Lovely, Dark, and Deep (The Collectors)

by Susannah Sandlin

“Got it,” Jagger said. “Now, go see your uncle.”

  Shane nodded. Right. Now that he was here, he seemed to have turned back into the foot-shuffling boy who’d dawdle forever on the waterfront to avoid going back to Charlie’s boat or, later, his little house a couple of blocks from the water.

  Gillian waited by the gangway, her right arm pulled perpendicular to her body by Tank, straining on his leash and harness, trying to reach the shore.

  “Looks like the hellhound is ready to get back on solid ground.” Shane wondered if Gillian would consider leaving the dog with Charlie. If it didn’t occur to her, maybe he’d suggest it. Later.

  “No, he saw a cat on the dock and almost had a stroke.” She laughed. “I can pretend he’s my best friend all I want, but at the end of the day, he’s still a dog.”

  They walked down the gangway with their bags and stopped on the raised sidewalk that ran the length of the marina’s waterside pier. Now what? Shane looked around for a taxi, but Southport wasn’t a taxi kind of town. “Would it have killed Tex to provide a limo and driver? He thought of everything else.”

  “I’d rather walk than ride in anything he arranged.” Gillian set off down the dock, propelled by the hellhound-turned-cat-hunter, pulling her rolling suitcase behind her.

  Only they were going the wrong way. “Tell Tank the best cats are over here.”

  She managed to get the dog sniffing in the opposite direction, and they strolled toward the tree-lined streets of the village, pulling their bags. “How far to Charlie’s house?”

  “Just a couple of blocks.” Shane took in the details of his former hometown with a kind of visual hunger, memorizing details, making quick judgments on things that had changed for the better (the old vacant lot full of trash and abandoned boat parts was now a park), as well as things that had changed for the worse (a chain hamburger place had its modern plastic and glass storefront in the middle of a street filled with historic buildings).

  Finally, they reached Cape Road, and Shane steered them to the right. “Charlie’s is the second house on the left.”

  He stopped in front, surprised at how much smaller the house looked than it had in his memories. Its tattered shingles were still a faded teal blue, with white window trim and door. But the porch sagged in the middle, and the overhang was propped up with two-by-eights. A rain barrel, painted blue and green, sat to the side of the house, a set of bamboo wind chimes hung from either end of the porch, and an American flag flapped on a pole stuck in a pot with a wild, overgrown plant of some kind.

  One thing hadn’t changed—the view. Through the gap between Charlie’s house and its much-better-tended neighbor, one could see the blue of the river, passing boats, and sunlight bouncing blinding rays off the water.

  “Home sweet home,” he said softly. “Damn it, I should’ve come back and helped out here.” If he lived through this, he promised himself he’d come back and fix the porch, replace the columns, shore up the roof overhang.

  “Charlie will be glad to see you. Don’t worry about what’s past.” Gillian let go of her suitcase handle, grabbed Shane’s wrist, and pulled. “Come on.”

  They walked together onto the porch, and Shane knocked.

  No answer.

  After a few seconds, he knocked again, harder. Something moved inside the door, but it still didn’t open. He looked at Gillian, who shrugged and shook her head.

  Something was wrong; Shane could feel it in his shoulder blades. “Charlie, it’s Shane. Open the door or I’m going to have to bust it in.”

  The click of the deadbolt a few seconds later sounded abnormally loud, audible even over the tinkling wind chimes. Shane held his breath as the door opened an inch, then two.

  Just wide enough for the double barrel of a shotgun to fit through, pointed straight at them.

  EPISODE 5

  CHAPTER 17

  “Don’t shoot!” Gillian shouted the words before Shane could react to the barrel of the shotgun stuck through the door and aimed at his head.

  “Goddamnit,” said a gruff voice from inside. The shotgun barrel disappeared, replaced by a bloodshot eye with an iris of a familiar shade of green. The eyeball swiveled its gaze from Shane to Gillian and back. “You brought a goddamned woman with you? Well, don’t that just figure. Never did have a lick of sense.”

  The door, covered in white paint so weathered it might as well be gray, eased open a few more inches. “If you’re comin’ in, do it fast. There’s crazy people out there.”

  She and Shane exchanged glances, and Gillian could tell by his expression this wasn’t normal behavior for Charlie—or at least it wasn’t the last time Shane had seen him. Of course, a lot can happen in ten years. She was proof of that.

  Shane motioned for Gillian to go in first, and she tugged on Tank’s leash. The dog was all too happy to be first in the door, not one to be alarmed by shotguns or odd behavior from humans. He seemed happy to be on land again and had, along the walk from the marina, marked half of Southport as his own.

  Tank ran straight for the old man, who’d moved to the middle of the room, and Gillian opened her mouth to screech for Tank to stop. Shane would never forgive her if she let her dog maul his uncle. And why hadn’t Shane mentioned that his uncle only had one leg?

  As it turned out, Gillian didn’t need to screech. Tank stopped and sat in front of the man, wagged his tail, and gave an un-Tank-like happy bark.

  Charlie Burke focused on her and raised an eyebrow. “A woman and a dog, too. A regular goddamned family. Well, if you’re comin’, get on in here and lock the door behind you.”

  Charlie Burke wasn’t what Gillian expected, which was an older version of his nephew. But besides the obvious—white hair, his face a field of wrinkles from sun exposure—he was short and heavyset. He propped on a crutch wedged under his right arm, and the right leg of his worn chinos had been folded up and pinned just below the knee.

  The old man thumped out of a living room littered with magazines, newspapers, maps, food cartons, and dust and disappeared through a doorway in the back. Gillian turned to look at Shane, who’d taken on the appearance of a man who’d been hit with a stun gun. His skin was too white, his eyes too wide, his jaw tight. “You okay?” she whispered.

  With some effort, he shifted his gaze to her, then up at the doorway Charlie had disappeared through. “What’s happened to him?”

  Only one way to find out. “Come on.” Gillian leaned over and unclipped Tank’s leash, and the dog loped through the living room, following his new buddy.

  The door led into a dining room, or a space that had once served that function. The openings in the back and side of the room were closed, giving the windowless area the claustrophobic feel of an underground bunker. Charlie sat at the far end of the big square table, his crutch propped against the side. With his left hand, he scratched the top of Tank’s head; with his right, he held the shotgun.

  Shane cleared his throat. “Charlie, what’s going on? It’s Shane. You remember I was coming, right?”

  Charlie had been staring at Shane since they’d entered, an unblinking, hard stare. Now, he blinked. “Of course I remember. I got old, but you think I got stupid too, boy? Sit down.”

  They didn’t need an audience for this awkward get-reacquainted session, so Gillian prepared to make an exit. She’d let them talk while she cleaned up that mess of a living room. She had a feeling Charlie wouldn’t like it, but it would at least give her something to do. “I’ll go and get our bags.”

  Before she could turn and get back through the door into the front room, Charlie spat out, “Stop right there, missy.”

  Gillian turned to face him, answering patiently. “Our suitcases are in the front yard, Charlie. They might attract attention if I don’t get them inside, and we don’t want to attract attention.” She’d dealt with enough eccentric Florida recluses on gator calls to know how to address paranoia.

  “Good point.” He sounded calmer. “Get ’em in, then lock the door and keep
the lights off. If you see anybody while you’re in the yard, though, don’t let ’em inside. I don’t want to have to shoot you.”

  “No, I wouldn’t much like that either.” Gillian gave Shane a sympathetic look and eased into the living room. She stuck her head out and looked in both directions before hurrying into the yard, grabbing the bags off the walkway, and hefting them back inside. Paranoia was contagious.

  Once in the house, she locked the door again and, with a regretful look at the piles of trash, turned off the lamp as Charlie had ordered. She didn’t think he’d actually shoot her, but then again, things in his life were clearly out of whack.

  She paused at the door into the dining room, listening for what she hoped would be a normal conversation between uncle and nephew. But there was only silence, so she stuck her head inside. Charlie and Shane sat at opposite ends of the table. Charlie stared at Shane, and Shane fidgeted and looked at everything but his uncle.

  “Come on in, girl. Reckon you’re a part of this.” Charlie reached over and pulled the heavy wooden chair to his left away from the table a couple of inches. Gillian took a seat, leaning over to check on Tank, who’d stretched out underneath the table with his head propped on Charlie’s remaining foot. What happened to her antisocial, possessive guard dog?

  Shane cleared his throat. “What’s with the leg? You have an accident or something?”

  “Nah. Blood sugar, or some such nonsense.” Charlie thumped the crutch against the table. “It killed off some nerves and it was either lose the leg or die. I wasn’t ready to die.” He looked back at Shane. “If you’d been around, you might’ve known that. Happened five years go.”

  Ouch. Gillian glanced at Shane but he was picking at a rough spot on the wooden table.

  “You’re right, and I’m sorry.” He looked up at his uncle. “I’m sorry about all of it. I shouldn’t have run off. I should’ve turned and confronted what happened, like Burke men do.”

  Gillian felt like an observer at a tennis match, looking from Shane to Charlie and back. This was not a conversation she needed to be a part of. It was not one she wanted to witness. But when she moved her chair back a couple of inches, ready to beat a retreat into the dark minefield of the living room, Shane met her gaze and shook his head.

  For whatever reason, he wanted her to stay, so stay she would.

  After the apology, Charlie had sat back in his chair and almost smiled. Or at least his lips curved up a little at the edges and Gillian thought it was a smile.

  “You remember I always used to tell you that about the Burke men, huh?”

  Shane gave one somber nod. “I do. I remember everything you told me. I just wasn’t very good at doing it.”

  “That’s the goddamned truth.” Charlie propped his elbows on the table and let out a ragged breath. “It’s good to see you, son. But what the hell have you gotten mixed up in?”

  Shane gave her a warning look, one Gillian interpreted as let me handle this. Which was fine with her. “We’re just heading up to Nova Scotia on a dive. Nothing big.”

  “Bull-hockey. Try again.” Charlie’s eyes narrowed in a stubborn look Gillian recognized. Shane had come by it honestly.

  “Yeah, okay, it’s a serious dive.” Shane leaned back. To Gillian, he didn’t sound the least bit convincing, so she hoped Charlie’s bullshit radar wasn’t turned on high.

  “Serious how?” Charlie crossed his arms, an eyebrow hiked in a dare for honesty that was lost on Shane, who was busy avoiding eye contact. Gillian had seen it, though.

  “There’s a shipwreck off the eastern coast of Canada that we were hired to find,” Shane said. “One of Gillian’s ancestors was on it, along with some treasure. It’s an old wreck that’s never been found.”

  Not that Shane had introduced her, but he at least jerked his head in Gillian’s direction.

  “Who hired you?” Charlie was relentless.

  “Some guys from, uh, Texas. Lots of money, not much sense. You know the type.”

  Gillian noticed Shane had picked at the spot on the table until he had to squeeze a splinter out of his finger.

  She jumped at the crash that resulted when Charlie picked up his crutch unnoticed and banged it against the edge of the table. From the vicinity of their feet, Tank gave a low growl. “I never heard so much bullshit in my life. You tell me the truth, Shane O’Connell Burke, or you can take your woman and go off on your little treasure hunt. And the lunatics who are after you can follow you and leave me the hell alone.”

  Shane sighed and drummed his fingers on the table. A few seconds lapsed before he finally looked up at his uncle. “It’s safer if you don’t know.”

  The crutch made a good drumstick, and Charlie seemed adept at hitting things with it—in this case, the empty chair across from Gillian. It clattered to its back with enough noise that Gillian peeked under the table to see if Tank had gotten spooked. He was sound asleep.

  “That ship done sailed, Shane. I’m in it whether you like it or not.”

  Shane’s face flushed. “Look, old man. I’m telling you the truth, but I can’t make you smart enough to believe it.”

  Oh, holy cow. This wasn’t accomplishing anything, so Gillian decided it was time to get off the sidelines. “Mr. Burke, has someone been in touch with you?”

  Charlie looked at her, and his fierce gaze softened a fraction. “Four days ago, it was. Guy showed up at my front door with a bunch of papers he wanted me to sign—work orders down at the boatyard, to outfit a trawler for a trip to Canada. Says he’s paying the bills, but if anybody called, I was to say it was me making the arrangements.” He looked back at Shane. “That your boat, The Evangeline?”

  Shane nodded, looking miserable. Gillian wished she could comfort him. He’d hoped Charlie could stay out of this, but Charlie was in it further than they’d imagined. He’d actually met with Tex, or Tex’s henchman.

  “She’s a forty-seven-foot trawler, outfitted as a yacht but with a workhorse engine,” Shane said. “Bought her six years ago when I moved to Florida. So what did the guy do? Did he threaten you?”

  Charlie nodded. “I told him to go to hell, that if you wanted me to sign papers you could ask me yourself.” He grinned. “The man didn’t like that much.”

  Gillian could imagine. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No.” Charlie seemed to have relaxed now that they were talking. His shoulders had slumped, and he’d released his death grip on the arm piece of his crutch. “He first said he’d burn me out, and I told him to do it. I got insurance.

  “Then he threatened Shane. Said if I didn’t sign the papers, Shane wouldn’t be able to do a job, and they’d have to kill him.” He paused and nodded, almost to himself. “So I signed ’em.”

  Well, at least Tex was being consistent. Don’t threaten directly; threaten the loved ones. It was an effective tactic.

  “I’m sorry. God.” Shane ran his fingers through his hair. “The last thing I wanted was for you to get dragged into this.”

  “Well, I wish I could say I was surprised, but after all that shit you were involved with in California, wouldn’t nothing surprise me now.” Charlie’s voice had grown sharp again. Hard. “I figured you got yourself in trouble again and was running away from it. So I signed those papers, considered my good deed finished, and washed my hands of you. Again.”

  Shane flinched, and Gillian waited for him to defend himself, but he didn’t.

  Charlie pushed his chair back and reached for the crutch, hoisting himself to his feet. “So I’m done. You can take your lies and go on out. You can take your suitcase and your woman and keep running. I’m too old and sick for this to be the place you run to anymore. You tell your friends to leave me the hell alone.”

  Gillian stared at Shane, who seemed to have shrunk inside himself. Well, if he wasn’t going to stand up for himself, she’d do it for him. More of that anger she’d been stuffing down began to spill out. She couldn’t have stopped its progress if she’d wanted to, and she didn’
t want to.

  “You sit back down right now, Charlie Burke.” Gillian stood up and pointed across the table at the old man, then pointed at his chair. “You want some truth? Then sit the hell down and listen to it.”

  Shane looked up, eyes wide. “No, Gillian. It’s—”

  “No, it’s not okay. Your uncle needs to sit his ass down, and he needs to shut his mouth.” Shane wanted to keep the peace. He’d probably been doing that his entire life, afraid the uncle who took him in would cast him back out to a family he thought didn’t want him.

  Gillian didn’t know what all had happened between them in the past, and maybe Shane had earned some of his uncle’s bad temper. But he didn’t deserve to be trashed because of this situation, when all he was trying to do was the right thing.

  Charlie looked like a thunderstorm, gray hair and lightning-green eyes and cheeks with rivulets of wrinkles streaking down them. But he returned to his chair and clamped his lips shut.

  “Good.” Gillian pointed at Shane. “Nothing from you, either.”

  He threw up his hands as if to say far be it from me to mess with a crazy woman.

  She turned back to Charlie. “I said I’d tell you the truth, and I will. In turn, once you hear it, you can’t unhear it. You’ll have to decide what you’re going to do with it. Shane was being honest when he said the less you know, the safer you are. Do you understand that you’re choosing to take the responsibility of knowing the truth?”

  Charlie didn’t answer, but kept his stony gaze fixed on her face. She’d have to take that as a “yes.”

  “I’m being blackmailed by the same people who brought those papers for you to sign. They threatened to kill my three-year-old niece if I didn’t help them find a treasure one of my ancestors stole, then lost on a shipwreck a long time ago. To ‘help’ me, these people dug around and found the only technical diver in the area where we live—Shane—and exploited him into helping me.”

  She let that sink in for a few seconds, waiting to see if Charlie asked questions or Shane offered to take on the story. Neither did. Stubborn silence obviously ran in the family.