Southern Storm

by Terri Blackstock

  “We might need vodka.” She grinned at him. Cade didn’t drink, and the thought that he’d have some sitting around his office was absurd. She’d hoped to get a smile out of him, but his eyes had drifted back to the set.

  “This disappearance makes the fifth in as many weeks. The others were taken from hospitals in Florida and Southern Georgia. “And in other news . . .”

  Cade’s picture flashed up on the screen. “There it is.”

  “The Cape Refuge chief of police is in the hot seat for running down an injured man on Ocean Boulevard at 3:30 P.M. today.”

  “Okay,” Cade said, “they know he was shot.”

  “Sources say that Chief Matthew Cade was on his way to direct traffic around a downed power line when he hit an unidentified pedestrian who was bleeding from a gunshot wound to the abdomen. The man was rushed to Candler Hospital in Savannah but later died. Police don’t yet know how the man was shot and have been unable to identify him.”

  The anchor paused, and the video of Cade’s press conference filled the screen. “The man was wearing a red plaid short-sleeved shirt, khaki pants, and a pair of Dockers deck shoes. He had blondish-brown hair and brown eyes, was approximately 220 pounds, approximately thirty-five years old, and about six feet tall . . .”

  As he spoke, another picture flashed on the screen—a sketch of the dead man’s face.

  Cade sprang up. “What in the name of—?”

  “Our WSAV-TV News sketch artist was able to make this drawing of the man who was killed. If you know him, please contact us here at Channel 3, or you can call the Cape Refuge Police Department at 555-8327. Chief Cade refused to comment on his part in the man’s death, though he did say that the man spoke to him before he died.”

  Blair dropped her feet. “Cade, is that what the man really looked like?”

  “Exactly. What did that reporter do? Go to the morgue to draw the man’s face? What if his family sees that? What if they’re sitting in the living room wondering why Dad’s not home and all of a sudden that stupid sketch pops up on the screen?”

  It was just the kind of thing she’d expected from the press.

  Blair got up and grabbed the phone. “I’ll get to the bottom of this right now.”

  “Who are you calling?”

  “A friend at Channel 3. I’m going to find out how they got the picture and how they knew about the gunshot.”

  Cade changed the channel and watched the tail end of another station’s coverage of his impromptu press conference. Relieved, he saw that there was no picture there, but they too had the information about the gunshot. He switched to the third local channel. Again, no picture, but the gunshot dominated the piece.

  Blair got the station’s recorded greeting, then navigated her way to her friend who worked in the newsroom. She’d worked with him several times when he’d needed research done for a report he was working on. He’d hired her, knowing that she had an uncanny gift for finding facts that no one else could find.

  The man answered quickly. “Jason Geddis.”

  “Yeah, Jason, hi. Blair Owens.”

  “Yeah, Blair. How’s it going?”

  “Great. And you?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  She met Cade’s eyes. He looked as if he wanted to jerk the phone out of her hand and interrogate him himself. “Listen, I was just watching the news and saw the sketch you guys had of the man who died on Cape Refuge . . .”

  “Yeah. Pretty good reporting, huh?”

  She didn’t comment. “The police didn’t release a sketch of the man, and there were no media at the scene of the accident, so really, Jason, how did you guys get that?”

  Jason laughed. “Well, I’m not saying this was the right thing to do or anything, but our artist went to the morgue. He told them he was sent there to do a sketch of the man to help police identify the body. So they let him in.”

  Cade turned the volume down on the set and looked over at her, waiting.

  “You’re kidding me. And they believed him?”

  “Sure they did. Let him right in. Ethics aside, it was an exclusive, and it might help identify the guy.”

  Cade set his hands on his hips and stared down at her, waiting.

  “So that would be how he knew about the gunshot too, huh?”

  “Yep. The person helping him mentioned it.”

  Blair breathed out a bitter laugh. “Amazing. How do you guys sleep at night?”

  He muttered something about sleeping just fine, and she quickly said good-bye. She knew the scar on her face was crimson.

  Cade’s face was red too. “Tell me, Blair.”

  She sighed. “He led them to think he was with the police department, and this rube let him right in, gave him access to the body, and listed the injuries.”

  Cade dropped back into his chair. “Unbelievable.”

  She watched him for a moment as he leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. “Cade, maybe it’s for the best,” she said. “You’ve got his face out there now. Somebody’s bound to call in soon.”

  “And what if they call Channel 3 instead of me? Is the press going to rush to the family’s home and ask them for a statement?”

  Blair tried to think of something that would comfort him, but the phone rang, and J.J. rushed into the doorway. “Chief, we’ve got a lead.”

  “Already?”

  The phone began to buzz again. The viewers were already responding.

  Cade picked up the phone. “Chief Cade.”

  Blair sat and listened as one after another television viewer called in to ask questions or provide leads.

  It was going to be a busy night.

  CHAPTER 6

  It was after midnight when the phone calls with empty leads stopped coming. Blair still sat in a chair in Cade’s office, her feet propped on his desk. Cade’s eyes were dry and weary, but fatigue had not drained him of worry. He wished it would.

  “I’m going home.” Blair dropped her feet and got up. “You ought to do the same. Get some sleep, Cade.”

  For a moment he just looked at her, his finger rubbing gently across his lips. She was pretty; he’d always thought so. The scars on her face marred only her self-image, as far as he was concerned. They were part of her, the part that spoke of pain behind her tough shell, the part that reminded him how vulnerable she could be.

  He wished she was a believer, so that God could heal the inner reaches of those scars.

  He wished it for selfish reasons, too.

  “I’ll go home soon,” he said. “Thanks for being here during this. I appreciate your support.”

  “No problem.” She got up and started out.

  Cade followed her. He mentally kicked himself for sounding dismissive or impersonal. He really did appreciate it. She had been there at the hospital when he’d needed someone, and tonight as the saga continued, she’d helped so patiently and compassionately.

  Yet it always ended so coolly with them, as though some line existed between them that neither would cross.

  It had finally stopped raining. He walked her to her car, opened her door, and stood there as she got in. “Be careful,” he said.

  She smiled up at him. “You too. Go home, Cade.”

  “I will.”

  Closing her door, he stepped back and watched her drive away.

  The wind was muggy and angry, and he looked at the night sky, wondering how in the world this day had taken such a horrible turn. He slid his hands into his pockets and crossed the quiet street to the beach. His feet left the pavement and began to rock through the sand as he walked to the edge of the water.

  The morning sun had come today as it always did, and the tide had risen and fallen. Waves still beat against the shore as if everything was the same. How could he have known when he got up this morning that he was going to kill a man today?

  Or would the man have died anyway, from his wound?

  He went to the lifeguard’s stand, climbed up, and sat in the chair that looked out
over the water. The night stars twinkled bright and abundant tonight, reminding him of God’s majesty, but he couldn’t help questioning God’s purpose. He leaned his head back against the wooden slats of the chair. How did one repent for something he had not meant to do? His heart had cried out in contrition ever since the accident occurred. God knew he was sorry, but it didn’t make anything right. For all he knew right now, there was a family grieving because they had seen their father and husband’s face flashed on the television screen, a poor sketch of a dead man rendered by someone who’d never seen him alive. By morning he expected to know who the man was. But what then?

  As he sat in the lifeguard’s chair staring up at the sky, he tried to pray. But his supplications to God were a jumble of incoherent fears, concerns, and self-indictments.

  He should pray for the wife, the family, if there was one. He should pray for the friends and loved ones who would grieve over this missing man. He should pray that, if it wasn’t a suicidal gunshot, the shooter would be found. But he couldn’t manage it.

  He climbed down to the soft sand and walked down the beach. The surf rumbled loud tonight, hitting hard against the shore. Tourists clamored for rooms in beachfront hotels, but on days like this, when a storm had come and gone and the ocean was restless, they often had trouble sleeping with the roar of the Atlantic in their ears. Tonight the commotion of the waves only mirrored the noise of the voices inside his head—voices that questioned, taunted . . .

  Oh, how he wished that his mentor, Wayne Owens, were here to talk to. Blair reminded him a lot of her father. She had his matter-of-fact ways, but without his passion for Christ. She had much advice to give, but few answers. Still, she’d been a comfort to him, and he had to admit that there was no one he’d rather have had by his side tonight.

  He turned around and started back to the police station, where his night staff fielded phone calls and chased down leads. He stopped beside the lifeguard’s stand again, leaned against it, and looked out over the water.

  “Lord, help me.” It was the only thing he could manage to pray tonight. Maybe what he had done today had put up a wall between him and God. He hoped not. He could not stand the thought of being isolated like that.

  Maybe he just needed to rest.

  He went back to the station, got his keys, and headed back out to his truck. Quietly he drove home, hoping that the day would shed some light on the things he needed to know and, thus, change everything.

  CHAPTER 7

  Blair had not slept well, and when dawn began to break across the sky and turn the darkness in her room to gray, she got up and decided to check on Cade. She called his house first and waited as the phone rang four times. Finally, his voicemail picked up.

  “Hi. You’ve reached Cade. I’m not at home right now but if you’ll leave a message, I’ll call you back.”

  The phone beeped and Blair cleared her throat. “Hey, Cade, it’s Blair. I was just checking on you, hoping you’re all right. I’ll try you at the station.” She hung up and dialed the number of the police station.

  “Cape Refuge Police Department.” The voice was dry and clipped. She recognized it to be Alex’s.

  “Alex, this is Blair Owens. Can Cade come to the phone?”

  “Cade isn’t in,” Alex said. “He doesn’t usually come in until eight.”

  “Yeah, well, I thought he might have gotten started earlier today. He must have gone to Cricket’s.”

  “Yeah, you’ll probably catch him there.”

  Blair decided that instead of calling, she would just get in her car and drive over to the dock. The little restaurant called Cricket’s sat back from the water. It was where fishermen and sailors and those who worked along the beach often had breakfast in the mornings. As she pulled into the parking lot, she saw that Cade’s truck was parked there.

  She left her car and went inside the structure that looked as if a strong wind might blow it over. One whole wall was made of screens, which let in the ocean breeze, along with the sea air and the rank odor of fish from the boats docked nearby. She stepped in, letting the screen door bounce shut behind her, and looked around at the usual faces. Her parents used to be among them. They had come here each morning for years in hopes of ministering to seamen who were passing through. Their little church was housed in the warehouse just a few yards away.

  Blair walked up to the bar and waited for Charlie to notice her.

  “Well, if it ain’t Marian the Librarian.”

  “Hey, Charlie. What’s going on?”

  “Not much,” he said. “Same old same-old.” He poured her a cup of coffee, shoved it into her hands.

  “Have you seen Cade this morning?” she asked.

  “Yeah, he was in earlier.”

  “Where is he? His truck is still here.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Musta left.”

  Blair took her coffee and stepped out of the restaurant. She looked up and down the dock, wondering if Cade was nearby. By now, most of the shrimp boats had already gone out, but some of the late-goers were still preparing their rigs for the day’s work.

  She walked up the dock, saw her brother-in-law, Jonathan, getting his tourist boat ready to take passengers out for a day of saltwater fishing. His nineteen-year-old deckhand helped the passengers board while Jonathan busied himself on the deck.

  She waved and called out, “Jonathan, you seen Cade?”

  He turned. “I saw him a little while ago coming out of Cricket’s,” he yelled back. “I figured he was headed to work.”

  “He’s not there and his truck’s still parked at Cricket’s,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Then I don’t know where he went. Sorry.”

  As she kept walking, she saw Toothless Joe chomping on his cigar as he prepared for his dolphin tour. Up ahead was Mill Malone, loading his cargo for a trek up the coast. Cade was nowhere to be found.

  Giving up, she went back to her car and headed back to the station. Maybe his truck had died in its parking spot, and he had hitched a ride or walked to the station.

  But when he still wasn’t there, she began to get concerned.

  “Where could he be?” she asked Alex. “I mean, if he was out working, wouldn’t he have let you know?”

  “Usually,” Alex said. “But he’ll come along shortly. He’s a big boy.”

  “I know he’s a big boy,” Blair said, “but I’m worried about his state of mind. He’s really beating himself up about what happened yesterday.”

  “Maybe he headed over to Savannah looking for the family.”

  Now, there was a possibility. “Do you think he knows who it is yet?”

  “I don’t see how. We got a few calls through the night but they were all lame leads. Didn’t take us anywhere.”

  Blair checked her watch. It was past time for her to open the library. She supposed Cade would turn up eventually, with or without her help. Trying to put him out of her mind, she headed home.

  Five hours later, when Blair checked on Cade again, he had still not been in to the police station. No one had heard from him. Several important matters had come up and they had tried to contact him, but he had not answered the cell phone that he used when he went into Savannah. His truck still sat at Cricket’s, and no one in town seemed to know where he was.

  By that evening, when there was still no trace of him, Blair began to fight a growing sense of dread. Something had happened. He would not have just disappeared without a trace. She went over to Hanover House and found everyone sitting around the table—the whole brood of them. Mrs. Hern sat with that blank Alzheimer’s stare, a dribble of mashed potatoes on her chin. Gus Hampton scarfed down a pork chop with the urgency of a starving man, his elbows digging into the table. Felicia, the big woman who’d just been there a few weeks, seemed to be the only one among them who had any manners, though Blair couldn’t imagine where she’d gotten them. She’d been in jail for ten years before coming here, and Blair doubted they emphasized etiquette in the prison caf
eteria.

  Sadie seemed preoccupied with her baby brother, Caleb, who sat in a high chair between Morgan and Jonathan.

  “His truck’s been at Cricket’s all day long,” Blair said, standing over the table.

  “Sit down, Blair,” Morgan said. “I made plenty.”

  Blair waved her off. “Not hungry. Jonathan, they haven’t even heard from him at the police station.”

  “At least have a glass of tea,” Morgan insisted.

  “I don’t want a glass of tea. Did you even hear what I said, Morgan? Cade is missing!”

  Jonathan slid his chair back, and took his plate to the sink. “Calm down, Blair. He’s not missing.” He rinsed the plate off, then wiped his hands on a towel. “He was just really upset about what happened yesterday. Maybe he just went off by himself to think.”

  “No way,” Blair said. “It’s not like him to buck his responsibilities. He would have been out pounding the pavement today trying to find out who this guy was.”

  Caleb got restless and started trying to stand up in his high chair.

  “No, Caleb,” Sadie told him across the table. “Sit down. Eat your peas.”

  When Caleb managed to turn around and got up on his knees, Morgan pulled him out of his high chair. “Well, maybe that’s what he’s doing. Maybe he just went to find some leads on the man.”

  “But don’t you think it’s strange that he wouldn’t share those leads with anybody at the police department?” Blair asked. “They haven’t heard from him all day long. He hasn’t even called to see if they’ve learned anything.”

  That got Jonathan’s attention. “Weird,” he said. “Makes me wonder about that woman.”

  “What woman?”

  He shrugged. “Well, I don’t know. He was talking to some woman at Cricket’s this morning. It wasn’t anybody I knew. I saw him coming out with her.”

  Cade with a woman? Blair was silent for just a moment. She knew her scars were reddening. “What did she look like, Jonathan?”

  “I don’t know, mid-thirties, long, big brown hair, kind of petite-looking.”

  Blair hated petite women, especially the ones with big hair. She wasn’t exactly an Amazon herself at five-feet-five, but those tiny little women really got on her nerves. Men loved them, though. She supposed Cade would be no exception. “Why didn’t you tell me this when I asked you this morning? I asked you pointblank if you had seen Cade.”