Ashes To Ashes

by Gwen Hunter

  "Not bad," he said, around the mouthful.

  "I’m glad you think so. Me casa, su casa." Even with the bruised vocal chords, he could hear the irony in my tone.

  Wicked grinned unrepentantly and took another bite. "That’s what I figured."

  "Haven’t seen you around today." With Jas in the house busy on the phone, and Duke and Disa now familiar with the routine of the barn, I hadn’t talked much all morning. My throat was still tight with pain. I sipped tea to lubricate it.

  "Been busy tracking down the bugs on your phone lines."

  "The bugs . . ." I drank more tea as elation washed through me and was gone. "You find something?" Bugs on the phone meant a Chadwick wasn’t involved with my problems.

  "Yeah, but it was hard as hell to locate. ’Scuse the vernacular."

  I gestured for him to think nothing of it. He took another bite as I waited for him to continue. He swallowed and rinsed the sandwich down with whiskey-laced tea. "What you got is a cobbled together system, one not approved by Ma Bell. In fact some parts of it are illegal as hell. Someone went into the box on the street and wired in to both the business line and your personal line. Ran a wire down to a tape player loaded with a twelve-hour tape, and a digital box that records every number dialed in or out. Basic set up," he said, "but put together with a mishmash of parts, as if whoever put it together did it in a hurry with stuff he had laying around."

  I listened, sipping my tea. I should have been angry. I should have felt violated, horrified and shocked . . . and fierce and triumphant that the enemy’s attack had been discovered. But all my deeper emotions had boiled away at the sight of Robyn, and what was left was a dry dullness.

  "It’s is a federal crime, carrying a hundred thousand dollar fine and ten years in jail, well, unless a president does it," he gestured wryly with his teacup, "in which case only the penalty is harsh words from the opposing party." I chuckled dutifully and he went on. "Somebody’s mighty interested in your life and what you have to say, cuz, and that somebody’s been making regular trips out to exchange discs. It’s not something you can do by remote, not on this setup." Wicked ate the last bite of his sandwich. I got up and made us both another cup of tea. Wicked added a healthy dose of whiskey to his cup, less to my own. "Shame to waste good whiskey in tea," was his only comment. I wondered why he didn’t drink it straight, but talking hurt too much to lavish precious words on unnecessary conversation.

  " ’Course, the phone tap was the easiest part of my little survey. The hard part was locating the transmitter in the office."

  I put my mug down hard. Hot tea splashed out over the tabletop. "Tell me," I croaked.

  "Something wrong with your voice?"

  For a detective, he wasn’t terribly observant. "Laryngitis," I lied.

  "Yeah, well, sorry you’re sick. You don’t look sick. Anyway. These little babies are higher tech and easy to set up once you have access to a site. You just unscrew an electric outlet and screw in a new one. One that not only lights up your lamp, it also transmits every word you say to some undisclosed location and a digital, voice-activated recorder."

  I knew that someone had been in my house, roaming around, touching my things, I had known that by the way the office had been ransacked. And they had been listening in on every word spoken in the office. I should be ticked. But all I could see, suddenly, was Robyn’s face as it had looked, shocked and hurt and grieving. For me? For Jack? For herself. I sighed, the breath long and mournful, as I waited for Wicked to continue. He seemed vaguely disappointed that I hadn’t responded to the violation of my home and my privacy in some more concrete fashion—fireworks or fear, not a sadness that couldn’t be explained by his news.

  "There were two of the little buggers. One at Esther’s desk—and let me tell you," he interrupted himself, "she’s pretty pis— ah, she’s real unhappy to find out about it. It seems your colorful little Esther sometimes talks love talk to Sherman when she’s alone in the office." Wicked looked like his name, mischievous and naughty, like a kid caught teasing his little sister.

  "Love talk?" I managed.

  "Yeah, you know, like those numbers people call. Dirty talk."

  "Esther? My Esther? Talks dirty on the office phone?" Here at last was something that had the power to break through my unnatural calm, something innocuous and unimportant, an amusing little slice of life leaving no one in any danger, where embarrassment was the only negative outcome. I could, in some strictly subjective manner, recognize Esther’s violation of privacy, and empathize with her. But I couldn’t stop the way my lips tried to turn up at the corners. And I couldn’t banish the twinkle in my eyes. Esther and dirty talk? To Sherman?

  "Exactly," Macon said, grinning his naughty-boy smile. "I left the system in place in case we decide to use it on this end. Set up something to draw out your stalker."

  I nodded. My throat was getting better as I sipped warm tea, or else, thanks to the whiskey, I just didn’t care as much about the pain. I had no tolerance for alcohol, and warmth burned through my stomach, heating its way out to my limbs, my skin. It was the warmth of anger, replacing the dull emptiness of the morning. It was the warmth of resolve. And of course the warmth of whiskey. It was the first real emotion I had felt since Robyn drove away. I gestured to the fridge. "No listening devices in the house?"

  "Not a one. Clean as a whistle. And yours and Jasmine’s cell lines are clean too. You have to make any calls where you don’t want to be overheard, use the cells."

  I nodded.

  "You planning to use that gun?"

  "Yes," I said, surprising myself.

  "To shoot or to toss at someone?"

  "Very funny," I croaked, my voice giving out when I tried to speak too loud.

  "Then you better get in some practice," Wicked said, loading a slice of bread with Miracle Whip and chicken salad.

  "This afternoon, after my meeting with Peter and the architects. Around five?"

  "Count on it. I’ll meet you at Puckey’s and supervise. And help patch up anyone you accidentally shoot when you miss your target by a mile."

  I mimed firing a gun at his head.

  "Not me. I’ll stay well away from your target. If I can figure out what you’re aiming at."

  Rolling my eyes, I got up from the table. I had a meeting to prepare for. I wasn’t happy with the thought that someone would be listening in on the conversation, but since I didn’t know what my assailant was listening for, and since I wanted to be provocative enough to draw him out, I had no choice but to hold the meeting in the non-privacy of the office. At the kitchen door, I stopped. "How far from the transmitter can the recorder be? How far from here?"

  "Distance wise? About a half mile, but that depends on its frequency and any interfering FM activity, like cellular towers or radio stations, or even a busy highway with a lot of cell phone and trucker’s CB radio activity."

  I pointed to the front of the house. "I-77 is that way." I pointed to the living room. "WTZY is that way. That leaves only two directions to consider."

  "True, which means only about a hundred locations if you didn’t count the trailer park across the train tracks. We’d never find it, Ashlee."

  "Yeah. You’re right," I whispered, one hand against my painful throat.

  "If you intended to paint a bull’s-eye on yourself and attract the attention of the man who pulled a knife on you, now’s your chance. Just be careful."

  "Good advice. So tell me how to be both a target and careful at the same time. In fact, tell me what the man is looking for and I’ll just blurt it out right away and get this over with."

  Wicked shrugged. "That’s Macon’s department. You loaded him down so much with work yesterday, he might not find the problem for years."

  "Thank you so very much for that happy tidbit. If that’s the last two slices of bread, get a fresh loaf out of the freezer, and be sure to clean up after yourself. I’m not your mother."

  "Yes, ma’am. Will do," Wicked saluted me with the s
andwich and took a big bite. Family could be such a pain.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It was an emotional experience for me, opening Jack’s briefcase again, touching papers he last touched only moments before he died. Emotional and painful and confusing, making my hands tremble, and my throat close up tighter. It was a pain I hadn’t expected. It was a pain I’d thought burned away in the heat of my anger against Jack and his lies and his mistress.

  Though I had touched the briefcase the day before, today the leather seemed different, worn and soft, distressed by years of banging around in the back of one work truck or another. It was like the touch of an old friend; its smell was wood shavings and Jack’s own, unique scent. The feel of the papers inside was like the remembrance of death. This was the last thing Jack had touched the night he died. The last thing I touched the morning I discovered his infidelity.

  I held the papers, smoothed them in my hands. Remembered Jack’s voice as he discussed his plan for the Swamp and the golf course it would become. And when I was ready, I joined the men in Jack’s office for another test of my authority as the defacto leader of DavInc.

  The meeting went well: Evan Wright and his senior partner Angus Cavenaugh, and Peter Howell and his immediate assistant Bill Berkowitz being agreeable to one another and receptive to Jack’s drawings and notes on the golf course changes. The topographical map coincided well with the proposed changes, matching closely with the new positions of the greens suggested by Jack the night he died. I hadn’t realized the breadth of Jack’s plan, nor his grasp of the problem, until I sat back and watched the men—golfers all—react to the new concept.

  "This fifteenth hole will be absolutely awesome—"

  "Unless you play a hook instead of a slice, in which case you are screwed."

  "Yeah, and water hazard on the thirteenth. . . ."

  "The three new ponds circumvent the wet ground problem, spring heads, runoff. . . ."

  "It’s gonna cost, though."

  "Jack knew it would. Look at these figures. . . ."

  I concluded the meeting at four-forty-five, convinced I had averted another disaster. For a moment I found myself less angry with Jack. He had been trying to clear up some of his problems when he died. He hadn’t meant for me to be forced to deal with them. He hadn’t meant for me to suffer. Of course, if that were true, he wouldn’t have left the photos of Robyn in his drawer. And with that thought, the residual pleasure of the meeting fled. Robyn with her long sleek thighs and her enraptured face. Damn. . . . Just . . . damn.

  I met Wicked at Puckey’s just after five and fired off ten clips of ammunition, five with the 9mm I wore beneath my left shoulder, five with the 9mm kept in the Jeep’s glove box. I thought the session went well. I hit the target twelve times, once in the concentric circles. My best record ever. Wicked, however, left Puckey’s with a glower. Twelve out of one hundred forty rounds was, evidently, not a promising score to the Chadwick’s best shot. I thought it was great and rewarded myself with a can of albacore tuna and a glass of wine for supper. I told myself the wine was for medicinal purposes, like the spoonful of whiskey at lunch. But it was really just for the pleasure, the meal sliding past the roughness of my throat with ease. Tuna and wine. Pure heaven.

  I went to bed early, feeling more peaceful and positive than I had in days, but strange dreams plucked at my mind, disturbing my sleep and drawing me up out of slumber from my much needed rest. Odd, muddy dream fragments, part memory, part fantasy . . .

  Jack and Robyn standing on a red mud beach, alone, gulls keening overhead, the surf booming. Embracing, oblivious to the sea. An immense wave rose and threw them to the earth, swept them into the sea, screaming for help. Waves scoured away the red mud, erasing even their footsteps.

  Alan Mathison in a muddy tux, standing beside his ruined car. Bending over me, asking me to go to the symphony with him. Marjorie Mathison, screaming as the wreck lifted from her dying body. Muddy water swirling around her body.

  Senator Vance Waldrop with his mouth full of sugar cookies, confused as the cookies turned to mud.

  The shards of visions became a longer dreamscape: Jack, Angus Cavenaugh, and me, on a golf course. Jack putted the ball and it rolled two feet before stopping, well short of the hole. "Slow, Ashlee. A wet course is so slow."

  Angus said, "But the new plan completely circumvents the wet ground problem."

  Nana, who was suddenly standing with us, handed me a cup of coffee and stared down at the green. "Wet ground is useless for farming. Good for nothing."

  The dream segued into Aunt Mosetta, trying to climb on old Mabel, one foot in the stirrup, her house shoe firmly planted in the steel support, as the black mare nipped at her, sidling away. Aunt Mosetta hopped along in the mud on one foot, trying to keep pace with the prancing horse. Her other slipper sank deep into the wet earth with each step. "Consarn-it all," she muttered as she hopped around.

  I was standing on the golf course at Davenport Hills, my feet sinking into the mud, slowing my progress. Just ahead, RailRoad the Third was taking a bite out of Peter Howell, huge jaws clamping on Peter’s shoulder. I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t reach Peter in time. Blood spurted, great, scarlet gouts of it, spattering my shoes mired in the thick, red mud . . .

  I woke up, sweating and gasping. Sucking in air that still burned my injured throat. Air lightly scented with death, rotten and crawling with maggots, like something out of a nightmare. Shaking, I pulled the 9mm from beneath my pillow, checked the clip and the safety, the faint metallic sounds loud in the quiet house. Bands of light fell across my comforter. The security lights were both repaired now, the outside illumination casting shadows.

  The clock in the hall ticked loudly. When we first hung the antique clock on the wall, I had trouble sleeping at night. For a week the sound kept me wakeful. Now I scarcely noticed the ticking except when uneasy dreams plagued my rest.

  Out on the porch, puppies whined and Cherry went out the doggie door to relieve herself, the little flap of wood swinging noisily. Big Dog would be home soon, perhaps by morning. The doggie door would have to be enlarged so he could seek shelter while recuperating, yet have privacy from Cherry’s litter. I made a halfhearted mental note to have someone enlarge the flap.

  Overhead, the beams creaked in Jasmine’s rooms. Soft strains of music drifted down from my daughter’s domain. She often played the radio late into the night, PBS and soft jazz.

  Jack’s dream words came to me again in the darkness, twisted in the covers, his gun in my hand, a round in the chamber. "A wet course is so slow."

  I knew it was significant, but I didn’t know why. Mud and water in every dream. Mud and water and a million and a half dollar golf course designed by Cavenaugh and Wright and redesigned by Jack Davenport on a little scrap of paper just before he died. Sleep was elusive.

  The next day, I persisted in my plan to make a target of myself, to make enough noise about Davenport Hills to draw out whoever was stalking me. I still had no idea what I would do when he came after me—I’d have to wing it. But there was danger in my half-baked plan—a real chance I would have to face my stalker and his cold blade. A chance I could be hurt, badly.

  After feeding the horses and conferring with Macon and Esther, I drove out to Davenport Hills. The warm front had brought more rain, a tedious, constant shower to erode the saturated ground. Driving slowly, I cruised along the main boulevard, giving my mind free reign as I observed the development. I was hoping some thought would come, a solution to my problems formulated out of restless dreams, a subconscious revelation about mud and water.

  The development was bisected by Prosperity Creek, a wide, meandering stream that eventually emptied into the Catawba River. The hundred-year floodplain spreading along both sides of the creek had doomed large portions of the land to be labeled unfit for development, and this wide strip of land was the location of most of the parks, playgrounds, and tennis courts. Broad sections had been left natural, with cattails and marsh grasses growi
ng in wild profusion.

  Today, the ground along the creek was soggy, a sticky muck runnelled with fresh ruts where rain had gnawed into the banks and eaten away at the overpasses. It wasn’t a pretty sight and, in several places, it looked as if the deterioration could quickly become a problem. The muddy ground bothered me and I slowed the Jeep, taking several side trips down the length of the creek, stopping often to get a clear look. I made a note to discuss the creek with Peter, and drove on, eventually reaching the marshy ground of the second golf course.

  Prosperity Creek and Magnet Hole Creek came together near the boundary lines of the Davenport Hills property. The two creeks joined on the edge of a two thousand acre parcel of land planted with pines for the paper industry. Jack, Peter, and the surveyors had ridden over every acre of the Davenport Hills property prior to signing the original purchase deal. Because the creek was such an outstanding feature of the tract, Jack and Peter had followed it for miles beyond the Davenport Hills property, upstream and down to be prepared for future problems.

  Friesians from Davenport Downs had carried the men along the banks and through the woods with no loss of stamina and with great endurance, giving Jack the idea that they might do well in long distance, overland races. The blue ribbons and silver loving cups brought home by his best animals were testament to the inspiration of that ride years ago.

  The only part of the ride too difficult for the horses was the land at the confluence of the creeks, the only part of the property not touched by bulldozers and construction crews. The only part of Davenport Hills left totally natural and wildly beautiful. To this day I remember the look on Jack’s face when he described what Peter and he found when they forced their way in on foot.

  A great wash of sand twelve feet high and forty feet wide marked one side of the confluence. A small forest of downed trees and brush marked the other. Smashed and broken branches were crushed into the crevices of a massive rock that had been pushed to the surface eons ago, or dropped by a great flood in some prehistoric disaster. A dead raccoon was twisted into the debris. A wild turkey hung suspended, long dead, bones exposed by scavengers. Tangled undergrowth climbed the eroded banks; huge deposits of yellowish and gray clay lay exposed in the bare spots. Blacksnakes and water turtles sunned themselves. It was wild and beautiful and dangerous, and I could tell by Jack’s face that he coveted the patch of land for its violent character and unrestrained spirit. I had known that Jack would never touch the few wild acres.