I entered the room and stopped after the door closed behind me. Kim lay in the bed, IVs attached to both arms, her face bruised, a monitor recording her heart rate. Even through the wires, tubes, and bandages, she was beautiful — the light from the window falling on her sleeping face. I stepped next to her bed and stood there for a moment, watching her breathe. I wanted to say something, but didn’t want to wake her from a tranquil sleep. I set the roses on a table next to her bed and heard, “Hello, stranger.” Her voice sounded drowsy.
I turned around. Kim was awake, eyes heavy, a smile spreading. I grinned. “Stranger? Come on, you’ve been out like a light. You don’t know how long I’ve been here, or how many times I’ve been here.”
“A girl knows. It’s an intuitive thing. Even in our sleep, we know if someone special is here. Also, how could I be out like a light? If a light’s out, it’s no longer a light. Oh, my head feels like it’s in a vice. Those roses are soooo beautiful! Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. What are the doctors telling you?”
“They’re fairly sure I suffered a concussion. I had twenty-two stitches in the back of my head and some internal bleeding. The good news is that I can go home tomorrow. Detective Grant told me you shot one of the men. Did you … did you kill him?”
“I don’t know. A body hasn’t been found. I did find the other guy.”
“You did?”
“Yes. He decided to pay me a visit at my cabin on the river.”
“Why?”
“He wanted information.”
“Did he get it?”
“He gave more than he received. He took a message back to his leader. I believe it’ll be safe for you to go home tomorrow. Rest and get well, okay? I have to go now.”
She lifted her hand, an IV taped to the back of it. “You just got here, Sean. Don’t go.”
“I wish I didn’t have to. I’ve got to bring this thing to a stop. I’ll be back soon.”
“Where are you going?”
“If you don’t know, you can’t say.”
“I thought you said I was safe.”
“Safer. You’re much safer now. I don’t think they’ll be back.”
“I’m not worried about me. I’m afraid for you. Are you still trying to find Courtney?”
“Yes.”
“I have no doubt that you’ll find her. But I don’t know what you’ll find. I only met her briefly, but she seemed like a good kid. If she’s your daughter, she’d have to be.”
I bent down and kissed Kim on her forehead. “Get well.”
“Be careful, Sean. I don’t know if it’s the meds they have me on, but I’ve been having bad dreams, really dark stuff … and you’re there … caught in the middle.”
68
Five hours and seventeen minutes. I looked at my watch as I started to cross the Savannah River. Five hours and seventeen minutes earlier, I’d left Kim’s hospital room and driven nonstop from Ponce Inlet to Augusta, Georgia. Crossing the Savannah River on Highway 25, over the James Jackson Bridge, I felt as if I was crossing a bridge over troubled waters. I’d read somewhere that the Savannah River itself was one of the most toxic rivers in the nation. The bridge spanned the river, connecting Georgia with South Carolina. I was en route to a place called Murphy Village in South Carolina, a few miles north of the Savannah River.
I continued driving up Highway 25, following a printed map in search of the address Dave Collins had given to me. I’d removed the battery and sim cards from my phones. Didn’t use a portable GPS either. Didn’t want to chance an eye in the sky following me. I glanced from the map in my hand to my gas gauge. Nineteen miles until empty.
I pulled off the road and stopped at a Chevron station. I stepped inside to pay the clerk cash before pumping. I bought a large coffee, black, paid and walked back outside. An older model blue pickup truck eased up to the pump opposite the one I was using. A man dressed in faded overalls and a sweat-stained John Deere green cap, got out of the truck. He was at least seventy, lanky, unshaved, face filled with white whiskers. He nodded at me and said, “We sure need some rain. My corn crop won’t make it another three days if we don’t get us a damn good rain.”
“What’s the forecast?”
“Hot, hot, and hotter. Damndest weather in the last few years than anytime I can remember. I ain’t no tree hugger, but I damn sure believe we mucked up stuff so much it’s affected the climate. You work the land, you can tell.” He nodded and started pumping gas into the old truck. He looked back at me. “Where you from?”
“Florida.”
“Ya’ll got hit hard with a freeze last winter. Ruined most of the citrus.”
“You’re right. How far is Murphy Village?”
I saw his right eyebrow rise up. “It’s about ten miles down twenty-five. Can’t miss it. The place is mansions and junkyards. Industrial, residential, and even some agricultural land all rolled into one place.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t want to sound nosey, but why would a fella from Florida want to go there?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
He nodded, glanced at the gasoline pump, and cut his eye back to me. “Lemme give you a little friendly advice. Don’t hire anybody in there to do anything for you. If your car needs fixin,’ go someplace else.”
“Why the caution?”
“That’s the largest population of Irish gypsies in the country. They call themselves travelers, not gypsies, but it’s the same. Every summer the men head out, they travel all over the nation. Some use fake ID’s. Fake license plates on their trucks and cars. They’ll paint your house with watered-down paint. Repave your driveway with materials that don’t last. Fix your roof ‘til the next big cloud-buster. By then, they’re long gone. They’re some of the best con artists anywhere. Smooth talkers. One fella will knock at your door, with a sob story, or a deal that’s too damn good to be true. His partner will be stealing your silver. The elderly, people my age, that’s their prime targets.”
“Sounds like an interesting bunch.”
He finished pumping gas, replaced the nozzle, and said, “Don’t want to mess in your business, I’m just warning you. These people are real damn clannish. They simply don’t talk to outsiders. Won’t answer their doors. It’s trailers and mansions. All of ‘em have paper covering their windows to keep prying eyes out.”
“Thank you.”
He removed his John Deere hat and wiped his rawboned face with a red handkerchief. “Gonna be a scorcher.” Then he got back in his truck and drove away, windows down, a rifle balanced in the gun rack visible through the dirty back window.
There were no posted signs letting me know that I’d entered the town of Murphy Village. It was wasn’t needed. The farmer’s description wasn’t embellished. In truth, he’d restrained his account of what I was now seeing. The homes were a concoction of mansions and trailers tucked behind scrub pines and oaks. English Tudor, Mediterranean, all brick homes, sprouted like misplaced castles on an acreage of spotty lawns, fenced warehouses, cars on blocks, and bent mailboxes with no addresses. Every home had at least one pickup truck in the driveway, front facing the street. License plates not visible. It was a land of contrasts but not contradictions. Ostentatious symbols of wealth infused in a quilt of deficiency, a measurable history of a hardscrabble life.
I saw no signs of life. No moms pushing babies in strollers. No dogs. No one watering dry lawns. Nothing. I did see what appeared to be cream-colored construction paper inside each window in every home facing the street. I looked at the house number Dave had given me and wondered how I’d find a residence in a sprawling neighborhood barren of visible addresses.