15 Seconds Page 17

  He just figured, why bring down someone else’s life needlessly?

  But over the years . . . at his lathe at the plant or lying awake in bed . . . or watching his wife withering away to nothing . . . or hearing Amanda and that pond scum Wayne laughing and giggling and then not saying much of anything down the hall . . . he often wondered:

  Why he’d done it.

  Then. At that moment. To that man. Sykes.

  Brought down his own life too.

  He never quite came up with the answer.

  But whenever he recalled the moment when his life spun away from him, Officer Robert Martinez was always there.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Vance said, “I need a favor from you, Bobby.”

  “A favor? What are you crazy, Hofer? Calling me up like this? After all these years. If my wife picked up . . .”

  “But she didn’t pick up. You did, Bobby. And I need something from you. It ain’t much. I figured I’m owed that from you. Don’t you think so, Bobby-boy?”

  “I’m not ‘Bobby’ to you, Hofer. I’m not anything to you. I’ve got a family now. I know what you did for me back then. And Lord knows, I guess I am in your debt some. But that was years back. We’ve all moved on. I can’t even talk to you now. I’m hanging up now—”

  “No, Bobby, you’re not hanging up. Not if you know what’s good for you. Not until you hear what I have to say. I ain’t looking for much, all things considered. Not so much at all, to make things square.”

  Vance knew if Martinez was still listening, there was hell in his eyes.

  “What is it you want, Vance?”

  “How’s life been for you, Bobby? Good, I suspect. I hear kids in the background. I think you’re still on the job. I figure probably a sergeant by now. Pension. What did you say, we’ve all moved on . . . ?”

  “Not sergeant,” Martinez said begrudgingly. “Patrolman, first class.”

  “Well, ain’t that grand. Me, Bobby, shall we say I haven’t been as kissed by fate. Having fully moved on . . . My wife died. Lung cancer. My kid’s a fucking drug addict who’s now in . . .” He stopped, deciding not to say where Amanda was. “Been operating a lathe press these last ten years. But got laid off. Guess my temper’s always been a thing to deal with, but you know that. Even lost my home . . .”

  “I’m sorry, Vance,” Martinez said. “I am.”

  “Yeah, sorry . . .” Vance said. “I bet you are. It’s just that ‘sorry’ is a big ol’ luxury to me now. Know what I mean? ‘Sorry’ is like having a bagful of cash. But cash you can’t spend. You just look at it. And watch it. And it looks back at you with scorn. Kind of laughing at you . . .”

  Martinez didn’t say anything.

  “So I’m giving you a chance. A chance to square an old debt. And a damn easy one at that. ’Cause, make no mistake, Bobby, it was me who gave you that happy life you’re living now. Who gave you those kids I hear. That rank. That pension you’ll be spending one day . . . I don’t have to explain it all. I gave ’em to you. You understand that, don’t you, Bobby-boy . . . ?”

  Vance could all but feel Martinez seething on the other end. And weighing his reply. Finally, he came back: “What is it you want from me, Vance?”

  “Good.” He had him! Vance told the cop about this person he owed a comeuppance to. “This doctor. From down south. He got my ’Manda all strung out on these pills. She’s done a bunch of bad things. I just want him razzed, Bobby. That’s all. You know what I mean. He’s coming up your way. In a couple of weeks . . .”

  “Razzed?”

  “You know the routine. Just take him out of his car. Scare the shit out of him a bit. I’ve seen you work. I just want him to know he’s not so high-and-mighty. He deserves that. Got my little girl all messed up. You have a little girl, don’t you, Bob?”

  “I do. Becky. She’s ten.”

  “So it should be easy for you. You just think of her. You’ll know what to do. I just want you to scare the daylights out of him. You can even bring some pals in on it if you like. Just make the guy feel like his fucking world’s falling apart . . .”

  “And I’m gonna find this guy, how . . . ?” Martinez asked. “You said he’s not from around here?”

  “No. South. Palm Beach. But I’ll take care of all that, don’t you worry. You just handle your end. You just make him shit those pants, and you’ll never hear from me again. We’re clean. So what do you say? Easy, huh?”

  “When?” Martinez asked, after a bit of time, thinking it over.

  “March nineteenth. He’ll be flying into the airport. I’ll pick him up there, and let you know what he’s driving and where he’s heading . . . But I think it’s near the Marriott Sun Coast Resort. You know that place?”

  Martinez said he did.

  “Just scare the daylights out of him. That’s all I ask. I told you, it’s not much. You can even tell him it was from me if you like when it’s all over. Yeah, I’d like that. Say hello to him. From Vance. Okay . . . ?”

  “And if I do this right for you . . . ?”

  “Then we’re done. For good. Won’t even light a candle at your funeral. ’Course, much more likely, you’ll be lighting one for me first.”

  Martinez didn’t laugh. “March nineteenth?”

  “March nineteenth it is, buddy. You free? I catch you on a good day, Bobby-boy?”

  If Martinez had agreed with a bit more generosity of spirit, or at least a bit quicker, acknowledging his debt, Vance might have regretted how this “favor” would ultimately end for him.

  But since he didn’t, Vance decided not to waste a whole lot of pity on him. A debt was a debt, and Martinez was no angel. No angel at all.

  “Just make him soil those fancy pants of his, Bobby-boy.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The last part came to him while he was working with his saw in the toolshed in back of his house.

  The Mid-Carolina Gun Fair was at the town armory in Tracy that weekend.

  Vance drove up. He’d been firing a gun since he was five. Knew how to handle a Winchester 70 hunting rifle, and an M24 bolt-action sniper’s rifle too. Sometimes, around his house, he would shoot off rounds at squirrels or possum, just to keep his eye sharp.

  But this time he wasn’t here just to mill around.

  There was a specific dealer Vance had come to see. One, he’d been told, he could deal with. The hall was ringed with long aisles of display booths. Gun dealers, small and large, their wares displayed on backlit walls. Lots of people with their kids milling around.

  He found the booth he was looking for along the back row.

  Bud’s Guns. Mount Holly, NC.

  The owner was a ruddy-faced guy in a golf shirt with a thick red mustache. As Vance came up to him, he was occupied with a customer. Vance looked on the pegboard wall among the inventory, for something that might catch his eye.

  He stopped at a Heckler & Koch USP 9mm.

  Vance took it off the wall; it was attached to a metal wire that ran through the trigger guard. He put his hand around the handle. Nice. He checked the magazine and pulled back the slide, feeling the action. Light and smooth. He thumbed the slide release and gently squeezed the trigger. Click.

  This would do the trick.

  Bud freed up and came over with a salesman’s grin. “Looking for something compact and reliable, that’s a nice piece of equipment there.”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “Accurate too. Less than one and a half pounds. H and K’s are used on several police forces around the country. Don’t hardly even need to sell ’em—they kinda sell themselves, if you know what I mean. I’m pretty sure I could work you up a dandy price.”

  “It is a beaut.” Vance nodded.

  “Shoots regular nine-millimeter ammo, or I got these custom, hollow-point, Hydra-Shok babies if you want to blow the door off the barn. I can do seven-forty, if you get me now. Show discount. I’ll even throw in a shoulder holster. You won’t find a better one here . . .”

&n
bsp; “It’s nice . . .” Vance pursed his lips, thinking. “But I got this problem . . .” He set the gun down on the counter and looked the dealer in the eye. “Joe Tucker down in Waynesboro said you might be able to handle it for me. Lost my driver’s license, if you know what I mean. I was hoping to, I think you know . . . find my way around some regulations. That’s why I thought this show might be the right way to go.”

  The dealer gave Vance a tight smile from underneath his mustache. “I know Joe.” He turned his back to the aisle. “I assume we’re talking cash?”

  Vance shrugged. “If that can get it done.”

  Bud scratched his walrus-like jaw and nodded. “How ’bout we say, eight seventy-five, and you can take it with you just as is. No questions asked.”

  Vance picked up the gun and squeezed the trigger one more time. Do the trick just fine. “Lemme see that holster.”

  Bud grinned. “You’ll have to fill out an invoice, though. That much there’s no getting around.” The dealer bent under the cabinet and came back out with a form.

  “Got no problem with that,” Vance said.

  “Here . . .” Bud handed him a pen. “Have a start at the paperwork while I box it up. Mister . . . ?”

  “Steadman,” Vance said to him. “Henry Steadman.”

  “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

  Vance began writing Henry Steadman’s name under “Buyer” and his address in Palm Beach. Palmetto Way.

  “And while you’re at it,” Vance said, reaching into his pocket and bringing out a wad of bills, “throw in a box of those hollow-points as well.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  From Summerville, I went north on Route 26 toward Columbia, the state capital. Two people on the list of license plates lived up there and another was on the way.

  About an hour in I came into the town of Orangeburg. A James A. Fellows lived about twenty miles away in Blackville on Tobin Ridge Road. But I wasn’t exactly optimistic, as his plates expired two years ago.

  I took the turn onto 301 West to Blackville.

  The road wound through a bunch of backwater, roadside towns, basically shacks on the road with a church and a barbecue stand. A boarded-up market with an old sign for something called Knee High Cola actually made me smile. But not as much as the billboard I passed for the New Word Baptist Church, with the pastor pointing at you as you drove by, with the dire warning, referring to the brutal Carolina summer: “If you think it’s hot here . . . !”

  That might’ve been the first time I truly let out a laugh in days.

  I saw the sign for Blackville, and then for Blanton Road, which I knew from MapQuest fed into Tobin Ridge Road.

  Truth was, Fellows didn’t hold a lot of promise for me, since plates had expired in August, two years back. As I drove out on the rutted, sun-cracked pavement, I couldn’t imagine anyone with any connection to me living all the way out here.

  About a mile off the main road, the blacktop ended. There were houses—run-down farmhouses with low fields of lettuce and okra. A couple had aboveground swimming pools. Dog cages in the yards. The occasional Confederate flag.

  I passed number 442. Fellows was 669, still a long way down. There was a bend in the road. A dog jumped out of nowhere, running out at me, barking wildly. As I passed, he dropped back and looked after my car like I was driving into hell. A mile farther along, I passed 557. Mostly woods and fields now.

  I felt myself starting to grow nervous. Let’s say Fellows was the guy. How would I know? What would I even do? Take a picture of the famous blue car? I didn’t have a weapon, but it was likely he did! It dawned on me, a guy could get killed out here and no one would even know he’d disappeared.

  Finally I saw a red house ahead on the right. On the mailbox was a hand-scratched number, 669. I blew out my cheeks. This was it! There was a beat-up, black pickup in the driveway. More like a rutted clearing in front of the house. There was a two-car garage, open, with tools everywhere, and another vehicle in it up on blocks.

  I pulled in. Dogs started barking, and I saw three Dobermans jumping against the wire in a dog cage. Something told me, Henry get out of here . . . A huge elm shaded the front of the house. Laundry strung on an outside line.

  I heard hammering.

  A guy who was working on the front porch stood up when he noticed me approaching. He didn’t come toward me; he didn’t avoid me either. What he did do was give me a look like he wasn’t into visitors.

  “Help you?” he said, putting down his hammer.

  “Mr. Fellows?” I asked, opening the car door and walking toward the porch.

  He nodded. Barely. He had on denim overalls, a sweaty white T-shirt, and a blue cap. He had a gaunt, angular face, a scrabbly looking, gray growth of whiskers, sharp, distrusting eyes, and as I got closer, a gap in his teeth.

  He could have been anywhere from forty-five to sixty.

  “My name’s Dawson, Mr. Fellows. I’m tracking down a license plate for an insurance company. It appears it was part of an accident.” Nervously, I checked my sheet. “South Carolina ADJ-dash-four-three-nine-two. It’s registered here to you at this address.”

  “Accident, you say?”

  I felt my heart start to gallop. Fellows surely didn’t look like the guy I’d seen through my mirror. And I didn’t see any blue car around the house. No surprise there. But what if it was him. If he had killed Mike, he would surely recognize me.

  And here I was.

  “In Georgia,” I said, though if he was connected he surely knew this was a lie.

  “Georgia?” he said, as if surprised. He spit a wad of tobacco into a paper cup. “You say this plate belonged to me?”

  “According to the South Carolina Department of Motor Vehicles,” I replied. “But they’ve expired.”

  It crossed my mind that the guy could just take out a shotgun and shoot me right here. Instead, he scratched his beard, nodding. “C’mon with me.” He took me into the garage. More like an open shed, a car on blocks with the hood open. Tools, cans of oil, tires, hubcaps everywhere. “Sounds familiar. You say expired?”

  “August. 2010. You a Gamecocks fan, Mr. Fellows?”

  “Gamecocks? Sure.” He looked back with a gap-toothed smile. “They’re my team. Why . . . ?”

  I felt a surge of optimism mixed with fear. He led me around the raised-up car to the back of the garage, where, against the wall, I saw a cardboard box. He kicked it.

  Maybe a dozen license plates clattered inside.

  “I know maybe I should turn ’em in,” he said. “Some do go back a ways. But the DMV’s all the way up in Chambersburg. And now and then my wife sells ’em at tag sales and such. Every penny helps these days . . .”

  I bent down and leafed through the box. He read the disappointment all over my face. ADJ-4392 wasn’t among them.

  Fellows shrugged. “I could check inside, but I’m pretty sure you’re right about the plate number. Could be anywhere by now . . .” He grinned again. “You’re welcome to any of the others if you like.”

  “No.” I forced myself to make a thin smile. “Won’t be necessary.”

  “So this was an accident, you say?” Fellows asked again, walking me back outside.

  I nodded in frustration.

  “In Georgia, huh?” Fellows asked, his eyes suddenly turning dubious. “So you mind if I ask you . . . you a cop as well?”

  “As well?”

  “ ’Cause if you are, that’s exactly what I told the one who came by a while back. That someone must’ve took ’em. Could be anywhere.”

  I looked at him. “A cop came by here earlier. About this?” I wasn’t sure whether to be excited or alarmed.

  Fellows nodded. “Hour, hour and a half ago . . . Looking for that same plate. ’Course, she said it was Florida, not Georgia, and that it was a criminal thing.” His gaze seemed almost amused. “Whichever—sure seems a popular one for one day . . .”

  “You said she . . . ? It was a woman?”

  “Pretty little thi
ng . . . Here, even left me this card . . .” Fellows dug into his overalls. “Said if I recalled anything, I should . . .”

  He brought it out and handed it to me.

  It was excitement. A tsunami of excitement. And no matter how I tried to stop myself, I broke into a wide-eyed smile.

  The card read, Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office. Director, Community Outreach.

  Carolyn Rose Holmes.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  I stepped into the Azalea Diner, a roadside truck stop next to the Motel 6 a mile or so out of Orangeburg.

  There were a couple of locals around the counter; a young family at one of the tables; a large trucker type in a booth draining a cup of coffee.

  Then—

  I saw her! Or I was sure it had to be her. Strawberry-blond hair. Pretty little thing, Fellows had said. And that she was staying the night in case anything else came up. The kid at the front desk of the Motel 6 where Fellows said he had sent her confirmed that she was there, and that she’d gone out around half an hour ago to get something to eat. And where else was there to go? I didn’t know what I should do. Go right up to her? Fancy running into you here . . . The last thing I wanted was to alarm her. Or draw unwanted attention to myself. She had no idea I was anywhere nearby.

  But as I stared at her, in the end booth by the window, alone, a cute button nose, freckles maybe, in jeans and a hooded gray sweatshirt that I thought read, U.S. Marines, texting on her phone, two things became clear.

  One was that Carrie Holmes believed me. Why else would she be here?

  And two—which lifted me even higher—she had the plate numbers! And if she was here, they must have belonged to Fellows.

  And I had found him too!

  Looking at her, I realized that I had never felt as much gratitude toward another person as I was feeling toward her. I realized just how much she had to be risking just to be here. Who, back home, would have even believed her? And then there was the kind of courage it took for her to follow through.