Circled

by Anne McAneny

  “But I’m out of jail! Mr. Quail got me out! Said everything would be alright. Besides, I ain’t talking to no one. I was just bullshitting those government men, stalling for time.” His breathing became jagged, his motions spastic and desperate.

  So Quail had posted the bail. What a snake.

  “You think those men are just gonna let you walk away, Boyd?” the sheriff said. “Come on. You’re smarter than that. They’re expecting something big.”

  Boyd raised both hands and took three slow steps back. Two turtles peeked their heads up at him, motionless, curious if the human would be joining them for a swim.

  “I got nothing to tell nobody, Sheriff, I swear. I just wanna get out of this town. You tell those government men you couldn’t find me. Besides, Mr. Quail, he checked with everyone. Told me everything was square.”

  “That don’t make you square with me. Now it’s too hot for running. Let’s head back to town and have a conversation.”

  “No! You’re just trying to get me where”—Boyd stumbled on a rock, caught himself. He took one more cautious step back, his foot entering the water. Behind him, a flash of dark gray bumps, punctuated by long, curving rows of short wide spikes launched out of water. It hadn’t been two turtles watching Boyd, after all. It had been an eye and an empty eye socket.

  Old Bastard propelled himself at least four feet into the air, revealing ancient, muscled armor backed by eight hundred pounds of hunger and ferocity. The legend was far from down and out . . . he’d simply gotten hungry. His jaws unhinged soundlessly and rejoined to clamp down on Boyd’s outstretched left arm. Then, with a jerk of his powerful neck and a serpentine twist of his spine, Old Bastard yanked his prey into the murkiness below with blinding speed.

  Boyd never yelled out. Never really had a chance.

  Alligators don’t chomp their prey to death, Clover. They grab hold of somethin’—harder ’n a crane claw lifting a two-ton car—and then they drag it underwater and thrash it around until it drowns.

  “Sheriff!” I yelled, startling the hell out of a man who must already have been on pins and needles.

  “Chloe, what in the hell?”

  The water above the area where Old Bastard had disappeared looked calm, but several yards downstream, the surface wriggled, offering evidence of a struggle below.

  It pained me to say it, but I did. “Sheriff, you’ve got to shoot Old Bastard!”

  The sheriff staggered to the water’s edge, searching frantically for any sign of Boyd.

  “Shoot Old Bastard, Sheriff! Now! He’s trying to drown Boyd. Boyd might lose an arm, but it’s only been a few seconds. He’s still alive.”

  The sheriff looked as panicked as I felt. “I can’t just start shooting willy nilly! What if I hit Boyd?”

  BANG! I took a shot. It had to be done. The bullet exploded out of the gun and hit the rustling waters, but it dissipated in ferocity the moment it made contact with the liquid.

  “For God’s sake, Chloe! You’re more likely to hit Boyd than anything else.”

  I geared up to take another shot but stopped myself. The sheriff was right. Not only could I get arrested, but if Boyd died at the receiving end of one of my bullets, so did the truth about Hoop. I’d been so close! I couldn’t risk killing him now.

  “You’re closer to them!” I shouted. “Look for your shot and take it if you get it. They’re going to surface again soon and Boyd will still be alive. Old Bastard’s the bigger target, so be ready!”

  The sheriff raised his gun.

  I didn’t know where my sudden knowledge of reptilian carnivorous habits had come from, but I knew there’d be one more chance if Old Bastard surfaced in the right spot. I readied my gun, just in case, and locked my eyes on the water, waiting for the tussle between man and beast to make itself airborne. But my concentration wasn’t what it could have been because inside, I was cursing the sheriff for not having questioned Boyd when he had him in custody the first time, and for allowing today’s situation to escalate to whatever this mess was.

  Whoosh!

  Old Bastard’s tail shot out first. It smacked down in order to propel the long, unwieldy body out of the water with insane force. With the body came the struggling, pathetic prey, whiplashed into the air like a rag doll, an entire human body flailing like a ribbon tied to the end of Old Bastard’s snout. The lightning-fast jaunt above the surface was wild and frantic. No way for the sheriff or me to get a shot off, but it sure sufficed for Old Bastard to get a breath.

  Oh sure, Clover, ain’t no problem for a gator to hold its breath for fifteen minutes if it wants to. Got all sorts of flaps it can close—ears, nose, throat. Might as well be wearing a set of scuba gear.

  Old Bastard wouldn’t surface again for a good, long while, certainly not before Boyd succumbed.

  The sudden stillness of the water contrasted sharply with the violence below, increasing my awe for Black Swamp—and I’d already revered the damn place.

  I waited several more minutes, and finally, with my head and spirits as low as they’d been in a long time, I made my way back into the forest. It would take me five minutes to swing around and meet up with the sheriff. On the way, I called Chad, explained what had happened, and told him to send reinforcements. I knew what the call meant for Old Bastard’s fate, but to delay the call was only to delay the inevitable.

  By the time I reached Strike, I could see the water patrol on its way over in an air boat that made mine look like a toy. Still no sign of Boyd, although that didn’t stop the sheriff from searching. He couldn’t seem to wrench his eyes from the water, and he looked all sorts of torn-up inside.

  I touched his shoulder to make sure he knew I was there—didn’t want him turning his rifle on me in a panic. But he didn’t turn around or even glance in my direction. He merely let out a heavy breath that reeked of despair.

  “You kidding me with this, Chloe?” he finally said. “What in tarnation were you doing out here, getting between two men with weapons? Sometimes I think you’re as crazy as they say.”

  “No crazier than you, Sheriff.”

  “I was here to bring Boyd in for questioning, something you don’t have the clear and stated authority to do. So, really, I’m at a loss as to why you’re here.”

  Boyd’s backpack suddenly surfaced, both straps shredded, the contents peeking out through tooth-sized holes in the canvas. Alligator tooth-sized, that is. At least the bag’s built-in flotation device had remained intact.

  “This is horrible,” I said. “I never . . . I mean . . .”

  “I know,” he said, softening. “I ain’t never seen nothing like it. I don’t reckon Old Bastard eats more than once or twice a year.” He sighed. “Boyd just put a toe in the water on the wrong day.”

  The police boat arrived as a huge shadow appeared forty feet out in the water before disappearing like a wisp of dark smoke. They’d probably hunt him down and slice open his stomach. I hoped he could outwit them, but I doubted he would. What a sour last meal it would prove to be for the old guy.

  Chapter 32

  I pounded on Richie Quail’s office door but received only echoes in return. Quail was my sole connection to what Boyd had been ready to tell me. Plus, I needed to know why he’d posted that bail. Seemed like he wanted Boyd sprung before the big conversation with the federal boys. So what did Quail have to hide? If it had anything to do with Hoop—and I was beginning to think it did—I’d have to do to Quail what they were planning to do to Old Bastard.

  I called Quail’s main office number, hoping it would forward to wherever he was today, but it only made the phone on Sarah’s desk ring—a persistent, old-fashioned jangle that grated against my every nerve. Sarah was proving unreachable, too, and I wondered if that was Quail’s doing.

  Wait a minute. I had one more lead. I sat down on the industrial park’s chipped concrete curb and pulled out my tablet. I searched the internet for the person who’d actually posted the bail: Clive Haverhill. Only seven results, but none of
them related to an actual person named Clive Haverhill. What was he—some mysterious stranger who posted bail on derelicts and invested millions for the morbidly obese?

  Chad had mentioned that Annika at the police station was trying to dig up details on the elusive Mr. Haverhill, so I got in touch with her, but she’d come up as empty as me. I considered narrowing my search parameters, but in today’s world, it didn’t get much narrower than seven results. Frustrated, I banged my tablet against my forehead and actually came up with a new lead: Rafe Borose. If anyone could help me track down a person hiding behind the slick layers of the internet, he could.

  I grabbed my phone but ended up staring at it blankly because I had no contact information for the man I’d lain on the floor with. Did that make me some sort of twenty-first century harlot? No matter, I’d been called worse. Fifteen minutes later, I was over the bridge and knocking on my second door of the afternoon, this time with success.

  A haggard-looking Rafe answered, sans hologram doppelganger. He sported a knee-length blue robe—and not much else as far as I could tell.

  “Chloe,” he said in a tired voice. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  I double-checked my watch. Yep, two in the afternoon. I glanced back at him. Still a robe and slippers. “Sorry to interrupt your busy day, but I didn’t have your number.”

  “I really need to start scratching it onto more bathroom stalls.” He reached into his robe pocket and plucked out his phone. “Let’s remedy the situation now.” He swiped and tapped his phone screen and held it out to me. “Here, put your number in.”

  I entered my digits. Our fingers touched when I handed it back, causing a rush of flurries in my stomach.

  “Now give me your phone,” he said.

  I complied. He called my phone from his so that his number would automatically be in my database. Then he turbo-tapped his name into my Contacts and handed it back. “There,” he said, “now we’re in each other’s devices. I believe that counts as some level of modern-day intimacy. Maybe the new first base?”

  “More of a second-base gal myself,” I said without thinking.

  “Hm. Well, I’ll see if I can hit a double.”

  More flutters and flurries, along with a blush, but I pushed it all aside.

  He gestured for me to enter, and I immediately got hit with the intoxicating scent of coffee. Almost before I could think to ask for some, he led me to the kitchen and placed a heavy mugful of the elixir in my hand. When he gestured to the cream and sugar, I partook in both and felt like my day was starting anew. “So,” I began by way of explanation, “you probably don’t know what happened yet.”

  “Old Bastard feeling a tad peckish, I heard.”

  My jaw went slack. “How did you know?”

  He sat on one of three stools at his granite counter. “There’s this thing called the internet, and on it, there’s this thing called news. Tends to skew towards the sensational. An AARP-eligible gator chomping down a wanted felon definitely qualifies as sensational.”

  I smiled while sipping the delicious coffee. “I sometimes forget that Beulah keeps up with the internet. Usually feels like we’re a century or two behind.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I heard there was a reporter at the scene of this breaking gator story.”

  “I seem to be at all the breaking news lately—while taking little interest in it as a reporter.”

  “Doesn’t bode well for your career.”

  I shrugged and sat on the stool next to his, facing him. “I know our relationship only extends as far as lying on the floor, sharing a pillow, and being mutual suspects in Mrs. Elbee’s murder, but I need a favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “I need to know who Clive Haverhill is.”

  His head jerked back a few millimeters, and then he stuck out his hand as if to shake. Was he inviting me to tango?

  “I’m Clive Haverhill,” he said. “Pleased to meet you. And color me impressed that you tracked me down.”

  Chapter 33

  I stared, ignoring Rafe’s outstretched hand. Then I swallowed the gulp of coffee in my mouth with great care, lest I spit it all over his counter. “Excuse me?”

  “Clive Haverhill, financial investment advisor and all-around smart guy. At your service.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m not sure I see the problem.” He shrugged. “It’s just a pseudonym.”

  “You posted bail for Boyd Sexton this morning.”

  Rafe’s thick brows came together while his full lips puckered with interest. His eyes, however, remained red and tired. “Technically, yes, but at the behest of a client. That seems like a full day’s work ago.” He let out an exhausted breath. “Busiest week ever, but I knew it would be.”

  At my look of exasperation, he continued. “One of my clients requested that I wire money to a courier. I vaguely remember that the money was to spring Boyd Sexton from the confines of his prison cell. All legitimate and aboveboard as far as I could tell. Seven or eight o’clock this morning.”

  I still couldn’t decide if this was a bad joke or a horrible coincidence. “Who is your client?”

  “I’m not supposed to say, but what the heck? Richie Quail, of course.” He almost laughed. “You don’t think I’d locate myself in Beulah as an investment expert to the wealthy without a few key clients in the area, do you?”

  “Thought your circus uncle recommended the place.”

  “He did, as soon as he found out who my clients were.”

  “Somehow, you failed to mention that the richest man in Beulah was your client when I told you I was working on a story involving him.”

  “I did mention that he and I ran in the same investment circles, but in general, I’m supposed to keep things under wraps. Besides, what I do is so sterile; it’s just moving money around, a game of numbers, that’s all. He’s been my client for years.”

  “It occurs to me that there are only so many wealthy clients for you to cater to here in Beulah. Do you have other big ones in town?”

  He grimaced. “I don’t think I should say while you’ve got hot coffee in your hand.”

  My nostrils flared, but I kept my voice level. “The cream cooled it. Start talking.”

  “Adeline DeVore is also my client,” he said, raising his hands in mock defense.

  I seriously considered throwing the coffee at him, but it tasted too good.

  “Chloe, what’s the big deal? I told you I handled money for wealthy people. You just happen to be working on a story about lottery winners. Logically, they’re the ones with money to invest. What’s the harm if I invest money for people you know through work?”

  I set my mug down, hopped off the stool, and paced. “The harm is that you posted bail for Boyd Sexton who is now dead but who was ready to spill serious information about what we found in his basement—and I’m not talking drugs. Boyd Sexton may have killed . . . he might have . . . for God’s sake, he was the only one who knew what happened to the boy I loved!”

  I had huffed and puffed myself right into Rafe’s face, and then suddenly, I gasped as I heard what I’d said aloud to a near-stranger. “I mean . . . I didn’t mean that I—”

  Rafe reached out and grabbed me by both arms. In different circumstances, I felt certain he would have kissed me, but right now, he didn’t dare. We stayed motionless for a long moment, my jagged exhalations becoming his inhalations, our eyes glued together. My wounded expression surely conveyed how much his actions had hurt me.

  He didn’t back away. He didn’t try to make excuses. What he did do was close his eyes as his face knotted up, seeming to repress his own urge to cry. By the time he opened his eyes, he’d regained composure but continued to look personally pained. “I didn’t know,” he said. Then he seemed to go distant for a flash before an awkward half-smile formed on his lips. “I guess I didn’t think of everything.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  He released my arms. “Can you ever forgive me?
You have to think back to our conversations. You never gave me all the details.”

  “But how could you not know that you were doing something underhanded by posting that bail at the last possible second? Right before the Feds got their claws in him.”

  “I process a hundred transactions a day, all over the world. It’s sort of why I’m in a robe at whatever time it is now. I’m buying real estate, selling stock, finding partners for trusts, trying to come out on the better end of a short sale. Something as trivial as sending money to a courier”—he raised his hands innocently—“I don’t even know the story behind the transactions most of the time. Perhaps that’s a fault, but . . .” He gestured to his living room. “Do you have time to talk now?”

  “It’s too late. Boyd’s dead. There’s no other link, and no one else knows what happened to Hoop.”

  “Hoop,” he repeated. “The boy you think is with the circus.”

  Reality finally took its full and oppressive toll. I could feel wrinkles of weariness forming on my face as I accepted a truth I’d denied for years. “That was nothing but a fantasy,” I said. “One I’ve finally given up as recently as today.”

  Rafe gently grabbed my hand and turned me toward him. “Don’t give up yet.” I could feel his strength and optimism traversing between us. “I’ve already made contact with my uncles, and I promised you an answer soon enough. Can you hold out a little longer before giving up?”

  I swallowed and fought the urge to take comfort in his arms. “April Fools’ Day, right?”

  “Without fail. Listen, it was never my intention to hurt you. If I’d known that a simple transfer of money would result in this much pain for you . . .”

  “What I don’t understand is why Richie Quail bailed Boyd Sexton out at all.”

  Rafe released my hand and shrugged. “The possibilities are endless, right? Did Quail owe Boyd a favor? Did Boyd have dirt on Quail? A drug history, perhaps, or proof of an unsavory liaison. Surely, with your knowledge of Beulah, you must have a theory or two.”