The Eleventh Victim (10 page)

T
HE SPEEDOMETER READ NINETY-EIGHT, THE
BEST OF THE ALLMAN
Brothers
CD was turned up, and C.C.’s flask was empty.

He’d already pulled off the interstate to search his trunk for reinforcements, but it was dry. Damn! He needed to think!

How the hell was he going to explain to the Court that he was reversing his decision on the serial murders?

He’d already given the law clerk his orders—the opinion had been written in rough draft and circulated to the other judges weeks ago. He was writing the Court’s opinion, leading the majority of five against the other four weak sisters who always dissented, on principle, to the death penalty. If those pansy-asses had had the chance to fry Jim Jones in his own damn Kool-Aid, down in Guyana, they’d still vote against it.

After twenty-eight more miles of nothing but asphalt, C.C. pulled off the highway to a Bar-b-que stop. Beside it was a thin neon sign, thank God, for a liquor store. It even had a drive-through window tacked onto the side, he saw, and steered toward it.
God bless America.

“Bottle of Maker’s to go, partner. Would you throw in a plastic cup for me?”

Yes, sir, his partner in the drive-through window sure would.

God bless America
, C.C. thought again as he paid up through the window and scratched off.

He took a big swallow of the bourbon. Damn, that was good.

Now all he needed was some boiled peanuts. That should be easy enough to find. Roadside stands selling boiled peanuts and fresh-picked fruits and vegetables were everywhere along the back roads off the Georgia interstate, mostly to lure the Yankees headed to Florida.

C.C. cut away from the interstate to begin a search-and-recover mission for boiled peanuts.

And it couldn’t be
just
boiled peanuts, it had to be fresh-boiled
green
peanuts. They had more of a kick, anybody’d know that.

After churning up nearly twenty more miles of narrow two-lane back road, C.C.’s dreams came true just outside the Georgia–South Carolina border. Three bucks, and now…he could think.

Washing down a handful of peanuts with a gulp of bourbon, he told himself it wasn’t as if he
cared
about some idiot convicted and sentenced by a jury; somebody who was getting what he deserved…the chair.

And he sure as hell couldn’t care less about the idiot’s mother crying into a TV microphone or a bunch of tofu-eating liberals holding votive candles outside the penitentiary the night Old Sparky lit him up.

The reality was…he had his own reputation to maintain. How the hell could he vote no on a penalty case?

With another swallow of Maker’s Mark, genius struck.

Just recently, C.C.’s little suck-up law clerk had come in sniveling about a moratorium on the death penalty somewhere up north.
Claimed it was based on a series of so-called “faulty” convictions where innocent men landed on the Illinois death row.

C.C. knew in his right mind that it was all bullshit, of course, probably just political maneuvering trying to throw focus off someone’s own sorry career.

But…

What if, based on that, C.C. claimed his vote change wasn’t anti–death penalty…it was pro-justice by God!

Yeah, and he’d say he wanted the “real killer” punished! Like in O.J. Well maybe not O.J. He’d make his law clerk think of another example.

The more he drank the more it made sense.

He could actually do this thing. The bourbon was settling in and the tingle was fine. Back on the interstate, he set the cruise control to eighty-nine. No need to speed in excess and get caught. Plus, he was protected by his “
GAJUDGE
1” plate. No state trooper who wanted to keep his job would pull him over.

Taking his right hand off the steering wheel, he uncorked the Maker’s, just to top it off. The plastic cup was now filled to the very rim but amazingly, he didn’t lose a drop. The peanut shells were piling up on the floorboard of the passenger’s side.

Flicking a soggy peanut shell off his car-installed cell phone, landing it on the passenger’s leather-upholstered door, he hit the speed dial to Jim Talley.

After four rings, it transferred into the law clerk’s voice mail.

“Talley. It’s the Judge, here. I’m working on a weekend, son. Long hours are just part of the job description. Nobody said the bench was easy, son. Remember that.”

He flicked away another soggy shell. This one landed on his shoe and stuck. C.C. paid no attention.

“I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching, boy. I think our colleagues on the Bench are right about this one. The constitutionality of it all is disturbing me, Jim, disturbing me greatly. I’m very torn, Jim.”

Yeah, he could do this. It was perfect. He
did
care about the Constitution…deeply.

“That Atlanta death penalty case? I’ve changed my mind, boy. No man is too great and should never be too proud to change his mind for the right. That includes even me, son…and I now firmly believe that boy was wrongly sent to the death chamber. If we’re wrong…he’ll do it again. You’ve seen enough of these cases, son, he’ll go right back to his old habits and
then
the State can string him up good. No sense to rush a case. Let it
mature
…like a fine wine.”

He rambled on in a hazy, bourbon-laced attempt to justify the about-face. “I mean, son, we’ve got to administer the law in a realistic manner, a manner in which the
people
of the state of Georgia are protected. We can’t waste the State’s money keeping him up on death row for twenty years of appeals. It’s the taxpayers’ money. We’ve got to keep their best interests in mind, too. Don’t forget the little people, Jim. And above all else, son, we’ve got to be fair. Justice is blind, son, don’t forget that. Justice is blind.”

He pressed the “End” button and cranked up “Lord I Was Born a Rambling Man.” The keyboards were pure inspiration. One more hour and he’d hit Atlanta.

It was Saturday night, he was the governor-to-be, and he was feeling fine.

It was definitely a Pink Fuzzy night. Nothing like a good strip club to calm him down.

Duane Allman was in a serious groove.

God, C.C. loved Duane Allman.

Why did Duane have to die?

Duane held a screeching high note on his Gibson.

Nirvana.

“I
’
M SO GLAD YOU CHANGED YOUR MIND, HAILEY,” DANA SAID OVER
the rim of her wineglass—her third in less than an hour. It was stained with pinkle. “Should I have one more?”

Dana cased the bar area again, pausing at each potential future husband. “But who’s counting?” she’d asked with a shrug as she ordered another glass of her favorite wine. “It’s not as if I’ve got to drive.”

Maybe not, the subway was a block from the Bleecker Street bar where they sat, and it could have Dana back to her place in minutes. There were plenty of cabs, too, at this time of night. But Hailey never enjoyed witnessing Dana after too many drinks.

“I really can’t stay much longer,” Hailey told her—again.

“Yeah, yeah, I know…you’ve got to get home.” Dana shook her head. “I don’t know why you won’t come out dancing with me. I told you, I know the doorman at—”

“The last thing I want tonight is to be packed like a sardine in a club.”

“Hailey, just answer me one thing. When was the last time you had any fun?”

“I have fun all the time!”

“No, you don’t.”

“Not if ‘fun’ means clubbing around the city with a bunch of twenty-year-olds!”

“Plenty of people our age go to clubs.”

“Maybe. But not people who have to get up and go to work first thing in the morning, and Dana, seriously, that’s both of us.”

“I can get by on very little sleep.”

So could Hailey. She did it every night. But she wasn’t going to get into it with Dana, who knew only that she lost her fiancé years
ago, was an attorney in Atlanta once upon a time, and didn’t like talking about either of those things.

Lucky for her, Dana was always much more interested in her own future than Hailey’s past. But truthfully, who could blame her?

“Do you think I should get my hair cut tomorrow?”

“You mean, short?”

“Are you kidding? Never
short
short. Just a trim, but maybe with layers. Men like women with long hair. Look around the room.”

Hailey took a look. Stark decor, flickering white candles centered on small tables for two, beautiful waitstaff clad in black. Places like this were a dime a dozen in this neighborhood.

“What am I looking at?” she asked Dana.

“You’re looking at all the cozy couples. And how the women all have long hair.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“We’re just as hot as any of these women, Hailey. How come they’re all with dates and we aren’t? Should I cut my hair into a new style?”

“Definitely. You’d look even more gorgeous with layers. It would frame your face.”

“So you don’t like it the way I wear it now, then?”

“No! I didn’t say that! You look great and you know it…. You know, though, I really do have to go.”

Hailey looked around for their waiter, a bored-looking theatrical type. He had already told them he wanted to act on Broadway, as if they knew of a job opening and would whip out their cells and hook him up right there on the spot. He just spilled it out during the drink order.

“Maybe I’ll go out to a club by myself. I can’t stand the thought of going home alone again to that depressing little apartment,” Dana said glumly.

“Oh, come on. It’s not depressing. It’s cozy.”

“It’s depressing. Believe me. I need to get a life, or I’m going to grow old all by myself and get a bunch of cats and eat their food
and then one day the super will get a complaint that a funny smell is coming from seven-B, and you know what the smell is going to be, Hailey?”

Hailey knew what was coming, but she asked anyway. “What?”

“Me. Dead. For days. Weeks.”

Hailey burst out laughing for the first time that day.

“Seriously! Stop laughing! The way things are going now, I’ll wind up one of those lonely, miserable old recluses you hear about on the news, where no one even misses them. Just some rotting corpse.”

Rotting corpse. Hailey’s laughter died away and she looked at Dana over the flickering candle.

Even after all this time, Hailey envisioned hundreds of crime scene photos back in Atlanta, victims’ faces frozen in horror in their last shocking moments on earth. She’d never forget…just an occupational hazard. You never get over it…it’s always in your blood, there just beneath your skin. But at least Hailey put the bad guys away or sent them to The Row. They’d never get out.

W
HEN THE DOORBELL RANG, ALL EIGHT OF VIRGINIA GUNN’S
wiener dogs ran toward the front door, barking viciously at the thought of a possible intruder.

“Shut up!” she yelled, wading through them, stooping to pet and pat as she went.

They ignored her and kept barking their heads off.

“Sidney!” she shouted. “Sidney, go! Sit! Everyone, sit!” She pointed at eight individual wiener-dog cushions that shared prime locations around the living room, on sofas and easy chairs near a huge fireplace.

The pack mentality of the tiny but hostile group egged them on, but after several minutes of Gunn shouting them down, Sidney, their leader, offered up a few more barks, then trotted toward his cushion. The rest followed.

Virginia opened the door. Renee and Dottie stood on the doorstep, accompanied by a woman with braids, wearing a long, flowered dress, and an overweight guy with a beard.

They all looked a little rattled by the audibly hostile welcome, but nobody was backing away. Virginia, who rejected all those who rejected her dogs, was relieved. She needed these people.

“They’re harmless,” Virginia assured them, waving a dismissive hand at the dogs. “I’m so glad you could all come.”

“These are our friends Ken and Suz,” Dottie said, and Virginia shook the newcomers’ hands and thanked them for coming.

Then Renee, who had exchanged her hiking shorts for jeans, held out a plate of…something…

“What are these?” Virginia asked politely, peering at a dozen or so shapeless blobs on a ceramic plate.

“Mock deviled eggs,” Renee said. “Dottie made them herself!”

“I hope you like them. They’re my specialty.” Dottie smiled proudly.

“Oh, my…thanks! Come on in and have a seat.”

The future guerrillas trooped over the threshold. Obviously afraid to plop themselves down next to the eight angry bits of fur, they stood, imperceptibly edging toward the kitchen and away from the wieners.

“Seriously,” Virginia said, setting the mock-deviled-egg thingies on the counter beside the chips and dip, “don’t mind the dogs, they never bite.”

Virginia tossed ingredients into the blender as Suz looked cautiously around the den.

“Have you been here long?”

“You mean on St. Simons? All my life,” Virginia said, just before turning the blender on high speed, a Salem Light pressed between her lips.

Not only that, but she hadn’t even
left
the Island once in over twelve years.

It just wasn’t worth it.

She was sure that the moment she turned her back, the Commission would call a closed-door “emergency” meeting and suddenly a mini-mart would wind up perched on the dunes off her own back deck.

Virginia turned off the blender and wielded the foamy green slush over a waiting tray of glasses. “Allrighty…who wants one?”

“What are they?” Dottie—of the mock deviled eggs—asked warily.

“
My
specialty. I call them hairy margaritas.” She poured five without waiting for orders, and handed them around.

“Let’s sit, shall we?”

Only when Virginia rolled over the liquor cart and the dogs drifted off to sleep did the future guerrillas relax a tiny bit and move in the direction of the sofas.

“So, Ken”—she targeted him first, sensing that he, like Sidney, was the leader of the pack—“what do you do?”

“I’m in computers.”

“Really? Software, programming?”

“Radio Shack.”

“Ah.” She nodded, sipped, and listened politely as Ken demonstrated a deep knowledge of all things tech-related.

Then she learned Dottie was a biology teacher, Renee a Wal-Mart cashier, and Suz a waitress at the Shrimp Boat. All were relative newcomers to the Island. Perfect.

The conversation flowed and a general good mood slowly seeped over the future eco-guerrillas, punctured by an occasional sharp
bark emitted by a wiener obviously embroiled in a doggie nightmare.

“And what do you do, Virginia?” Ken asked.

Deflecting the question about the present, she instead addressed the past. “Well, I used to be the Chief County Commissioner.”

“Really?”

She filled them in on the goofy-golf debacle, then launched into her crowning glory.

“It happened before the last vote on constructing a major bridge connecting the Island to the mainland,” Virginia informed the rapt audience, as they munched chips and dips and mock deviled eggs, and sipped the all-important drinks.

“What happened?”

Virginia smiled, reeling them in. “Well, the afternoon of the bridge vote, I called Chairman McKissick’s office and talked to his assistant, Sean.”

Sean was a nineteen-year-old, a five-foot-nine-inch looker, a Glynn County High School grad who’d done a year at Glynn Junior College. She would soon be one in a long line of secretaries who had walked off the job after one too many booty gooses from Chairman McKissick.

Virginia still remembered when Sean answered the phone, “Chairman McKissick’s office, here to serve the people of the Golden Isles. The Chairman’s office is always open to his constituents. May we help you?”

“Does he make you go through that spiel every single time you answer the phone?” she had asked Sean. “I bet he made that up, didn’t he?”

No answer from Sean. She didn’t understand the question.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind. Just put McKissick on the line. Tell him it’s Virginia Gunn.”

After several minutes on hold with the local easy-listening station being broadcast today from Raymond Smith’s Toyota on
Glynn Boulevard, Sean came back on the line, clearly uncomfortable with lying, but maintaining all the professionalism her nineteen years could muster. “The Chairman is in a meeting. May I take a message?”

“Why do you
insist
on calling him ‘the Chairman’ every single time?” Virginia had asked. “Did he tell you to do that? You know what? Never mind. I know he did. That pompous ass. Just give him a message. Tell him I’m calling from over in room one-fourteen of the Jekyll Island Days Inn with a very important message for him and his wife. I’ll hold.”

No need to hold. Thirty minutes later, they met in person. Virginia recounted the tale for her guests. Toby parking surreptitiously outside one of the Island’s only restaurants. The Oyster Box. She walked over to his car and got in.

“Okay, Virginia, what is it this time?” he demanded. “Worried about the sea turtles again? Get over it, Virginia, the Island’s changing. You can’t stop progress. Haven’t you ever heard that? Move on with your life. Have you ever thought of actually getting a real job? And what’s the deal with the Days Inn, was that supposed to mean something to me?”

Virginia said nothing, just relaxed back in the leather seats and studied McKissick’s smooth pink face up close.

She couldn’t believe she was noticing only then for the first time, after having known the man for twelve years, that he was the only person she had ever come across who had both a toupee
and
dandruff. Her powers of perception were diminishing.

“Then what happened?” Dottie prodded, and Virginia realized she was stalling the story with details.

“Then I pushed the tape into the tape deck”—she got to the good part—“and when that tape started to roll, McKissick nearly wet his pants right there on the seat of his Lexus! Of course, it’s leased. He tried to eject it, but you know what I did?”

They shook their heads, rapt. No, they didn’t know. But they wanted to.

“I pushed it right back in and turned up the volume. A truck pulled right beside us, so he couldn’t very well smack me. Ha!”

Yes, both Virginia and her archenemy Toby McKissick had been well aware that a physical confrontation in the parking lot of the Oyster Box would be all over the Island by four thirty the same afternoon.

“He was over a barrel,” Virginia told her guests.

“What was on the tape?” Renee persisted, and Virginia told them, explaining how she got her cleaning lady of eighteen years, Marta, to get the tape from McKissick’s cleaning lady, Luisa. The audio quality was pretty good, under the circumstances, and any moron could make out Luisa and her boss,
Chairman
McKissick, on the phone planning a tryst at the Jekyll Island Days Inn twenty miles away and across the bridge.

“That first tape alone would have gone a long way to saving the ecosystem,” she told her guests as she poured more tequila into the blender. “It was the second tape, though, that did the trick. It was made the same day from a recorder strategically placed under the bed in room one-fourteen, their regular.”

Everyone shook their heads, completely grossed out.

“The things on that tape should never be heard by anyone,” Virginia declared, “much less his wife. So McKissick had to listen to the entire tape trapped inside his Lexus while I laughed like crazy.”

Virginia flipped the blender on “High.”

“Then came the Commission meeting that night. I sat on the back row of the Glynn County Middle School auditorium and listened to McKissick go on and on about the old bridge.”

And he did it with feeling. “It’s not
just
a bridge, people. It’s not
just
a road. It stands as a tribute to this Island’s great history, a historic piece of art, in fact. I say ‘
no
.’ ‘No’ to those who would destroy that monument that represents the spirit of the Island…
our
Island. Who of you will join with me and take up this cause? Who will be brave? Join hands with me, my fellow commissioners! Let us fight this destruction together. Save the old bridge!”

McKissick’s forehead glistened under the auditorium’s bright overhead lights, usually reserved for night basketball games.

It was clear to a blind man that McKissick was now desperate to stop the new bridge. He could have passed for a fervent evangelical preacher straight from the heart of the snake-handling, tongue-speaking bunch.

The other commissioners looked dazed and confused. Did he literally want them to stand and join hands? they wondered. Or was it figurative?

“You should have seen it,” she said, laughing through her Salem Light, still pursed between her lips while she talked. The blender had stopped.

“All those middle-aged guys visibly recoiling at hand-holding in the auditorium. They were like little lost sheep, asked to improvise their votes right there on the spot. They didn’t dare speak out and make it part of the official record.”

So in the end, she recalled, when McKissick called for the vote and raised his own hand, displaying the very sweaty armpit of his white Brooks Brothers, the others—after searching McKissick’s face for any nonverbal sign to tell them what the hell they were supposed to do—followed suit.

Virginia went around refilling every glass. “That brand-new, beautiful, and magnificent four-laner was voted down unanimously. Not one person in the room expected them to do that—not even themselves. It wasn’t at all what they’d agreed to ahead of time at the Catfish Cove in Brunswick. And progress stopped cold right there in the Glynn County Middle School auditorium.”

They all nodded.

The old two-lane with a single toll keeper still stood between St. Simons and Savannah on the mainland. There would be no convenient four-laner inviting in tourists by the vanload clocking sixty mph. Not on
this
island.

Not if Virginia Gunn had anything to do with it.