The four-cam engine barked to life and settled into a low rumble. I said, “I got nothing else to do. You?”
“The Lord always keeps me busy.”
When he shut his door, I drove, using a light foot on the gas so as not to frighten my passenger. We passed under the new bridge heading away from the city, and East Bay Street turned into Morrison Drive. Brother Thomas directed me to a right turn. My headlights reflected off broken bottles and trash littering the street, and I did my best to dodge the debris. Homeless people scattered when I turned on the brights. I leaned forward and pulled out Mutt’s gun from the small of my back and tucked it between my legs.
Brother Thomas said, “You the one insisted we come out here tonight. I tried to tell you.”
A locked gate loomed ahead attached to a chain-link fence stretching in both directions, prohibiting us from going any farther. I braked to a stop. Kudzu took over the front landscaping and I couldn’t make out the name of the company. The place was thirty minutes from Sumter Point, but a world away.
Because it wasn’t mine, I left Mutt’s gun with Brother Thomas at his church and went home. In bed, whenever I closed my eyes the faces of my wife and uncle kept me awake. A full moon made the white-planked ceiling glow. I sat up and threw a pillow across the room. It hit the dresser below the clock and bounced on top of Shelby, who grunted and rolled over.
“Sorry, fella,” I said.
The clock showed three AM. I pulled on a pair of shorts over my boxers, slipped on a T-shirt and sandals, and walked onto my back porch. The decaying smell of the marsh hit me as fast as the mosquitoes. I swatted at them and ran to my car.
Uncle Reggie’s driveway was empty when I pulled onto the sand. A shiny Lincoln Navigator with a big brush guard was parked illegally in a neighbor’s yard. I couldn’t believe the old man living there let anyone park on his property. My uncle had kept to himself and spent most of his time at the Pirate’s Cove or on the water, but the old geezer across the street always found a reason to report him to the police for something.
I looked at the Navigator one last time, opened my trunk, and retrieved a police-issue Maglite. The black aluminum shell housing three D-cell batteries felt perfectly weighted in my hand. It reminded me of my friend Jimmy as I walked to my uncle’s house. Before Jimmy got busted for letting the prostitutes on his route slide for rides, he’d been a patrolman.
“The proper way to hold a Maglite,” he said one night after too many beers, “is like this.” He stumbled to his feet, a mug of beer in one hand and a bottle in the other. The bottle, his prop, spilled its contents down his back as he lifted it to demonstrate, holding it like a spear he was ready to throw.
“See, this way it becomes a club if you need it.” He swung it in the same motion a football was thrown and showered us.
I opened the door to the small screened-in porch and found the front door to the house ajar. A voice in my head, the one that got me through Afghanistan in one piece, said there might be a problem. I gave the cracked-open front door a shove and aimed my light into Uncle Reggie’s shack of a house. The light reflected off a shiny object held by a figure heading for me. I swung the flashlight as hard as I could. It struck with a thud. The metallic smell of blood filled the still night air. A body crashed into me at full speed. I fell backwards to the porch and hit the floor hard. It knocked the wind out of my lungs. What felt like two hundred pounds fell on me. The flashlight bounced across the porch and clicked off. I kicked and punched and got out from underneath the weight and managed to get to my knees. I could hear a man shuffling and groaning as I gained my breath. In the darkness, estimating where the figure’s face was, I balled my fist and hit as hard as I could. The figure grunted again and stopped moving.
I struggled to my feet, grabbing the door jamb leading into the house. When I felt for the switch to turn a light on, something smashed into the back of my head. I collided into blackness.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Brack!”
The sound of my name brought me out of the black hole.
Someone shook me. “Brack!”
I coughed and opened my eyes and realized I lay facedown on the floor. The lights were on and I blinked a few times. Paige came into focus.
Her mouth dropped and her eyes opened wide. “What happened? Are you okay?”
I coughed again. “Yeah.”
“Yeah, what?”
I tried to push myself up and felt Paige’s arms helping me. A sharp pain in my head made me squint. My hand searched and found a lump. “Ouch.”
Paige helped me sit and lean against the doorway. “What are you doing here?”
“Couldn’t sleep, so I came here to see if I could find out anything else.” I examined the hand I had touched my head with. There were flakes of dried blood on it. “How’s my head?”
She brushed my hair aside. “You got a nice bruise. Let’s get you to the hospital.”
“I’m fine.” I tried to stand to show her I was all right, but the floor moved and I fell.
She tugged at my arm. “Come on, let’s go. Good thing I came by to get the mail.”
“Mail?”
“Reggie got his addresses mixed up all the time and had the bar’s mail delivered here and his home mail delivered there. The guys in the kitchen really like his taste in magazines.”
The centerfold calendar I’d taken came to mind. We stood in the screened-in porch and saw, through the open front door, debris littering the house. The legs of an upside-down chair stuck up in a defenseless position, reminding me a little too much of myself.
“Oh my God,” she said.
Anger was my first emotion. Followed by rage. We did a quick check but couldn’t tell if anything was missing. At least the valuable surf boards were still there, all of them lying on the floor instead of against the wall. I finally calmed down as Paige helped me into her Honda Civic. Like Paige, it was neat and clean. A child’s seat sat in the back.
I said, “How old is Simon now?”
“He’s five,” she said, “going on ten.”
“Did you tell him what happened to Reggie?”
She nodded. “The G version. He still cried.”
Uncle Reggie loved Simon as if he was his own son. A week after Paige started working at the Cove, Simon’s father walked out on them. Simon was a year old. Since that happened, my uncle made sure they were taken care of. Paige became the best thing that ever happened to the Pirate’s Cove.
Despite the doctor’s protests, I walked out of the clinic under my own power, feeling better thanks to what amounted to expensive aspirin. Aside from a bandage on the back of my head to cover what the doctor described—after seeing a CAT scan—as a mild concussion, I was the same. Except, I wasn’t. Deep inside, in a part of me reserved for thoughts and emotions I shared with no one, a blue-hot flame burned. After Jo died I’d tried to douse it with Corona long necks, shots of tequila, and easy women. When that didn’t work,I added the War in Afghanistan to the mix. Now, in the warm wind of the lowcountry city I’d grown to love, the city that survived the war for independence, the Civil War, fires, earthquakes, and hurricanes, I stood by Paige’s car and laughed.
Paige looked up from fumbling in her purse for her keys. “What’s so funny?”
“Pouring alcohol on a fire.”
She creased her forehead. “Huh?”
“Never mind. I need to get home to let Shelby out.”
“Don’t you want to report this to the police?”
I thought for a moment. “You need to do it, but leave me out. If they knew I was there, they might think I broke in.”
“But it’s your house.”
“Whoever knocked me out cut the strip of evidence tape across the door to get in. I’m not sure, but I think that’s illegal.”
Paige drove me to my car, which was still at my uncle’s. When I pulled into my driveway, Shelby stood outside in the yard waiting for me. The front door was wide open. Those two points all but distracted me from the red Infini
ti convertible I’d parked next to.
Shelby came to me when I got out of the Mustang. I knelt and scratched his fur, checking to make sure he was okay.
“He’s fine,” a female voice said.
I recognized the voice immediately. “If it isn’t our favorite weather girl.”
Darcy said, “Very funny, Jack. I heard you were at the hospital so I came by to check on your dog. If you’re going to continue to do stupid things, you need to get him a doggie door.”
Shelby turned to her, his attention span as good as mine.
“The name’s Brack, not Jack,” I said, still kneeling in the driveway. “How’d you hear I was at the hospital? I didn’t tell anyone.”
Darcy lifted her right hand and examined red fingernails. “I have my sources.”
I stood and felt the blood rushing to my head, messing with my equilibrium. “My door was locked.” I put a hand on the fender of the convertible to steady myself. “How’d you get in?”
“I picked the lock.”
“No kidding.” I didn’t know what irritated me more, my lock being picked or not being able to stand on my own two feet. Sizing the situation, I came up short. When that happened, I switched topics. “Shelby likes the beach.”
Darcy held a large green bag. A strap of her dress fell off her shoulder and she slipped it back in place. “Me too.”
Shelby barked and nudged her leg.
“Lemme change first.” I went for the door but stopped and turned. “Thanks for letting him out.”
“You’re welcome. Now hurry up.”
Inside, the spreadsheets I’d printed at work covered the table along with the naked women calendar and the memory stick. My balance returned slowly. I swapped shorts for swimwear and removed the bandage. Aside from the bruise, it only covered minor scratches anyway. On my way out, I relocked the front door. “Find anything interesting in my house?”
Darcy said, “Nice calendar. I’m guessing it isn’t yours unless you needed to remind yourself when your own birthday was. You want to tell me about the spreadsheets?”
I had to remember this girl packed more brain cells than her blond hair suggested. “Not much to tell at this point. I’m trying to figure them out.”
The path led to a small beach and one of the best views of the Charleston harbor. Some of the first shots of the Civil War had been fired at Fort Sumter, which lay a half-mile across the harbor directly in front of us. I removed my shirt and kicked off my flops. When I pulled Shelby’s tennis ball out of my pocket, he saw it and ran down the beach as I let it fly. He jumped and caught it in midair and pranced back, proudly.
“Good boy.” I scratched his head when he released the ball in my hands. He took off running and I threw it again.
Shelby caught the ball and came back, this time going to Darcy. He dropped the ball in her hand and sprinted down the beach. I guess she met with his approval.
When Darcy threw the ball, it went farther than I could’ve sent it. I whistled.
“I played softball through college,” she said. “Outfield. I could help you with your throw, if you want.”
I frowned. Beautiful and feisty. A bad combination. Shelby returned and gave me the ball. I threw it out to the water and he barreled in after it.
I said, “We usually take a swim next.”
“It’s about time.” Darcy peeled off her dress, revealing a well-toned figure wrapped in a bikini.
We waded in together. I was older than her by a decade but still too young for a midlife crisis. At least, I thought so.
“You’re going to have trouble getting rid of me,” said Darcy.
“I can tell.”
“If you’re looking into your uncle’s murder, I can help.”
“Rumor is your family owns Wells Shipping.”
If something was shipped into or out of Charleston, chances were good the family business brokered the freight. The Wells name was everywhere, and Darcy’s career as a news correspondent had been thoroughly documented, both good and bad.
Darcy said, “My grandfather started it from nothing.”
“Why aren’t you working there?”
Shelby dog-paddled to her and gave her the ball. Again she lobbed it, but not as far as before. “I’m not good at sitting in an office.”
“That makes two of us.” I thought about what she’d said, “Okay, how can you help?”
She gave me her made-for-TV smile and said, “I told you, I’ve got informants all over this town.”
When we returned from the beach, the front door to my house was wide open again.
“What is this, break-into-my-house day?” To Darcy, I said, “Stay here.”
Shelby growled and darted into the house and I ran after him, not caring who was in there. Either they would die or I might, but the intruder wasn’t walking away. I reached my doorway and stopped. My furniture was in pieces. The drawers and cabinets were open and my stuff littered the floor. Shelby worked the house with his nose. No one was waiting.
“Brack?” Darcy called from the front porch. “Is everything all right?”
“Someone was nice enough to redecorate for me.” I looked down and saw the old watch my father had given me ground into the floorboards. Someone would pay.
Darcy walked into the living room. “Wow.”
I said, “This wouldn’t happen to be the work of friends of yours, would it? You make nice in the thong while your boys ransack my house?”
“I already looked through your stuff. I didn’t need to trash the place to do it.” She put her hands on her hips. “And I don’t wear thongs.”
The papers, memory stick, and calendar Darcy had left on the kitchen table were gone. I chose a T-shirt from a busted drawer and pulled it on. The slight sunburn on my back stung. I didn’t bother to lock up this time as I walked out. Shelby came when I called and we turned toward my car. The trunk lid on my Mustang was open and its four tires were flat. Deep scratches glinted in the sunlight along the fender where Shorty’s hand had been. Darcy’s car appeared untouched.
I said, “You better get out of here.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Whoever did this might still be around. Give me a number where I can reach you.”
“Yeah, right, you’ll call me later. I’ve heard that one before.” She dug into her purse and pulled out a card. “My cell’s on the back, but you don’t have to worry about calling. I’ll find you.” She walked to her car, threw her bag in the backseat, and drove away.
It occurred to me whoever trashed my house knew her car from mine. My guess was Shorty and his buddy, but I couldn’t figure out why Galston would be behind this. Underneath a ragged tarp in what made up my backyard sat a ten-year-old Jeep Wrangler bought when I first got back from the war. I packed a bag while we waited for the flatbed to come for my Mustang, then Shelby and I piled in the Jeep. We drove south on Seventeen to the other side of town.
At the Folly Beach Pier, I called Detective Wilson. “My uncle’s house was trashed last night. Mine was broken into this afternoon. Check them out for yourself if you like. I’m not staying home tonight. What I am going to do is find out what’s going on.”
“I wouldn’t do anything stupid if I were you,” he said.
“How’s the investigation coming?”
Silence.
“I thought so.” I hung up and walked next door to a vacation rental office. They had one place available that allowed pets, a recent cancellation. The agent said the place was eccentric. When I opened the door, I realized eccentric meant dive. The Pirate’s Cove had been described in a similar fashion. And, like the Cove, this one had an ocean view.
CHAPTER NINE
Thursday morning I awoke in an Adirondack chair on the back deck of my rental. The sun filled the horizon with a bright orange glow. Shelby was playing with the sand crabs in the dunes and ran to me when I whistled. I groaned as I got out of the chair, feeling every hour I’d slept in it. Stretching didn’t help. Neithe
r did a walk on the beach with Shelby.
After a shower, I examined my head. It was tender but healing. I wished I could say that about the rest of me.
My phone said I’d missed a call. Checking voicemail, I learned from Paige’s message that we now had a new problem. Apparently, the bar’s checks were bouncing.
Just great.
Shelby barked through the thin walls of the unfamiliar house, upset he wasn’t going with me. I jumped into the Jeep and hit the starter. The straight six fired up like it always had, but it lacked the power of the Mustang, and I wanted it back, bad. The Ford dealer had told me the replacement tires would take a day or two. Same with the repaint. I asked them to check the car for anything out of the ordinary—like explosives. The service manager laughed, but I didn’t.
At a gas station, I filled the Jeep’s tank and bought a ball cap, sunglasses, and a roll of breath mints. The counter displayed the kind of cigars Uncle Reggie smoked. So for old time’s sake, I bought a pack and lit one with matches the cashier gave me. I hadn’t smoked a cigarette since Afghanistan. These plastic-tipped stogies weren’t much better and would probably affect my jogging. The smoke turned over in my mouth as I hopped into the Jeep. I put on the sunglasses and hat and checked myself out in the rearview mirror. They were the best I could do at incognito.
A mile down the road, a digital sign showed the temperature of eighty-three degrees and it wasn’t ten o’clock yet. A Bob Seger tune belted from the speakers wired to the roll bar behind my head.
While I stood in line at the bank watching the flatscreen TV mounted on the wall, Channel Four’s News at Noon, one of Patricia’s competitors, ran an interesting clip. On it, they accused my uncle of tax evasion and mentioned rumors of his controlling an underworld gambling ring from the bar.
When it was my turn with the teller, I pulled out the power-of-attorney papers Chauncey had given me so I could get a look at Uncle Reggie’s bank statement. Chauncey said my uncle reluctantly opened a checking account when he couldn’t pay certain bills in cash anymore because of the changes in banking and accounting. Now, we couldn’t pay for anything.
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