Smoke Screen

CHAPTER 15

RALEY WAS SPEEDING TOWARD CHARLESTON, HIS TRUCK eating up the miles, when he spotted dual sets of taillights ahead of him. They flickered through the trees, often disappearing for minutes at a time before he caught sight of them again.

But even being as far behind them as he was, he could tell the second driver was tailgating the first. “Idiot.” It was just plain stupid to drive that aggressively, especially on a highway like this. If the driver was that impatient to get where he was going, why didn’t he just go around the other car?

In the back of his mind, he was hoping the first driver wouldn’t be a prick, a road hog who refused to let anyone pass him. He was in a hurry to reach Charleston and warn Britt to tread carefully. He wasn’t sure how he was going to make contact with her. She would be surrounded by police and-

“What the hell?”

The first car had moved onto the shoulder, but the second car didn’t pass. In fact, it looked like the tailgating guy was trying to nudge the other driver off the road.

He was gripped by a terrible intuition. Britt. And as suddenly as he thought it, the cars disappeared.

Had he had time to catch up with her? Not unless she was a slow driver. Not unless she’d got lost.

“Shit!”

It seemed to take forever for him to come out of the curve that had temporarily blocked the other two cars from sight, but once he did, he squinted for sharper focus. Unfortunately, he was too far away to make out the shapes of the taillights and determine the models of the cars involved in the dangerous cat-and-mouse chase. He pushed the pickup as fast as it would go, but the other cars were lighter, faster, and he couldn’t close the distance.

Again they disappeared.

He counted the seconds. Twenty maybe? Thirty?

And then he had another flickering view of one set of winking taillights disappearing from sight altogether, and those of the tailgater speeding across the bridge.

Raley uttered a sharp cry as he crammed his gas pedal against the floorboard. It seemed to take a thousand years to cover the distance to the bridge. He pounded the steering wheel as though whipping the truck to go faster.

It skidded to a jarring stop just inches away from the brink of the eroding earth embankment that supported the bridge. He was out of the truck before inertia settled it. He opened the toolbox and took out the heavy-duty flashlight he’d used earlier, then grabbed the first weighty metal object he touched. A wrench. It would have to do.

He scrambled down the embankment, half sliding, half hopping as he pulled off his sneakers. By the time he reached the water, he was barefoot and huffing deep breaths to fill his lungs, then without a second thought, he dived in.

His flashlight had a powerful beam, but he might as well have been shining it through blackstrap molasses. He knew the river, knew how impenetrably dark the water could be even where it was most shallow, and this wasn’t one of those places. Here, the channel was deep.

Frantically he swept the light from side to side and was becoming panicked when he spotted the car, settling heavily on the riverbed, surrounded by a nimbus of swirling silt. He shone the light in the direction of the driver’s window. The beam picked up a pale palm, flattened against the glass, a strand of blond hair floating eerily in the feeble shaft of light.

Britt.

The flashlight blinked once and went out. The darkness was absolute.

He dropped the light, but gave a hard kick and within seconds reached the passenger side of the car. Feeling his way, he found the windshield and hammered the wrench against it as hard as he could. It didn’t give. He pounded it several more times. Nothing.

His lungs were beginning to burn.

He continued banging the wrench against the windshield until finally he felt the safety glass break but not shatter. He kicked at it again and again until his foot pushed through. He widened the hole by continuing to kick, then wedged his shoulders through it. Broken glass scraped against his head and arms, but he ignored the pain.

Blindly he groped for Britt and found her right arm. When he touched it, she didn’t react, and his mind screamed, God, no!

He groped for her seat belt. It was unfastened. She’d managed to do that. He hooked his hands under her arms and guided her through the hole in the windshield, carefully but quickly. Neither had much time left. He was out of air, and she was completely still.

Once he had her clear of the windshield, he executed a hard scissor kick and used his free arm to claw toward the surface. His lungs were screaming for oxygen. He kicked as hard as he could, but his limbs were becoming heavier by the second, rubbery and uncoordinated. It had been five years since he’d done any rescue training; he was out of condition.

He looked toward the surface, but it was only a lighter shade of black. Still, he struggled toward it. Up. Up. And finally, his head broke the surface and he gulped a mouthful of air.

But Britt wasn’t breathing.

He made sure her face was clear of the water, then began to swim to the bank. His body was still hungry for oxygen, and he was exhausted, but he swam as fast as he could against the current. When his feet touched bottom, he waded the rest of the way, then crawled up onto the bank, dragging Britt along with him.

He flipped her onto her back and straddled her. She had a weak pulse but wasn’t breathing. Placing his hands in the center of her chest, he began CPR.

“Come on, Britt,” he said as he rhythmically pumped her chest. “Do not die on me. You’re not finished yet. Come on, come on.”

River water trickled over his face and into his eyes, but he didn’t stop the compressions or the litany of encouragement that eventually took on the inflection of a dare. “You called me a coward, but you’re the one giving up here. Are you going to let some other TV dolly grab your story? You’d never forgive yourself if you let that happen. Now breathe, goddammit!”

River water spewed from her mouth onto him. He dropped his head against his chest, weak with relief. “I thought that might bring you around.” He turned her head to one side. She coughed and gasped, coughed some more. “Get it out, that’s the way, that’s good,” he murmured, holding her wet hair away from her face as she vomited up the water she’d swallowed.

When she was breathing more easily, she turned her head and looked up at him. Her eyes were streaming tears. Her voice was hoarse, and she strangled when she tried to speak. She spat out more water, then finally managed to say, “They tried to kill me.”

He nodded. A thousand questions were demanding answers, but they would have to wait. He needed to assess her physical condition. But he also thought they needed to get the hell away from here. He couldn’t be sure that his headlights had gone unnoticed by whoever was intent on pushing her off the road. The asshole might return to make sure she hadn’t been rescued or by some miracle survived. If the would-be killer came back, they were sitting ducks.

“We need to get to the truck. I’ll have to carry you.”

“I can walk.”

He didn’t think so, but he didn’t argue. He stood up and extended his hand to her. She took it and pulled herself up. But as soon as she was on her feet, her knees buckled. He caught her, then giving her no choice or opportunity to argue, lifted her into a fireman’s carry across his shoulders and started up the embankment.

In the darkness he searched for toeholds he could use for leverage. His own knees almost gave way several times. He stumbled over rocks, dodged wild shrubs and spiky palmettos, and once barked his shin on the branch of a fallen tree. His bare feet got stuck in the mud several times.

When they finally reached the truck, he lowered Britt to the ground and propped her against the fender long enough for him to open the passenger door, then boosted her in.

Reaching across her, he picked up the windbreaker and put it on her, guiding her arms into the sleeves. He pinched her chin between his fingers and searched her face. Her lips were no longer blue. He picked up her hand and studied her fingertips. Color seemed to be returning to them, too, although the dome light wasn’t that bright, so it was difficult to tell.

“Rub your hands and feet. I’ll be right back.”

She gripped his hand in panic. “Where are you going?”

“To get my shoes.” He pulled his hand free and closed the door of the truck.

He tramped around on the riverbank until he found both sneakers, not wanting to leave them behind. So far, whoever had forced Britt into the river was unaware that she’d been rescued. He certainly couldn’t be identified as her rescuer. For the time being, he thought it best to keep their alliance unknown. There was nothing he could do about his footprints in the mud or his tire tracks. He hoped if anyone returned to check, he would be looking for traces of her submerged car. Satisfied that it had sunk from sight, he wouldn’t give the area a detailed search.

He explained this to Britt when he climbed into the cab and dropped his sneakers into the foot well beside her bare feet. Then he started the truck and pulled back onto the road. He headed in the direction from which he’d come, away from Charleston. His destination was anywhere but here. He wanted to leave the scene. “Who was it, Britt?”

“Two men.”

He reached for her left hand and laid it, palm up, between them on the seat. He pressed his fingers firmly against her pulse. “You couldn’t see their faces?”

She shook her head.

“What kind of car?”

She shrugged.

“License plate?”

She shook her head again.

He counted her pulse. It was a little higher than normal but seemed strong and steady. “Open the glove box. Get the first aid kit. There’s a thermometer in it. Take your temperature.”

“I’m okay.”

“Will you just get the fucking thermometer and take your temperature without an argument?” His tone was harsh, but not from irritation so much as fear. If he’d been a few minutes longer at the gas pump, if he hadn’t heeded his instinct to go after her, if he’d been unable to break the windshield, Britt would have drowned. The what-ifs made his hands tremble.

Subdued, she did as she was told. They rode in silence until she removed the thermometer from her mouth and read it. “Ninety-seven point five.”

“Close enough.”

“I’m rarely ninety-eight point six.”

“Okay. Good. Now here’s the thing. You probably should be checked out at the hospital. There’s one in Walterboro. Your body temp is okay, and your circulation has returned. Before my flashlight went out, I saw your hand pressed against the window. You were conscious then, so you couldn’t have been out long. Maybe two minutes total, which means there’s probably no brain damage.

“But your oxygen level should be checked anyway. You’ve got some bleeding cuts and scrapes from when I pulled you through the windshield, possibly a concussion. There may be sediment in your lungs, although you’d probably be coughing if there was any significant amount. CPR keeps your blood circulating until you can breathe on your own, but when there’s a near drowning victim, there are emergency treatment protocols that-”

“Raley?”

“What?”

“Why don’t you want to take me to the hospital?”

In spite of all the reasons he was listing that he should, she’d been able to tell he was discouraging it. “Because I’m afraid if I do, you won’t live long.” He saw no merit in sugarcoating it. She needed the truth and needed it told to her without any buffering bullshit. “Somebody killed Jay. Somebody tried to kill you. I think you’ll be safer if they think you’re dead.”

“Cobb Fordyce was behind this?”

“Or George McGowan. Or maybe both.”

“One for all,” she said softly, repeating what he’d said earlier.

“After we separated, I got to thinking about how vulnerable you are. I was coming to warn you to be careful, to remain in police custody if you could. After this, it’s no longer a matter of speculation. Whoever killed Jay believes you pose a threat.”

“Why didn’t they kill me when they killed Jay?”

“I’m sure they’re asking themselves the same question, regretting that they didn’t.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her hug her elbows and rub her upper arms. Despite the outside temperature, he switched the truck’s AC over to heat and aimed the vents at her.

“Did you see the other car?” she asked.

“Couldn’t make it out. Too far away and too dark. What I can’t figure is how they knew where you were. Unless they put a transponder on your car. But if they’d done that, why weren’t they waiting for us at the airstrip? Or why didn’t they intercept us when I took you from your home last night?”

“My telephone,” she said dully. “I found it.”

“Oh.”

“It rang shortly after I left the airstrip. My lawyer was calling. We had a two-or three-minute conversation before the battery went dead. Could they track it by satellite?”

“I guess. If they had the equipment and were set up for it. Did you tell Alexander where you were?”

She nodded. “Which road I was going to take and how far out I was.”

“Anyone hearing that could have been waiting on a side road. When you passed, they pulled out behind you.”

“That’s exactly what they did. At first I was glad to see another car.”

“Did you mention me to Alexander?”

“No.”

“Did you say anything about what I’d told you?”

“Only that Jay’s murder and the police station fire were connected. That there was more to the story.”

Raley expelled his breath. “How well do you know this lawyer?”

“I met him yesterday morning.” She flung back her head and released a mirthless laugh. “Was that only yesterday?”

“Seems he double-crossed you, Britt.”

“I guess.”

“Or his phone was bugged.”

They came upon a tackle shop that, along with live bait, sold cold beer, hot coffee, fireworks, and the best burgers in Dixie. Or so boasted the handwritten sign in the window.

Raley parked in front and opened his door. “I’ll be right back.” When she didn’t argue or pepper him with questions, he knew she was still in shock. He preferred the questions.

A bell above the screen door jangled when he went in. A man wearing a stained white wife-beater and khaki pants was leaning on the counter, eating a bag of onion-flavored potato chips and thumbing through a hunting and fishing magazine. Above and behind him on the wall was the mounted head of a snarling razorback.

As Raley approached the counter, the man wiped his salty fingers on his pants legs and looked Raley over, starting at his muddy bare feet and moving up his clinging, wet clothes to his dirty, bearded face and matted hair. “Out for a swim?”

“Hot tea, please. One.”

“Hot tea?” He chortled. “Want fries with that?”

Raley just stared at him.

The man’s silly grin slowly evaporated. “Coffee machine’s over there. Hot water spout’s on the side of it.”

Raley went to the self-serve area and scrounged around until he found a crushed box of Lipton tea bags. He filled a foam cup with hot water-which was barely tepid-dropped the tea bag in, and put a lid on it. He returned to the counter. “How much?”

“Is it for the lady?”

The man peered past Raley, who turned to see what he was looking at: Britt with her head leaned against the passenger window, wet hair obscuring most of her face, except for her eyes, which were staring blankly through the windshield. “That’s right,” Raley said, coming back around.

“Rough night?”

“You could say.”

“On the house,” the man said, sliding the cup of tea toward Raley.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t forget the sugar.”

Raley picked up two packets of Domino, nodded his thanks to the man, and returned to the truck. He handed the tea and sugar to Britt, then started the truck and pulled it back onto the road.

“I don’t want this.” She had removed the cap and was looking into the cup of tea, which had brewed barely to the color of apple juice.

“Drink it anyway.”

Obediently she placed the cup between her knees, emptied both packets of sugar into it, and bravely took a sip.

He said, “I have an oxygen tank at my place.” She didn’t say anything, but in his peripheral vision, he could see that she was looking at him quizzically. He kept his head forward. “I got it thinking that I might need it for an emergency, that Delno might go into cardiac arrest from eating too much fatty food like possum. He fries everything in lard and thinks bacon grease is a beverage.”

She took another sip of the tea, still looking at him over the rim of the cup. “You want me to go back to your cabin with you?”

He turned his head. “Not really, no. But I’ve got something to show you.”

“In addition to your oxygen tank?”

“My files. Everything I have on my investigation into the fire.”

“Official documentation?”

“In anticipation of being fired, I sneaked into Brunner’s office and made a copy of everything. I’d be willing to let you read through it, but first I must have your word that you won’t make me a news story until I give you the go-ahead.” He paused to let that sink in.

“Or?”

“Or I can drop you off at an emergency room, where you can get proper treatment. Or I can drive you to your house and you can surrender to the police. In all fairness, I have to tell you that either of those options would be wiser than sticking with me.”

She ran her finger around the rim of the cup several times. “My own lawyer may not be trustworthy.”

“Whether or not he betrayed you to the bad guys, he’s compromised.”

“You said yourself that the detectives on my case idolized Jay and wouldn’t want to hear anything negative about him.”

“I’m confident you would get them past that. They’d have to accept the truth about him sooner or later.”

“But later. Because right now my credibility is nil.”

“In the meantime, you’re exposed and in danger.”

“There’s no disputing that. Someone tried to…tried to…”

“Kill you.”

Too emotional to speak, she nodded.

Raley considered that answer enough.

Thank Jesus the last of the guests were straggling toward the front door to say their thank-yous and good-byes. George had had about all of this party he could stand. Les’s idea of a good time was to gather his toadies and their wives around him, ply them with rich food and strong drink, and let them know how fucking great he was and weren’t they lucky to be paid to kiss his ass.

Ostensibly the party had been a last-minute thing to celebrate the deal with the city that had been consummated this afternoon after a slow eighteen holes of golf and an endless lunch. George doubted its spontaneity.

By the time he got home from the country club, catering trucks and hired bartenders and waiters were already there, setting up. Guests began arriving at six thirty, continued until seven, and the attendance rate had been one hundred percent of those invited. He figured Les had had this soiree planned for weeks.

The son of a bitch had never entertained the thought that he might be unsuccessful in securing that athletic complex contract.

“Mr. McGowan, there’s a call for you.”

George turned toward their housekeeper, who had touched him on the arm to get his attention. “Take a message.”

“I tried, sir. He was most insistent on speaking with you.”

“George?” Miranda, looking stunning in a black, body-hugging, strapless dress, approached. Her pink martini matched the diamond drop nestled in her cleavage. The five-carat stone was spectacular but couldn’t hold a candle to the lush breasts. “The Madisons are waiting to say good-bye to you.”

Madison was further up Les’s ass than the rest of them. “I’ve got to take a phone call. Say good night for me.”

She looked perturbed but said nothing, only turned her back on him and rejoined Les, who was glad-handing Madison and insincerely complimenting his plump, mousy wife on her drab dress.

George drained his highball and handed the empty glass to the housekeeper. “Thanks. I’ll take the call in the study.”

It was a pretentious room. The bookshelves were filled with books he’d never read, written by authors he’d never heard of. Adorning the paneled walls were the stuffed heads of deer and elk he hadn’t shot. There was a glittering display case full of trophies for golf tournaments and tennis matches he didn’t remember playing. One of his racehorses had won several silver cups, too, but George had had nothing to do with that beyond paying the exorbitant bills that came with owning, stabling, and training a high-strung, ill-tempered Thoroughbred.

And there was that famous photo of him and the others at the scene of the fire. Miranda had blown it up to an embarrassing size and hung it on the wall in a frame that the Queen of England might have used for her state portrait.

He avoided looking at it as he sat down at the desk and picked up the phone. “Yeah? Who’s this?”

“Cobb Fordyce.”

Despite his determination not to look at the photo, his eyes went straight to it. “It’s after office hours for you, isn’t it?”

“I felt I should call.”

“We’re having a party, Cobb. I have guests.”

Ignoring that, the attorney general said, “I had an interesting call a few minutes ago.”

“Oh?”

“Bill Alexander.”

George swallowed. Or tried. Actually, his mouth had gone dry. He wished he’d poured another drink before picking up the phone. “The lawyer?”

Sounding vexed, Cobb said, “Come on, George.”

“Okay, why did he call you at this time of night?”

“Because I’m the state AG. Therefore, he thought I should know that Britt Shelley had told him there was a connection between Jay Burgess’s murder and the police station fire.”

George propped his elbow on the desk and dropped his head into his palm.

Fordyce went on. “I asked Mr. Alexander why his client, Ms. Shelley, would link the two tragedies. Was she merely surmising, or had Jay told her something before he died? Mr. Alexander explained that he didn’t have time to ask her these questions before their cell-phone conversation was cut off.

“I’m not sure how well you know Bill Alexander, George, but he is an excitable individual on his best day. When he called me tonight, he was near panic. He had promised Detective Clark that Ms. Shelley was due to arrive at her house within an hour of their conversation to turn herself in. She never showed. Once again, her whereabouts are unknown.”

“Huh. Why did Alexander call you with this news flash?”

“He’s wondering if he should give any credence to Ms. Shelley’s allegation that there’s a relationship between the fire and the murder of Jay Burgess. He asked my opinion on the matter. Did I think it warranted further investigation? Should it be made public? Or kept quiet? In short, he’s got a rattlesnake by the neck and doesn’t know where to pitch it.”

George wanted badly to throw up. “When Alexander called Detective Clark, told him that Britt Shelley was on her way home to surrender, do you know if he mentioned this business about the fire?”

“No, he didn’t. He thought he should consult me first.”

Well, George thought with relief, that was something. Not much. But something. Sensing movement, he looked up to see his father-in-law and Miranda standing side by side just inside the study door.

Cobb was saying, “I don’t like this harkening back to the fire, George. It could become very uncomfortable for all of us.”

“Yeah, I’m aware of that.” He took a quick breath. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“We must talk, George.”

“Right. I’ll call you early.” He hung up before the AG could say anything further.

Miranda walked to a leather sofa and draped herself over the arm of it, stretching languorously, expanding those creamy breasts above the low neckline of her dress. “Who was that, darling?”

“Cobb Fordyce.”

Her eyebrows arched eloquently, but it was Les who asked, “What did our attorney general have to say for himself at this hour of the night?”

George divided a look between them. “He said we have a problem.”