by Lynn Sholes
“Because it’s not important. I’m innocent. It’s just some jerk out there trying to cash in. His kid was in one of my youth camps a couple of years ago. Now the father claims I molested the boy and wants money to keep quiet. He knows it’s not true, but he figures I’m running for president and I’ll pay to shut him up.”
“Robert, Robert,” Sinclair said, his voice oozing with southern charm—patronizing. “It doesn’t matter whether you are innocent or guilty. The accusation will ruin you. You must be beyond reproach. Stone’s not going to let this tidbit slip past her. Before you know, it’ll be the lead story on the nightly news.”
Wingate leaned forward, his hands rubbing his knees through the wool trousers. “Just let me take care of it. It’s not something the Guardians need to worry about.”
“It’s our job to worry.” Sinclair studied Wingate, wondering if they had bet on the wrong horse. “Give Stone her interview and tell her there’s been a terrible misunderstanding—that there is no blackmail. Apologize for your previous rudeness and move on to the election issues. In the meantime, we’ll pay a generous sum to the boy’s father to make him go away.”
“What if Stone doesn’t believe me? Charles, I have friends who could take care of her once and for all.”
Sinclair felt the heat rising in his face. “Out of the question. Don’t do anything rash, Robert. Don’t even think about it.”
* * *
The phone rang as Cotten came through the door of her apartment. She slung her purse onto the couch and picked up the receiver, shrugging her left arm out of her coat. “Hello.”
“Ms. Stone?”
Cotten froze, her coat dangling off the back of one shoulder. “Mr. Wingate, what a surprise.”
friends
Robert Wingate’s change of heart piqued Cotten’s curiosity. He’d agreed to the exclusive, so immediately after hanging up with him, Cotten booked a flight to Miami for the following day.
When she arrived at MIA, she picked up her rental car and headed to Vanessa’s for a late dinner. They stayed up until the wee hours sipping wine and talking. The morning had come much too early.
Cotten stood at the kitchen counter still perspiring from a morning jog along the beach. She savored a blueberry muffin and cup of coffee while watching Vanessa scurry around the kitchen.
“God, I’m going to be late,” Vanessa Perez said. She took a bite of muffin then gulped orange juice from the carton. “Want some?” She held out the carton.
Cotten declined.
Vanessa sat the juice down and spun around. “Where are my fucking shoes? I just had them.” She whipped around again, knocking over the carton.
The juice sloshed out and splattered Cotten.
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” Vanessa said.
Cotten picked up the sponge from the sink and began dabbing at her fleece top and sweat pants. “It won’t stain,” she said. “I’ll throw them in the wash in a minute. Go on and get a move on.”
Nessi blurted a sigh. “I’m always a disaster in the mornings.”
“You don’t think I remember back in college having to drag you out of bed to make your first class? Maybe if you tried going to sleep at a decent hour,” Cotten said with a straight face.
They both laughed.
“Wish I could lounge around here all day like somebody I know,” Vanessa said.
“What do you mean, lounge? I’ve got an exclusive interview at noon with a presidential candidate who wants to make up for blowing me off. I’ll be able to get ready just as soon as you’ve relinquished the bathroom.”
“You’ve got such a cushy job,” Vanessa said, slipping on her shoes. “Asking questions all day. How hard can that be?”
Cotten moved into the living room and settled on the sofa. “Oh, and looking beautiful while someone pampers you—doing your hair and makeup. That isn’t cushy?”
Vanessa appeared to consider the argument. “All right, you win. My cushy is better.”
They laughed again as the model grabbed her keys and tote bag, and headed for the door. She stopped short, ran over to the couch, and kissed Cotten on the cheek. “Call your priest friend. He’s good for you.” She grinned. “Love you.”
Cotten waved her off. “Go! You’re already half an hour late.”
“Yeah, but they can’t start without me,” Vanessa said. Seconds later, she was gone.
It’s a good thing Nessi got paid just to look great, Cotten thought. She’d be hard pressed to make it in the real world.
She leaned back taking a deep breath, deciding to call John later, maybe after she returned from the interview—she knew he must be tired of hearing about Thornton and her guilt trip.
She had to see Thornton’s notes, had to know what he was on to and if there had been something she could have done to prevent his death. Cotten leaned forward and covered her face with her hands. “Damn it.” Why hadn’t she just answered his call? Rocking, she wrapped her arms around her waist as if to hold herself together. “Christ, I’ve got to stop this.” She shoved her fingers through her hair like a harrow.
Cotten grabbed her spiral notebook from the end table. First thing she needed to do was go over her notes for the Wingate interview one more time. Ted Casselman had helped her, suggesting many of the questions. Had she missed anything? Forgotten anything? How would she treat Wingate? Cold and aloof or warm and cozy? She had to get as much as possible out of the candidate without him turning on her. Warm and cozy, that was it. Kill him with kindness—compliments and sweetness. Always dip it in honey, her mother would say. It’s easier to pull a chain than push it.
Suddenly, the door burst open and Vanessa bolted in. “Goddamn car won’t start, and my cell’s dead!” She snatched the cordless phone. “I’ll have to call a cab—probably take them an hour to get here.”
“Wait, Nessi.” Cotten got up and went to her purse lying on the dining room table. “Take my rental.” She pulled out her keys.
“How will you get to your interview?”
“I think I can call a cab just as good as you. And I’m not the one who’s late.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“That’s what friends are for,” she sang in her best Dionne Warwick. She held out the keys. “Here—don’t argue.”
“You’re a sweetheart,” Vanessa said. “See you tonight.” She grabbed the keys and sprinted to the door. “Good luck with Wingate.”
Cotten started to wave, but the door was already closing. She broke off a chunk of blueberry muffin and shoved it into her mouth before strolling out on the balcony. In the distance a handful of sailboats captured the early breeze. Being the height of the tourist season, the snowbirds already sprawled themselves on blankets along the beach, seemingly oblivious to the nippy air. Die-hard tourists, she thought. A chilly wind swept down A1A from the north causing her to shiver as the palm fronds rustled beneath the balcony.
A squeal caught Cotten’s attention. Part of the parking lot was directly below, infringing on the scenic view. Vanessa darted across the asphalt. She glanced up and waved, then unlocked the door to Cotten’s rental and jumped in.
Nessi was the oldest teenager she knew, Cotten thought. She had many acquaintances, but Nessi was her only real friend. She took a last glance at the beach before turning to go back inside.
In the next instant there was a blinding burst of light and thunderous boom, and she was slammed face down on the floor, her ears filled with a high-pitched ringing. What felt like a sledgehammer had hit her from behind, driving the air from her lungs.
All went black.
* * *
Slowly, Cotten opened her eyes but saw only blurred images. Faint pricks of light swirled in a gray haze. The back of her neck, legs, and arms tingled as if they were sunburned.
As Cotten focused, she raised her head and looked around the room. Broken gla
ss from the windows and sliding door littered the floor like chipped ice.
And there was the sound of crackling and popping. Fire.
She heard a chorus of car alarms along with distant shouts as she managed to get to her hands and knees. Heat radiated from the direction of the balcony. Cotten struggled to her feet. A ligature of fear knotted her throat as she looked out at the parking lot. She stood there, numbed by the sight, no longer feeling any chill in the air.
Flames and black smoke billowed from what had been her rental. It wasn’t a car anymore—the roof, doors, and hood were gone, metal peeled back. Several nearby cars were also on fire.
“Nessi!” she screamed, hanging over the rail.
Everywhere she looked there was debris—detached car door, mangled hood, swatches of fabric and seat cushion stuffing, an open brief case, bits of paper, prisms of window glass . . . Vanessa’s shoe.
“Oh, Jesus. Oh, God,” she whispered.
Cotten steadied herself, holding on to the railing as her thoughts came together. This was much more than a gas tank igniting. It had to have been a powerful explosion to do such damage—there were at least five other cars ablaze. And the shockwave had knocked her down, blown pictures from the walls. The windows and sliding glass doors were shattered—balcony furniture overturned.
A bomb.
The realization hit her harder than the actual blast. The bomb was meant for her, not for Vanessa.
Screaming sirens came from the distance.
Blue lights flashed; red lights strobed.
Vanessa was dead. Oh, God, her friend . . . her friend.
She had to get away. Someone wanted her dead.
Cotten grabbed her purse and headed for the door.
At the end of the hall she punched the elevator button. “Come on, come on.” She pushed again, watching the floor indicator change numbers in slow motion.
Finally, the bell dinged. The doors slid open and Cotten pressed herself against the metal wall inside. She pushed the lobby button five times, poking it so hard the end of her finger hurt.
“Oh, God. Oh, God.”
Her breathing became giant bellows in her ears. She felt blood pumping in her neck, her scalp, even her wrists.
The doors parted, and she was in the lobby. A crowd already gathered, trying to get a better look at the fire. Her eyes jumped from person to person—profiles, faces, backs of heads. Was he here—the person who planted the bomb? Was the man who wanted her dead looking at her right now?
She pushed through the crowd toward the door leading to the patio and pool. Cotten kept her face down, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.
She fought the urge to run, though panic had her heart thudding heavily and wildly, her lungs sputtering out every shallow and rapid breath.
The door! Get out the goddamn door!
Throwing the door open, she crossed the patio surrounding the apartment pool, rounded the building and burst onto the South Beach sidewalk.
Sirens and emergency horns blasted from all directions.
Cotten fled across Ocean Drive and turned south, racing through the flow of onlookers making their way toward the scene. “Sorry! Sorry!” she shouted, pushing through. She chanced a quick glimpse over her shoulder. Black smoke—red trucks—madness.
She darted down an alley, across Collins Avenue, through parking lots and between buildings, turning south again on Washington Avenue. Past Joe’s Stone Crabs she saw a park ahead on her left.
She hurried toward the small concrete block building inside the park—public restrooms. Looking back, she made sure no one followed.
Cotten slipped in the women’s restroom and locked herself in a stall. Crouched on top of the toilet she folded her arms across her middle and rocked. “Oh, Nessi, Nessi.” She could hear the harmony of Dionne Warwick, Gladys Knight, Stevie Wonder, and Elton John deep in her head.
Knowin’ you can always count on me, oh, for sure . . .
That’s what friends are for.
Cotten sobbed until completely out of breath and exhausted. Her chest and throat burned.
As she looked down, a drop of blood splattered onto the floor. She raised her hand and felt her face first, then the back of her head—a patch of hair was wet and sticky. She looked at the blood on her fingers. Carefully probing, she found a sliver of glass embedded. She parted her hair as best as she could, pinched the tiny shard and pulled it out. Where else was she cut?
Unwinding a length of toilet paper, she wadded it and pressed it firmly against the scalp wound. She thought of Vanessa again and prayed that there had been no pain, that her death had been instant.
“Oh, God, Nessi. I’m so sorry.”
The minutes passed as Cotten waited. The distant sounds of sirens finally faded into the mix of light traffic, seagulls screeching, and kids playing somewhere in the park.
Finally feeling it was safe, she eased out of the stall and cleaned herself at the sink. There were only a couple of bloodstains around her collar. She spot washed it until they were only dull rusty splotches.
She finally had enough courage to walk out of the restroom. A city bus stopped a few hundred feet away—the sharp hiss of its air brakes scattering a flock of pigeons. She hadn’t thought to grab her cell phone when she ran from Vanessa’s apartment. It had been right there on the nightstand charging. There was no going back for it now.
Across a flat expanse of grass near a water fountain she saw three pay phones. She walked to the phones with her head down. After a few quick looks over her shoulder, she lifted the receiver and dialed a zero.
“I’d like to place a collect call to White Plains, New York,” she said. “Saint Thomas College. Dr. John Tyler.”
There was a pause before the operator returned and directed her to say her name.
“Cotten Stone. John?”
There was a pause.
Finally she heard John’s voice. “Cotten? What’s wrong? Are you all right?”
“They tried to kill me!”
In the heart of Hickory Nut Gorge, North Carolina, lies a spectacular lake that National Geographic has called one of the most beautiful man-made lakes in the world. The sparkling water of the Rocky Broad River surges through Hickory Nut Gap, and through a valley that is shaped like a Croix Patée to form Lake Lure.
lake lure
Cotten’s eyes searched her surroundings as she talked from the phone booth in the park. She finished telling John the details of Vanessa’s death. “Whoever blew up my car must believe that Thornton told me what he had discovered. They must think I know whatever Thornton found out. What should I do? I can’t go home. They know where I live.”
“Do you have any money?”
“Maybe forty or fifty dollars. I’ve got my debit card and a few credit cards. I could get a cash advance.”
“You need to get out of South Florida. Out of sight.”
“I don’t know where to go, what to do.”
“Listen, Cotten, my family has a cabin in the mountains near Lake Lure, North Carolina. No one uses it this time of year. You’d be safe there until we can figure out what’s going on. Book a flight to Asheville. That’s the closest airport.”
“Okay, okay,” Cotten said. “Asheville.”
“Right. Then rent a car. Call me when you get into Asheville and I’ll give you the exact directions.”
Cotten twisted around to look over the park again, coiling the phone cord. “All right,” she said.
“There’s an old friend of the family who lives near Chimney Rock. He keeps an eye on our place during the winter—he’s got a key. I’ll let him know you’re coming.”
She swallowed, her throat tight. “I’m scared.”
“I know, Cotten. Just hang on until you get there. Let’s get you some place safe, and then we’ll try to figure everything out.”
> “John . . .”
“Yes?”
“Will you come . . . be there with me?”
There was a long pause.
“Yes,” he said before hanging up.
* * *
“I need a ticket on the next flight to Asheville, North Carolina. Coach. One way.” Cotten stood at the Delta counter in Miami International.
The agent stared at her computer screen. “Our next flight departs at 12:55.”
“That’s good,” Cotten said, glancing about but trying not to seem anxious.
“There’s a change in Atlanta. Arrives in Asheville at a quarter to five. Would you like to—”
“Yes.” She looked up at the clock. It was 11:05.
“Your total with tax and fees is five sixty-one fifty,” the agent said.
Cotten dug into her purse and pulled out her wallet. She took her Visa card and handed it to the agent. “Can you hurry, please?”
“I need a picture ID.”
Taking out her driver’s license from the window in her wallet, she handed it over.
“Is this your current address in New York?”
“Yes.”
After typing in the identity information, the agent swiped the credit card and waited for confirmation.
Cotten watched the woman run the card through the processor slot a second time. “I’m sorry, Ms. Stone, but this card has been declined.”
“That’s impossible,” Cotten said. She felt a growing flush spread through her body. “Could you please try it again?”
“I tried it twice. Do you have another?”
Cotten took out her debit card knowing she had enough in her checking account to cover the ticket. “I’m sure there’s some kind of mistake.”
“The bank’s system could be down.” The agent swiped the second card and stared at the digital authorization readout. “Sorry.”
Cotten was suddenly drenched in nervous sweat as she took the cards back. She knew that no matter how many she tried, they would all be declined. Whoever had tried to kill her had frozen her accounts. My, God, she thought. Who has this much power?