Blood, Ash, and Bone (8 page)

Trey measured the distance with his eyes. “That’s seven hundred and fifty feet from bank to bank.”

“Correct. But drunk people sometimes make unsound decisions.”

I didn’t tell him I’d almost done it myself once, chock full of hurrah and stupidity. And bourbon. I’d chickened out, but one of my classmates had taken the plunge. The Coast Guard pulled him out half-drowned fifteen minutes later, upchucking algae and brackish brown water.

I looked over Trey’s shoulder to his desk. It was a collection of golf course maps, hotel blueprints, graphs, and charts.

Trey followed my gaze. “I’m studying the basic protocols for some of the major tournaments. Of course this one will be on a smaller scale. Most of the work for Mr. Harrington will be his own personal protection plan.”

“To keep him out of trouble?”

“To minimize the potential for liability.”

“Same difference.”

Trey didn’t disagree. “I have to finish the intake report tonight.”

“I know. It’s okay. I’m going to try to catch Winston.” I leaned against the railing, and the wet breeze flipped my hair across my face. “Hope worked for him too, you know. That’s where we met. I specialized in ghosts and the Civil War, she knew architecture and famous people.”

Trey didn’t reply. He was half a second from telling me he didn’t want me to go by myself.

“Oh no, you don’t,” I said. “We made a deal, fair and square.”

He shot me a look. “Hardly fair.”

“But a deal nonetheless.” I rubbed his arm. “Winston is an old friend. I’ve known him for years. I’ll be fine.”

Trey examined me, his head tilted. Finally, he squared his shoulders and pulled the keys to the Lincoln out of his pocket.

“Remember,” he said. “Sensible.”

***

He insisted on escorting me downstairs. In the fifteen seconds it took to reach the lobby, he paced off the elevator’s dimensions and scanned the ceiling, finally locating the barely perceptible security camera in the corner. Its presence seemed to reassure him.

In the lobby, a uniformed bellhop approached us with a little half-bow. “Mr. Seaver?”

Trey stopped. “Yes?”

The bellhop handed him a card. “You have a delivery, sir. Ms. Randolph too.”

Trey looked over the bellhop’s shoulder. Two sets of golf clubs leaned against the front desk like incognito celebrities, a men’s set and a women’s. Callaways, top of the line. Trey opened the card.

“From Reynolds Harrington,” he said. He handed the card back to the bellhop. “Take them to the room, please. I’ll be right up.”

Then he put his hands on his hips and looked hard at me. “Do you have your keys?”

“Room key, car key, cell phone, pepper spray. I even have the .38.” I stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “This is my home turf. I know these streets like I know my own bones.”

He softened a bit. A peck on the cheek usually had that effect. I headed out the doors, tossing him a wave. “Back in two hours. Be careful with my new clubs.”

Chapter Ten

The rain had cleared out all but the most intrepid tourists, the sweetgrass rose-makers and the buskers too, leaving behind a layer of mineral-rich ozone. The street blossomed with familiar sounds and smells—fried shrimp and warm pralines, spilled beer and pipe tobacco, the echoing churn of the paddleboats plowing the water.

I walked carefully on the cobbled walkway, old ballast stones from centuries of ships; they were slippery and treacherous, downright deadly for the high-heeled and inebriated. I was neither, but still cautious. The last thing I wanted to do was call Trey to come and rescue me because I’d sprained my ankle.

So I was moving slow. Paying attention. Which was why I noticed the shadowy figure duck into the alley.

I stopped at the candy shop and pretended to watch a man dump a vat of glazed pecans on a marble slab. I tried to scan the sidewalk with my peripheral vision, but saw only a couple walking arm in arm, a gaggle of art students laughing and elbowing each other.

I shoved my hands in my pockets and kept walking. When I passed the alley, I paused and looked inside. River Street had several of these passages, some stair-stepped, some simple inclines, some narrow, some wide. They all led from River Street to a single long passageway running parallel to the sidewalks and the river, behind the shops. This particular alley had a fire-escape at its entrance, and I waited under it, back against the wet limestone, listening and watching.

But the shadow had vanished.

I knew it wasn’t my imagination, however. I also knew I’d shown my hand. Whoever was following me knew I’d burned them—they’d be extra-careful next time, and I was certain there’d be a next time.

Five more minutes of walking took me to the front door of Lowcountry Excursions. I was disappointed to see a CLOSED sign. Granted, it was a Monday afternoon in the off season, and rainy to boot, but rule one of the tour industry was “always be open.” I put my hands to the glass and peered inside.

I saw a faint glow toward the back, like a small lamp burning. I followed another side alley around back, the memories crowding like fog, irresistible. I remembered River Street ablaze with summer heat, bursting with tourists, Hope and I taking our break together in this narrow lane behind the shops. It was shaded and cool there, even if it smelled of shrimp shells and standing water and slick stone. We’d sucked down cigarettes, joined by the waitresses and busboys, bound in the camaraderie of exhaustion and nicotine.

I tried the back door to Winston’s shop, the one marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. I gave it a push, and soft blurry light squeezed out the sliver, accompanied by the sounds of human activity. I peered inside and saw Winston.

He hadn’t changed a bit—mouse-brown hair sticking up in points all over his head, a round face like a harvest moon, one of his eye-blinding Hawaiian shirts paired with worn jeans. He crouched behind the counter on one knee, shoving a box into the storage area, muttering to himself.

I leaned against the wall. “Good help is so hard to find these days.”

He jumped and cursed, banging into the counter. The box jangled, the sound of glass against glass, and he moved in front of it quickly, like it contained the crown jewels. Already he was acting suspiciously, and I hadn’t even asked the first question.

He squinted. “Tai? Is that you?”

I stepped into the circle of light. “Hey, boss man.”

He forced a grin. “Well, I’ll be damned. It is you.”

The front of the shop lay dark and deserted behind him, but I could make out hazy details. Rows of brochures, a display of Savannah-themed trinkets, a stand of guidebooks. And there, perched beside the cash register, a cage containing a familiar wad of feathers and fluff. It croaked at me, a crooning demented noise.

“You’ve still got Jezebel, I see.”

He snorted. “Damn bird won’t die.”

The parrot glared at me, then trilled in exact mimicry of a cell phone. The bird was violent emerald green splattered with white and blue, one eye cocked like a lunatic peeking through a keyhole.

Winston grimaced. “Stupid bird. I swear it’s possessed.”

I pulled a pack of gum from my pocket, shoved two sticks in my mouth. “So how are things with you?”

Winston leaned against the counter, firmly between me and the box. “Pretty good. You looking to get your old job back?”

“Jeez, no. I’m here for the Expo. Got a new gig now.”

“Doing what?”

I told him. He laughed. But he didn’t move from his spot in front of the counter.

“How about you?” I said. “Still making money hand over fist?”

“Not so much. Lots of competition now—tour buses, tour carriages, tour hearses. Tourists are getting too lazy to walk.”

I remembered hanging out with the other guides. We often held contests to see who’d spun the biggest sensationalistic lie and passed it off as fact. Tourists would believe any story, it seemed, if it had a bloodthirsty rogue slave or star-crossed lovers in it. And the tips would increase accordingly.

I tried to look nonchalant. “You haven’t seen Hope around by any chance?”

“Hope? Is she back in town?”

He delivered the line smoothly, his eyes wide. I realized then that I didn’t need Trey at all—Winston’s lie glowed like the Vegas strip on his round innocent cheeks.

I shrugged. “So I’ve heard.”

“I’m surprised you’re still speaking to her.”

“I’m not. But we have some business.”

Winston frowned. “You’re not looking to beat her up, are you?”

“No. It’s a long story. I figured if she really were back in town, you’d have been her first stop.”

“Why would she come looking for me?”

“Because that’s what people do—they stick with what they know. Here I am, after all, back in Savannah. Back in this shop, talking to you.”

“Sorry. Haven’t seen her.” He gave me a curious look. “I heard Boone got out of prison. Is that for real?”

Boone again. I was wondering when people would forget we were connected. As long as he was a local legend, however, I guessed that would be never.

“It’s for real.”

“You been to the compound since he got out?”

“It’s not a compound, and no, I haven’t. I have no reason to see him, and if he wants to see me, he’ll let me know.”

Winston’s eyes gleamed. “I heard he keeps a gator pit out back, just in case he needs to make somebody disappear.” He clapped his hands like two jaws snapping together. “And that on the night of the full moon—”

“Never mind Boone. I have another question.” I pulled the old man’s photograph from my tote bag and handed it to Winston. “You know this guy?”

Winston examined it. His perplexed expression was genuine this time. “No. Who is he?”

“Vincent DiSilva, of Jacksonville. He might be connected to my situation with Hope.”

“How?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

Winston examined the photograph deliberately. Good. If Hope had been keeping secrets from him about the origins of that Bible, he might have some questions for her when she showed up again. Because bet my bottom dollar, she was showing up, and soon.

I jabbed my chin at the box under the counter. “That didn’t break, did it?”

He paled. “What?”

“Whatever it is in that box. Sounds delicate.”

He laughed nervously. “Souvenir shot glasses. You know how tourists are, always wanting something with a shamrock.”

I kept the smile plastered on my face. I didn’t believe a word coming out of his mouth. But there wasn’t much I could do about it at the moment.

I fished out one of my cards and handed it to him. “If you do see Hope, will you let me know? She may have gotten herself in over her head.”

“With what?”

“Bad stuff.”

He examined the card as if it were possibly counterfeit. “Sure. If she comes around. Which I doubt. Should I tell her you’re looking for her?”

I handed him a second card. “Yeah, do that. Tell her I’d like to make a deal. No tricks.”

His eyes went shrewd. He tapped my card against the hard grain of the counter. “Sure. But even if she is back in town, she’s got no friends in this quarter, not anymore.”

“She doesn’t need a friend, she needs an accomplice. And in Savannah, those are a dime a dozen.”

Chapter Eleven

Back at the hotel, I found Trey engrossed in paperwork in the adjoining room. I hopped up on the edge of his desk.

He moved his papers to the other side of his work space. “You’re wet.”

“It’s raining again.” I ran a finger across his shoulders. “You’re perfectly dry.”

“Of course I am. I haven’t left the room.”

“Are you sure?”

He frowned at me. “Of course. Why do you ask?”

“Because somebody was following me.”

His expression sharpened. “Where?”

“On River Street.”

“Why?”

“Good question.” I shook rain from my hair, which earned me a reproachful look. “Do you know why anybody would be tailing me?”

“No. Are you sure you were being tailed?”

“Yes. Are you sure you don’t know?”

“Yes.” He narrowed his eyes. “Was that an accusation?”

“No. Was that an evasion?”

“No.”

I smiled. “You sure about that?”

He put down his pen. “Tai. I wasn’t following you. We had a deal.” He sat back in his chair, his expression razor-sharp, but no longer annoyed. “I had no reason to follow you. If I’d wanted to see what you were doing, I could have gone with you.”

“The whole reason for following someone is that you suspect they’re up to something they wouldn’t otherwise be up to if you were actually right there with them.”

“I don’t suspect you of anything. And even if I did, that’s not my job.” He gestured toward the paperwork on his desk. “This is my job. Which I have been doing since you left.”

I examined the desktop. It was smothered in complex dense reports, with his neat notes on the yellow pad beside. He’d obviously been hard at work.

“Could it have been Phoenix?” I said.

“Marisa was with me.”

“She could have sent one of her minions.”

“I’m her minion.” He shooed me off the desk and pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket. “She could have engaged another agent for the assignment. I don’t know. But that’s not my main concern.”

“Mine either. I’m concerned about a wild card stalker. That’s why I was hoping it was Marisa.”

He polished the wood dry. Handkerchiefs were such useful things, good for evidence collection, first aid, turning hot doorknobs during a fire. Trey was the first guy I’d dated who always had one in pocket.

“Did you get a description?”

“No. The most likely culprit is Hope, but how would she know where to find me?” I had a sudden rush of suspicion. “You think John told her? Somebody at the hotel maybe?”

“I don’t know. But I’m filling out a 302 regardless.”

Trey tucked the handkerchief in his pocket and returned to the computer. He tapped out a lightning fast sequence, and the Phoenix log-in screen appeared. I grabbed a towel from the bathroom and scrubbed at my damp hair. Trey was always filling out 302s, Phoenix’s version of an incident report. They were the first step to going full corporate agent bad ass on some troublemaker.