Reckoning and Ruin

by Tina Whittle

  He pulled down the mask and forced a smile. “Hey, girl.”

  “Hey, old man.”

  He reached for the pain button and pressed it. “Damn meds make me crazy. Most days I’d rather have the pain than the crazy, but today, the crazy is better.” He looked me up and down. “You want I should turn on the TV? ’Bout time for The Price is Right.”

  “I’d rather talk.”

  “Ha! When do you ever stop?”

  For a second, the old Boone was back. But the effort rattled the thing in his chest awake, and he started coughing. It soundly apocalyptic, a deep pulling cough, as if his lungs were grinding together. It was a cough of Things Gone Very Wrong, and I went to the side of the bed.

  “You want me to call the nurse? I can call the nurse.”

  He shook his head and jabbed a finger at the soda in my hand. I popped the top and stuck a straw in, held it between his lips. Boone took two sips and fell back against the pillow, eyes closed. I suddenly worried that Jefferson had been wrong, that the only way Boone would be leaving this room would be in a hearse.

  He waved a hand at the soda, and I put it on his tray table along with the crackers. He swallowed, his voice a whisper. “I can’t talk much. Goddamn dragon sitting on my chest.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You and me both.” His eyes were soft, no longer sharpened by pain, the work of whatever was in the IV bag trickling into his veins. “You came here to talk. So talk.”

  “John Wilde’s gone missing.”

  Boone’s forehead wrinkled. “So? That man’s cut and run more times than I can count.”

  “It’s different this time.”

  “How?”

  “Even Hope doesn’t know where he is. She does know that before he vanished, he was talking about setting things right. With you.”

  “I am in no way square with that man.”

  “See, that’s what I thought. But then I saw his motorcycle in your garage.”

  Boone’s eyes narrowed. He hadn’t known that. “And?”

  “And so I finally dragged the story out of Jefferson, that John handed the Harley over to pay off the twenty grand he owed you. Only trouble is, John’s still vanished. And before you start telling me why that’s not a surprise, you should know that the last thing he did was buy a gun—from Jefferson, by the way—which Hope found in the glove compartment of his empty car, which had bullet holes in the trunk. Trey wasn’t too sure about the bullet holes part at the time, but I am now, because I went to John’s trailer yesterday, the one he was fixing up real nice for Hope, and found shell casings in his driveway that matched those holes. I also saw that his bedroom had been searched.”

  Boone turned his eyes away from me, to the blank TV. “Your point?”

  “My point is this isn’t business as usual.”

  “Ain’t my business at all. Why you gotta drag it to my door?”

  “Because that’s where it leads. Your door.” I crossed my arms. “Did you know that Jefferson has your collection up for sale? Everything as one lot, from the CSA presentation cane to the Cook & Brother muzzleloader your great-grandfather walked all the way back home from North Carolina after the war, so—”

  “So it’s worth almost thirty grand, that rifle, which means that yes, I know it’s for sale because it was my idea to sell it. We gotta do something to pay the bills. And I would have loved to let you have a crack at selling it, sugar, but you don’t run with the big dogs who can afford such.”

  The speech cost him, and he put the oxygen mask back over his mouth. I waited until his color returned, then pulled the visitor chair over and plopped myself down in it.

  “Why?” I said.

  “Why what?”

  “Why are y’all scrambling for money?”

  His eyes flashed, and he pulled the mask down again. “Goddamn government, that’s why! The tax man, the federal agent man, the po-lice man!”

  I slumped back in the chair. “Here we go.”

  “Those damn drug-sniffing dogs speak German, did you know that? And they cost about ten thousand dollars, so if the po-lice want one, they either gotta get the money from me or get it from the taxpayers. Guess which is more fun?”

  “It’s all a game, huh?”

  “It’s the left hand way of doing things, that’s all. Ain’t nothing but a job once you realize you got a temperament for it.” He leaned forward. He smelled like medicine up close, but there was still the odor of Red Man to him. “And you do, girl. So does your fellar out there in the hall, much as I hate to break it to him. He does as much gun-totin’ and door-bustin’ as any criminal. He just uses his right hand to do it.”

  I scooted the chair closer, dropped my voice. “Right hand, left hand, I don’t care. All I know is John’s missing, Hope too. This is very problematic for me, and Trey, considering Jasper’s trial is fast approaching. And I know you don’t disappear people, but Jasper would. And if that’s where this trail leads, back to Jasper and what he was doing while he was under your roof—and I swear to you, I think it does—then this whole piece of trouble is about to come home to roost. To you, to Jefferson, to Cheyanne and your granddaughters. To everyone ever associated with Jasper or who has something to fear from him, because neither the right hand nor the left cares who goes down for his crimes as long as somebody does.”

  Boone looked sad, angry, sick in his heart. “So what in all the seven hells do you want me to do about it?”

  “Talk to me. Tell Jefferson to talk to me.”

  “I’m not cutting my life open, or my son’s, because John Wilde’s booked it again. Ain’t the first time he vanished. Ain’t gonna be the last. You should know as good as anyone how light he can be when the going gets tough.”

  I shook my head. “This isn’t about me and him.”

  “Sure, it is. He left you when your mama took sick. Didn’t hear another word from him until there was his own trouble brewing. Then he called you up again, am I right? Said he needed you. You keep trying to rewrite that script so that you come out on top, so that you’re not the one gets left, but that ain’t how history works.”

  I bit my tongue. Literally. Shoved it between my molars and clamped down. Before I could gather my wits, there was a knock at the door. I looked over to see Trey standing there, tentative.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but…Tai, you need to see this.”

  “See what?”

  “Come into the hall.”

  I followed him. He pointed toward a television blaring in the room across from Boone’s, a news update. The reporter had positioned herself with a white fishing vessel in the background, gulls wheeling, her perfect hair getting a good tossing in the breeze.

  Her tone was clipped and singsong. “The body—pulled from the Wilmington River this morning—has not yet been identified, and authorities will not confirm the identity pending notification of next of kin.”

  “That’s Captain Lou’s boat, the Double Down,” I said. “I used to crew for her when I was in high school, during the summers. She found a body?”

  “That seems to be the case.”

  I turned around. “Come on. We gotta say goodbye to Boone.”

  “Why? Where are we going?”

  “To catch the captain before she heads out again, of course.”

  Trey grumbled something under his breath, then reached in his pocket for the bottle of relaxants.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Captain Louise Markowitz was not excited to see me. She didn’t even stop dumping ice into the cooler. “Damn it, I told those cops to turn off their flashing lights before they interviewed me. Now I’m on TV. Gonna be overrun by slack-jawed lip flappers.”

  “Only by people who recognize the Double Down from a ten-second prow shot.”

  Behind her said boat bobbed at the dock. It was a beautiful thirty-foot sp
ort fisher, the star of her fleet. It was as battered and tough as Captain Lou herself, with her wind-hewed wrinkles and sun-bleached hair. I couldn’t see the rigs, but it was probably set up for a small group charter, good for tips, which was how I’d made my bread and butter. Old men liked sweet young things in wet tee shirts to bait their hooks.

  I put up a hand to shield my eyes from the glare. “What are you after? The temps aren’t in the seventies yet, so the whiting should still be running plenty.”

  She chunked a six pack of water bottles in the ice. “I leave in ten minutes, so stop wasting time showing off. What do you want?”

  “I want to ask you about this morning.”

  “Some other day, I’d be happy to oblige, but I’m already leaving late thanks to the hold-up this morning, and as you know, the tide waits for no woman.”

  “I can help.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Please please please. No charge. Tips go back to you. And you know I can rack up tips.”

  She squared her feet and looked me up and down, assessing if I still had muscles and sea legs. “Cutting bait and cleaning up too?”

  “Whatever you tell me.”

  She jabbed a chin in Trey’s direction. “What about Mr. Suit and Tie over there?”

  I looked back at Trey, who was standing in the exact center of the upper dock, peering at the water with a dour expression. He had the haunted, nervous look he always wore when he couldn’t glimpse a skyline or feel pavement under his shoes. He pushed aside a branch of a slender water oak, and a lashing of Spanish moss dribbled across his forehead. He smacked it away as if it were a snake.

  I sighed. “He’s coming too.”

  “Is he wanting to throw out a line?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  She grinned, her teeth white like a barracuda. “In that case, you got a deal.”

  She extended her hand, and we shook on it. That was when I heard the screaming. Not the blood-curdling, terror-ridden kind. The high-pitched squealing kind. The door from the restrooms banged open, and a gaggle of Girl Scouts exploded onto the boards, their harried leader barking useless directions behind them.

  My heart sank. “A kiddie cruise?”

  Lou clapped me on the back. “You got eight minutes. Meet me on deck.”

  ***

  When I told Trey the news, he folded his arms. “No.”

  “Trey—”

  He shook his head. “I am not going out there. I remember what happened last time I went out on a boat with you.”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “You lied. That happened.”

  I folded my arms too. “I can’t believe you’re still mad about the sharks.”

  “You said there weren’t any. Now I learn that Wassaw Sound is full of sharks, so full of sharks that it has a place called the Shark Hole.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You told me you wouldn’t let me get into shark-infested water.”

  “I said I wouldn’t let you get into dangerous shark-infested water. And you were in no danger that night, none whatsoever.”

  He wasn’t listening. He’d pulled out his phone and was swiping it in a righteous fervor. I peeked at the screen. Oh crap, he’d discovered the OCEARCH app. Even worse, he’d pulled up the real time data showing the tracking patterns of hundreds of sharks off the Southeastern Coast, including…

  He flipped the phone around and held it in my face. “Specimen #46374. A great white shark.”

  “Mary Lee.”

  “What?”

  “Her name is Mary Lee. She’s—”

  “I don’t care what her name is! She’s fifteen feet long and weighs three thousand, four hundred pounds. Approximately. And she’s…” He waved his hand in the general direction of the Atlantic. “Seven miles offshore, out there, right now.”

  “But we won’t be going offshore. We’re not even getting in the water, we’re casting nets and showing the children the sea critters. Shrimp and seahorses, maybe a blue crab or two. No sharks.”

  “You could be lying again.”

  “Look at my face, Trey. No lying.”

  He focused on my mouth, concentrated hard. “Say it again.”

  “You are in no danger from sharks, not even great whites, when you are in the boat. And we are always going to be in the boat.” I drew an X on my chest. “Cross my ever-lovin’ heart.”

  He frowned at the Double Down, as seaworthy a vessel as ever rolled out of the Intercoastal. Of course now it was overrun with elementary school girls, their PFDs like bright orange gumballs against their green uniforms.

  He shook his head again. “I’m sorry. No.”

  “You do realize this makes no sense, right? How many times has some human tried to kill you? Dozens at least. You still hang around people. How many times has a shark tried to kill you?” I made a circle with my thumb and index finger. “Zero.”

  “That’s because I don’t go in the ocean. Where the sharks are.”

  I bit my lip to avoid screaming. Or cursing. Across the marina, Lou shot me a pointed look and held up her index finger. One minute. I took a deep breath, made my voice sensible, sweet, understanding.

  “Okay then. Don’t go. You can stay here, and I’ll—”

  “No.” Panic laced his voice. “You can’t do that.”

  “Trey—”

  “Tai. Please. Not out there. I can’t get to you out there.”

  So much for that plan. Being separated from me was a definite trigger. But I knew his refusal to come along wasn’t about the psychological whoop-de-doo going on in his head. The not-letting-me-out-of-his-sight part, sure, but the not-getting-on-the-boat part? Pure mulish perversity.

  I kept my expression patient. “What will it take?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean let’s make a deal, boyfriend. You give up something, namely this solid ground for approximately two hours, and I give up something.” I squared my shoulders. “Name it. I’ll do it.”

  He looked puzzled. This was a new twist, not what he’d been expecting. It was enough to knock him off the path of resistance and into a reckoning frame of mind.

  He considered. And then he told me.

  I stared. “You’re not serious.”

  “Of course I’m serious.”

  I stepped closer, dropped my voice. “I said anything, Trey. There’s a whole smorgasbord of erotic delights on the table, and you want that?”

  He crossed his arms again. “Yes or no, Tai.”

  Lou blared the horn. I cursed and headed for the floating dock, grabbing Trey by the elbow and dragging him behind me. “Fine. But I am going to make you pay for this, I swear I am.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  I spent the next hour knee-deep in seaweed and little girls. Captain Lou’s cast net tours were strictly catch-touch-release, but I pitied the poor creatures, dragged up from the depths and subjected to poking and prodding and squealing before being unceremoniously dumped back into the drink. Eventually, we settled the girls on the dolphin-watching part of the trip, and I joined Captain Lou on the flybridge. Trey remained in the cockpit with the first mate, mesmerized by the sonar and GPS system.

  Lou chugged down half her water, wiped her forehead with the bottle. “Guess you’re wanting the story, huh?”

  I leaned on the railing. “I think I’ve earned it.”

  “Not much to tell. I was bringing the morning group out, headed for the Intercoastal. I’d just passed the turning basin when I saw a bunch of seagulls all out on the sandbar.”

  Seagulls. Buzzards of the ocean.

  “So I swung it closer. I was expecting the usual, somebody dumped fish guts or something. But right away, I knew this wasn’t that simple.”

  “How?”

  “Because I saw shoes. I grab
bed the binocs, got a good unhappy eyeful. Then I set anchor and called the Coast Guard.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Couldn’t tell. Didn’t try. I’d seen enough to know it wasn’t a rescue I was calling in, and then I backed off and waited for the patrol to get there.” She readjusted her sunglasses, eyes always on the horizon. “I’ll tell you one thing, though—whoever done it wasn’t a professional. Maybe at killing, but not at disposal.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because they wrapped the body in a tarp, duct taped it, then tied it to a dumbbell.”

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly. “You mean like you lift weights with?”

  “Right. I saw everything bunched up there on the sandbar. Whoever did this didn’t come prepared, had to rummage around in their garage for supplies. They probably saw somebody do something like that on TV, but they didn’t realize about these tides.”

  The Lowcountry tide, one of the most powerful on the Eastern Seaboard. People who didn’t know the rivers didn’t know how they switched up their game every six hours, rising and dropping as much as nine feet.

  Lou shook her head. “If they’d known what they were doing, they’d have dumped the body in the water a hair past high tide, let it wash out where the fish could get ahold of it. Bodies gonna bloat, you know. Ain’t no twenty-pound weight gonna hold that down forever, especially not one of them vinyl-coated things.” She scoffed. “And the tarp may have kept their trunk clean, but it preserved the evidence. Professional woulda put in some cinder blocks, wrapped the whole kit and caboodle in chicken wire, then chucked it in the deep end. Gone baby gone.”

  We passed the other neck of the river. In the distance I could see the curve of Boone’s land, the dock jutting out into the wave-dappled water. The peninsula looked peaceful in the noonday sun, green and welcoming, with no night and shadows.

  “Where do you think the body got dumped?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. You know how the tides work. It could have come anywhere from Wassaw to Thunderbolt.”