by Lauren Clark
“Could you tell us what happened? Please?” I ask, leaning my head so that I can see the man’s face. “Is everyone okay?”
The officer shakes his head. “Sorry, I’m not at liberty to say. The scene is under investigation, ma’am. We’re evacuating everyone in the neighborhood.”
My throat constricts. “Has everyone gotten out? Is everyone else safe?”
The policeman regards me with serious eyes. “We’re doing the best we can to make sure of that. We’re going door to door, asking everyone to leave the area.”
“The explosion,” David cuts in. “Was it one of the empty homes?” he asks, hands gripping the wheel.
Something changes in the policeman’s eyes. He flinches. “Again, sir, I can’t share that information.”
His walkie-talkie crackles to life and a voice calls for back up.
My skin tingles. I hold my breath.
The operator lists the address, then repeats it.
It is one of the empty houses slated for tear-down during Phase III.
The officer switches off his walkie-talkie with a firm click. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Sir, it’s not safe for either of you to stay here.”
I half-expect my father to pull out the press card again, but he doesn’t argue. I don’t say a word. My father eases the corvette back, does a quick u-turn, and creeps away from the barricade. Ten yards up the street, he puts the car in park, but keeps the engine running.
He shifts in his seat to face me, brow arched in concern.
“You were right,” I breathe. “That address. It’s one of the abandoned houses near Aubie and TJ’s. I have to get to Shug and MeeMaw.”
My father grips my arm. “It’s too dangerous. You heard the police. They’ve gone door to door. They’ve told everyone to evacuate.”
“But what if they can’t hear them? Or they can’t leave? What if all of them are passed out? From the fumes?” I’m getting hysterical just thinking about it. I’ll start hyperventilating if I don’t calm down. I force myself to inhale. In, out, slow. In, out, slow.
“Let’s try and call him,” my father suggests.
I pull out my cell, scroll through the numbers, and hit dial when I reach Shug’s number. “It’s ringing,” I tell David and press the phone to my ear. But there’s no answer. After six or seven rings, Shug’s voicemail clicks on. I shake my head and hang up.
David turns his head, frustrated. We both watch the policemen. We’re stuck. At a dead end. Backed into a corner. At least it seems that way.
But I’m not giving up. I won’t. I can’t.
With a burst of inspiration—or maybe, insanity—and before my father can catch me, I unbuckle my seatbelt. In one smooth, swift motion, I open the car door, jump out, and start sprinting toward Aubie and TJ’s house.
By the time one of the officers notices me, I’m already way past him.
There are frustrated shouts, the sound of feet pounding the payment. My father is calling my name, pleading with me to stop.
Arms pumping, legs burning, I shut everything else out. I run as fast as I can. Past all of the homes I’ve grown to love, past all of the towering columns, and blooming azaleas. As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I make out the shape of Shug’s car in the driveway.
I push myself harder, forcing my burning lungs to draw in more oxygen. My thighs are screaming, my feet are killing me. I’m almost there.
Twenty yards, then fifteen yards.
With a flash, there’s another explosion. I’m thrown into the air, sailing, drifting before I hit the sidewalk.
My cheek and hands scrape the cement. I taste blood, warm and salty. The ground rocks with aftershocks. And everything goes black.
Chapter 36
Everything aches, my ribs, my legs, even my toes. Breathing is hard work. My mouth is talcum-powder dry. I’m so thirsty.
As I force my eyelids open a millimeter, I wonder if I’ve woken up in Northern Siberia. It’s freezing cold. And everything is white. Is the mattress packed with ice? It’s possible that I’ve been cryogenically-preserved, except that I’m in a bed, not a transparent, upright tube like you see at the movies.
And it’s laser-bright in this room. Sunshine streams in through the double-window pane. It’s morning.
Oh. No. It’s morning!
Alarms ring in my head, sounding danger. I’m going to be fired. That’s it. My career is over.
My shoulders twitch, trying to lift my body up. My abdomen contracts, then turns to mush. Every limb is shaking, down to my fingers and toes. With monumental effort, I inch my head to the right.
There’s movement. The swish of someone walking. Then a man’s hand on my bare arm. It’s so warm against my chilled skin that I almost dissolve into the sheets.
“Julia,” a man says. “Can you hear me?”
My pupils don’t want to focus, but I train them toward the voice. Like gazing through binoculars and making tiny micro-adjustments to the lens, my father’s face comes into focus.
“Daddy,” I murmur, blinking away the cloudiness. “N’Orleans.”
He strokes my hair. “Got it covered. Don’t try and talk. You’re pretty banged up from last night, but the doctors say you’ll be fine with some rest.”
There’s an IV pole nearby, medication dripping from a clear plastic bag into tubing that ends with a strip of thick tape on the back of my hand. My other arm’s been cleaned up and re-bandaged; any exposed skin shows off bruises and abrasions.
It’s likely I could pass for a female boxer who lost her last fight. And I don’t need a mirror to confirm it. No question, I’m battered, inside and out.
“Do you remember what happened?” my father asks.
I press my eyes shut, trying to dredge up a memory—a clue—anything that brings it all back. So far, my mind isn’t functioning. There’s a big, gaping black hole of nothing, like someone sucked out my brain cells with a vacuum cleaner.
An ear-ringing crash sounds in the hallway, and a humongous clatter follows. It’s as if an entire drawer of silverware has been upturned on a metal tray, then shaken back and forth for good measure.
And it all comes back to me in a rush.
The meeting. The explosion. Everyone panicking and screaming. Racing off in David’s rented corvette. The police barricade. Shug’s car in the driveway of his parents’ home. I’m running as fast as I can. The officers are chasing me. My father is calling my name. I’m almost there. Just a few more steps.
Then, I remember the second blast.
With a small cry of anguish, tears course down my face. I try to wrench my head away and bury it in the down pillow. They’re gone. They’re all dead. And whatever messed-up plan TJ and Mary Katherine came up with…they got away with it.
In the next moment, there’s another blow. I’m supposed to be in New Orleans. Covering for someone else. Another writer. I have reservations at the Roosevelt. I can hear Marietta’s voice. It’s lovely this time of year…
“Where’s my boarding pass? My ticket? Did I forget a piece of luggage?” I spasm at the thought, arms flailing for my suitcase. I should be in the terminal. Did I miss my flight? I’ll be fired for sure this time.
But there’s no overhead speakers. No elbow-to-elbow crush of travelers. No carry-on to keep track of. No plane to catch.
“Julia, everything is fine. It’s going to be okay,” my father says.
“No, it’s not,” I say, my chest heaving between sobs. “It’s all ruined.”
My father places both hands on my shoulders. “Look at me.” He drills his dark eyes into mine. “Would I lie to you?”
“Yes,” I murmur, attempting to wipe at the wet streaks on my cheeks.
This gets a chuckle, which makes me furious.
“How dare you joke around at a time like this?” I demand, trying to sit up in the hospital bed. I can’t, so I flop back down, eyes filling again with tears. My father is a heartless bastard. How can he laugh when people I care about are dead?
“So, nothing I say is going to convince you?” David asks, folding his arms across his chest. “Right?”
Obviously. I close my eyes tight and shake my head. I can’t bear to look at him. I want him to leave.
“Then, I’ll find someone who can,” he whispers.
Don’t bother, I want to yell after him, but my throat is raw and my tongue feels like sandpaper. Arguing is pointless. It won’t do any good. And I’ll just get more upset.
There has to be a call button. On the bed, next to the bed. I run my fingers along the rail. If I can press the call button, I can get a nurse in here. The nurse can tell my father he’s not welcome. Better yet, that he can’t come back. Ever.
The door hinges creak. The hallway light shines into my room. First, only a sliver, then wider. And I hear footsteps. A man’s, but it’s not my father. The person stops.
I’m not going to open my eyes. I’ll pretend I’m asleep. I lay still, motionless against the white cotton sheets and pillow. Until my nose starts tickling. It’s awful. I can’t stand it.
Three agonizing seconds later, I explode. A-choo!
“So you are awake.” The voice is low, musical, and familiar. The sweet Southern accent makes me snap to my senses. It can’t be. Am I dreaming? Hallucinating? What kind of drugs have they given me?
Through the fringe of my lashes, I peer out, barely breathing.
But it’s real. He’s real.
And now, his lips are touching mine.
Shug Jordan is kissing me.
And it’s the most delicious feeling in the whole world.
“All right, lovebirds,” my father calls out.
I come up for air, a little dizzy and bewildered, swiveling my head from Shug to David.
“How? What?”
The two men burst into laughter.
“It was all a set-up,” my father says.
“And most of it went as planned,” Shug adds.
“Just a minute,” I say. “This was a set up? Me in the hospital? You planned this?”
“No, not this part,” David tells me, back peddling. “But when you were finishing up with security at the Hartsfield Airport, I called Aubie, who put me in touch with Shug.”
My mouth opens. “But how—”
“Long story,” my father says. “I’ll explain that part in a minute.”
Shug interrupts. “I was suspicious from the start about who was behind Phase III. And I was beginning to realize that Mary Katherine wasn’t really interested in me, she was after the family money—”
“Except there wasn’t any,” my father cuts in with a knowing smile. “Jordan Construction was almost bankrupt.”
“My girlfriend, unbeknownst to me, discovered this little problem. And she made a deal with my father. Her bank did business—almost exclusively—with Eagle Construction. She knew the CEO, the VPs, all of the key people,” Shug adds. “Mary Katherine understood their financial information inside and out, what they looked for in a construction company, how they made decisions on who would do the work on a project. She was in a position—not to make the final decision—but to heavily influence which company would be awarded the winning bid.”
“She was in that photo,” I murmur, remembering.
“She was in more than that,” my father adds, rolling his eyes.
I swallow, not certain that I want to know what he means. I don’t ask. Not now, anyway.
Shug rubs his chin. “So as the vote got closer and closer, Mary Katherine grew more and more worried that the city council wasn’t going to vote in favor of Phase III. You remember that when the news first came out, there was a lot of opposition.”
“What changed?”
“My father,” Shug admits. “I didn’t want to believe it. My father, the man who took so much pride in this community and its history. The man who has run a family business here for decades—a company his own father started from nothing.” His voice chokes.
I can’t speak. My father looks pale.
Shug clears his throat. “My own father wasn’t upset about Phase III. He wasn’t trash-talking Eagle Investments. Everyone else was freaking out and I was trying to play tour guide.”
“Great timing,” my father winks at me, teasing.
I shoot him a mocking look.
“Julia,” Shug turns to me. “That night you left. When it was snowing? You just disappeared and didn’t say a word.”
“Roger and I—we saw you outside—you and Mary Katherine. We thought everything was great. I thought maybe you had proposed. You looked so…happy,” I admit. “So I left.”
“There was no proposal,” Shug explains. “She was jealous of you, Julia. She was trying her best to distract me because she guessed that I had feelings for you—” he breaks off.
My face grows hot. I can’t help but smile.
“It was all an act,” he continues. “When she found out you were gone, Mary Katherine started scheming again.”
I think back to the white Mercedes convertible I saw zipping around Eufaula one early morning. There was a man in the other seat. Someone I’d assumed was from the bank, or a brother, or friend.
“Were they?” I pause and try not to choke on my own words. “Together?”
Shug nods. “For some time. Mary Katherine was careful, but my father began acting like a teenager. He really fell for her, hard.”
Oh my God.
“There was a text message. I’m sure my father was supposed to delete it. The day after you left, Julia, I found it.” He draws in a deep breath. “At first, I wasn’t sure what it meant. But then, when I thought about it, I realized. She was going to make sure Phase III went forward—vote or no vote.”
My eyes widen and my stomach clenches tight. I’d suspected, but hearing it out loud makes it real.
“I’ll give her this—Mary Katherine thought it all out,” my father says. “She planned everything. If the city council voted in favor of the project, everything was golden. Jordan Construction would get the contract, and with TJ wrapped around her finger, that money would eventually come to her.”
“So, what happened?” I ask.
“I decided to test my theory. I needed to make sure I wasn’t overreacting or jumping the gun. I went to MeeMaw and my mother and confessed everything I suspected.”
“Really?” I’m horrified and fascinated.
“My mother came up with the idea to avoid the public meeting all together. We decided that if MeeMaw got ‘sick,’ we’d have a perfect excuse to stay home. Everyone would know why, and everyone would know where we were.”
“So,” I say slowly, “MeeMaw didn’t have a stroke? And she’s not dying? And so the Hospice workers and everything Roger told me…”
“Gossip,” Shug nods, his mouth curving into a smile. “Very reliable way of getting the word out. It worked pretty well, I’d say. All I had to do was get in touch with Stump.”
“Stump is your ‘source?’” I wrinkle my forehead.
Shug nods.
“So, when I called you and PD no one answered. That was on purpose?”
“Yes,” Shug looks sheepish. “I would have told you. After the vote. When it was safe.”
“But I talked to Mary Katherine,” I tell him, biting my bottom lip. “She said everything was fine. She didn’t say anything about a stroke or the hospital. Why wouldn’t she say anything? That’s just awful. Even if it wasn’t true in the first place.”
My father interrupts my mini-tirade. “Isn’t it obvious? She didn’t want you here.” He laughs. “You’re a journalist. An investigator. What if you came down and messed up all of her plans? She wasn’t about to tell you anything.”
“So she lied,” I say, “but then I talked to Roger.”
“And then I talked to Shug and told him we were coming,” my father adds. “We swapped information. I told him we were going to the meeting. He made me promise not to say anything until after. So I didn’t.”
I look from Shug to my father. “So,
we arrive, Mary Katherine gets frightened that we’re going to speak out against the project—or that we might know something—so she leaves to launch her contingency plan?”
“Right. If the council voted against the project, it was all over. No Phase III, no condos, no money for Mary Katherine. Unless…she somehow got rid of the houses.”
My father nods. “And that’s where the text message came in handy.”
“What did it say?” I ask, barely able to contain my curiosity.
Shug hesitates, and then looks into my eyes.
“P3 back-up. Boom.”
Chapter 37
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” I say, still reeling from Shug’s story. “But it has to do with my father.” I shift my gaze toward David.
He cocks his head, a smile playing on his lips. “Yes?”
“It’s about Aubie. Why do you have that photo?”
My father is grinning now, and so is Shug. Like they’ve shared a big secret. And I’m not in on it.
“Come on. No more secrets. Why are you here?” I ask David. “Why come with me all the way here? Why do you care so much?”
My father walks to the hospital window and looks out. “Do you remember me telling you that I started out my career as a newspaper reporter? I was just a kid. Barely twenty years old.”
“Okay,” I wrinkle my nose. What did that have to do with anything?
“So, I covered stories all over the Southeast,” he glances at me.
I swallow. “Like, in Alabama?”
David crinkles his eyes, remembering. “Like in Eufaula, Alabama.”
For a moment, I can’t speak. My brain is racing with numbers, adding, subtracting. My parents were fifteen years apart when they got married, but how old is my father now? I concentrate on the math. He was born in 1945. When he turned twenty, it would have been 1965—the same year as the first Pilgrimage.
“No way,” I blurt out. My jaw goes slack. “You were here? You covered the first Pilgrimage?”
“I did.” My father exchanges a glance with Shug. “My first job was working for a small newspaper out of Georgia. I covered everything from obituaries and weddings to breaking news and barbeques.”