Not Quite Clear (A Lowcountry Mystery) (13 page)

Clete knows everything that happens
in his mountains. I suspect he knew the moment my tires hit the gravel in that abandoned parking lot, so if he wants to talk to me, Leo and I will make it to his cabin in one piece.

He’s not going to be happy that I brought another person to his so-called secret location, but we’re going to have to keep trusting each other just a bit longer.
 

Leo stumbles, the sound of a rock rolling down a
small ravine and the cracking of several sticks accompanying his low curse. I stop and turn, check on him.

All I get is gritted teeth and a pained frown. “How much farther?”

“We’re almost there.”

The invisible eyes following us through the darkness don’t disappear, but by this time I’ve relaxed. If Big Ern or anyone else had been instructed to keep us away we would have already been stopped.

When we step into the clearing, it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. Both Leo and I pause, squinting toward the flat, ranch-style house that my favorite moonshiner calls home. The chicken and goat pens out front fill the night with rustles, clucks and bleats. The bloodhound on the porch gets to his feet but halts, midbay, at a quiet word.
 

No one speaks, but the figure with a firm grip on
the dog’s collar is so wiry and small, it has to be Clete. Heavy footsteps crash out of the woods behind us. The smell of unwashed body and dirt fill my nose.
 

“Hey, Big Ern,” I say without turning around.

Clete’s right-hand man comes around until he’s staring me in the face. There’s a bit of apprehension in the typical blankness of his expression that increases as he looks at Leo. He says nothing.
 

“Leo, this is Big Ern. He’s not much for bathing or talking, but he’s as loyal as the day is long.”

I’ve heard him speak before, so I know he’s capable, but only when answering a direct question from Clete.

“Big Ern.” Leo tips his invisible hat, then glances toward me. “We gonna have that chat with the big boss now or what?”

His anxiety about this whole thing hasn’t relaxed along with mine.
Now that we’re here I’m thinking we both want to get this over with and beat it back home.
 

I nod, stepping around Big Ern and across the clearing, praying my posture and steps and scent don’t give away how scared this whole situation makes me deep down.

But of course, they do. Clete’s got a nose for people the way his bloodhound has a scent for prey—senses that go beyond location and speed
and pick up things like the fear I’m trying desperately to control. Untruths waiting to be told.

“Well, I gotta say, you got some big ol’ hairy balls, Crazy Gracie,” Clete greets us as my big toe hits the half-rotten bottom step.

My gait hitches and Leo’s breathing jerks, but I don’t stop until we’re both standing atop the sagging wood. “That’s disgusting. How dare you talk about my balls like
that?”

The moonshiner doesn’t respond, just motions to the love seat across a cheap, rattan coffee table that’s missing its glass top. He’s lounging in a matching chair that’s got holes in the faded cushion.
 

I swallow my revulsion at putting my butt on the worn, moldy floral pattern. Leo drops down beside me, and I finally stare Clete full in his unshaven face. He’s baring his remaining yellowed
teeth in what some stupid person might mistake for a smile.
 

“Who’s yer friend?”

“Leo Boone.” Leo sticks his hand across the space between us.
 

Clete stares at it like it might be covered in maggots—which is to say, he can’t decide whether to squish it or eat it—then turns back to me. “I thought ya were smarter than this, city girl. My place ain’t on tha map fer good reasons, and you can’t
go bringin’ whoever ya like fer a visit. Not if ya wanna go home.”

“Well, you can’t expect me to come out here alone,” I reason, hating the tremor in my voice. If anything happens to Leo I’ll never forgive myself.

I scoot a little closer to his tall, sturdy frame, a move that Clete’s perceptive eyes don’t miss. They narrow. “Whatcha doin’ out here, anyhow? Thought ya made it pretty galldern
clear on my last trip ta Heron Creek that ya want nuthin’ ta do with me and mine.”

“And
you
made it clear that as long as you and I have common goals—or common enemies—that it’s in my best interests not to turn my back on our, shall we say, arrangement.”

“Ain’t got no ’rraingment, ’less you mean how ya do what I say.”

He’s showing off, now. Puffing out his chest like he’s never scratched my
back while I scratched his, but giving voice to the indignation rising up my gut doesn’t seem like the brightest move. And despite what Clete said, I am not as dumb as I look.

“All arrangements are two-way streets, Clete.”

He nods, then takes a nip out of a mason jar nestled between his legs. He doesn’t offer me any, a fact that makes me eternally grateful since setting my esophagus on fire
would hamper my negotiation skills.
 

“Guess so. Question is, what street ya got us walkin’ down now? And why you tha one comin’ ta me ’steada tha other way ’round?”

That question takes me a split second to decipher. Leo shifts at my side, worry winding off him as sure as the evening breeze, full of lavender and something spicy. An herb.

“I’ve got a proposition, is all, and I figured there’s
no one in the state that might be able and willing to help me out like you can.”

“Hmm. Well, lay it on me.”

“My cousin is in the middle of a custody case with Randall Middleton and his wife. We need some help discrediting them—child services records, bad business dealings, money trouble, really any of it would do. Little bird told me you’ve got moles in some state offices, maybe some in Charleston.
If there’s something to know, I need to know it.”

The speech leaves me a bit breathless, a fact not lost on my perceptive friend. He shows his teeth in that pseudo-smile again, takes another sip from his jar. His dirty bare feet scrape the splintered wood of his deck, and the sound of someone hollering inside the cabin, followed by the clang of a pot or pan, filters outside.

He takes his time,
probably because he senses that the longer he keeps me waiting the more likely I am to take off running like a rabbit scented by a fox. “Mebbe. Mebbe that’s true, but begs tha question… Whatcha gonna do for ol’ Clete in return?”

Leo’s stayed silent this entire time, though it’s starting to seem as though he’s having a hard time maintaining the status quo. His knee jiggles next to mine, and he
keeps glancing back to where we left Big Ern. The giant man’s blue overalls are barely visible at the edge of the clearing with fat clouds drifting in front of the moon.

“I suppose I thought you’d have some idea on that, Clete. Or we could just bank the favor for the next time you need one.”

“See, that ain’t gonna cut it, Crazy Gracie. Could be I’m dun with ya. Then what?”

He’s peering at me
as though his eyes can peel back my face and see into my skull. This is a game. He’s the cat, I’m the mouse, and I’m not getting what I want without saying the very thing that makes my stomach hurt just thinking about it.

“What about Detective Travis?”

It’s as though everything within earshot stops moving. The bugs stop their little wings from whirring, ants stop marching two by two, Leo stops
breathing. Whoever’s in the house—Clete’s woman?—doesn’t bang anything. A manic giggle bubbles into my mouth, but I press my lips together, determined not to live up to Clete’s nickname for me.

“What about
Detective
Travis?”

“Well, last time we talked it seemed as though you were a little tired of him not understanding how things work around here, and you were looking for a way to get him under
your thumb.” I pause, sucking in air. “Isn’t that what all these break-ins are about?”

The air goes cold as Clete leans forward. His expression hardens, hills and valleys and dead eyes a relief map of cruelty and power. “Let’s get one thing straight. You don’t know nuthin’ ’bout no break-ins, and neither do I. We ain’t in nuthin’ together ’less I say we in sumthin’ together. Got it?”

I nod,
my heart jammed in my throat. Leo drops his arm to his side so that the back of his hand touches mine, and the reminder that I’m not alone makes me want to cry. “Got it. But Travis?”

“Travis s’nother story, but I was kinda thinkin’ young William might be tha way ta go there.” He sits back, calm again, and rubs the scruff on his chin. “Yer pretty good at all that there research nonsense, though,
ain’t ya?”

I nod again. “It’s what I do. Research.”

“Thing is, with
Detective
Travis, is that he ain’t from ’round here. My contacts, as that little naughty bird told ya, tend toward local. Could be you and I needin’ the same type of help at the moment. Information.”

“You want to know if there’s anything in Travis’s past you can use to control him,” I clarify.

“How’s Gracie supposed to find
that out?” Leo wonders, his tone hard and brave. Not wavering at all, damn him. “She’s not a cop.”

Clete’s gaze never leaves my face, but there’s a flicker in it that makes me want to hush Leo. “Ya taught yer puppy to talk. That’s a mistake. I don’ mind teachin’ unruly puppies lessons.”

“I’ll do my best with Travis,” I interrupt. “If you’ll look into the Middletons for me.”

He considers this
for a long while, then scoots to the edge of his chair and sets the half-empty mason jar of clear moonshine on the table between us. “Okay. Information fer information, Crazy Gracie. You got a deal.”

I let out a stale breath and can’t help but smile. Then I start to get up. “Great.”

“Whoa, whoa, where ya goin’? We gotta drink on it. I’ll even let tha puppy have a sip.”

Dammit.

Chapter Ten

“Thanks for that, Gracie. It’s really been too long since I shit my pants.”

We’re getting back into my car, covered in leaves and underbrush and probably a few leftover ticks before Leo manages to choke out any words. I’ve been pretty focused on getting out of the mountains and on the road back to Heron Creek myself, but his comment unleashes the insane desire to burst into
laughter I’ve been suppressing for the past hour. Because honestly, whose life is really like this?

I turn the ignition and put the car into reverse, laughing so hard it’s difficult to see the road. Leo’s shaking his head in the seat next to me, but at least my laughter lets him stop grabbing his knees like he’s about to put his head between them and hurl.

“Sorry,” I gasp. “It’s the mental image,
is all.”

“Hilarious,” he replies dryly, still eyeing me like he suspects my brains might start leaking out of my ears any second. “Seriously, Gracie, that guy has your number.”

“Maybe I’ve got
his
number,” I retort, the comment drying up my manic laughter.

“Hey, I learned a long time ago not to underestimate your resourcefulness, but shit. You’ve got a couple of digits,
maybe
, but Clete’s running
the switchboard.” He runs a shaky hand over his hair, getting longer again after his summer buzzcut. “How on earth are you going to find out anything about Travis?”

“I didn’t lie. Research
is
what I do, and I have access to some heavy-duty search engines. I’m sure that if there’s something to find I can turn it up.” I swing onto the highway leading home. “On the other hand, the Middletons will
have tried to bury their skeletons. It’s going to take things like bribes and coaxing to find out where. Let’s leave that to the criminals.”

“I just hope you can deliver. Because that guy seems more than a tad off his rocker.”

“Oh yeah. He fell right off years ago. Doesn’t mean he’s not smart, though.”

“Clearly. He’s figured out a way to get
you
on his team.”

“I’d say that was sweet if we
were talking about cheerleading or something, but—”

“Gracie, watch out!”

I see the figure in the road, a vague impression of shadows and movement, before Leo yells and yanks the steering wheel to the right. We bump off the road, hard, the tires of my Honda screeching as they trade pavement for grass and weeds, thumping into blackness. There are no streetlights out here, and by the time we crash
into a road sign and stop, only one of my headlights is working.

Leo groans, holding his head. Blood stains his fingers. He must have slammed his head into the window when we left the road. He’s alive, though, and relatively unharmed.

I struggle with my seat belt for several seconds before it snaps loose, then wrench the handle and kick open the door. The grass squishes under my tennis shoes
and is high enough to scratch at my calves. My one headlight illuminates the offending road sign—Slippery When Wet—as well as a swath of gravel, random pieces of litter and plastic, and runoff from the last rain.
 

I squint into the darkness at the edges, where the lights start to waver. There’s no one in the road. No figure, no animal, not even an oil slick. But I saw something, dammit, and so
did Leo. Frustration mounts, worry along with it. What if I clipped whatever it was and it limped off into the woods? It was too tall to be an animal, unless it was a bear.

And it wasn’t a bear.

I spin around, noticing that Leo hasn’t made a move to get out of the car, which means maybe he’s hurt worse than it looked like and we should probably go. My body freezes, the feeling of being watched
unbearable as I force myself to turn the rest of the way. I put my back to the car and stare into the reaches of the light, where a girl stands at the outermost rim.

The toes of her shoes—spotless patent leather Mary Janes—glint in the weak glare. She’s wearing a dress that looks like her Sunday best, light blue with a white collar and white cuffs. The wind whips at the braids that fall to her
chin, little beads clacking on the ends as she shakes her head at me.

“Are you okay?” I take a few steps forward, and the girl takes a few steps back. “Wait.”

Her skin shines like fresh coffee beans in the light. The sparkle in her eyes looks unnatural. I don’t know whether it’s coming from her, is a result of my fading adrenaline rush, or that we just almost died in the middle of a highway,
but fear reaches out with long fingers. They wrap around my wrists, tug at my hair, clog my throat with a sour, rancid taste.