“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?
25
Reidsville State Penitentiary, Georgia
CRUISE 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.