Blood, Ash, and Bone

CHAPTER Nine

The windshield wipers swish-swished as we crossed the Talmadge Bridge, the river a slate-colored twist beneath us. Our rental, a Lincoln Town Car, ferried us over the water in a cushioned bubble, as if its tires weren’t even touching the pavement. In the distance, the faux gaslights of downtown Savannah glowed through the patchy fog.

Across the river on Hutchinson Island, the Westin Hotel stood sentinel against the mother-of-pearl sky, a sixteen-story, sandstone-colored rectangle with eighteen holes of golf spreading behind and six hundred feet of deepwater dockage before. Right next door, the Savannah International Convention Center stretched along the water—post-modern, stark white, its curved roofline half-concealed by the shrouding mist.

“Our home away from home,” I said. “For the next week anyway.”

Trey flexed his fingers and frowned. “This steering is loose. And everything’s…soft.”

“You’re used to the Ferrari, that’s all.”

I turned back to the window, listening to the clop-clop-clop of the bridge plates underneath us. I’d left Atlanta in cold clear sunshine, but Savannah was warm and misty, in the first stages of a soft ripening autumn. It stirred something deep inside me, something tidal.

“The whole city’s cursed, you know. By a frustrated journalist, shaking his fist on his way out of town: ‘I leave you, Savannah, a curse that is the far worst of all curses—to remain as you are!’ And it has, in many ways. Exactly the same.”

Trey kept his eyes on the road. Marisa and Reynolds followed behind us in a BMW, their headlights ghostly and inexplicably sinister. All of us gathering, each for different reasons, the Lowcountry spreading out its ancient, mossy welcome mat.

I turned to Trey. “So you’re creating a security plan for Reynold’s very own golf tournament.”

Trey hesitated, then nodded. “The Harrington Lowcountry Classic.”

“Is he coming to the Expo too?”

“Yes. And the reenactment at Skidaway Island. And the Black and White Ball.”

“Busy man, Mr. Harrington, when he’s not trying to snatch my Bible.”

Trey tightened his fingers on the wheel and said nothing. He missed the sensory feedback and response of the Ferrari. I’d once thought Ferraris were about indulgence, but after spending time with Trey, I knew they were really about control.

Not that I’d ever gotten my sticky fingers on the wheel. Not yet anyway.

Despite the rain, I rolled down the window and let the smell of the Lowcountry into the car—the humid air thick as vegetation, the chemical pong of the paper mill, the salt-clean top notes of the ocean. It was impossible to separate the land and the sea in Savannah. They encroached and flowed, sometimes antagonistic, always intimate, island and marsh and estuary in sustained restless cycles.

I turned back to Trey. “Are you working tonight?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“Not officially. There is someone I’d like to see, though.”

“Who?”

“Winston. My former employer. He runs a tour shop on River Street. John thinks that Hope might have contacted him about finding a buyer for the Bible.”

“Do you think John’s right?”

“I think Winston is a good place to start. Like a reunion, only…not.”

“Tai—”

“I’ll stick to places I know, and I’ll tell you where I’m going and what I’m doing at all times.”

In profile, Trey always looked older, sterner, the first hint of wrinkles visible at the corner of his eye. He flexed his fingers on the wheel yet again, softening his grip.

“Okay,” he said. “That seems sensible.”

***

We’d booked an executive suite at the Westin, on the seventh floor. The room sprawled like a drunken debutante, overflowing onto a balcony with a river view. Below us, the dock lay like a charm bracelet, bordered by a courtyard and swimming pool. Across the water, the blocky River Street skyline glowed gray and amber. The drizzle had dampened the party somewhat, but I saw pedestrians up and down the cobblestones, umbrellas bobbing.

Trey unlocked the interior door and opened up an adjoining room. This was going to be his office while we were there. Mine too apparently. My boxes of Confederate gear were stacked in the corner, rain-dappled but obviously towel-dried by efficient hands. Trey opened his briefcase on the desk and pulled out a sheaf of paperwork.

I linked my elbow with his. “Not yet. Come here first.”

He let me pull him onto the canopied balcony. I pointed across the river, to a small shop next to a docked riverboat on the east end, the touristy section. “That’s Lowcountry Excursions. I watched them build this hotel from right there.”

“You gave tours there.”

“Yep.” I patted the balcony. “This place we’re standing used to be scrubland. When General Sherman threatened the city, the Confederate army escaped across the river to this island, then fled for South Carolina under cover of night. The mayor, waking up the next morning to an undefended city, wisely surrendered. And Sherman decided not to burn down the place.”

A massive freighter ship plowed its way past, blocking our view. It was as big as an office building, colossal, with Cyrillic characters spelling out its name.

I shook my head. “Every summer, some drunken tourist tries to swim across the river, with ships like that coming through.”

Trey measured the distance with his eyes. “That’s seven hundred and fifty feet from bank to bank.”

“Correct. But drunk people sometimes make unsound decisions.”

I didn’t tell him I’d almost done it myself once, chock full of hurrah and stupidity. And bourbon. I’d chickened out, but one of my classmates had taken the plunge. The Coast Guard pulled him out half-drowned fifteen minutes later, upchucking algae and brackish brown water.

I looked over Trey’s shoulder to his desk. It was a collection of golf course maps, hotel blueprints, graphs, and charts.

Trey followed my gaze. “I’m studying the basic protocols for some of the major tournaments. Of course this one will be on a smaller scale. Most of the work for Mr. Harrington will be his own personal protection plan.”

“To keep him out of trouble?”

“To minimize the potential for liability.”

“Same difference.”

Trey didn’t disagree. “I have to finish the intake report tonight.”

“I know. It’s okay. I’m going to try to catch Winston.” I leaned against the railing, and the wet breeze flipped my hair across my face. “Hope worked for him too, you know. That’s where we met. I specialized in ghosts and the Civil War, she knew architecture and famous people.”

Trey didn’t reply. He was half a second from telling me he didn’t want me to go by myself.

“Oh no, you don’t,” I said. “We made a deal, fair and square.”

He shot me a look. “Hardly fair.”

“But a deal nonetheless.” I rubbed his arm. “Winston is an old friend. I’ve known him for years. I’ll be fine.”

Trey examined me, his head tilted. Finally, he squared his shoulders and pulled the keys to the Lincoln out of his pocket.

“Remember,” he said. “Sensible.”

***

He insisted on escorting me downstairs. In the fifteen seconds it took to reach the lobby, he paced off the elevator’s dimensions and scanned the ceiling, finally locating the barely perceptible security camera in the corner. Its presence seemed to reassure him.

In the lobby, a uniformed bellhop approached us with a little half-bow. “Mr. Seaver?”

Trey stopped. “Yes?”

The bellhop handed him a card. “You have a delivery, sir. Ms. Randolph too.”

Trey looked over the bellhop’s shoulder. Two sets of golf clubs leaned against the front desk like incognito celebrities, a men’s set and a women’s. Callaways, top of the line. Trey opened the card.

“From Reynolds Harrington,” he said. He handed the card back to the bellhop. “Take them to the room, please. I’ll be right up.”

Then he put his hands on his hips and looked hard at me. “Do you have your keys?”

“Room key, car key, cell phone, pepper spray. I even have the .38.” I stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “This is my home turf. I know these streets like I know my own bones.”

He softened a bit. A peck on the cheek usually had that effect. I headed out the doors, tossing him a wave. “Back in two hours. Be careful with my new clubs.”