In the dream, Blake took the shovel and dug. He dug a hole deeper than himself, deep enough to bury the mountain of lies, greed and destruction that had poisoned his heart and his soul. The deeper he dug the freer he felt, the more joyous he felt. He dug to the haunting song of the mountain as a screeching raven perched high above. As he climbed from the hole he pushed everything into it that had caused him such suffering. The sheds, the fences, his truck, the lies, money, his football trophies—even Nick was shoved into the hole as Blake waved goodbye. He pushed and shoveled dirt back over the hole, filling it until he could stomp and dance on it.
When the music stopped in the dream Blake stood and smiled, surrounded not by what didn’t matter, but only by what did. There was only himself, Angelica and his son.
Chapter 27
Lonnie arrived at his desk in the sheriff’s office at 9:30 a.m. As he got out of his car, the humidity in the warm October air reminded him of a mission to New Orleans he had taken with members of his church immediately after hurricane Katrina. The moist air was tropical and smothered the mountains like a giant, wet towel.
“Mornin’, Lucy,” Lonnie said as he walked through the door.
“Mornin’, Lonnie,” she said. “Feels like we’re on a tropical island don’t it?”
“Yep. Don’t go breaking out your bathing suit though, we got work to do,” Lonnie said with a smile to his executive assistant. As he walked into his office and sat his Starbucks coffee cup on his desk, Lucy walked in to brief the sheriff on the day’s schedule.
The D.A.R.E. poster hung prominently behind the sheriff’s desk, taking fully half of the available wall space. Behind the desk in one corner was the Georgia state flag. In the other was the American flag. The desk itself was tidy, as usual. Pens in their holder, an empty inbox, a full outbox that Lucy would now empty. Other than that, lots of empty space for Lonnie to spread out whatever project he might work on.
“What do we got today, Lucy?”
“Nuttin’ you can’t handle, Sheriff. This package came in via FedEx a few minutes ago from Facebook out in California. And you got that luncheon at noon with the senior class at Rabun County High. Gonna tell ’em not to drink and drive, Lonnie? Or are you just gonna tell ’em to mind what ma says?”
Lonnie looked up to see Lucy’s sarcastic grin. She emptied the outbox, turned, and walked away without giving him a chance to respond, even if he wanted to. She knew he didn’t.
With precision, Lonnie sliced through the end of the 9 x 12 envelope with his letter opener, being as mindful as he would in examining evidence at a crime scene. He pulled out a thick stack of white paper that was stapled in the upper left corner. He estimated that there were probably sixty to eighty pages in the stack as he stared at the cover page.
CONFIDENTIAL
The information in this file is confidential material provided by Facebook solely in response to an officially sanctioned subpoena, court order, search warrant or other legal information request. The intended recipient is requested to handle the provided material in accordance with their organization’s protocol for handling sensitive or confidential information.
“Good grief,” Lonnie uttered to himself. “This’ll take all day.”
He flipped the pages, thumbing through all eight sheets of the subpoena itself before seeing the first page with any data worth looking at.
Neoprint for profile 149230525 taken on 2012-10-09 for dates (2012-07-01 thru 2012-10-08)
He read the details aloud as his eyes scrolled down the page. “Let’s see...Name, Jesse Simmons. Recent Login IP address, email addresses, member since January 2008, born November 11, 1989, screenname is mountainman, relationship status is...none.”
As Lonnie flipped the page he saw deputy Freeman Bishop walk through his door.
“Mornin’, Freeman,” Lonnie said, and returned to the document.
“Mornin’, Sheriff. Just heard that the National Hurricane Center said the hurricane has strengthened and may actually make landfall near Savannah,” Freeman said.
Lonnie dropped the picture of Jesse and looked up.
“Savannah? They haven’t taken a major hurricane since --.”
“1890s is what they said on the TV,” Freeman said. “At least not a major one.”
“What are they saying about this one?” Lonnie asked.
“Saying it’s looking like it’s gonna make landfall as at least a Category 4,” Freeman said.
“At least?” Lonnie asked as he rose, thinking he must be missing something.
“Yep, maybe even a five,” Freeman said. “They’re already asking folks to evacuate the islands down there. That’s a long way from here, Sheriff, but I figure a lot of folks will want to volunteer to help out if needed.”
“Did you happen to see what path they’re projecting the storm to travel?” Lonnie asked.
“Well, their map shows it hittin’ the Georgia coast tomorrow late afternoon or early evening, then heading up toward north Georgia or western North Carolina early Friday morning. Course they say there’s still a lot of leeway.”
Lonnie stood stoically visualizing the storm’s impact, both on the coast and on the mountains if the storm was really as strong as Freeman was saying.
“Them weather guys are always saying that, ain’t they?” Freeman asked.
“Saying what?”
“That there’s a lot of leeway. Lots of variables. That way they can be right no matter what way the wind blows.”
“I reckon so,” Lonnie said.
Freeman stood opposite Lonnie and looked down at his desk, seeing the picture of Jesse.
“Holy sh—” Freeman started and stopped, remembering that Sheriff Lonnie was also Pastor Lonnie. “What is that?” Freeman pointed to the picture.
“That, Mr. Bishop, is one of the missing boys we’re looking for, Jesse Simmons.”
“Yeah, but where is that? I mean, look at the size of that boar!” Freeman said. He invited himself around the desk to get a better look.
“Son of a–” Freeman began before biting down on his lip. “You don’t wanna go messin’ with them, Sheriff. I was huntin’ ’em one time, them wild boars, and if you get yourself cornered they’ll flat out kill ya.”
Lonnie looked at Freeman’s face. He was lost in the photograph the way a World War II veteran relives the horrors of Normandy when presented with an old black and white photograph.
“I been on some of them hunts,” Freeman said. “Was on one when one of the boars, just like that ’un, killed a fella.”
“What? Where was that?” Lonnie asked. He waited for Freeman to answer, but he remained lost in the photo.