Whitewash (37 page)

Exhaustion and the steady rumble of the Studebaker’s engine made it difficult for Sabrina to keep her eyes open. Miss Sadie insisted she lie back and get some sleep, that she was wide awake and perfectly fine driving at night, so Sabrina tried to doze while her subconscious skittered over the events of the past few days. It was like miniature film clips, from memory to reality to imagination. Soon all three would be indistinguishable from one another.

She heard music and for a moment thought she had been mistaken about the car not having a radio until she realized it was Miss Sadie humming. The melody was familiar and soothing, as comforting as a mother’s fingers caressing her forehead, petting her hair. She gave in and lay down across the backseat. The afghan smelled good, clothesline fresh, reminding Sabrina of her mother’s attempt to dry clothes on their balcony, ten stories above Chicago traffic, waving against the skyline. At thirteen, Sabrina was horrified to come home from school and find that her mother had hung out their underwear for the world to see. “But they’ll smell so good,” she told Sabrina. The next month her father had found them a cute little house in the suburbs with a backyard big enough for a garden and a clothesline—hidden from view. Sabrina wondered if her father had been equally embarrassed about his Jockeys flapping over the city streets.

She startled at the reminder of her father and fought her way back to consciousness. She sat up so suddenly she even startled Miss Sadie.

“Are you okay, dear?”

“I was just thinking about my dad,” she said and Miss Sadie nodded.

Sabrina wiped the sleep out of her eyes. Her hair stuck to her forehead and the back of her neck. She rolled down the back window and she could smell the saltwater. Somewhere beyond the black night was the Gulf Coast.

“We’ll need to stop for gasoline,” Miss Sadie said softly. “It’ll be all right. No one’s followed us.”

Sabrina spun to look behind them. Most of the cars had passed them since Miss Sadie seemed determined not to exceed the speed limit. Sabrina saw only small beads of headlights in the distance. She hadn’t even thought of being followed. But if her car accident had not been an accident, then she had certainly been followed from Chattahoochee. Which made her think of her father again. If they were capable of driving her off the road and shoving her into a water tank, were they capable of hurting her father?

“You haven’t eaten, dear. Would you like a sandwich?”

“No, thank you.” Sabrina scooted up so she could put her arms on the seat back, behind Miss Sadie, close enough to smell the lemon rinse she knew the old woman used on her hair.

“I should call my dad…or the hospital.”

Miss Sadie looked up at her in the rearview mirror, eyes meeting eyes. “You’re worried they might hurt him?”

“In order to find me, yes.” Sabrina hesitated, not wanting to say it out loud, like somehow that would make it real. “My car accident yesterday…”

“Wasn’t an accident,” Miss Sadie finished for her.

They rode in silence, staring out the windshield. With her arms leaning on the front seat, Sabrina rested her chin there, too. With every oncoming flash of headlights she tried to catch a glimpse of Miss Sadie’s face, hoping to read her thoughts. The old woman’s face remained expressionless, eyes straight ahead, focused only on the road. Sabrina knew the shock and emotion had exhausted her ability to rationalize. But maybe she was depending too much on the solid and wise counsel of her friend. She was, after all, an eighty-one-year-old woman.

What seemed like minutes later, Miss Sadie finally said, “Your daddy would want you to be safe. You’re no good to him walking into a trap. And going to him or contacting him right now might be just that.”

Exhaustion and the steady rumble of the Studebaker’s engine made it difficult for Sabrina to keep her eyes open. Miss Sadie insisted she lie back and get some sleep, that she was wide awake and perfectly fine driving at night, so Sabrina tried to doze while her subconscious skittered over the events of the past few days. It was like miniature film clips, from memory to reality to imagination. Soon all three would be indistinguishable from one another.

She heard music and for a moment thought she had been mistaken about the car not having a radio until she realized it was Miss Sadie humming. The melody was familiar and soothing, as comforting as a mother’s fingers caressing her forehead, petting her hair. She gave in and lay down across the backseat. The afghan smelled good, clothesline fresh, reminding Sabrina of her mother’s attempt to dry clothes on their balcony, ten stories above Chicago traffic, waving against the skyline. At thirteen, Sabrina was horrified to come home from school and find that her mother had hung out their underwear for the world to see. “But they’ll smell so good,” she told Sabrina. The next month her father had found them a cute little house in the suburbs with a backyard big enough for a garden and a clothesline—hidden from view. Sabrina wondered if her father had been equally embarrassed about his Jockeys flapping over the city streets.

She startled at the reminder of her father and fought her way back to consciousness. She sat up so suddenly she even startled Miss Sadie.

“Are you okay, dear?”

“I was just thinking about my dad,” she said and Miss Sadie nodded.

Sabrina wiped the sleep out of her eyes. Her hair stuck to her forehead and the back of her neck. She rolled down the back window and she could smell the saltwater. Somewhere beyond the black night was the Gulf Coast.

“We’ll need to stop for gasoline,” Miss Sadie said softly. “It’ll be all right. No one’s followed us.”

Sabrina spun to look behind them. Most of the cars had passed them since Miss Sadie seemed determined not to exceed the speed limit. Sabrina saw only small beads of headlights in the distance. She hadn’t even thought of being followed. But if her car accident had not been an accident, then she had certainly been followed from Chattahoochee. Which made her think of her father again. If they were capable of driving her off the road and shoving her into a water tank, were they capable of hurting her father?

“You haven’t eaten, dear. Would you like a sandwich?”

“No, thank you.” Sabrina scooted up so she could put her arms on the seat back, behind Miss Sadie, close enough to smell the lemon rinse she knew the old woman used on her hair.

“I should call my dad…or the hospital.”

Miss Sadie looked up at her in the rearview mirror, eyes meeting eyes. “You’re worried they might hurt him?”

“In order to find me, yes.” Sabrina hesitated, not wanting to say it out loud, like somehow that would make it real. “My car accident yesterday…”

“Wasn’t an accident,” Miss Sadie finished for her.

They rode in silence, staring out the windshield. With her arms leaning on the front seat, Sabrina rested her chin there, too. With every oncoming flash of headlights she tried to catch a glimpse of Miss Sadie’s face, hoping to read her thoughts. The old woman’s face remained expressionless, eyes straight ahead, focused only on the road. Sabrina knew the shock and emotion had exhausted her ability to rationalize. But maybe she was depending too much on the solid and wise counsel of her friend. She was, after all, an eighty-one-year-old woman.

What seemed like minutes later, Miss Sadie finally said, “Your daddy would want you to be safe. You’re no good to him walking into a trap. And going to him or contacting him right now might be just that.”

Tuesday, June 13
Pensacola Beach, Florida

The sun was just coming up when Eric Galloway made his way back to his apartment. He took the long way around the marina though he was tired. Most everyone was still in bed, which made it one of his favorite times of the day. No traffic. No car horns. No giggling teenage girls or their show-off counterparts. The beach remained quiet except for the crashing waves and the screech of the feeding seagulls, just the way Eric figured it should be.

Eric had grown up in Chicago alongside Lake Michigan, so he was used to having seagulls, beaches and boats around him. But in Chicago you tucked it all away for the winter. Here, it was a way of life. He could get used to this life. Funny, he didn’t think he’d ever say that about any one place, blaming his restless soul and his sense of adventure.

He had his deck shoes in his hand, preferring to enjoy the white sand between his toes. At this time of the morning it was still cool. He avoided looking in the distance where too many steel cranes and wrecking balls hovered over storm-damaged businesses and homes. Several years had passed, and yet roofs were still covered in blue tarps and sand stood ceiling high in many of the homes. Too many owners weren’t quite ready to repair and remodel in time for yet another season that might be disastrous.

Eric’s boss, Howard, liked to remind people that Pensacola Beach was just a barrier island, possibly formed years ago by hurricanes shifting sand and shorelines around. Howard, the philosopher, would often say, “That which had created the barrier island was continuously threatening to destroy it.”

Eric hadn’t been around for Hurricanes Ivan or Dennis, but he sat patiently in awe and listened to the stories, feeling a bit like a war correspondent trying to empathize and take it all in, but never really being able to know the fear, the hardship and loss of those who actually experienced them. He’d heard of looting on the beach. And owners not being able to get to their homes for months. He’d also heard about the goodness of neighbors, coming together from everywhere to cut down trees, clear roads, remove piers out of front yards and pull boats from living rooms.

The true-and-tried locals, who had been on the beach for the long haul, had claimed the storms brought a lot of strange characters onto their barrier island, most of them either cleanup workers or construction crews, but also some real con artists. Little did the locals know Eric probably fit into that last category. Come to think of it, most of the people he’d become friends with since he arrived on Pensacola Beach probably fit into that category.

Eric watched the sky light up over the bay toward Gulf Breeze. It looked like only the regulars were out on the water, the working stiffs. Howard was expecting some friends from Miami, although the way Howard said it, it didn’t sound as though they were really his friends. Seemed he had no idea how many days it would take them to come up the coast. He’d asked Eric to keep an eye out for their arrival, but when Eric asked what to look for, Howard just shrugged and said, “You’ll definitely know them when you see them.”

He liked Howard. He hadn’t been prepared to. He really didn’t want to. He was used to having bosses who threw around their authority, who seemed to enjoy telling others what to do. That definitely wasn’t Howard’s style. He still possessed the laid-back attitude of the surfer boy he had been years ago. He seemed content, having made his fortune and now enjoying it in a simple, genuine way that included working when he wanted and closing shop when he felt like it. Eric looked for a temper, figuring every Vietnam vet had to have one brewing somewhere even deep beneath the surface, but he never saw it. Not even close. Sometimes Eric wished Howard would push him around. It’d probably make what he was really doing here a lot easier.

Eric heard the noise before he realized what it was. The scrape and clop came from around back of Howard’s Deep-Sea Fishing Shop. On the water side was a boardwalk with a half-dozen small bistro tables and chairs that separated Howard’s shop from the boat slips. There was an adjoining oyster bar and around the corner was a set of narrow stairs leading to Eric’s second-floor studio apartment. The only thing next to it was the fenced-off Dumpster area and that’s where the noise was coming from.

He saw the yellow-gloved fingers hanging over the top of the Dumpster, someone gripping the edge from inside. Now Eric could hear the shoving and flipping of garbage being moved against the metal. The top of a shaved head popped up and just as quickly went back down. Another yellow-rubber-gloved hand came up. The metal screeched a bit from the extra weight climbing up over the side, and Eric could hear the scrape and clop of feet trying to get traction as the hands pulled.

The young man lifted himself until he could fold over the side, allowing his stomach to hang on as he swung one leg over, straddled the Dumpster edge like a gymnast on the vault. He swung the other leg over and made a professional dismount, unencumbered by the black hip boots. He took his yellow gloves off, pushed his goggles to the top of his head and pulled off the air filter from his nose, letting it hang by its rubber band around his neck. Other than the strange gear and the bright yellow rubber gloves—the kind for dishwashing, not surgery—the man looked like a college kid. He started going through the deep pockets of his cargo pants before he even noticed he wasn’t alone.

“Oh, hey, Eric.”

“How’s it going, Russ?”

“I struck gold.” He smiled at Eric and showed him a wad of what looked like wet and stained unopened envelopes. “Real gold.” He pointed to the streaked preprinted envelope. “Preferred card holder,” he read it to Eric. “You know what this means.”

And Eric did. He knew it meant there were preprinted bank checks with the credit-card holder’s account numbers all ready and waiting to be filled in and the signature forged. He knew this only because Russ had educated him. The kid made a science out of Dumpster diving. It was supposed to be a hobby.

Eric knew Russ had served some time for identity theft.

But nobody ever questioned Russ, at least not among the group that hung out at Bobbye’s Oyster Bar. They were a select group that had gravitated to each other because of their past indiscretions. A little credit-card fraud seemed minor when any one of the others could easily toss up much greater sins. And that included Eric.