My Sister's Keeper (27 page)

If only they knew what dangers lay in wait for them.

The cars moved on and a moment later, the Escalade pulled back onto the roadway coming straight toward me. As we passed I saw his face clearly. Greg was John-Boy. I rolled into the restaurant’s parking lot and circled around back. A bright light buzzed overhead and it smelled like a city landfill. Stacks of flattened and not-yet-flattened cardboard boxes surrounded two black metal dumpsters sitting back against a wooden fence with their lids closed. A leaking water hose lay across the asphalt and a mop leaned against the building next to a rear door. I felt Angie was there somewhere, but I didn’t see her.

BONNER SLOWED as he neared the restaurant, snatched up the cell phone he’d found, turned it on, and dialed 9-1-1. When the operator answered he panted wildly and shouted, “A man on a motorcycle just dumped a woman’s body behind Lloyd’s Seafood Restaurant at Wrightsville Beach.
Hurry! He’s still there!”
He pressed the button to end the call and looked back at the restaurant when the phone in his hand rang. Feeling exuberant, he answered the call dragging his voice. “Yes?”

After a second of hesitation, a female spoke. “Richard?”

Bonner smiled. “Sorry sweetheart. From the looks of things I’d say Richard’s a little busy right now.” He looked back in the mirror waiting for the motorcyclist to emerge from behind the restaurant. “But I’ll be glad to give him a message for you.”

Waiting for the woman to respond, he chuckled aloud. Then she said, “Scott?”

Looking down, he saw the number showing in the window.
Shit!
He ended the call and tossed the phone out the window.

I SET THE KICKSTAND ON THE BIKE and charged into the pile of empty boxes tossing them aside and milling into them in search of Angie. It didn’t take long for me to realize she wasn’t there. Vaulting to one of the two large metal garbage containers, I hoisted one of its lids and was engulfed by the odor of rancid food. Holding my breath, I shoved the cover back and there, immersed in table scraps and rotting meat, lay Angie—her legs twisted at awkward angles and her eyes gazing through me in a death stare.

Startled, I drew back, then sprung forward, leaping onto the side of the container, reaching into the opening to touch her neck.

“
Angie!”

As I leaned farther, balancing on the lip of the opening checking for a pulse, two cars skidded to a stop behind me. I bounded back from the hatchway as the doors on both police cars flung open and cops dived out of each crouching near the ground with their revolvers trained on me.

“
Freeze!” they shouted in unison.

I raised my arms and, twisting, pointed toward Angie. “There’s a girl in there! I was checking to see if she’s still alive.”

“
On the ground. Now!”

36

M
ARTHA AIMLESSLY SURFED the TV channels while waiting to hear from Richard. When the phone rang, she snapped it up immediately.

“
Hello?”

“
Martha, this is Sydney Deagan.”

“
Hey! Richard told me he’d seen you. How’ve you been?”

“
I just called his cell phone and someone else answered.”

Martha pushed up in the bed. “Are you sure you called the right number? ”

“
Yes!”

“
He went to Wrightsville beach to do something for me.”

“
I know, but something must have gone wrong.”

The TV station broke into their regular programming with a special report. “Hold on a second,” Martha said. “There’s something’s happening on TV.” Martha raised the volume.

“
...body of a young female was discovered just minutes ago behind a restaurant in Wrightsville Beach. Police at this time have not identified the girl and are giving no other details. We have a team headed there now and we’ll bring you more information as we get it.”

Martha flung the covers aside ignoring the pain shooting into one ankle. “They found another girl’s body. This one down at the beach. I have to go down there. Can you come and get me? I’m at mom’s.”

“
Yes. Be there in fifteen minutes.”

Martha ended the call and tried Richard’s number. When she got no answer, she hung up the phone, reached for her wheelchair, and snuggled it tightly against the side of her bed. Shifting her legs as far left as she could, she lowered the bed and used her hands to “walk” backward onto the chair dragging her legs with her. Then, seized by a hot burning sensation in her right ankle, she squeezed her fingers deep into the flesh trying to work the pain out, but soon had to abandon it, pulling on her shoes and jacket, rolling out the front door just as Sydney’s van arrived.

PARKING NEXT TO THE CORVETTE, Greg went directly to Mr. Bonner’s office where he found him loading stacks of file folders into cardboard boxes.

“
You get that license plate changed back?” Bonner asked.

“
Yes, sir.”

“
Good.” Bonner pulled an envelope from his pocket. “Here’s two thousand dollars cash, a map to a place aye have in Boone, and key to the house.” He lifted an old leather satchel and handed it to Greg. A small lock fastened the zipper closed. “Aye want you to take this bag and the Corvette and wait there until you hear from me.”

Greg closed his fingers on the envelope. “Tonight?”

“
Don’t even bother to pack. Things are happening fast. Use the money to buy some new clothes and whatever food you’ll need. Aye’ll be there in a couple of days. And don’t let this bag out of your sight until you get there.” He put his arm on Greg’s shoulder. “Aye’m counting on you, Greg.”

“
Yes, sir. No problem.” Greg took the bag, stuffed the envelope into a back pocket, and walked out shifting the bag to his other hand.

Bonner paused briefly to gaze at the ocean. This had been his favorite place, but if Richard Baimbridge had been there, then the police could not be far behind. He climbed the stairs to the third floor and unlocked a panel in the production studio. Noting the time was 11:34 p.m., he set the timer in the panel to one hour and fifty-six minutes, yanked a red lever one turn counter-clockwise, and withdrew a black leather bag.

Back in his office, he locked the door, closed the curtains, and laid the contents of the black bag in front of him. A respirator mask, goggles, thick rubber gloves, and a bottle of
potassium cyanide
.

He opened a box of sleeping capsules, dumped half of each capsule’s contents into the trash, and—with the respirator, gloves, and goggles on—refilled them with the deadly white powder. Forcing the capsules back together, he wiped them clean and dropped them into an empty medicine bottle.

Tossing the gloves, goggles, and respirator into the trash, he unlocked the door and located Albert on the second floor.

“
Find César and send him to my office.”

“
Yes sir.”

“
And give each of the girls one of these.” He handed Albert the bottle of capsules. “Make sure they take it. Aye want them to get a good night’s sleep and be ready to start early in the morning.”

37

S
YDNEY DROVE SLOWLY up the beach highway as she and Martha scrutinized the houses along the oceanfront looking for Richard’s bike. Cars backed up behind them and gunned around them when opportunities arose.

“
It’s got to be somewhere along here,” Martha whispered. “It’s not much farther to the end of the road.”

An impatient driver pulled out to pass just as a pair of headlights up the road turned onto the highway facing them. But instead of pulling back in behind her, the car sped up in an effort to get around her and abruptly veered to the right cutting them off. Jerking the wheel to the right, Sydney locked the brakes, her van skidding off the highway bouncing to a stop in deep sand as the two opposing cars continued on, as though nothing had happened.

Sydney whispered, “You okay?”

Pulling on the handle above her door, Martha winced. “I think so.”

Restarting the engine, Sydney tried to move the van, but the rear tires spun freely in the loose sand.

Martha pointed out the windshield. “Hello. Could that be it?”

With her foot off the gas Sydney surveyed the three-story house sitting high above the sand just up the road. “See any sign of Richard?”

“
That’s got to be the place. Pull up so we can get a better look.”

Sydney pressed the gas and again the rear tires spun freely in the loose sand. “Haven’t you noticed? We’re stuck!”

“
Okay, let’s not worry about that right now. You need to find Richard and whatever else you can about this house. Names, addresses, license numbers, phone numbers

”

“
Me? What do you want me to do, break in?”

Martha sighed. “Sydney, I swear. One of us has to do it. It’s you or me.”

Sydney pressed her foot on and off the gas pedal, rocking the van back and forth. “No…no…”

Martha unbuckled her seatbelt. “Then I’m going in. I just need a little help getting into that chair.”

Sydney banged her palms against the steering wheel. “Wait! Please!”

“
Somebody in that house shoved me off a platform paralyzing me for life, and now, something’s happened to Richie.
One
of us has to go in.”

“
Give me a second. Let me
think!
”

“
If you get caught, you can tell them we got stuck in the sand and you’re looking for somebody to help get us out.”

“
You think they’ll fall for that?”

“
Well, I’m not leaving without
something
. The house number. License plate numbers. Something!
And Richie could be in there!
”

“
Okay! Okay!” Sydney turned the key and the engine stopped. She grabbed a pad and pencil from her purse, took a few slow deep breaths, then trudged across a wide stretch of deep sand, crouching on her hands and knees as she approached the brightly-lit house.

With a steady wind whipping at her hair and pelting her skin with sand, she lurked in thick sea oats searching for the house number. Failing to find it, she sprinted up under the house to the rear of the only vehicle there—a black Cadillac Escalade—and with trembling hands scribbled the South Carolina license number in her notepad.

Peering in a window, she spotted an envelope on the front seat, squeezed the door handle, and—just as the catch released—heard voices and footsteps coming down the stairs. With her heart pounding the walls of her chest, Sydney leapt into the darkness under the front stairway and flattened herself behind a row of small bushes as two men appeared on the stairs carrying open cardboard boxes. As they placed them in the vehicle’s trunk, the wind peeled away several loose papers and jammed them in the shrubbery around Sydney.

“
I get ‘em,” one said with a Latino accent.

“
Aye’ll get them,” the other man insisted. “You get the shovels.”

“
Sí.”

As the Latino crossed to a utility room within five feet of Sydney, the other rounded up the loose papers tangled in the bushes. Pressing back farther into the darkness, she tensed, ready to bolt if she was discovered. As the man drew closer and reached for a sheet of newspaper that had caught on Sydney’s heel, she shook her foot and the page sailed away tumbling across the empty lot next door.

“
I get it,” the Latino said sliding two shovels into the rear of the car.

“
Forget it. Let’s go.”

The men closed the back of the vehicle, got in, and cranked the engine. As they pulled away and headed down the highway, Sydney grabbed her notepad and ran for the van, snatching the loose section of newspaper from the dune fence next door on the way. Jumping into the driver’s seat, she tossed the pad and newspaper to Martha, burst into tears, and started the van.

“
What happened?”

“
I wet my damned pants!”

“
Did you really?”

“
They came out while I was there.” Sydney jammed the gearshift into drive and floored the gas pedal. The engine raced, but the vehicle only moved slightly.

Martha held up the newspaper. “What’s this?”

“
They were putting some boxes in the trunk and some things blew out!”

“
This is it? This is all you got?”

Sydney pumped the gas pedal and rocked the van back and forth. “And the license number of the car that just left.”

“
Okay! That’s more like it!”

With smoke rising from the spinning rear tires, the back of the van slowly drifted toward the road. “Come on-n-n!” Sydney screamed holding the pedal against the floor. “One of them walked right by me to get a pair of shovels.”

“
Shovels?”

“
He put them in the trunk with the two cardboard boxes.”

“
My God! They’re going to bury whatever’s in those boxes.”