Chapter 3

Connor was held in the ER until the following morning.

It was a quiet night for emergencies. No ODs or shootings or other car accidents, so he was allowed to remain in the examining room rather than go through the admissions process. His condition was listed as good, but if he suddenly developed any internal bleeding or his vitals began to tank, it was the best place in the small hospital for him to be. A mild sedative and some Tylenol dropped him into a deep and relatively pain-free sleep, and there was no point in moving him to another unit unless the place suddenly got crazy busy. Which, this being Kingstree, could happen at any second.

But it didn’t. Next morning, after a muffin and yogurt and a dish of tasteless fruit cocktail, Connor proclaimed himself fit to be released. A new doctor, much prettier and younger than last night’s version, concurred with his self-assessment after sufficient probing and questioning. Yes, he hurt just about everywhere, but it was mostly just bruises from the airbags and high-speed rollover, plus the groove sliced across his right metacarpals by the wayward bullet. Blood pressure, pulse, and oxygen levels were normal, and he was experiencing no light-headedness or dizziness. Plus, he’d voided, which seemed to be a serious qualification for discharge.

So to speak.

Connor’s only challenge was how to get home to Folly. He had no car, his phone was busted, and calling a taxi or ride share turned out to be an exercise in futility. No one wanted to drive more than seventy miles down to Charleston without a guaranteed return fare, or the upfront cash payment for a round-trip.

His problem was solved when Jordan James pushed his way into the ER a little past ten. By now Connor was seated in a chair in the hallway—no need to take up a bed—and James’ abrupt entry was accompanied by a pair of nurses double-teaming him for gaining entry without permission. No one but immediate family was allowed past the door, and he was in violation of a half-dozen hospital rules. As was his custom he waved them off, mansplaining that Jack Connor was not only a son to him, but an American war hero who should be treated with unconditional respect and dignity.

“Your service to our country is most appreciated,” one of the nurses said to Connor. Male, muscles pushing the seams of his scrubs to the limits. Thinning hair that was mostly gray, tattoo of a trident visible on his neck. He shifted his gaze to Mr. James, a no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners look in his eyes that said, don’t push it. “And you, sir, need to get your pompous ass and attitude out of here now, before I’m forced to call security.”

As the seventh-richest man in the city of Charleston, Jordan James was accustomed to being treated with respect and deference. Maybe even fear. In return, he had developed an imperious and self-absorbed demeanor that was all about image, and very little substance. He reigned over a growing commercial empire that included several hundred apartment units, a chain of pawn shops, two branches of an FDIC-insured bank, liquor stores, laundromats, and a biohazard clean-up company. As well as Citadel Security Bail Bonds, the company that periodically hired Connor to track down clients who had gone AWOL. One direct call could have the mayor of Charleston on the line, and a quick hold would get him the governor. The president of the United States might take appreciably longer, but eventually that call would come, as well.

But this was Williamsburg County—part of Boondocks, South Carolina—where his wealth and power had no measure, and thus no consequence. He was just another bonehead who had barged into the emergency room with the arrogant assumption that no one would dare kick him out.

“I’m here to take Mr. Connor home,” he explained.

The two nurses regarded him with similar looks of uncertainty and disdain, then glanced at Connor. “Do you know this man?” asked the woman, whose name was Gloria.

“I do,” Connor replied. “Please forgive him his poor people skills.”

“My what?” James shot an annoyed look from Connor to the nurses, then to several other members of the ER staff who had heard the commotion and had gathered to watch. “I have more people skills in my right pinkie than most folks will ever have in their lives. I’ve even met the Pope—”

“Please, sir,” Connor interrupted him. As was typical, he detected a hint of juniper berries on his employer’s breath, and was trying to prevent a small flap from becoming a major fracas that might lead to a sobriety test. “My head hurts and my ears are ringing.”

Jordan James caught himself then, raised both hands in a gesture of apology, while not actually having to utter the words I’m sorry. “Mea culpa,” he said instead. “As you can see, I get very…spirited…when I see my son, here, in distress.”

“Seriously, is this man your father?” the male nurse inquired.

“It’s a long story,” Connor replied. “But it works for me.”

A hushed conference among the nursing team followed, after which the one named Gloria said, “Mr. Connor has already been discharged, which means he’s free to leave with anyone he chooses. Unfortunately, his clothing was destroyed in the accident, and we don’t have anything other than the gown he’s wearing.”

“I stopped at Target on the way up,” Jordan James replied, holding up a red-and-white bag no one seemed to have noticed until now. He turned to Connor and said, “You can change in the men’s room.”

Ten minutes later Connor was sitting at the curb in the requisite wheelchair, an orderly chewing his ear off about an awesome multi-car pile-up at a NASCAR race he’d watched over the weekend. It was the last thing Connor wanted to hear, much less talk about, but it was easy to tune him out until Jordan James pulled up in his Bentley. Specifically, a Continental W-12, midnight blue lacquer and chrome accents, all gleaming in the morning sun.

“Sweet ride,” the orderly said as he opened the passenger door. “What kind of mileage does something like this get?”

“About ten per fill-up,” Connor told him. “And don’t worry, I’m good from here.”

“You sure?”

He held up his hand, tightly bandaged from where the bullet had grazed him. “Just a flesh wound,” he replied as he slid into the car, glacier white hand-stitched hides and matching convertible top. Handcrafted walnut dash and veneer, diamond-milled tech finish, walnut burl fold-down trays in back.

“Then you’re good to go,” the orderly told him, giving an informal salute as he turned and wheeled the chair back inside.

As soon as the young man had disappeared through the sliding glass doors, Connor slipped back out of the car and walked around to the driver’s side. “Out,” he said.

“What the hell are you doing?” James asked.

“We’re switching places.”

“No way—you’re in no condition to be driving.”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” James asked.

“It means it’s ninety minutes to Charleston,” Connor replied. “Half of it’s a major speed trap. You think you can walk a straight line if you get pulled over?”

“You let me worry about that. I know people.”

“This isn’t Charleston, sir. If they haul you off to jail up here, you’re screwed.”

“I’d be out in an hour,” James insisted with his typical confidence.

“And I’d be stranded by the side of the road,” Connor said, laying it out for him.

Jordan James sat there behind the wheel, the six-liter W-12 purring under the hood while he considered what his honorary son was telling him. The engine seemed anxious to get going, the transmission just a gentle nudge short of laying down whatever rubber a three-ton automobile can burn.

Eventually he said, “You think you’re up for it? After what happened yesterday?”

“Fall off a bicycle, the best thing to do is get back on.”

“I’ve got to warn you, this baby doesn’t handle like a regular car,” James said, lovingly massaging the leather wheel.

“Out. Now.”

They rode in silence for the first few miles. The jeans and T-shirt Jordan James had picked up were a little loose, the shoes a little tight. He’d forgotten to buy underwear, which felt a bit odd. And scratchy. But it was better than the hospital-issue cotton gown and padded booties, which Connor had wadded up and stuffed in the rest room trash.

Despite his honorary position within the James household, stemming from the semi-heroic act of saving James’ son in Iraq, Connor had little in common with the man. And thus, by extension, little to share. Likewise, James made no attempt at small talk, no discussion of the weather, no Wall Street news playing on the radio. No update on how Eddie was convalescing at home. Not even a mention of the Braves’ chances of making it all the way to the World Series.

Instead, he punched a chrome button in the polished dash and a burled walnut panel dropped down over his knees. Inside the glove box was a small mini-bar, complete with a pint bottle of Beefeater, a silver pump-top atomizer, and a hand-cut crystal glass held in place by a strip of Velcro. There also was a small thermos he had thoughtfully filled with ice before setting out, from which he dispensed a handful of cubes into a silver-plated shaker.

Sixty seconds later James was reclining in his seat, his martini placed on the table in front of him. He was dressed in a seersucker suit and light blue button-down shirt, white linen cap on his head. His cheeks were puffy and crisscrossed with a roadmap of red corpuscles that all seemed to lead to liver disease. He peered out the side window at the commercial blight that seemed to flank every suburban byway in America: fast food joints, auto parts stores, gas stations, dollar stores.

Once they were beyond the suburban canker, cruising by farms and fields rather than gravel lots filled with cars, he hoisted his glass and took a sip. Encouraged by the taste and the inviting effect of the gin, he took another. Then he glanced over at Connor, sitting beside him with one hand draped over the wheel as if he were driving a fifty-eight pick-up rather than a Bentley Continental, and said, “Can you tell me what the hell happened?”

“Sir?” Connor replied.

“You almost got yourself killed, Jack. Seeing you in that wheelchair back in the ER, well, it brought me back to what happened to Eddie all over again. I did not offer you the job at Citadel to go through this sort of shit again.”

“I don’t know how it happened, Mr. James. Everything was going fine one second, and then it all just seemed to go sideways.”

“Sideways,” Jordan James repeated. “What does that mean?”

“It means someone was out to kill Willis Ronson,” Connor replied.

“And who the fuck is he?”

“The bail skip I was bringing back. He didn’t show in court the week before last, and your bond company was looking to kiss twenty grand good-bye.”

James set his glass back on the Velcro glove box lid. He chewed on his lower lip while he thought this through, and finally said, “Not worth it.”

“What’s not worth it?” Connor asked him.

“Dying. Not you, not Eddie. Christ, not even Shirl.”

Shirl was James’ first ex-wife and mother of their only son and with whom, in fact, he had a reasonably passable relationship. “What about Ronson?” Connor asked.

“He’s deceased, which means the court will drop the case against him. And I won’t have to forfeit the bail.” Willis Ronson clearly was just a name to him, a line item, and he’d already earned two grand by charging a ten percent bond fee to assure the guy showed up in court.

“Still, someone wanted him dead,” Connor mentioned again.

“And succeeded. Look, Jack…I’ve known you what, six years now?”

Connor tried to steer the Bentley around a pothole, but the luxury British suspension managed to slosh a few drops of martini from the cut crystal glass onto the fold-down glove box table. “About that,” he replied, thinking more like seven.

“Thing is, since then I’ve come to know you pretty well. Starting with what you did out there in the desert, keeping my boy alive, going that extra mile when life and death were hanging in the balance. You’re a good man, with a good soul. A no-nonsense thinker and a true American hero, like I said back there at the hospital.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Mr. James, but you’re overlooking a few things. Like the drinking and the blackouts. The VA doctors, the meetings, the relapses, and all the tremors and horrors that sometimes show up in the dark of night.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, son. I’ve heard Eddie’s screams. I know there’s a nest of vipers writhing around deep inside his brain. They’re the invisible spawn of the reality he brought home from that Goddamned desert, and it gnaws at him morning, noon, and night. War is the dark underworld of human want and greed, and as long as it’s a part of our existence, we all will suffer from it in one form or another.”

Connor stole a glance past James at the martini glass, sitting on the fold-down tray like an idol to be worshipped in an ancient temple. Wondering, how many of those have you had today? “Are you trying to tell me something?” he asked.

“I’m trying to point out that, despite all that darkness that traveled home with you from Iraq, you stand by principle. You have this overpowering thirst to seek out truth and justice.”

“What about to the American way?”

“You joke, but it’s a damned fine question,” James said. “And since you made a vague reference to the mythical Superman, let me remind you that the man of steel had a big issue with kryptonite. And you do, too.”

“Is that a fact.”

Jordan James plucked the glass from its Velcro coaster and brought it to his lips, took a long, slow sip. “The fact is, you’re brave and confident and persistent, almost to the point of being fearless. But you also have this reckless streak that keeps placing you in harm’s way.”

“What happened yesterday had nothing to do with any of that,” Connor assured him. “Like I said, it was a textbook collar of a bail jumper. Willis Ronson had no history of violence, and I had no reason to think his detention would be anything but routine. And it wasn’t.”

“Until it was. And that’s not really the point.”

Then please get to it, Connor thought.

As if reading his mind, James, said, “I assume you’ve already spoken with the police about what happened?”

Connor felt the same skewers of pain in his chest as before, probably the sprained ribs waking up from the painkillers. Probably not such a good idea for him to have taken the wheel, although the martini glass in James’ hand strongly suggested the lesser of two evils.

“Both at the scene, and an investigator from SLED last night,” he confirmed. “Why?”

“Because I know you. And I know you can’t leave well enough alone.”

“You’re asking me to ignore what happened?”

“I’m saying that a man died yesterday, and his attorney is in grave condition in the hospital.” James knocked back the rest of his cocktail, then set the empty glass back on its Velcro pad. “I spoke with a doctor friend who said her chances for survival are questionable. And even though you keep telling yourself that everything you did was routine and by the book, I know that inwardly you’re blaming yourself for everything that happened.”

“Since when did you gain access to my head?” Connor asked him.

“This isn’t about me,” Jordan James told him. “It’s about your word, not your head.”

“My word? What about it?”

“I want you to look me in the eye right now—just briefly, so we don’t veer into the trees—and tell me in no uncertain terms that you will not take matters into your own hands.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

James eyed the gin and vermouth bottles longingly, but closed the glove box before temptation could get the better of him. “I want you to promise that you’re going to let the police do what they’re paid to do, and you’re going to stay out of it.”

“It never crossed my mind to do anything but,” Connor assured him.