Ten Beach Road (45 page)

 

 

The morning of August 25, Charlene moved out of the warm waters of the Caribbean into the even warmer and more welcoming waters of the Gulf of Mexico. The Florida Keys battened down its hatches at just about the same time that Nicole Grant battened down hers.

She’d watched Kyra’s last post to YouTube more than a dozen times, cringing at the initial footage when they’d all looked so beaten and desperate, feeling almost worse at how close they’d all appeared right before she’d been booted out. It was hard not to see just how much the summer had changed them all.

When she’d left Bella Flora, she’d had no destination in mind and only the vaguest of plans for meeting up with Malcolm on her own terms. She’d zigged and zagged her way up the state of Florida always looking over her shoulder, trying to spot a tail. But if someone was following her, it wasn’t Giraldi. Or else Giraldi was very, very good.

With almost ten days to kill, she’d continued north to the semirural area of Acworth, northwest of Atlanta, and stashed the Jag in the cinder block garage of an old friend of their mother’s who’d never had enough money to invest with anyone, and especially not with Malcolm. After dinner and a night on a pull-out sofa that made her mattress on the floor at Bella Flora feel five-star, Nicole gave the woman the cash to pick up a car for her from Rent-A-Wreck. Nikki had spent the last week in the slightly dented beige Ford Focus holing up first at an old friend’s cabin on Lake Lanier before driving east to another friend’s small beach place in St. Simon’s.

Yesterday she’d driven back into Florida, catching I-10 around Jacksonville and heading west to Sneads where Florida met up with the southwest corner of Georgia. Now she was ready to drive the beige rental car into the Three Rivers State Park and hike by foot to the campground on Lake Seminole, where the Chattahoochee and Flint Rivers merged.

Turning in to the park entrance, she watched her rearview mirror carefully to see if anyone had followed her, but there was no sign of movement at all—not even from white-tailed deer and gray foxes that the park’s website seemed so proud of.

Afraid to trust in the absence of Giraldi, she parked at the visitors’ center and went in to use the restroom, taking a good look around while she was there, but no one shouted, “Halt, FBI!” and none of the employees looked anywhere as well built or fluid as Joe. Which may have accounted for her slight flare of disappointment and the reluctance with which she left the building and proceeded on foot to the camping area where Malcolm was supposed to be waiting.

She found him at the farthest campsite very near the lake. An old canoe sat at the lake’s edge with a life vest and both oars stowed neatly inside. Malcolm had set up his tent in the hollow of a Y-shaped rock wall, and was sitting under a live oak in a director’s chair reading what looked like the
Wall Street Journal
. He looked up when her foot crunched loudly on a dead branch. His gaze skimmed over her, then peered beyond her, presumably to make sure she was alone.

“I hope that’s not your getaway vehicle,” she said with a nod toward the canoe. “I’d feel a lot better if you had that yacht you had custom built moored here. Or that race car you sponsored stashed behind one of these trees.”

“Me, too,” he said, folding up the paper and standing. “But at the moment, I can’t even access that old dirt bike I saved all my paper route money for.” He stood as she approached. She took in the rumpled Levi’s and plain white T, which were a far cry from the two-thousand-dollar suit he’d been wearing the last time they met for dinner, and wondered if he’d chosen the ensemble as camouflage or out of necessity.

They hugged, but both their bodies remained stiff with tension. Nikki felt as if she were in some bad movie of the week when he ran his hands up and down her sides.

“Sorry,” he said when he’d finished patting her down. “I just wanted to be sure you weren’t wearing a wire or anything.”

She stepped back so that she could look him in the eye. His were bloodshot and weary. He was overdue for a shave and a haircut. A bath wouldn’t have hurt, either. “Funny, since I’m not the one who’s been lying and stealing.”

He looked surprised, and once again she wondered what he’d been expecting. “Have a seat,” he said, setting up a second director’s chair, keeping the one with its back to the rock face.

She sat. It was hot and humid, with the loamy smell of lake and forest, but not unbearable in the shade of the oak. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d come,” he said. “But then I figured you’d never let me down before. There’s no one I trust more.”

“I used to feel that way about you, too, Malcolm. Until you stole everything I had.” She said it quietly, a replay of their whispered Fourth of July conversation.

“That wasn’t intentional, Nik. I moved everything offshore and spread it between the different accounts. I know exactly how much is yours. Once you start making withdrawals for me your balance comes right off the top.”

“You left me high and dry. No warning, no apology, nothing to live on. You weren’t the only one who made a vow to succeed as a child, Malcolm. I lost my business, my reputation, the clothes off my back . . . everything.”

“But I . . .”

“You didn’t care who you stole from,” she said, thinking of Grace’s foster children and the other charities he’d bankrupted. “Or the lives you destroyed in the process.” She pictured Madeline and her family, the husband who’d lost himself along with his job and their money. “I don’t know how you live with yourself. You may be living in the forest, Malcolm, but you’re no Robin Hood.” She narrowed her gaze, the better to see beyond the much-loved façade. “I’m ashamed of you. You’re greedy and selfish and I suppose some of that is my fault. There is no justification for what you’ve done.”

He blinked in surprise as comprehension dawned. “You’re not going to help me get to my money.” His tone was incredulous.

“It’s not your money, Malcolm. It never was. But I am going to help you.”

A slow smile of relief began to form on his lips.

“I’m going to help you turn yourself in.”

The smile disappeared. He shook his head. “Not likely, Sis. If you’re not on my side, you can just turn around and get the hell out of here.”

“I am on your side, though I hardly understand why anymore. If you turn yourself in and hand over the account numbers, they’re bound to go easier on you. You’ll do some jail time and then . . .”

He stood and looked wildly around. “What have you done? Who have you been talking to?” he asked.

“I haven’t been talking to anyone,” she said, trying to maintain her calm. “But the FBI’s been talking to me. And I don’t know if you’ve seen the papers lately, but they’re not the only ones who know I’m your sister.”

“Jesus, Nik.” He strode to the tent and reached inside, never taking his gaze off of her or the path behind her. When he stood he was holding a gun. “I can’t fucking believe this. Where are they? Where the fuck are they hiding?”

“I didn’t bring anybody,” she said, her eyes on the gun. “I went out of my way to make sure of it.” She stood and took a step toward him. “But I have a phone number.” She thought about Giraldi and almost wished he were here.

“You are fucking crazy if you think I’m going to do that. I’m not going to jail, and I’m not ever going to be a poor nobody again.” He waved the gun around for emphasis and she hoped to hell he had the safety on. This probably wasn’t the time to call him on his overuse of the f-word.

“No, you’ll be that thief Malcolm Dyer who came out of the gutter and stole three hundred million dollars that didn’t belong to him,” she said. “And you’ll spend the rest of your life hiding and on the run.”

“But once I access my accounts, I’ll be hiding and running in style,” he said. “There are all kinds of places to get lost in if you have enough money. And I do, finally.”

“It’s not yours, Malcolm. You need to make things right. Give it back to the people it belongs to.” Like Grace’s foster children. And the Singers and even the hotheaded Avery.

He shook his head, unwilling even to consider the idea. “I’m not giving back a dime, Nik. And I’m definitely not going to jail and coming out with nothing.” His body went very still. His gaze skittered away. “Did you hear that?”

She listened intently for a moment, but heard nothing. This was not going at all as she’d hoped; she simply wasn’t getting through. “It’s just you and me, Malcolm,” she said. “Just like it always was. I know why you picked this place and this date. It was a great Thanksgiving we had here. Almost like the real thing.” She took a step closer, desperate to convince him. “Do you really think Mom or Dad would approve of what you’ve done, what you’re doing now? They were poor and uneducated, and they had their weaknesses. But they weren’t dishonest, Malcolm; they didn’t steal.”

“I’m not going to be broke, Nikki. I can’t survive in prison or anywhere else without something, some kind of nest egg, to come back to.”

Nicole moved another step closer. She understood the fear and dread of poverty that drove him like no one else ever would; they’d been her most powerful motivators, too. She’d come prepared to overcome his dread, even as she’d prayed that no inducement other than a rekindled conscience would be necessary. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a piece of paper and unfolded it, handing it to her brother. “I’ve signed over my third of Ten Beach Road to you. It could be worth up to a million and a half dollars if we get anywhere near the listing price. This can be your nest egg.”

He eyed her and the piece of paper with suspicion. “You’d give me everything you have left to get me to turn myself in?”

She hesitated, feeling queasy, but hopeful, too, as she watched him read the printed document, which she’d signed and had notarized at a small UPS Store in Georgia. She already missed Maddie and Avery and Kyra, and the friendship that had enfolded and buoyed her. Anything that would allow them to get back even part of what had been stolen would be worthwhile. “Yep,” she said. “I guess it’s my way of apologizing for doing such a half-assed job of parenting.”

He grimaced at the insult but didn’t argue. Nor did he give the paper back. She watched him fold it one-handed and stuff it into his jean pocket. “Thanks. You see, I always have been able to count on you. You and that mile-wide soft spot of yours.”

That was when Nicole finally got it. That moment in which she was forced to acknowledge that Malcolm would take the last thing she owned, her very last penny, and not blink an eye. Because he thought he was entitled to it and because nothing else mattered to him—not her love, or her sacrifices, not even their shared past. All of the things she’d cherished didn’t even exist for him.

“So you’ll turn yourself in?” she asked, watching his face carefully, already knowing the answer but not wanting to believe.

He didn’t even pretend to think about it. “I get that you can’t try to access the offshore accounts if they’re aware of you,” he said. “But I’m going to need some money before I can, um, even consider turning myself in. And there is one account you should be able to access without arousing suspicion.”

“Oh?”

“There’s an account that I kept in Mom’s name. It was just something I played with when I was first starting out back in the eighties. It’s got Google and Apple shares, more solid slow growers than I could have put my clients who were looking for high returns into. But it’s built beautifully over the years. I was her executor. She left it to you. I, um, had someone take care of a signature card. And it was established way before my, um, difficulties.”

Nikki could hardly breathe. She stared at her chipped fingernails, caked with dirt that wouldn’t come out, at her rough, chapped hands. She thought about all the beautiful clothes she’d been forced to sell. “But I was supporting Mom because you said you had to plow all your profits back into your business.” As Nicole should have been, except that she hadn’t been able to bear watching their mother continue to struggle after all those years of doing without while Mom tried to support them.

He shrugged. “I just had a feeling I might need to keep something aside, not in my name. You know, for emergencies.”

She studied her brother’s face as the enormity of his betrayal sank all the way in. “It’s in my name and belongs to me. But you never told me about it.” He’d stolen from her like he had everyone else and then never mentioned this account, which could have saved her business and her good name. Because in his mind her money was his money.

“Yeah. But the best thing is it’s right near here. I divided it up between two small banks, where no one would think to look. So you could go and make the withdrawals and bring the money to me today.” He must have actually looked at her face because he added, “And of course you could take a percentage of it to tide you over until I can return the money that got mixed up in the offshore accounts.”

“Gee, thanks.” She looked at the still-handsome and always-beloved face and grappled with what she’d refused to see behind it. Malcolm had always been the one she’d loved most—more than her husbands, her clients, her colleagues. More even than the few people she’d let close enough to call friends. And yet she had been nothing more to him than a person he could count on, which in Malcolm’s mind clearly meant to use in whatever way he saw fit.

“So, that’s why you’re here in this campground. Not because that Thanksgiving meant so much to you, but because the money’s nearby.” Her money. That he expected her to go retrieve and hand over so he could run farther and faster.

He shrugged again, not at all apologetically. He didn’t know her at all. Her own brother had no idea who she was or what she was made of. And he didn’t care to.

“Sure,” she said with the smile that she’d practiced and perfected over the years, the easy charming one that gave no clue to what she was really thinking and that she’d never before used on Malcolm. “Give me the banks and the account numbers, and I’ll go take care of it.”