by Lauren Clark
The woman nods with a flicker of empathy, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“He followed me here. I think it’s some bizarre attempt to help me. Or maybe, to make himself feel better. I don’t know.”
“So you didn’t really need help?” she asks.
“No.” A-choo!
“Bless you. And your father isn’t a terrorist or kidnapper?”
“No.” A-choo! A-choo!
“Bless you again,” the lady says with a heave of frustration. “You do realize that—in the event there was a real safety threat at the same time you pulled this little stunt—you could have jeopardized the lives of hundreds of innocent people?”
“Yes ma’am,” I say, my voice barely audible. I lower my chin.
“And, are you aware that we could hold you on criminal charges?”
The room spins. A bitter taste surges in my mouth. I’m terrified and can’t look up. I focus on a speck of dirt in the center of the table.
From the corner of my eye, I see the woman stand up.
“Perhaps next time, no cold medicine?” she asks.
That’s not at all what I thought she was going to say. I glance up, hopeful, anxious. Directly in my field of vision, she clasps her hands together, fingers interlaced. She’s not reaching for handcuffs, I notice. She’s relaxed.
“And can you promise no more false alarms? No more scenes in the airport terminal?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
“Ah, then we agree.” Her cell phone buzzes. She checks it and smiles down at me. “You can go.”
“Thank you,” I gush, so relieved that I almost fall out of my chair getting to my feet.
“Your father’s waiting. Right outside baggage claim. He says look for the red car.”
After a quick stop in the ladies’ room and another five wipes, I find my father waiting for me, leaning against a fire-engine red corvette, top down, chatting up one of the security guards.
David slaps the man on the shoulder. They shake hands and he stands up to greet me, noting my scrubbed-clean faces. Only a few traces of Sharpie marker remain.
“Now then, you look a lot like my daughter,” he says, his eyes dancing as he opens the door for me.
“Alcohol preps,” I say, sliding into the seat with a wry look as he walks around to the driver’s side. “I’ve got another half dozen wipes, so be prepared for the smell.”
“After what you already put me through today, I think I can handle it.” With that, my father presses down on the accelerator and we roar away, leaving Hartsfield International Airport in the rearview mirror.
Three hours later, the entire vehicle smells like rubbing alcohol, but my face is clean and I’ve stopped sneezing. My father theorizes that the chemicals may have killed whatever bacteria was lurking in my system since the flight.
I’m hoarse from talking. My father hasn’t complained once. I’ve shared my theories and suspicions about TJ and Jordan Construction. I’ve worried out loud about MeeMaw, her stroke, and Hospice. I’ve described her grandson Shug and his mother Aubie, explained about PD’s bakery business and mentioned her daughter, wild-child daredevil-in-training Ella Rae.
“Sounds like you,” my father confirms.
Near the end of our journey, I tell him about Mary Katherine. I’m careful to say that she is Shug’s girlfriend, she’s very beautiful, and she works at a local bank. I don’t say that she tends to be very jealous, she doesn’t like me, or she’s not to be trusted.
I do mention the Eagle Investment website. And wonder out loud why she was in one of the photographs.
To this, David raises an eyebrow.
We rumble into Eufaula. It’s dark, except for the flicker of streetlights, and the residential streets are empty. My iPhone tells me that the public hearing was scheduled for eight o’clock. According to the corvette’s clock, and thanks to the time zone change from Eastern to Central, we’re already a half-hour late.
My father turns toward the city council building, easing the corvette around one corner and the next before I can offer directions. There are lights blazing from the courthouse, and the double doors are propped wide open. A few people mill around on the steps, but I can’t make out their faces. As I peer into the night, David slows and maneuvers down the next block.
Cars and trucks are parked three-deep in every available space. There are vehicles on the sidewalk, on the grass, and for as far as my eyes can see.
Without warning, my father jerks the car into reverse and backs into a sliver of space next to a humongous black pick-up. He reaches into his sport coat pocket and whips out a small, laminated sign. It reads “Press” in black capital letters. He slides it onto the dashboard where it’s plainly visible, then hands me a laminated pass bearing the Getaways magazine logo, loops a matching one around his own neck, and shuts off the car engine.
“I hope we’re not too late,” I whisper, more for my own benefit than David’s.
He hears me, though, and gives me a grin. “Didn’t I ever teach you that it’s not over ’til it’s over?”
Side by side, we hurry up the steps and enter the building. The room is packed, people sitting shoulder to shoulder, others in the aisle and standing against the side and back walls. The air is warm, almost stifling, the fans swirling overhead doing little to ease the heat.
The mayor and his council members sit at the front of the room on risers. There’s a podium in the center, a few feet away the city leadership. At the moment, there’s a woman speaking. She’s an ancestor of one of the families who settled Eufaula, and she’s sobbing so hard that it’s difficult to hear what she’s saying. My heart aches for her, and I am desperate to find out if Shug has had his turn at the microphone. His calming presence, his rational demeanor, and reasonable arguments are what the city council and mayor need to hear.
When my eyes adjust to the bright lights, I search the rows. Since I’m shorter than most of the men standing in the back of the room, I do my best to wiggle into a space where I can stand on my tiptoes and peer between shoulders.
There’s a row of businessmen in the front on the left—I assume they represent Eagle Investments. I don’t linger on the backs of their heads, I want to find the people I know and care about.
It doesn’t take me long to find Pearl and Shirl in matching hats near the front. Stump is sitting on the far right, spit cup in his hand. He sees me and nods. I grit my teeth into a weak smile and continue searching for familiar faces. I find Elma from the Citgo seated next to a man in denim overalls. Further toward the back, Roger is seated, back stiff, dressed all in black as if he’s attending a funeral.
My father nudges me and nods back toward the line of gray suits on the left. I shake my head and shrug. I’ve already seen them. Then, just as I’m about to look away, David tugs my arm and urges me to take a step in front of him.
I see then what—or who—he is trying to point out.
With an unobstructed view, I find the Jordans. Some of them, anyway.
In the middle of the room, I see PD with an arm around Ella Rae. Further down the row, my eyes land on TJ. But instead of Aubie’s generous curves, I see Mary Katherine’s slim frame. Her hair’s done up in an elegant twist and she’s wearing a black suit with a white ruffled collar. Like she’s already part of the family.
The sight causes my stomach to drop. I don’t mean to, but I squeak in dismay. The shrill noise makes Mary Katherine look. We lock eyes.
I can tell she’s shocked, but then, Mary Katherine looks right past me, shields her eyes, and turns back to the front of the room.
I glance at my father, trying to ignore Mary Katherine’s obvious brush-off. There are much more important issues to worry about, I remind myself. First and foremost—there’s no sign of Aubie or Shug, which can mean only one thing.
MeeMaw is dying.
The mayor bangs his gavel for attention. When the room is quiet again, he asks for any final statements from the public. There’s some activity from the center of the room, and I
watch as TJ rises from his seat.
With everyone’s full attention, he makes his way up to the front podium, nodding this way and that at select people in the audience. I frown, watching him. This is a side of Shug’s father I haven’t seen. He’s preening, reveling in the spotlight, almost as if he’s a political candidate running for office. I half-expect he’ll stop and kiss a baby, if he can find one. Then, TJ settles behind the wooden stand, adjusts the microphone, and begins speaking. I can only guess that this is a strategic move, waiting until the end, and giving everyone else an opportunity to speak. Everyone’s tired. The people won’t want to keep arguing. And the council is ready to vote.
“Mr. Mayor, city council members, ladies and gentlemen of our fine city,” he clears his throat. “I come forward tonight after much deliberation. My heart is heavy with worry about the future of Eufaula.”
There are murmurs of agreement.
“As y’all know, Jordan Construction has been part of the backbone of our community for decades. We provide jobs, stability, and health insurance for the people who live here. I believe that our company makes Eufaula a better place to live. We’ve been part of preserving and restoring the city’s historic landmarks for decades.”
A spatter of clapping breaks out on one side of the room. TJ waves his acknowledgement and grins his appreciation.
“Thank you. We’re so blessed at Jordan Construction. Truly fortunate.”
Shug’s father sounds more and more like a voodoo doctor promising to heal the sick and raise the dead. My chest tightens and I brace myself to hear the rest.
My father eases closer to my shoulder. I shift my gaze to his face. His mouth barely moves. “Look up Jordan Construction’s financials.” He glances back at Shug’s father, frowning. “Hurry,” he whispers.
I pull out my iPhone and begin searching for clues while TJ continues his speech. After scrolling through three different sites, I hit pay dirt. With a nudge to my father’s elbow, I ease the screen into his line of vision. He nods, checking the numbers.
With a sudden burst of curiosity, I go back to the Eagle Investment website. When I found the photograph of Mary Katherine, I was so flustered that I didn’t notice the name of the project or the type of property that had been built.
As I search, TJ, thank goodness, is still droning on. His voice fills my ears. “I want you all to know that I’m committed to the future of Eufaula,” Shug’s father says. “The city, the people, the growth. I’ve studied the Phase III plans,” TJ pauses. “And I’ve given each detail careful consideration.”
My finger hovers over a page with the title “Recent Projects.” I tap it, and it begins to load. When the page comes up, I scroll down to find the one with Mary Katherine. I squint at the photograph and enlarge it, trying to see the huge white banner hanging on the building.
In all capital letters, the sign reads “Tiger Paw Landing.” There’s a familiar blue and orange logo with an intertwined A and U.
I adjust the page again, examining the angles and details of the property.
There’s no doubt about it.
Behind Mary Katherine’s smiling face, there’s a set of brand-new, luxury condominiums.
Chapter 35
I shove the iPhone at my father, point at Mary Katherine’s image, and gesture to where TJ was sitting. “Read the banner,” I mouth at him. David studies the screen, and then manipulates the photograph. His eyes widen.
Coincidence? Or not.
I’m about to stalk up to the front and announce my entire, outlandish, awful, but probably-true conspiracy theory when my father sticks out an arm to hold me back.
TJ is wrapping up.
“In closing,” he says, “I ask that the community throw their support behind the Phase III. Mr. Mayor, members of the city council, we need your votes in favor of this project. Thank you.”
There’s a beat of silence, then a clap. Another follows, and a portion of the room picks up the momentum. Mostly businessmen are nodding and clapping. Of course, the representatives from Eagle Investments are smiling. When I search for Mary Katherine, she’s gone.
Traitor.
There’s more gavel banging. “Attention!” The Mayor calls. “If there is no one else who wishes to speak, we’ll consider the matter closed and the city council will now vote.”
“Wait just a minute,” my father calls out, waving his arms.
The mayor peers into the crowd, trying to establish who’s talking.
David squeezes through the crowd and takes his place behind the podium. “Good evening. It’s so nice to see everyone,” he begins. “It’s been a long time.”
I blink and frown, wondering what on earth my father is talking about. A long time since when?
“I’m David Sullivan. I run a travel magazine in New York City. And I have some concerns about Phase III.”
There’s a burst of chatter and my father waits a moment for it to die down.
TJ stands up, red-faced. “Now, hold on, sir. Who do you think you are barging in here like this?”
David turns around, smiles, and nods at Shug’s father. “I suspect you don’t remember me. We met back in 1965, Mr. Jordan,” he says, allowing the date to sink in.
My knees buckle. What? The announcement causes TJ to lower himself into his seat.
“We can get to all of that later,” my father says, turning back to row of city council members and the mayor. “But right now, I want to share some details you all might not be aware of. It won’t take long, so don’t worry.” He taps a finger on the podium. “First, Jordan Construction is almost bankrupt.”
There’s a collective gasp and looks of horror exchanged throughout the audience.
“Second, if and when Phase III goes forward, Eagle Investments will accept bids from many construction companies. Strangely enough, the bank that will likely be chosen to finance Phase III has—shall we say—a special interest in Jordan Construction.”
The mayor is pulling at the collar of his shirt. One of the city council members has turned white. Another keeps clenching and unclenching his fists.
“Of course, you’ll want to do your own research on this, but it stands to reason that Phase III will save Jordan Construction.” My father holds up both hands. “Actually, that’s not true. The condominium project will actually net Jordan Construction several million dollars.”
My father’s last comment triggers total bedlam. There are angry shouts and accusations flying. The city council is exchanging harsh words with the mayor. People begin to stream out the doors of the building. I stand on my tiptoes, searching for my father in the chaos. Between two burly shoulders, I catch a glimpse of his face. He’s smiling.
Without warning, an explosion rocks the building.
With a sonic boom echoing in my ears, I’m thrown to the floor and the entire building shakes under my hands and knees. A huge boot nearly crushes my fingers. I scramble back to my feet, calling my father’s name. Women are screaming, children wailing, and all at once, there’s a mad scramble for the doors.
Fire sirens wail in the distance. A hand grips my upper arm, guiding me out the back of the room. It’s my father.
After fighting our way out the back exit, we burst outside, both gulping at the cool night air. All around us, there are people running, car engines being started, and the sound of crying.
“Wh-what happened?” I’m shaken, and my legs don’t want to work.
“We’re going to find out,” my father says. “Come on.”
He drags me to the car. With the click of a button, he opens the door, shoves me inside, and drags the seatbelt over my lap. My door slams shut. A moment later, he’s behind the wheel, turning the key, and throwing the car into drive.
“Where are we going?” I wipe at my eyes, blinking at all of the headlights.
“Historic district,” David says, setting his jaw. “I think someone decided that Phase III was going forward, vote or no vote.”
My father presses the accel
erator and I’m thrown back against the seat. Gripping the door handle, I hang on for dear life. As David proceeds to drive with expert precision, weaving in and out of traffic, I brace myself for a crash and shut my eyes.
“Don’t worry,” I hear my father say. “I’m a careful driver.”
“For who? NASCAR?” I open my eyes, leaning away as we almost miss the bumper of a silver Ford Focus.
My father chuckles. “I’ve never known you to be frightened of anything.”
“Well, let’s just say that I’d like to stay alive a little longer,” I force out with a gasp.
David cranks the wheel, making a hard right. I’m pressed against the door as we careen around the corner. I notice that this street is almost empty.
I look behind us. “Everyone’s leaving. They’re all getting out of the city.”
My father nods, his eyes following the trail of taillights.
“What if someone had tried to bomb the building where the meeting was being held?” I shudder. “We all would have died.”
“Think about it,” my father glances at me, then pins his eyes back onto the road. “If you wanted Phase III to go forward, and you were desperate, what would you do?”
As we near the historic district, something flickers in my memory. I almost jolt out of my seat. Mary Katherine. The story about leaving the gas stove on. Telling me she could have blown up the whole house. Whoosh! I can hear her say the word.
“Oh my God. Mary Katherine. She’s going to try to get rid of all of those empty homes. The ones they wanted to tear down for Phase III.”
My father hits the gas. “Almost there.”
My mind spins. “She was at the meeting. Mary Katherine saw me and left. We have to warn Shug,” I say. “He’s with MeeMaw at Aubie’s house.”
David screeches the corvette to a stop in front of a barricade and flashers on North Eufaula Avenue. Three police cars are parked there, doors open, and at least four men are patrolling the area.
One of the uniformed officers walks up the corvette, face grim. “You’ll have to turn around, sir. It’s not safe.”