“Actually, Delilah, Kent’s right to yell at me,” Sam corrected. “I’ve broken a few laws today, no big deal.”
“What?” I bit back.
“Maybe before you go threatening someone, you should get your facts straight,” Kent advised.
I cleared my throat, and shrugged, realizing that I’d reacted before thinking, again. “That advice would have been useful to me earlier, too.” Turning to Sam, I asked, “What’d you do?”
“I’ll tell you what he did,” Kent sternly replied. “Illegal search, breaking and entering, assault, to name a few.”
“Oh, come on! He didn’t do those things,” I argued with a chuckle. “Sam Teague doesn’t break the law. He’s a Boy Scout. He doesn’t do stuff-”
“Um, actually Delilah,” Sam interrupted weakly, “I did do those things.” My eyes widened. Sam gave me a calm smile, and shrugged. “All in a day.”
Kent slammed his hand against his desk. “You’ve put this entire case in jeopardy.”
“There was no case,” Sam corrected, “so I did what I needed to do. And now thanks to Delilah, we’ll have evidence to back up what we already know. You’re welcome.”
“You’re suspended,” Kent shot back, “and I’m not sure I want you back here.”
“Just a job. I can always find another,” Sam urged him. “But, you know the truth. I’m a good cop, but I’m an even better man. I opted for the latter today. Let’s go home.”
He reached for my hand, and I took it. As we headed out the door, I glanced at Kent’s bulletin board. An overload of papers had been pinned to it. Wanted notices. Missing persons.
“Holy shit!” I called out. “That’s her!” I snatched a page off the board and ogled it. A forty-something woman stared back at me. She wore heavy make-up and crow’s feet circled her eyes. Her hair wasn’t red, but brown.
“This is the woman I saw at the Peacock!” I insisted excitedly. Sam took the page from my hands, and read the notice.
“Lorna Dobbs. Reported missing from Wilmington six weeks ago by friends. Priors for prostitution, possession,” Sam read.
“You said the woman had red hair,” Kent argued coming out from behind his desk.
“The red must have been a dye job, just like the hair you found, Sam,” I suggested. “This is definitely the woman I saw.”
Kent snatched the paper away from Sam, glanced at it shortly, and insisted, “I’ll look into it. You’re still suspended and Ms. Duffy, you better not be grasping at straws with this or I’ll remember to press those charges after all.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Moon Jellies
The moon jellyfish earns its lunar name by its looks. These ghostly orbs against the oceans’ dark waters look like the moon against a black sky. But, unlike the moon, which has such sway over other forces, the moon jellyfish has little control over anything, even itself. When swimming, it drifts wherever the currents take it. And unlike the mysterious moon, the moon jellyfish is transparent. It has no secrets.
Like the moon jelly, I’d let forces sway me, making me powerless once again.
From the police station, Sam took me home – his home. He insisted. With questions still being answered in the wake of the Octoberfest fiasco, he wanted to keep me safe and he said he’d have a better chance of pulling that off at his house, where criminals may not come hunting for me and at least he could get a good meal. After checking in with Henry and grabbing Willie, I packed a bag.
As Sam is accustomed, Beverly had a dinner waiting for us, and we ate with her at the kitchen table with Willie camped out at our feet. The conversation carefully sidestepped any talk of drugs or Octoberfest or my arrest. Beverly instead chatted about the prayer circle and her canasta group and the weather, before retiring to the living room for her late night shows. Still, a huge bowl of Halloween candy sat untouched on the counter. I’d made a mess of things, but it was Sam’s mess that had me curious.
“Want to tell me what happened with Kent?”
Sam breathed out heavily and sat up at the table. “I had a busy day.”
I cocked my head at him. “What’d you do?”
“I searched the wheelhouse,” Sam revealed.
“And you got caught?” I shot back.
Sam smirked. “No, I didn’t get caught. I made the mistake of telling Kent what I’d found there, hoping he’d overlook my methods. It didn’t go over as I planned.”
“What’d you find?”
“Nothing conclusive,” he admitted, “but a few items of interest. Several empty Nike shoeboxes. A hunting knife, like the one you described in your journal – serrated on one side. That was in Ricky’s room. Ed Wakefield had a 12-gauge shotgun under his bed, but that thing hadn’t been fired in ages. Some recreational pot-”
“But no stash?” I questioned.
“No stash. I don’t know where he’s keeping this endless supply of drugs,” Sam returned, “but it’s not at the wheelhouse.”
“Kent said assault, too,” I urged Sam. “Did you hurt someone?”
“I may have gotten a bit rough with one of my psycho tweakers. He tested positive for lead poisoning,” Sam explained. “I wanted him to give up his dealer.”
“Did he?”
Sam grimaced, and started taking dishes to the kitchen. “No.” I moved in beside him at the sink and started loading up the dishwasher as he rinsed the plates.
“Sam, I appreciate the gestures, but you can’t put yourself at risk,” I insisted. “You could have been hurt-”
“Delilah, I know what I’m doing,” Sam replied.
“Someone could have found you snooping around in there,” I went on, “gotten angry, pulled out that loaded shotgun-”
“Wasn’t loaded. Besides, I’m a ninja,” he chuckled. “Stealthy.”
I scoffed, and then thought aloud, “Wish you could have snooped on their computer.”
“They didn’t have a computer.”
“Oh, come on. Everyone has a-”
“Not these guys. Look, we aren’t talking about average twenty-year-olds here. The most sophisticated item in the house was their game console. Wake has a proper room, but he’s a minimalist. You can tell the guy’s been to prison because his bed was made and his room had about six things in it, all organized neatly. Ricky and J.J. are slobs. They sleep on mattresses on the floor surrounded by ashtrays and beer cans and porn. If they did have a computer, I’m sure that’s all they’d use it for, but they didn’t. And I searched everywhere.”
“I’d thought that the picture left for me had been printed off a computer,” I said.
“It had,” Sam returned. “There’s a watermark on the paper. It was printed at the Tipee Island Library. The librarian, Lucy Monroe, told us that she has no idea who printed the picture. The way the library is set up, guests using the computers have direct access to the printer, which is coin operated, and the area is tucked away. Anyone could have done it.”
“You have been busy,” I noted, adding silverware to the dishwasher.
“I’m not sure Ricky Wakefield is good for this,” Sam breathed out. “At least, not all of it.”
“Well, Ricky did say he was tired of being an errand boy,” I remembered Sadie saying, “and my attacker was interrupted.”
“We’re looking for two perpetrators here,” Sam told me, as if he’d come to that conclusion ages ago and I was just catching up. “The picture proves it.”
“Guess it does,” I agreed. “My attacker never stopped to take a picture, only to check his phone after a message came through. Wonder what it said.”
Sam threw his dishtowel onto the sink and leaned back against the counter. “Based on what you wrote in your journal, I’d say it told him to stop.”
My eyes scrunched together. The message had come at just the right time, I remembered. The attacker had his hand tucked in the waistband of my shorts, as if he were about to pull them off. The message stopped him. I wasn’t sure how to feel, grateful, I suppose, but confused, too
.
The story of a failed Octoberfest celebration and drugs hidden in Nikes made the national news. While there haven’t been any confirmed reports of poisoned candy, police are searching for the rest of the Nike shipment, thought to contain an undisclosed amount of uncut cocaine, marijuana, and MDMA or ecstasy. A spokesperson for Nike says the company denies any connection between their shoes and the drug trade and suggests that the tampering could have been done at any one of their contracted shipping agents, and is surely an isolated event. As the drug culture is counter to the image Nike supports, the company says their stance is clear: when it comes to drugs, just don’t do it.
Willie and I went to bed shortly after the news. Sam gave up his bedroom, and slept on the couch, though I protested. But, sleep wouldn’t come easily for me. I was tired, exhausted actually. Causing a huge scene and getting arrested takes a lot out of a girl. But, I worried. I didn’t want to wake the whole household with my nightmares (and surely they would come).
So, I watched Willie. Up and down went his furry back, occasionally there would be a paw tremor. He was on the floor, curled up next to Sam’s bed, and I was hanging halfway off the bed over him. I couldn’t sleep. I heard the surf through the window, the breezes making Sam’s curtains sway and blow. All was quiet here. Not like at my apartment, where Via’s music rattles my walls and windows and the sounds of cars and people filter into my room. I’d gotten used to those sounds. I wanted to be used to the quiet again.
3:35. Sam’s alarm clock coated the room with a blue hue. I sat up and switched on the bedside lamp. Willie didn’t even twitch as I stepped around him.
Sam’s room vibed with comfort. His double bed was dressed in a solid-colored gray-blue comforter and matching pillows. A walnut desk and matching chair sat by the window. A large entertainment center took up the wall opposite to the bed, and housed his flat screen TV and varied accompaniments. On top, a shelf held trophies. Surfing. Baseball. Even one for third place in a sand castle building contest in 1990. I ran my finger along the shelf. No dust. A wood dresser, a bedside table, and a trunk at the foot of the bed were the only other major pieces. On the walls, there were family photos. Aunt Beverly and Uncle Ken when they were younger, and then another when they were older, next to a small boat. Sam’s senior portrait. I smiled. A picture of him when he was ten, standing next to what I can only guess was the award winning sand castle. Impressive.
The only thing missing was books. I could have used one right then. I plopped down at his desk with a sigh. Computer, mail, a copy of Sports Illustrated.
I don’t know what possessed me to do it. My only excuse is that I felt comfortable here, and in looking for something to read, I just didn’t think about where I was looking. I opened his desk drawer.
Checkbook. Passport. A business card sat on top. Mason Cook Investigations, Fayetteville, North Carolina. My eyebrows pinched together. This guy sounded more like a private eye than a soldier for hire. Mixed in, there were receipts from large purchases – a TV, his motorcycle, new brakes for Aunt Beverly’s Camry, my starfish necklace bought from the Sparkling Gem. I fondled it with a light smile.
Underneath his passport was a picture. It was her. She was lovely, more than lovely. She was beautiful… Large green eyes, easy-to-tan skin, long, wavy hair (tamer than mine) the color of soft light. Tall, like Sam, thin. Her smile was subtle, like a woman whose joy was muted because of a difficult life. She was a supermodel, breathtaking but pained, like she hadn’t eaten in days. I didn’t know her name, except that for a time her last name was Teague, and now I knew her face.
My shoulders slumped.
Standing next to her at a party, I’d be the ugly friend. The plain Jane. I could see how Sam had once been taken with her. I slipped her back under his passport, knowing I’d made a mistake. I crawled back in bed, careful not to disturb Willie’s peaceful slumber. If I dug through my things, I’d probably have a picture of Jonathan somewhere. I’d probably even find a picture of my college boyfriend. And I certainly didn’t have any leftover feelings for either of them. Owning a picture doesn’t mean anything.
But, she is so pretty. And she’s being kept in a very purposeful place with easy access.
With all that was going on in my life, an ex-wife who was clearly out of the picture should have been the least of my worries. Still, I was a moon jelly, drifting helplessly at the mercy of the currents.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Tides
One would think the sun, being so much larger than the moon, would have the most control over the tides. While both orbs have a gravitational pull on the earth’s bodies of water, it’s the moon that the tides really follow. The difference is distance. At 93,000,000 miles, the sun is too far away to create as big of an impact as the moon at only 239,000 short miles above us. So, the moon rules the ebb and flow of our waters. Because it’s closer, the moon has the bigger pull.
The pull of sleep eventually overcame my anxieties about beautiful ex-wives and freakish nightmares. My body gave in around dawn, when the black turned to gray outside Sam’s window. Next thing I knew, I awoke, startled that I’d slept. Sunlight poured into the room.
I found Willie and Sam in the kitchen, where I trudged in and plopped down at the table. “You let me sleep too long,” I told him.
Sam smiled. “You needed it. Besides, it’s probably a good idea to keep a low profile today.”
“Why?”
“Clark, Clara, and a slew of reporters are looking for you,” Sam said sipping his coffee. “I spoke to Henry earlier and he said that he wasn’t opening the store, but going on a walkabout.”
I huffed. “Good idea.”
“Clara’s talking about a civil suit and she’s got TIBA up in arms over yesterday,” Sam continued. “Good thing you have a sanctuary here.”
“I’m sure that Clara and Clark will figure out where I’m hiding, if they haven’t already,” I noted, “and then what? I’d like to play the victim card, but she’s right. I ruined Octoberfest.” My phone started ringing. I glanced at Sam, confused. “Did you take my phone from the bedroom? I thought I’d left it-”
“Yes, I took the phone and Willie,” he admitted, as the phone rang and vibrated on the table. “You looked so peaceful, I wanted you to sleep.”
I smiled. “So, you’re pampering me now.”
“As long as you’ll let me,” he grinned. I reached for the phone, but Sam stopped me. “You might not want to do that.”
I glanced at the screen. “But, it’s Sadie.”
I answered the phone, and Sadie whispered, “I’m not sure what’s going on, but somethin’s ‘bout to go down.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s been this black car, tinted windas, circling the street a bunch’a times last night, and then again this morning, and I coulda swore I saw someone sneakin’ in behind the wheelhouse,” she reported, still whispering. Concerned, Sam moved in beside me. “He looked like a ninja and I don’t know. Gotta bad feelin’. Molly Tubbs was arrested yesterday and those fools ‘cross the street have been gone all night. They musta come home early this mornin’ ‘cause their car’s back and-” Her voice stopped abruptly. “I heard a pop.”
“A pop?” Sam took the phone out of my hand and turned it on speaker so he could hear better.
“There it is again,” she said, after we all heard a faint noise. “I don’t see nothin’ but there’s… another one. Sounds like somebody’s tossin’ bang snaps at the concrete.”
“That’s not bang snaps,” Sam decided. “Get down. Don’t move. We’ll be there in a minute.”
Sam was on his phone reporting shots fired before I could even register what was happening. We both raced through the house. I pulled on clothes as Sam grabbed a gun from his bedside table – a drawer I’d neglected to snoop in. In seconds, we were out the door.
The wheelhouse was besieged by the time we arrived. Cops were positioned next to their cars across the front lawn and as we parked, chaos broke o
ut. Shots shattered windows. Cops returned fire.
“Stay here!” Sam ordered. “Don’t leave the car.”
As I argued, he pushed my head down in the front seat and left me there. I peeked out the drivers’ side window to see him pull his gun out of his waistband and race to the nearest police car. Sam wasn’t in uniform, wasn’t wearing his vest. He wasn’t even part of the police force right now thanks to his suspension. What was he thinking?
Another shot blasted from the house, busting the windshield of the police car Sam had run to, and I squealed. The officers ducked, then returned fire. I watched as Sam communicated with the officers near him, and then he opened the trunk of the police car. He retrieved a second gun from the vehicle, and (thank God) a vest, which he quickly draped over himself. He made sure both guns were cocked and ready, before closing the trunk, and communicating with the other officers again.
“What’s he doing?” I asked aloud. I knew I wouldn’t like the answer.
The cops opened fire on the house, busting windows and splintering wood. Meanwhile, Sam crossed the driveway, going from the car to the carport to the side of the house, meticulously working his way closer. My heart sunk. I lost sight of him as he crouched around the back of the house.
More officers arrived and took up positions. Bullets whipped back and forth. I prayed. Please God, keep him safe. Then, everything stopped. An eerie silence won out. I sat up, and watched the officers descend on the house, busting through the front door.
Where was Sam?
I exited the truck, shaking and scared. I crossed the street, eyeing the house. Everything was quiet. Too quiet, like the sea at night. I ignored the police cars and the traffic in and out of the house, and walked down the dirt and rock driveway to the backyard.
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