Ricochet

Prologue

THE RECOVERY MISSION WAS CALLED OFF AT 6:56 P.M.

The grim announcement was made by Chief of Police Clarence Taylor during a locally televised press conference.

His somber expression was in keeping with his buzz haircut and military bearing. “The police department, along with all the other agencies involved, devoted countless hours to the search in hope of a rescue. Short of that, a recovery.

“However, since the exhaustive efforts of law enforcement officers, the Coast Guard, and civilian volunteers haven’t produced any encouraging evidence in several days, we’ve come to the sad conclusion that to continue an organized search would be futile.”

The lone drinker at the bar, watching the snowy TV screen mounted in the corner, tossed back the whiskey remaining in his glass and motioned the barkeep for a refill.

The barkeep held the open bottle poised above the highball glass. “You sure? You’re hitting it pretty hard, pal.”

“Just pour.”

“Have you got a ride home?”

The question was met with a menacing glare. The barkeep shrugged and poured. “Your funeral.”

No, not mine.

Off the beaten path in a low-rent area of downtown Savannah, Smitty’s attracted neither tourists nor respectable locals. It wasn’t the kind of watering hole one came to seeking fun and frivolity. It didn’t take part in the city’s infamous pub crawl on St. Patrick’s Day. Pastel drinks with cute names weren’t served.

The potables were ordered straight up. You might or might not get a lemon twist like the ones the barkeep was mindlessly peeling as he watched the television news bulletin that had preempted a Seinfeld rerun.

On the TV screen, Chief Taylor was commending the tireless efforts of the sheriff’s office, canine unit, marine patrol and dive team, on and on, blah, blah, blah.

“Mute that, will you?”

At the request of his customer, the barkeep reached for the remote control and silenced the TV. “He’s dancing around it ’cause he has to. But if you cut through all the B.S., what he’s saying is, the body’s fish food by now.”

The drinker propped both elbows on the bar, hunched his shoulders, and watched the amber liquor sloshing in his glass as he slid it back and forth between his hands across the polished wood surface.

“Ten days after going into the river?” The barkeep shook his head with pessimism. “No way a person could survive. Still, it’s a hell of a sad thing. Especially for the family. I mean, never knowing the fate of your loved one?” He reached for another lemon. “I’d hate to think of somebody I loved, dead or alive, being in the river or out there in the ocean, in this mess.”

He used his chin to motion toward the bar’s single window. It was wide, but only about eighteen inches deep, situated high on the wall, much closer to the ceiling than to the floor, providing a limited view of the outside if one cared to look. It allowed only a slash of semi-light to relieve the oppressive gloom in the bar, and gave only a slim promise of hope to the hopeless inside.

A ponderous rain had been soaking the Low Country of Georgia and South Carolina for the last forty-eight hours. Unrelenting rain. Torrents of water falling straight down out of opaque clouds.

At times the rainfall had been so heavy that you couldn’t see across the river to the opposite bank. Low-lying areas had become lakes. Roads had been closed due to flooding. Gutters roiled with currents as swift as white-water rapids.

The barkeep wiped lemon juice from his fingers and cleaned the blade of his knife on a towel. “This rain, can’t say I blame ’em for calling off the search. They’ll probably never find the body now. But I guess that means it’ll forever remain a mystery. Was it murder or suicide?” He tossed aside his towel and leaned on the bar. “What do you think happened?”

His customer looked up at him with bleary eyes and said hoarsely, “I know what happened.”