Thread of Revenge (The Joe Tyler Series, #6)

by Jeff Shelby

  He was a ghost on the Internet. I couldn't even find anyone with the same name. I got lots of hits about boat anchors, and images of clothing with sailing images on it, but there was nothing tied to anyone named John Anchor. It was as if he didn’t exist, and I suddenly wondered if Anchor was his real name. How would I even know? My interactions with him had always been on his terms, and I’d accepted nearly everything he’d told me during our limited interactions. This wasn’t my nature, to not question or investigate, but he’d caught me in dire circumstances, when I had been desperate to follow the trail I knew would lead to my daughter.

  I closed the laptop. I knew at that moment that I didn't have any choice but to follow through with finding Dennison. I wasn't going to find some way to leverage Anchor. I wasn't going to be able to get to him without going through Dennison and providing Anchor proof that I'd killed him. I'd gone to Anchor to help me find Elizabeth because he seemed to move in circles no one else had access to and because he had information others hadn't been able to garner. You didn't do those things if you weren't a dangerous, powerful person.

  And I'd been a fool for thinking I could lie to him.

  FOURTEEN

  After going down the Anchor rabbit hole for a few minutes, I refocused.

  I went back down to the motel lobby, and found more coffee, along with a pre-packaged Danish at their meager Continental breakfast. I wasn’t hungry and knew it would sit like a rock in my gut, but I knew I needed energy and caffeine would only take me so far. Fog clung to the early morning air as I headed out to the rental car, the sun high in the sky, hidden on the other side of the fog. A long, sweeping toll bridge connected Bluffton to Hilton Head over the Harbor River and then narrowed to a tree-lined road once I was on the island. Businesses were pushed back away from the road, hidden behind giant, leafy trees, making the road seem wider and more tranquil. Traffic was light going to the island, but heavier leaving it.

  The maps app on the burner phone was barely functional but it directed me toward the north end of the island, away from the expensive resorts that ringed the eastern and southern edges of the island. The streets were still canopied with massive live oaks, but the gates and gatehouses were missing, replaced by small neighborhood streets and small, one level bungalows. Given how expansive and glamorous the other side of the island was, it seemed almost as if there were two separate cities.

  I slowed as I passed the address for Hazel Dennison. It was a small, ranch style bungalow, with pale yellow siding and cracked white trim. The unkempt lawn, filled with more weeds than grass, spilled over the sidewalk and driveway, and the old oak in the yard listed to one side. A screen door hung lopsided on its frame and the blinds on all of the windows pulled closed. A small gray Chevy was parked in the driveway. South Carolina plates.

  I made a U-turn and parked on the opposite side of the street from the house, fifty yards down. I cut the engine, grabbed my coffee, and waited.

  Fifteen minutes later, the screen door on the house pushed open and out stepped Patrick Dennison.

  His head was shaved and he'd grown a thick beard. He was thinner, maybe fifteen pounds lighter than when I'd dropped him at the border. He wore a long-sleeved dress shirt, untucked over denim jeans, and dirty work boots, not the clothes I'd last seen him in. But there was no mistaking that it was Patrick Dennison.

  He got into the Chevy parked in the driveway and backed up. I turned my rental on and waited until he was at the end of the block, signaling a right turn, before I pulled away from the curb. He made the right turn and I made sure to keep my distance as we made our way back out of the neighborhood, onto the main road and headed out in the direction I'd driven in from. He made another right hand turn into one of the shopping centers tucked behind the trees and parked in a middle row of stalls. He glanced around as he got out of the car, but didn't seem to take notice of my car as I moved into the next row over. His hands were in the pockets of his jeans as he walked toward the store.

  I parked my car and hustled in behind him.

  I caught sight of him in the pharmaceuticals and stayed several aisles over, keeping him in my peripheral vision. When he headed for the checkout, I left the store and went back to my car. I popped the trunk, pulled my gun from the carrying case, leaned into the trunk and stuck it into my waistband beneath my shirt. Then I moved across the parking lot to the aisle on the other side of Dennison's car and turned toward the entrance of the store.

  Dennison was coming out the door, a small, white plastic bag in his left hand. He checked both directions as he made his way down the aisle toward his car. I waited until he passed me, then sidestepped between the cars in the aisle I was in and moved in quickly behind him.

  “Just keep walking,” I said, quietly, staying on his left hand side.

  He stopped for a moment, glanced over his shoulder, and grimaced. “Shit.”

  It wasn't exactly the response I'd been expecting. Maybe a fight or maybe a sprint. But it was almost as if he'd known I'd be coming for him.

  “Keep walking,” I said, kicking his heel. “Now. To your car and then the next aisle over. Gray Ford sedan.”

  He started walking again. I kept an eye on his hands. They stayed at his sides, one still clutching the bag.

  “Passenger side,” I said as we approached my rental.

  He stopped when he got to that side of the car. I put my hand on the small of his back, held him against the car, and opened the door. “Get in.”

  He slid into the seat and I closed the door behind him. I punched the clicker and the doors locked. I walked around the front of the car, watching him through the windshield. He stared down at his lap.

  I glanced around the parking lot. No one else was in the lot, and the doors to the store were clear of people. If anyone had noticed our interaction, it at least hadn’t aroused suspicion. I opened my door and got into the driver's seat, then pulled the door shut and hit the lock button. The sound of the click was deafening.

  I stared at him for a long time. His eyes were focused on his lap, the small bag in between his legs. I could make out the outline of a pill bottle inside the bag. His hands lay still on his thighs.

  He finally looked up at me.

  “John Anchor has my...wife,” I said, because that was how I still thought of Lauren. “Because you came back.”

  He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. “I'm sorry.”

  “You're sorry,” I repeated.

  He nodded. “I'm sorry.”

  The sharp burst of violence erupted out of me, having been contained for too many hours at that point. My right fist caught him flush in the cheek and his head slammed into the glass window. He stayed there, his head leaning against the glass, a small trickle of blood snaking out of the corner of his mouth.

  “I'm sorry, too,” I said.

  FIFTEEN

  “I can explain,” Dennison said.

  I'd backed out of the parking spot and pulled out of the lot. I was wary of sitting there too long and drawing attention to Dennison or myself. I turned toward Bluffton and the bridge.

  “I don't care,” I said.

  “I can show you,” he said. “I can show you why.”

  “I don't care,” I said again.

  “I know you don't,” he said. “I meant, I can show you before you kill me.”

  He was oddly calm. His hands were still on his thighs and he was leaned back in his seat, staring straight ahead. There didn't seem to be any panic or anger in his body language. The blood still leaked out of the corner of his mouth, a thin, steady line, but he seemed unaware of it.

  I didn't say anything.

  “Look, man,” he said, tilting his head back against the headrest. “If you found me, then you know whose house I was at.”

  “I don't know whose house you're at,” I lied. “And I don't care.”

  “It's my mother's,” he said.

  “I don't care. We had a deal.” I hated the icy calmness in my voice, because it reminded me of Ancho
r.

  “I know we did,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

  I didn't say anything.

  “She's dying,” he said. His voice cracked on the word. “My mother. That's whose house I'm at.”

  I slowed as a delivery truck stopped in the left turn lane, waiting to make its turn.

  “And I don't mean she has six months,” he continued. “I mean she has a couple days. She's at home with hospice care. Lung cancer.”

  I changed lanes, moving in behind a blue Cadillac.

  “Someone set up a CaringBridge for her,” Dennison said. “One of those websites for sick people so you can check in on them. You know what that is?”

  I nodded.

  “Someone set it up for her about a month ago. A lady from her church, I think,” he said. “I found it online. I was looking for info on her because I hadn't talked to her in some time.” He paused. “I saw her name linked to this CaringBridge site and thought it was probably someone else, a different Hazel Dennison. But I clicked the link and...it wasn’t. That was how I found out. Stage IV. She’d had a cough, felt unwell for months. Went in and was diagnosed within a couple of days. Metastasized. Inoperable.”

  The Cadillac was going too slow, so I changed back to the original lane.

  “I was in Mexico,” he said. “About four hundred miles from where you dropped me. I was working at a bar, renting a room from some family that didn't even speak English. I was doing what we agreed on. But I read that and I just...I don't know.” He shook his head. “I needed to see her.”

  The Cadillac changed lanes in front of me and I moved back over, irritated.

  “I was only planning on coming for a couple days,” he said. “Then I was gonna go right back. I just needed to say goodbye.” He held up the bag. “These are pain pills. She's probably gonna die tonight.”

  My hands tightened on the wheel. I didn’t care about his mother, and I didn’t want to know why he was here. “How did you get here?”

  “I hitched in Mexico up to the border,” he said. “Then bussed to South Carolina from Texas. All cash. Didn't stay in a hotel, just bussed through.”

  I knew why he was telling me these details. Showing me he’d been careful, had flown under the radar. But it hadn’t mattered, because Anchor had found him, anyway.

  “How'd you get the car?”

  “It's not mine,” he said quickly. “It's hers.” He looked out the window. “I guess they were watching for me. At her house.”

  “I'd assume so, yes.”

  “That what they told you?”

  “They didn't tell me anything.” My fingers dug into the vinyl casing on the steering wheel. “Some guy showed up with a photo of you. I had to use the background details in the photo to find you. I dug. I called your former wife.” I glanced at him. “And I talked to Anchor.”

  He shifted in his seat. “How'd they get your wife?”

  “I don't know,” I answered. “The guy left, I spoke to Anchor, I got on a plane and drove here. To finish this.”

  He didn't say anything. The radio was playing something softly in the background, the noise barely making it out of the speakers.

  I punched the off button.

  “Gimme five minutes,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Five minutes,” he said. “Give me five minutes with my mother and I'll go with you.”

  “No. This ends now.”

  “My stuff is at my mother's,” he said. “You don't want to leave it there. People will ask questions if I don't go back. The hospice nurses.”

  I didn't say anything.

  “Five minutes,” he said again.

  “Who's taking care of her?” I asked. “When you aren't there?”

  “Some bullshit Medicaid home healthcare service,” he said, his distaste evident. “They come at night right now. I told them they weren't needed during the day.”

  I cut my eyes in his direction.

  “Told them I was her nephew,” he said. “That her son was dead and I was her only family left and I was just in town for a few days.”

  It was no wonder Anchor had found him. He'd done all of the things he shouldn't have done, no matter how careful he'd been. He'd made contact with too many people, and gone to a family member's home. I understood why he'd come back, but I didn't think he'd been honest with himself about the risks and how much he stuck out.

  “Five minutes,” he said. “Let me say goodbye. Pick up my things so nothing gets left behind. Then we go.” He paused. “And then get it done. No fight from me.”

  I wasn't sure whether or not to trust him. The things at his mother's home, though, concerned me. If there was anything that identified him and they were left after she died, it would trigger too many questions and open the possibility of someone looking for him. Which might lead them to me.

  I slowed at the signal light and moved into the left hand turn lane so I could make the U-turn and head back to the island.

  “Five minutes,” I said, glancing at him. “Then we finish.”

  SIXTEEN

  Hazel Dennison's eyes were closed and her small body was buried beneath several layers of sheets and blankets. The hospice bed sat in the living room of the small home, the bed a strange combination of recliner and cot. Pill bottles lined the coffee table next to the bed, along with a remote to the old tube TV that was on a stand in the corner of the room. A thin layer of dust covered much of the furniture, housekeeping having been displaced by caregiving. The room smelled of antiseptic and cleaner and if I closed my eyes, I would've thought we were in a hospital room rather than someone's home.

  I'd followed Dennison back to a spare bedroom when we first walked into the home and he picked up a small gray backpack, checked the nightstand and bathroom for anything else he'd brought, then returned to the living room. He'd handed me the backpack and then sat down on a chair next to his mother's bed.

  His hand rested on the edge of the bed. “Hey, Mom. I'm here.”

  Her eyelids twitched but didn't open.

  “I'm gonna have to get going.” He cleared his throat. “Told you when I got here I wouldn't be able to stay long.”

  Her eyelids twitched again.

  Dennison sighed and laid his hand gently on his mother's shoulder. “You're gonna be okay, alright? I got your prescription filled and it's on the table with the others. The night nurse will see them.”

  Hazel Dennison's head rotated very slowly toward her son, but her eyes remained closed. The skin sagged against her face, pale and paper-like. I had no idea of her age, given how thoroughly the cancer had ravaged her body.

  “I'll miss you, Mom,” Dennison said, his voice breaking. “I'm sorry I wasn't a better son.”

  The old woman's throat worked slowly, an intense amount of effort just to swallow.

  In any other circumstance, I would've removed myself. Gone to another room. Stepped outside. Anything to give them some privacy. But this was different. I couldn't afford to let Patrick Dennison out of my sight, and my own concerns outweighed any sense of etiquette or kindness I normally might've provided. It was a strange place to be in and I felt uncomfortable inhabiting it.

  “I love you,” Dennison said. “I love you, Mom.”

  He kept his hand on her shoulder for a moment, maybe waiting for her to open her eyes or say something, or to reach out and touch him. But Hazel Dennison was clearly near the end of her life because she wasn't able to do any of those things. Her head rotated back to its original position, sank deep in the pillow, and her eyes twitched again.

  Patrick Dennison stood and placed his hands on his hips. He took a couple of deep breaths, then wiped at his eyes. He leaned down and kissed his mother’s cheek, then stood and looked at me.

  “Alright,” he said. “We can go.”

  I nodded, then said, “I'm sorry.”

  He shook his head, like he didn't want to hear it. “No, you're not. You don't know me or her well enough to be sorry.” He nodded to the door. “Let's go.”

>   I picked up his backpack that I'd set near my feet and stepped back so he could pass through the door. I was still wary, still concerned that he might try and run, which would only serve to complicate things even more.

  But Patrick Dennison walked slowly out the front door, leaving his dying mother behind, ready to face his own fate.

  SEVENTEEN

  Dennison sat quietly in the passenger seat as we drove away from his mother's house, his backpack on his lap, his shoulders hunched over, his eyes on the passenger window. We drove back over the bridge toward Bluffton and I took the first exit once we crossed and turned onto a road that led east. I'd mapped the area and spotted a place to do it, a place where I thought it would take some time for anyone to find him.

  “Forest,” he said. “And swamp. Probably as good a place as any.”

  I didn't say anything.

  “You probably should've just done this back in Arizona,” he said with a grim chuckle. “Saved us both this drive.” He leaned back in the seat. “Or I should've just done it myself in Mexico. Thought about it.”

  I slowed as we rounded a curve, the entire road canopied by towering oaks and pines, the ground covered with copper colored pine needles.

  “You know Anchor won't play fair with you, right?” he said, still looking out the window. “No matter what he's promised you, it won't be that simple. It never is with him.” He shook his head. “He'll double-down or pull some shit. Guaranteed. Tell you that you still owe him more, or find some other way to keep you indebted to him. He loves to come off like he's this Robin Hood of sorts, all noble in most ways.” He shook his head. “He is anything but, Mr. Tyler. Anything but.”

  The road dead-ended and I shut the car off.

  “Get out,” I said.

  He didn’t argue and we headed into the forest. The air was cool and damp, the sun unable to breach the thick branches and leaves of the trees overhead. The pine needles crunched beneath our feet as I followed Dennison. My gun was heavy in my hand, and nausea threatened to bring me to my knees. I took several deep breaths, trying to focus my thoughts on both Lauren and Elizabeth. I had to do this. I didn’t have a choice. The lives of the people I loved depended on it.