Blood, Ash, and Bone

CHAPTER Ten

The rain had cleared out all but the most intrepid tourists, the sweetgrass rose-makers and the buskers too, leaving behind a layer of mineral-rich ozone. The street blossomed with familiar sounds and smells—fried shrimp and warm pralines, spilled beer and pipe tobacco, the echoing churn of the paddleboats plowing the water.

I walked carefully on the cobbled walkway, old ballast stones from centuries of ships; they were slippery and treacherous, downright deadly for the high-heeled and inebriated. I was neither, but still cautious. The last thing I wanted to do was call Trey to come and rescue me because I’d sprained my ankle.

So I was moving slow. Paying attention. Which was why I noticed the shadowy figure duck into the alley.

I stopped at the candy shop and pretended to watch a man dump a vat of glazed pecans on a marble slab. I tried to scan the sidewalk with my peripheral vision, but saw only a couple walking arm in arm, a gaggle of art students laughing and elbowing each other.

I shoved my hands in my pockets and kept walking. When I passed the alley, I paused and looked inside. River Street had several of these passages, some stair-stepped, some simple inclines, some narrow, some wide. They all led from River Street to a single long passageway running parallel to the sidewalks and the river, behind the shops. This particular alley had a fire-escape at its entrance, and I waited under it, back against the wet limestone, listening and watching.

But the shadow had vanished.

I knew it wasn’t my imagination, however. I also knew I’d shown my hand. Whoever was following me knew I’d burned them—they’d be extra-careful next time, and I was certain there’d be a next time.

Five more minutes of walking took me to the front door of Lowcountry Excursions. I was disappointed to see a CLOSED sign. Granted, it was a Monday afternoon in the off season, and rainy to boot, but rule one of the tour industry was “always be open.” I put my hands to the glass and peered inside.

I saw a faint glow toward the back, like a small lamp burning. I followed another side alley around back, the memories crowding like fog, irresistible. I remembered River Street ablaze with summer heat, bursting with tourists, Hope and I taking our break together in this narrow lane behind the shops. It was shaded and cool there, even if it smelled of shrimp shells and standing water and slick stone. We’d sucked down cigarettes, joined by the waitresses and busboys, bound in the camaraderie of exhaustion and nicotine.

I tried the back door to Winston’s shop, the one marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. I gave it a push, and soft blurry light squeezed out the sliver, accompanied by the sounds of human activity. I peered inside and saw Winston.

He hadn’t changed a bit—mouse-brown hair sticking up in points all over his head, a round face like a harvest moon, one of his eye-blinding Hawaiian shirts paired with worn jeans. He crouched behind the counter on one knee, shoving a box into the storage area, muttering to himself.

I leaned against the wall. “Good help is so hard to find these days.”

He jumped and cursed, banging into the counter. The box jangled, the sound of glass against glass, and he moved in front of it quickly, like it contained the crown jewels. Already he was acting suspiciously, and I hadn’t even asked the first question.

He squinted. “Tai? Is that you?”

I stepped into the circle of light. “Hey, boss man.”

He forced a grin. “Well, I’ll be damned. It is you.”

The front of the shop lay dark and deserted behind him, but I could make out hazy details. Rows of brochures, a display of Savannah-themed trinkets, a stand of guidebooks. And there, perched beside the cash register, a cage containing a familiar wad of feathers and fluff. It croaked at me, a crooning demented noise.

“You’ve still got Jezebel, I see.”

He snorted. “Damn bird won’t die.”

The parrot glared at me, then trilled in exact mimicry of a cell phone. The bird was violent emerald green splattered with white and blue, one eye cocked like a lunatic peeking through a keyhole.

Winston grimaced. “Stupid bird. I swear it’s possessed.”

I pulled a pack of gum from my pocket, shoved two sticks in my mouth. “So how are things with you?”

Winston leaned against the counter, firmly between me and the box. “Pretty good. You looking to get your old job back?”

“Jeez, no. I’m here for the Expo. Got a new gig now.”

“Doing what?”

I told him. He laughed. But he didn’t move from his spot in front of the counter.

“How about you?” I said. “Still making money hand over fist?”

“Not so much. Lots of competition now—tour buses, tour carriages, tour hearses. Tourists are getting too lazy to walk.”

I remembered hanging out with the other guides. We often held contests to see who’d spun the biggest sensationalistic lie and passed it off as fact. Tourists would believe any story, it seemed, if it had a bloodthirsty rogue slave or star-crossed lovers in it. And the tips would increase accordingly.

I tried to look nonchalant. “You haven’t seen Hope around by any chance?”

“Hope? Is she back in town?”

He delivered the line smoothly, his eyes wide. I realized then that I didn’t need Trey at all—Winston’s lie glowed like the Vegas strip on his round innocent cheeks.

I shrugged. “So I’ve heard.”

“I’m surprised you’re still speaking to her.”

“I’m not. But we have some business.”

Winston frowned. “You’re not looking to beat her up, are you?”

“No. It’s a long story. I figured if she really were back in town, you’d have been her first stop.”

“Why would she come looking for me?”

“Because that’s what people do—they stick with what they know. Here I am, after all, back in Savannah. Back in this shop, talking to you.”

“Sorry. Haven’t seen her.” He gave me a curious look. “I heard Boone got out of prison. Is that for real?”

Boone again. I was wondering when people would forget we were connected. As long as he was a local legend, however, I guessed that would be never.

“It’s for real.”

“You been to the compound since he got out?”

“It’s not a compound, and no, I haven’t. I have no reason to see him, and if he wants to see me, he’ll let me know.”

Winston’s eyes gleamed. “I heard he keeps a gator pit out back, just in case he needs to make somebody disappear.” He clapped his hands like two jaws snapping together. “And that on the night of the full moon—”

“Never mind Boone. I have another question.” I pulled the old man’s photograph from my tote bag and handed it to Winston. “You know this guy?”

Winston examined it. His perplexed expression was genuine this time. “No. Who is he?”

“Vincent DiSilva, of Jacksonville. He might be connected to my situation with Hope.”

“How?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

Winston examined the photograph deliberately. Good. If Hope had been keeping secrets from him about the origins of that Bible, he might have some questions for her when she showed up again. Because bet my bottom dollar, she was showing up, and soon.

I jabbed my chin at the box under the counter. “That didn’t break, did it?”

He paled. “What?”

“Whatever it is in that box. Sounds delicate.”

He laughed nervously. “Souvenir shot glasses. You know how tourists are, always wanting something with a shamrock.”

I kept the smile plastered on my face. I didn’t believe a word coming out of his mouth. But there wasn’t much I could do about it at the moment.

I fished out one of my cards and handed it to him. “If you do see Hope, will you let me know? She may have gotten herself in over her head.”

“With what?”

“Bad stuff.”

He examined the card as if it were possibly counterfeit. “Sure. If she comes around. Which I doubt. Should I tell her you’re looking for her?”

I handed him a second card. “Yeah, do that. Tell her I’d like to make a deal. No tricks.”

His eyes went shrewd. He tapped my card against the hard grain of the counter. “Sure. But even if she is back in town, she’s got no friends in this quarter, not anymore.”

“She doesn’t need a friend, she needs an accomplice. And in Savannah, those are a dime a dozen.”