by Vince Milam
“I appreciate it. You know I do.”
“But?”
“But winter’s coming. I’m a bit of a wuss in that regard.”
“You’d survive. Look who’s coming.”
He lifted his chin, indicated Irene’s pickup rolling toward the ranch house.
“You say goodbye to her. We’re leaving soon.” He ambled back inside.
She slid from the pickup, smiled.
“I had a great time last night,” Irene said. She kept her hands in her coat pockets, the day cold.
“Me too.”
“How much do you remember?” Delivered with a laugh.
“Most of it. The important stuff.”
“You’re an interesting guy, Case.”
“Not from my point of view.” I was a mess. But last night had had a cathartic affect. Demons were halfway purged. Back on stable ground.
“That’s part of what makes you interesting.”
“Well, I’ve enjoyed spending time with you.”
She laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“You enjoyed time with me.”
“Yeah.”
“Even though I irritate you to no end.”
“Yeah. I suppose. Your style would take getting used to.”
“You too.”
“No argument there.”
A friendly hug, a wry smile, and she climbed into her pickup. I followed her to the truck’s door, and she cracked the window.
“Well, I wanted to drop in and say goodbye.”
“Glad you did.”
“Am I going to see you again anytime soon?”
“It’ll be after winter.”
“I thought you were a tough guy.”
“Not that tough.”
“You’ve got my number. Call anytime.”
Miriam’s goodbye had more tight hugs and an ass-chewing about the rarity of my visits. I assured her of a return when three layers of clothing weren’t required.
The Billings drive with Marcus settled into a comfortable silence. Fresh snow, now melting. The low sun of fall, shadows long. Marcus played country music and hummed.
“So I’m going to talk about the whole deal,” I said. “Even though it pisses you off.”
He turned up the music. I turned it off.
“I knew it,” he said, shaking his head. “Absolutely knew it. You have to mull all this crap over.”
“They didn’t have a problem finding you, Marcus.”
“So?”
“So I want to talk about it.”
No response.
“You’ve got to be careful,” I said. “Until we find the funding source. The sponsor.”
“I’m careful.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning you hop over to Billings or Livingston without any concern. It doesn’t ever register with you.”
“I’m armed. Always.”
“Yeah, but you’d be armed regardless. Not what I’m talking about.”
He smiled and added several backhand whacks to my belly.
“I’ll be fine. Chill.”
There was no point elaborating or warning or spewing precautions. He’d live as he always did. Open. Himself.
At the airport, I climbed out, and the butt wound said hello. I grabbed my rucksack and leaned across the seat.
“So why don’t you come visit me?” I asked. “Warmth. Sunshine.”
“I have cattle.”
“You have a weird desire to suffer through winter.”
“I won’t see you till spring?”
“Unless you want to thaw out.”
He stared through the windshield, put the Suburban in Drive. “Call me. At least we can talk.”
A long handshake across the seat, sad smiles. “Yeah. Yeah, we can at least do that.”
Alone at the Billings airport. The drain of departure, leaving friends. Catch would be home in the Portland drizzle, living full-frontal. Marcus humming a country tune, tires whining, the miles eaten as he headed for home.
And home was my final destination for the day. The Raleigh flight landed at midnight. I’d be on the Ace at two a.m. I dozed during the flights, slept off the hangover, and dreamed of dead silence, the night calm, cold. Far distant from the bowels of hidden wildness, wolves. First one, then three, then the whole pack. Primitive, unyielding, announcing their presence, their turf, their warning.
Chapter 40
Tinker Juarez stood sentinel, the new figurehead perched at the prow of the Ace of Spades. CC joined me in the small wheelhouse and commented on passing attractions.
“Another one!” She pointed, always to ensure I captured the same sight. Hooded mergansers, the males with a hooded crest of puffed-up white. Male and female dove at intervals, hunted fish. We eased through coastal estuaries and along winding rivers, meandered toward Beaufort, South Carolina.
“I see it.”
She smiled. I did the same, mutual confirmation of the observed wonder.
“Will we see more dolphins?”
“Probably on the way back.”
“But not now?”
“Not now.”
She ruminated on that fact.
“But pralines in Beaufort, CC. Pecan pralines. A couple of hours away.”
She smiled again. Another upcoming wonder.
It had been four days of pleasant cruising to reach Charleston, Mom, and CC. Past Swansboro and Sneed’s Ferry. Wilmington, Bald Head Island, Myrtle Beach. Across the Santee and into Charleston Bay. Cooperative weather, still warm. The Ace—as always—plowed ahead. I pulled over at night, tied off on riverbanks. Relaxed, reset the internal gyroscope.
Mom fed me like I’d been denied valid sustenance since our last visit. CC and I took walks. Then off with CC for a week. It was my pleasure and gave Mom a break. Off for Beaufort, taking our time. A two-day trip stretched to three. The Ditch held wonders galore, and we’d pull over every few hours, let Tinker Juarez do his business, and stretch our legs. The snow of Montana far behind and the fall of South Carolina warmed the bones. T-shirt and flip-flop weather. CC and I shared boat routines. Made cheese, fresh tomato, and mayo sandwiches. Absorbed the proximity to each other and the immediate world.
“I miss you, Case.”
“I miss you, too, my love.”
“Maybe Tinker Juarez misses you.”
“You think?”
She laughed at the absurdity of my question. “He doesn’t tell me everything, Case!”
My laughter washed away the outside world. Here and now, with CC, the salt marshes and moss-draped live oaks, the occasional house alongside the Ditch. The occupants waved, and CC laughed, waved back. It couldn’t go on forever, but it would go on for a while. And it was enough, now.
The Stono River to the Wadmalaw River, through bays and estuaries, cruising, laughter and smiles. CC loved fishing, and I’d throw a cast net for minnows, bait her hook as we anchored at a fishy spot. The bright white-and-red bobber held her attention for long spells, and her reaction when a fish struck, pulling the bobber under, was priceless. Excitement, squeals, expansive wonder as she pulled the aquatic creature onto the deck.
They’d be dinner when traveling alone. With CC, each was thrown back. No death, no killing. She’d name each one at departure, ensured a hearty goodbye when Trig or Henry or Maria was tossed for a splash back in the river.
I’d tell her stories at night. Kings and queens and princesses. Giant forests and beds of ferns. Sailing ships and strange lands.
“A good one, Case,” she’d say when I finished. The cool of the evening covered us while she nested on the recliner, blanket-wrapped. “Did it really happen?”
“Did it happen in your mind?”
“It did. A good story.”
Tinker Juarez had his own deck bed, a pile of old towels. Towels moved next to CC’s bed when time for sleep. And she’d ask each morning, before rising, “How is Tinker Juarez?” He’d reply with a tail wag and lick her face
. Morning routine, brought from her home and carried onto the Ace of Spades.
We made a side trip to Hunting Island, walked the beach, found seashells. Then Shackleford Banks, more beach, more shells, no people, and wild horses. The horses, descendants of Spanish mustangs from early explorers, captivated CC. I kept Tinker Juarez leashed while she wandered into the salt grass, stood still. A few mares wandered off from the herd and approached. Wary, a thirty-yard comfort zone prevailed between human and horse. But the mind’s eye capture as CC stood still, mustangs with ears perked checking her—absolute magic. Her hair and the mustangs’ manes blew, bay water cast diamonds of light as the Ace lay at anchor. When she turned, caught my eye, the total and all-encompassing wonder on her face drove an arrow of poignancy into my heart. It didn’t get any better. Memories squeezed, locked away. The future a thing, an object, in the mist, ahead. Both past and future removed, cast aside for the now. A connection sought with a higher power reached, radiated. It anchored, filled me. I was home.
Chapter 41
Beaufort, South Carolina. Founded 1711. Now offering ice cream. And pralines for later, on the Ace. A gorgeous old town, oak trees dripping with Spanish moss. A walking town.
CC focused on the ice cream, absorbed with taste and texture. Tinker Juarez at her feet, focused on her treat. She insisted I taste hers, and her mine. A comparison, and insightful flavor comments followed.
Time floated, suspended. An adjustment, an accommodation of the Glock tucked in the back of my jeans—hidden under the tail of my shirt—the sole bridge to the rest of the world.
CC licked her upper lip, shared stares with her dog. Questioned a look my way.
“Maybe the last of the cone. He’d like that,” I said.
Issue resolved, she focused again on the frozen treat. Fall and few tourists, middle of the week. A passerby stopped and scratched Tinker Juarez. The sun was bright and the breeze moderate. Beaufort was our turnaround spot. Three or so days, and she’d be back with Mom. I missed her, even as she sat next to me.
“Can we go see names?” she asked, the tip of her cone held toward the dog. Tinker took it gently, tugged it from her grasp. She’d meant a cemetery. Gravestones. How the fascination manifested from her past, unknown. Mom and I speculated it was years before, at Dad’s funeral. It had been explained that Dad was in heaven. This was just his body. And funerals were to celebrate a person’s life, now departed for a better place. The body, the grave, the headstone reminded us of them so we wouldn’t forget.
CC could read. Slowly, she’d sound out the words. And wander among the headstones and obelisks and statues, stopping without pattern, speaking a name. And saying goodbye. And stating, “Enjoy heaven.” Heartbreaking, but an exercise deemed harmless as the years passed. Mom didn’t take her often, but trips with me afforded fresh opportunities.
A horse-drawn carriage stood nearby, waiting for a fare. A diversion, one that might take her away from seeing names.
“How about a carriage ride?” I asked, pointing to the waiting conveyance. Her eyes lit up.
“Can Tinker Juarez come?”
“Let’s go see.”
An extra twenty made it happen. With a slap of reins, we took a sedate ride through the small area of old-town Beaufort. We dodged hanging moss, waved at passersby. The driver’s historic commentary contained the word Revolutionary—as in the Revolutionary War—as we passed historic sites. It was an opportunity to tickle her each time. She’d squirm and laugh as I repeated the word. He’d say it again, we’d repeat the tickling, until she’d wait for the word and begin howling before I touched her. The driver caught on, and—if it had been too long between historic references—would point along a street and say, “Revolutionary!” Tinker Juarez, excited, joined at each reference, barking.
“Case, Case! Such a good day!”
“A fine day, my love.”
We passed the old Saint Helena’s Anglican Church, a tall wall hiding its peaceful graveyard. But one of two cemetery entrances appeared, and CC blurted out, “Names!”
I asked the driver to stop.
“Are you sure, CC?”
“Yes. Yes, let’s look. Please, Case. Please.”
I paid the driver and helped CC read the historic marker between the old church and the brick graveyard walls. Established in 1712. The church was used by the British to stable horses during the Revolution and used as a hospital in the Civil War. Among those buried in the churchyard are two British officers and three American Generals.
“Let’s go!” She tugged my hand, pulled me toward a wall opening, the wrought-iron gate open. I couldn’t resist her enthusiasm, fascination, and had gone through such exercises before.
“We have to leave Tinker Juarez outside the cemetery.”
“No.”
“I’ll tie his leash right here. At the gate.”
“No.” She shook her head, stared at the ground.
“He might pee on the gravestones. On the names.”
She considered the possibility.
“That would be bad.”
“That would be bad. But he’s fine here. He’ll wait.”
Tinker wasn’t pleased but settled on the cool gravel at the small entrance. The cemetery stood empty, quiet, with massive oaks thick throughout. Spanish moss hung, moved with the light breeze. Small stone walls, thigh-high, segregated sections of the graveyard. Ferns and moss had taken root along the tops of the small barrier walls. Other trees grew among the laid to rest. Palms, magnolias, redbuds. A maze of delineations, thick trees, old graves, and peaceful silence.
More than a thousand headstones. The stonework aged, watermarked. The etched names faded by time and weather. Gravel paths meandered throughout. Stone benches, rest for the living. The high brick perimeter wall isolated us, and deep shade under the canopy of trees cast subdued light. CC wandered, stopped, struggled to read a name, moved on.
“Ge . . .”
“Gebhart.”
“No, Case! I can read.”
“I know. Sorry.”
I trailed her and confirmed pronunciations.
“So we can remember them,” she said.
“That’s right.”
“But they’re really in heaven.”
“That’s right.”
She’d smile, nod, wander.
I paused at a collection of headstones from the 1700s, surrounded by another short stone wall. Were they remembered? Hard to say. Generations passed, the fog of time obscured, lineage forgotten.
I searched for CC, somewhere nearby. Past an old oak, along another short stone wall. Followed the path. A sense of something amiss filled me. Real and present danger. I turned a corner and bent my arm behind my back. Slid a hand over the Glock’s grip.
They sat together on a low bench, seven paces distant. Nika held her pistol at my sister’s back, her other hand locked on CC’s arm. Too shocked to speak, CC radiated fear, horror. Her body expression cried for me to take her, save her. Nika used her as a shield, an opportunity, prior to killing.
“How appropriate for it to end at a graveyard.”
“Let her go.”
“You went too deep. Over your head.”
Harsh exhales blew from CC. She sat at a lean, toward me, ready to propel herself in my direction. Nika’s lock on her upper arm anchored the scene, offered no opportunity for immediate action, for the chance to do something.
“Let her go. This is about you and me.”
“No, Case. This is about you. I’m merely the tool. The one who lowers the curtain.”
Options, options—nothing. She’d kill both of us. No regrets, no remorse. A quick move, a rush toward them, would force her hand. Fire a shot. I’d take a bullet, maybe two, but the Glock would speak back. Kill her. Leaving CC. CC with two wounded, dying bodies.
“Think of how different it could have been.” She smiled. Actually smiled.
“Walk away, Nika. It’s over. I won’t pursue.” A lie. I’d pursue her to the gates of hell.
/> “Yes. Yes, it’s over.”
A breeze moved hanging moss behind them; a mockingbird chortled overhead. CC’s look of desperation intensified, her exhales louder, explosive. She strained harder against the Russian’s clench. Nika’s eyes changed, the gauzed gaze of a killer pulling the trigger. I coiled to charge.
A red mist from the back of her head, haloed, the forehead exit hole dead center. The spit of a silencer pistol. And Nika leaned forward, collapsed. CC shot toward me, released. Glock pulled, I glanced for the shooter, absorbed CC’s momentum, ensured she didn’t look back. We ran, a protective arm around my sister. I cast frenzied searches for the other party.
We left through the other cemetery gate and paused. I pressed us against the tall wall, protection, and stole peeks inside. Nothing. No movement, no shooter.
“I don’t like her.” CC had quit panicking, moved forward, defined the moment. “I don’t like her, Case.”
Speckles of blood dotted her neck. I licked a handkerchief and wiped them away.
“You’ll never see her again. Ever. I promise.”
She hadn’t seen Nika killed. Only release, movement, get away. Thank God.
We walked fast, the Glock in a front pants pocket. My hand still gripped the weapon. No clue who did it, or why. Government agent, another killer sent from a global player. It didn’t matter. We were getting the hell out of here.
“Tinker Juarez!”
“Yes. We’re getting him now.”
Running would bring unwanted attention, even though the church grounds remained empty. Move. Move and don’t panic CC. Move and retrieve the dog and get to the Ace of Spades.
“Tinker Juarez!”
“I know, my love. We’re going there now.” Around a high-walled corner adjacent to the old church, the next corner close by. CC’s mind had left the event, focused on her four-legged companion. One more turn, the other gate a short distance, untie the dog. Move fast. Leave. Get to the Ace. Wheelhouse bulletproof windows. Get there, move, move.
Momentum carried us around the final turn, then a dead stop. Fallen leaves lifted, shifted in the breeze at the scene before us. CC pointed, giggled.
Tinker Juarez, tail wagging, pushed his head against the forehead of a squatting man who growled pitch for playful pitch with the dog. A game of billy goat, chins down, shoving, raucous, head against head. It was hard to discern Tinker Juarez’s face as the wild red hair of the squatting man obscured the view.
