by DOUG KEELER
“No. I didn’t kill her. I swear to God I didn’t.”
“One of the things that bothered me,” I said, “was why did Claire bother to mail the poem from Darien when there’s a Post Office right here on the island? But you were threatening her, and she was afraid for her life. Claire didn’t want to risk you seeing her at the Long Tabby Post Office. So she waited until she was off the island.”
“Where were you Friday night Mr. Hutchins?” Caroline asked.
He stayed quiet for some time, then said, “I’d like to speak with my attorney.”
Caroline nodded. “That’s certainly your right, but if you want to talk to your attorney, we’ll continue this interview downtown at police headquarters.”
He stood there weighing his options, then looked at us and said, “No. I’ll answer your questions. But can we please do it someplace away from my students?”
I wanted to gut him right here in plain view of everyone, but Caroline relented. “That’s fair,” she said, nodding toward the Trooper. “We can talk over there near our vehicle.”
~ ~ ~
So off we went across the clearing, not a word spoken between us. We stopped walking when we reached the shade of the ancient live oak. The wind off the Sound rattled the palmetto fronds and stirred the Spanish moss. A little rivulet of sweat trickled down the side of Hutchins’ face. If I had my way, we’d tie him down out in the mud and let the crabs do their thing.
I said, “How do you feel about hospital food through a tube because I’m about to bash your teeth in. Oh, that’s right, they’re not your teeth.” I was really getting worked up. You’re not supposed to get emotionally involved in a case, but I was long past that point. “You killed Claire for that poem you piece of shit, and it was you who sicked those two assholes in the Camaro on me. No one else knew what kind of car I drive. If my daughter had been in the back seat, her head would’ve been blown off.” I grabbed a fist full of his shirt and backhanded him across the face. His head snapped back. The hat and sunglasses went flying. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and ran down his chin. I held tight to his shirt and cocked my fist.
“That’s enough Fontaine!” Caroline yelled. “I want you to stand over by the Trooper.”
“No fucking way Caroline.” There’s a savage place inside all of us, dark and primal. If pushed far enough, we all have the capacity to kill. Like a broken piece of flickering film, my mind’s eye kept seeing the back window of the GTO shot out. My pulse was hammering. I shook him like a rag doll, ready to bury my fist in his face.
“Please Ray,” Caroline pleaded. “We can’t jeopardize a conviction by trampling his rights. There’s too much at stake.” If Caroline weren’t here, he’d be face down in the mud already. “Do what I say, Ray, please.”
Hearing her call me Ray pierced my rage. I released him, then backed slowly away.
Caroline stood between us. She trained her eyes on him and stared. “Where were you Friday night Mr. Hutchins?”
The little prick let a few seconds pass. “Having dinner at Huey’s,” he replied.
“Is there anyone that can confirm that?”
“I ate alone at the bar,” he said, sounding sullen. “I was there from eight o’clock till just after midnight. The bartender was a young girl with blonde hair. If you need proof, there’s a restaurant receipt in my wallet.” Hutchins slid his right hand behind his back.
“Put your hands in front of you,” I yelled, my fingers curling around the butt of my piece. “I swear to God, they’ll be looking for chunks of you till the end of time.”
He put his hands where I could see them. Caroline stepped behind him. With one hand on Hutchins’ shoulder, she slid a black leather wallet from his back pocket. She came back around and stood in front of him again, then flipped the wallet open and peered inside.
Hutchins sprang forward like a cornered feral cat, whirling Caroline around. In an instant he had her in a choke hold, his arm wrapped tight around her neck. He jerked her head back, and almost lifted her off the ground. Her eyes locked onto mine, fearful.
I had my gun drawn, but Caroline was tangled in Hutchins’ arms. Too close for me to risk a shot. Hutchins clamped harder on Caroline’s windpipe, then began dragging her away from me. “Drop your gun Fontaine, or I’ll break her fucking neck.”
I held tight to my gun, looking for any chance to blast holes in him. “You’re crab food Hutchins. You’re not getting off this island alive.”
He tightened his hold on her neck. She bucked and kicked, trying to wrench herself free. With his free hand, Hutchins grabbed for her gun.
They grappled, and I charged. I heard the lethal crack of gunfire. Caroline crumpled to the ground.
I caught a flash of black metal as Hutchins swung the Glock toward me.
I dove to my left and shoulder rolled. He got off three quick shots, missing wildly.
I scrambled to my feet. Hutchins fired again, the bullet smashing into the Trooper behind me.
Then, with both hands on the heater, I punched his ticket. I squeezed off two rounds, putting both slugs in the middle of his chest. Hutchins twisted in the air and flew backward into the marsh, the thunderous report reverberating across the water.
Chapter Thirty-One
The journey is the reward
Chinese Proverb
I woke Sunday morning to the sound of rain slapping against my bedroom window, the first rain in weeks. I had a five-star hangover. My head was pounding. My tongue felt three times its normal size. Even my eyeballs ached. Blah. I chugged about a quart of water, swallowed four aspirin, then jumped in the shower. Fifteen minutes later, I thought I might survive.
Yesterday, after leaving the island, I spent about six hours down at police headquarters getting grilled by the brass. When they finished putting me through the wringer, a young cop named Buddy Blaylock gave me a lift back to my place. When we pulled up, I was surrounded by a herd of news reporters camped out on my front lawn. I no-commented my way inside, then slipped out the back and headed over to St. Joe’s to check on Caroline.
Caroline was lucky. The bullet struck her in the thigh and passed through without severing an artery or shattering bone. She was out of surgery and sleeping when I got there, doped up on pain medicine and snoring, so we didn’t get a chance to talk.
The surgeon informed me she should be up and around in a couple of weeks. He also told me the guys who airlifted her off the island saved her life. Caroline’s currently on paid leave while internal affairs looks into what happened out on Sapelo. But after all the publicity this damn thing’s gotten, they don’t have the balls to do anything but reinstate her at the conclusion of their investigation. I’m hoping she gets that promotion.
There was no gold on Hutchins’ boat, nor was any found inside his rental house in Shellman Bluff. Who knows? Maybe there wasn’t any gold buried on Sapelo to begin with. Or maybe it’s still out there…waiting. On a side note, the cops recovered Claire’s purse, and a .38 caliber revolver they believe is the murder weapon. Both were hidden inside a storage shed behind the house.
And me? Why I’m a hero, of course, even if it’s in my own mind.
I’ve got about a couple hundred messages parked on my phone from people who know me, all wanting to know more about what happened. I even got one from Angie, but she just wanted to make sure my child support payment wouldn’t be late. When Aggie finished, Megan got on the line. “I saw you on TV Daddy,” she said. “Mommy said you looked like you’ve put on a little weight and need a haircut, but I thought you looked handsome. Bye Daddy, I love you.”
There were a few messages from major media outlets, CNN, Fox, The New York Times, all requesting an interview. And one from an old colleague of mine at the Atlanta paper. He said Harry, my former editor, wanted to do a front page piece on me, but the corporate hacks were afraid of the publicity. Fuck them.
I also had a message from Cavanaugh offering me a well-paid posi
tion at Coastal Capital. Basically, I’d be an in-house investigator assisting his roster of rich clients. So I guess Caroline had it right all along when she said Cavanaugh wanted something from me.
Other than Megan, I haven’t called anyone back yet. Maybe when I return home, after a few, well-needed days off.
I threw on some shorts and a faded t- shirt. I slid my feet into a pair of flips flops and headed out the door. I wanted to see what that Bed and Breakfast down in Darien looked like.
Epilogue
Nine Months Later
It’s dog eat dog, rat eat rat
Mark Knopfler Boom, Like That
I motored from Savannah to Charleston on a gray blustery day. The distance between these two southern cities is approximately one hundred miles, and normally I enjoy the solitude of the car. The hypnotic passing of time and miles brings me a measure of comfort. But the weather was foul. There was a vicious storm brewing somewhere out in the Atlantic. Strong winds buffeted the coast and keeping the GTO on terra firma was no easy task.
When I got close to Chucktown, the sky darkened beneath thunderheads that loomed just offshore. The wind began to howl, whipping up a battalion of whitecaps as I crossed over the Ashley River.
I headed downtown and found a hitching post for my steed, then slipped silently inside Fast and French, the happy ending front and center in my mind. Before you think less of me, Fast and French isn’t a sleazy skin parlor. And I wasn’t there for an incognito rub and tug, or any other type of lewd sexual act for that matter. Instead, F&F is a popular Charleston cafe.
Anyway, I played it safe with a turkey and Swiss on rye, snacked on the sandwich, and sat reading The Post and Courier.
An hour later I turned my collar up against the cold and leaned into the wind. I made my way to the intersection of Meeting and Broad, known locally as the Four Corners of Law, each corner representing either federal, state, local or God’s law. The only location with that distinction found anywhere in the United States. I stood there and lingered a moment, my eyes resting on St. Michael’s, the historic church where Claire Robertson and Bill Taylor almost married. I looked skyward and nodded, then turned the corner. Ready to close the book.
~ ~ ~
U.S. District Judge Janet Wilson was a raven-haired woman in her mid-forties. At one o’clock she struck her gavel and began the proceedings. I looked around, and there were more than seventy people in attendance. I glanced across the aisle at Caroline and Puny Pickle, and she smiled. No one bats a thousand, even yours truly. A few months ago Caroline ran into McCoy somewhere along Broughton Street. He took her to lunch, and much to my displeasure, they’ve been seeing each other ever since. McCoy seems to care for her, but if he steps out of line, his ass is mine.
At the front of the courtroom, flanked by his attorney, stood Bill Taylor. Fidgety Bill’s parents and a sister sat behind him in the first row on the left. Conspicuously absent on this day of reckoning, Frank Chambers.
Frank cut a deal with the Feds and rolled over on Taylor. He’s currently two months into a four-year stretch at Edgefield, a medium security prison. Maybe a couple skinheads will recognize him...Achtung shit-head. Anyway, I hope he drops the soap.
Taylor and Chambers, it turns out, had cooked up a complicated scheme that bilked the Hardeeville Bank and Trust out of millions of dollars. After the bank collapsed, the Feds seized Liberty Island, as well as the large tract of land near the Savannah Port, and the thousands of marsh acres Chambers owned along the river.
When Judge Wilson asked if he had anything to say before sentencing, Taylor bowed his head and blubbered. “Mister Taylor,” she said, scowling down from the bench, “you’ve done a grave disservice to the citizens of South Carolina, not to mention costing the taxpayers close to ninety million dollars. In light of the seriousness of your crimes, as well as your refusal to cooperate with the investigators, I’m sentencing you to ten years in Federal Prison. This court is adjourned.”
Author’s Note:
Dear Reader: Word of mouth is crucial for any author to succeed. If you enjoyed Savannah Gone, please leave a review on Amazon, even if it’s just a sentence or two. Thank you so very much. http://www.amazon.com/SAVANNAH-GONE-Ray-Fontaine-Mystery-ebook/dp/B00WFC6EZG/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1430689595&sr=1-1&keywords=SAVANNAH+GONE
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Sapelo is a real island with a fascinating past. I did, however, take several liberties, including some of the descriptions.
Acknowledgments
This book is dedicated to the three lights that illuminate my heart: Lily Grace, who would not let me quit. Matt, for inspiring me every day. And of course to Deena, there’s no one else like you.
A thousand thanks to Rich Malerba, for reading countless passages and drafts, as well as making valuable suggestions.
A thousand more to Shannon Carter for her editing expertise.
I’d also like to thank my siblings, Diane, Rob, Lee, Karen, and Jeff. I love you all very much.
Without all of you, this book would not be possible.