Irrelevant thoughts and disconnected images tumbled through my head in kaleidoscopic turmoil as the adrenaline that had been pumping through my veins slowed down and leveled off. Throughout it all, I worried with the identity of who had shot me. In the dim light, that face had looked vaguely familiar, like a face I might have seen around town without ever putting a name to it.
Whether it was the adrenaline rush or the loss of blood, I felt myself getting light-headed and sank down on the floor. Random and almost incoherent thoughts flicked in and out of my mind—the dollhouse . . . the flash drive . . . Dwight . . . Candace Bradshaw’s irritating giggles . . . insider information . . . power plays . . . playing loose and dirty . . . this dirty floor . . . Candace’s shining clean bathroom and this filthy, stinking hole . . .
I don’t know if I actually passed out, but when my head cleared again, I thought I knew who that face was and why Candace and Dee had been killed. If I was right, it explained how John Claude had lost that big case to Greg Turner and why Jamie’s presentation didn’t win her the contract for Grayson Village.
I looked at my watch. Ten till one and I was due back at the courthouse at one. Forget that. Call Dwight. Tell him—
Oh. Right. Phone’s in my purse and it must have slipped from my shoulder when that first shot hit me.
Well, it would have to stay out there. Sooner or later someone would come and then—
Abruptly, I realized it wasn’t just the odor of pine cleanser and urine that was making me cough. Smoke seemed to be seeping in around the edges of the door.
I managed to stand and quietly slide back the bolt, then eased the door open slowly, half expecting gunfire. Instead, I heard the crackle of flames. Horrified, I saw a wall of fire blocking my way to the doors, and clouds of smoke billowed toward me.
CHAPTER 24
The preacher rushes
into his sermon, suffering
happiness in the tears
that drop
in his understanding
of our miserable lot.
—Middle Creek Poems, by Shelby Stephenson
In the register of deeds office, the clerk smiled and handed over the receipt for the fees the office charged to register new deeds. “Good thing for y’all that there’s no transfer tax in Colleton County yet.”
The two men smiled and thanked her for her help.
Outside they shook hands.
“I can rest easy now,” Kezzie Knott said, hefting the small carrying case in his hands. “Can’t nobody ever dig up that man’s body now and I know you’ll use this for the good of the Lord.”
To Faison McKinney’s dismay, the old man opened the case right there on the sidewalk for all the curious world to see had the world been looking. April sunlight gleamed and flashed on the tangle of bright metal and faceted gemstones within.
“Since these here earrings ain’t worth all that much, I reckon you won’t mind if I keep ’em for a souvenir,” he said and drew out the glittering pair that he had given McKinney to prove that his story was as genuine as those diamonds.
McKinney bit back his protest. No point being greedy. Not when he was getting a pile of gems worth five or six million in exchange for land and goods worth half that. “Not a bit, Brother Kezzie.”
“I surely do thank you for all your help, Preacher. And you don’t have to worry ’bout me ever saying a word of this to anybody.”
“Same here, Brother Kezzie. When we do the Lord’s work, we don’t need to tell the devil.”
As they parted, each man to his own vehicle, Kezzie wondered what he was going to do with that failing used-car dealership.
He wished there were a way to see McKinney’s face when his jeweler friend told him that the bag contained only costume jewelry. Good-quality costume jewelry, but worth no more than five or six hundred dollars for the whole bag.
Well, a man can’t have everything, he told himself philosophically, and drove to the outlet mall, where a black Lincoln with tinted windows sat all alone at the far end of the parking lot. He stopped beside the car and waited till the man in the backseat joined him in the truck’s cab.
“Everything go okay?”
“Hook, line, and sinker,” he said. “Just got to know what bait to use.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out the diamond earrings. “And them here was better’n red wigglers or crickets. You want that used-car place? It ain’t worth much and I got no use for it.”
G. Hooks Talbert gave a sour laugh of grudging admiration. “Damn! You got that, too?”
“Yeah. I figured as long as we was scraping him clean, might as well.”
“Do what you like with it. I don’t want my name on anything connected to this.”
As Kezzie drove back through town, sirens seemed to be coming from every direction. The cars ahead were pulling over to the curb and he did the same. Two fire trucks and an ambulance went flying past and in his rearview mirror he saw several police cars weave in and out around them, all headed in the same direction.
CHAPTER 25
Clutching dear life so thin
The stubborn holding on . . .
—Paul’s Hill, by Shelby Stephenson
Choking and coughing as smoke swirled around me, my first impulse was to retreat to the bathroom again, to slam the door shut and cram the cracks around it with wet paper towels. Instead, I got as close to the floor as I could, where the smoke was slightly thinner, pulled my wet jacket away from my arm, and tied the sleeves behind my head so that my mouth and nose were covered.
The wound began to ooze blood again and smoke burned my eyes, but somehow I forced myself to crawl toward the fire, which must have begun up closer to the front. I was disoriented and couldn’t remember exactly which way I had come until I saw the trail of my blood on the concrete floor. I followed it on hands and knees. The crawl seemed to take forever, and I could feel the heat building toward me as I finally rounded the wardrobe I had cowered behind only a short time ago. Another few feet and I reached the dollhouse.
The flash drive was gone, of course, and so was my purse. I almost whimpered in fear and desperation, but as I turned to crawl back to the toilet, I caught a glimpse of the leather strap under the edge of a chest where I must have kicked it in my haste to get away from the bullets. I yanked at it and it caught on the foot.
The fire was getting ever nearer. I felt my skin drying and somewhere close by something exploded with a shower of glass that sprinkled down on me, shards catching in my hair. Every instinct screamed at me to leave it and go, but I couldn’t give up.
A lateral tug and the purse popped out. I slung the strap over my head and made like an inchworm trying to break the world speed record.
Once I was back inside the toilet with the steel door closed and my wet jacket plugging the crack at the floor, I heard sirens from outside. Someone must finally have given the alarm.
I almost dropped my phone in my haste to turn it on and push the speed dial for Dwight’s number.
He answered on the first ring and before I could speak, he yelled, “Deb’rah? Where the hell are you? Will’s warehouse is on fire and he says your car’s there.”
I told him as concisely as I could, trying not to babble hysterically, “Look for a small high window and oh, Dwight, please hurry!”