Ann looked down to her feet. “I got these toes all prettied up for this trip, thank you very much.”
Looking up from organizing a pair of shoes, Cole asked, “What is that, one or two gallons of paint on those clodhoppers?”
Ann responded with feigned shock, “Ahh, bite me!”
“I would, but you would enjoy it.”
Ann looked down at her feet again with a big smile and looked back up as if looking over glasses. “Hehe, I would.” She flashed a cheeky smile in acquiescence.
“Okay, woman. Get out of here.” With that they hugged and parted. Cole threw the last of his belongings in his bag so the cleaning lady wouldn’t have to pick up behind him. Within twenty minutes he was out the door and in his rental headed to Mount Pleasant.
CHAPTER 33
THE FBI CLEARLY had a leak. The national news had all the details…the letters, the mutilations, even the kidnapping-murder connection, plastered on their websites and broadcasts. Poinsett was loving all the press. The victims’ names were safe, for now, but the journalists had been ringing Leas’ phone off the hook wondering who would be next. Extra scrutiny had descended on the investigation and the news was now interfering with Leas’ ability to conduct his work. FBI profilers had made of list of likely characteristics: male, white, 30s, likely from an abusive background. ‘Male’ was struck off the list immediately based upon the video collected in Dallas. Within hours Leas would be on a plane to Charleston and hopefully start actually getting some real answers. Until then, Mouzon was on his own.
POINSETT SAT AT A TABLE in Starbucks thinking about what she just heard on the news and about how she had come to this wonderful place. She had escaped her mother when child services took her at twelve years old. But she hadn’t escaped the heavy cruelty of her past. She was only in the foster home for a week before her foster dad snuck into the room and crawled into her bed with her, ignoring that two other girls slept just feet away in the same room. It would happen over and over again until she was eighteen.
Her only sanctuary was school, where she made straight As, which allowed her to go to college. Her first boyfriend, Sam, liked showing his love in openhanded servings. Her second boyfriend was always breaking things around the house, including her arms and legs.
Poinsett went back to the television. The news had it all wrong. According to them, the killer was likely a white male. The FBI was clearly not sharing all they knew. Two talking heads were on the screen discussing the murders and how the FBI handled such cases. If what they were saying was true, and she highly doubted it, the FBI would be swarming the next target now.
Soon, Poinsett would show them all that she could not be stopped, that they were helpless to save the unworthy, those who had thrown her into the abuse. The news was needed, even craved. She needed the Taker to know that they would all die. Mouzon was like all the others, a poster child of worthlessness in her eyes. Outside appearances would suggest he was the perfect Momma’s boy, with success and good looks. But behind his blondish hair, tan cheeks, green eyes, and perfect teeth, he was weak and useless to this world.
To her, that was apparent from his taking over thirty years ago. He should have never been allowed to live. Why? Why did he do that? He was marked like cattle for the slaughter. But a nail to the head would be too good for him. No, his death would be slow and painful like the others. He would plead for his life. He would beg her to stop. But, slowly, the coldness of death would wash over him as he watched her take his life. He would feel her pain.
CHAPTER 34
AS COLE DROVE over the massive new Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge, he recalled the ‘old bridges.’ The Ravenel was beautiful for sure, as the longest cable-stayed bridge in America with its double diamond shape, but nostalgia took over as Cole crossed over into Mt. Pleasant.
In his opinion, anyone who drove over the old bridges deserved a medal of honor for valor in service to this country. The experience would have brought the strongest and bravest to their knees. Before their removal, there were the ‘old’ and ‘new’ bridges. Traveling the ‘old’ meant really placing your life at risk for driving straight off into the Cooper River. The two-lane Grace was narrow, built with Model Ts in mind when constructed in 1929. Cole had always had two hands tightly on the wheel when crossing Grace for fear he would hit the car in the other lane, separated by maybe two inches, and propel himself into the depths of the Cooper. The cantilever steel bridges were so old the potholes were hollow, with nothing but the Cooper’s waters at their bottom. There was no avoiding them, which meant always having to correct for the resulting force that seemed designed to throw you off the bridge. Rust was everywhere, and thick. Cole’s folks always joked that but for the rust, the Grace would have fallen down many years earlier. All of this made it the perfect location for Bruce Willis to jump off a bridge in Die Hard with a Vengeance, though New York, not Charleston, got the credit.
Mount Pleasant, like the bridges, symbolized resilience long before Cole was born. Lying directly across from Charleston, over the Cooper River, it was home to the Sewee Indians until the English landed in the late 1600s. Almost immediately its new settlers were at war, fighting off the Spanish and French multiple times. The secession convention of Charleston on December 20, 1860, was a continuation of one held in Mount Pleasant three months earlier, which first recommended leaving the Union. The town would ultimately host the training ground for the crew of the H.L. Hunley, a Confederate submarine that was just recently located off the coast, and serve as its launch point via Breach Inlet, which lay between Sullivan’s Island and current day Isle of Palms, directly off the coast of Mount Pleasant.
A FLOOD OF MEMORIES poured over Cole as he exited the bridge onto Coleman Boulevard. Palmettos lined the town’s roads. The South Carolina tree, they grew like weeds in the lowcountry, but were prized ever since the Revolutionary War, where they were credited for saving Charleston from the English because their ‘trunks’ bounced incoming cannon balls like a military bed was supposed to bounce quarters. Locals have always been unwilling to part from those growing locally. That meant somewhere in the swamps of Florida, a land owner was being paid to ravage his land to deliver the plethora of cabbage palmettos which had been planted in the medians and along the sides of every street, making the entire area resemble a beach postcard.
Cole reflected on his childhood. Before he was born, his family lived with Granny on the IOP, or Isle of Palms. That ended when his father was injured working a construction site and the family fell on hard times. Between around three and twelve years of age, Cole and his parents lived in a trailer up the coast on Highway 17, an area nicknamed Eight Mile off of Rifle Range Road. Ultimately, his parents bought a piece of property further out on the marsh of the Wando River and built a stilted home there, where they still lived. Until recently, his Granny stayed in the city after having to sell the island house to help the family. No matter where Cole had lived, Mount Pleasant stood out to him as quintessential beach-town suburbia.
His use of the term ‘parents’ was relative. He was technically referring to his aunt and uncle, his mother having died in an auto accident when he was around two and there being no father around. They were the only parents he had known, and frankly, it was just easier to say parents instead of aunt and uncle, as it tended to avoid the mud bucket of questions that otherwise would arise. In his mind, they adopted him and he had long ago resolved his issues with not knowing his mother.
As he approached the bend in Coleman, he continued straight onto Whilden Street towards the ‘Old Village’ where Jackie lived. A few right turns landed him on Pitt Street where he saw the old pharmacy, where he would go after his pediatrician visits for a homemade cherry Coke. The storekeeper Annita must have been seventy, but worked behind the counter serving up malts, floats, and the best cherry Cokes. She would pour a glass-bottled Coke from the thumping vertical bottle refrigerator under the counter and then dip a spoon into the maraschino cherry bin, pulling out a few spoonfuls of the
syrup and a cherry. A stir and a straw, and it was ready to be slurped down on a hot summer’s day. Her chocolate malts were the best malts to cure a poor kid’s cold. The antique butter yellow rose vine from which Cole had picked flowers for Ava after finishing his malt still grew on the corner of the building, loaded with flowers like always.
The Old Village was a mini-Charleston, complete with shotgun homes, which got their name from the idea that you could shoot a shotgun from the front door into the long, narrow home and the shot would exit the back door. Almost all had piazzas, or what the rest of the world would call a porch.
With each turn Cole’s mind spewed images of random facts about whatever he was seeing, things he had learned. His mind was constantly flooded with the flow of information it had stored since he was a child, occasionally bogging down his ability to think. Stop! His brain went silent.
As he turned right onto Center Street, Cole saw his sister’s ‘modest’ home. In any other neighborhood the relatively new two thousand square-foot nondescript beach-style home would certainly be modest and a third the price. Its plantation shutters and aluminum roof were as common to the area as the nasty biting sand gnats.
But this was Mount Pleasant, and, like Charleston, the city was in demand, having doubled its population between 1990 and 2000, still being one of the fastest growing cities by percentage in the nation. His sister had ‘married up’ and she didn’t deny it. For her part, she had been in love. She didn’t accept until little Billy was born and almost two that William Sr. was a drug addict, and a mean one at that. Motherhood gave her the clarity she’d lacked as merely a woman. Being a mother and a police officer, she wised up fast and kicked him out of the million-dollar home, wherein he’d disappeared with some woman he met in rehab, losing custody of Billy even if he had wanted it. Cole was proud of his sister for standing up to the guy. Had he known what was going on, Jackie wouldn’t have had to worry—William would have been chum for the swarms of bull sharks that swam off the edge of Jackie’s marshy backyard.
CHAPTER 35
AS HE PULLED up, Billy ran out of the house to Cole’s car, screen door slamming behind him. He could hear Jackie inside the house yelling for the door.
The car door opened to Billy’s face trying to squeeze in. “Hey ‘lil man. Look at you! Is your mom feeding you Miracle Grow again? I swear you’ve grown two inches since yesterday.” Billy laughed a kid’s laugh, medium-pitched but full.
“Oh Uncle Cole, you know I only eat mac and cheese.” He had grabbed a hold of Cole’s leg like one of those toy monkeys that clasps on to a pencil, legs, arms and all.
Trying to walk toward the porch with his newfound ankle weight, Cole laughed and replied. “Mac’n cheese? That’s it? What about shrimp’n grits?”
“Mom doesn’t make that anymore. She’s on a diet.” Billy looked up, still attached firmly.
“What? Diet? I better talk to that woman. I can’t have her starving my lil’man.”
Billy let go after Cole took the first step onto the front door. They climbed the steps of the stilted house onto the wood plank porch hand-in-hand.
Like most homes on the town’s edges, the house was stilted to ward off damage when the area flooded from the frequent lunar tides and storms. Cole had never seen a basement until he moved to Columbia for college. The water table was just inches down, making such things foreign to the area.
His sister was walking towards the screen door with a dish rag in her hand as Cole walked in. At five-ten, she was tall for a woman, and curvy. Her sweeping blond hair was raked over one shoulder and down her seersucker skirt and tucked white blouse. Typical of Jackie, she had no shoes on. “There’s my favorite sister,” Cole exclaimed as though the room were full of people. He was going in for a hug when she reminded him, “I’m your only sister,” and shook her head.
“The only one we know of.” Cole winked. It was a script he and his sister—technically his cousin—went through every time they were reunited. Though cousins by blood, they never recognized their relationship as anything other than brother and sister.
Jackie swung the dish towel at Billy. “Now what did I say; get those toys cleaned up before we head over to Nana’s and Pop’s in a bit.”
Billy put his hands on his hips. “Uncle Cole interrupted me, Mom.” He then walked over to the small living room displeased in being removed from the meeting.
“I interrupted him.” Cole looked at his sister with a sideways smile and inspected her as he mimicked his nephew. She looked good, real good. Better than she had in some time. He wasn’t around to see the damage William had done to her before she decided to stand up to him. But he’d flown into town immediately thereafter for a week, and she was a mess. The bruises would heal. But she’d just looked broken internally. Cole secretly hated himself for having not picked up on what was happening. Yet the two years since had obviously been good to her; she had color and life back in her.
With Billy out of ear shot, Cole pressed. “Okay, woman, what the he…” he stopped himself after remembering he was in the presence of a child. “What is going on? What was up with those calls and texts?”
Her face immediately showed pain. “I’m sorry. I knew you were out having a great time with Ann. How is she, by the way? I ran into her sister the other day.”
“She’s fine. Now, your calls. This can’t be about the FBI agent….is William back?” Cole whispered the last part so Billy couldn’t hear. Billy’s father had all but disappeared after the divorce, but only after the court had made him hand over half his trust fund. With the blessing of the court, Jackie set up a new trust fund, with payments to cover the mortgage and living expenses of him and his mother. So William had no reason to stay in their lives. There were no child support or alimony payments to hand over. Billy was almost three when the divorce was final, and other than the occasional birthday card or random Christmas gift, he hadn’t since seen since.
Jackie interrupted him. “Everything is fine. No, he isn’t back and I hope he never comes back.” She shook her head in disbelief at Cole’s assumption. “No. I got that call from that FBI agent who was referred to me by the Charleston County Police, so…”
Throwing his hands to his sides, Cole reacted. “So what, Jackie? Oh my god. I called him back. He left a message and said he was coming to town tonight and would give me a call. That’s all I know. God. Relax. You know I’m in no trouble because I can’t recall the last time an officer called to say they were coming to arrest you. I mean, that would kinda defeat the purpose, don’t you think? So chill the fuck out, okay?”
“Well, fuck me, lil’bro, for caring. I’m just worried about you.” The hushed use of cursing made Cole laugh at his sister’s last statement.
“I know, I know.” Cole cooled off, knowing she was just being his big sister. But he really didn’t want to deal with this issue right now.
Jackie scrunched her nose and smiled to suggest she was calm now, too.
Still standing in the doorway of the home, Cole asked, “Now, are you going to let me in this house or are you hiding bodies somewhere?”
“Ha, I’m sorry. I totally forgot we were standing in the doorway. Yes, come in. Want some tea? Billy, that mess better be picked up in ten minutes or you aren’t going to Nana and Pop’s, hear me?” The argument passed fast, like the routine four p.m. thunderstorms, without any residual harm.
“Yes ma’am,” came from the other room. Cole could hear Billy ‘zrooming’ with a toy car in the living room as they passed. Billy wasn’t afraid of his mom and her Glock.
They walked into the kitchen and sat on stools at a large granite island, Jackie leaning in from across its yellow and brown speckled top to watch Billy in the other room while catching Cole up on the life and family drama he had missed out on since his last visit. After a few minutes his sister leaned around him to face the foyer and the living room. “Billy, you ready to be spoiled? You got that mess all picked up? It’s time to go.” Billy joined them as they walked
toward the door. Cole looked into the living room to inspect the cleanup—all clean. Perhaps Billy was scared.
CHAPTER 36
JACKIE AND COLE piled into separate cars. Billy had negotiated the honor of riding with his Uncle Cole and stepped into the front passenger seat. Cole looked over with surprise. “Uh, mister, are you thirty years old already?”
“No.” Billy flashed a faux puppy frown as he slowly reopened the door.
“Well, then I think unless you want me killed by your mom, you need to sit in the back. Seatbelt…mister.”
“Okay.” Billy sauntered to the back passenger side and jumped in, and began latching his seatbelt.
Cole worked swiftly to mine Billy’s brain for an update once the door was completely closed and they were alone. Turning his head to the back seat, he said, “Okay, it’s just us men now. So, what’s the story, mister; how many girlfriends you got?”
Billy was still fumbling with the belt as he spoke. “Uncle Cole…” Billy blushed as the conversation continued from there without a second of pause for the remainder of the trip. As they merged onto Highway 17 North Cole spied a sweetgrass basket stand. Remnants of the slave era, the hand-sewn marshgrass baskets existed only on a five-mile stretch of the highway. Nowhere else in the world could you find the yellow and brown striped baskets, except at the Slave Market in Charleston. As a child, the stands were plentiful and their baskets relatively cheap. But development and interstate widening had pushed the random scrap-wood framed stands to the edge of town, pressed against Francis Marion National Forest. Prices had skyrocketed exponentially as a result. His nanny, MeMe, had showed him how to make them during a visit to her house as a child, and he thought of her every time he looked at the basket they made, now back in Denver.
The Trees Beyond the Grass (A Cole Mouzon Thriller) Page 12