Carolina Blues (24 page)

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Carolina Dreaming

Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!

G
ABE SHIFTED HIS
seabag on his shoulder, adjusting its weight against the March wind cutting off the ocean. He didn’t mind a little wind. Where he’d been, there were no seasons and no privacy, only the stink of metal grease, violence, piss, and Lysol. Like the inside of a ship.

Lying in his rack at night, he used to dream of spring. Spring and women and the sea.

When he got out, winter had still lingered in North Dakota in the dirty piles of snow, in the biting cold. But here, the Carolina sun was warm against his face. The long bridge ahead arched like a gull’s wing, skimming between sea and sky.

His heart lifted. It had been eleven years since he first crossed this bridge from the marshy inlet over the flashing waters of the Sound. Behind him, the highway was littered with fast-food chains and beach shops, gas stations and marinas, but this view hadn’t changed.

Maybe it was a sign, cause for encouragement.

And maybe he was grasping at straws.

Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in
.

He’d read that somewhere, Afghanistan or prison. His teachers used to complain he wasn’t much of a reader, but that line had stuck with him. Maybe because he’d never had a home. There wasn’t anybody who felt they had to take him in, no place he belonged.

Except the Marines, for a while.

He’d screwed that up. He’d screwed up a lot of things.

But there was still a chance that his old buddy Luke would come through with a meal, a bunk, a job. All Gabe needed—all he had any right to hope for—was a chance.

A tall white bird stood motionless in the reeds of a sandbar. The water shimmered to the horizon, reflecting back a wide blue sky painted with clouds.

Gabe breathed deep, smelling salt.
Freedom
.

A pickup rumbled by in a rush of grit and exhaust. He turned his face away, pressing closer to the guardrail. Somehow he’d missed the entrance to the walkway bordering the bridge, so he was stuck trudging the traffic lane with no hope for a lift. He guessed not many happy families headed to the beach in March. Not that happy family groups would be picking up hitchhikers anyway.

Especially not hitchhikers who looked like him.

Sunburn had replaced his cell-block pallor, but he needed a shave and a better wash than he could manage at the sink of some truck stop restroom. He’d zigged and zagged eighteen hundred miles cross-country from the North Dakota State Penitentiary to the North Carolina coast in a jagged, dotted line that left him hungry, footsore, and broke, searching for . . . something.

Whatever the hell it was, he had a better chance of finding it if he had Luke’s help. They were the same age, both enlisted fresh out of high school. Even as boots, everybody looked up to Luke. Everybody trusted him. If you were in the shit, Luke would pull you out.

If Gabe couldn’t find Luke . . . Well, he’d find something.
Improvise, adapt, overcome
, they said in the Marines.

The bridge crested and rolled smoothly down to the inlet’s northern side, a network of sandbars and saltwater channels protected by a man-made wall of rock. Gabe’s eye traveled from the beds of rusty pine straw to the municipal sign by the side of the road, its blue-and-gold lettering standing out boldly against the weathered wood.
WELCOME TO DARE ISLAND.

A black-and-white patrol vehicle parked in the shade of the pines.

Gabe’s stomach tensed. Nothing to do with him, he told himself. He wasn’t breaking any laws, wasn’t doing anything wrong. But that didn’t stop the sick acceleration of his heart.

A car rattled past on its way to somewhere else.

Gabe tramped along the sandy verge, keeping his eyes averted from the patrol vehicle’s darkened windshield. He wasn’t looking for trouble.

As he drew level with the hood, the door swung open. An officer got out, a rangy, rumpled man in his fifties who looked like every Southern lawman in every chain gang movie ever made, graying hair, mirrored glasses, face grooved like a tractor tire.

Gabe stopped, hand tightening on the strap of his duffel.
Is there a problem, officer?

But he kept his mouth shut. He already knew the answer.
He
was the problem. He’d heard the words on park benches and in public libraries, on street corners and in cafés.
Move along. Your kind’s not welcome here
.

He stood and waited, his heart pounding.

Southern Lawman jerked his chin toward the posted regulations. “No pedestrians on the bridge.”

Gabe could have explained that by the time he figured out he’d missed the only ramp for the pedestrian walkway, he’d been a half mile across the bridge. Instead, since he had shit for brains, he said, “You don’t look like a crossing guard.”

The officer’s expression never changed. “You don’t look like an idiot. Why don’t you save us both some trouble and turn around now?”

“Can’t. Sorry,” Gabe said with almost genuine regret. He really wasn’t looking for trouble. “I’m here to see somebody.”

“Is that right.” The officer’s flat tone made the question into a statement of disbelief.

Gabe nodded, trying to keep his tone easy despite the tension balling his gut. “Luke Fletcher.” The officer’s face could have been carved from stone. But something in his very stillness prompted Gabe to add, “You know him? His folks used to run an inn around here.”

Still did, he hoped. He’d been to their place only once, when Luke had dragged him along after their graduation from boot camp. Gabe had never known a family like the Fletchers. Their easy welcome, their wholehearted acceptance of their son’s friend, had sucked him in and left him floundering like a swimmer in unfamiliar waters.

For years after that, Tess Fletcher had sent Gabe care packages, to Iraq, to Afghanistan. The memory of her kindness made his throat constrict.

Over time, they’d lost touch. Just as well. He didn’t like to think of Luke’s mom sending care packages to prison.

The officer pulled a notebook from his pocket. “Name?”

The knot in Gabe’s gut tightened. “You charging me?”

“I’m
asking
you. What’s your name?”

“Gabe Murphy.”

“Where you from,
Mr
. Murphy?” The slight emphasis was worse than a sneer.

North Dakota State Penitentiary
. “All over,” Gabe said evenly.

“ID?”

Don’t run. Don’t lie. Don’t make sudden moves
. “In my pocket.”

The officer nodded, giving him permission to reach for it.
H. CLARK
read the dull metal name tag below his badge.

Gabe handed over his commercial driver’s license. Still valid.

Officer Clark studied it. Studied him. “Be right back,” he said, and disappeared into the marked car.

Gabe fixed the bored, I-don’t-give-a-shit look on his face that he’d perfected by age ten. His all-purpose expression, equally good for the principal’s office and prison.

Through the windshield, he could see the officer tap something into the dashboard and then reach for the radio.

Gabe waited, sweat collecting in the small of his back.

He’d done his time, he had no outstanding warrants, he wasn’t in violation of his parole. There was no reason for the cop to detain him.

Unless H. Clark was just looking to fuck with somebody. Which in Gabe’s experience, with Gabe’s luck, happened all too often.

Returning, the officer handed Gabe his license. No comment. Gabe relaxed a fraction, tucking the card into his wallet.

“Get in back,” Clark said.

Fuck.

As a kid hauled into the principal’s office, as a boot dragged in by the MPs, Gabe might have protested.
I didn’t do anything
. He knew better now. “Why?”

“You want to see Luke Fletcher. I can take you to him.”

Gabe stuck his thumbs into his belt loops, not moving.
Why?
It was for damn sure the cop hadn’t offered out of the goodness of his heart.

Clark scowled. “I don’t want you bothering the Fletchers. You got business with Luke, you deal with him.”

That made sense. Gabe trusted the man’s suspicion more than any kindness. Warily, he climbed into the back of the cop car, stowing his seabag on the seat beside him.

When, ten minutes later, the cop pulled to a stop in front of the squat brick police station, Gabe didn’t feel betrayed as much as resigned. He never really expected things to go his way.

“I thought you were taking me to see Luke Fletcher.”

“Yep.”

“He in lockup?” Gabe asked, only half joking.

“Worse than that.” Clark met his gaze in the rearview mirror. “He’s a cop.”

Wait. What?

Luke had always been one of the Good Guys, but they’d raised a lot of hell together over the years. Gabe had trouble picturing his old buddy as a cop.

He slid out of the vehicle, hauled out his duffel. His prison guard look-alike waved him ahead through the station house doors.

And there was Luke, in the flesh, in uniform, and Gabe didn’t have to picture anything at all.

“Gabe.” Grinning, the tall blond former staff sergeant grabbed Gabe around the neck with one arm. Pounded his back with the other.

Gabe returned his hug. “Luke. You look . . .”
Good
, he decided. The uniform, the life, must suit him. “Very respectable,” he said.

“You look like shit,” Luke responded frankly. “What brings you to Dare Island?”

Gabe eased back, just a little. “Long story.”

“Yeah, I heard some of it,” Luke said.

The radio call, Gabe thought. He cleared his throat, aware of Clark and some lady behind a desk, listening in. “When did you leave the Corps?”

Luke’s blue eyes narrowed at the change of subject, but he answered readily enough. “Eight months ago. I’m married now. With a little girl.”

“Congrats, bro. That’s . . .” Fucking weird. Luke, a cop. Luke, a dad. “That’s great. I didn’t know you had a baby.”

“Neither did I.”

Gabe frowned. “How old is she?”

“Almost twelve.”

“No shit.” There had been a high school girlfriend, Gabe remembered. Luke had talked about her some, back in their boot camp days. She’d dumped Luke’s ass when he joined up, but obviously things had changed. “So you and . . .” What was her name? Debbie? “Dana got married?”

“Dawn.” Luke shook his head. “Long story. I’ll fill you in over coffee, and you can tell me what you’re doing here.”

The middle-aged woman behind the desk—dark hair, dark eyes, bright coral lipstick—swiveled in her chair. “We have a call. An animal complaint on Shoreline Drive. Sounds like the Crowleys’ dog got loose again.”

Luke nodded. “I’ll take care of it on my way back.”

“You going to Jane’s?” Clark asked.

“That’s the plan,” Luke said easily. “I’ll tell her you said hi.”

“Why? I’ll see her myself tonight. But you . . .” His fierce gray gaze speared Gabe. “You stay away from her.”

“Maybe I would if I knew who the hell you were talking about.”

“Jane,” Clark said. “My daughter.”

*   *   *

J
ANE
C
LARK READ
over the builder’s proposal for the new enclosed patio at Jane’s Sweet Tea House, trying not to think of all the things that could go wrong.

Her savings had carried her through the off-season with just enough left over to pay for this project. But even with the builder’s lowball quote, the expansion would take almost every cent she had. What would she do if the walk-in refrigerator went or the fondant sheeter needed repairs or seven-year-old Aidan broke his arm?

She twisted her braid around her finger tightly enough to turn the tip of her finger blue.

You’re doing fine. Just try your best, and everything will be all right
, she always told Aidan.

Too bad she didn’t have a mother to tell her everything would work out. If disaster struck, she simply couldn’t go to her father again. Not after all he’d already done for them.

“You don’t need to pay until the job’s finished,” said the builder, Sam Grady, into the silence.

Sam meant to be kind. He could afford to be. The Grady family owned, managed, or developed half the island, including Jane’s bakery. But her pride was touched. “Thanks, Sam. But I don’t need charity.”

“It’s not charity. That last storm knocked the hell out of our beachfront properties. I’ve got more work than I can handle getting everything ready for summer. As long as you don’t mind being flexible about the schedule, I can be flexible about payment.”

“I can be flexible,” she said.
Sort of
. Sam had already given her a break on the project cost. She certainly didn’t expect him to pull his crews off more profitable jobs to work on her little patio space. She smiled. “Thank you.”

“We’ll be out of your hair by Memorial Day.” He flashed her the Grady grin, white teeth and charm. “Promise.”

Meaning he’d be done with the job before the season started and the tourists came.

Her smile, her whole body, relaxed. “That would be great. Here.” She thrust a pink-and-white bakery box at him.

His brows rose in surprise. “What’s this?”

“Cupcakes. To say thank you.”

“You didn’t need to do that.”

“I want to.” Not because she owed him—which she did—but simply because it made her happy to feed people. “Cappuccino cream for Meg and red velvet for you.”

“Can’t say no to that. Thanks, Jane.”

She followed him to the bakery door, watching as he strolled down the steps and away, hardworking, handsome, successful Sam Grady. A genuinely nice guy, six years ahead of her in school and forever out of reach.

Not her type, she would have said back then, when she was young and stupid and her type meant pretty much any guy her father disapproved of who showed her a little attention.

As Sam reached the end of the walk, a police car pulled up behind his truck. Sam stopped as the driver’s-side door opened and Luke Fletcher got out. The two men greeted each other.

They made quite a picture, Jane admitted, Sam, lean and elegant, with his unruly dark hair and killer smile, Luke, blond and broad-shouldered in his police uniform.