Some people were born that way.
That was the only explanation for the endless yearning that seemed to exist before memory.
At times, there was nothing to be done but surrender to it.
Somehow, in the quiet moments after the very first slaughter . . . there had been peace from the yearning . . . but then the hunger resumed—long before the flesh from that first rib melted into the wet, putrefying ground.
Ten years crawled before the next feast, but it too failed to satisfy, and then the next and the next. The hunger came faster, sooner, stronger—the sacrifice always on the verge of being enough, but never quite.
Even now, the hunger was seeking stillness.
A stillness that was discoverable only in glimpses . . . on quiet mornings in the salt marsh . . . when the scent of death hijacked the morning breeze.
Early Tuesday morning, Caroline delivered a bouquet of sunflowers to Daniel’s room at St. Francis Hospital. She left Savannah at home staring at a blank page on her computer screen.
Daniel was alert enough to give her a bit of an overview about where the Tribune stood financially. While the company managed to pay the bills, it was losing money and distribution and she learned that, although she had inherited her mother’s titles, her mother hadn’t exactly placed blind faith in Caroline. She was expected to work hand in hand with Daniel in all business matters, and in all things editorial with the help of longtime editor in chief Frank Bonneau.
Bonneau had been running the Tribune’s editorial department for as long as Caroline could recall. He was a no-nonsense old-school journalist and George had already warned her he was more likely to go around her and take his grievances to Daniel, who, incidentally, also held a seat on the board—another reason George was apparently brought into the mix.
She wasn’t sure how yet, but she knew she had to find a way to win Bonneau’s respect and she was pretty certain that after her stint at the Tribune she hadn’t left him with the best impression—if, in fact, she’d left him with any impression at all, aside from the fact that she was the boss’s daughter.
Already, Caroline had a few ideas to implement once she settled into her role—something she felt compelled to do sooner rather than later as a show of confidence. It probably wasn’t kosher to begin working full-time right away as there was a certain propriety that must be adhered to in the Deep South. To run a daily paper she needed not just her employees’ respect, but the respect of the people of Charleston. Her mother had understood that well and she’d become their icon—their genteel princess.
The Post might be bigger, but the Tribune, with its unbroken lineage, was like a last bastion of Old World American journalism—and was becoming about as relevant as the Queen of England. If they continued down the path they were on, the paper was soon to become obsolete and her mother’s boast that they had survived even where Benjamin Franklin’s Gazette had not, would be moot. The newspaper business had come a long way since the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and Caroline had a lot of changes to make.
Born during the fall of the Confederacy, the Tribune’s history was deeply intertwined with that of the Post. Both papers could trace their ancestries to the Charleston Daily News and each quietly challenged the other, although by most standards, the Post had already won. With a distribution and staff that was more than twice the Tribune’s, they could afford not to acknowledge their oldest competitor. But the competition was there nevertheless—a nod here and there, reverently done, because both had a reputation for solid reporting and community service. Her mother had worked hard to continue that legacy.
After her visit with Daniel, Caroline spent the remainder of the day looking over ledgers with George at the King Street office. On Wednesday, Daniel was released from the hospital, and joined them, black eyes, bruises, stitches and all.
Neither she nor George brought up “the incident,” as Daniel’s misfortune was now being referred to, and Daniel didn’t bring it up either. Caroline thought maybe he didn’t care to hear lectures about where he conducted his business. But that was really none of her concern anyway. If he and George were content to investigate four A.M. break-ins every other week, it was their right to do so. Caroline’s only real concern was the Tribune.
She stared at the bottom line for the payroll. “Did Mother consider buyouts?”
“No,” Daniel responded at once. “We recommended it, but Flo was adamant the paper remain loyal to longtime employees. Some have been with the Tribune going on fifty years.”
“Like who? That makes them seventy, or near about!”
“Agnes, for one. Used to be a reporter and now she works classifieds. And Lila, who works in payroll.”
Caroline lifted a brow. “It is possible to take loyalty too far.”
Daniel eyed her disapprovingly. “I’m certain I’d not take too kindly to someone telling me I had to stop practicing law once I hit seventy.”
“Which is precisely tomorrow,” George interjected, and snickered.
Caroline stifled a smile, though she was pretty sure George wasn’t much younger than Daniel.
Daniel gave George a withering glance. “Sixty-three,” he clarified for Caroline’s sake, and he eyed her pointedly. Apparently, he wasn’t through with the lecturing. “Some would say thirty-three is too young to be placed in a position of influence to affect the welfare of others.”
Caroline refrained from pointing out that at thirty-five—just two years older than she was—one could be elected president of the United States and in a position to influence many more lives than those connected to a small-town newspaper. Lifting up the stack of papers in front of her, she tapped them on the desk to line up the edges and then set them aside. “We wouldn’t be forcing anyone to leave,” she argued. “A buyout would just be incentive.”
Daniel glowered at her. “A carrot for a pack of old mules?”
George chortled again and that seemed to annoy Daniel all the more. His lips thinned angrily.
Caroline frowned. “I didn’t say that.”
After a moment, George stopped chuckling long enough to come to her defense. “It’s smart business,” he asserted and peered meaningfully at Caroline. “I hate to say it, but your mother’s enduring loyalties weren’t helping the bottom line any.”
Caroline appreciated the pat on the back. And right now, she needed that more than anything.
Daniel muttered beneath his breath, and she realized he might be too tied up in her mother’s philosophies to embrace any changes she would need to make to keep the company afloat. She’d rather work with George, and Daniel might not like it, but she was in charge now.
Funny how everything—even something as inopportune as a random break-in—sometimes led to unintended but fortunate results. It was a sort of providence . . . except that Caroline didn’t believe in providence.
Around noon, Sadie interrupted their meeting to deliver lunch—as she had all week. But this time, Caroline kept her mouth shut and didn’t chide her for it, and she noticed something she’d missed before: it could be that Sadie was still trying to take care of Florence’s children . . . but just maybe she was using this as an excuse to see Daniel Greene. She watched the two flirt like awkward teenagers.
What else had changed during her absence?
Certainly not Jack.
But that too was no longer her concern—and why the hell she should even think about him at a time like this was beyond her.
Hours after sundown, the pavement was still warm beneath the girl’s bare feet.
A low fog swept in from the salt marsh, unfurling like a gossamer carpet over the blacktop. Carrying flip-flops in one hand, she hurried down the road, thickly lined with oak and blackgum trees.
On this part of the island, many of the houses were ancient, some were new, one dated back to when these wetlands were occupied by rice plantations tilled by gentlemen farmers. At the end of the road, through the wild scrub, you could almost see the burnt carcass of the origi
nal house, its brick framework imprinted with a visual memory of long-expired flames.
Oyster Point Plantation was one of James Island’s richest and most enduring legacies. Before it burned down, the original estate had served as a Confederate division field hospital, and nearby sat the unmarked graves of nearly three hundred soldiers who’d died at the battle of Secessionville. Local folks claimed the nearby estuaries were littered with the bones of the Confederate and Union dead.
At this hour of the night, she felt like a trespasser on Fort Lamar Road. Like bony, accusing fingers, the trees shook quivering limbs as she passed, their bent forms casting sinister shadows while the wind sighed with exasperation over her intrusion.
Her mind was playing tricks on her.
It was stupid not to tell anyone where she was going. She hadn’t even told her Realtor friend who’d listed the house on Backcreek Road. She was so certain he wouldn’t mind if she just sat on the dock and snapped a few photographs of the Morris Island lighthouse. Now both her car and her cell were dead and she didn’t much like the thought of knocking on strange doors to ask to use the phone.
Behind her, a pair of headlights appeared, two blinding high-powered beams that switched to low once the driver spotted her.
Instinctively, she moved to the right side of the road, avoiding the driver’s side.
The car—a brand-new, black Acura with a shiny coat of wax—slowed, and her heartbeat quickened. She heard the passenger window begin to whir and she turned to peer into the shadows of the car. The voice was male. “Need help?”
The girl kept walking. “No!”
“You sure? Where ya headed?”
“Gas station,” she replied and quickened her pace. As an afterthought, she added, “My car won’t start.”
He sounded incredulous. “You don’t have a cell?”
The girl cast him an annoyed glance and got a better look at his face. White, maybe in his late twenties, sinfully gorgeous. In fact, she had never met a guy so damned cute—not even her roommate’s jealous boyfriend who she secretly crushed on was that good-looking. She slowed her pace, thinking he couldn’t be much older than she was, and relaxed a little. “I do have a phone. It’s dead. No charger.”
He winked at her and gave her a slow smile. “Lotta good that’ll do ya.”
She returned a lopsided smile and gave him the full brunt of her sarcasm. “Gee, thanks for pointing that out.”
He brought the car to a sudden halt and the girl had the briefest inclination to keep walking. She stopped instead and turned to face the car and the driver.
“Well, you see . . . that puts me in a bit of a bind,” he said, but he made no attempt to open his car door and so the girl remained where she stood.
“Yeah? How’s that? I’m the one walking.”
“That’s just it,” he said. “Now that I know, I can’t just leave you here on this dark-ass road all by your lonesome.”
The girl shrugged. “I’ve walked longer distances.”
He seemed to think about her answer a moment and she thought he might actually leave as he gently revved his engine.
“Here’s the deal,” he said. “I could let you use my cell, but then I’d still feel obliged to wait with you until someone shows up to help . . . or I could take you to the station myself.”
The girl chewed her lip. “I dunno . . . I don’t make it a habit to get into strange cars.”
“Never wise,” he agreed. “Well, I could also take a look at your car.”
She tilted him a glance. “You know something about cars?”
“Something . . . but can’t promise I’ll be able to fix it.” He peered back in the direction they’d both come. “Where is it? I didn’t see it.”
“Backcreek Road.”
“Ah, right. Okay, here, take my phone.” He reached over to retrieve it from his passenger seat and then handed it out the passenger window.
The girl ignored the alarms going off in her head and moved tentatively toward the car, ready to bolt if he opened his car door.
He smiled at her as she took the phone from his hand and merely watched as she began dialing numbers. Her roommate answered on the second ring and she hurriedly explained what had happened while the driver waited patiently in his car. With help on the way, she hung up, feeling better. He was just a really cute, nice guy trying to help out. She handed the phone back to him. “Thanks. I appreciate it. I’m Amy.”
“Nice to meet you, Amy. I’m Ian. So what do you want to do? Should we turn up the radio and sit on the hood until the cavalry arrives? Or do you want me to go take a look at your car?”
Amy chewed her lip again. “I don’t know . . . I think it’s going to be a while. She’s not much of a hurrier.”
He considered that, tilting his head as he looked at her. “You’re meeting her at the gas station?”
“Yeah . . .”
“Tell you what,” he suggested. “Get your friend back on the phone, tell her to meet you at the car. Give her my name and my license plate and I’ll give your car a look-see.” He handed the phone back to her through the passenger window.
Amy considered the suggestion. The warm pavement had already blistered the bottom of her feet.
Really, any decision seemed stupid at this point, but sending him on his way and taking her chances alone on a dark, lonely street seemed the least wise of all. The dark road was spooking her. Going straight to the gas station was probably the better choice, but her friend would easily be another hour coming from downtown, especially the way she dawdled. Plus, she’d already used his cell phone. If he’d meant to harm her, he wouldn’t have let her use his phone. How stupid would that be?
Anyway, he was too damned cute to be dangerous.
“Are you sure you don’t mind taking a look at my car?”
“It’s not how I intended to spend my night, but I wouldn’t feel right leaving you stranded.”
“At least you’re honest,” Amy said, smiling as she took the proffered phone and opened his passenger door.
“Why don’t you walk?” he suggested. “I’ll follow. It’s not far.”
Amy slid in. “Nah, that’s all right,” she said. “We’ll have to go to the gas station first anyhow ’cause I know what’s wrong: I’m out of gas.”
He gave her a look that reminded her of the way her older brother looked at her when she did something stupid. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Unfortunately, not. I put my entire paycheck into new camera gear. I thought I had enough gas to make it home.”
“Jesus,” he said, shaking his head. “Who does this anymore?”
She grinned. “Dirt-poor college kids who drive prehistoric clunkers,” she replied.
“Jesus,” he said again, and sighed. “All right.”
Barely twenty-five minutes later, they turned into the long driveway on Backcreek Road. Without a word, Ian Patterson, the cutest man who had ever lived, got out of the car and filled her tank for her and then asked her to try starting it. It started just fine, and he turned away, obviously bored with the entire situation. Amy tried not to be disappointed by the blow-off. “Thanks,” Amy said. “You sure I can’t pay you back?”
“No need. But you should go home,” he suggested as he slid back into his car and slammed the door.
“Well, thanks again. I appreciate your help,” she said, and followed his car as he backed out of the driveway.
“Go home, Amy,” he said firmly as he rolled up his window. The tinted surface reflected the full moon behind her.
“All right,” she said, but then she just stood there, thinking about the image of the moon on his window. With the low-drifting fog creeping across the marsh, she thought maybe a few more high def photos of the lighthouse would turn out spectacular. Once he was gone, she grabbed her camera from her car and made her way out back to the dock. She was already here; a few more photos wouldn’t hurt anyone.
Once on the dock, she lit a cigarette and stood staring at the
vista, wondering if Mr. Gorgeous had a girlfriend. She didn’t have a way to get in touch with him—too bad. The truth was she’d probably never see him again. Anyway, he obviously wasn’t interested so she finished her cigarette and tossed it into the water and began snapping pictures, beginning with the flash on.
She never heard the rustling in the grass. Never saw the shadow slip through the night. Never knew what hit her. The last sense she had was of the sweet and acrid scent of something pressed against her face. She gripped the camera in her hand as though it were her lifeline to the world, her fingers pressing desperately into the metal casing as she tried to scream, but the scream never came. The sound of her camera crashing onto the wood dock streamed into her consciousness like a bad dream.
Chapter Six
Approaching the receptionist’s desk, Caroline extended her hand to the young woman seated behind it. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Caroline Aldridge.”
“Oh, God—I thought so—I’m so sorry!” The receptionist stood, knocking her knees against the keyboard, nearly toppling it off the sliding desk shelf. The color drained from her face. “I was at the funeral. Pam!” She slapped a hand awkwardly to her breast. “I mean, I’m Pam! So sorry for your loss!”
Caroline smiled, liking the girl already. There was something genuine about her. “I do that too when I’m nervous.”
Pam’s eyes widened a little and she nervously pushed her dark blond bangs out of her eyes. “Oh, God, am I rambling?”
Caroline smiled. “A little, but don’t worry. I’m probably way more nervous than you are. My mother’s shoes will be hard to fill.”
“Don’t I know it!” Pam exclaimed without the least bit of guile.
Caroline lifted a brow, surprised by the agreement, though not the least bit offended by it. The truth was the truth, after all.
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