Death's Half Acre (27 page)

McKinney told me again how really nice it was to meet me, then they were gone, striding across the lobby to a hallway that led to the tax offices and to our register of deeds.

Register of deeds?

For a moment I was tempted to dash after them and demand to know what was going on. I’ve heard that McKinney has a silver tongue when it comes to talking the elderly into giving parcels of their land to the church so that he could do the Lord’s work. The catch to that is that the church is his personal property, which means that all the deeds are registered in his name. It’s said he sold some of the donated land to finance a used-car dealership that was supposed to turn a profit for the church, but so far there’s been nothing to show for the prosperity except a nicer-than-usual parsonage and the well-cut suits that McKinney wore.

Surely Daddy wasn’t about to turn over some of his land to McKinney?

“
And what if he is
?” said the pragmatist in my head.
“It’s his, isn’t it?”

The preacher was silent.

As Judith Viorst once put it, this was turning into a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

When I pulled up at the side door of Will’s warehouse, I did get a small break. There was no sign of his van and a small, hand-lettered card in the door window informed the world that he expected to be back by one-thirty. I tried the door. Locked, of course, but with a little more luck, he had only pulled the door to without bothering to throw the dead bolt on the upper lock. One of my nephews had showed me the credit card trick and the simple lock opened on my first try.

Just to be safe, though, I called out as soon as I was inside. “Will? Anyone here?”

The office was empty, so I passed on into the warehouse proper and called again.

My luck was still holding. There was no response.

Will had left a few lights on, but they did little to cut the gloom and the floor space was so jammed with boxes, furniture, and bric-a-brac that it took me a few minutes to locate the dollhouse. When I did, I was surprised to see that half the furnishings had been unwrapped and lay strewn across the tabletop where the dollhouse sat. Happily, Will hadn’t gotten to the kitchen things yet. I’d wrapped them last and put them near the top of the second, smaller, cardboard box. I soon found the little freezer and, as I’d hoped, once the shelves were removed, the flash drive ought to fit perfectly. I took it out of my pocket, but before I could slide it inside, I thought I heard something rustle behind me.

Trying to look innocent, I turned with the drive and freezer in my hands and said, “Will? Guess what I’ve found?”

But I saw no one and realized that I was letting my guilty conscience spook me.

I turned back, intending to wrap up the freezer and put it back in the box because I wanted Will here when I made my great discovery. But as I reached for the paper, two things happened. I heard a shot and my left arm immediately felt as if it’d been stung by a very angry hornet. What the hell?

A second shot zinged past my head so close it almost singed my hair.

I dropped everything and dived for cover behind a chest of drawers just as another shot buried itself in the wood.

I eeled along the floor till I was behind a tall wardrobe. My arm was on fire and when I looked down, I saw that the sleeve of my white linen jacket was red with blood and I had left a trail of bright drops on the floor. Bleeding like a stuck pig, where could I hide? The shooter was between me and the only way out. Beyond the office were roll-up garage-type doors, but even if I could get there without being seen, they would be locked and I wouldn’t have time to figure out how to unlock them before the shooter heard me.

Frantically, I looked around for a safe haven and saw a heavy metal door standing ajar nearby. Of course! The warehouse toilet!

Clutching my burning arm, I made a desperate sprint for it. Another shot rang out and ricocheted off the metal door. As I slipped inside, I glanced back.

Halfway down the cluttered aisle, a shadowy figure held the little gun with two hands braced on a wingback chair.

Terrified, I slammed the door shut and rammed the sturdy lockbolt in place.

An instant later, the door rattled and banged in manic frustration.

“Go away!” I screamed inanely.

Something heavy crashed against the door but the metal held firm.

With my ear against the door, I thought I heard footsteps click away, but it could have been a trick. Didn’t matter to me at that point because no way was I coming out before Will got back.

If the warehouse was poorly lit, this place was even darker, and the smell of urine and cheap pine cleansers almost gagged me. The single window was small and dirty and no bigger than a legal pad. Hinged at the bottom, it was probably meant for ventilation before air-conditioning. For the moment, I was glad it was at least twelve feet above my head so that I didn’t have to worry about being attacked from the outside. Too, it let me see a light switch by the door.

The bulb hanging down from the ceiling must have been a forty-watter, but I didn’t care. It was enough to show me the sink. Also filthy. I tried to wipe it out with liquid soap on a paper towel, but by now the pain was so intense that I quit dithering about germs. Easing off my jacket, I soaked it in cold water and held it to the oozing gash the bullet had made in my arm. Ah! Better. Much better. The wound still hurt like hell, but it didn’t seem to be spurting. Not spurting was good, wasn’t it? Meant no major vessel had been hit? I tried to remember the first-aid instruction Portland and I got when we gave Girl Scouts a brief try a million years ago.

Irrelevant thoughts and disconnected images tumbled through my head in kaleidoscopic turmoil as the adrenaline that had been pumping through my veins slowed down and leveled off. Throughout it all, I worried with the identity of who had shot me. In the dim light, that face had looked vaguely familiar, like a face I might have seen around town without ever putting a name to it.

Whether it was the adrenaline rush or the loss of blood, I felt myself getting light-headed and sank down on the floor. Random and almost incoherent thoughts flicked in and out of my mind—the dollhouse . . . the flash drive . . . Dwight . . . Candace Bradshaw’s irritating giggles . . . insider information . . . power plays . . . playing loose and dirty . . . this dirty floor . . . Candace’s shining clean bathroom and this filthy, stinking hole . . .

I don’t know if I actually passed out, but when my head cleared again, I thought I knew who that face was and why Candace and Dee had been killed. If I was right, it explained how John Claude had lost that big case to Greg Turner and why Jamie’s presentation didn’t win her the contract for Grayson Village.

I looked at my watch. Ten till one and I was due back at the courthouse at one. Forget that. Call Dwight. Tell him—

Oh. Right. Phone’s in my purse and it must have slipped from my shoulder when that first shot hit me.

Well, it would have to stay out there. Sooner or later someone would come and then—

Abruptly, I realized it wasn’t just the odor of pine cleanser and urine that was making me cough. Smoke seemed to be seeping in around the edges of the door.

I managed to stand and quietly slide back the bolt, then eased the door open slowly, half expecting gunfire. Instead, I heard the crackle of flames. Horrified, I saw a wall of fire blocking my way to the doors, and clouds of smoke billowed toward me.

CHAPTER 24

The preacher rushes

into his sermon, suffering

happiness in the tears

that drop

in his understanding

of our miserable lot.

—Middle Creek Poems,
by Shelby Stephenson

I
n the register of deeds office, the clerk smiled and handed over the receipt for the fees the office charged to register new deeds. “Good thing for y’all that there’s no transfer tax in Colleton County yet.”

The two men smiled and thanked her for her help.

Outside they shook hands.

“I can rest easy now,” Kezzie Knott said, hefting the small carrying case in his hands. “Can’t nobody ever dig up that man’s body now and I know you’ll use this for the good of the Lord.”

To Faison McKinney’s dismay, the old man opened the case right there on the sidewalk for all the curious world to see had the world been looking. April sunlight gleamed and flashed on the tangle of bright metal and faceted gemstones within.

“Since these here earrings ain’t worth all that much, I reckon you won’t mind if I keep ’em for a souvenir,” he said and drew out the glittering pair that he had given McKinney to prove that his story was as genuine as those diamonds.

McKinney bit back his protest. No point being greedy. Not when he was getting a pile of gems worth five or six million in exchange for land and goods worth half that. “Not a bit, Brother Kezzie.”

“I surely do thank you for all your help, Preacher. And you don’t have to worry ’bout me ever saying a word of this to anybody.”

“Same here, Brother Kezzie. When we do the Lord’s work, we don’t need to tell the devil.”

As they parted, each man to his own vehicle, Kezzie wondered what he was going to do with that failing used-car dealership.

He wished there were a way to see McKinney’s face when his jeweler friend told him that the bag contained only costume jewelry. Good-quality costume jewelry, but worth no more than five or six hundred dollars for the whole bag.

Well, a man can’t have everything, he told himself philosophically, and drove to the outlet mall, where a black Lincoln with tinted windows sat all alone at the far end of the parking lot. He stopped beside the car and waited till the man in the backseat joined him in the truck’s cab.

“Everything go okay?”

“Hook, line, and sinker,” he said. “Just got to know what bait to use.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out the diamond earrings. “And them here was better’n red wigglers or crickets. You want that used-car place? It ain’t worth much and I got no use for it.”

G. Hooks Talbert gave a sour laugh of grudging admiration. “Damn! You got that, too?”

“Yeah. I figured as long as we was scraping him clean, might as well.”

“Do what you like with it. I don’t want my name on anything connected to this.”

As Kezzie drove back through town, sirens seemed to be coming from every direction. The cars ahead were pulling over to the curb and he did the same. Two fire trucks and an ambulance went flying past and in his rearview mirror he saw several police cars weave in and out around them, all headed in the same direction.

CHAPTER 25

Clutching dear life so thin

The stubborn holding on . . .

—Paul’s Hill,
by Shelby Stephenson

C
hoking and coughing as smoke swirled around me, my first impulse was to retreat to the bathroom again, to slam the door shut and cram the cracks around it with wet paper towels. Instead, I got as close to the floor as I could, where the smoke was slightly thinner, pulled my wet jacket away from my arm, and tied the sleeves behind my head so that my mouth and nose were covered.

The wound began to ooze blood again and smoke burned my eyes, but somehow I forced myself to crawl toward the fire, which must have begun up closer to the front. I was disoriented and couldn’t remember exactly which way I had come until I saw the trail of my blood on the concrete floor. I followed it on hands and knees. The crawl seemed to take forever, and I could feel the heat building toward me as I finally rounded the wardrobe I had cowered behind only a short time ago. Another few feet and I reached the dollhouse.

The flash drive was gone, of course, and so was my purse. I almost whimpered in fear and desperation, but as I turned to crawl back to the toilet, I caught a glimpse of the leather strap under the edge of a chest where I must have kicked it in my haste to get away from the bullets. I yanked at it and it caught on the foot.

The fire was getting ever nearer. I felt my skin drying and somewhere close by something exploded with a shower of glass that sprinkled down on me, shards catching in my hair. Every instinct screamed at me to leave it and go, but I couldn’t give up.

A lateral tug and the purse popped out. I slung the strap over my head and made like an inchworm trying to break the world speed record.

Once I was back inside the toilet with the steel door closed and my wet jacket plugging the crack at the floor, I heard sirens from outside. Someone must finally have given the alarm.

I almost dropped my phone in my haste to turn it on and push the speed dial for Dwight’s number.

He answered on the first ring and before I could speak, he yelled, “Deb’rah? Where the hell are you? Will’s warehouse is on fire and he says your car’s there.”

I told him as concisely as I could, trying not to babble hysterically, “Look for a small high window and oh, Dwight, please hurry!”

“Stay on the phone,” he said. “Don’t hang up. We’ll get you out.”

More sirens outside, and now I heard them through the phone wherever Dwight was. I could also hear him barking orders and then he was back on the line.

“We’re almost there now. I can see the warehouse.”

The front part must have been engulfed with flames by then, for I heard him groan. “Oh, my God!
Deb’rah!
You still all right?”

I was trying not to panic but now that help was so close I was terrified that they would not get to me in time. The walls were built of concrete blocks. Built to last. Like a brick oven. And me the loaf of bread dough.

“Talk to me, Deb’rah,” he said and his voice was suddenly calm and reassuring.

“I’m scared, darling. Really scared.”

“It’s gonna be okay. I promise. We’re here. Get as far from that window as you can and turn your back. They’re gonna smash it open.”

No sooner had he said that than bits of glass showered down. I looked up and there was the face of a fireman who called to me and said, “What we’re gonna do, ma’am, is pull this wall down, so you stay back as far as you can and put this over you.”