CHAPTER
7
B RITT WOKE UP WHEN A SHAFT OF SUNLIGHT STRUCK HER FACE. She was lying on her side, facing a window. Through the screen she could see dense green forest, the leaves of a wisteria vine fluttering against the post of an old-fashioned clothesline, and a predatory bird doing spirals against the cloudless sky.
Remembering where she was, she rolled onto her back and came up on her elbows. Daylight did little to enhance the room. It was small, accommodating only the bed, a chair, and a TV tray that served as a nightstand, on which was a gooseneck reading lamp. In the corner was a large bureau with six deep drawers.
The room had no charm except for the patterned quilt covering her legs and feet. It appeared to have been hand stitched, and the fabric remnants from which it was made were color coordinated.
The only other decorative item was a sweet potato vine growing from the tuber that had been suspended in a jar of water sitting on top of the bureau. Its roots had formed a thick nest inside the jar, while the leafy vine nearly filled the corner all the way to the ceiling, its tendrils curling around a network of string tacked to the wall.
The room was humble but tidy. His clothes were no longer on the floor or in the chair where he’d left them last night when he joined her on the bed.
Her hands were free, although she still had bands of tape around the wrists. The edges trailed fine, white threads. She pushed off the quilt and got out of bed. The door to the living area was closed, but through it she could smell fresh coffee. The aroma made her mouth water.
After using the bathroom, she hesitantly opened the bedroom door. He was standing with his shoulder propped against the front door jamb, staring through the screen as he sipped from a large mug of coffee.
The same thing happened to me.
Following that startling statement, he’d continued staring down at her for several beats, then he’d rolled off her, switched off the gooseneck lamp, and stretched out on his back beside her. They had touched nowhere except the backs of their hands that were taped together.
He hadn’t moved. She hadn’t dared. In minutes he’d been breathing evenly, obviously asleep. Impossible as it seemed now, she’d soon fallen asleep, too.
Sensing her presence, he turned. As they continued to look at each other, she wondered about his level of hostility this morning. He would hold a grudge forever, that much she knew. But if he’d meant to get retribution with bodily harm, he wouldn’t have freed her hands. His expression was blank. At least it appeared to be. It was hard to tell what the beard concealed.
Testing the waters, she said, “The sweet potato vine is a nice, homey touch.”
He looked at her for several seconds more, then nodded toward the kitchen area. “Coffee mugs are in the cabinet on the right.”
The sisal rug that covered most of the floor in the living space gave way to vinyl in the kitchen. It felt cool against the soles of her feet. She took a mug from the cabinet above a stained Formica counter and poured her coffee. It tasted as strong as it looked, but it was good.
“I think there’s some sweetener somewhere.”
She shook her head. “I’d use milk if you have it.”
“In the fridge.”
Once she’d added milk to the coffee, she sat down in one of the chairs at the small, wood dining table and began peeling the sticky silver duct tape off her wrists.
Watching her, he said, “If it makes you feel any better, I had hairs caught in mine. Hurt like hell to peel it off.”
She gave him a wan smile. “It makes me feel better.” When she finished the task, she wadded the tape into two tight balls. He extended his hand, and she dropped them into it. He tossed them in the trash can.
“How’s your head?”
“I still have a goose egg. And the roots of my hair hurt.”
“The hazards of being an uncooperative kidnap victim.” She gave him a withering look. Unrepentantly, he added, “I had to make you think I meant business.”
It wasn’t quite an apology, but she figured it was all she could expect. “At least I paid you back,” she said, motioning toward the scratch on his cheek just above the beard.
“If your knee had connected with my balls, you would have paid me back.” He turned and opened the refrigerator. “I assume you’re hungry.”
“Last night you were my abductor and this morning you’re the gracious host?”
He turned on the flame beneath a burner on the gas stove, set a skillet on it, and began lining up strips of bacon in the skillet.
“Mr. Gannon? Raley?” she said when he still didn’t respond. He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Why did you take the tape off? Why am I free now?”
“Didn’t you hear what I said last night?”
“About believing me because the same thing had happened to you?”
“That’s why the tape is no longer necessary.”
“You could have told me that over the telephone, or in some other civilized manner. Why did you put me through all that fear and anguish last night?”
“Meanness. Retaliation.”
“You admit it?”
“That was partially it, yeah. But fear and anguish are also good motivators. I needed to satisfy myself that you were telling the truth about losing your memory.”
“And did you?”
“If I hadn’t, you’d still have your hands and feet taped together.”
She thought about it for a minute, while the bacon sizzled in the skillet and he whipped eggs in a bowl. “If you believed me last night, why didn’t you let me go then?”
“If I had, you would have been so anxious to get back to your TV station and report your story, you would have hightailed it out of here, in the dark, not knowing where to go or even where you are. You would have plunged headlong into the wilderness.
“In order to keep you from hurting yourself or getting lost, never to be seen again, I would have had to chase after you. It had been a long day, I was tired, I wanted to go to sleep. I didn’t even want to argue with you about it. It seemed easier just to tie you down so you couldn’t leave.”
Privately she acknowledged that was precisely what she would have done if she’d been free to attempt it. “What’s to keep me from doing that now?”
“You won’t.” He’d removed the bacon from the skillet and poured the eggs into it, then put two slices of bread into a dented, rusty toaster. His motions were economical, like this was his daily routine.
“You committed several crimes, you know.”
Keeping his back to her, he shrugged.
“Think what a story that would make.” She glanced through the screen door toward the pickup truck parked only steps away from the cabin. “‘Raley Gannon broke into my house and kidnapped me.’ l could have it on the news by noon today. There’s bound to be a main road not too far from here.”
“Four point seven miles. But you won’t go.”
He came to the table with a handful of flatware, which he dropped onto it with a clatter. The mismatched utensils were followed by a roll of paper towels. He divided the food between two plates, one of which he slid over to her. He sat down, doused his eggs with Tabasco, then picked up a fork and began eating.
The breakfast smelled delicious, but she didn’t dig in. It had just now occurred to her why he was so confident that she would stay even though she was free to leave. “I won’t go now because I have only a portion of the story.”
He stopped eating to rip a paper towel off the roll and wipe his mouth with it. Behind the beard, she saw a trace of a smile. “Your curiosity is much more binding than my duct tape.”
“This relates to what Jay was going to tell me, doesn’t it? And it must harken back to what happened five years ago. Right?” To her consternation, he continued eating. “When are you going to tell me the rest of it?”
“Your food is getting cold.”
He would tell her the whole story. She was sure of that. She wouldn’t have to outsmart or cajole him in order to get it, either. He wanted to tell her. Just as Jay had. Whatever it was, it was a hell of a story. Possibly a career-making scoop, as Jay had promised.
But it could wait until after breakfast.
She ate ravenously. When she was done, he cleared the table. She dried the dishes he washed. Her curiosity was killing her, but he didn’t speak a single word, so neither did she.
With the chore out of the way, they returned to the table and sat down across from each other. He began fiddling with a box of toothpicks in the center of the table.
The silence stretched out until it became unbearable to her. Apparently he was waiting for her to begin. She said, “If you had told me earlier last night that the same thing had happened to you, and given me a few minutes to assimilate it, I would have seen reason, just as I have this morning.”
“Maybe.”
“I wouldn’t have hightailed it out of here, I wouldn’t have plunged headlong into the wilderness. Not until I had the whole story.”
“Probably not.”
He was contradicting himself. She shook her head in confusion. “Then it wasn’t really necessary for you to tape our hands together and bind me to the bed, was it?”
“No.”
“So you did that out of sheer meanness.”
“Not entirely.”
“Then why? Why did you—” But she broke off without finishing the question because suddenly she knew why.
He kept his head down for a long time. When he finally raised it and looked at her, it felt as though he’d reached across the table and socked her lightly in the lower abdomen.
Just then footsteps landed heavily on the front steps.
“Raley! Get up, boy!”
“Oh shit,” Raley muttered as he came quickly out of his chair.
The strangest-looking man Britt had ever seen came barging through the screen door, nearly tearing it off the hinges in his haste. He stumbled over three hounds, who bounded in along with him, their tongues dripping slobber onto the man’s crusty bare feet. He cursed them lavishly for tripping him up.
“Get those damn dogs out of here,” Raley ordered. “They’ve got fleas. So do you, for that matter.”
The old man didn’t seem to hear him. Immediately upon clearing the doorway, he’d stopped dead in his tracks and stood transfixed, gaping at Britt, who had also shot to her feet, partially to protect herself from the hounds, who were circling her, sniffing at her bare legs with more curiosity than menace.
Raley whistled sharply. “Out!” The three reluctantly withdrew, whining, tails tucked between their legs. Raley held open the screen door. They slunk through it onto the porch, where they plopped down into three panting canine heaps.
Raley returned to the table and sat down as though the disruption hadn’t taken place. The old man was still rooted to the floor, staring at her. “What’s she doing here?”
Britt didn’t miss the disparaging emphasis on his reference to her. “You know who I am?”
“I ain’t blind. Course I know who you are.” He shot a look toward Raley. “I know all about you.”
His tone indicated that what he’d heard about her from Raley wasn’t complimentary.
“He kidnapped me.”
“Kidnapped you?”
“He came into my home, bound and gagged me, and drove me here.”
“Against your will?”
“Isn’t that what kidnapped usually implies?”
“Don’t get on your high horse with me, young lady. You’re gonna need all the friends you can get.”
That elicited a reaction from Raley. He looked at the old man sharply. “Why? What’s happened?”
“I seen it on the TV first thing this mornin’.” He looked askance at her, then spoke directly to Raley. “They done the autopsy on your late friend Jay.”
Any time a police officer died of anything other than natural causes or old age, it made news.
Patrick Wickham, Jr., knew that from when his father had been killed. He’d been gut-shot and left in a dirty, rat-infested alley to bleed out. Newspapers had deemed it a heinous crime committed by a lawless assailant. The community was saddened and outraged. It had lost a hero who would be long remembered and revered for his unstinting bravery on the day of the police station fire.
Barely a year had elapsed between the fire and the night Pat Sr. was slain. The brouhaha over the fire was just beginning to die down when his murder stirred it all up again.
As a trained policeman himself, Pat Jr. knew that his father had failed to follow procedure that night. He hadn’t even exercised common sense. But his costly misjudgment had been obscured by the posthumous accolades to his uncommon courage.
The other three heroes of the fire were asked to eulogize his dad. Pictures of Cobb Fordyce standing with head bowed beside the casket had made him a shoo-in for the race for the AG’s office. George McGowan had wept openly at the interment. Jay Burgess had offered Pat Jr. and his mother whatever assistance they needed from him and the CPD. “Anything,” Jay had said, pressing his mother’s hand as he kissed her cheek.
For weeks following Pat Sr.’s funeral, Jay had phoned often, even stopped by the house a few times to see how they were faring, bringing with him flowers and small gifts. But then the calls and the visits had tapered off and finally stopped altogether.
Every once in a while, his and Jay’s paths would cross at police headquarters. They always exchanged friendly hellos, but it was obvious to Pat that Jay didn’t want to engage in conversation, and that was more than okay with him.
Now a photo of that handsome, guileless face filled the screen of his twelve-inch kitchen TV.
“Another officer who distinguished himself five years ago during the police station fire apparently died the victim of foul play,” the announcer said, all gravity.
“Daddy?”
“Shh!”
“I wan’ milk.”
Each morning Pat Jr. prepared breakfast for his two children. It wasn’t a chore he particularly enjoyed. In fact, he dreaded it every morning—the whining, the demands, the invariable spills. But getting breakfast was the least he could do for his wife and children. The very least.
Mechanically he poured milk into a sippy cup, secured the top, then handed it to his three-year-old son. Smelling of a wet diaper, his two-year-old daughter was in her high chair, creating a mush of waffles and syrup in the tray.
“Jay Burgess was found dead two days ago in his bed by newswoman Britt Shelley. Ms. Shelley, who placed the 911 call, contends that after meeting Burgess at a popular nightspot, she has no memory of the night she spent with him.”
They cut to an exterior shot of The Wheelhouse. Pat Jr. knew it, but he’d never been there.
“Daddy?”
“Just a minute,” he snapped impatiently.
“Police, who’ve questioned Ms. Shelley extensively, have declined to cite any wrongdoing on her part. However, they did request that the autopsy on Burgess be conducted as soon as possible. Gary, in view of this report from the medical examiner’s office, do you think the authorities will be questioning Ms. Shelley further?”
The field reporter, covering the story from outside Jay Burgess’s town house, now a crime scene, appeared on camera. “No doubt of that, Stan. Ms. Shelley said at the news conference she held yesterday that she was eager to learn the cause of Burgess’s death. By her own admission, she was the last person to see him alive. Given the findings of this autopsy, the police will have some hard questions for her.”
“Pat?” Pat Jr. turned around to see his wife, who’d just come from bed. Her eyes were still puffy with sleep, but she was looking at the television. “Is that about Jay Burgess? What are they saying?”
“That he didn’t simply die in his sleep.” The words seemed reluctant to be spoken. They got jammed up inside Pat Jr.’s misshapen mouth, but he was finally able to articulate them.
Astonished, she said, “No kidding?”
He shook his head, wishing with all his might that he was kidding.
“So what happened to him?”
Pat Jr. didn’t have the wherewithal to reply.
George McGowan already had the front door open when his father-in-law arrived and honked the car horn loudly. Nevertheless, as George wedged himself into the seat of Les Conway’s latest acquisition, a spanking new, red Corvette convertible, Les shot him a look of reproof as though he’d been kept waiting.
George ignored the look, and his tongue could turn to stone before he would apologize for being not only on time but ahead of schedule.
Les, who lived barely a mile away on a similar estate, had pre-arranged to pick George up at promptly seven fifteen, so they could be at the country club by seven thirty and teeing off by seven forty-five. As he ruthlessly pushed the Vette’s stick through the gears, he asked, “Did you bring the plans?”
“Right here.” George wondered what the son of a bitch thought he had in the briefcase he’d brought with him if not the architectural plans for the new municipal athletic complex. Today they were meeting with city planners to officially bid on the job of building it. If Conway Construction was awarded the contract, Les’s pocketbook would be considerably fattened.
This wasn’t the first time his father-in-law had used George’s celebrity, as well as his contacts in city hall, to help him land a lucrative contract. In the four years that George and Miranda had been married, there had been many such contracts. But you would never hear Les, or Miranda, giving George credit for the company’s growth. He’d stopped expecting even a nod of appreciation or gratitude from either of them.
“Let them win,” Les said.
George nodded. When Les’s business negotiations began with a round of golf, it was standard practice for him to let his opponents win. Otherwise, he played a cutthroat game.
George had been an athlete in high school and college, participating in nearly every sport. He didn’t take up golf until he was well into his twenties, but he rarely shot above a seventy-eight. Hitting with power, accuracy, and finesse came naturally to him. It galled Les that, even when he cheated, George could always beat him.
“Just don’t make it obvious that you’re losing on purpose.” He gave George a glance, then looked at his own reflection in the rearview mirror. Like father, like daughter. They never met a mirror they didn’t like.
“I won’t.” George felt like a child, being driven to school and given his marching orders for the day.
“How’s my girl this morning?”
“Still asleep when I left.”
Les laughed. “She likes her beauty sleep.”
“She certainly does.”
“Did you hear?”
“Hear what?” George asked distractedly. He was staring at the scenery on his side of the car, catching a glimpse of the Ashley River now and then. The scent of salt water was in the air this morning.
“The police got the autopsy report on your late buddy Jay.”
George whipped his head around.
His father-in-law smirked, then laughed out loud. “I thought that would get your attention.”
“Well? What was in the report?” George hated asking, but he had to know even if he had to beg the son of a bitch for the information.
Les took his sweet time. He readjusted his sunglasses and gave the mirror another glance before answering. “It concluded that Burgess didn’t die of natural causes or anything relating to his cancer.”
The Vette took the turn into the country club parking lot on two wheels and screeched to a halt in the parking space Les paid monthly rent for. As soon as he yanked his keys from the ignition, he turned to George. Now that he no longer found humor in the situation, the smirk, the laugh, were gone. “I don’t think I need to tell you, George, that a fuckup here would be catastrophic.”
“I know what to do. Play well enough, but let them win.”
Les removed his sunglasses and gave him a hard look. “I wasn’t talking about the golf game.”
On that ominous note, his father-in-law got out and slammed the door so hard the car rocked. George alighted and followed him into the clubhouse. Les actually held the door for him, saying as George went past, “It’s important for these guys to think we’re doing them a favor, not vice versa. So, just to set the tone, be a minute or two late to the tee.”
George nodded, glad of that plan. He was going to need an extra minute or two at his locker, where he kept a flask. He had to have a drink or he’d never be able to grip a golf club. Not the way his hands were shaking.