Life Everlasting

by Robert Whitlow

  Most of the buildings along the town’s two main streets had been built thirty or forty years ago, but local government officials were proud of the attractive new sandstone courthouse and their success in luring several out-of-town banks to open branch offices.

  Alexia entered Rachel’s building through the back door, the shortest path to her temporary office. The lawyer had recently purchased a very nice cherry computer table and telephone stand in anticipation of her move to the King Street house, and the new items looked out of place in the rectangular room with cheap, paneled walls. A single window gave a limited view of the parking lot.

  Alexia walked down a long hallway to the front of the office to check for phone messages. As she stood by the receptionist’s desk and flipped through the pink slips of paper, one name caught her attention. Startled, she gave it a second look. She handed the note back to the receptionist.

  “Are you sure this call is for me?”

  The young receptionist glanced down. “Oh, yes. He called a few minutes ago. I was too busy to fill in your name. Sorry about that. That’s the direct number for his personal assistant. He wanted you to call as soon as you arrived.”

  Alexia returned to her office and put the note from Jeffrey Richardson on her desk.

  5

  Bring in the bottled lightning, a clean tumbler, and a corkscrew.

  OLIVER TWIST

  Detective Giles Porter sat in a squeaky chair behind an old wooden desk. He shared a large, open room with the other detective who worked for the Mitchell County Sheriff ’s Department. In a corner, hunched over a radio transmitter, crouched the dispatcher, who monitored and directed the activities of the county’s seven full-time deputies. Porter ran his hand over the top of his bald head. Underneath his fingers he felt the familiar crease of the reddish scar left by the shotgun blast that thirty years before blew out the windshield of his patrol car. At that time, the sheriff ’s department only had two patrol cars. But those cars were special.

  To be effective, law-enforcement officers needed vehicles that could compete with those driven by the moonshiners, who transported homemade liquor from the mountains of northwestern South Carolina to the dry counties of the Piedmont. Giles Porter, just discharged from the army and working as an inexperienced deputy, had spent many nights parked under the trees along rural roads. Rolling down the window of his patrol car, he would watch the stars overhead and listen for the deep-throated rumble of a Ford coupe whose backseat was filled with gallon plastic jugs of white lightning.

  The sons and nephews of the men Porter chased down winding roads on moonless nights now raced legally under bright lights at dirt tracks and short asphalt ovals from Walhalla to Gaffney. The final surrender of prohibition ended the need for hidden mountain distilleries; however, some modern stock-car racing fans romanticized the criminals of the past who hauled illegal whiskey. Not Porter. He’d seen men who lost their sight after drinking a bad batch distilled through a rusty radiator, and on two occasions he called a hearse to pick up the bodies of those who consumed contaminated white liquor that bit with poisonous venom.

  Porter shuffled papers across his desk and picked up an information bulletin about the death of Claude Dixon, a long-time deputy with the Charleston County Sheriff’s Department. He stared at the small picture, trying to decide if he’d ever met Dixon. Porter’s memory was legendary. The detective carried multiple phone numbers in his head and had an uncanny knack for recalling obscure details at crucial times. Few felonies in Mitchell County remained unsolved, and over the years Porter had received several generous job offers from larger police departments. But his heart remained in the mountains where he’d risked his life and raised his children. Preserving law and order in Mitchell County was his enduring passion.

  It took a moment, but he remembered sharing a table with Dixon at a training event in Columbia. He read the brief summary of the circumstances surrounding Dixon’s death. The officer died during a traffic stop, when he was knocked to the ground and broke his neck. The car he stopped, an expensive red convertible, was stolen from the Richardson residence in Santee. Porter leaned forward in his chair, causing it to give a loud screech. In the third drawer of a gray filing cabinet behind his desk was a folder with the name “Baxter Richardson” across the top. Porter’s encounter with the Richardson family occurred while Baxter was in the hospital in Greenville, but he knew the wealthy family resided in Santee.

  “Paul!” he called out to the dispatcher. “Is your computer turned on?”

  “Yes sir,” replied the young officer.

  “Find out the full name of the owner of a red convertible stolen in Santee two weeks ago. It was recovered in Charleston County as part of a homicide investigation.”

  “Do you know the VIN?”

  “No, but the last name is Richardson.”

  “That will take a minute.”

  Porter waited patiently as the young man’s fingers flew over the keys. Paul Fletchall didn’t have the physical stature to break up a brawl; however, he knew how to usher the sheriff ’s department into the age of modern technology, and as a lifelong resident of Mitchell County, he knew every street and road better than any other dispatcher in the department.

  Giles Porter’s thoughts had returned on a regular basis to Baxter and Rena Richardson ever since he learned that the young man had survived his quick trip to the bottom of Double Barrel Falls. From the first day he met Rena, Porter had been certain the attractive young woman wasn’t telling him the whole truth about the events surrounding her husband’s accident. His subsequent investigation substantiated his suspicions. In the evidence room next to the cleaning closet was a walking stick Porter had brought back from Double Barrel Falls. Other evidence remained in a secure location in a medical lab at Greenville Memorial Hospital. No one knew about the results of the tests except Porter and the forensic pathologist who performed them. The detective was itching to ask the local solicitor to seek an indictment against Rena from the grand jury, but his professional patience kept him in check. He hoped other evidence would surface, making it impossible for Rena to bat her eyelashes at the men on the jury and wiggle free.

  “Got it,” Paul called out. “Baxter Calhoun Richardson. Hey, isn’t he the guy who fell from the cliff and ended up in a coma?”

  “Yes. It seems he’s had a string of bad luck.”

  Porter picked up the phone and dialed the number for the Charleston County Sheriff ’s Department. After a few transfers, Detective Byron Devereaux answered the phone. Porter introduced himself.

  “We have a mutual interest in Baxter Richardson,” he began.

  “Baxter Richardson?”

  “He’s the owner of the red convertible stopped by Deputy Dixon. Richardson spent several weeks on life support in Greenville Memorial Hospital following injuries suffered in a fall here in Mitchell County. You may have talked to Rena, his wife.”

  There was a brief pause. “You have my attention.”

  Alexia returned her other calls before picking up the message from Jeffrey Richardson. Baxter’s older brother had given Rena the money to hire Alexia after his father gutted Rena’s bank account, but Alexia remained wary. Rena seemed afraid of her brother-in-law, and while the lawyer wasn’t naive about Rena’s tendency toward paranoia, sometimes paranoid people had reason to be suspicious.

  She considered phoning Rena but decided it would only upset her client. Until Alexia knew why Jeffrey was contacting her, there was nothing to discuss. She flipped over a clean sheet on her legal pad and touched the numbers on her phone. A pleasant female voice answered.

  “Good morning, Jeffrey Richardson’s office.”

  “Mr. Richardson, please. It’s Alexia Lindale returning his call.”

  The woman put her on hold. While she waited, Alexia listened to a recording of music suitable for a dentist’s office. Every so often there was a faint beep that made her wonder if the phone was hooked to a recorder. Finally, a male voice with a soft, coastal accent
came on the line.

  “Ms. Lindale?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks for calling. I know you’re busy, so I’ll get to the point. My father is using the power of attorney Baxter signed when he turned eighteen to secretly transfer my brother’s interest in several companies.”

  Because Rena had told Alexia that Jeffrey wanted his identity as a source to remain confidential, she was surprised by Jeffrey’s frankness.

  “I’m aware of the possibility,” Alexia replied deliberately. “From the first day I learned about the power of attorney, I knew your father might attempt to transfer assets.”

  “Of course you did. I’ve heard you’re a smart lawyer with a knack for seeing through corporate smoke screens.”

  Alexia remained noncommittal. “I’m simply doing my best to represent your sister-in-law.”

  “And I appreciate it. If Baxter could talk, he’d thank you too. Rena needs someone like you so she won’t make any mistakes.”

  “What kind of mistakes?”

  Alexia heard Jeffrey clear his throat. “Rena is a great girl, but I’m sure you’ve seen that she can be a little bit flighty. Occasionally, she says things she later regrets. She needs someone steady to guide her and keep her out of trouble.”

  “Why are you calling to talk about this? I thought you wanted to remain behind the scenes.”

  “Not really. You need to be able to talk to me directly if you have any questions. It will be a lot more efficient that way.”

  “That will be up to Rena, but I’ll mention it to her.”

  “Good. Do you have a list of the companies involved in the transfers?”

  “Yes, but I wasn’t sure they were all directly implicated.”

  “They’re not, but we can sort that out later.”

  “Okay,” Alexia answered. Then she waited until the silence felt uncomfortable. “Is there anything else you wanted to tell me?”

  “Actually, I wanted to invite you to dinner Saturday night.”

  Alexia was startled. Gwen had told her Jeffrey Richardson approached women like a big-game hunter tracked exotic prey.

  “No, thank you,” she responded curtly.

  Jeffrey laughed, which annoyed Alexia. “Oh, it’s not a date. It’s a charitable fund-raiser for a nonprofit organization that operates homes for abused children. I’ve agreed to sponsor a table and need to fill it. You could bring a friend. The entertainment will be a classical pianist. Victor Plavich from San Francisco. I’ve been told he’s very good.”

  Alexia sat up straighter in her chair. “Won’t your father be there? That could be awkward. I mean, I haven’t filed suit yet, but I cross-examined him during the hearing in Greenville to terminate Baxter’s life support, and with what might be coming up—”

  “Don’t worry,” Jeffrey interrupted. “I wouldn’t do that to either one of you. He bought a table, too, but he’ll be out of town on a business trip to the Caribbean.”

  Alexia’s resistance melted. “Okay. I have a good friend who loves piano music. Could I invite him?”

  “Sure. What’s his name? I’ll pencil him in on my sheet.”

  “Ted Morgan.”

  “Call back and confirm with my assistant as soon as possible. I don’t want to be dining alone.”

  “I’ll let her know by the end of the day tomorrow.”

  Alexia put the phone back in its cradle and wondered what she should wear. It might be a formal affair. She had several dresses for fancy occasions, and she mentally tried on each one, imagining herself walking into the banquet hall with Ted. She thought of the rustic music minister in a tuxedo, and the scene made her smile.

  Rena looked out a window toward the cottage. She resented the money shelled out by Ezra for Baxter’s nursing care. The amount spent every week for skilled medical care would have fed and clothed Rena and her brothers for a year when they were growing up. What a colossal waste.

  Several days had passed since Rena last stepped across the driveway to the cottage. There wasn’t any reason to drop in for a visit to watch her husband breathe while an RN or aide scurried around acting busy. Rena’s few happy memories of the cottage had been obliterated by its transformation into a fancy hospital room to preserve the life of the man whose survival threatened her own.

  She decided to go to the spa and had put on expensive workout clothes. Hard physical activity gave her a temporary respite from the constant pressure that surrounded her. She was in excellent physical condition and could run an hour on a treadmill. She’d occasionally tried to persuade Baxter to join her for workouts, but he was more interested in relaxing.

  “Go ahead,” he’d tell her, and then return to his wine or golf magazine.

  Rena walked out the side door and toward the four-car garage connected to the main house by a short covered walkway. Instead of entering the garage, she paused and then continued walking. She had to see for herself whether Baxter had improved enough to become a clear danger.

  Dark shutters and a red door accented the white wooden cottage. The landscaping service had planted beds of cheerful pansies on either side of the brick walkway. Winter along the coast was merely a season for a different crop of flowers. Carefully shaped shrubs grew beneath the front windows. It was a perfect dollhouse.

  She pushed open the door. Baxter lay on his back, his eyes closed. She could detect no visible change. The open blinds let in the morning light. An aide Rena didn’t recognize was placing a tray on the adjustable table beside Baxter’s bed. The young woman looked up in surprise when Rena entered the room.

  “Uh, may I help you?”

  “I’m his wife,” Rena said.

  A nurse stuck her head around the corner from the kitchen.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Richardson,” she said.

  “Have you heard from the neurologist?” Rena asked.

  “No, but I saw the notes from the night-duty personnel. It looks hopeful.”

  Rena grunted. “Leave me alone with him for a few minutes.”

  The nurse withdrew to the kitchen. The aide joined her. Rena stepped close to the edge of the bed and looked down at her husband.

  Baxter’s right leg, broken in the fall, was in an air cast. Because of the injury to his spinal cord, he couldn’t move the leg, making it unnecessary to do anything to stabilize it. A white sheet and lightweight blanket covered all but his head and neck. The cuts and bruises he’d suffered at the waterfall had healed without leaving serious scars. Someone had trimmed his sandy brown hair and shaved his face. To a casual observer, he could have passed for a young man recovering from an appendectomy.

  After Baxter fell from the cliff and while he lay unconscious in the ICU of the Greenville hospital, Rena had maintained a consistent propaganda campaign designed to reprogram his recollection of the incident at the cliff. She had no idea whether her lies had taken root, but at least they helped pass the tedious time spent at his bedside. She pulled up a wooden chair and sat down so that her mouth was close to his ear. She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs for him to die and leave her alone.

  “Hello, darling,” she said and then watched closely for any reaction.

  Seeing nothing, she continued, “It’s me. You’re in the cottage where we lived after our honeymoon. You’ve had a terrible accident, but you’re going to be okay. I’ve been here with you the whole time. You may have had some bad dreams, but you slipped and fell—”

  Baxter suddenly groaned so loudly that Rena jumped in her seat. His eyelids fluttered, and for the first time since he pleaded for help as he slipped over the cliff, her husband opened his eyes in her presence. He didn’t turn his head but stared straight up at the ceiling.

  Rena’s mouth dropped open, and she watched in disbelief. A knot cramped her stomach, and she leaned over in pain.

  “Oh no!” she said.

  The nurse peered around the corner.

  “Are you alright?”

  Still gaping, Rena pointed at Baxter’s face.

  The nu
rse spoke. “He’s opened his eyes a couple of times since I came on duty.”

  The pain in Rena’s stomach eased slightly. She spoke in a hoarse whisper.

  “Does he understand anything?”

  The nurse stepped into the room and approached the bed so that she would be in Baxter’s line of sight. Moving her hand from side to side in front of his face, she watched his reaction.

  “He doesn’t follow the motion of my hand. The doctor will have to examine him, but I don’t know what he can see or understand.” The nurse leaned over. “Mr. Richardson, if you understand that someone is talking to you, blink your eyes one time.”

  Rena watched Baxter’s eyelashes from the side. There was no movement. The knot in her stomach relaxed, and she took a deep breath.

  “See?” the nurse said. “Each time I’ve asked him to blink his eyes I couldn’t establish a distinction between involuntary and voluntary activity.”

  Baxter blinked.

  “So you don’t even know if he can see?” Rena asked.

  The nurse shook her head. “I don’t want to speculate. The doctor will be able to give you a better idea about his status.”

  Rena reached out and tentatively touched Baxter’s cheek. His eyes fluttered and seemed to roll back in his head. Rena withdrew her hand.

  “Did you see that?” she asked.

  “It’s not unusual.”

  Rena suspected the nurse knew more than she was saying, but didn’t press her for information. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the truth. She pushed back the chair and stood up.

  “Have you talked to the doctor since you came on duty?” she asked.

  “No. The night nurse called Dr. Leoni’s answering service, but we haven’t heard from him. As soon as we know his schedule, we’ll notify you.”

  Rena straightened. “I’ll be out for a while, but you have my cell number. Could I have one more minute alone with him?”

  The nurse returned to the kitchen. Rena leaned over so close to Baxter’s right ear that her lips almost touched it.