Chapter 19

Connor’s brain immediately went to gun, because that’s what the thing felt like. He let go of the tire, waited for someone—most likely the scruffy incel named Scissors—to either pull a trigger, or order him to put his hands up. Which he did anyway, just to be on the safe side.

But no one said a word, and after a couple seconds the pressure on his back eased up. No shots fired, at least not yet.

Then he heard a snuffle. Then another and another, further behind him, followed by a slightly different sound that a childhood memory told him was a nicker.

Keeping his hands up out of an abundance of caution, Connor slowly turned and found himself staring into the eyes of a magnificent horse. Chestnut and black, sweeping mane that glistened with droplets of moisture. He—maybe she—was sizing him up at a distance of about twelve inches, eyeing him with a curious interest that served to settle its nerves. Connor lowered his arms to show he was not a threat, then slowly reached out and allowed the animal to sniff his hand. It let out a low snuffle—acceptance?—and then glanced backward, raising and lowering its head several times.

As if on cue, more shadows slowly began to emerge from the mist. Connor almost bolted, calculating the number of seconds it would take him to jump back into the car and lock the door. But the shadows turned into horses, and within seconds he was surrounded by at least a dozen of them. All sizes and breeds and colors, nosing around him with the same curiosity as the first, which now was nosing his bare scalp.

He heard the passenger door open, and Donna Ronson climbed out. “What are you doing out here…oh my frigging word—”

“Have you ever seen anything like it?” he asked her.

“How…where did they come from?”

“Horses in the mist,” was all he said.

She cautiously came around the side of the car to where Connor was standing. The ponies didn’t seem to be shy at all as they kept approaching, certainly not wild and definitely not hostile. Just curious and, most likely, lost.

“They must belong to someone,” she said as she reached out and allowed one of them to sniff her hand. Reddish-brown, same large, wondrous eyes.

“Probably one of the farms around here,” Connor replied. “On a night like this they really risk getting hit by a car.”

“You think we should call someone?”

“Who?”

Neither of them had an answer for that. They didn’t live anywhere near there, didn’t know anyone who did. Didn’t even know the name of the road they were on. “Maybe someone at the plantation knows someone,” she suggested.

“Not a bad idea,” Connor agreed. “See if you can find a number.”

At that moment the faint glow of headlights pierced through the fog, heading toward them. A vehicle was traveling slowly, only a couple miles an hour through the murk, the spread of its beams covering the roadway from one side to the other. Eventually they illuminated the silhouettes of several animals that were standing at the edge of the road, and pulled across the pavement onto the wet grass in front of them, moving off the asphalt as far as it could.

It was a white GMC pick-up, and as it came to a full stop, Connor noticed lettering on the door that read:

Gregorian Chants Ranch

Giving Animals A Second Chance At Life

If Connor had hair on his head, it would have tingled and stood at full attention. As it was, an Arctic rush swept through him as a voice was telling him, No fucking way…it can’t be.

A few of the horses appeared to recognize the truck, because they started moving toward it. It seemed they were almost relieved to see something familiar and, as the driver’s door opened, several of them let out eager snorts of reassurance.

A woman stepped down from the cab, and immediately the entire team of animals hurried toward her. They definitely recognized her, nuzzling up to her as she gently caressed them on their noses with encouragement and relief. She was dressed in jeans and a light blue long-sleeve T-shirt with a logo from the Kingdom of Disney, pink baseball cap tugged down over a ponytail.

She spent a full thirty seconds petting and loving them, making sure she gave every creature a round of affection before turning her attention to Connor and Mrs. Ronson. “Thank you for finding my ponies,” she said, and then her jaw dropped.

“It’s more like they found us,” Mrs. Ronson replied.

But Connor just stared at the woman from the truck. She stared back. Finally he said, “Danielle?”

“Connor.” Using his last name, as she always had. “What the hell are you doing way out here?”

“Wedding,” was all he could say.

“Yours?”

Connor glanced from her to Donna Ronson, then back. “What? Oh, no. Nothing like that. I was just…well, it’s a work thing.”

“You’re a wedding singer now?”

“No. I mean, there was someone I needed to talk to, and he was at the plantation down the road. It’s connected to something I’m doing and, well, you know—”

“Mr. Connor is trying to find whoever it was killed my husband,” Mrs. Ronson said. Then she said to Connor, “Are you going to introduce us?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. This is Danielle Simmons. Danielle, meet Donna Ronson. Like she said, I’m looking into the death of her husband.”

“You’re still doing that sort of thing?” Danielle asked, running a hand softly through the mane of the chestnut.

“No. I mean sort of. Mr. James gave me a job as a bond runner for his bail company. I was escorting Mr. Ronson back to jail when…well, it’s a long story.”

“They were shot at and run off the road,” Mrs. Ronson finished for him.

“Long story, same plot,” Danielle replied with a sigh. There was a long, awkward silence, and then she said, “Anyway, thank you for finding my horses. The gate to their paddock somehow was left open, and they got out.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you took the job,” Connor told her, glancing at the sign on the truck door.

“Me too,” she said as she gave the horse a kiss on the nose.

“You look good.”

“You, too.”

“Your injuries heal up?”

“I feel a sharp pain now and then, but the doctors say it’s just a phantom thing.” She pulled a phone out of her pocket and said, “I have to make a call, get these animals rounded up.”

“Beautiful creatures,” Connor said.

“Yes, they are.”

“Mind if I call you sometime?”

“Probably not a good idea,” Danielle said, then turned around and punched a number into her cell.

It was well past midnight when Connor dropped Mrs. Ronson at her car in the Walmart parking lot. He was still reeling from his random meeting with Danielle, his brain swallowed up by the chance encounter in the fog.

She was the flame that continued to burn, the woman he’d loved and had planned on spending the rest of his life with. The only woman he’d ever given a real damn about, and who had almost died because of his reckless mistakes. A woman who had made it clear—more than once—that she never wanted to have anything to do with him again.

Julie had already given last call and told Buddy he could go home when Connor parked his car below the drinking deck and trudged up the stairs. Clooney glanced up when he entered the bar and offered a wag of his tail, then lowered his head back onto his crossed paws. A half dozen customers were still perched on stools at the counter, nursing beers and boat drinks, while a young couple occupied a shadowy corner, pushing the outer boundaries of decency. The popcorn machine had long ago burst its last kernel, and the Seeburg was scratching out a record: Buster Poindexter proclaiming it was “hot-hot-hot.”

“I was beginning to think you may have gone with the new bride and groom on their honeymoon,” Julie greeted him as she ran a damp rag over the polished bar.

“Bad fog and a flat tire,” he said.

“That sucks,” she replied, a hint of doubt in her voice.

He ducked down under the wooden counter and began dumping maraschino cherries from the garnish tray back into a jar. “How did it go tonight?” he asked.

“Busy, but we managed,” she replied, tucking a wisp of hair behind an ear. “Receipts are already in the safe.”

Connor tried to figure out whether she was tired, or simply annoyed by his last-minute plan to leave her in charge on a Saturday night while he went off on some half-cocked quest that had nothing to do with business. He’d never had much luck trying to read her, but knew she’d let him know if she was hanging on to any resentment. She seemed good at that.

“Anyway, thank you for holding down the fort,” he told her. “I owe you.”

“I know. And just so you know, Jimmy Brinks—the armored car guy—was in here earlier, looking for you. What a creepoid.”

“He say what he wanted?”

“Just to let you know he stopped by.”

What the fuck does he want? Connor wondered as he tucked the jar of cherries into the beer fridge. “Thank you, I think. Now get out of here. I can close up the rest of the way. It’s the least I can do.”

She nodded and folded her rag on the counter. “’Night,” she said as she collected her backpack and disappeared into the night.

Connor awakened the next morning to the diver alarm. Eight o’clock sharp. He could set his watch to their clanging tanks and weight belts if he ever needed to.

After taking care of his and Clooney’s morning ablutions, Connor brought his laptop down to the drinking deck while Clooney attacked a bowl of kibble and salmon. He spent the next five minutes going through emails, most of them spam or marketing promos from suppliers. That’s how he came upon a message from Caitlin Thomas that had arrived a little after ten the night before, just about the time he was driving home from the wedding and experiencing the horses in the mist.

The email contained a brief note that read:

I did a little digging, as you asked, and found a few things about Hicks you need to know. As I tell a lot of my women friends, not the sort of dude I’d hitch my wagon to.

The attached files contained standard information: date of birth, South Carolina driver’s license, and current address, which was a street in Hannahan. Google street view showed it was a three-level brick apartment not far from the noxious paper plant, dirty beige paint with streaks of mold on it. The landscaping was hard-packed dirt where grass had once been, crepe myrtle trees with bad haircuts and a lone river birch drooping at a precarious angle.

Hicks had worked upstate as a deputy with the Oconee County Sheriff’s Department, from which he resigned under a dark cloud that hinted of improper use of force. A divorce was pending, not surprising considering the circumstances of his domestic abuse arrest. No children, which was a good thing. He had a license to carry a concealed weapon, most likely the Glock Connor had lifted out of the center console, as well as other weapons he imagined were stashed around his house. Maybe in his car, which he assumed the cops were looking for, and which he again told himself was none of his concern.

Hicks had a sealed record from when he was in high school, something that must have been minor enough not to hinder his ambition to become an officer of the law. Connor guessed vandalism, or maybe theft that did not involve a firearm. Expunged, and a moot point now. One year of college, at Appalachian State in North Carolina, no declared major and no sports. A string of jobs followed him for the next seven or eight years, until he moved to Oconee and joined the long arm of the law.

Even though it was Sunday, Connor called Nelson Burdette. Church was several hours away and, if the man had a family, he’d probably be planning something fun with them later on. Maybe a weekend visit to the beach or the aquarium. Connor had only one question, which he asked despite the fact that the SLED investigator sounded peeved to be interrupted on his day off.

“Just wanted to know if you’ve found Lyle Hicks,” he said.

“It’s Sunday, Connor. I’m having breakfast with my wife and kids.”

“And I have an escaped convict stalking me.”

Burdette exhaled an audible sigh and said, “The short answer is no.”

“And the long answer?”

“Same thing. State and local cops are out looking for him, knocking on doors. I’ll let you know the second I know anything. As I’ve told you before, stay out of this. Goodbye.”

Another half-dozen questions were spinning in Connor’s head, but Burdette was gone before he got a chance to ask even one of them. He knew he could be as irritating as a skin rash, and he’d intruded on the guy’s day off. Couldn’t really blame him for his brusque attitude.

He hadn’t even put his phone down when the screen lit up with another incoming call. Caitlin Thomas. He’d been planning on calling her, but not until after he’d finished reading her report.

“Did you get my email?” she asked, direct and abrupt.

“The bar gets loud on Saturday nights,” he said, not wanting to get into his trip to the wedding the night before. “Didn’t know you’d sent me anything until just now.”

“Well, as you can see, there’s not a whole lot that tells you much about Mr. Hicks,” Caitlin said. “Former cop, now doing time for beating up his wife. Except he somehow got out and seems to be circling back to a few folks he blames for his hard luck. Including you. Which is why I’m calling you so early on a Sunday morning.”

“Go on.”

“Thing is, I tapped another database for law enforcement records, and found that, while your guy Hicks was working for the Sheriff’s Department, a few reprimands were placed in his file.”

“Reprimands for what?”

“It seems your friend is a little prone to violence.”

Just as he’d figured. “How violent?” he asked.

“The man goes from zero to sixty faster than a Tesla. Not long after he became a deputy, he pulled over a car outside of Clemson, no license plate light. A physical altercation ensured, and the driver ended up in the hospital for close to a week.”

“Let me guess: the guy was Black.”

“In fact, he was. But the next one wasn’t. A kid stumbled out of a roadhouse up in Seneca, made it halfway to his car when he encountered Hicks. Ended up needing dental implants. Lawyers got involved, money changed hands. The sheriff stood up for him, but a third strike two months later—something about a bartender ending up with a detached retina—got him the boot.”

“Sounds like a real boy scout,” Connor said. “And I appreciate your concern, but I’m not planning on going anywhere near this guy.”

“You might not have a choice, if he comes looking for you.”

Connor waited out the Sunday lunch crowd before wandering up the street to his favorite taco joint.

The sky was a brilliant blue with soft strokes of white painted across it. A gentle breeze was drifting in from the beach just a couple blocks south, rattling the fronds of the palmetto trees. The kitchen grill was pumping out a savory mix of carne asada, barbacoa, and shrimp, blended with rich salsa and cilantro. Connor was sitting at the outdoor patio bar, nursing a bloody Mary far too early in the day than was prudent, considering his history. A ball cap protected his bare head, and dark lenses shaded his eyes.

The restaurant was a pet-friendly joint, so Clooney was lying in the shade of Connor’s stool, his tongue drooping on the tile floor. When the server arrived with a plate of fish tacos and a side of black beans, Connor plucked a morsel of mahi from one of the folded tortillas and slipped it to him. Clooney, not the waiter.

He had just taken his first bite when his phone rang. The screen told him it was Jordan James, which was odd for a weekend. Even odder because James had been mostly hands-off since Connor had begun work at Citadel Bail Bonds, except to pick him up from the hospital in Kingstree.

“I heard what happened,” the seventh-richest man in Charleston said.

“And what was that?”

“Lyle Hicks. That wife-beater you tracked down last fall. I heard he dropped by The Sandbar the other day to even the score.”

“We don’t know for a fact that’s why he was there,” Connor said. “Could have been any number of reasons.”

“Get real, Jack. They found his attorney an hour ago. Most of him, at least.”