’m gonna do it anyway. I know Joey. I don’t like him, but I get how he thinks. Not that he does a lot of it.”

“And you think you can get him to talk just because of your intuition?” Connor asked. Leaving her obvious charm and grace out of it.

“Thing is, when Will and me was up in Florence, he was always a little sweet on me,” Donna Ronson replied. “I figure if we both go pay him a visit, I can maybe get him to open up, since Will just passed and he might be feeling a little guilty, ‘specially if he had anything to do with his arrest. And the bastard might figure that with Will out of the way, he might have a chance.”

“A chance at what?”

“Me. Doesn’t matter that Will’s ashes aren’t even cold yet; that’s how the prick thinks. I’m telling you, he won’t tell you shit without me along.”

Connor didn’t like what he was hearing, didn’t like the idea of putting Mrs. Ronson in a spot that could turn ugly. Especially if Barber had somehow set her husband up, or gotten him into something that was way over his head.

Plus, he preferred to work alone, rely on his own instinct and aptitude and minimize the chance of anyone else getting hurt. Or becoming collateral damage, like Cherine Dupree. If she hadn’t demanded on riding out to the Starlight Motel with him to pick up her client, she’d be playing with her pups on the beach right now with Claire, rather than sitting in a wheelchair recovering from her injuries. Her presence in the car hadn’t been a distraction, nor had it contributed to the shooting or the subsequent accident. And he actually hadn’t minded the company, despite his misgivings and her distrust of him. A loud voice in his head had kept telling him no, but she’d kept insisting until Connor had caved. After that, everything had gone to hell.

He didn’t want the same thing to happen this time around.

“I work better when I’m on my own,” was how he explained it to Mrs. Ronson.

“I figured that,” she replied. “But tonight’s going to be different.”

“Tonight?” Connor asked her. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s Saturday, and the plantation is hosting a big-ass wedding. I called, pretended I was a member of the bridal party. Champagne reception’s at four, ceremony’s at five. Dinner for a hundred-fifty guests immediately following in the Indigo Gardens. Joey Barber will be driving guests around the grounds in a golf cart.”

“You’re planning on crashing this party?”

“You and me both. Pick me up at three. And wear a jacket, if you have one.”

Saturdays were the busiest night of the week at The Sandbar, but Connor had called a buddy—known to all his friends as Buddy—to come in and help Julie sling drinks until he returned. Which might happen quickly, or could be a while, depending on how things played out with Joey Barber. As it was, he promised Julie an extra night off, and gave her a gift card for a restaurant up in Charleston that someone had left as a tip and he’d never used.

Mrs. Ronson clearly didn’t want Connor to see where she lived. At her insistence he picked up her up in the parking lot of a Walmart on Old Savannah Highway, where he found her done up in a silk dress, cut just above the knee, white with green leaves and a dragonfly pin on her left lapel. Matching dragonfly earrings. She still was wearing her wedding ring, which reminded Connor that he hadn’t asked her about funeral arrangements or a memorial service. Not until she brought it up, which she did.

“Hard to believe the cremains of an entire person can fit into a jar that small,” she said. “That’s what they call them, you know. Cremains.”

Yes, he did know. He’d lost far too many Iraq buddies—from war injuries over there and opiates once they were back over here—not to be familiar with the terminology.

“Willis was cremated?” was all he could think of saying.

“Is there a problem with that?”

“Not at all,” Connor replied. A pop-up shower seemed to appear as if out of nowhere, and brake lights were flashing on in front of him.

“Me and him, we had our problems, and like I told you before, he’d moved out,” Mrs. Ronson confided. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t love him, despite his faults. Love doesn’t just go away like that.” She emphasized her point with a snap of her fingers.

“That’s for sure.”

She turned in her seat, studied him a minute. “You ever been married?” she asked.

Connor peered through the stream of water that the wipers were trying to push aside. Rain began coming down in sheets on the roof and a curtain of water seemed to have closed in around them. “Once, and they were the worst days of my life,” he said. Not something he wanted to discuss right now, but also not something he ever wanted to forget.

“What happened?” Mrs. Ronson asked.

“We were too young. Didn’t work out.”

“And after that?”

He fell silent for a few seconds until the wipers began to slow and the shower began to ease up. “I came close again a few years ago,” he confessed.

“And?”

“I put her in danger, and she got shot because of it.”

“Fuck,” she said. “You’re saying she died?”

Connor was really sure he didn’t want to go into any of this, not now. Not ever. But that didn’t keep him from saying, “Almost. She pulled through, but we…well, I guess you could say we didn’t survive.”

“What was her name?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “She’s a veterinarian, works with large animals. Horses, zebras, rhinos. That sort of thing.”

“Rhinos? Around here?”

“No, down in Orlando. Disney, in fact. And I’d really rather not go into any of that right now. Not while we’re on our way to a wedding.”

Donna Ronson seemed to understand, and didn’t press him about it. Instead, she dug into her purse—an ivory Kate Spade knock-off with a gold chain—and pulled out a photo that was frayed around the edges. She studied it a second, then held it in front of Connor’s eyes while he tried to keep them focused on the road.

“This was taken years ago up in Florence,” she said. “Will with some of his biker buddies. That’s him, there, with the beard and leather cap. And Joey Barber’s there—” she jabbed her finger at a stocky guy with a broad face and long sideburns “—second from the right. Don’t know what he looks like now. Wanna know the truth, I’m surprised he ain’t pushing up daisies, on account of all the chemicals he put in him. Then again, I guess that goes for Will and me, too.”

• • •

Pelican Creek Plantation was exactly what the name implied: a former plantation located on the banks of one of the winding estuaries that emptied into the Edisto River.

Just under an hour south of Charleston, the antebellum homestead was established in the latter half of the eighteenth century. At the height of its prosperity in the early nineteenth century, six dozen slaves toiled in the fields, harvesting cotton before rice became the crop du jour. They also planted the massive “oak alley” entryway that had been featured in over a dozen movies and television shows. It occupied thirty-nine acres of lush fields and gardens, a mere fraction of its former size, and it had remained in the same family for over two hundred years. The property was distinguished by its white brick manor house and expansive floral gardens, which featured dozens of varieties of camellias, azaleas, daffodils, and roses.

The grounds were known for their exacting renovations of the original slave quarters, minus the squalid conditions that existed prior to emancipation. By contrast, the rooms in the main house had been restored to their original grandeur, furnished with early-American antiques, porcelain, quilts, and artwork that showed the opulence in which the owners had lived.

The entrance to the plantation was off a narrow two-lane trip of pavement that wound several miles from the main route that led to Edisto Beach. A brief downpour had soaked the nearby fields and woods earlier, and the Spanish moss that dripped from sweeping oaks that lined both sides of the road glistened with jewels of moisture.

Pre-wedding cocktails began precisely at four o’clock. Connor and Mrs. Ronson arrived a few minutes late and were forced to park at the fringe of a lot crowded with Cadillacs and Mercedes and BMWs. They then were hustled down a winding path to the carriage house via a golf cart decked out with flowers and white taffeta.

Joey Barber was not the driver.

“Looks like the reception’s in there,” she said. “Let’s get a drink and blend in, look around for Joey.”

Connor didn’t care much for weddings in general, and large crowds of people made him nervous. Any one of these people could be wearing a suicide vest.

No one seemed to be checking a guest list. Mrs. Ronson headed directly for the open bar, where she ordered a Moscow mule that came in a hammered copper mug. Since Connor was the designated driver and needed to maintain his senses, he went for a tonic and lime. Neither of them knew anyone in the oversized room, which was just fine with him.

Doors at both ends of the room had been opened to allow a gentle breeze to drift in from the creek. A quartet was set up in one corner playing Carolina beach music, a popular favorite in the Lowcountry closely associated with the style of swing known as the shag. A few couples were out on the polished wood floor, most of them dancing poorly, and not seeming to give a damn. Dance as if no one is watching appearing to be their collective mantra.

Ten minutes before five the guests were herded outside to a massive expanse of lawn edged with pink and white tea roses. Rows and rows of chairs had been set up to face a latticework altar that featured the creek and marsh as a backdrop. White carnations and more roses spilled from silver urns as if pouring forth from fountains, which Connor figured a wedding planner had pitched as a symbol of eternal love and happiness. Fortunately, the rain from earlier had passed through, and someone had thoughtfully wiped every folding seat with a towel.

The ceremony was short. The self-written vows seemed heartfelt and not too sappy, the first kiss an honest one. There were none of the usual overplayed or clichéd songs, no surprise flash mob. And, best of all, the new couple seemed genuinely happy and in love. There were a lot of camera clicks, birdseed was tossed, and someone released a kaleidoscope of monarch butterflies into the crowd. Pure magic, without any lime tricks.

While family and friends were bustling about, congratulating the happy new couple and snapping photographs, Connor called The Sandbar. Just to check in, he assured Julie, who told him things were busy but running as smooth as the Irish cream she was mixing into a frozen Mudslide.

“I’m hoping to get back before last call,” he said.

“No rush,” she replied. “We’re doing just fine.”

A half dozen golf carts were waiting to transports those guests who chose not to walk from the wedding to the reception. Connor and Donna Ronson slowly edged past them, eyeing each driver as they passed. At one point she nudged him in the ribs and whispered, “That’s him.”

“You’re sure?”

“Older and flabbier, no beard. But yeah, I’m sure of it. What now?”

“Get in,” Connor said.

“What? We can’t just—”

But Connor was already sliding into the seat behind the driver. He moved over to the other side, and Mrs. Ronson reluctantly got in beside him. “Normally we’d walk,” he said to the driver. “But I just had a bad accident and my leg’s not quite right.”

“No problem, sir. I’ll have you and the missus to the gardens in under a minute.”

“Awesome.”

The driver stepped on the accelerator and they glided along a pebbly path for a good thirty seconds. Then Connor said, “You know, you look familiar.”

“I don’t think so,” the driver said, facing forward.

“Yeah, I’m sure of it. I ran into you when I was with a friend of mine. You’re Joey—” he hesitated, as if trying to think of his last name “—Joey Barber, right?”

The guy seemed to stiffen, but didn’t turn around. “Who wants to know?”

“Jack Connor,” he said. No point in giving him the runaround. “You’re buddies with Willis Ronson.”

“Ronson’s dead.”

“Yeah, I know. The accident I mentioned…I was driving the car when he was killed.”

Connor sneaked a glance at Donna, who was doing an Oscar-worthy performance of not letting her anger and grief collide in a nuclear cataclysm.

“What the fuck do you want?” Joey Barber asked.

There was no need to work around the edges and prolong things. Donna had mentioned he had the temper of Vesuvius, and could erupt at any moment.

“You see, Joey. I’m a bounty hunter. Willis and I got to be friends when I was driving him back to county, after he skipped bail. We talked about a lot of things, and one of those things was how he wouldn’t have been in this shit except for Scissors. That’s you.”

They were nearing the section of the plantation known as Indigo Gardens, and the golf cart began to slow down. Barber glanced up at the rearview mirror, said, “Fuck…you’re Will’s old skank. Donna Allen.”

“Ronson now, from one skank to another,” she replied. “How you been, Jo-Jo?”

“Get out.”

“That’s no way to treat friends of the groom,” Connor said.

“Bullshit,” Barber snapped. “You’re just here to harass me. Runnin’ some sort of play, is that it?”

“You and Will, you planned the whole thing,” Donna told him. “The theft at the power plant. What I want to know is why? Copper wire? Who does that?”

“Get the fuck out of my cart,” Barber said, more threatening this time.

“Or what?” Connor asked.

“You don’t want to find out.”

Connor lashed out a hand and grabbed Barber by the back of the neck. He sank his thumb and forefinger into flesh and applied pressure at just the right points, as he’d been taught.

“You’re messing with the wrong guy, asshole,” he growled in Barber’s ear. “And if you take your hands off that wheel, you’re gonna be teething on it with your gums.”

“Shit, man. Let go.”

“Don’t try anything dumb.”

He didn’t. He pivoted his head left to right, and there was an audible crack. Then he said, “You a cop?”

“I told you, bounty hunter. What did you plan on doing with the copper?”

“Fuck you.”

Joey Barber clearly had a short memory, which Connor quickly rectified with his grip of steel. Firmer this time, more pressure. “I’m going to ask you again: what were you going to do with the copper?”

There was no immediate answer, so Connor tightened his hold. Eventually Barber succumbed and said, “Ordnance.”

“Ordnance, like in bullets?” Connor asked, easing his grip a notch. “Why?”

Barber lowered his head in an agonized nod, said, “Cuz it’s harder and penetrates better than lead. Lot less fragmentation, too. Makes it hard to trace.”

“Ronson had two hundred pounds of it ready to go,” Connor said. “That’s a shit ton of bullets.”

“You think?” Barber replied. Then, without warning, he wriggled free from Connor’s grip and pushed his way out of the cart. A second later he was running across the grass.

Connor had anticipated him bolting and chased after him, but his ankle was throbbing and his ribs were screaming with pain. He figured Barber was making a break for his car and, despite the guy’s girth, he raced down a dirt path toward a barn and what appeared to be the employees’ parking lot. Loaded with pick-ups and old sedans, and a few SUVs. Nothing like the luxury cars out front.

Barber lumbered toward an old Toyota Tundra with a tailgate slathered with bumper stickers. He jumped in through the unlocked door, keyed the engine, then hit the gas and jolted forward. He cranked the wheel hard and tires spun on loose gravel, the slick rubber kicking up a cloud of dust as he fishtailed down the dirt drive that wound through a stand of pines.

Connor watched as the Tundra disappeared around the bend, then limped back to where he’d left Donna Ronson. He found her leaning against the front of the golf cart, slowly cleaning dirt from under her fingernails. A thick mist had begun to roll in from the creek, odd for late May, but Connor had given up trying to understand the Lowcountry weather. He was out of breath from his chase, reminding him that as soon as his injuries were mended, he needed to resurrect his morning runs on the beach.

“Well?” she asked as he approached.

“He got away,” Connor told her. “But you heard him. He pretty much admitted he was involved with what got your husband arrested.”

“But copper bullets?”

“I’ll check it out. Meanwhile, do you know if Willis was into shooting guns? Or maybe was friends with people who did?”

Donna Ronson nodded, pushed off the small hood of the cart. “Half the guys he hung out with up in Florence probably owned ‘em,” she said. “But because of the felony he couldn’t get one himself, and he knew if he was caught anywhere near one, he’d be back in Tyger River faster than a bullet out of a barrel.”

She clearly didn’t know about her husband’s visits to Top Shot shooting range, and there was no need to bring it up. “Well, someone he knew was planning on making his own ammo, and lots of it,” Connor pointed out. “Any idea who?”

“This is all news to me,” she said. “What now?”

“Head home?”

She considered it, shook her head. “We’re already here, and that bartender makes a mean Moscow mule. What d’you say we have one for the road?”

Connor was anxious to get back to The Sandbar, but Mrs. Ronson clearly was not. One drink turned out to be two, then three. The same quartet was playing the same beach music, old standards from The Drifters and The Tams and Chairmen of the Board. For a woman who was within the accepted range of mourning, she loosened up quickly and actually danced a couple numbers with one of the guests. A guy who claimed he was an old boyfriend of the bride, and insisted he had no intention of causing any trouble. He didn’t, and was enough of a gentleman not to make a scene when Connor eventually coaxed her back to the car.

Moments later they were heading back down the infamous oak alley toward the main road. The mist that had seeped in earlier had now turned to a fog almost as thick as the veil that covered the bride’s face earlier. It hung close to the ground, a gray shroud of billowy swirls obscuring all but the glow of his low beams, an occasional billowing shadow in the night beyond.

As he slowed and made the turn onto the narrow county road that led back to civilization, the shroud only seemed to get thicker. They crawled along just fast enough to keep the needle above zero, just in case raccoons or deer were about. Fog like this in the Carolina Lowcountry was the result of warm, wet air from the south moving up over the colder water. Usually in winter, but this was June. Unseasonably odd.

Then the tire pressure light blinked on, while at the same time Connor felt the steering wheel pull hard to the right. A second later there seemed to be a pronounced sound of rubber scrunching on gravel, and he said, “Fuck.”

Up to that point Mrs. Ronson had been gazing into the misty wall ahead, but she turned to him and said, “What is it?”

“I think we have a flat.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Not about something like this,” Connor said, shaking his head.

“Fuck.”

By now the mist was so thick, so dense, he could barely see whatever might be lurking in the gloom as he gently eased the car onto the shoulder. No trees, no fence. No ditch. All good. He pulled off the road as far as he could, until he felt the gravel turn to grass. The fog seemed thicker here than it had been all night, and he wanted to be well off the pavement in case another car happened along.

“Please tell me you have a spare,” Mrs. Ronson said, glancing at the clock.

“I think so,” Connor replied as he opened his door. “Hopefully this won’t take long.”

He stepped out into the night and immediately sensed a cloying unease. Visibility was no more than a couple yards, and his mind went to Joey Barber. It had been almost an hour since their verbal altercation, and the dumbass should have put a lot of gone between them by now. But what if he had turned around, came back to settle a score with a gun—the kind of incident that makes the evening news?

As Connor made his way around the car to the rear, he perceived someone—something—directly beyond the gray veil, checking him out. He glanced around but saw nothing, heard nothing. The hairs on his neck and arms stood at attention as he popped the hatch and removed the carpeted cover that hid the tire compartment. He was relieved to find a small jack assembly, along with a fully inflated donut spare.

He hoisted it out and started to set it down on the ground, when he felt something firm and hard press into his spine, just between his shoulder blades.