“Oh,” King said. “So, Chaplain Jordan, the Caldwells are not suspects in the investigation?”
“As I said before, Larry, no one has been ruled out.”
“But the governor said-” Bobby Earl began.
“The governor,” I said, “is not conducting the investigation.”
CHAPTER 36
“He killed his daughter, didn’t he?” Susan said.
We were back in the car riding toward Mexico Beach on the brightly moon-lit barren highway next to the coast.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But if he did, he sees himself as Abraham.”
“I bet everyone wondered why you said you were certain her killer would be found,” she said, “but I knew.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she said. “You’re certain because you won’t stop until you find him.”
I nodded.
“But what then?” she asked. “What will you do with a monster like that?”
“I may make a little sacrifice of my own,” I said.
We were quiet for a long time before she said, “Probably not a good idea to make the governor mad at you.”
“Why should he be any different?”
She smiled. “Can you believe we’re still married?”
“No,” I said. “I can’t. Why didn’t you sign the papers?”
“I meant to,” she said. “But I didn’t want to, so I procrastinated. And then when I began recovery, I don’t know, I guess I just began to see things so differently.” She turned toward me suddenly, eyes moving rapidly, voice pleading. “You didn’t cheat on me, did you?”
“No,” I said. “I never did.” Then I laughed out loud. “Still haven’t.”
“You haven’t?” she said. “You mean this whole time you thought we were divorced, and you haven’t…”
“Sad, isn’t it?”
“No,” she said. “Of course not. It’s sweet. It’s wonderful. It’s just what I’d expect.”
She reached over and took my hand, lacing her fingers in mine, and laid her head on my shoulder, the scent of her hair drifting pleasantly over me. Her hand felt right in mine, her body like it was made to be beside mine, but an uneasiness, blinking like a warning light at the edge of my mind, whispered that my body was betraying me.
“What’re we gonna do?” she asked.
“About what?”
“In the eyes of the law,” she said, “we’re still married.”
“I know,” I said. “But that’s not how we’ve been living. The law doesn’t change the fact that we reached a place where we both felt like we had to separate. It can’t heal us or make us right with each other again. It’s powerless to create love.”
“So there’s no hope for us?” she asked, releasing her hold on my hand and rising off my shoulder. “No chance of-”
Just then, a black van pulled out of a small side road and rammed into us. My truck fishtailed, but I managed to keep it on the road, and when I had it back under control, I slowed, but continued moving forward.
“Aren’t you gonna stop?” Susan asked.
“On a dark road in the middle of nowhere without a gun?” I asked.
“Why don’t you carry a gun?” she asked.
“I tend to shoot less people,” I said.
“But with all the criminals you work around, all the crimes you still investigate…”
“Now’s probably not the best time for this conversation.”
I checked the rearview mirror again. The van was still sitting in the middle of the highway, its lights on.
“We’ve got to go back and help them,” Susan said.
“I’ve got to find a safe place to drop you off first,” I said.
“I’m going with you,” she said.
“On a dark road in the middle of nowhere without a gun?” I asked. “Are you kidding?”
She smiled at me, reached into her purse, and pulled out a small snub-nosed.38. She pointed it at me and said, “Go back.”
“What?” I asked in shock.
“Just kidding,” she said with a smile. “It’s not loaded.”
She then reached back into her purse, pulled out a small box of cartridges, and loaded the gun.
At first I was surprised she had a gun, but then on second thought: Of course she would. She’s a single woman living in Atlanta and her dad’s been in law enforcement all her life.
“How many of your dates come this prepared?” she asked with a wry smile.
“Not many,” I said. “Usually they have a very different idea of protection.”
When I checked the mirror again, the lights in the van had gone off, and just as I was about to turn around, I caught a glimpse of it racing toward us.
“What’s he doing?” Susan asked.
“Probably not trying to give me his insurance information,” I said, and floored it.
My truck did zero to sixty in less than sixty minutes, so the van had caught up to us in no time, and as soon as it did, it rammed us again. And then again. And again.
I knew I could never outrun or out-maneuver him, so I tried to think of an alternate plan.
“Could I borrow that?” I asked Susan, nodding toward her gun.
She handed it to me.
“Thanks,” I said. “Now, cover your ears.”
I rolled down the window, and, with my left hand on the wheel, reached out with my right and squeezed off two rounds.
Both missed.
“How many rounds you got?” I asked.
“Not many,” she said.
“Uh oh.”
“Don’t miss and it won’t be an issue.”
“Oh, okay,” I said with as much sarcasm as I could muster at the moment.
I fired two more rounds. Both of them missed again.
“This is embarrassing,” she said with a laugh.
“Yeah,” I said, “laugh it up. It’s all fun and games until they kill us.”
This was a different Susan-witty, charming, cool under pressure. Not to mention, she carried a gun-how cool was that?
“I’ve got an idea,” she said, unbuckling her seatbelt and turning around in the seat. She reached back and slid open the center panel of glass. “I’ll steer and you shoot through there.”
“Couldn’t get less results,” I said.
When I turned toward the van, I thought I noticed something about the plates, but it was too dark to be sure. So before I fired again, I reached under the passenger seat and pulled out a Q-beam spot light, plugged it into the cigarette lighter, and shined it on the van.
The van started slowing immediately, but I fired the last two rounds anyway. One ricocheted off the bumper, the other missed completely.
“It’s another couple of miles to East Point,” Susan said, “Why’d they stop?”
“They didn’t want me to see their bumper,” I said.
“What?” she asked in surprise. “Why?”
“Because,” I said, “it held a Louisiana license plate.”
When we reached the Driftwood, she asked me up to her room, and I politely declined.
“I just don’t want this night to end,” she said. “Not yet.… Take your wife for a walk on the beach. Please, John.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” I said. “It’s that I want to too much.”
“Remember what you were saying earlier,” she said. “About the law being unable to create desire?”
I nodded.
“Well, if you have the desire,” she said, “the law is on your side. I’m still Mrs. John Jordan.”
CHAPTER 37
I knew sleeping with my ex-wife was a mistake before our clothes hit the floor.
We had just come up to her room to change clothes before taking a moonlit stroll along the beach, but she looked and smelled and felt so familiar, and over a year without physical intimacy had been an eternity too long.
Her eyebrows arched into a question that meant only one thing. It was how she had initiated sex during our marriage-never verbally, not once, just an expression that I couldn’t resist.
I would never again underestimate the power of shared history, like the connection that binds you to school friends for life, though you have nothing but school in common. Susan and I had shared a life together, and that shared experience wrapped itself around us like elastic bands that allowed for only so much separation before they snapped us back together again. I hadn’t thought about her in nearly a year. Now as beauty, softness, and a sweet scent filled my senses, my mind could think of little else, and my body couldn’t quit wanting her.