Tales from Stool 17; Dark Days of Judgment: The Nigel Logan Stories (3)

by Kirk Jockell

  He was quiet and thought of nothing but the fireball as it rose into the sky and broke free of the horizon. There was a slight chill in the air that he hadn’t noticed until then, so he got back in the Bronco. He was alone, or he thought he was. He looked down at his phone to find the notification light blinking. He turned the phone off and cussed it as he tossed it on the dash. “Leave me alone, dammit! Son of a bitch’n thing.”

  He stayed on the beach for hours trying to think of everything that needed to be done or handled. Once the list started to outgrow his memory, he dug around the glove box until he found a pencil and an old envelope to scratch notes on. There was simply so much to do. When he got tired of thinking, he looked at the notes. He was sure he was forgetting something, but he didn’t care. He felt spent. He tossed the list and pencil next to his phone and sat back to watch the surf.

  His eyelids began to get heavy and he was just allowing himself to succumb to the idea of a nap when an old familiar sight caught his eye offshore. He smiled as he opened his eyes wide to focus on the water. His patience paid off. Not 100 yards offshore, a humpback whale surfaced and sprayed the ceiling of the sky with seawater. He watched the surface of the water anticipating where the next blow might occur. He got it right. The massive animal emerged with grace and reported. A beautiful sight. It made him think of his friend. Red would have loved to see this. Tons of nature, all in one package.

  It was a little early in the season, he thought, to catch a whale in the surf. This one must have wanted a little head start on the others. November through January is when whales are usually expected to be seen during their southern migration. In the spring, many of the females can be found escorting their newborn pups back north.

  He watched the whale make its slow progress down the beach. He kept an eye on it for as long as his tired body allowed. At some point, his eyes shut and sleep took hold.

  Nigel woke to the clanking sound of a high school class ring tapping on the driver’s side window. It gave Nigel a quick start. He opened his eyes and turned his head. It was a deputy motioning for Nigel to roll down his window.

  He did.

  The name tag on the young deputy said Morris. This was probably his first real job away from mowing the tiny, sandy lawns of little old ladies, or the labors of finishing high school. He was a good-looking kid. He had a firm, healthy build and a square chin. A crewcut polished off his look. He was polite and professional. While he wasn’t yet old enough to have earned any respect, the uniform did.

  “Your permit. Where is your beach permit?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said Nigel. “I don’t have one.”

  The deputy tilted his head and gritted his teeth as he listened.

  “To be honest, I forgot that I needed one. I’ve been out of town for a few years and it didn’t even cross my mind.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “I’m from Florida.” Those words felt a little foreign coming out of his mouth, but they felt good on his lips. Never before had he ever uttered them. And it made him even happier to say, “Port Saint Joe.”

  “License and registration, please.”

  Nigel reached for his wallet and then the glove box as he explained. “There is no registration. I just bought this Ford. Here’s the signed title and Bill of Sale.”

  The deputy looked over the documents and stepped back to gaze over the old Bronco. Under his breath he said, “Shweet.”

  He handed the documents back to Nigel and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Logan, but you will have to leave.”

  “You need not apologize, sir. I’m the one at fault. I just wanted to see one last sunset from a Carolina shore.”

  With a little sarcasm in his voice, the deputy smiled and said, “You know. Rumor has it. There will be another one tomorrow morning.”

  Nigel appreciated the jab, thanked the young deputy for his understanding, and started the Bronco. It rumbled over the sand as did his stomach. He looked at his watch. It was 1115. He did a little math in his head. It had been over eighteen hours since he had last eaten.

  Nigel rolled down the window and called out to the deputy as he was walking back to his truck. “Deputy Morris!” The deputy turned around. “Is Mama Easley’s still a good place to eat?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You hungry?”

  When they walked into the tiny restaurant they were able to find a table with no problem. There were lucky. It can almost be damn impossible to find a table. The number of mouths fed each day far exceeds the number of asses that are fortunate enough to find a seat. Take out and eat on the beach is the ticket.

  “I probably shouldn’t allow you to do this, Mr. Logan. It doesn’t seem right. And besides, I should tell you ... I already eat free at the Grub Hut. With the uniform and all.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Let me ask you a question. What’s the difference between a genuinely grateful citizen that buys you lunch and a restaurant that lets you eat free?”

  The deputy shrugged his shoulders.

  “An ulterior motive.”

  The deputy said nothing.

  “And I don’t have one. After today, you will probably never see me again. Order what you like.”

  They had a nice lunch and spoke of nothing of great importance. Nigel spoke of his time in the Navy and Port Saint Joe. Deputy Timmy Morris spoke of his limited experiences. Mainly growing up as a local boy: fishing, surfing, and girls. Nigel was just happy to have the stress-free company. After lunch, Morris excused himself to get back to work.

  Alone again, Nigel ordered a beer. He wanted one with lunch, but didn’t want to put Morris in an awkward position. He pulled out the envelope with his notes and went over the list. For some of the things, he would need help; others could be accomplished online. All he needed was a computer, so he went to the public library.

  He worked to the hum of silence from a corner computer. He sent a series of emails. He closed some online accounts. He logged into his Navy Federal account and made some changes there, too. Then he opened the word processor and began a letter to Red.

  Dear Red,

  I’m so sorry for leaving town without saying goodbye. Things have gotten complicated. Please extend my apologies to Trixie and everyone else. Simply tell folks that something came up and that it looks like I may be away for a while. No sense in them knowing the truth.

  By now you have probably talked with Candice and have figured out that I’m back in Virginia. There is, as you know, much unfinished business here. Unfortunately, I must attend to it. I’d much rather be on the beach drinking beer and throwing nets with you.

  I hope you don’t mind if I impose on our friendship and request you handle a few things on my behalf. I have unfinished business in Port St. Joe as well. It would give me great comfort if I knew those things were settled, too.

  Nigel wrote out his list of wishes in bullet format. Some would be easy, like: Go to the house and clean out the beer in the fridge and the bourbon. There were other things too. His truck was at the airport. His boats. The house he was renting. Tom, the cat. All these things would become complicated if … and he hated to think about it, if he wasn’t coming home. The last thing on the list was a simple request: Make sure Candice knows how much I love her.

  He worked on his letter to Red until it was finished. Then he went over it again to clean up the first shitty draft. He found several mistakes and remembered a few items he had forgotten. When he was satisfied with the outcome, he printed out the letter folded it and stuffed it in his shirt pocket.

  Nigel sat back and rubbed his eyes. He glanced at his watch. It was 1533. “Damn!” He said, in a not-so-library voice. An elderly woman who was sitting close by cut him a stare of condemnation. “Sorry,” Nigel whispered to the old lady, but it did little to find forgiveness. She maintained a pencil-thin smirk as she cut her eyes back to her Sudoku puzzle.

  Nigel stood up to leave. As he went to collect his things, he noticed his phone was still turned off. “Oh, shit
,” he said in a soft whisper. He powered up the cell phone and cut his eyes to the old lady. She seemed to not hear a thing. He smiled, but the smile gave way to panic and humiliation. As soon as the phone finished booting-up, it found the nearest cell tower and started to download everything missed over the past several hours. Every noise a cell phone can make echoed off the walls with each notification. Ping ... ping ... ping ... ping ... ping ... ping ... ping came the voicemails and missed calls. Bong ... bong ... bong ... bong ... bong came the text messages.

  With frantic embarrassment, he tried to get the notifications to stop but couldn’t. His phone sounded like a pinball machine awarding bonus points and free games. He looked up and found a death stare coming from the old lady. Her eyes were squinting and her lips were drawn tight, pulling all the wrinkles around her mouth to a point. As her eyes and mouth closed in on each other, her nose pulled back into her face.

  Nigel shrugged his shoulders, threw his hands in the air and said, “Sorry. What else can I say?”

  The little old lady said nothing.

  He finished collecting his things and before heading to the door he looked at the old, grumpy lady and said, “You know. That isn’t a very good look for you. Not at all.”

  The old lady wasn’t fazed by anything he said. She maintained her eyes on Nigel until he disappeared around a row of bookshelves.

  By the time he was sitting in the Bronco, he had forgotten all about the old lady. He was too concerned with why his phone had exploded the way it did. He looked at the text messages first. Two were from Charlie Matthews, two were from Sherry Stone, one was from Candice. There was another one from a number he didn’t recognize. He read the ones from Charlie first: Call me. They have Grace downtown.

  Nigel tossed the phone and rubbed his face and head. He was pulling at his hair when he yelled, “FUCK!”

  He gave the other messages a passing glance. Most of them had a similar message of urgency: Where are you? Call me, ASAP. One of the messages from Stone gave him a special number to call.

  His mind was reeling and he was out of breath from the rush of adrenaline. He sat with his face in his hands trying to think of what to do next. He pulled his fingers down below his eyes and looked at his phone. He picked it up and pulled up the message from Candice: Come home. We’ll take the boat. We’ll disappear. I love you. It was a fine idea that produced a small but sad smile. I wish.

  He fired up the Bronco, revved the engine, and backed out of the space. The tires squealed as he entered the highway. When traffic wasn’t holding him back, he was passing cars and hauling ass down the road. He was doing around ninety when he passed Deputy Morris who was tucked away behind a billboard.

  Nigel saw the blue lights in his rearview and took his foot off the gas. “Son of a bitch!” He dropped his speed back down to fifty-five and let the deputy’s truck close in fast. He found a place to pull over and the deputy followed and parked behind.

  They sat there for several minutes and Morris never got out of his truck. Nigel watched the deputy in his rearview. He didn’t seem to be doing anything. Morris locked eyes with Nigel in the mirror. This continued long enough that Nigel was becoming impatient. After another few minutes the deputy put the truck into drive and pulled up next to Nigel. They exchanged a quick look or two before the deputy motioned with his head for Nigel to get moving. He did.

  For the next couple of miles, Morris kept his blue lights flashing. To keep from drawing additional attention, he shut them down but maintained a tight position behind the Bronco. When Nigel crossed the Currituck County line, he saw the deputy slow down and pull over. Nigel made his brake lights flash three times as he watched in the rearview mirror. The blue lights of the truck cycled on for a short piece.

  Nigel looked ahead and pressed on.

  He grabbed his phone and tried to call the number left by Stone. She didn’t answer. Based on the outgoing message, it must have been her office number. He ended the call without leaving a message. Then he tried her cell and she answered on the first ring. “Where are you?” she answered.

  “In North Carolina. Heading that way. What is going on?”

  “All I know is Grace has been picked up by Anderson and taken in for questioning. By the sounds of it, more like an interrogation.”

  “How do you know this?” asked Nigel.

  “I’m a news reporter. I have my share of little birds within the P.D. to feed me inside leads.”

  “Can you get over there and try to find out what’s going on?”

  “I’m already on my way, baby. Full news crew in tow,” she said.

  He ended the call and dialed Charlie. “Nigel. They have Grace. Where are you?”

  “Heading that way but it’s going to take me a while to get there. How long have they had her?”

  “I don’t know,” said Charlie, “Maybe two hours. What’s this all about?”

  The first thing that popped into Nigel’s head was ... she still hadn’t told them anything. “The bastards are trying to implicate her in T-Daddy’s murder.”

  “What! That is ridiculous. On what basis? She was home that night.”

  Nigel said nothing. A strange and uncomfortable silence grew louder on the phone.

  “Nigel? What is it? What’s going on?”

  The only thing Nigel could think to say wasn’t that comforting to the ears of a worried father. “It’s complicated, Charlie.”

  “Complicated! What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  The panic in his voice was undeniable. So Nigel shifted the conversation a bit “Everything is going to be alright, Charlie. It’s me they want, not her. They are using her to get to me. Now, listen. Does she have an attorney with her?”

  “I called a personal friend, but he practices civil rights and military law. I hope he’s there by now.”

  “Okay ... good. Charlie, take a deep breath. Everything is going to be just fine. I’m rolling that way.”

  Nigel ended the call and sent a text to Sherry Stone: Is she still there?

  It only took about five seconds to receive a reply as the phone rang.

  “What’s the scoop?” asked Nigel.

  “Yeah. She’s still here and so is every other news channel in town.”

  “What the fuck!”

  “Hey,” said Stone, “I’m sorry. I’m not the only person with someone on the inside.”

  Nigel said nothing and banged his fist into the steering wheel.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Find out what you can, obviously. And protect her good name best you can, if you find yourself needing to broadcast anything.”

  “And what are you going to do?” asked Stone.

  There was silence on the line as Nigel thought and rubbed his head. Then he said, “I’ll talk to you later. I got to go.”

  Stone said, “Nigel. Wait...” But it was too late. He had ended the call. She thought about calling him back, but she knew he wouldn’t answer.

  Nigel scrolled through the contact list on his phone. When he found the one he wanted, his thumb pressed the dial button.

  The man sitting behind the desk had four days of stubble crawling out of his face and an unfiltered Camel burning between his lips. He was reading the Wall Street Journal. His feet were on the corner of the desk. His legs were crossed and the left heel of his weathered cordovan Bass penny loafers rested comfortably in its dedicated divot worn by years of consistent placement.

  When the phone rang, he jerked the paper down so he could look at it. It’s an old school office phone. The clapper rang the bell, and one of the buttons along the bottom flashed to indicate which line carried the incoming call. He decided to ignore it and went back to reading his paper. Without voicemail, he knew the caller would eventually give up, but the caller didn’t give up. He jerked the paper down again and looked at the phone. The light kept flashing and the bell kept ringing. He folded the paper, threw it on the desk, grabbed the receiver, and pushed the flashing button. “Hawkins
,” he barked through his teeth as the cigarette bounced along, stuck to his bottom lip.

  His eyes drew wide as he listened to the voice on the other end of the line. He jerked his feet off the desk and sat up straighter. He took one last draw off his cigarette and crushed it in his ashtray, already overflowing with ash and old butt ends. Then he said, “Well, well. Look who has come out of the woodwork. You son of a bitch, you.”

  Detective Anderson came into the interview room and flopped a thick manila folder on the table in front of Grace. Already nervous as hell, it made her jump in her seat. He also produced a small plastic ashtray and put it on the table. A pack of Marlboro Lights came out of his shirt pocket and he asked, “Smoke?”

  “I don’t smoke, thank you.”

  Neither did Anderson, but he lit one anyway. He puffed on it a couple of times without inhaling to get it hot then placed it in the ashtray to burn. He knew she would find the smoke annoying. He then began to pace about the room in a quick, confident manner asking a barrage of questions. What she could answer with absolute truth, she did, but with minimal details. Other questions, she replied to with silence. Smart girl. She thought of Nigel’s advice. Tell the truth, but nothing more.

  The case folder on the table also served as a distraction, a means by which to intimidate Grace. This is what we have on you. It worked. Her eyes were drawn to the folder, her name printed in bold letters across the front. She was scared, but tried to stay focused. When the detective turned his back, she pushed the ashtray as far away from her as she could. Then she grabbed the folder and opened it up. The detective’s head snapped around to watch. He smiled as he turned back around and said, “Yes. Can you see what we have there?”