by Bob Mayer
Dillon leaned over. “We met yesterday.”
That clicked for Jerrod. “Dillon? What do you want?”
“I want the truth. What happened that night with Greer Jenrette?”
“We told you.”
“Then you die here.” Dillon pulled on the rope around Jerrod’s neck. “See?” He grabbed Jerrod’s hair and twisted his head so he could see that the noose around his neck was tied to a wood plank in the bridge. “It’s low tide so the drop is about eight feet. The rope will stop you at seven. Just a single foot below your feet. Close, but not close enough. It will be enough to let you swing. Choke to death. Bad way to go.”
“We told you the truth!” Jerrod exclaimed. Tears ran down his face. His eyes were on the rope, but then he looked up at Dillon. “You’re a brother! An Institute man. You can’t do this to me! We wear the ring!”
“Bunch of Institute men beat the crap out of me yesterday,” Dillon said. “They didn’t seem to care that I wore the ring. Were you there, Jerrod? Who had the axe handle? I recognized Chad. Can’t quite hide him even with a hood on his head. But I think the guy with the axe handle was Preston. Seems his style. Attack in a pack. With a hood on.”
“I wasn’t there. I swear.”
“Yeah,” Dillon said. “I bet you weren’t. Too much action for you. But you were there that night in the Sinks. What happened to Greer Jenrette?”
“Brannigan stabbed him. He didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”
“Bullshit,” Dillon said. He put a foot on Jerrod. “Just a little kick and you go over. You’ll be dead before the tide comes in to make your feet wet. And then the crabs will come. You’ll make a good meal. Someone might find you some day, but when I reconned this spot, didn’t look like any tires had been down the road in a while. Maybe your skeleton will be found. Maybe nothing.”
“You won’t kill me,” Jerrod said. “That’s murder.”
“Oh, no,” Dillon said. “It’s suicide. There will be no reason to think otherwise. Distraught man takes his own life by hanging after having been involved in an accidental death at the Institute. There will be questions, of course. Did you walk all the way out here? Why here? Why so long after the incident? But you’ll be dead. Just like there’re questions about Jenrette’s death, but no one wants to answer them right? So I don’t think anyone will be too interested in your death either. Maybe your dad. But there will be no answers. Because only two people will know. And you’ll be dead and I’ll never tell.”
Dillon leaned over once more, putting his face inches away from Jerrod’s. “You’re going to die very soon if you don’t give me some answers. Tell me the truth. What happened that night?”
“Fuck you!” Jerrod screamed. “Fuck you!”
Dillon straightened and stepped back several steps. He considered Jerrod, trussed and noosed, screaming defiantly. In the movies in this situation the good guy was always sure the bad guy was hiding a truth, but Dillon wasn’t certain. Jerrod could be telling the truth. Sometimes it was what it was. At least he’d said it had been an accident; manslaughter, not murder.
“Why did you guys pick Wing?” he finally asked.
Jerrod stopped screaming long enough to consider the question.
“We wanted to make it easy for Jenrette. He would have been inducted into the Ring his third year. But we had to at least test him.”
“Like you were tested.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure they picked someone similarly tough for you.”
Jerrod didn’t say anything to that.
“What was the test?”
“They were supposed to fight. After we had them sweat in the showers. Let them fight it out. But fucking Brannigan interrupted.”
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Dillon said.
“They’ll kill me if I betray them,” Jerrod said. “They will. And you know what?” He tried to jerk himself into a sitting position, but that tightened the noose around his neck and he panicked, flopping back onto the bridge’s plank roadway. “They’re coming for me.”
“What?” Dillon said.
“I was supposed to meet them at the High Cotton. What time is it? I’m sure it’s after seven. They’ll come looking for me since I haven’t shown.”
Dillon spared a glance at his watch. It was 9:30. “Where will they look? We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“My phone,” Jerrod said. “We all allowed each other to track our phones. We decided that after we met you yesterday. Turns out it was a smart move. They know exactly where I am right now.”
Dillon reached in a pocket and pulled out the offending device. He hadn’t exactly stayed up on technology while deployed. The phone was on and pushing the button he could see that there had been a half-dozen calls from Preston. “Not any more.” He tossed it out into the dark, toward the water. He was rewarded with a splash.
“Doesn’t matter,” Jerrod said, gaining confidence. “They located it and are on the way.”
“You trust them to do that?”
“Yes. And you won’t kill me. Not over this bullshit.”
“I think you read me wrong,” Dillon said.
“Fuck you!”
Dillon sighed. He had read it wrong. Jerrod wasn’t the weak link; he was the obvious one. He should have picked Chad. He could just imagine that tub of lard writhing around, pissing his pants, begging. Dillon had a feeling old Chad would give up anyone and everyone in this situation. But Jerrod was showing some spine. And the phone thing threw a twist in his plan; started a clock ticking. And he had no idea when he would run out of time. How long would Preston and Chad wait before searching for Jerrod? He figured he had about thirty minutes, then it was time to bug out. He didn’t see Preston as being overly concerned about racing to help anyone else. But he would come, just to find out what was going on as it affected him.
“I’ve killed people,” Dillon said. “The first time is really hard. And my first time, I didn’t even do the killing direct. That’s the thing about being an officer. We give orders for other people to kill. I know lieutenants in my unit who never fired their weapon the entire deployment. But they ordered lots of people killed. In a way, it’s an easy introduction to a hard thing.
“We’re taught to respect life. Because that’s the way we’re brought up. It’s what religion tells us. But we’re trained at the Institute, then during basic, during officer training, during Ranger School, to go against that instinct. Bayonet training for example. We talked about that, didn’t we Jerrod?”
Jerrod just glared back from his prone position, the headlights fixed on his pale face, tears or perhaps sweat dripping down his cheeks.
“But until you do it the first time, you question yourself. Every man does. Tell me, Jerrod, have you ever killed?”
Jerrod shook his head.
“I’m talking not just a human. Ever go hunting? Surely your old man took you out with his buddies. Big guns. Boar hunting maybe?”
Jerrod continued to shake his head.
“Really?” Dillon said. “That’s unusual for a Low Country rich boy like you. Anyway, I got a call in from a hunter-killer sniper team my second night there. They’d spotted a couple of dudes digging next to a road. Like who the fuck would be digging next to a road in Afghanistan at two in the morning except some dipshits putting in an IED? Right?”
Dillon took in a deep breath through his nostrils, smelling the pungent night air of the Low Country, a fragrance unique to that part of the world. Part life, part decay. Part land, part water.
“They wanted to engage. My first thought was, Shit, I need to ask someone about this. Get permission. But I looked around the CP and I realized I was the guy. There was no one for me to pass the decision on to. And everyone was looking at me, new boot L.T. in-country. What’s he going to do?
“In Ranger school they beat into you that you have to be decisive. Even a bad decision is better than not making one. You can’t stand in the kill zone trying to mak
e your mind up when ambushed. ‘Do something Ranger!’ they scream at you all the time. So I said ‘take the shot’ like I was in some damn movie.
“So they took the shot. Correction. Shots. Drop two dipshits.” He shrugged. “Once you do it the first time, it loses its mystique. Every decision after that was easier. And I ended up eventually using my weapon. Killing directly. I stopped counting too. How many people I ordered killed, how many I killed.” Dillon stepped up next to Jerrod. “So don’t tell me I won’t kill you.”
Jerrod glared up at him. “You’re good at making speeches. But if you kill me here, it’s not combat. It’s murder. And Chad and Preston are on the way. They’ll know it wasn’t suicide. So fuck you.”
Dillon kicked out, the tip of his boot thudding into Jerrod’s side. There was the sound of a rib cracking, Jerrod grunting in pain, the crying out in alarm as his body rolled, tipped on the edge of the bridge, and then he fell.
He came to an abrupt halt at the exact height Dillon had predicted. He stopped so quickly, both his loafers were jerked off his feet, landing in the fluffer mud a foot below.
Jerrod was screaming, his voice undulating up and down the spectrum of abject fear.
“Shut up,” Dillon said, leaning over the edge of the bridge. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re not choking.”
And Jerrod did finally notice. The noose around his neck wasn’t tight. A nylon strap just two inches shorter than the rope, coming down from a truss underneath the bridge, looping under Jerrod’s arms and up the back of his neck was holding him up. Dillon had put the strap on Jerrod while he was unconscious.
“Your fucker!” Jerrod yelled.
Dillon sniffed. “Did you shit yourself?”
“Fuck you!”
“You did a good job protecting your asshole friends,” Dillon said. “But next time, I won’t be as nice.”
Dillon put the ring on the edge of the bridge, above Jerrod’s head. He walked away, got in his car and drove off, leaving Jerrod Fabrou dangling underneath the bridge, screaming into the darkness.
* * *
The ‘dissemination of information’ took a while. Chase went first, updating them on what he’d learned from Tear and Doc Cleary.
That part didn’t take long.
Riley went next, relaying his conversation with Farrelli.
“Who is Harry supposed to have killed?” Chase asked, when Riley finished. “Tear said the grandson of some important woman in Charleston. Who?”
Kate Westland spoke for the first time. “Greer Jenrette.”
All the men turned to look at her: Chase, Riley, Kono and Gator.
“How do you know?” Chase asked.
“Cardena briefed me.”
“Old Lady Jenrette is a powerful woman,” Kono said. “She runs Charleston.”
Chase spread his hands toward Westland. “Pray tell. What did Cardena tell you?”
“There are two things going on,” Westland said. The men were seated around the living room, Chase on his locker, Kono and Gator on the brick step in front of the fireplace, Riley on a branch of the tree. Westland had been sitting next to him, but now she was standing, a person obviously well versed in giving operational briefings. They only had a couple of lights on, dimly lighting the room.
She held up a single finger. “One is the thing that concerns you most immediately. Harry Brannigan.” She looked at Chase. “Your son with Erin Brannigan.” She held up the other hand, a single finger. “Two. Daufuskie Island. It’s the center of a complex bidding war and land-grab.”
“How are they connected?” Riley asked.
She pulled the fingers down but left her hands up. “The players. Mrs. Jenrette is one. The other is Merchant Fabrou, out of Savannah. His son was involved in the incident where Greer Jenrette died.”
“I still don’t see the direct connection,” Riley said.
“I don’t exactly know if there is one,” Westland said. “I don’t think Cardena does either.” She dropped her hands. “I believe that’s why he’s gotten me involved.”
“He didn’t order you here?” Chase asked.
“I’m retired,” Westland said. She nodded toward Riley. “Cardena dangled my old friend in front of me and I bit.”
“Who is this Greer Jenrette that Doc and Chase’s son had to run away?” Gator asked, focusing on the violent aspect. “And how did he die?”
“As was noted,” Westland said with a nod at Kono, “he’s the grandson of the most powerful woman in Charleston. He died during a hazing incident at the Military Institute of South Carolina around eighteen months ago. You son,” she looked at Chase, “is the one who killed him. Allegedly. An interesting aspect is that no legal authorities were involved. The death was labeled accidental.”
“What kind of accident?” Gator asked.
“A ceremonial bayonet in the heart,” Westland said.
“Helluva accident,” Gator said.
“Exactly Mrs. Jenrette’s feelings,” Westland said. “I believe she wants your son dead in return and that’s why Doc Cleary is keeping him far away from South Carolina.”
“Fuck,” Chase said. “Did he do it?”
Westland shrugged. “That’s the unofficial official version. More importantly, it’s what Mrs. Jenrette believes. Greer was her only grandson.” She put her hands together briefly. “And she’s the guiding force behind Sea Breeze. Almost all of Daufuskie Island under one ownership, developed into a major resort on the east coast.”
“There was a resort on Daufuskie,” Riley said. “It went under. As did the three golf courses. It’s dead. The island’s practically uninhabited now. I don’t see the plan. The land isn’t going to be worth much more.”
“Not if there’s a causeway to the island,” Westland said. “And it gets deeper. The upperclassmen who were present when Greer Jenrette died, supposedly at the hands of Harry Brannigan were Preston Gregory, Chad Mongin and Jerrod Fabrou.”
Westland ticked off the first name. “Preston Gregory is the son of Senator Gregory. Who has the authorization for Federal funding for the causeway in his desk, just waiting to file it and the funds will be released. The word is that’s going to happen on Saturday. And he’s also head of the Select Committee on Intelligence.”
“Oh crap,” Riley said. “Now we know why Cardena and the Cellar want to know what’s going on.”
Westland pressed on. “Chad Mongin’s family first came to the Daufuskie area in the 17th Century. They’ve been selling up their land for the past century, but they still own a key piece. The access point on the mainland where the causeway will start.
“Jerrod Fabrou is the son of Merchant Fabrou, a prominent businessman in Savannah. He’s an Institute graduate who is negotiating with Mrs. Jenrette regarding Daufuskie. It appears they will share ownership.”
She folded her arms. “Now you know what I know.” Then she said: “Ah. Except one thing. There’s another significant piece of property on Daufuskie that needs to be bought to make the resort complete: the Bloody Point Golf Course. Its ownership is buried under a number of shell corporations. Which were being investigated by the Treasury Department. They managed to dig down and find that Karralkov owned it once upon a time.”
“Well—“ Riley began, but she pressed on.
“Note I use the past tense,” Westland said, gracing her old friend with a smile. “Prior to his departing this world care of Cardena, he was bought out. By another shell company. Owned by the Jersey mob and then devolved to a man you’re familiar with: Alfonso Farrelli.”
“The shit just gets deeper and deeper,” Gator said. “Why don’t we just invite everyone to Daufuskie and have a shoot-out?”
“If only it were that easy,” Westland said.
“We don’t give a shit about Daufuskie or this Sea Breeze,” Chase said. “Did my son kill this Greer Jenrette? You avoided the question earlier.”
“I avoided it,” Westland said, “because I can’t answer it. The only people who know what happen
ed that night were in that locker room. One is dead. Four of them swear to one version. We don’t have your son’s version.”
Chase spoke up: “Doc Cleary’s not bringing him back until this is cleared up. So we won’t get the other side of the story until then.”
“Great,” Gator said.
“How does Sarah Briggs figure into all of this?” Chase asked.
“That’s the real question I need to get an answer to,” Westland said.
“That’s Cardena’s dog in this hunt,” Riley said. “Briggs. And if he’s part of this Cellar, that means it’s likely that Briggs is a former operative gone rogue.”
Westland nodded. “It’s likely.”
“Then he should have a file on her,” Riley said. “Which means you should have a file on her.”
Westland shook her head. “There’s a level where there are no files any more. Cardena simply told me that Briggs is dangerous and to find her and report back to him. That’s it.”
Riley started at her hard but there was nothing more forthcoming. He stood up. “All right. We’re not gonna figure this out in the next five minutes. I say we sit tight for a little bit. Then come up with a course of action.”
“Maybe you should have a chat with Farrelli again,” Gator suggested. “I’ll come with you.”
“We’ll go in the morning,” Riley said. “For now, we hunker down for the evening.”
Chase divvied out sleeping assignments. Then he sought out Riley. The two went out back, next to the slime-filled pool.
“Can we trust her?” Chase asked.
“I trusted her with my life on that op,” Riley said.
“That was a quarter of a century ago,” Chase pointed out. “And if she’s working for Cardena, who knows what her real plan is, or more accurately his plan. We’re getting side-tracked by this Daufuskie thing.”
“No,” Riley said, “we’re not. We know where your son is. With Doc Cleary. Who isn’t coming back until this issue of the death of Greer Jenrette is cleared up. So he’s safe. And Mrs. Jenrette is involved in this land deal. There’s something binding all this together. I just don’t know what it is.”
