35
I COULD SEE THE BEACH HOUSE from a half mile away, a crystal castle rising out of the darkness. I cut through to the beach where I rode the bike along that strip of firm sand at the edge of the water, then killed the engine, and hid it in the dunes within fifty yards of the house. If I needed to get away quickly, I'd have a better chance on the beach than on the highway. I opened the saddlebag, retrieved a pair of binoculars, and settled down in the dunes to watch the place.
No one was outside. I panned the binoculars window to window, switched my cell phone off, and moved along the dunes toward the back of the house. From there, I could see into the lighted rooms on the first and second floors, but curtains were drawn across a brightly-lit chamber on the third floor. Three women were curled in chairs in the screening room watching a movie on the giant TV screen.
I made a wide arc around to the house across the street from where I could see up under the beach house. There was a black Cadillac Escalade parked under the house, but the Corvette was not there so I figured John-Boy was probably not there either. I pulled the cell phone from my jacket, turned it on, and called Martha. "It's me. I'm here. Write this down." I pulled a piece of paper from my pocket and read her a phone number.
"What's that?"
Holding the phone with my shoulder, I ripped up the sliver of paper. "It's Sydney's phone number. I forgot to leave it at home and I don't want to have it on me if anything should happen."
"Do you see a house number? I can pull up the county GIS map and find out who owns it and where they live."
"Not from here. I'll have to get closer."
"Please be careful."
The black Corvette I'd seen before came into view, slowed, and turned up the driveway across the street. "He's back."
"Who?"
"The guy I followed down here before. I'll call you later."
"Richard?"
"What?"
"Please be careful."
"I will. Got to go. I'll call you later." I turned the phone off and moved closer to the house staying out of sight. The Corvette was there, but John-Boy had disappeared. As I approached the car, a sliding door upstairs opened and two sets of shoes shuffled awkwardly across the porch above and started down the stairs. I sprang back into the shadows and watched as two men stumbled toward me carrying the body of a young woman. Her right arm dragged the cement as they scuffled toward the Cadillac SUV. One of the men was Fat Albert. The other, Latino, supported the girl's legs as they slung her onto the back seat. They closed the door, shared a private laugh, and disappeared up the steps.
I crept up to the vehicle and through the window I could see that she had red hair. Easing the car door open, I leaned in, and saw that it was Angie. I pressed a finger against her neck but, before I could find a pulse, I heard voices, closed the door with my hip, and crouched behind the car.
"Don't speed," an older man was saying to a younger man as they came down the stairs. "Don't run any red lights and don't get in any wreck." The man speaking had a heavy high-tider accent, thick eyebrows, and a thick mustache. I assumed the younger one was John-Boy, but couldn't raise up to get a better look.
"Yes sir, Mr. Bonner," the youth said.
"And make damned sure nobody sees you."
"I will."
"Aye'm countin' on you, Greg."
"You know I always come through for you, Mr. Bonner."
Through the vehicle's windows I saw Mr. Bonner grasp hold of the younger man's shoulder. "You're my number one."
"Thank you, sir."
The car door clicked open.
"And you come straight to my office soon's you get back," Bonner told him.
"Yes, sir."
"You're the man."
"Thank you, sir."
As the Escalade's engine started, I dropped onto my belly with the intention of hiding under the Corvette, but the car was too low and the stitches on the back of my head struck against the steel frame setting my head on fire. Pressing a hand against my skull, I furled off the cement and skirted around the back of the Corvette not noticing my phone had slipped from its holder. Bonner walked along with the vehicle as it backed out, watched the guy turn the SUV around, and then headed back up the stairs as the Cadillac turned left out of the driveway.
Running through tall sea oats, I trampled over dune after dune to the bike, jerked the helmet on, and cranked the engine as the Escalade disappeared up the beach road. With a rear tire spinning in the sand, I bounced wildly across the empty lot next door to the beach house, skidded onto the roadway, and sped off southward after the Cadillac.
HEARING THE SOUND of the motorcycle, Dane Bonner veered out the front door of the beach house in time to see the bike racing after the Cadillac. He dove down the front steps, spotted a cellular phone lying on the cement, snatched it up as he hopped into the Corvette, and brought the mega-V-8 engine to life. Tossing the phone into the passenger's seat, he squalled onto the highway and floored the gas pedal. The car rocketed up the highway.
I PUSHED THE BIKE up to sixty-five and kept it there until I had to slow for an elderly woman making a left turn. Skirting around her on the sandy shoulder, I sighted the Escalade's taillights several blocks ahead. I reached for my phone to call Sam Jones and let him know what I'd seen, but the phone was gone! All I could do was follow and find out what he was going to do with Angie, and then let Sam know later.
There were six or seven cars between us and traffic was moving slowly. The cool night air felt twenty degrees colder on the bike. My heart raced, my legs trembled, and the helmet cut into the stitches in my head with every bump. I zipped the windbreaker up to my neck and stuffed my left hand into the jacket pocket to get it out of the cold.
I wondered if Angie could still be alive. Life is so precious. To even be born is a billion to one shot. And then, it's too short. And can be lost so easily, or taken from you. Regardless of your plans and dreams, or how many there are that love you.
As I kept my eyes on the Escalade's taillights, my thoughts drifted to Uncle Charlie—my dad! I pictured him cruising along this road in that Chevy with the radio up and the windows down, a cigarette hanging from his lips—revving his engine when he passed a good-looking girl. I wondered what kind of person he was, if he had many friends, or if he was a loner like me. I have to talk to Mom. She can't keep him locked up forever. I deserve to know.
The SUV slowed, turned left into the crowded parking lot at Lloyd's Seafood Restaurant, and disappeared behind the building. Traffic came to a stop in front of me and pedestrians prevented me from passing. I placed a foot on the roadway to hold the bike up and kept my eye on the restaurant.
"Hey, how 'bout a ride, cutie?" a female called out. I turned to see three young teenage girls standing in front of a nightclub, giggling and holding on to each other to keep from falling over. Less than a week ago Angie had been young, adventurous, and wild. Now she might be dead.
"You girls ought to go on home and thank the Lord you're still alive."
"Screw you!" one shouted stumbling back off the road. "We'll just find somebody else to party with."
If only they knew what dangers lay in wait for them.
The cars moved on and a moment later, the Escalade pulled back onto the roadway coming straight toward me. As we passed I saw his face clearly. Greg was John-Boy. I rolled into the restaurant's parking lot and circled around back. A bright light buzzed overhead and it smelled like a city landfill. Stacks of flattened and not-yet-flattened cardboard boxes surrounded two black metal dumpsters sitting back against a wooden fence with their lids closed. A leaking water hose lay across the asphalt and a mop leaned against the building next to a rear door. I felt Angie was there somewhere, but I didn't see her.
BONNER SLOWED as he neared the restaurant, snatched up the cell phone he'd found, turned it on, and dialed 9-1-1. When the operator answered he panted wildly and shouted, "A man on a motorcycle just dumped a woman's body behind Lloyd's Seafood Restaurant at Wrightsville Beach. Hurry! He's still there!" He pressed the button to end the call and looked back at the restaurant when the phone in his hand rang. Feeling exuberant, he answered the call dragging his voice. "Yes?"
After a second of hesitation, a female spoke. "Richard?"
Bonner smiled. "Sorry sweetheart. From the looks of things I'd say Richard's a little busy right now." He looked back in the mirror waiting for the motorcyclist to emerge from behind the restaurant. "But I'll be glad to give him a message for you."
Waiting for the woman to respond, he chuckled aloud. Then she said, "Scott?"
Looking down, he saw the number showing in the window. Shit! He ended the call and tossed the phone out the window.
I SET THE KICKSTAND ON THE BIKE and charged into the pile of empty boxes tossing them aside and milling into them in search of Angie. It didn't take long for me to realize she wasn't there. Vaulting to one of the two large metal garbage containers, I hoisted one of its lids and was engulfed by the odor of rancid food. Holding my breath, I shoved the cover back and there, immersed in table scraps and rotting meat, lay Angie—her legs twisted at awkward angles and her eyes gazing through me in a death stare.
Startled, I drew back, then sprung forward, leaping onto the side of the container, reaching into the opening to touch her neck.
"Angie!"
As I leaned farther, balancing on the lip of the opening checking for a pulse, two cars skidded to a stop behind me. I bounded back from the hatchway as the doors on both police cars flung open and cops dived out of each crouching near the ground with their revolvers trained on me.
"Freeze!" they shouted in unison.
I raised my arms and, twisting, pointed toward Angie. "There's a girl in there! I was checking to see if she's still alive."
"On the ground. Now!"