Hot Water (27 page)

Maybe he could use that as an advantage. He grabbed a bottle of water from a woman who was handing them out to the refugees. By the time AJ started to climb the steep, curved staircase with its slick polished wood treads, he had a plan.

He started down, drizzled water on the step behind him, stopped and waited for her to pass him going up. It wasn’t a very high fall, but if he pushed her just right, there was a good chance he could snap her neck against the steel railing while making it look like he was trying to catch her.

He mentally rehearsed the moves he’d have to make. He’d never tried anything like this, out in plain view of dozens of people, before. The adrenalin rush was like nothing he’d ever experienced with his previous jobs.

She stepped past him. He fumbled his bottle, dropping it to draw her attention toward him. She put her weight on her top foot, the one on the wet tread. He nudged her with his hip while scrambling for his bottle, throwing her off balance. She began to topple, the whole scene playing out like it had in his mind, her arm flailing for the railing but her body aimed in the wrong direction to catch it since she’d turned to watch him retrieve his bottle.

All he needed was to reach out for her and propel her neck-first into the railing before toppling her down the steps—hands grasping for her body as if he was working to save her.

He spun up to make the move. But AJ was too fast for him. With cat-like balance, she fought the natural instinct to reach for the railing and instead flung her body back and down. As he swung up, she landed on her butt on the lower step.

“Ouch,” she said, untwisting her leg from beneath her body. “Darn heels.”

“My fault,” he said, helping her up—what else could he do with everyone watching? “I spilled my water. I’ll grab something to clean it up.”

She smiled her thanks, stepped around the water, and was gone.

He had no choice but to watch her go.

Grandel wasn’t too happy about my leaving. I reminded him of his promise to get me home by tomorrow and how now, with the storm hitting, it would be impossible for him to keep. He reminded me of the large fee and bonus he’d offered. We met in the middle—he agreed to my leaving tonight in one of his vehicles if I agreed to return on Sunday and help him prepare for the Japanese visit next week.

It meant a lot of driving, but I was determined to get home.

I had to get to David before Old Man Masterson did irreparable damage. I knew firsthand how Masterson loved to play his mind-games, and I wasn’t about to let David be any part of them.

The elements seemed determined to keep me in South Carolina. By the time I left the plant, the winds had picked up and it had begun to rain again. If I thought this afternoon’s storm was bad, it was nothing compared to the rain that tore through the skies now.

I turned onto the road leading to Highway 170. The only good news was that I was the only car in sight. Most sane folks were keeping off the roads, waiting for Hermes to deliver his message from the gods.

Wind tore across the two-lane road, making the car’s steering wheel buck. Rain slashed against the windshield as thick tendrils of fog choked the headlights. I was almost to the turn-off that led to Vincent’s revival tent—six whole miles in almost eighteen minutes. At this rate I’d be driving all night before I even made it to the interstate.

I swerved to miss a fallen tree branch strewn across the road. Since I was the only one crazy enough to be out here driving in this mess tonight, I had the entire two lanes to maneuver in.

A half-mile down the road, I rounded a curve when the high beams from a car coming from the opposite direction blinded me. Panic set in as I realized he was in my lane. I yanked on the wheel, skidding over the yellow line.

A sickening thud reverberated through the car. Not the mechanical kind like something’s broken. No. The kind of thud where you just hit something large and fleshy.

Even as I registered it, I slammed on the brakes, swinging back into my lane, behind the other car, and onto the shoulder. The other car was motionless, I realized. Parked on the road, headed the wrong way. What had I hit? Was it some poor slob changing a flat?

My stomach spiraled down in a whirlpool of panic. I set the emergency brake and my hazard lights, and then ran out into the storm to retrace my path. Despite the heat, the rain was freezing against my skin—sharp daggers that sliced through my cotton shirt. I was soaked through and through before I made it the twenty feet back down the road.

The other car sped off, its brake lights vanishing in the fog. What the? Maybe I hadn’t hit anyone? I staggered a few more steps, the wind and rain pushing me back as if trying to protect me from something awful.

Then I saw the man’s body.

TWENTY-EIGHT

The wind had grown so fierce that it almost pushed me off my feet as I struggled to reach the man. He lay face down, and in the darkness I couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not. I finally got to him, my stomach clenching from both effort and fear, my fingers chilled when I stretched them out to check the pulse in his neck.

Nothing. When I pulled my hand back, it was sticky with blood.

I don’t usually panic. But kneeling in the rain and wind and dark, alone on an empty road, no help in sight, knowing that I may have just killed a man—my mind spun out of control with options and recriminations and fear and rescripting my entire life from a peaceful existence spent with my family to one spent behind prison bars.

In an instant, I might have lost everything.

No time to worry about me. I had to try to save the man. Cautiously, supporting his neck, I rolled him over. Rain quickly washed the road grime and blood from his face. But I didn’t need the extra seconds. I recognized him instantly.

Reverend Vincent.

He was cold to the touch—much too cold, a small voice in the back of my head whispered. I tried CPR for a minute or two but got no response. He needed more than I had to offer.

I had no cell phone, and no other cars had driven by—so, feeling like a thief, I searched his pockets. His cell had a cracked screen but still lit up when I turned it on. Two bars—hopefully enough. I dialed 911.

It took a while to get through—or maybe it just felt like forever. Wet to the bone, sick to my soul, confused and frightened, I heard “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“There’s a man in the road. I hit him—he was in the road. He’s not breathing. I need an ambulance. Come fast.” The words tumbled out in such a jumble that I wondered if she understood me or if it sounded like gibberish.

To my relief she said, “Ma’am, can you give me your location?”

“I’m about six miles north of the entrance to Colleton Landing.”

“And you’re on the road? Not a side street or residence?”

“The side of the road. My car has its hazard lights on.”

“Okay, ma’am. Help is on its way. Do you need me to walk you through CPR?”

“I’ve already started it. He didn’t have a pulse when I found him, but I thought I should try—”

“You did the right thing. Can I have your name?”

“AJ, AJ Palladino.”

“And where do you live, AJ?”

“I’m from West Virginia. I’m just visiting here.”

“Can I have your address and home phone number? Just in case we need to contact you?”

I wasn’t sure if she was collecting the information to calm me down or to build a case if it ever came to that. Who was I kidding? Of course it would come to that.

Except . . . who had been driving Vincent’s Escalade? That had to be the car I saw right before I hit him.

“There was another car.” My teeth were chattering and I felt nauseous—my blood sugar plummeting from the adrenalin rush. “I think the driver pushed Vincent out right in front of me.”

“Who’s Vincent?”

“The man I hit. I recognize him. Reverend Richard Vincent. The other car drove off, I couldn’t see, but I think it might have been his assistant driving.”

The operator was amazingly patient—I’m not sure I could have untangled all the directions my thoughts were spinning in. “The assistant’s name?”

“Paul. I don’t know his last name.”

“But you said he was driving the victim’s vehicle?”

“I think so. It was a black Escalade.”

In the background I heard her typing and the muffled sounds of her talking to someone else. “Okay, AJ. You’re doing great. Our deputy says he’s only a few minutes away. Now, can you tell me what direction the other car drove?”

“South. Toward Colleton Landing.”

I heard sirens before I saw the flashing lights of the deputy’s cruiser coming from the north. He pulled up across from me, angling his car so that I was pinned both in his headlights and by a spotlight aimed from the driver’s window. I tried to block the light with my hands, but was blinded for a moment—his intention.

“Ma’am, could you please stand up, keep your hands where I can see them?” he asked in a calm, polite tone.

The Southern accent made him sound cordial, but just like when Ty spoke, there was an underlying current of command. I did as he asked, then obeyed him when he instructed me to turn my back and interlace my hands, after which I let him pat me down. He escorted me to his car and locked me in the back while he examined Vincent. I could see him checking the pulse, heard him through the car’s radio calling in to dispatch about the ETA of the ambulance.

A few minutes later the ambulance arrived along with a second police unit. Two men got out of the second cruiser, both wearing long, yellow rain slickers with “Police” written on them. They huddled with the first officer, who turned and pointed at me.

One of them broke away and jogged over to me. The wind whipped his ball cap away and I was surprised to see that I knew the man.

Reverend Vincent’s assistant, Liam.

Jeremy had insisted on cooking dinner for her, but as soon as they’d finished, Elizabeth barricaded herself behind her law books in her office. She couldn’t believe Hunter had been able to outmaneuver her and that she’d let AJ down so badly.

She had to come up with some way to get David back and make sure AJ never had to worry about Masterson again.

Unfortunately, the more she dug into West Virginia case law, the more she realized that any wiggle-room in the statutes wasn’t designed for lawyers to manipulate but rather to give judges discretion. Which meant it was all up to Judge Mabry.

Given that he’d initially ruled in favor of her request for the Palladinos to watch David, she was hopeful. But having Edna’s secret revealed in such a public manner had probably destroyed most of her credibility with him. Still, Elizabeth wasn’t ready to give up hope.

Not until she went online and found the many photos of Masterson and Mabry together at charity golf outings, community dinners and fund raisers, and even at their church picnic.

Great. Just great. She didn’t know anyone here, had no influence. And AJ? Most of the folks here in her hometown blamed her for everything that had happened five months ago—it wasn’t like they’d find many character witnesses around Scotia.

Burying her head in her arms, resting on the tabletop, she tried to explore her options. That’s when she made the mistake of closing her eyes and drifted in a limbo short of sleep where her mind was whirling like a hamster trapped on a wheel but no answers came.

She was awakened by pounding on the front door.

She and Jeremy arrived at the door at the same time. She turned on the porch light and looked outside. Before she could reach for the door, it burst open. Hunter rushed in.

Jeremy immediately stepped in front of Elizabeth, shielding her, hands raised.

“Lay one finger on me and you’ll be back in jail,” Hunter told Jeremy. “This is between me and my wife.”

Elizabeth sighed. Hunter didn’t scare her—not when he was like this. An outraged Hunter acting like a two-year-old was a Hunter she could control; it just took patience and energy. Both of which she was short on tonight. “It’s okay, Jeremy.”

Jeremy didn’t move for a long moment. He looked over his shoulder at Elizabeth and she gave him a weary nod. Finally he left, but he made a point of not going far, standing in the open kitchen door a few feet away.