Deadline (10 page)

He shifted his stance against the porch railing and turned his head to one side, giving her his profile. She noted that he was chewing the inside of his cheek, but whether in consternation or simply deep thought, she didn’t know.

Finally he looked back at her. “Did he ever tell you about conditions over there?”

“Only in the most basic of terms. ‘It’s hot.’ ‘It’s turned cold.’ ‘Today I had my first shower in a month.’ Like that.”

“Nothing specific?”

She shook her head. “He commanded snipers. That’s all I know. Most of the time, he couldn’t even tell me where he was. He probably wouldn’t have told me even if it hadn’t been classified. He didn’t want me to worry.”

“You had a baby and another on the way.”

“And with Grant I suffered terrible morning sickness.”

He grinned, revealing that crooked tooth. “Yeah?”

“With Hunter, not a day of it. With Grant, I threw up several times a day for six months.”

“Told you he’d cause mischief.”

She laughed. “Very perceptive.”

Gradually, their smiles receded and he brought them back to their conversation about Jeremy, which she was finding therapeutic. When had she actually talked to someone about this? Not to her father, whom she hadn’t wanted to burden with her unhappiness. Not to a friend. Not to anyone.

Perhaps it was easier to unload on a stranger whom one would never see again. Or maybe it was easy to talk to Dawson because he could relate to Jeremy’s condition. That was a reasonable assumption, but it was also a disturbing one. It bothered her to think that he could be as unstable as Jeremy had become.

She said, “I wish Jeremy had talked to me about what he was going through. If he had, things might have turned out differently.”

“You mean when he returned from the second tour?”

“Things went quickly from bad to worse. At first I thought he missed the corps, the camaraderie, that he was having trouble adjusting to civilian life. He claimed to like his new job, but he didn’t make friends with any coworkers. He became more withdrawn and antisocial.

“Tension at home mounted. There were two babies now. Jeremy was intolerant of Grant’s crying, Hunter’s chatter. He would pick fights with me over the slightest things.” She hesitated before adding, “He drank excessively. Sometimes to the point of passing out.”

Dawson gave her a wry look. “I’ve never passed out.”

“You shouldn’t let it get to that point.”

“I have no intention to.”

After a moment, she continued. “Jeremy would leave without telling me where he was going or how long he’d be gone, and he’d become enraged if I asked. He had trouble sleeping, and when he did, he had nightmares. He refused to talk about them.

“I begged him to get professional counseling. The suggestion always sparked an argument. His refusal to get help created more conflict. He got progressively short-tempered with me and the children. Hunter grew to be afraid of him, especially when Jeremy…”

He waited for a count of ten before he prodded her. “When Jeremy what?”

She looked down into her unfinished wine. “Became aggressive.”

“You mean violent.”

She raised her head and looked at him. “Please, Dawson,” she said, using his name for the first time. “I wouldn’t want anybody to know this. For my sons’ sake.”

He searched her eyes. “The motherfucker hit you. Didn’t he?”

She lowered her gaze again. “Things had escalated to a crisis point. One night, he came home in the wee hours. When he got into bed, he smelled like perfume and sex. I told him to get away from me. He refused, so I left the bed. He came after me, grabbed me by the arm, and backhanded me across the face.”

The handsome, dashing, romantic Marine who’d won her heart had morphed into a man she didn’t know and couldn’t relate to, even remotely. He was a mean stranger, whose temperament she mistrusted. All the new and terrible traits he’d acquired had manifested themselves that night. To this day, she could see the rage in his eyes, feel the hateful blow to her face, and taste her fear of him.

“Did you call the police?”

She shook her head. “I waited until he’d passed out, then got the boys up, left the house, and drove to Daddy’s. When he saw my face, he became livid. I was afraid he’d do something rash, and it was all I could do to keep him from going after Jeremy and extracting his pound of flesh.

“Short of that, he wanted me to file a police report. But I just wanted to be away from Jeremy and out of the marriage as soon as possible. I moved into the Jones Street townhouse and filed for divorce that week.

“Jeremy contested it, but when he realized the futility of that, he fought me over child custody. He dragged his feet, intentionally created delays. I persisted. You heard in court how it all played out.” She finished the last of her wine, then looked across at him. “Long answer to your question about my life with him.”

He returned to the rocking chair, spread his knees wide, propped his forearms on his thighs, and clasped his hands between them. He turned his head toward her. “It’s an ugly story, Amelia.”

“Which you promised not to write.”

“I did, and I won’t.” Then he looked past the railing toward the dunes and the beach beyond. The only sounds were the squeak of the rocking chairs and the whish of the surf. When he looked at her again, she knew what his next question was going to be before he asked it.

“Who took the photographs from under the doormat?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“Last night, I watched the four of you pile into your car. You stopped and picked up Bernie at his house. As soon as you were out of sight, I carried the photos over here and placed them there.” He pointed to the jute doormat. “Then I got in my car and drove to the village. When I got to Mickey’s, I couldn’t have been more than five minutes behind you.”

“You saw us leave Mickey’s parking lot. I dropped Bernie at his back door. As we were getting out of the car, I asked Stef to take the boys upstairs and start the bedtime ritual. I came straight out here and looked beneath the mat.”

“Somebody took them while we were all in the village.”

“But who?” She wet her lips. “Maybe someone on the beach saw you leaving something and—”

He was shaking his head even before she finished. “The beach was deserted. I checked.”

“But someone must have seen you.”

“Exactly. Someone saw me because someone is watching.”

“Other than you.”

“Other than me. Tell me about the beach ball.”

She remembered his bewilderment when she’d mentioned it earlier. “It was nothing.”

“Then why not tell me?”

She did.

“It miraculously reappeared after being thrown away,” he said. “Patched and inflated.”

She shifted uneasily in her seat. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

“There is. Someone is making it his business to know everything that’s going on in your life.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“I think you do. Yesterday, when you were flaying me alive, you told me that you’d been feeling afraid, that you’d sensed—”

“Yesterday, I was upset and angry, talking out of my head, trying to make you feel bad for spying on me.”

“You were just spouting nonsense?”

“Yes!”

“Amelia.”

She shot from her chair and escaped to the railing as he had earlier. He followed, coming to stand close to her, close enough for her to feel his body heat.

“You’re afraid he’s still alive, aren’t you?”

She turned to him. “No!”

“Denying it to me won’t make you fear it any less. Nor will it make it untrue.”

“He was killed by Willard Strong.”

“His body was never found.”

“But there was forensic evidence.”

“Of what kind?”

“His blood on the ground inside the dog pen. A piece of scalp…” She buried her face in her hands. “God, what that man is accused of is too horrible to think about.”

“I agree. But I question that Jeremy’s fate was the same as Darlene’s.”

“All right. Maybe not. If not, Willard dumped Jeremy’s body somewhere in the marsh. He sank it. Or it washed out to sea. There are alligators.” Her voice carried a plea that he agree with at least one of those possibilities. But he just looked at her with a mix of skepticism and sympathy, which were equally vexing. She demanded, “Then where is he?”

“I’d like to know.”

“Why would he disappear?”

“For the same reason anyone chooses to vanish. To escape trouble. Or the law. To start another life as someone else.”

“Okay, say that’s right. Why wouldn’t he go far, far away from here? Why would he stay in this vicinity and risk being recognized? Faking your death is a crime, isn’t it? Wouldn’t he be afraid of getting caught? If he was going to disappear, why would he hang around and spy on me?”

“To make you anxious and afraid as punishment for leaving him.”

She gave a hard shake of her head. “He didn’t care that I left. By the time our divorce was final, he no longer loved me, only the boys. They were all he wanted.” Realizing what she’d said, she sucked in a sharp breath and jerked her head up to look into Dawson’s incisive gaze.

He gave a slow nod of his head.

“No,” she said, her voice little more than a fearful whimper.

“This has occurred to you, Amelia. I know it has.”

She wet her lips and rapidly formed an argument. “If Jeremy wanted the boys, he could have snatched them at any time. Before he ever met Willard and Darlene Strong.”

“He could have. But in all probability he would have been caught and charged with kidnapping. If they were snatched now, no one would suspect a dead man of taking them.”

She felt it was imperative that she argue fiercely against that logic. “You’re only trying to frighten me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“To get me to say things that’ll make your story more intriguing, lend it an air of mystery.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Then why are you here? I told you that I wouldn’t cooperate with
any
story you intend to write. Why don’t you just go away and leave us alone? You weren’t even all that interested in the story of Jeremy Wesson. You said you were about to reject it and move on to something else more interesting. Why didn’t you?”

“Fair enough. You want to know why?”

He slid his hands under her hair behind her neck and drew her forward until her body was flush against his, his legs sandwiching hers, their faces not quite touching. “Why didn’t I leave this goddamn story alone?” He brushed his thumbs across her lower lip. “Because you walked into that courtroom.”

He held her there for several beats, his hot gaze moving over the features of her face as though he was trying to decide which to kiss first. Then he swore under his breath and abruptly released her.

Before she had time to fully recover her senses, he was gone, and she was alone.

T
he next day, rainy weather kept everyone indoors. In their confinement, the boys became restless, bored, and whiney. None of the pastimes Stef suggested were greeted with enthusiasm. Worst of all, the cable went out, so watching television wasn’t an option.

Lunchtime turned into a battle royal over who was responsible for Grant’s spilled milk. Each blamed the other, arguing over who had bumped whom. To prevent a full-blown sibling feud, Stef offered to take them outside during a lull between showers.

“I would appreciate it,” Amelia told her. “Just long enough for them to burn off some energy.”

As they were putting on their tennis shoes, Hunter asked if they could invite Dawson to come out and play.

“No. Definitely not.”

“How come?”

“I don’t think he’s at home.”

“He is. His car is there.”

“That piece-of-crap car.”

“Grant! Where did you hear that?”

“Hunter said it.”

“I did not!”

“Okay, okay. Whoever said it, it’s inappropriate language. Don’t say it again. And stay away from Mr. Scott’s house.”

“Why? He likes us.”

“He’s probably working.”

“But, Mom—”

“Hunter, I said no.” As she escorted them through the front door, she said to Stef in an undertone, “If he comes out, bring them inside.”

“Okay,” Stef grumbled. “I don’t get it, but okay.”

Amelia didn’t have a single ally in her camp, but she was still the commander of this little band, so the rest of them could like it or not, they were having nothing more to do with their neighbor.

In the utility room, she attacked the piles of clean laundry waiting to be folded, realizing that in a week, she would be packing up their clothes to move back into Savannah. She didn’t look forward to it. The boys disliked the apartment into which they’d moved after leaving the Jones Street townhouse, but her encounter with Willard Strong had made it impossible for her to continue living there.

Hunter and Grant wanted a house with a yard so they could have a dog, and, in fairness to them, they hadn’t had a permanent home since she’d left Jeremy. She planned to begin house hunting immediately after the trial ended.

Thank God that tumultuous chapter of her life was about to close.

Unless Dawson Scott’s theory was correct and Jeremy was still alive.

Despite her determination to dismiss his unsettling notion, she couldn’t. Because the possibility that Jeremy had faked his death had crossed her mind with disturbing frequency. More so lately than before. Dawson had lent it credence. Now she couldn’t shake her misgivings no matter how badly she wanted to.

After a restless night, she’d awakened at dawn, thinking about the boat that had been anchored offshore for the past several days. She had scrambled out of bed, gone to the window, and anxiously scanned the horizon. The inclement weather had made the water choppy, and the surf was stronger than usual. The boat she sought was no longer there, only a shrimp boat and an oil tanker, both commonplace sights.

She’d climbed back into bed, hoping to catch another forty winks, but she was too fidgety to go back to sleep, partially because of her general uneasiness, but also due to reexperiencing the sensations that Dawson’s embrace had elicited.

Her mind refused to stay away from the memory. She felt the brush of his thumb against her lip, heard his roughly whispered
Because you walked into that courtroom
, and recalled the solid imprint of his body. The particular kind of agitation she was feeling was definitely inconvenient, because nothing could be done about it, and judging by the truculence in Dawson’s eyes as he’d looked into hers, he was no happier than she about the chemistry between them.

She’d welcomed the appearance of her sons, who’d come from their beds to climb into hers. She’d gathered them against her, one under each arm, snuggled them, and kissed the tops of their tousled heads in fervent gratitude that they were hers. To keep. Forever. She would protect them with her life…and kill anyone who tried to take them from her.

Now, less than an hour after they’d gone outside, a sudden downpour called an end to the beach excursion. They barreled in through the utility-room door, all three of them sopping wet and shivering. Sand had blown into Hunter’s eye. He was crying. Grant’s lips were blue with cold.

“Stef, please get Grant into some dry clothes while I wash out Hunter’s eye.” At the prospect of that, he began to howl.

Amelia asked herself how this day could possibly get any worse.

Dawson watched Stef and the boys hurtling through the torrent toward the house. He’d watched their play from indoors, believing it best for everyone if, from now on, he made himself scarce.

As he turned away from the window, he checked his cell phone and saw that he had a signal, something that had been sporadic all morning. Knowing he should make the call while he could, he punched in the Headlys’ house number. Eva answered. When she heard his voice, her relief was obvious.

“Are you all right? Gary’s been trying to reach you.”

“Cell service is dicey.”

“In the city of Savannah?”

“Weather’s moved in. Can’t guarantee how long I’ll have a signal. Is your old man around?”

“Yes, and he’s as grumpy as you sound. I swear, the two of you…” She didn’t finish, leaving him to infer that they tested her patience in equal measure.

Headly came on the line and began with an accusatory, “I’ve called you three times.”

“Hello to you, too.”

“Why haven’t you answered your phone?”

“As I explained to Eva, cell service here comes and goes.”

“Where exactly is
here
?”

Dawson ran his hand around the back of his neck where tension had collected. “I wasn’t completely honest with you the last time we talked.”

“Oh really?” Headly said, ladling on the sarcasm.

The ornery son of a bitch wasn’t about to make this easy on him. “Everything I told you was the truth. I just omitted some things.”

“Like where you are. What’s that racket?”

“Rain. It’s pelting. I’m on Saint Nelda’s Island.”

“Nelda was a saint?”

“Somebody thought so. It’s a sea island off the coast of Georgia, slightly south of Savannah, reachable only by ferry, six miles long, two miles wide.”

“Thanks for the geography lesson. I’m ready for
Jeopardy
. Why there?”

“I rented the house next door to one owned by the late Congressman Nolan.”

A huff of surprise, followed by a short silence, then, “I don’t even have to ask, do I?”

“She’s here with her two sons and a nanny.”

“Does she know you’re there?”

“Yes.”

“Does she know why?”

He skimmed the surface, omitting details, but got the facts across to Headly. “She knows about
NewsFront
, knows that I came down to cover the trial and see if there’s a story worth writing, knows I followed her here to the island hoping for an interview. Nothing about you or the rest of it.”

“How’d she react to the idea of a story?”

“She sure as hell didn’t embrace it. She all but wears a sign around her neck warning off trespassers.”

“Can’t blame her. Most of her life has been lived in a fishbowl, first because of her father, now because of her husband.”

“
Ex
-husband.
Late
ex-husband.”

“Those qualifiers seem awfully important to you.”

Dawson ignored the implication. “What I’m trying to tell you is that the lady is on red alert. She’s particularly protective of her sons.”

“Have you seen them?”

“Of course.”

“Why ‘of course’?”

“Because the houses share the beach. The little boys play out there. Build sand castles, splash in the ocean. I went out there yesterday and horsed around with them for a while.” Dawson stopped and gnawed the inside of his cheek, refusing to say anything else until Headly supplied something more eloquent and intelligible than a grunted
Huh
.

After an extended silence, Headly asked, “Who do they look like?”

“Both have blue eyes like hers.” The second the words were out, Dawson wanted to kick himself. Crossly, he added, “I don’t know who they look like. They look like kids.”

“Okay, no need to bite my head off.”

“This is why I didn’t tell you up front. I knew you’d pester me with questions.”

“They could be Carl Wingert’s grandkids. You don’t expect me to be curious?”

Dawson didn’t respond to that.

“What’s she like?”

“She’s—” A dozen adjectives crowded into his mind, but none he wanted to share with Headly. “Intelligent. Articulate. Assertive. Self-controlled. Guarded. Modest.”

“You’ve just described my old-maid third-grade schoolteacher.”

“All right, she’s—” Desirable. Kissable. Fuckable.

“Fair of face,” Headly said. “I’ve seen pictures.”

“Then why ask me to describe her?”

“What’s her mental state?”

“She’s scared.”

“Of you?”

“That he’s alive.”

“Jeremy.”

“Yeah.” Now he had no choice except to explain how he knew that. “I led her into casual conversation, learned a little about their life together.” He gave Headly the gist of what had been said, and passed along what Amelia had told him about Jeremy’s parents. “What has your pal Knutz uncovered about them?”

“Haven’t heard back from him yet.” He gave a snuffle of skepticism. “But, come on, a house fire that killed them both and destroyed all the family memorabilia?”

“I figured you’d find that a little too pat. I did. Knutz needs to check it out. A house fire with two fatalities must’ve made local news. Maybe there was a photo of Mr. and Mrs. Wesson in the newspaper obit. If they were in fact Carl and Flora, that means they’ve been dead for years, I’m on a wild-goose chase, your search is over, end of story.”

“Not if their son faked his death and is still alive.”

Dawson swore under his breath.

“Don’t cuss at me,” Headly said. “It’s not a ‘voilà’ idea. His wife—
ex
-wife—advanced it herself.”

“No,
I
advanced it. She denied the possibility.”

“But you said—”

“She protested too much.”

“Huh. Indicating to you that the possibility has occurred to her.”

“Yeah,” he said around a sigh. “Under all her self-possession, I think she’s scared shitless.”

“Where’d you leave it?”

“With her afraid to think the unthinkable. But she’s thinking it anyway.”

“What’s the atmosphere like between the two of you?”

“I won’t count on a birthday card.”

After a moment of thought, Headly said, “I’ll check out the victims of that house fire myself. But it’s Sunday of a holiday weekend. I don’t know how far I’ll get until everybody goes back to work on Tuesday. What are you going to do in the meantime?”

“Wait until court reconvenes. I’ll stay and see the trial through to the verdict, I guess. After that, I don’t know. Harriet keeps calling, but I don’t answer. I may already be fired.”

“May not be a bad thing.”

“May not.”

“How are you doing otherwise?”

“I got a lot of sun yesterday.”

“Sleeping better?”

“The sound of the ocean has a lulling effect. Look, I’m down to one bar. If my phone cuts out…”

Headly gave another grunt that said he knew Dawson was skirting the issue, but he wasn’t going to waste limited cell phone service beating a dead horse.

“Don’t get mad if you can’t reach me,” Dawson said. “On my way from the mainland, the ferry captain told me that cell service on the island is unreliable on good days. When a storm blows in, forget it.”

Shortly after eight o’clock that evening a lightning bolt knocked out the power in Amelia’s house, plunging it into darkness.

“Mommy?” Grant said tremulously.

“It’s okay.” Her reassurance was drowned out by the booming thunder.

Fortunately they were all gathered around the kitchen table playing Chutes and Ladders. Had she and Stef not been within reach, the boys would have been even more frightened than they were. Grant left his chair and climbed onto her lap. Stef reached across the corner of the table and took Hunter’s hand.

Amelia had thought the afternoon would never end. She’d managed to rinse the sand from Hunter’s eye, but he’d squalled through the process. To soothe him afterward, she’d made him and Grant cups of cocoa and marshmallows.

Paintboxes and pads of paper were brought out, and those had kept them entertained for a while. Hunter painted a seascape featuring her, himself, his brother, Stef, and a tall, shirtless figure with shoulder-length yellow hair sticking out from a baseball cap.

“That’s Dawson,” he told her proudly. “I’m gonna paint a battleship and give it to him, too.”

Not wanting to incite another trauma, she didn’t tell him it was unlikely he would ever see his hero again.

She and Stef stretched dinner out for as long as possible, killing time until they could put the boys to bed. They had agreed to play one more round of the board game before taking them upstairs.

And now the lights had gone out.

“Everything’s fine,” she said brightly. “There’s a flashlight in that big bottom drawer.” She tried to get up, but Grant clung to her. “No, Mommy, hold me.” She carried him with her and got the flashlight from the drawer. She clicked it on. “See? This is an adventure. Grant, you can help me check the fuse box. Maybe the lightning just tripped the breaker switch.”

But after she flipped every switch with no success, Grant said dolefully, “The ’lectricity isn’t working.”

“No it’s not, but we have flashlights.”

She went through the house collecting them. But they had to use them continually in order to keep the boys’ fear of the storm at bay. Soon the flashlights began to weaken and then to go out one by one.

“I’ve just used our last two batteries,” she confided to Stef. “We’ll need more before morning.”

“Maybe Bernie has some to spare.”