On the drive down, A.C. and Lanham had had an irreconcilable disagreement. The detective wanted to go directly to Pierre Delasante’s condominium on Hilton Head, convinced that was where the man and those pursuing him were headed. A.C. could keep in mind only that Camilla had promised to call her mother from Savannah. A.C. had been to Hilton Head several times on spring vacations with his family. Lanham had never been to that man-made island paradise, but was bent on going, convinced it held all his answers. A.C. had different questions.
They had checked into Savannah’s Hyatt Regency on the riverfront, taking two rooms. After they had refreshed their once again depleted wardrobes, Lanham left with the Buick, crossing over the Boundary Street Bridge back into Carolina to follow the back roads that led the few miles to the Hilton Head Island causeway—to return or telephone as soon as practicable. A.C. had remained behind, groggy from his lack of sleep but willing enough for the grinding work of tracking Camilla down.
He telephoned hotels and motels throughout the town, then, in frustration, set out on a wander from one to the other, showing desk clerks his model’s picture of Camilla and concocting some vaguely plausible story of a runaway wife. None admitted to seeing her. There were no Delasantes or Santees in the phone book, but he found the name of her mother’s ancient family—Dutarques.
The listing was for a Juliette Dutarques. An old voice full of apprehension and frailty answered after many rings. She was helpful, however. She politely informed him that Camilla had not yet arrived, but was expected that evening. He had probably stumbled upon Camilla’s only relative in Savannah, an aunt perhaps, or an elderly cousin.
He walked over late in the afternoon, finding that the address was an old yellow-brown house with front galleries and two entrance columns set near the street opposite one of the old squares. There was no alley or driveway. There were two dusty, salt-stained sedans parked at the front—both very old and both bearing Georgia plates.
Returning to the hotel, A.C. took time for an hour’s sleep, a cool shower, a change of clothes, and a quick dinner in the hotel coffee shop. He left a message for Lanham, from whom he’d heard no word, and then set out once more, feeling refreshed and alert, surprised to find the sun leaving the sky as he stepped outside.
He walked slowly through the heat, pondering his next move should fate and the Delasantes once again disappoint him, but he saw Camilla’s red car as soon as he turned the corner of the square. He stood motionless, startled, then eased behind a flowery bush.
A few lights were already on in the house, glowing a warm yellow in the hazy dusk. He had a brief impulse to run and bang on the door and force his way in no matter who answered, confronting Camilla wherever he might find her in the house. Their mistake in letting Camilla slip away during the few minutes it had taken to retrieve their car the night before still stung him.
But he remembered well her words to her mother. She had come here not in flight but in search. She was in pursuit of her brother and Pierre Delasante, and so were A.C. and Lanham. They were all seeking the same thing. Camilla’s advantage was that she knew what it was.
There were four benches in the square, each facing toward the center. He took a seat on the nearest, turning to keep the red convertible under observation. If she came out of the house, he could get to it as quickly as she could.
But nothing happened in the house. No one, familiar or unknown, came along the street. Night fully descended, draping the square in a soft darkness.
Lanham might well have called. He could be back at the hotel. He might have found something.
A.C. rose and walked quietly across the street, mounting the steps of the house as might a friendly caller. To the right of the front door were the windows of a formal living room. No one was in it. To the left was a more comfortable-looking sitting room. He edged toward the nearest of its windows, hearing the familiar fuzzy sound of a television set. Its screen glowed brightly behind the curtain. He could see an old woman in a chair very close to it.
He rang the doorbell twice, then stepped back. She was a fair time coming.
The woman peered at him over the tops of a pair of half-glasses. “Yes?”
“Good evening,” he said. “I telephoned earlier, for Camilla. I was hoping to meet her here.”
“Oh yes. Yes. I told her you had called, but you failed to leave your name.”
“A.C. James,” he said. “I’m a friend from New York.”
“Yes. How do you do.” She hesitated, as though wondering whether to admit him. “Camilla’s not here. She went for a walk. I expect her back soon. I expected her back before this.” The woman glanced behind her. “I’d invite you in, but … Is there a number where she might reach you?”
“Not really. I’m out for a walk myself. I won’t be back to my hotel for a while.”
The woman began to close the door. “I’ll tell her you called on her, Mr. James.”
She seemed too confused and unsure to be lying. A.C. moved back from the door. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Dutarques. Good night.”
“Oh, it’s Miss Dutarques.”
“Yes. Well, thank you. Good night.”
He walked down the street a way, in case the old woman had lingered at her door to watch him, then returned to the square and his bench. His view included the sitting room window. He saw the woman go back to the television set.
It was only a few minutes afterward that he heard the sound of high heels coming along the street. She was walking quickly, her blond hair bouncing slightly in the air behind her, catching the light from the streetlamp.
A.C.’s white buck shoes had rubber soles. Making little sound, he slipped from his bench and circled around a bush to get behind her. He could simply speak her name, or do something more forceful. His automatic was again at his back in his belt.
She was almost to the gate of the house. A.C. took a few bounding steps and grabbed her by both arms. She struggled, but did not scream. She wrenched one arm free and then whirled around to face him. Her recognition was instant but her expression didn’t change. It was a mixture of fear and defiance, and a touch of something gentler.
“I have a gun, Camilla.”
“You don’t need that, A.C.,” she said.
“Why? Because you don’t have a shotgun aimed at me?”
“Let go of me.”
“I only want to talk. I’m not going to do anything to you.”
She was trembling. “All right,” she said unhappily.
“Let’s sit in the square.”
She glanced about warily, then nodded. Holding her arm at the elbow, he led her across the street to the bench. She sat at some distance from him, facing away, across the square. He sat sideways, watching her every small movement.
“Why did you come to Savannah?” he asked.
“You must know if you’re here. I’m looking for Pierre and my brother.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to stop the killings.”
“How do you intend to do that?”
She bowed her head. Her hands clenched into fists on her knees. She was fighting some impulse.
“What do you want of me, A.C.?” she said. “Why did you come down here after me? Why can’t you leave me alone?”
“One of those people killed in New York was a friend, a very dear friend.”
She looked puzzled.
“Her name was Bailey Hazeltine. An old friend. She was killed in my apartment. By your brother. He was waiting for me and killed her. The police have a photograph.”
“The police? Are they with you?”
“Only Detective Lanham.”
“Where is he?”
“I’m not sure. Not far.”
She looked at him closely now, her eyes more as he remembered them so well from Bermuda. They glistened in the dim light.
“Please go away, A.C. Go on back home, and let me do what I have to.”
“I’m doing what I have to. Lanham means to take your brother back with
him.”
“It’s much too late for that.”
He took her hand, holding it softly, remembering her words of the previous night to her mother. She did not resist. After a moment, he felt a responding pressure from her fingers.
“What is this all about, Camilla? What does your brother want from Pierre? What has Pierre been doing to you?”
“That’s something you can never know. It’s a family matter.” There could be nothing more serious or sacrosanct for someone from Charleston, South Carolina, than family.
“Pierre is a swine. Your brother is a maniac, a murderer. Why are you protecting them? Just because they’re family?”
“Pierre’s not family. Not blood!”
It was something she had not meant to say.
“He’s your cousin.”
“No he’s not. He’s my brother’s cousin, not mine. I’d kill myself if I had such vile blood in me.”
He pulled her to him. She came stiffly, but let herself be enveloped by his arm.
“I’m your friend, Camilla. More than that. Trust me. I want to help you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do since this started.”
She hesitated, then turned toward him.
“Whatever happens, you should know this,” she said. “Pierre is not my cousin. My brother is only my half brother.”
“But you’re a Delasante.”
“I have a different father.”
“I didn’t realize your mother was married before.”
“She wasn’t.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m a bastard, A.C. Illegitimate. Illégitime. The man who is my father is not the man my mother was married to when I was born. Not Robert Delasante.”
“Does this have anything to do with all these murders?”
Silence.
“I won’t tell anyone, Camilla. I wouldn’t.”
Her voice took a hard Southern edge. “It’s been common knowledge in Charleston for years that I’m illegitimate. Under the circumstances, I am quite proud of the fact.”
A car drove slowly by behind them, an almost sleepy sound.
“Robert Delasante,” she continued, “the man my mother married, the father of my brother and my poor darling sister, was a most despicable man, A.C. He was a drunkard, a philanderer, a thief who stole from his own kin. He was a brutal man, who used to beat us all when he could. If you think Pierre is scum, you should have met Robert Delasante. He was a pillar of the community, but if someone else hadn’t killed him, I probably would have done it. And I hate him as much dead as I did living.”
“He’s been dead a long time.”
“He was a liar. He had no honor. He lied to my poor mother in the most despicable, horrible way. And his lies have lived on after him.”
“And your real father?”
“He’s dead now, too. He died last year. He was a lovely man, the man my mother should have married. But he had very little when they met, and he was from off.”
“Off?”
“He wasn’t from Charleston. He was a Northerner originally. From Louisville. The Delasantes were Carolina.”
“I don’t understand.”
“How could you? You’re a New Yorker.”
He leaned forward, turning sideways to see her better. In so doing, he caught the movement—two men in dark suits running toward them down the sidewalk. The larger trailed behind; the smaller was carrying something in his hand, something metal. A gun? A knife? A badge?
A.C. stood up, pulling Camilla up, getting her behind him. The small man was moving very efficiently, coming directly for them, despite the barrier of the bench. He had decided exactly what he was going to do. A.C. saw the knife clearly as the man made his leap, his foot reaching the top of the bench and springing him forward.
Shoving Camilla aside, A.C. took a step back, then hurled himself toward the small attacker, in his fear and fury swinging his leg up high in a brutal kick that caught the man in the groin.
They both went sprawling, the man crying out and swearing obscenely as he hit the ground on his shoulder and rolled. A.C., lying on his side, got to his knees.
The larger man had hold of Camilla, his arms wrapped around her; she was kicking at him with her heels, accomplishing little. Still she did not scream, as though this were a family quarrel and she didn’t want the neighbors to hear. The smaller man, in pain, was attempting to rise. He still held the knife. The larger was the one who had been cut up by the glass from the chandelier at the Virginia farmhouse, which explained why he had chosen to take on Camilla.
A.C. moved toward the other, his ankle strangely numb. He tried to kick the man again but his foot didn’t work right. The man caught it and twisted, the knife blade scraping A.C.’s shin. Wobbling, A.C. pulled back and then came down hard with his other foot on the man’s neck. He tried for the head, like squashing an insect, but missed.
It didn’t matter. The knife dropped. The man, coughing and burbling, clutched at his throat.
His partner was dragging Camilla away. A.C., hobbling, came after them, pulling out his pistol. Startled by the action, the large man took his hand away from Camilla’s waist, as though to reach within his own coat. She turned, clawing at his face. He clutched at her hair, but she got free, ducking under his arm.
“Run, Camilla!” A.C. shouted.
She did. The man, deciding between her and A.C., lunged after her. A.C. stopped and raised the gun. He had a clear shot at the man’s back, or did he? Camilla was just ahead, her heels clattering as she ran.
Bailey dead, because of him. Not Camilla, too.
The man on the ground behind him had stopped his horrible sounds. A.C. looked back and saw that he was moving, trying to get up. Camilla and the heavy man were drawing away, crossing the street diagonally, toward where Camilla’s red car was parked. She was perhaps ten feet ahead, but he was gaining.
A.C. fought his indecision. He’d have to catch up with them, or shoot.
There was the roar of an engine off to his right, and then a bright flare of light as a motorcycle with its headlamp blazing swung around the corner of the square. A.C. thought it must be the police, but it wasn’t. There were no markings. The driver was only a silhouette as he flashed past, something in his hand.
The driver steered deliberately toward the man chasing Camilla, accelerating. A.C. saw the man stop and turn, saw the swarthy frightened face, two arms flung up.
Camilla’s pursuer fell over backward as the motorcycle came by. The cyclist sped on, braking only for an instant to make the approaching corner. Then he gunned the engine again and continued around the square.
Camilla was facing A.C., her hands at her face. She studied the lumpy mound that had been her attacker for a fleeting moment, gave A.C. one quick last look, then was at her car.
A.C. called her name. The car door slammed. The engine growled into life. The headlights flashed on as she pulled away from the curb. A.C. stood helpless as he followed the car’s swift progress around the square, watching as she disappeared into the darkness to the west, her car chasing the echoes of the motorcycle.
The man in the street remained a motionless heap. A.C. went up to him and saw that he had been shot, the sound of the gun drowned out by the noise of the motorcycle engine. He turned back and saw that the smaller man had staggered to his feet, the knife gripped clumsily in his hand. He had no pistol. He no longer posed a threat and knew it. Dragging his leg slightly, he was trying to get away.
Several lights had come on in nearby houses. Whether this signified that someone had summoned the police, or that people had simply been disturbed by the speeding vehicles, A.C. could not tell.
The man with the knife had tried to kill him. If he got away, it might be to find comrades. A.C. had to stop him. He told himself this just as his colonel had told him the infiltrator had to be stopped that long-ago cold afternoon in Korea. After that shooting, A.C. had sworn never to kill any living creature again.
But the man could not
be allowed to escape. A.C. remembered his time in Northern Ireland, recalled how the IRA Provos used to discipline their own.
Taking a deep breath, he walked quickly up to the man and as calmly as possible fired a single shot from the .357 Magnum into his right knee. He went down like a bridge collapsing, and began to scream.
Hobbling down a side street, A.C. looked back just once to see lights going on all over the square. Now the police would come. They would find themselves preoccupied for some time.
A.C. entered his hotel at the lower, riverfront level to avoid having to walk through the lobby. He was limping badly from a sprain and his shin was bleeding through his white pants from the scrape of the knife.
He got to his room without anyone noticing him or his injuries, then soaked his ankle in ice-cold water run into the tub, washing the abrasion with soap. Drying off, he poured Listerine over the ragged skin, then wrapped it with a clean handkerchief as a bandage. Then he changed clothes yet again.
While he waited for Lanham, he had a long, slow but very strong drink, using the time to study the street map of Savannah he had bought.
On the reverse side was a map of the overall metropolitan area, showing a section of the Carolina coast to the north. He was familiar with those coastal waters. He had sailed in them on vacation.
It was nearly one A.M. when Lanham finally knocked on the door. He looked very hot and tired, and a little surprised. A.C. was sitting with his leg propped up on a table. His ankle bulged.
“Something happen to you?”
“A lot. I found Camilla, and then Perotta’s men found us. One of them’s dead. The other’s wounded. I shot him through the leg.”
“You killed a guy?”
“No. Make yourself a drink while I explain it to you.”
He told Lanham everything in great detail, leaving out only Camilla’s revelations about her family and the circumstances of her birth.
“You let her get away again,” Lanham said, when A.C. had finished.
“I had no choice, Ray.”
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