My Sister's Keeper (26 page)

“
What?”

“
I want you to find out who these people are at that beach house.”

“
How do I do that?”

“
Just go back down there and snoop around a little more. Get license plate numbers, telephone numbers, names and addresses. Whatever you can find.”

I placed my hand on her shoulder and leaned closer. “What if these people are the ones that killed the Jacksons?”

“
Wouldn’t it be nice to have
proof
of that? Wouldn’t that get you off the hook? You’ve got to start somewhere and you’ve already been there once. You just need to be extra careful.”

“
You make it sound easy.”

“
Just remember, these people are dangerous. You don’t want to end up like me, or
worse
.”

“
Are you trying to encourage me or discourage me?”

She patted my hand. “I don’t want to lose my only brother.” I laid my head against hers.
Half-brother?
We wrapped our arms around each other and stayed like that for several minutes. When I pulled back and sat up, she squeezed my hand. “So, when can you do it?”

I stood. “It can’t wait. I’ve got to do it tonight.”

I left Martha in the smoking area and crossed the parking lot to leave. Stacy Myers, a local TV reporter ran toward me with a cameraman in tow.

“
Richard! Richard! Can I have a word with you?”

Her medium length blond hair had been pinned back on the sides and she was dressed in a dark blue business suit. She carried a microphone in her hand and ran awkwardly on high heels.

“
Sorry Stacy, but I have nothing to say,” I shouted without slowing.

She kept running alongside me. “Please, if you don’t tell your side of the story, the media will create it for you.” I had gone through a lot of trouble to avoid the media, but Stacy had been a roommate of my sister’s after they’d graduated from college. She was a friend. I stopped and turned to her. “Just a few questions,” she said as the cameraman threw his camera up on his shoulder while running to catch us.

“
No, Stacy. I had nothing to do with what happened to Ashleigh.”

“
Then tell it on camera. Let the people see you say it.”

I expelled a heavy sigh.
“I can’t. I’m sorry. You’re on your own with this one.” As I turned, the cameraman grunted and lowered his camera.

She followed. “Come on, Rich! Give me something.”

I turned back. “Okay, question: Where’s the body?”

“
Huh?”

“
Where’s the body, Stacy?”

She pulled a loose spring of blond hair out of her face. “That’s what I want to ask you.”

“
Why do you even think she’s dead?”

“
Well, isn’t she?”

“
See? You’re making the same mistake as everyone else.”

“
What else can I think?”

“
Exactly!”

She stamped her foot. “Exactly what?”

“
You think she’s dead because her house
looks
like a murder took place there. But what if she staged this whole thing and took off never to be seen or heard from again?”

“
Why would she do that?”

“
Now you’re thinking!” Stacy was a smart girl, but had fallen into the trap of being too beautiful and wasn’t thinking. “And that, Stacy, is the best I can do for you. Sorry.”

She sighed, but didn’t follow when I walked off.

Back at home, I tuned through all the local TV newscasts. Everyone was reporting the Jackson murders and my presence there. One reporter even asked the Police Commissioner why I was still free.

“
We’re keeping a close eye on him,” the Commissioner told him.

Then the reporter asked him, “Just how long do the citizens of Wilmington have to wait for Richard Baimbridge to be locked up behind bars where he belongs?”

I didn’t wait for his answer. I shut the TV off, hurled the remote against the fireplace, and hoped Mom was still at the hospital and had not seen any of that.

I poured a scotch, gulped it, and poured another that I carried out on the deck. The sun had set, but the clouds still had a bright pink glow to them in the west. Settling into a chair, I brought the glass to my lips, but before I could take a sip, my cell phone rang.

“
Hello?”

“
Hi.” The female voice was low and depressed.

“
Sydney?”

“
Yeah,” she whispered.

“
What’s wrong?”

“
Everything.”

“
Tell me.”

“
The parents want me to get another photographer.”

I closed my eyes and exhaled. “I was afraid something like this might happen. I’m really sorry.”

Her voice dropped back to a whisper. I could tell she was crying. “I’ve got to go. My next class is waiting.”

“
Okay. I’ll call you later.”

“
Okay.”

“
I’m sorry, Sydney.”

“
Me, too.” She hung up.

My heart ached for her. I only agreed to do the photographs in the first place because I wanted to make things easier for her. Now I’d turned into a bigger problem than she’d had to begin with.

I rose from the lounge chair, slung the liquor from my glass into the yard, kicked a broken limb off the deck, and gathered together the things I’d need to go back to the house at the beach.

35

I
COULD SEE THE BEACH HOUSE from a half mile away, a crystal castle rising out of the darkness. I cut through to the beach where I rode the bike along that strip of firm sand at the edge of the water, then killed the engine, and hid it in the dunes within fifty yards of the house. If I needed to get away quickly, I’d have a better chance on the beach than on the highway. I opened the saddlebag, retrieved a pair of binoculars, and settled down in the dunes to watch the place.

No one was outside. I panned the binoculars window to window, switched my cell phone off, and moved along the dunes toward the back of the house. From there, I could see into the lighted rooms on the first and second floors, but curtains were drawn across a brightly-lit chamber on the third floor. Three women were curled in chairs in the screening room watching a movie on the giant TV screen.

I made a wide arc around to the house across the street from where I could see up under the beach house. There was a black Cadillac Escalade parked under the house, but the Corvette was not there so I figured John-Boy was probably not there either. I pulled the cell phone from my jacket, turned it on, and called Martha. “It’s me. I’m here. Write this down.” I pulled a piece of paper from my pocket and read her a phone number.

“
What’s that?”

Holding the phone with my shoulder, I ripped up the sliver of paper. “It’s Sydney’s phone number. I forgot to leave it at home and I don’t want to have it on me if anything should happen.”

“
Do you see a house number? I can pull up the county GIS map and find out who owns it and where they live.”

“
Not from here. I’ll have to get closer.”

“
Please be careful.”

The black Corvette I’d seen before came into view, slowed, and turned up the driveway across the street. “He’s back.”

“
Who?”

“
The guy I followed down here before. I’ll call you later.”

“
Richard?”

“
What?”

“
Please be careful.”

“
I will. Got to go. I’ll call you later.” I turned the phone off and moved closer to the house staying out of sight. The Corvette was there, but John-Boy had disappeared. As I approached the car, a sliding door upstairs opened and two sets of shoes shuffled awkwardly across the porch above and started down the stairs. I sprang back into the shadows and watched as two men stumbled toward me carrying the body of a young woman. Her right arm dragged the cement as they scuffled toward the Cadillac SUV. One of the men was Fat Albert. The other, Latino, supported the girl’s legs as they slung her onto the back seat. They closed the door, shared a private laugh, and disappeared up the steps.

I crept up to the vehicle and through the window I could see that she had red hair. Easing the car door open, I leaned in, and saw that it was Angie. I pressed a finger against her neck but, before I could find a pulse, I heard voices, closed the door with my hip, and crouched behind the car.

“
Don’t speed,” an older man was saying to a younger man as they came down the stairs. “Don’t run any red lights and don’t get in any wreck.” The man speaking had a heavy high-tider accent, thick eyebrows, and a thick mustache. I assumed the younger one was John-Boy, but couldn’t raise up to get a better look.

“
Yes sir, Mr. Bonner,” the youth said.

“
And make damned sure
nobody
sees you.”

“
I will.”

“
Aye’m countin’ on you, Greg.”

“
You know I always come through for you, Mr. Bonner.”

Through the vehicle’s windows I saw Mr. Bonner grasp hold of the younger man’s shoulder. “You’re my number one.”

“
Thank you, sir.”

The car door clicked open.

“
And you come straight to my office soon’s you get back,” Bonner told him.

“
Yes, sir.”

“
You’re the man.”

“
Thank you, sir.”

As the Escalade’s engine started, I dropped onto my belly with the intention of hiding under the Corvette, but the car was too low and the stitches on the back of my head struck against the steel frame setting my head on fire. Pressing a hand against my skull, I furled off the cement and skirted around the back of the Corvette not noticing my phone had slipped from its holder. Bonner walked along with the vehicle as it backed out, watched the guy turn the SUV around, and then headed back up the stairs as the Cadillac turned left out of the driveway.

Running through tall sea oats, I trampled over dune after dune to the bike, jerked the helmet on, and cranked the engine as the Escalade disappeared up the beach road. With a rear tire spinning in the sand, I bounced wildly across the empty lot next door to the beach house, skidded onto the roadway, and sped off southward after the Cadillac.

HEARING THE SOUND of the motorcycle, Dane Bonner veered out the front door of the beach house in time to see the bike racing after the Cadillac. He dove down the front steps, spotted a cellular phone lying on the cement, snatched it up as he hopped into the Corvette, and brought the mega-V-8 engine to life. Tossing the phone into the passenger’s seat, he squalled onto the highway and floored the gas pedal. The car rocketed up the highway.

I PUSHED THE BIKE up to sixty-five and kept it there until I had to slow for an elderly woman making a left turn. Skirting around her on the sandy shoulder, I sighted the Escalade’s taillights several blocks ahead. I reached for my phone to call Sam Jones and let him know what I’d seen, but the phone was
gone!
All I could do was follow and find out what he was going to do with Angie, and then let Sam know later.

There were six or seven cars between us and traffic was moving slowly. The cool night air felt twenty degrees colder on the bike. My heart raced, my legs trembled, and the helmet cut into the stitches in my head with every bump. I zipped the windbreaker up to my neck and stuffed my left hand into the jacket pocket to get it out of the cold.

I wondered if Angie could still be alive. Life is so precious. To even be born is a billion to one shot. And then, it’s too short. And can be lost so easily, or
taken
from you. Regardless of your plans and dreams, or how many there are that love you.

As I kept my eyes on the Escalade’s taillights, my thoughts drifted to Uncle Charlie—
my dad!
I pictured him cruising along this road in that Chevy with the radio up and the windows down, a cigarette hanging from his lips—revving his engine when he passed a good-looking girl. I wondered what kind of person he was, if he had many friends, or if he was a loner like me.
I have to talk to Mom. She can’t keep him locked up forever. I deserve to know.

The SUV slowed, turned left into the crowded parking lot at
Lloyd’s Seafood Restaurant
, and disappeared behind the building. Traffic came to a stop in front of me and pedestrians prevented me from passing. I placed a foot on the roadway to hold the bike up and kept my eye on the restaurant.

“
Hey, how ‘bout a ride, cutie?” a female called out. I turned to see three young teenage girls standing in front of a nightclub, giggling and holding on to each other to keep from falling over. Less than a week ago Angie had been young, adventurous, and wild. Now she might be dead.

“
You girls ought to go on home and thank the Lord you’re still alive.”

“
Screw you!” one shouted stumbling back off the road. “We’ll just find somebody else to party with.”