Blood, Ash, and Bone

CHAPTER Fourteen

When I got back to the hotel room, the first thing I did was download and print the files Rico had sent. The mass of new, neatly organized paperwork on the desk told that that Trey had come and gone again. He’d also rearranged the sofa cushions and re-made the bed with surgical precision. Our golf bags now stood sentinel in the corner of the bedroom, not sprawled next to the sofa, and my shoes were lined up in a soldierly row in the closet.

I sighed. Sometimes that man…

I changed out of my khakis and golf shirt and ducked into the shower, leaving my phone on the countertop where I could hear it. I turned the water as hot as I could stand it and stuck my face in the spray. I knew why the memories rose—I was in the cauldron that created them. I’d underestimated their power, however, like I’d underestimated a lot of things.

The KKK, for example. I was not naïve—I knew the Confederate cause was dear to the racist heart. People dismissed my reenactor clients as crazy for running around in fields, eating from cast iron pots, sleeping in primitive tents. But they were living a memory the rest of us were trying to forget.

So was the Klan, in their own way. A memory we didn’t deserve to forget, not yet.

I wrapped up in one of the hotel’s robes and pulled my copies from the printer. Trey’s desk now sported fresh sketches from our golf game—the front nine, the clubhouse, the parking lot. In the middle of the desk sat a stack of file folders, including surveillance system installation materials from Secure Systems. New maps too, a multitude of them making a pastel patchwork.

I turned the Hutchinson Island map around to see the details better. The hotel and the convention center stood side by side, sandwiched between the acres of manicured golf courses on the northern border and the gray skein of the Savannah River to the south. Undeveloped scrub land lay to the east and west, with the twin buildings like paired jewels not yet set into a crown. But they would be, and soon. The cranes were already in place.

I sat on the bed and dumped out my tote bag, sorting the research into four piles—one for Hope, one for Winston, one for Vincent DiSilva down in Florida, and one for the Harringtons. I knew I’d need a fifth pile eventually—for the KKK—but I didn’t want to think about that yet.

My phone rang. I checked the number, then took a deep steadying breath. “Hey, Jasper.”

“Got your message.”

His voice was familiar, another memory surfacing. I waited, but he didn’t offer any pleasantries. I took the cue and got to business.

“Did you talk to Boone?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“He said he’ll meet you at Oatland Island. Three o’clock.”

I snatched a pen from Trey’s desk. “I thought he was on electronic monitoring?”

“He gets to leave the house twice a week. Today’s one of his days.”

“Can’t I meet him at the house?”

“He don’t take visitors anymore.”

“Come on, Jasper, I—”

“That’s his offer. You don’t want it, I’ll tell him so.”

“No, no. I’ll be there.” I scribbled the info on my palm. “Oatland Island. Three o’clock.”

“At the wolf den. And come alone.”

I recapped the pen and placed it back exactly where I’d left it, precisely aligned with the pencil and highlighter. “Don’t worry, Jasper. You didn’t have to tell me that part.”