“Because it is not.”
“Then what is the idea, damn it?”
He zipped up his pack, looked around as if he were missing something and finally stood up. “You curse a lot you know.”
Emily stared up at him in blank amazement. “You’re kidding, right.”
“Why would I do that?” He turned and looked around at the small clearing, and then he chose a different path than the one that brought them to this place. He began to walk away.
“Wait a minute. Where are you going? Hey, look at me! Turn your fucking psycho self around and come back here. You can’t leave me here. Wait! God-damn you, wait. I’ll do whatever you want. Motherfucker! You motherfucker. You can’t just leave me here.”
He turned his head before he stepped into the covering of the dense wood. “You really do curse a lot. Your father will understand what is happening.”
Emily sat in stunned silence as he disappeared. She was momentarily shocked into silence. Then she screamed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Who’s Jimmy?” Gant asked.
They were seated in the back of the Lear Jet, the muted roar of the engines filling the cabin. Bailey was seated across from them, talking on his secure satellite phone, lining up support for them in Memphis, their current destination.
“My son,” Golden said.
Since this morning no one had been very forthcoming with information. Gant stared at Golden for several moments, waiting for more, then when he realized it wasn’t coming he put his feet up on the table, leaned back and closed his eyes. Normally he could fall asleep within moments, a trait learned when one had to grab sleep whenever possible under harsh conditions but images of his brother intruded, keeping him on the cusp of sleep and sorrow. His right hand was absent-mindedly running along his left forearm where shrapnel from an RPG round had torn the flesh long ago. And it wasn’t just his brother, there was also the image of Jesse.
“Have you notified the local authorities?” Golden’s voice intruded on Gant’s memories. He opened his eyes and noted that Bailey was off the phone.
“Negative,” Bailey said. “We want first crack at the site. We have a helicopter waiting in Memphis to get us to the cache.”
“Whoever is there could be alive,” Golden said.
“You really think that?” Gant asked.
“There’s always hope,” Golden argued.
“Hope is not a good thing,” Gant said. “It blurs reality.”
Golden looked like he’d just slapped her. “Hope is all we have sometimes.”
Bailey’s cell phone buzzed, cutting through the sudden tension. He opened it and listened for a few moments, then closed it. “Someone’s already at the cache site.”
“Who?” Gant asked.
“The FBI.”
“Why?”
“Someone found a body there.”
“Who?” Golden asked.
“Some kid hunting with his old man,” Bailey replied.
Golden shook her head. “No. Who is the body?”
“They don’t know yet. FBI just got on scene.”
A thunderstorm was off-shore, lightning playing above the Gulf, the thunder rolling in over the beach. Caleigh Roberts was on her first Spring Break and while the Florabama was packed, the crowd parted as she made her way to the back deck. Blond hair flowed over tanned shoulders. She wore a short blue jean skirt and a belly revealing tank top that was pink and spelled Princess in tiny rhinestones across her chest. She slid in among her friends from Ole Miss.
“Call daddy?” one of the frat brothers yelled.
Caleigh blushed, only highlighting her high cheekbones. She was his only daughter and it was the one requirement he’d placed on her at the same time he’d given her a Platinum Card.
The Florabama is a roadhouse straddling the Florida-Alabama border. It had started as a small clapboard liquor store that grew room by add-on room toward the shoreline then further into either state. It is surrounded by a tall corrugated fence like those around a junkyard.
A bad band was playing rock, making up for lack of talent with volume. There were three bars within sight of the deck serving shots in little plastic cups that other places put ketchup in. People were below the deck, dancing in the sand. A group of frat brothers were urging Caleigh and her girlfriends to do another shot of some sweet stuff called Tongue in Your Panties. They were all giggling wildly and Caleigh quickly forget her check-in phone call and her Dad’s words.
It was only 8:30 in the PM and over a thousand people were crowded into the various rooms of the Florabama, all already in various stages of drunkenness. No one was focusing on any one thing or person, all feeling a bubbling hysteria. Caleigh was dancing and half drunk and having a very good time. She felt pretty and desirable. A special time when special things happened. Frat brothers had been flirting with her all evening but she’d grown up with them. They were just excited little puppies.
In the shadows off the deck, just outside the door into the Florabama a tall, dark-haired man leaned against the wall. He appeared to be in his late 20’s, maybe early 30’s, with weathered, tanned skin that gave him a sophisticated, experienced look the frat boys lacked. Caleigh had spotted him about an hour earlier. In some ways, although it was crowded, he was apart from the others. Every time she looked at him and he returned the gaze with his dark eyes, she averted her own. She continued to dance with the boys.
When she looked up once more, he was gone. She felt a moment’s concern, surprised at the intensity of the feeling cutting through her drunken haze. She swept her gaze around the deck and saw him standing by the stairs to the beach, leaning against a pole, drinking a Corona and looking straight at her. As he lowered the bottle, she saw he was smiling.
He motioned for her to come over and in the crowded party no one saw her move toward him. She stopped about two feet in front of him, not quite in his personal space, but close. He mouthed something, but she couldn’t hear over the band. He smiled once more and nodded toward the stairs.
Caleigh glanced over her shoulder. Her friends were among the crowd, all drunk, all young. When she turned back, he was half way down the wood stairs. She reached out for the railing, a little dizzy, and followed. She caught up to him and he tossed his Corona into a barrel, the hand continuing to move and sliding around her waist as they walked down the beach.
He stopped, facing the ocean, the surf pounding less than five feet away. There was no moon and the cloud cover was thick. He held his left arm up. “Florida.” He dropped it to his side and lifted his right. “Alabama.”
Caliegh laughed, a bit uncertainly.
“Areas of operation,” he said.
“What?”
“Do you know what that means?”
Caliegh shook her head.
He reached forward very gently, one hand sliding up her neck into her hair. She felt herself pulled forward as if in a dream, her lips meeting his. They kissed. Again and again. She felt the surf against her ankles, her calves. It was like a dream, one she’d used to have as a young girl. He was so sweet and gentle and strong and—
She was weightless, and then the air exploded out of her lungs as her back hit the sand hard. All she could see was his dark form over her. His other hand was on her throat. There was something strange about it. It was cold, Caliegh realized. Cold and unyielding. Not warm flesh. How could that be?
A wave broke over her face and she blinked, trying to get the salt water out of her eyes. She was stunned, unable to move for precious seconds. His other hand was on her arm, twisting her over. She felt sand scrape against her cheek, shocking her into action. She kicked, but he was too strong, too large, and she was small. His strange hand let go of her throat and she gasped for air, sucking in a wave, coughing, trying to spit out the water, only in time for another wave to wash over her.