The Eleventh Victim (13 page)

T
HE TREES HAD WITHSTOOD THE FIERCE WINDS OF HURRICANE
season and watched as twisters churned up the land around them for miles. They presided over battles played out beneath their boughs during the War Between the States. They had shaded pirates and Indians and preachers and crooks.

But they had never before been forced to wear orange markers tied around their waists.

And this, Virginia knew, was far more humiliating than anything else.

When she first heard about the markers, she told herself they were most likely placed there by the agricultural Cooperative Extension Service. With active branches in all 159 counties in the state, they routinely marked and destroyed trees that posed a danger—maybe fusiform rust disease, with its deadly orange powder, or some other contagious, coniferous malady.

But after a late-night run to the 7-Eleven, reality sunk in.

Virginia slipped in around 10:40, just before closing at 11, on her regular cigarette run. Larry was behind the counter, wearing a white T-shirt, brown polyester Sansabelt pants, and a red fishing hat that said “Kiss My Bass.”

“Salem Lights. Carton. What’s happening, Larry? What’s with those big dirt trucks parked across from the store? I’ve got to tell you, not only are they unattractive and running away your business, they’re against code. Heavy use trucks aren’t permitted back here on the Island. These old narrow streets can’t take it. They’ll crack under the weight.”

“V.G.”—he was the only one who got away with calling her that—“it’s really happening this time. You know my daddy and his daddy before him fished these marshes. We’ve had our home place off the point for eighty years that I know of, just us and the June bugs. Can you believe it, V.G.?”

“Believe what, Larry? Is this about the beach replenishing? Are the trucks here to start loading the sand?”

“V.G., they’re dumping sand all right, but it’s a whole lot bigger than the Commission’s sand exchange. Plus, they claim that’s just to swap sand off the floor of the water and plump up the beaches for the tourists.”

“Don’t get me started on that, Larry. You know damn well what it’ll do to the turtles, if anybody
cares
.”

Looking hurt that she’d even suggest he didn’t care about the turtles, he protested, “V.G., you know how I feel. Didn’t I wear a
bumper sticker about the turtles on the back of the El Camino when nobody else would?”

“Yes. You did. I apologize. I know you care. What about the trucks?”

“It’s a helluva lot worse than swapping sand. They’re about a hair away from laying a cement base, from what I can tell. Saw the cement-mixer trucks going in yesterday. I’d have thought you’d be the first one to know about it. It’s an outfit out of Atlanta. They’re building right on the beach,
right on the sand
, V.G. Right
on
the sand.”

Her blood ran cold. All she could manage was a strangled-sounding “
What?!”

“Condos. Nice ones…real lux. Heard tell they’re starting at over a
million
dollars apiece…over a
million
, V.G. Who’d pay
that
kind of money but Yankees or the peeps that drive down from Atlanta on weekends? Nobody from around here, I can tell you that much. And you know what’ll come next, right?”

She knew. It made her sick. “Don’t say it, Larry,” she begged, as if his saying it would somehow make it come true.

“Yep, there goes the marshland. You know how they dry up when construction comes in. No more marshland, no more St. Simons. That’s what I say.”

He was right. Marshes adjacent to construction dried up like hardened Play-Doh. Everything growing in them that made the marshes one of God’s lush, green creations, would die a slow, thirsty death.

Larry stared out through the plate glass and across the street at the dirt trucks, their mud flaps already splattered from work on the site.

“Who are they?” she demanded. “What’s their name? Seen any locals with them?”

She tried to keep the questioning casual, but her face was hot, and she realized she had unthinkingly scratched a gnawed-looking hole into the carton of Salems.

Larry thought about her questions for a moment and she didn’t rush him. She nervously opened a pack and wedged a cigarette into the corner of her naked lips. Not even Chapstick, she didn’t trust it.

“Well, I seen the trucks,” Larry told her. “Two white pickups in and out. Got the name ‘Palmetto Dunes Luxury Living’ on the side, on top of some fake coat-of-arms picture, like a family crest or a shield or something. And a heavy man with Atlanta tags has been down here a coupl’a times. First time, he came in asking about directions to the Cloister Hotel. Second time, he came in all sweaty-like, wanting a case of Diet Cokes and ice. Oh, yeah, plastic cups, too. The big red jumbo ones.”

“Palmetto Dunes Luxury Living. Hmmm. Atlanta tags. Diet Coke. Let me think. What access road are they using, Larry?”

“Not sure, but he asked for directions from off what sounded like the old King’s Plantation site. He was headed to the Cloister. I told him he better call ahead, because you know they’re pretty picky over there on Sea Island, what with all the millionaires living there and everything. You know, V.G., they won’t even
think
about letting you book a room if you don’t call ahead. You know, I bet they lose a lot of business that way, don’tcha think?”

“They call it
reservations
, and whatever business the Cloister loses, it doesn’t want anyway, Larry.” She took a long drag.

“So, you going out there, V.G.?”

“I might just take a little drive by and take a look. Bye, you.”

“Stay out of trouble, V.G. Hey, if they ask me,
I
didn’t see you. You know me, V.G., I don’t know
nothin’ ’bout nothin’
.”

“You know it, Larry.” Virginia headed for the door, the carton of Salems tucked under her arm.

Thinking again, she turned back. Larry had already turned his “Kiss My Bass” hat around backward on his head again and was bent down, working on the tiny motor in the Slurpee machine.

“So what kind of car was he driving?”

Virginia would bet everything she owned that he’d know, seeing as his daddy owned the biggest junkyard and auto salvage business in the city of Brunswick.

Bent down over the Slurpee, his response was automatic, sure, and dead on the money.

“Two thousand nine Mercedes SUV, solid white. Oh, yeah, V.G., that car was top of the line, all right, top of the line. Shiny, too. Nice wax job on that baby, girl lemme tell you
what!
Even had one of those vanity tags. Looked like it was gold-plate detailed, instead of your regular chrome metal.”

“White Mercedes utility, gold detail, and a vanity tag. Well,
that’ll blend
.” She made a face.

The Island was more rusty-pickup style. Talk of a vehicle with gold plate–colored accessories and curb feelers would spread like wildfire.

“So, Larry…you didn’t happen to see what was on the plate, did you? You know, the tag number?”

“Mercedes owner had to be from Atlanta, don’t you think? Whole city’s headed straight to hell, full of nothing but a bunch of rude Yankees relocating from jobs up north.”

“Of course they’re from Atlanta. Larry—
didja get the tag
?”

“Couldn’t help it.” His face beamed with pride. “You know how I can’t help but remember numbers and stuff. It was FME.”

“FME? You sure?”

“Positive. I couldn’t help but think of that blinking sign up around Savannah off the interstate that says ‘Food, Movies, Enjoy!’ Remember the giant FME that blinked for about a mile away?”

“I sure do, Larry. I always loved that sign. It was there since I was a little girl. Thanks.” She was already at the door, waving backward at Larry over her right shoulder.

“No problem, V.G.” He was again submerged in the intricacies of the Slurpee motor.

A cowbell hanging on the store’s door clanged when she stepped out into the muggy night. The moon shone down on the 7-Eleven’s gravel parking lot as she made her way to the car. Looking up, she saw the giant arms of the Island oaks stretched out over her, waving at her in the breeze off the water.

But were they waving hello or good-bye?

She climbed into the Jeep, slammed the door shut, and looked out into the darkened parking lot before flicking on her brights, just in time to see a rabbit take off into the oaks.

Palmetto Dunes.

Damn!
How the hell had
this
snuck into town?

C
RUISE SAT WAITING IN A HOLDING CELL, SWEAT ROLLING DOWN
the side of his face. Two hundred twenty-five pounds of law enforcement standing six-foot-four sat poised just outside the door with a high-powered long gun balanced across his chest, just hoping, Cruise knew, he would try something.

Yep, the guard was just hoping he could go home that night and tell some little tramp he had to draw his weapon at the prison that day, shoot down a mad-dog killer, save the world.

Cruise could picture her sitting there in her nightgown listening, all impressed. Then, as he told the story about gunning down Cruise, she’d be so proud. Proud of the sheriff for killing
him
! And the asshole would probably get a raise and a promotion, and for the rest of his pathetic life he’d tell everybody about how great he was,
how brave he was, how he responded in a split-second and gunned down a serial killer.

Pathetic.

These idiots at Reidsville pumped iron religiously after work every afternoon, all in the hopes of being buff enough to kick ass in the unlikely event of a jail uprising.

The penitentiary was constructed in 1936 and in its entire history there had never once been an uprising. But still, they lived for the moment in crisis, or for the paltry alternative…taking on just
one
inmate in an ill-matched fistfight.

Well, it wouldn’t be Cruise today. No way would he give these assholes the chance to shoot him dead in the hall. Why was he in holding, anyway? Who the hell wanted to see him? Who the hell had come all the way to down to Reidsville?

Matt Leonard knew better than to come near Cruise again with his BS. If it was just another visit from some lackey at Leonard’s office, Cruise would bust a gasket. But he doubted it would be. Now Leonard only sent his assistants, and those visits had dwindled to practically nothing. He gave the finger through the glass window at the two that had come down a few weeks ago.

He hoped to God it wasn’t another preacher, here to save his soul, either. Last time they sent a prison preacher in to rescue his immortal soul, Cruise had spit on him. A big glob right in the face.

The door opened, and Cruise looked up to see the guard come in. Behind him was another sheriff wearing a tag that said “Processing.” He was soft and white and looked like he was trying to grow a mustache with no success. Huge stains were under both his armpits.

“Mr. Cruise, if you could just sign here, we’ll get you processed as quickly as possible.”

Cruise didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

Obviously, they were here to take him to the Waiting Room.

Was it time already?

How could that be?

Where was his lawyer? The chaplain? Where were all the anti–death penalty activists with their vigils and protests?

He managed to swallow over the cold lump of dread in his throat, his thoughts racing.

Shit, didn’t he have another round of federal appeals to go up one more level to the Circuit Court?

Even after that, wasn’t there a last-ditch appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court in Washington? Not that he expected any favors from that bunch of asses, but he knew it would at least drag things out for a few more years before he hit the Chair.

Even Leonard speculated the appeals process would take at least eight years. It had only been two. What the hell? They were that hot to fry him? Now he was headed to the freaking Waiting Room? Damn! Couldn’t they at least have told him him ahead of time?

True, he hadn’t bothered to read the last series of bullshit documents Leonard had sent him. He could smell the bullshit through the sealed envelope. Right this minute it was still sealed, sitting wherever it had landed when he’d shoved it up under his bunk on the Row.

The clerk cleared his throat. “What are your plans, Mr. Cruise?”

“What the hell are you talking about, ‘plans’?”

“I mean, we all agree this was sudden, but where will you relocate…Any idea of a job out there?”

“Out there?”

“Well, I assumed you’d head to Atlanta, don’t you still have relatives there?”

He stared, uncomprehending. “My mother.”

The clerk nodded. “If you’ll just bring your belongings down to processing, we’ve got three hundred dollars and a Greyhound bus ticket waiting for you.”

The implication slammed into Cruise like a two-by-four, followed by a tide of pure glee.

What a monumental mistake. Didn’t they realize who he was?

He knew enough to say nothing unless he had to, lest he arouse suspicion and make them realize they were releasing the wrong person.

“Your street clothes are in Property, we still have those for you. And a Bible. Think of it as a gift. From us to you, Mr. Cruise.”

The clerk smiled thinly, like giving him a Bible was some great favor. Well, if this little twit expected some sort of thank-you, he got nothing. Cruise stared at him, then quickly looked down, afraid the clerk could somehow read his mind if he looked into his eyes long enough.

He limped along down the corridor, walking slowly, and not just because of his bum leg. His every breath carefully controlled, he kept his eyes down and his mouth shut.
Keep walking, keep walking. Keep it together…keep it together.

This couldn’t possibly be happening. It couldn’t.

Any second now, they’d realize their mistake and haul him back to the Row. Probably beat the crap out of him, too.

Cruise kept a wary eye on the guard, who stayed with them every step of the way, gun locked and loaded.

When they arrived at Processing, another clerk asked, “Did you want any of your belongings that you left back on the Row?”

“No,” he said simply, quietly. All he had under his bunk were some legal files and the papers he had worked on, outlining why he was innocent, especially of the last murder. And the articles about Hailey. If he made it out the front door, he sure as hell wouldn’t need any of that bullshit with him.

When he finally stepped outside, he had nothing but the clothes he’d worn at trial, a folder of legal papers explaining his release, three hundred dollars, and a bus ticket voucher worth fifty-five dollars.

Cruise took a deep, expectant breath.

The air was not at all as he imagined it would be. During all those nights in a twelve-by-twelve, he imagined the sweet smell outside.

Bullshit. It still smelled bad.

He made it all the way down a long cement walk and through two series of chain-link fences with barbed wire coiled across the tops, and he still smelled the funk of Reidsville.

Would the stench be in his nostrils the rest of his life?

He said nothing climbing into the prison van, acting perfectly calm. The radio was tuned to easy listening, low and irritating in the background.

“How’s it going?” the driver asked, and it took a minute for Cruise to realize he was talking to him.

Cruise remained silent but the guy just kept talking.

“You come out of a place like that, and it’s gotta be awesome, dude.”

Cruise managed a tight half-smile.

“Gorgeous day, isn’t it? Not too hot. That’s how I like ’em. ’Cause when it’s too hot, I sweat. And I don’t like to sweat.” He glanced over at Cruise, like he was looking for an acknowledgment.

And the guy kept talking. Couldn’t he see Cruise didn’t want to have a
conversation
? Like they were
friends
or something?

He had to concentrate, but that damn music whining through the car speakers was driving him crazy, buzzing around his ears like a mosquito.

Cruise wanted to look out the window at the roadside, but he had to keep staring down at his hands. They were getting electric.

The music buzzed, the driver chattered, and Cruise’s hands twitched with need.

Until the moment they pulled up to the bus station.

“Well, here we are,” the driver announced, like he was the happiest guy in the whole friggin’ world. Stupid bastard. If Cruise wasn’t in a public parking lot, he’d twist the driver’s head off.

“Good luck to you.”

Cruise ignored him.

He stepped away from the van as if in a dream.

The van pulled away. He could see the driver glancing at him in the rearview.

Then it disappeared around the corner and was gone. Cruise waited until it was out of sight before he moved. The music, the chatter, the noise was all gone now. He was alone. Totally alone for the first time in over five years. No cellmate, no warden following his every step as he walked in and out of his cell, no camera trained on him as he slept and ate and shit every day.

Alone…holding his jailhouse file with the Bible inside.

Before they could hunt him down and drag him back to the penitentiary, he turned and walked toward the station.

He stepped inside and was amazed at seeing people milling about, playing video games, and eating hotdogs in the bus grill.

Stepping up to the ticket counter, he could tell the clerk knew he was straight from Reidsville. Was the haircut the giveaway?

“Can I help you?” she asked, looking almost smug.

Bitch
. She was fat with too much makeup, and her perfume stank.

Cruise stared at her neck. It was freckled and fleshy with powder caked on it, same as on her face.

Nothing like Hailey’s neck.

In that moment, a surge went through Cruise’s body, starting in his hands and pulsing to his head, his feet, his chest, his legs.

Cruise was breathing again. A smile crossed his face and he knew.

It wasn’t a dream. It was all real.

“Sir, can I help you? Do you need a ticket somewhere?”

He spoke the first words he had uttered in hours.

“New York City. One-way.”