Mr. Write (Sweetwater) (46 page)

Even as her vision grayed, she saw the boat pulled up to the old, decaying dock.

“You and me,” he told her.  “We’re going to take us a little ride.”
    

TUCKER
let out a sigh of relief as he pocketed his phone.

His editor
hadn’t hated it.  She’d been surprised – and damn curious – but she hadn’t hated it.  She thought it would work.  In fact, with a few more tweaks, she thought it could rock.

He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, considered exactly how he’d approach Sarah.  Did he wait until the damn thing came out, do the whole dedication thing?  Was that cheesy?
  And besides, that could take several months.  Did he want to wait that long?

Something to think about later. 

He checked his watch, realized that he’d been on the phone for nearly fifteen minutes.  And that Sarah still wasn’t back.

Talking to the old woman, probably.  What was her name?  Miss Essie.  She’d told him that Essie was the one who’d taught her to make a Lowcountry boil, just like Sarah had taught him. 

Could go for another one of those, he mused and his stomach growled in agreement.  After all, it was basically just throwing stuff in a pot. Not really what he thought of as cooking.

Whatever
they did, he considered as he re-checked his watch, they needed to get on with it.  He had to be up before any sane human being should even think of surfacing tomorrow to drive Mason to the Savannah airport.

When another five minutes passed, Tucker climbed out of the truck.

Just got caught up talking, he thought, even as something icy slicked over his skin.  He started walking, then jogging toward the back door.

He almost went in.  He had his hand on the door latch.

Then something – a flash of something, back in the trees – had him turning toward the river.

And turning, he started to run.

HE
came like vengeance. 

One moment Sarah was struggling
against Jonas, the next he was simply... flying through the air.  Relief dropped her to her knees, and she saw Tucker – his face a twisted mask – grappling with Jonas on the soggy ground of the riverbank.

Fists flew, and though they were nearly evenly matched in size, Tucker had the advantage of fury.

Then fear came – hard and bright – when she saw the switchblade Jonas pulled from his pocket.

“Tucker!”
She tried to scream it, but only managed a garbled sound against the tape covering her mouth.  She ripped at it even as she launched herself forward.  
“No!”

But the men had rolled out of her reach.  She saw the blade come up, flash down just as they splashed into the water.

“No.  No, no.”  Heart pounding, Sarah crawled across the mud, scanned the river with eyes gone wide and wild with panic.  The current here was lazy, but the water was deeper than it looked.

Nothing.  Just the gentle lap of water against the reeds.  “Tucker!”  Come on, come on.  Now would be a good time to swim like a fish
, damn it.

A hundred scenarios raced through her head – should she run back to the church for help?  Dive in? 
She wasn’t sure she was strong enough to pull him up.  Then she thought of the boat, and life jackets, and scrambled toward the dock.   

The sound of the boat engine growing louder barely registered.  Until
she heard the voice over the bullhorn.  “Stop.  This is the police.  Sarah?  Get the hell away from that boat.”

Sarah waved her a
rms frantically to show Will she’d heard him.  Then she boarded anyway.

Breath hitching, she flung open benches until she found a life vest.  She grabbed it with shaking hands
, leapt from the deck to land hard on the dock.

And resisted wildly when Will grabbed her arms.

“Calm down.  Christ, Sarah.  Calm
down
and tell me what’s happened.”

“The water.”  She gestured
toward where she’d watched them roll in.  “Tucker’s in the water.  They’ve been under for at least a couple of minutes.  Jonas has a knife.”

“Shit.  Tolliver, hold my weapon.”  He handed the gun to Darryl, whose eyes were wide and dark in his young face.  
Will yanked off his shoes and grabbed the vest from Sarah.

A hand shot out of the water and clamped on the edge of the dock.

“Tucker.”  God.  Please.  She scrambled over, leaned down alongside Will to grasp the slippery forearm.  They pulled, and Tucker’s head broke the surface.

Water sluiced down his face as he sucked in a mighty breath.

“Get him up, get him up.”

“Give me your other hand,” Will told him.

“Can’t,” Tucker wheezed.  “Holding… Linville.”

“Hell.”  With one hand anchored onto the dock, Will jumped into the water. “I’ve got him,” he told Tucker.  “Darryl, help me haul him out.”

More concerned with Tucker, Sarah made a grab for his other hand.  Together, they managed to get him on the dock, where he lay beside her, gasping.

“Are you okay?” She ran her hand over his dripping hair, his heaving chest.
  Tears coursed another river down her muddy cheeks.  “I thought you’d drowned.  I thought I’d lost you.”

“Broke the curse.”
  The words sounded like they’d been scraped from somewhere deep in his throat.

“What?”

“Dad.  Grandma.  Great-great grandfather.  All drowned.  In the river.  Is that asshole breathing?”

Reluctantly, she glanced behind her to where Will
– soaked to the skin – was performing CPR on Jonas while Darryl radioed for an ambulance.

“I don’t know.  I don’t think so.”  Did she care that he wasn’t breathing?  That he was laying, pale a
s wax, not five feet behind her?  He’d tormented her. Tried to abduct her. Tried to rape her. 

She couldn’t think about that right now.

“You were under so long,” she said as she turned around.  “I couldn’t find you.  I… oh God, Tucker.  You’re bleeding.” She stared at the rapidly spreading stain on his shoulder.  “He stabbed you.  Let me see how bad it is.  Darryl, you tell that ambulance to hurry the hell up!”

“Sarah.”  Tucker fumbled for the hand she was using to press the end of her dress against his shoulder.  “Sarah, I’m okay.  He just – ouch, damn it.  That hurts worse than it did when he grazed me.”

He struggled to sitting, captured her face in his hands.  “I’m okay.  He grazed me.  Look at me,” he said when she tried to shake her head, to look at his arm.  “You didn’t lose me.  I’m not going anywhere.”

“I was so scared,” she whispered, breath hitching as she buried her face against his wet neck.

“Tell me about it.  If the bastard’s not dead, I’m going to kill him.”

“Not for me.  Or not just for me.”  Although she’d been terrified when it was happening.  “For you.”

He reached out to brush a tear from her cheek with his thumb, and Jonas started coughing behind them.

She turned as Will rolled him onto his side, and Jonas heaved up half the river.

“He’s not dead,” Will said, and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth.  “But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try to kill him, Tucker, as I’d just as soon not have to resuscitate him again.”

The ambulance siren screamed closer, and Jonas gave a weak groan.  “You,” Will told him in disgust, “have the right to remain silent.”

“TUCKER?”
Sarah called from the bottom of his steps.

“Up here.”

She followed his voice up the stairs, into the room Mason had been using.  The air conditioner was silent, and late morning light filtered through the vintage lace curtains to lie like golden spider webs across the floor.  Her gaze drifted past the empty bed – now neatly made – toward where Tucker stood, examining a tall dresser.

The look on his face – sad, broody
– tugged at her heartstrings.  When he looked up at her, smiled, those strings wrapped her love for him up in a bright, shiny bow.

“Hey.  Mason get off okay?”

“He’s on his way to New York as we speak.”

“Good.”  But she felt a little pang.  “I know you’ll miss him.”

“Mmm.  My dad made this.”

“What?”  She tilted her head at the non-sequitur.

“This highboy.”  Tucker ran his palm over the smooth wood – pine, she thought – of the simple, but sturdy dresser.  Then he opened the top drawer.  “Mason found it when he was packing.”

When he gestured, Sarah came over to peer into the drawer’s recesses.  There in the back were the initials CTP and the date.  Sarah calculated.  Tucker would have been one year old.

“I think he must have made it for me.  For my nursery.”

Sarah squeezed his hand.  They’d lain in bed for hours last night – after giving their statements and a detour to the emergency room so Tucker could get stitches and a tetanus shot – talking about… everything.
  She knew that the empty spot where his relationship with his father should have been was a hole he struggled to fill.

“It’s beautiful.  I can see where you get your talent.”

He stared at the open drawer for a moment.  “My mom must not have been able to bring it with us.  It wouldn’t have fit in the car. I, uh…” He rubbed a hand over his eyes.  Cleared his throat.  “When I started to take an interest in carpentry, in building stuff, I made this little wooden box for her for Mother’s Day.  Didn’t turn out too bad.  Until I painted a… I guess you could tentatively call it a flower on top.”

“I take it art is not one
of your hidden talents?”

“Not unless it’s so well hidden as to be completely obscure.”

“That’s a relief.  I was starting to worry that you were perfect.”  When he slanted her a narrow look, she laughed.  “Continue with your story.”

He looked at the chest again.  “She cried.  When I gave her the box, she cried.  I assumed it was just a normal mom thing, but… I remember that night I heard her crying in her room.  I could tell she was trying to keep it quiet, but the walls were like tissue paper.  I still remember thinking
Wow, she must really like that box. 
And so I started building more things, you know, to please her.  And now I realize that she must have been sad.  Because it reminded her of my dad.”

“No.” She squeezed his hand again.  “It made her proud.  Sad, too.  But
really, really proud.”

“You’re probably right.” He shut the drawer.  “You know, my grandfather didn’t care for the fact that my dad was doing things like this.
Working with his hands, I mean.”

“All the more reason to be happy that you inherited that particular skill.”

Tucker turned her in his arms.  Sighing, Sarah nuzzled against him.

“You haven’t said anything ab
out my grandfather’s role in what happened.”

Sarah sighed.  They’d learned from Will that Carlton had called nine-one-one stating that Jonas Linville had accosted him while he was enjoying a drink in his garden, and left by boat
only when Carlton agreed to transfer funds to Linville’s bank account in exchange for some note that was supposedly written by Carlton’s son.  According to Will, Carlton claimed Linville had been “raving, clearly unstable,” and Carlton had been frightened into going along with him because “the boy had a gun.”

“You think your grandfather double crossed him.”

“I have no doubt.  And anything Linville says to the contrary will be colored by the fact that he’s been charged with any number of nasty crimes.  Carlton hedged his bets.  He could have simply paid the asshole off.  It likely would have been less sticky for him, especially if Linville learned about the damn note from eavesdropping on our conversation out at the old library. But it also diminishes Carlton’s sense of control.  Why shoo a cockroach away when you can squash it?”

“Your account of the note backs Jonas up.”

“Which is a hell of a catch twenty-two, isn’t it?  And anyway, the note’s gone.  My grandfather can claim he never saw it, but I know he destroyed it.” 

He
sighed, then kissed the top of her head.  “On second thought, I don’t want to talk about this right now.  I have a couple things for you.  Well, one of them’s for Allie.  Come here.”

He took her hand, tugged her toward his office.

“First.”  He picked up an envelope from his desk. 
Allison
had been written across the front in elegant script.

“What’s this?”

“From Mason.  And don’t even ask what it’s about.  I don’t know.  But I’d appreciate it if you’d give it to Allie, so that I don’t have to say something like
my friend asked me to give this to you
and feel like I’m back in junior high.”

“Okay.”  Her lips quivered.
 

“And second,” he hesitated just a moment before picking up a large stack of papers from the desk.  When she’d taken it from him, scanned the first few sentences, her heart gave a single lurch.