Catawba Point

by Colin Campbell

  “Of course you didn’t. Come on. Let me show you around.”

  Catawba Point was two acres of grassland surrounded by dense woods and nudging up against a backwater inlet of the Catawba River that went nowhere. The dying sun sprinkled jewels over the waters and threw long shadows across the rolling lawns. The setting was idyllic, the atmosphere calm and peaceful and borderline loving. No, not borderline. Between the women washing clothes by the river and the men doing chores around the outbuildings, this was an Amish community without the funny hats and beards. Everybody moved with slow, deliberate steps and nobody had a harsh word to say about anything. Except black fellas.

  The main house was a two-story cabin with stripped wood panels and a green-tiled roof. Two dormer bedrooms either side of a central extension broke the angle of the roof facing the river. A wide raised porch overlooked a wooden jetty that jutted out into the bejeweled waters. There was a cluster of smaller houses to the south beneath an occasional stand of trees for shade. A barn and storage shed took pride of place next to a gravel turnaround that formed the hub of the complex. Several bungalows fanned out to the north near the treeline. Washing hung limp in the dry evening air. A Stars & Stripes tried to find some breeze at the top of a flagpole beside the main house, but the air was as still and lifeless as the compound seemed full of life. If these were white supremacists, they were the most domesticated white supremacists Grant had ever seen.

  Apart from the guns.

  “You look like you could do with freshening up. I apologize.”

  Carter drew the tour to a close.

  “Let’s find you a room so you can get a shower and change your clothes.”

  He led Grant up the stairs onto the porch and threw a friendly wave at a woman coming up from the river. The woman beamed a smile, then lowered her head when she saw Grant watching. Carter stood at the railing and took a deep, satisfied breath. This was a man at ease with his surroundings and not embarrassed to show it.

  “You just came to heaven for dinner.”

  Grant could find no argument against that. He nodded and followed Carter into the house. There were more women preparing food in the kitchen. They all stopped and smiled at Grant. The welcome was complete. Carter led Grant up a wide central staircase that branched off onto balconies at either side. Carter took the left balcony and spoke over his shoulder.

  “Guest rooms have their own bathrooms.”

  He gave Grant a quick once over. “I’m guessing you’re extra-large. I’ll have Millie bring you some clothes.” He then opened a door off the corridor.

  “You’ll hear the bell when dinner’s ready.”

  The bedroom was ablaze with evening sunlight. There was a king-size bed, a chest of drawers, and a heavy wooden wardrobe. A narrow door to the right led to the bathroom and toilet. Lace curtains diffused the light through the open windows. The room smelled of freshly cut grass and lilac. Carter ushered Grant in but stood in the doorway.

  “Big Dog don’t get in ’til the morning. He’s looking forward to meeting you.”

  Grant looked at Carter.

  “I thought you were in charge.”

  Carter raised his eyebrows.

  “Me? Hell no. I’m just a fisherman to the carpenter.”

  Grant slipped out of the windcheater and dropped it on the bed.

  “A fisherman with a .45 automatic.”

  Carter smiled and proved he knew his movies as well as his tactics.

  “Well, barramundi is a bloody big fish.”

  The Australian accent was a bit off but the smile was pure Crocodile Dundee. He nodded and stepped outside. The door closed with a thud, leaving Grant to soak up an atmosphere that was as surreal as it was peaceful, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was a captive in a mink-lined prison.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The shower was better than a prison shower and safer than the one Leroy had supposedly slipped in. There was nobody looking to snap Grant’s neck, and he didn’t have to worry about bending over for the soap. The No Entry tattoo at the base of Grant’s spine glistened as he rinsed the soap off and washed his hair. The woman who had brought Grant a change of clothes also left a disposable razor and a folding toothbrush. It felt like he’d gone back in time. New clothes and throwaway toiletries and a mirror that didn’t steam up because of the ambient temperature.

  By the time he toweled down in the bedroom, he felt bright and fresh and clean all over despite not having slept since the night before last. The sun had dipped below the horizon and the fiery glow turned the lace curtains red. The smell of barbecue coals being stoked drifted through the window. Grant drew back the curtain and looked out.

  The porch was a hive of activity, the extended wooden deck busy with women putting salad and vegetables on collapsible serving tables. The barbecue pit was down the slope on the right, a leveled patch of grass shielded from the river by a stand of trees and an uneven rockery wall. There were three heavy-duty barbecues, the kind that American men liked to dominate because it was the only time they did the cooking. Some men in Yorkshire as well. Meat sizzled. Flames spat. The smells were mouth-watering.

  Grant leaned out of the window and craned his neck to look round the side of the house. He could just make out the first couple of picnic tables and the lanterns strung between the trees and the porch. Colored lights danced in the evening breeze, a gentle offshore wind that was as warm and dry as the rest of Charlotte. There were no parked cars because they were around the front. He’d seen them earlier, along with cars parked at each of the bungalows and the other houses to the south. No red panel van, not that he’d expected it to be here, but he’d bet a pound to a pinch of shit that the driver came from Catawba Point.

  He closed the window and unwrapped the towel from around his waist. The fresh clothes were laid on the bed: a pair of desert combat trousers and a khaki T-shirt. Unlike Leroy’s 101st Airborne patch, Grant doubted these had seen combat. The thing about white supremacists is they nearly always inhabited a world of wannabe hunters and failed soldiers. Grant considered putting his own clothes back on but didn’t think that was the best way to get on Carter’s good side. Reusing his socks but going commando, he pulled on the combat pants and was about to unfold the T-shirt when his phone started vibrating. He looked at the caller ID and frowned. This was either good news or bad. He pressed answer.

  “You just can’t keep out of trouble, can you?”

  Evelyn’s voice was like a breath of fresh air. Grant smiled even though she couldn’t see him.

  “I try. Why, what’s happened now?”

  Evelyn laughed down the phone.

  “Apart from stealing an ambulance and running over a burns victim?”

  Grant sat on the edge of the bed and wished Evelyn was with him.

  “I didn’t run her over.”

  “You hospitalized her.”

  “She was already hospitalized.”

  The bed was clean and inviting and not just for sleep. It felt sad to be talking with a sexy woman who was half a city away and unlikely to be available before he flew back to England. Evelyn must have been thinking the same thing.

  “You going to manage dinner again before you fly away home?”

  Grant thought about Yates telling him he wasn’t going to make his flight so at least that gave him some hope, but tonight wasn’t the night.

  “Absolutely.”

  “You free tonight?”

  Grant let out a sigh.

  “I’d love to. But something came up. Looks like I’m going to be busy.”

  “Looks like?”

  “Am. Delicate situation.”

  “Delicate how?”

  Grant looked out the window where a bunch of white supremacists were preparing to feast him while keeping their guns under the table.

  “Delicate like trying not to piss off the guys who petrol-bombed my room and tried to kidnap Nona from the hospital.”

  Evelyn couldn
’t hide her concern.

  “They’ve got you?”

  “They invited me to a barbecue.”

  Evelyn went quiet for a moment then tried to lighten the tone.

  “Make sure you’re not the main course.”

  Grant shifted on the bed.

  “Oh, I’m pretty sure I am the main course. For them to see what I know and what I plan to do about it.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Not much. Lots of suspicions.”

  Grant took the phone away from his ear and looked at it before raising it and talking again.

  “Can you track my phone?”

  Evelyn chuckled.

  “You think I’m the CIA again?”

  Grant lowered his voice.

  “You’re my IT backup.”

  Evelyn paused while she considered that, then spoke into Grant’s ear.

  “If we activate Find My Phone.”

  Grant shrugged.

  “How do we do that?”

  Evelyn explained in words of one syllable but even then it was complete gobbledegook. It took Grant five minutes to follow her instructions before she pronounced herself satisfied.

  “I’ve got you. Over by the river?”

  Grant nodded.

  “Catawba Point. It’s like a holiday camp for white supremacists.”

  “They must love balcony-throwers like you then.”

  “I think that helped.”

  Grant leaned back on one hand and sighed.

  “You sound like you’re right next to me.”

  “I told you it was a great signal over there. I’ll bet the steaks are good too.”

  Grant looked at the window again.

  “Rather be at The Cowbell. I’ve gone from cargo pants to combat trousers.”

  He thought about the burger restaurant and the motel and the charger he’d given to Evelyn. Loose and easy linkage that led to his next question.

  “Did you manage to trace the laptop owner?”

  There was the sound of rustling paper before Evelyn answered.

  “Fake name. Unless one of our founding presidents got reincarnated and bought a computer.”

  The smell of cooked meat was strong even through the closed window. The dying light of day changed to the colored lights from the lanterns on the lace curtains. A sharp ringing noise sounded outside, the metal striker rattling around the heavy triangle hanging over the barbecue pit. Carter had been right, there was no mistaking the dinner bell. Grant stood up and straightened his back. He was about to say goodbye when another thought struck him.

  “Do they have a Find My Laptop thingy we can hack?”

  Evelyn rustled papers as she put them away.

  “Won’t need to. You’re probably going to be sitting right next to him.”

  The dinner bell stopped ringing. Evelyn put a full stop to the conversation.

  “The president didn’t hide his registered address. It’s shown as Paschall Road. At Catawba Point.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  In Grant’s experience, the best way to keep a secret was to not talk with anybody about anything because if you do, sooner or later you’re going to let something slip. The more people that know the secret, the more chances there were of somebody slipping up. Half the people at the Catawba Point barbecue knew what they were trying to hide, so it was no surprise that hints were given, no matter how much they tried to keep it to themselves.

  “Glad you could make it. I was about to send out a search party.”

  Carter stood on the rear deck directing people to the salad trays before sending them over to the barbecue pit to collect their choice of steak, chicken, or sausage.

  “You get lost coming out the bathroom?”

  Grant came through the patio doors and looked at the deputy leader.

  “Have to be careful in there. Don’t want to slip in the shower.”

  Carter barked a laugh.

  “Yeah. You’re pretty slick with showers, ain’t you?”

  Grant looked at Carter to see if he was testing him.

  “That wasn’t me.”

  Carter kept a steady eye on Grant.

  “And it wasn’t you threw him off the balcony either, huh?”

  There was a moment of locked eyes and stern expressions, then the moment passed. Carter gave Grant his best Crocodile Dundee smile and waved him toward the stack of plates.

  “Help yourself to salad or vegetables.”

  He pointed toward the pit where the barbecues were spitting fire.

  “The boys have plenty of meat over there.”

  He handed Grant a plate and a napkin.

  “Beer’s in the cooler if that’s your poison.”

  Grant nodded his thanks and took the plate to the nearest fold-out table. Using a pair of salad tongs, he put lettuce and tomatoes and peppers on his plate. He squeezed honey and mustard dressing over the salad from a plastic bottle then went down the porch stairs.

  The meat was enticing as it spat and sizzled. Grant was aware of it as he crossed the lawn but what he was wondering was if having a pimply arse meant you had spots on your face.

  The picnic tables fell neatly into two categories: men and women who were obviously couples sitting in one group and single men at the other tables. Grant wasn’t part of a couple, so he joined the men. Some of the men weren’t much more than boys in grownup clothes. Some were a bit more grizzled, like John Carter. Carter split from the woman he was sitting with and came over to Grant’s table.

  “If there’s one thing your black man don’t understand, it’s a good barbecue.”

  Grant was halfway through the most succulent steak he’d ever tasted.

  “You saying black men can’t cook?”

  Carter shrugged.

  “Oh, they can cook. But they only play at barbecue.”

  He leaned forward as if sharing a confidence.

  “I bet they don’t have many barbecues at the White House. Now we got Obama running the show.”

  Grant sliced a piece of chicken.

  “They had barbecues before?”

  Carter slapped the table.

  “Hell yes. All the time. Over where Marine One lands.”

  Grant spoke between chews.

  “The helicopter on the White House lawn?”

  Carter nodded.

  “To the side near the trees. You think Obama has his friends round for barbecue steaks? Shit. I doubt he knows his ranch dressing from Paul Newman’s Own.”

  Grant took a drink of iced Coca Cola.

  “Notebook Trail certainly didn’t have a barbecue pit.”

  Carter stabbed a slice of sausage.

  “You see, that’s what I’m talking about. Leroy couldn’t find his ass with both hands, never mind run a family barbecue. That place was a fool’s errand.”

  Grant smiled.

  “Nowhere for Marine One to land either.”

  Carter chewed his sausage.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me if Obama wasn’t thick as thieves with all them black ex-military. All that Tuskegee Airmen shit.”

  He prodded a finger at the table.

  “You start loading the military with blacks and you giving them a leg up they won’t stop taking until they humping your momma.”

  Grant went back to slicing steak.

  “I wouldn’t like that.”

  Carter was getting the bit between his teeth.

  “Damn right. Weren’t no white girl Leroy was pimping out of his room. And it weren’t no white ass you threw off the balcony. Tuskegee Airmen that, Leroy.”

  Grant paused with a fork of steak halfway to his mouth.

  “He sure could fly though.”

  Carter laughed at the first admission from Grant.

  “No wonder he torched your room. Damn fool. Right in the flight path, you know? Idiot.”

  The other diners at the table paused and looked at Carter, then quickly got
back to eating. Nobody dared speak. Carter patted Grant’s arm.

  “You’re due out tomorrow, ain’t you?”

  Grant nodded. This wasn’t the time to mention being delayed. The other men at the table paused again, warning looks passing between them. Carter didn’t seem to notice.

  “You might want to hold off for a few days.”

  He didn’t wink, but the look on his face came close to it.

  “Fire in the flight path puts everyone on high alert.”

  A big guy at the next table stood up abruptly and knocked his beer across the gap. He came over and picked the glass up and stared at Carter.

  “Sorry, boss. Need to be more careful.”

  Carter looked dazed for a moment, then blinked his eyes as if clearing his head. The other diners watched the deputy leader with worried eyes. Carter looked up at the big guy with the bad case of acne scars.

  “No problem. Let’s keep it tight.”

  Both men nodded. The big guy turned away. He didn’t look like a computer nerd, but Grant wondered if he had acne scars on his backside.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  The barbecue settled into an uneasy mix of small talk and silence. At least at Grant’s table. There was mention of fishing and hunting and keeping the bloodline pure. Grant took that to mean not sleeping with black ladies, a stance that the guy with the pimply arse he’d seen in Nona’s room didn’t seem to share. There was no more talk about flight paths and fires or delaying Grant’s flight home. In the absence of further disclosure, Carter’s slip took on more significance.

  “So, you’re a cop, huh?”

  A skinny blond kid not much out of his teens spoke from the far corner of the picnic table. Opposite side to Grant. He had the tanned, clean good looks of a sports star but was too slight for football—not soccer, but the American kind with all the shoulder pads and helmets. Grant put him as a baseball guy.

  “Up in Boston. Yeah.”

  The kid slid along the bench seat until he was opposite Grant.

  “I bet you seen some action then, haven’t you?”

  Grant pushed bits of food around his plate.