How many times had she repeated those same Miranda warnings to how many suspects?
You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law, you have the right to an attorney…
She knew the words by heart and they rang like a nursery rhyme through her head.
The cuffs were cold metal and tight on her wrists. Her side was hurting so badly it felt like it was on fire. Throwing the punch had cost her, but it was worth it. Kolker’s nose was still dripping blood.
He grabbed her purse from the rug beside her desk and shoved it under his arm.
“Let’s go, you’re under arrest for double murder, the stabbing deaths of Melissa Everett and Hayden Krasinski,” he said, leading her out her own door, his grip tight on her arm above the elbow, as though she would take off at any minute and try to outrun him
She prayed no one would be there to see her go. Dana’s office door was closed, thank God.
But the door to the dentists’ office on the first floor was propped open as the UPS guy wheeled in boxes of supplies. She could see them all…the waiting room full of patients, secretaries behind the counter, one of the dentists. They’d all know soon enough.
They stared at her as she passed, hands in front of her, wrists obviously shackled together. No one spoke. It was if they were characters in a silent movie, or those life-size cardboard cutouts of people…people who didn’t move or speak, just stared.
She tried her best to cover the cuffs with her coat so onlookers wouldn’t see. But she knew they could see.
They could see.
51
St. Simons Island, Georgia
VIRGINIA PULLED UP IN FRONT OF THE 7-ELEVEN. SHE COULD SEE Larry behind the counter, slumped between displays of chewing gums, Sweet-and-Sours, even ginseng root.
The cowbell hanging from the door clanged when she walked in, and Larry sat up. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was pale except for his nose, which was red.
He didn’t speak at first, just slid off the bar stool, walked to the Bunn-o-matic, and reached for the glass coffeepot. He poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup and topped it off with heavy cream before nuking the contents for exactly twenty-five seconds in the mini-microwave next to the Slurpee machine. In somber silence, he handed the Styrofoam cup to Virginia.
“Just like I like it. Thanks.”
“V.G., I’m not some nut, some obsessed freak.” He reclaimed the bar stool. “It’s just that he was a hero. You know, he came from nothin’ and nowhere, and he was king, V.G., king of the NASCAR.”
“I know, Larry.”
They sat in silence, Larry flipping through a NASCAR magazine, Virginia beside him sipping her coffee and looking out through the glass storefront at the parking lot.
A white pickup pulled up, and she watched a man in a blue uniform get out of the driver’s side and slam his door.
An officious-looking “crest,” reminiscent of Great Britain’s royal House of Windsor coat of arms, was proudly emblazoned on the driver’s side door. It was tacky, pompous, and fake.
It was the Palmetto Dunes Luxury Living logo.
The man in the uniform certainly was at work early this morning. So…they hadn’t given up after the attack…but why should they?
Why should a guerrilla foray onto the property scare away millions of dollars of backing and even more to rake in once the condos sold? Of course the developers weren’t giving up.
While the guerrillas had staged only one attack, word was they had at least slowed down the dune developers. After the assault, there had been no further attempt to re-pour the foundation. At least not yet.
The cowbell on the handle clanked as the man pushed open the glass door.
He looked vaguely familiar to Virginia, but she looked down instinctively when the cowbell sounded. Virginia noticed his navy uniform was already blotched dark with sweat.
“Hey, Larry.”
“Hey, Clyde. How’s it goin’?”
“Well, I went out there and got ’em ready to start up the construction again. Got the security cameras in place. Guess you heard about it already. Bet there won’t be any more kids tearing the place apart this time. And it’s a good thing, too. The boss out of Atlanta rolled some heads. Got the security guard so nervous, he’s poppin’ Tums like you wouldn’t believe. Near ’bout lost his job after that last time.”
He stopped dead center in front of Virginia and turned back to Larry. “Got the Coke with lime, Larry?”
“Nope. That company never could leave well enough alone. Seems they’d have learned something after the ‘New Coke.’ Remember that big mess?”
“Yep.” He kept talking with no instigation. “Yes, sir…these cameras’ll stop ’em. Got ’em all the way from some outfit in Atlanta. Damn, Toby McKissick and the whole County Commission’s in on it. They got their hands in everybody’s pocket, you know. Nothing new about that.”
He reached into a glassed-in refrigerated area, pulled out a Diet Coke, walked back to the counter, and put down a dollar. “’Course the work crew said it wasn’t kids…that it was a curse. You know, voodoo. Everybody’s always said the south beach was haunted. My aunt Rosa said it to me twenty-five years ago.”
“I always heard that, too. My grandmother told me,” Larry told him.
So had Virginia. The ghost stories surrounding the Island’s south beach, which dated back to before the Civil War, as far as anybody could tell, were about a burning slave boat that had landed on St. Simons’s southernmost shore. No such ship had ever been documented, but the lore continued.
Clyde pulled a cloth handkerchief out of his back pocket and ran it across his face. “Damn it’s hot out there. What time is it, for Pete’s sake?”
They all three turned to look at the clock plugged into the wall behind the register. Over the Coca-Cola logo, it read eight fifteen.
“Not even eight thirty in the morning! Whew!” Clyde exclaimed. “Got to be eighty-five degrees already. Thank God I finished up before it really heats up.”
“Musta been tough out there,” Larry said, alluding to the camera installation. “It’s like a jungle in some parts. Hot as hell.”
“Oh, yeah, and they wanted the damn cameras hidden out of the way so they can catch the kids. Don’t know why…prob’ly just a bunch of high-school kids having fun. It ain’t like it’s a federal case, ya know? Just kids. But you know folks out of Atlanta…ever’ thing’s got to be just so. They start up construction again tomorrow morning and had to have the cameras in place first, come hell or high water…whatever, I got paid.” He waved the dollar at Larry. “You gonna ring me out or what?”
“Hey, keep the dollar. The Coke’s on me. So where’d you finally end up puttin’ ’em?” Larry asked it without the slightest change of inflection in his voice.
“Put what?”
Damn this guy was slow. “The security cameras…this morning…remember?”
Virginia didn’t dare move a muscle, keeping her nose in Larry’s NASCAR magazine, specifically, a close-up of Dale Earnhardt getting Rookie of the Year back in 1979.
Clyde snorted. “Oh yeah…them. Put ’em up high on those two big pines just inside the guardhouse, one on either side, ’bout twenty feet in, just off the road. They’re kind of hidden behind the pine needles. You’d never notice ’em in a million years,” he added. The more he talked, the prouder he got of his job that morning.
“That was smart,” Larry kept it going. “Just two of ’em?”
“Yep. Two’ll do it. Look right down on the driveway into the site. I had to go in all the way to Brunswick and get a ladder special order to make it to the top. Damn Eddie over at the Georgia Power Company wouldn’t let me use one of their trucks. But don’t blame Eddie, it wasn’t his fault. It was the lawyers that said no.”