All the Bridges Burning (Davis Groves Book 1)

by Neliza Drew

  “What’s wrong with the seafood market?”

  “Increased competition, increased pollution, questionable imports, decreased stock.”

  I turned back to Buddy, who had a look on his face like he knew more than he was letting on. “Spill it.”

  He mashed his lips together.

  “This Tanner dick? He give you the gun?”

  “Borrowed. From my dad. I wasn’t gonna use it. I swear.”

  “Where do you live?” I asked.

  “Mill Creek?”

  “You aren’t sure?”

  He stared, wide-eyed.

  An address I’d seen on deeds at Eric’s stood out in my head. “Your dad have a boat?”

  “Had. Had to sell it. Mr. Wright still lets him use it, though, for charters. He just has to work some nights.”

  “Doing what?”

  He looked at the floor. “Dad told me not to tell anyone. He said we’d get in trouble.”

  “You pulled a gun on a lawyer five minutes ago.”

  “He doesn’t want to. They make him. It’s like part of the deal.”

  I waited. Lawson showed restraint.

  “It’s just seafood. I don’t know where the heck it comes from, but it comes in on a ship and they load it onto little fishing boats and charters. My dad took me with him once to help him load, but Tanner told him not to do that again.”

  I glanced at Lawson. “This make any sense to you?”

  “Maybe. Appearances are everything. Imported fish might be cheaper, but a lot of locals would shun Wright’s.”

  I looked from Lawson to Buddy. “For real?”

  Buddy’s lower lip trembled. “I was just trying to get my dad’s boat back.” He studied his shoes. “Tanner told me my dad had screwed up too many times. He didn’t trust us. That I had to follow you and get this guy to not help you.”

  “That’s it?”

  Buddy nodded.

  I looked over at Lawson. “I’m taking him with me.”

  Lawson didn’t look happy with that plan. Neither did Buddy for that matter.

  I glared at Lawson. “I’ll deal with this.”

  “How do you plan to do that? Dick said you weren’t even all that good as a secretary.”

  The kid started to stand. I put my hand on his head and shoved him back down. “You do that again, I punch you. That don’t work, I shoot you. No one told you to move, kid.”

  Lawson jumped up. “You cannot shoot someone in my office!”

  “He and I are going to go talk to his father.” I pulled out my wallet, threw several hundreds at him. “Go get a cheap motel room, go stay at your daddy’s mountain cabin. Something. Just keep your head down and figure out how to get Lane off.”

  “Lane? That slutty kid at the alternative school?”

  I looked at Buddy. “You know her?”

  “Didn’t she kill that guy? My dad said he was okay. Could be kind of a jerk, but okay.”

  I took a deep breath and splayed my fingers to keep from balling them into a fist.

  Lawson looked at the kid like he’d suddenly figured out something he wasn’t sharing.

  I grabbed Buddy by the ear. “Like I said. You still have objections?”

  Lawson sat and shook his head.

  Chapter thirty-three

  Somewhere between New Bern and Havelock, Dick called. “I do you a simple favor and you try to get my frat brother killed?”

  “No.”

  “Then what the hell, Davis?”

  “Still trying to figure that out.”

  “Figure it out faster.” He hung up.

  I stared at the road. “Where’s Mill Creek?”

  Buddy pointed straight ahead. “You okay, lady?”

  “How old are you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  He looked older. I’d looked older. Felt older, too. “Kids shouldn’t have adult problems.”

  “I’m not a kid.”

  I swallowed the imaginary taste of blood and bile that had risen in my throat.

  Buddy’s mood became increasingly darker, damper, like I was sitting next to a gray cloud. Then again, maybe he felt the same way.

  “My dad’s gonna kill me.”

  I doubted that.

  Mill Creek, situated between Newport and Core Creek, had a couple of churches, an abandoned gas station and a smattering of houses.

  He stared out the window. “Turn here.”

  I turned down a lane bordered by forest. “You think you let your dad down. That’s why you don’t want to face him.”

  I glanced over and caught a slight nod.

  “This is pretty secluded. You trying to lead me into a trap?”

  He sighed the kind of heavy, bloated sigh only teenagers could pull off. “No. I guess that means you know that Martin guy — Brad — has a house around here.” He snorted. “Trailer, really. I’ve never been there. I’ve heard about kids going there. I’m not like that. They’re all losers and drug addicts. Whores.”

  “Like Lane?”

  He made a face. “She does drugs. Sleeps around.”

  “Runs in the family.”

  • • • • •

  The house was a modest brick in a ranch style popular in the seventies. A rusty truck sat in the driveway, a large boat trailer parked, empty, on the lawn.

  An older man with a leathery tan, Guy Harvey knockoff shirt, old jeans, and worn boat shoes shuffled out onto the porch. The family resemblance was unmistakable, though it was largely in the nose and neck. He wore an expression that was a mixture of confusion, anger and sadness.

  The father stopped us on the porch. “Who are you?”

  I gestured at his son. “I brought this home. You should be happy he’s not in jail.”

  Buddy’s father looked at me with a mostly blank stare. Finally, he glared at Buddy instead. “What the hell did you do?”

  Buddy shuffled his feet and tried to hide behind me.

  “He tried to shoot my lawyer. Well, my sister’s lawyer.”

  His head swiveled back to me. “Who are you, exactly?”

  “Davis Groves, sir.”

  His mouth opened, shut, opened, and shut again.

  “Sir, we need to talk.”

  He looked at me and shifted to Buddy. “Boy, where’s my truck?”

  “Sir—”

  “Didn’t ask you.”

  “Do you beat your son?”

  “What?” He turned, anger overriding annoyance. “No. Who sent you here?”

  “He’s trembling.” I could feel him nearby, vibrating out of his skin beside me.

  His dad scowled. “Look, I don’t know who put you up to this, but me and Buddy here are fine.” His words and expression didn’t match his body language.

  “I find that difficult to believe, sir. What’s your name?”

  “John Taylor. Why are you asking?”

  “What do you know about Tanner Jackson?”

  He eyed me suspiciously. “Why are you here?”

  “Because I’m trying to keep your son out of trouble. You want to help?” I scowled at him just long enough for his shoulders to sag, like Buddy’s. “Tanner Jackson put him up to following me. You know anything about this?”

  He turned and went back inside, leaving the door open behind him.

  “He’s gonna kill me,” Buddy said.

  I pushed him ahead of me up the steps.

  The living room of the house was filled with frumpy, overstuffed denim couches and a china cabinet full of knickknacks and memories. We sat under the watchful eye of the blank television, which was probably at least as old as Buddy and had sticky rings on its surface.

  John sat heavily on the couch. Little puffs of dust billowed up and settled again. “Boy, what were you thinking?”

  Buddy stood next to him, looked at the floor. “I wanted to help.”

  “By getting yourself arrested? I already lost my wife.”

  “It wasn’t supposed to be like that. I just wanted to scare him.”


  “Son…” John lowered his head, rubbed his thumbs together.

  “What happened, sir?”

  He gestured at a framed photo of a brunette posed in a traditional Olan Mills shot with a younger Buddy. “She had complications with her second pregnancy.”

  I waited, but he seemed to sink back into his internal melancholia, his lips disappearing behind his mustache and the wrinkles around his eyes becoming chasms.

  Buddy studied his shoes as though the teenage scribbles on the rubber parts were a secret code with all the answers. “Mom wouldn’t want you doing this.”

  His father glanced over at me, then watched his thumb rub the calluses on his forefinger.

  Buddy took a step closer, but held back.

  “Never had insurance. Thought we’d just get by like everyone else, but we couldn’t.” He looked up at me. His gaze was steady but there was a subtle sheen to his eyes.

  “I heard from one of the guys that some had sold their boats to Wright, that they’d worked out a leasing deal where they could still charter and fish but they got quick cash.” He suddenly looked ashamed. “Things that sound too good to be true, right?” He reached out and touched Buddy’s hand and I realized Buddy had been crying silently next to us.

  He swallowed hard and looked at the sandy hair on his son’s head. “The manager handles everything, but Wright has the deeds.”

  “The manager? Guthrie?”

  “Zellner.” He looked up, defiant. “This ain’t being a fisherman. This isn’t what I want to be doing. I just can’t walk away.”

  “You consider going to the cops?”

  “Tell ’em what? I don’t know anything besides them skirting FDA inspections. Lying to consumers.”

  I watched the two and felt a sudden wave of jealousy I hadn’t known I was capable of. I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Look, I’ve done things I wasn’t proud of in the name of family. How ’bout I drop you two back at your truck if you can keep from killing off my sister’s lawyer?”

  John looked at Buddy.

  Buddy tried to make himself smaller. “Tanner said he wanted Lane to lose.”

  John looked back to me. “What makes you think I should trust you when everything else is dirty?”

  I looked into his lemony-hazel eyes. “I’m not here because I’m a good person. I’m just tired of watching people die.”

  • • • • •

  In the car, bouncing down the driveway, Buddy leaned up through the seats. “Her sister shot Billy Guthrie.”

  “I don’t know if she did or she didn’t and I had nothing to do with it either way.” I pulled out my phone and dialed Craig’s number to cut off more discussion. “Can we meet at eight-thirty instead? I have to take care of something first and I swear I’m not trying to stand you up.”

  He sighed the sigh of a man who was used to being let down. “Fine, Davis. Whatever.”

  I ignored the sarcasm and guilt trip. “Great. See you at then.” I glanced at the clock again and floored the pedal.

  “You know we have a lot of speed traps around here, right?”

  I eased off and watched the lights of Havelock disappear in the rearview. Darkness filled the car. “You should go somewhere. Hope this blows over.”

  “Where? I don’t have any money. That’s how I got into this situation. This is our home.”

  “Coastal motels are cheap in winter. Places along the interstate, too. Something’s coming to a head up here. Something’s wrong with their operation. Someone’s gotten squirrelly. You don’t want to be around for that.”

  He didn’t say anything, but he took Dick’s card with my number on the back when I dropped them off.

  Chapter thirty-four

  I found Craig at the bar, nursing a beer. He held up a pink squeak toy that sort of resembled Q*bert and pointed at a monitor behind the bartender. “We’re supposed to watch for this to be seated.” He gestured at the empty bar stools. “Guess the dinner rush is over now.”

  I gave him my best innocent kitten face with a Miami-style hug and peck on the cheeks.

  He didn’t bother hiding his displeasure. “Should I ask?”

  I smiled brightly. “How was your day?”

  He didn’t smile back.

  I looked from him to his beer to the TV, which displayed a purple and green zebra. “Look, can we start over? Can we just pretend I’m close to on time and I don’t look awful and that Charley doesn’t think I’m dead and her security system — which consists largely of disorganization and a funky smell — isn’t a complete failure?” I smiled and tried not to look creepy or crazy. “Can we pretend we’re just normal old high school friends having a drink and some food?”

  “So, your idea of apology for lying is to fake it?” He didn’t look happy.

  I ran a hand through my hair and realized it was matted to my head. “I don’t think I can be who you want me to be, Craig.”

  He gestured at the picture of the pink Q*bert on the TV. “I’ll go get us a table.”

  I plopped on the barstool and noticed I had dried blood under a couple of fingernails. I watched him and wondered how long that had been there.

  The hostess brought us to an old-style wooden booth. Craig slid in across from me and handed the hostess his empty beer bottle.

  “You want another one, hon?”

  He nodded.

  I ordered my own.

  He glanced at the menu, exhaled heavily, and tossed it aside. “I’m pretending as hard as I can, but what are we doing here? If I ask you anything, you lie, avoid, accuse me of caring…” He threw up his hands and slumped in the booth.

  “That sounds like a first date, doesn’t it?”

  “This isn’t a first date, Davis.”

  “I’m sorry.” I stared at the menu, but I wasn’t reading it. “I never meant to hurt you.”

  The waitress showed up with beer and a pair of water glasses. “What can I get you two? I’d tell you about the specials, but we done sold out of one and the other,” she lowered her voice, “wha’nt so good, y’all.”

  I smiled at her and mimicked her sweet, Southern drawl. “It all just looks so yum, but I’m afraid it’d just wreck my stomach. Can I just get a plain baked potato and a cup of the garbanzo beans you put on the Sherman salad?”

  “Oh, I don’t think I can ring up the beans separately.” She looked distraught about it.

  “Just charge me for the whole salad if you have to. I just don’t want anything but the beans.”

  She scribbled it down and glanced at Craig. “And for you, Shug?”

  He glanced at me, then the menu he’d tossed aside. “The spinach and crab dip and a calamari app. I’m not that hungry either.”

  She faked a smile, collected the menus and floated off.

  “See, it’s performances like that leave me wond’rin’ if I can believe anything you say.” He took a deep draw of the beer and watched me.

  “Is this why Hollywood marriages always fail?”

  “You’re more grifter than actress.” He took another sip of beer.

  “Have some water, Craig.” I took my own advice and drained my water glass.

  He crossed his arms and stared at me.

  “How about this: if it sounds awful and too horrible to possibly be true, it probably is, and if it sounds all happy and light and average and fine, it’s probably some crazy bullshit I tell people so they’ll sleep better than I do.” I slid across the booth and started to get up.

  “Don’t leave.”

  “I don’t follow commands very well.” I reached into my purse and pulled out my wallet.

  “Please.” He reached out and grabbed my wrist.

  I glared at him. “I’d break your hand if I didn’t count you as a friend.”

  He let go and leaned back. “Haven’t I earned some version of the truth?”

  I sat. And stared into his caramel brown eyes.

  “You probably don’t want to hear this, but I’ve cared about you since the first time we
met. Maybe yeah, at first, I wanted to rescue you. Maybe later I gave up on that. I still loved you. Maybe never stopped. Maybe it wrecked my marriage. Certainly what my ex claims anyway.”

  I sipped my beer. “I don’t deserve that.”

  He swallowed hard and met my eyes. “How can you say that?”

  “I’m not the girl people fall for, Craig. I’m not supposed to be.”

  He turned my hand over and traced the lines from my multiple surgeries. “You lied that night. Over and over. To police, nurses, doctors, me. You told a detective he might as well arrest you if he didn’t believe you.”

  “It was my fault. I had a gun registered to a dead guy. It was all I had, at the time, of my uncle’s. I’d been shooting in the woods behind the house. I just, that one time, left it out. Left the ammo out.”

  “You told everyone it was an accident, that you were cleaning it. No one seemed to believe you, but you told that story so many times, I saw the point when you started believing it yourself.”

  I watched his perfect fingertips trace the lines across my ruined palm. “You asked how I couldn’t see the seriousness of a few stitches. I’m too damaged to notice. That’s the truth, Craig. I have aches and pains most days. I live in the tropics like an old lady. I’m missing a chunk of lung. And don’t ask what I do to metal detectors. I have more pins and plates and screws holding me together than a car. But that’s not what keeps me up at night. It’s not what wakes me from a dead sleep. Even that? Easier than the guilt.” I laughed the sort of laugh that wasn’t. “Good thing I have all that metal to support the extra weight of the guilt, huh?”

  The waitress came by, refilled our waters, and left the appetizers.

  He stroked the exit wound, the dent between the robot bones of my hand. “Tell me.”

  “I can’t take it back.” I was trying to tell him this would alter the course of our friendship, but his face said it already had.

  “Tell me.”

  Chapter thirty-five

  I picked up a plain chip and examined it. “About Wednesday, it was wrong to say what I said the way I said it.”