Blood, Ash, and Bone

CHAPTER Forty-seven

I didn’t sleep that night. I lay in bed beside Trey until Marisa came for him at nine to fly back to Atlanta. I helped him dress, biting my lip every time he sucked in a breath. He’d insisted on doing his job, however, on seeing it through until the end, and I couldn’t deny him that.

I stayed behind to pack. I ignored my phone—most of the calls were from John, and I’d had enough of him. The hotel room became a revolving door of concerned friends and relatives and hotel staff. First Billie, who cried and hugged me, then Dee Lynn, who cussed and hugged me, followed by housekeeping with some complimentary room service and a delivery person with a pot of flowers.

Marigolds. No card.

So when I heard knocking yet again, I answered the door with a mite more attitude than I should have. “What now?”

Trey stood there. “I’m sorry. I turned my key in when I left.”

“What the…get in here.” I took his hand and pulled him inside. “I thought you were on a plane to Atlanta.”

“I was. But then Garrity and his new partner showed up to handle things from there.”

“Officially?”

Trey nodded. He was moving even more stiffly than when he’d left, and his eyes were glazed with pain. I led him to the sofa, and he sat.

“Garrity met me on the tarmac and told me he’d escort the flight back to the city limits. He told me I wasn’t to argue.” Trey leaned back gingerly. “He also said there are APD and FBI officers waiting to interview Reynolds.”

“About the sword? Really?”

“Not about the sword. The fire.”

I did a doubletake. “What fire?”

“The one in Audrina Harrington’s collection room.”

“Reynolds is an arsonist?”

“No, not Reynolds. Fitzhugh.”

My memory flashed—Fitzhugh getting on the elevator, head high, saying that he’d take care of his problem himself. “Are you telling me Fitzhugh set her safe room on fire?”

Trey shot me a sharp look. “He tried to. But that room is protected by a liquid-to-gas fire suppression system. He panicked when the alarm tripped, inhaled the fluorochemical spray and went into shock. Audrina called 911. The EMTs called the police.”

Trey related this story with an edge of satisfaction in his voice and the tiniest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. I suppressed my own grin.

“Is he okay?”

“Of course. The gas has a no-effect level of ten percent. Practically non-toxic.”

“And the Harrington’s collection?”

“Unharmed.”

“Also full of fakes, isn’t it?”

He considered how much he could tell me. “That’s being determined by the Harrington’s insurance adjustor. Which is why Reynolds is being interviewed, not because he’s being charged with a crime.”

“And Fitzhugh?”

“No charges filed, not yet. But Garrity says there will be, probably with RICO statutes since it’s a multi-state investigation.”

“So this is his first case as Agent Garrity?”

Trey nodded.

“You don’t seem happy about this.”

His forehead wrinkled. “In the past decade, there have been three Major Crime Liaisons with the FBI. The first went to prison for extortion. The second was gunned down in his driveway. The third resigned and moved to Los Angeles.”

I winced. “Oh. That’s not good.”

“No, it’s not. Garrity will be good. But the job is…”

“Problematic?”

He nodded. “Very problematic.”

As was Garrity’s first case, this stew of pride and greed and domestic terrorism. “So what will happen to the Cornerstone Speech?”

“It will stay in evidence until its rightful owner is decided.”

“Which will most likely be the state of Georgia.”

“Most likely, yes.”

I felt a twinge of regret. So much for my fifteen percent finder’s fee.

Trey pulled out his phone. “I’m officially on duty until the plane lands. Garrity said he’d let me know when that happened.” The phone chirped at him, a text coming in. “Which should be about now.”

Sure enough, it was Garrity, reporting that everyone was safely back on Fulton County turf. Trey loosened his tie and pulled it off. Another text came in. He cocked one eye at it and then stuck the phone in his pocket without response.

“Marisa?” I said.

He nodded.

“You’re not taking it?”

“I’m off duty now.” He shrugged out of his jacket, wincing as he did so. The shoulder holster went next, then the Phoenix ID. “Where did you put the codeine?”

I finished untucking his shirt. “You rest. I’ll get it.”

***

We set out a little past noon, after some time on the couch for Trey and more sorting and packing for me. I’d run some quick numbers, and it looked like my hand-sewn underwear had fetched me a tiny profit, a fact I put in the win column. I’d tried to get Trey to go to sleep while I loaded the car, but he refused. Instead he’d watched the river. Quiet, deep in thought.

Now, he stretched out in the Camaro and tilted his head back against the passenger seat. I slammed the trunk and slid behind the wheel, noticing once again his little leather notebook open in his lap, a mechanical pencil stuck behind his ear.

“You’re off duty, remember?”

“This isn’t work.”

“What is it then?”

“Not work.”

He offered no further explanation. As I cranked up the Camaro, I slid a surreptitious glance at the pages. A list of some kind, neatly lettered. Trey saw me looking and closed the book, but he didn’t put it away.

“Better not be work,” I said.

Trey shook his head. I pulled out of the parking space, the morning-after sunshine as clean and shiny as a new penny. Trey faced the window, but I thought I saw that almost-smile at the corner of his mouth.

Instead of taking the interstate back to Atlanta, I crested the bridge and took Highway 80 instead, passing liquor stores and cotton fields and farms with giant Confederate flags as big as swimming pools. Trey watched the landscape pass. We had the windows down. His hair blew and tousled, but he didn’t seem to mind. He closed his eyes and turned his face into the breeze.

Driving north to Atlanta felt like moving forwards in time. Despite the deepening autumn color, the air was temperate, with a satin-soft breeze, almost like spring. I knew better, though. Winter lay ahead of us, the fallow and the fallen time. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

From where I sat, I couldn’t see the scrape along Trey’s neck, or the swelling bruise at the back of his head. I could see the black eye, however, and the bandages along his forearm, covering the raw skin around his wrists. He was a map of pain and spilled blood.

But he was alive, and safe, and sitting next to me. And we’d been so close to some other ending.

The tears came hot and fast then. I wiped my eyes and blinked, trying to keep them back, but a sob bubbled up despite my efforts. And then the road dissolved before me in a watery blur, and I felt the whole of it coming together, the fear and relief and terror and gratitude and…the other thing.

I pulled the Camaro onto the grassy shoulder and rested my forehead on the wheel. I knew what had my heart clutched tight. All I had to do was look at Trey, and it sang in my head, the knowledge that I was deeply and totally and irrevocably…

I swallowed hard. Even thinking the words made me dizzy. I had to tell him, though. I owed him that much.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Trey?”

No response. I looked over. He was asleep, his notebook fallen open in his lap. For the first time I could see what he’d written clearly enough to read it. When I realized what it was, my chest went all soft and melty.

The reasons he was with me. He’d started a list.

Number five was sweet, number seven unexpected. And number thirteen? Specific. Very specific. But he’d put special emphasis on number one, which had been marked with an asterisk.

Showing up, it read.

My heart cracked all the way open then, but it kept beating. And my lungs kept pumping. And eventually my eyes cleared and the road opened before me with a bright clarity.

I reached over and double-checked his seatbelt. Smoothed his hair back from his forehead, even though I knew the wind would kick it into a mess again the second we hit cruising speed.

Then I pulled back onto the road and took us home.




Author Note

Savannah is a city full of stories—ghost stories, gossip stories, old stories, new stories. Some really happened, and some are burnished with the bright hand of invention. But they’re all true, including Tai Randolph’s version.

The Westin Hotel does sit on Hutchinson Island, on the banks of the Savannah River, right next to the Savannah International Convention Center. They’re both lovely places, very well-maintained and security-conscious. Any nefarious activities at either place are entirely the product of my imagination and have no basis in reality. The Savannah-Chatham Metro Police Department is equally blameless for the villains I helped to infiltrate its forces.

Most of the places I mention do exist: River Street, Wassaw Island, Turner Creek, Oatland Island Educational Center, Skidaway Island State Park, The Olympia Café, the Marshall House Hotel. Café Gelatohhh in City Market really does serve the best gelato in the city. I especially recommend the buttermilk version—tell Joel I sent you and he’ll probably treat you extra special.

Club One is very real also, and has great pool tables in the basement. If you’re looking for The Speakeasy, however, you’re going to have to look elsewhere. It does exist, but its location really is secret. If you manage to find it, remember…shhhhh.

And if after reading about German-Thai fusion, you find yourself with a craving for bratwurst curry, don’t look for it in Atlanta—head to the Schnitzel Shack in downtown Rincon, Georgia, just up the road from Savannah.

Tai’s history is on the mark as well—the curse, the ghosts, and the Cornerstone Speech itself are all very real even if intangible. No copy of the speech exists, however, and finding such a thing would be a major historical coup, as would digging up the Lost Confederate Gold. There are thousands of people looking; maybe one day some intrepid explorer will find the map that will lead him—or her—to the X that marks the spot.


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