Chasing the Son

by Bob Mayer

  “You want me to find Harry Brannigan,” Dillon said.

  “Then you do not understand.”

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Jenrette,” Dillon quickly interjected. “I was not certain if you wanted me to speak plainly in front of others.”

  Mrs. Jenrette cocked her head, confused. “But Mister Rigney already knows.”

  “There is another present,” Dillon said, nodding toward the shadows.

  “There is not,” Mrs. Jenrette said with the certainty born of centuries of slavery and servitude. For Mrs. Jenrette and her generation the ‘help’ was like the furniture. Something useful and functional but certainly not a concern in any other matter.

  At least that’s the way it was in almost every big house in Charleston and appeared to be in Mrs. Jenrette’s mansion.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Dillon said. “You want me to find Harry Brannigan and kill him.”

  “Partially correct,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “I want you to kill him and bring me his heart, since he has torn mine out of my chest. It is the proper punishment to return in kind what he wrought on my family. It is the tradition of honor.”

  “It is, ma’am,” Dillon said.

  “Are you saying that to placate me or because you believe it?” Mrs. Jenrette challenged.

  Dillon bowed his head ever so slightly. “Lex talionis.”

  “Mister Rigney?” Mrs. Jenrette asked.

  Rigney spoke up, impressed. “Mister Dillon is referring to the Latin, where a retaliation is authorized by law. A form of an eye for an eye.”

  “Whose law are you using in your reference, Mister Dillon?” Mrs. Jenrette said. “Certainly not the law of the State or the Federals.”

  “The Code of the Corps of Cadets of the Institute,” Dillon replied. “And, more importantly, as you noted, of the tradition of the city of Charleston.”

  “Indeed,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “Indeed. Retribution must be made.” She slumped back in her chair, simply an old woman mourning her grandson for a moment. “I miss him every day. Worse than any pain I imagined a human could experience; in many ways worse than the day I lost husband and son. My heart was ripped out that day and will never return. All that is left is the hole and the darkness that consumes it. The only solace that can come is when you bring me that murderer’s heart.”

  “I will do that,” Dillon promised.

  “Good, good,” Mrs. Jenrette murmured. “What happened to your face?” she suddenly asked.

  “I was shot in combat,” Dillon said.

  “And you have made a full recovery?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It was a while ago. The bullet was removed during surgery.”

  “But it entered your brain?”

  “It did, but only tangentially,” Dillon allowed. “The doctors say there is no permanent damage.”

  “And what do you say?”

  Dillon hesitated ever so slightly. “I am fine.”

  She abruptly shifted the discussion as she was wont to do. “Why do you believe you will succeed where more experienced men have failed?”

  “I believe they’ve been going about finding Brannigan the wrong way,” Dillon said. “They’ve been trying to discover where he went. I believe we have to uncover where he came from. That will give us an idea where he would go. In Afghanistan, when searching for a high value target, we learned that going to the village of their birth yielded excellent results. It was strange how often these hardened guerilla fighters would return to that place when they felt they were being cornered. When they feared the Predator circling overhead, getting closer and closer.”

  “You mean going to Oklahoma for Brannigan?” Mrs. Jenrette said. “We’ve been over that. If you’re—“

  Dillon dared interrupt. “Oklahoma is indeed a dead end, Mrs. Jenrette. Since I spoke with you over the phone, I’ve looked at the reports. That trail is cold. The only tie Brannigan had there, his maternal grandmother, is dead. But two events make me believe we must look much closer. To Hilton Head. His mother lived there, although he didn’t know it. And she has recently disappeared. And the inquiries by this Farrelli fellow are curious. Someone is using him. We must discover who. It might be his mother. If we can find the mother, we should be able to find the son.”

  “I have been thinking,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “I have little else to occupy my time.” Which was a lie, of course since Mrs. Jenrette was the wealthiest woman in Charleston and still ran the business hands on. “What about the father?”

  “There’s nothing in the reports about who that might be,” Dillon said.

  “I know. But a father must exist, unless this was an immaculate conception.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Another reason to go to Hilton Head. Harry Brannigan was conceived there. We know that. Erin Brannigan was not sent to Oklahoma until she was four months pregnant. However, it’s likely the father was the teenage son of one of the hordes of tourists who visit the island. A summer fling, since the father had no role in the child’s life and there is no father of record in any document. It’s possible the father doesn’t even know he has a son.”

  “Likely, but not certain,” she said. “The only solace I take is that my husband and son were not alive when Greer was taken from us. It would have destroyed them.”

  She fell silent and neither man dared intrude on her thoughts.

  “Is that all?” Mrs. Jenrette finally asked.

  “No, ma’am. I’ve read the report from the Institute about the—“ he fumbled for words for the first time—“incident. And—“ His fumbling had fumbled as Mrs. Jenrette cut in.

  “My grandson’s murder, you mean.”

  “His murder,” Dillon corrected. “Something’s missing in it.”

  “What?” Mrs. Jenrette demanded.

  “If I knew it wouldn’t be missing,” Dillon said. “I don’t know what it is. But I sense there is something lacking. I want to interview the personnel involved.”

  “They’ve been interviewed,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “They are the sons of people I do business with and mingle with socially. Very important people. One of them is the senior Senator from our state.”

  “Thus their interview was incomplete,” Dillon pointed out. Another silence played out.

  “So,” Mrs. Jenrette finally said. “You want to know how far you can push these young men?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I believe they are holding something back.”

  “I’ll deal with their parents as needed,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “Go as far as you feel you need to. But remember; they are of fine families.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And Senator Gregory is not a man to be trifled with, so deal carefully with his son.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Rigney stirred. “We must conclude business with two of these parents on Saturday. Are you certain,” he said to Mrs. Jenrette, “that now is the time to investigate? Can’t it wait until after this deal is completed?”

  Mrs. Jenrette’s eyes flashed with anger. Her voice was like a whip. “There is nothing more important.”

  Rigney’s dedication to his profession caused him to press the issue. “This deal is worth two hundred million dollars, Mrs. Jenrette. It’s taken over a year to pull together and—“

  Mrs. Jenrette lashed out. “And you still don’t know who owns Bloody Point! So it is not completely pulled together.”

  “We have enough to make it work,” Rigney said. “I must look after your family interests, ma’am.”

  “What family?” Mrs. Jenrette snapped.

  “Your daughter and—‘

  “My daughter is provided for by her new husband and she bears his name,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “My family ended when Greer was killed. Nothing is more important than avenging his death.”

  Rigney conducted a conversational withdrawal. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Jenrette shifted back to Dillon. “And I need not remind you that the Institute makes it own rules, beholden to no one outside those walls. My reach extends only so far despite
the millions my husband and I have bequeathed to the place. The ranks of the Institute Men close rapidly if threatened.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “But perhaps, since you wear the ring, you will be able to penetrate those ranks.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “What else?” Mrs. Jenrette asked.

  “I believe those three areas of focus will yield results,” Dillon said.

  Mrs. Jenrette held up a finger. “Bearing with Mister Rigney’s concerns about discretion, I will have someone check into Mister Farrelli and the mother on Hilton Head. You talk to the Institute people.”

  Dillon glanced at Rigney, obviously not happy about being sidelined in one part of the inquiry, but he responded: “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Don’t worry, Mister Dillon,” Mrs. Jenrette said, not missing a movement in the dark. “You will travel to Hilton Head when needed, armed with more knowledge than you have now.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But may I ask, who will you use for the initial inquiries there?”

  “An old family friend and another Institute man,” she said. “Merchant Fabrou.”

  “The Quad,” Dillon said.

  Rigney stirred and was about to say something but he didn’t get a chance.

  “You have heard of them?” Mrs. Jenrette asked.

  “They are whispered about at the Institute, ma’am” Dillon said. “While you are spoken about.”

  “A well turned comment,” Mrs. Jenrette said, obviously pleased in the way those in power are when hearing what they believe is a truth. “The Quad wields some degree of power in our younger sister city down in Savannah. They are useful at times. This is one of those times. Additionally, as you know since you’ve read the reports, Mister Fabrou’s son, Jerrod, was involved in the incident, so he has a personal stake.” She shifted her attention. “You will talk to Merchant and ask him to investigate further, Mister Rigney?”

  “I will.” He paused. “But do you think it is wise involving Fabrou in this so close to the closing on Sea Drift? We will be seeing him on Saturday.”

  “Hush,” she chided him. She reached out and opened a drawer on the small table to her left. She fumbled inside and drew out an object. She held it out, hand shaking from age and the weight of it. “Take it.”

  Dillon did as she commanded.

  “Recognize it?”

  “It’s a ceremonial bayonet for the M-14 rifle,” Dillon said. He pulled back on the hilt, exposing the metal. “The blade has been chromed. It’s what we use at the Institute for ceremonies and parades. Every cadet, except Toppers who have swords, is issued one along with his rifle.”

  “It’s the weapon used to kill my grandson,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “Brannigan’s fingerprints were all over it. I want you to use it to kill Brannigan and cut out his heart. Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Mister Rigney will provide you with everything you need. Go now. God speed.”

  Dillon pivoted, a maneuver he’d learned on the Quadrangle at the Institute as a frightened seventeen year old. He marched off the porch, bayonet in hand.

  Rigney remained. “I don’t think involving Merchant Fabrou or the Quad is wise. Nor do I think having Mister Dillon interview those young men this week is prudent. Why not let it go until next week, when the deal is done?”

  “I know you don’t,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “But Fabrou will think I’ll be indebted to him. He will believe he has gained an advantage over me. All great philosophy regarding power is essentially the same; whether it be Sun Tzu or the Godfather. To survive and flourish it is always best to keep friends close, but enemies closer. And Fabrou knows Farrelli. They have done business before. Mister Dillon will eventually go down to Hilton Head and in doing so he will discover what Mister Fabrou is up to. Fabrou will show his true colors in how he handles this. I do not trust the man, even though he has agreed to Sea Drift.” She stared at Rigney. “And that is why this is being done now, before we meet on Daufuskie on Saturday. I sense another entire level to this entire affair. What it might be, I have no idea. But there are secrets, Charles. And they might be very dangerous secrets.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And, as I told Dillon. Fabrou’s son, Jerrod was there.”

  “You fear Sea Drift is at stake in this?” Rigney asked, finally understanding why she wasn’t willing to wait.

  “Of course it’s involved,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “There are no coincidences. There are no accidents. I need to find out how and why.”

  “And Senator Gregory?”

  Mrs. Jenrette closed her eyes briefly. “He is the most powerful man in the state and one of the most powerful on Capitol Hill in Washington. He has great plans for his son, Preston. Who, I believe, has even greater plans for himself. I had hoped that my dear Greer could work with Preston, the two of them forming a powerful union; his family’s political might with my family’s money. In fact, Senator Gregory and I had discussed it several times. But that is not to be.”

  Silence reined for over a minute. Rigney thought Mrs. Jenrette had fallen asleep, but her voice was sharp when she suddenly spoke. “I do not have much more time, Charles. I will have my satisfaction before I pass. This has gone on too long.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I will also have my legacy in Sea Drift.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You may go.” Rigney departed.

  Mrs. Jenrette looked out at Fort Sumter, the flag a distant, bright speck, illuminated by the spotlight. One could almost imagine the Stars and Bars there as it was impossible to make out details at this distance. It was a fantasy she indulged in sometimes. What a world that would be! Full of honor and elegance.

  She was not unaware that there had been a very dark side to that world and that it had been unsustainable from the start. The ability to be practical had always served her well.

  “Your thoughts?” she finally said.

  The butler broke his silence. “Doctor King said the law of an eye for an eye leaves everyone blind.”

  “For all his peccadillos,” Mrs. Jenrette said, “he was a wise man.”

  “But you’re going to ignore his wisdom, aren’t you ma’am?”

  “Yes, Thomas. I am old and not much longer for the world. And I know it is blasphemy to you and many others, but I do not believe there is anything beyond the stillness of death.” She chuckled with no mirth. “And if there is, I am surely damned for my long litany of offenses.”

  “That is true,” Thomas said.

  A wry smile twisted the old woman’s lips. “I can always count on your for honesty. Would you join me for a drink?”

  “I would,” Thomas said. He came out of the darkness and poured them each a full glass, handing one to her. He grabbed a nearby chair without asking and sat down in it with a grateful sigh. He was an old man, with a fringe of white hair around his wrinkled black skull. He wore glasses with thick black frames. His dark suit was crisp, the white shirt starched, the bow tie perfectly knotted. He took a sip. His hands betrayed a harsher life, the fingers gnarled and twisted with arthritis.

  “They came after my grandson, Thomas. My grandson; the last of our family name. I did not expect that.”

  “You can’t be certain it wasn’t an accident, as they said it was.”

  “I can’t afford the luxury of chance,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “Maybe it was just bad luck and cruel fate. But I don’t have the time to believe that. I must act as if there was, and is, a plan afoot and poor Greer’s death was part of it. You understand, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “And the timing of these inquiries via Farrelli. Just days before Sea Drift is to close. That cannot be coincidence after a year of nothing.”

  “It is odd timing,” Thomas said. “But the connection is not apparent.”

  “That is what we must uncover in the next few days,” Mrs. Jenrette said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Something is on your mind?”

&nbs
p; “I do not believe Mister Rigney is trustworthy.”

  “My husband trusted him. He graduated the Institute with Mister Rigney’s father, who handled my husband’s affairs and then his son, Charles, handled my son’s affairs. They developed the Sea Drift plan together. My son worked together with him for four decades.”

  “I know,” Thomas said. “But you are not your husband or your son. I sense Mister Rigney resents having to answer to you. And he resents you are not a man. Or an Institute graduate as he and your son and husband and his father and every man of importance in this city.”

  “Of course he resents me,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “But he is the horse I must ride to the end of this race. It’s too late in the course to switch.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Jenrette gave a low laugh. “That’s your disapproving ‘yes, ma’am, Thomas.”

  “Sea Drift is very important. I suppose my anxiety is showing through.”

  “I understand.” She switched topics. “Your network of information, as usual, seems to be proficient. This Dillon character seems capable. I appreciate the recommendation.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Now that you’ve seen him, what do you think of him?”

  “I believe he might surprise you,” Thomas said.

  Mrs. Jenrette’s head snapped to look at him. “How so?”

  “A feeling. There is a depth to him. And he has seen some terrible things.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve seen terrible things,” Thomas simply said.

  “Hmm,” was all she had to say on that. “As Mister Rigney said, we are at a delicate time for Sea Drift. I feel adrift, Thomas.”

  “It has been a hard road these past few years,” Thomas said.

  “We need to make it through Saturday,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “And we need to find young Mister Brannigan. When those are complete, then I can rest.”

  Chapter Three

  Wednesday Evening

  “You killed the mother of my son,” Horace Chase said, without the anger, recrimination or what might pass for normal emotion attached to such an inflammatory statement.

  But the situation was anything but normal. Chase had just climbed up the ladder on board the Fina, a converted river patrol boat to join his comrades: Dave Riley, Kono, and Gator and Chase’s dog Chelsea. It was Gator who’d fired the fatal shot at Erin Brannigan, the impetus for Chase’s statement, back on the island in the Caribbean off their port bow, a dark silhouette in the night.