My Sister's Keeper (38 page)

“
Right! That ring was there when she was thrown off that ledge and now it shows up in the same place where she was hit by a bus.”

“
Scott?”

“
This
cannot
be a coincidence! The son-of-a-bitch tried to
kill
her—
twice!”

“
Oh Richard!”

I disconnected the connection cable and tucked the laptop under my arm. “Come on! I want to see what Sam Jones thinks about this.”

SCOTT MCGILLIKIN BOUNCED onto the sales lot at Wilmington Foreign Cars, parked his one-year-old Porsche Boxster at the front door, dropped the title on the desk, and got about half of what it was worth in cash. He took a cab to the airport, rented a Mercedes-Benz SL550 Roadster, and walked into Duke Medical Center in Durham two hours later.

“
Aye’m Scott McGillikin, attorney for Miss Ashleigh Matthews,” he drawled with his fake accent to a steely-eyed woman in administration. “Aye have the papers authorizing me to act in her behalf and to secure the release of her brother, David Matthews.” It only took forty-five minutes for Scott to muscle his way through the system and have a heavily bandaged, heavily sedated David brought to his car. When David saw Scott, he raised his head and spoke in a slur. “Where’s…Ashleigh?”

Scott tossed David’s bag behind the seat and helped him into the car. “She’s waiting for you, David. She asked me to take you to her.”

“
Why…isn’t…she…here?”

Scott fastened David’s seatbelt, thanked the hospital volunteer for his help, and got behind the wheel. “Ashleigh was identified at the hospital this morning and the local police are out looking for her.” He opened the packet of information the hospital gave him and found a telephone number for Ashleigh. “But she’s going to join us later.” He set the page to the side and fired up the car’s engine.

David’s tongue was thick and his mind sluggish. “When?”

Dropping the faked accent, Scott replied, “Tonight, I suspect.” He pulled the gearshift back and the car rumbled off.

ASHLEIGH PACKED A FEW BOXES and placed them into the Honda Civic she’d picked up for six hundred dollars, then called David’s room to tell him what was going on, but got no answer. She called back, got through to the nurse on duty, and was told that David had checked out.

“
What? He just had surgery yesterday! He’s not supposed to check out until day after tomorrow. Please check again.”

The woman on the line assured her he had checked out.

Ashleigh tried not to lose control. “When? How?”

The nurse transferred her to an administrative clerk and when she put her on hold, Ashleigh got beeped and switched to the other call. “David?”

“
Hello, Ashleigh.” The man’s voice sounded familiar.

“
Who is this?”

“
I think you know.”

“
What do you want?”

“
Would you like to speak to David?”

Ashleigh grasped the edge of a table to steady herself.

“
Ashleigh?” The voice was sleepy.

She dropped into a chair. “David? Are you all right?”

“
What’s…going…on?”

“
I don’t know, Sweetie. Just

”

“
As you can see,” Scott said, “he’s fine…for now.”

“
What do you want?”

“
There’s that little matter of one hundred fifty thousand dollars.”

“
I don’t have it anymore! I spent it!”

“
Come on, Ash. All of it?”

“
I’ve got…” she exhaled, “…maybe a third.”

“
Fifty thousand? That’s like a million dollars in some parts of the world.”

“
Fine. It’s yours.”

“
Good. Bring it to Wilmington tonight and keep your phone on. I’ll let you know where to meet me.”

“
I’ll never make it. My picture’s all over the TV.”

“
That’s your problem, darling.” The line went dead.

“
Dane?
Dane!
”

51

I
DROPPED SYDNEY OFF at her dance school and found Sam Jones in his office picking through a muddy stack of canceled checks and file folders. There were several more mud-caked boxes on the floor around him. He leaned back in his chair. “I’m sorry about your sister, Richard. I never expected Martha to do anything like that. She must have been a lot worse off than everyone thought.”

“
She didn’t do that to herself, Sam. Somebody pushed her.”

“
I know it’s hard to believe she’d—”

“
No, really, Sam. That’s what I came to see you about. I found some things on her computer I think you need to see.” I set the laptop on his desk. “And I think I know who did it.”

“
Did what?”

“
Who tried to
kill
her.”

“
Oh, for Christ’s sake, Richard. Now you’re as bad as her—trying to play detective.”

“
Please. Just give me a minute. One minute.” I dug the ring from my pocket and handed it to him. “Look at that and tell me what you see.”

“
It…looks like a class ring to me. UNC. There’s a million of them around Wilmington.”

“
Look at the name inside.”

He sighed, propped his elbows on his desk, and looked inside the ring. “Robert Scott McGillikin. The attorney?”

“
I believe so.”

He handed the ring back to me. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to get it back. Now if—”

“
Sam, Sydney Deagan found that ring this afternoon on that corner where Martha was hit.”

“
And I found all these boxes buried in a hole in the ground today along with a dead body and a 44 magnum. And it’s all connected to that house that blew up.
Dane Bonner’s
files.
”
He grasped a handful of checks and waved them at me.
“These checks have his signature on them. I have a record of his whole life here. So if you’ll please let me get back to it, I’d like to see what I can make of it before another body shows up.”

“
That’s the man! Please, Sam. Let me show you this one thing.” I brought up the photo of Bonner and spun the computer to face Sam. “That’s Dane Bonner.” Sam stared at the monitor. “He was raised in the same orphanage as Scott McGillikin, only McGillikin died in a car wreck after finishing his undergrad work at UNC.” Sam sighed, but I continued. “…
and
I think this man

Dane Bonner

took his identity. Went on to Wake Forest and used his scholarship.”

Sam slumped back. “Are you out of your mind?”

“
Damn it, Sam. I know it sounds crazy, but I believe McGillikin
is
Bonner.” Sam picked up a document in front of him and began scanning it. “Remember what Martha said about a blue flash and an ‘N3?’ And how she had you try to figure out what that meant? Sam, look at the ring. Please?” I handed it back to him. “Turn it around.” Sam sighed loudly and rotated the ring. “You’re looking at it.”

“
Looking at what?”

“
Upside down it becomes N3.”

“
If you use your imagination, you might be able to make an N3 out of it.” He tossed the ring back at me.

“
Sam, this ring was there the night Martha dropped from that window and it was at that intersection last night. Look at her computer files. Please. She figured out that Scott was Bonner. It’s all right here. Look at it.”

“
I see it, Richard. I’m sorry about your sister, and I know you’re just trying to help. But there is nothing here that
proves
anything.”

“
What about the pictures?”

“
I’m sorry, Richard. You’re going to have to come up with more than that.”

My eyes dropped from his face to the checks on his desk. One stack had toppled over and were spread such that the signatures all lined up one on top the other. But one in the group was different. “Did you say these were Bonner’s?” I reached for one of the checks.

“
Don’t touch that!”

I withdrew my hand and pointed. “I couldn’t help but notice that the signature on
that
one is different from the rest.”

Sam leaned forward and, using his pencil eraser, slipped the check out of the stack. It was signed Scott McGillikin. He compared the signature to a few of the others. “Well I’ll be damned. Looks like Mr. Bonner forgot which checkbook he was using.”

My cell phone rang. It was Mother.

“
Hello?”

“
Richie, you need to come now. Martha’s taken a turn for the worse.”

52

T
IFFANY FOUND THE NOTE and the key and immediately ripped the tags off a new string bikini her mother would never have allowed her to wear. Strutting about under the watchful eyes of every man on the dock, she cranked the engine, brought in the lines, shoved the magnificent sailboat off, and motored
Steal Away
out to the channel where she found a strong southerly breeze—perfect for a reach down the river.

Bringing the vessel about, she headed directly into the wind, set the brake on the wheel, and raised the mizzen to steady the boat. Electing to keep the mainsail furled, she climbed barefooted onto the roof of the cabin, sidled toward the bow, and—bending her knees as the vessel rose to meet each wave—reached to the low side and tugged the line to release the jib. As the massive sail unrolled like a window shade, its bitter end flapped loosely in the wind, snapping and popping against the mainmast, sending her heart to racing.

Releasing the brake, she steered the boat away from the wind letting the loose end of the jib flap out to the side as she expertly wrapped the sheet around a wench. Then, with the wind in her face and the sun on her back, she cranked the massive sail in. As it filled with air and caught the wind, the boat leaned and she felt a surge of power.

Back at the helm, she turned the switch and the putter of the engine died, replaced by the sound of water swishing along the side of the hull.

For Tiffany, this was
heaven
. There was nothing better than sailing and the best life she could imagine would be to sail about the world forever.

She’d admired the boat’s sleek lines as it came together on its construction frame at her father’s shipyard with its golden teak deck, lacquered black hull, and brass fittings—a beauty to behold. But it was on its maiden voyage that she’d really fallen in love with it. It was the majestic way that it sat in the water and the ease with which it handled that she loved. ‘A pussy to sail’ as the men in the yard would say. And she loved the name. “
Steal Away
,” she whispered into the wind.

It was a quick ten miles to the farm—too quick—and she had time to spare so she marked the location on the global positioning system and sailed on for another ten miles before coming about and returning to the farm.

After tying the boat off at the end of a twisted weather-grayed dock with boards missing here and there, Tiffany went for a quick swim, changed into Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt, and took the short walk up the dock. Keeping a sharp eye out for snakes, she followed a dirt path through long-shanked reeds to a hundred-year-old barn that had long ago given up holding back nature. Tallest at the center, it spread wide at the bottom including an open shed on each side. Its rusting tin roof lay folded back on one corner exposing a sagging, black skeleton of a roof underneath. The boards that made up its skin had over time been bleached gray and warped by the sun, a few breaking free and hanging by a single nail. The three openings on the back side—two ports near the top and a tall narrow rectangle at the bottom—were black in shadow and reminded Tiffany of the terrifying mask used in the “Scream” movies.

There was a pair of doors on the far right held shut with a padlock that opened with the key. Inside she discovered a cache of cardboard boxes and wooden crates, some closed and some open. There was food of all kinds, enough to last at least a month. There was water, wine, paper products, pots and pans, utensils and dishes. There were towels, pillows, life preservers, and a broom.

Starting with the heaviest boxes, she lifted a case of wine and stumbled out the door struggling to carry it. The bottles clinked against each other with each step and she had to stop twice to rest before getting it on deck and into the cockpit. The boxes of canned food seemed even heavier. She found a loose board in the reeds and dropped it across the span between the boat and the dock to use as a ramp, and pushed the seventh box—a wooden crate—across it to the boat. As she maneuvered the box toward the galley, it fell open exposing the butt of a pistol wrapped in newspaper.

Taking the gun in her hand, Tiffany raised it, looked down the sight, and aimed it at the barn.

“
Bang. Bang,” she whispered.