The owners weren't yet awake. When he'd checked in the night before, they'd informed him that they'd left the delivery of flowers in his room, and that breakfast was at eight. That gave him plenty of time before his meeting to do what he needed to do.
Outside, the morning was already bright. A thin layer of haze on the river hovered like a low-level cloud, but the sky above was a brilliant blue and clear in every direction. The air was already warm, foretelling hotter weather to come. He rolled his shoulders a few times and was jogging before he hit the road. It took a few minutes before his body began to feel limber and he settled into an easy pace.
The road was quiet as he entered Oriental's small downtown. He passed two antiques stores, a hardware store, and a few real estate offices; on the opposite side of the street, Irvin's Diner was already open for business, with a handful of cars parked out front. Over his shoulder, the fog on the river had begun to lift, and breathing deeply, he caught the living scent of salt and pine. Near the marina, he passed a bustling coffee shop, and a few minutes later, with the stiffness almost completely gone, he was able to pick up his pace. At the marina, gulls circled and sounded their calls as people carried coolers to their sailboats, and he jogged past a rustic bait shop.
He passed the First Baptist Church, marveling at the stained-glass windows and trying to recall whether he'd even noticed them as a child, before searching for Morgan Tanner's office. He knew the address and finally spotted the placard on a small brick building wedged between a drugstore and a coin dealer. Another attorney was listed as well, though they didn't seem to share the same practice. He wondered how Tuck had chosen Tanner. Until the call, he'd never heard of the man.
As downtown Oriental came to an end, Dawson turned off the main road, branching out onto neighborhood streets, running without any particular destination in mind.
He hadn't slept well. Instead, his mind had cycled endlessly between Amanda and the Bonners. In prison, aside from Amanda, Marilyn Bonner was all he could think about. She had testified at the sentencing hearing, and her testimony underscored the fact that he'd not only robbed her of the man she loved and the father of her children, but also destroyed her entire way of life. In a breaking voice, she'd admitted that she had no idea how she was going to provide for her family, or what would become of them. Dr. Bonner, it turned out, had neglected to buy life insurance.
Eventually, Marilyn Bonner lost the house. She moved back in with her parents at the orchard, but her life continued to be a struggle. Her father had already retired and had early-stage emphysema. Her mom suffered from diabetes, and the loan payments on the property ate up almost every dollar the orchard brought in. Because her parents needed almost full-time care between them, Marilyn was able to work only part-time. Even when she combined her small salary with her parents' social security, there was barely enough to cover the basics, and sometimes not even that. The old farmhouse they lived in was beginning to fall apart, and the loan payments on the orchard eventually fell into arrears.
By the time Dawson got out of prison, things had become desperate for the Bonner family. Dawson didn't learn of that until he went to the farmhouse to apologize almost six months later. When Marilyn answered the door, Dawson barely recognized her; her hair had turned gray and her skin looked sallow. She, on the other hand, knew exactly who he was, and before he could say a word, she began screaming at him to leave, shrieking that he'd ruined her life, that he'd killed her husband, that she didn't even have enough money to fix the leaking roof or hire the workers she needed. She screamed that the bankers were threatening to foreclose on the orchard, and then that she was going to call the police. She warned him never to come back. Dawson left, but later that night he returned to the farmhouse and studied the decaying structure; he walked the rows of peach and apple trees. The following week, after receiving his paycheck from Tuck, he went to the bank and had a cashier's check sent to Marilyn Bonner for almost the entire amount, along with everything he'd saved since he'd gotten out of prison, with no note attached.
In the years since then, Marilyn's life had gotten better. Her parents eventually died and the farmhouse and orchard passed to her; though it had been a struggle at times, she'd slowly been able to make up the outstanding loan payments and carry out the necessary repairs. She now owned the land free and clear. She'd started a mail-order business a few years after he'd left town, selling homemade canned preserves. With the help of the Internet, her business had grown to the point where she no longer worried about paying the bills. Though she'd never remarried, she'd been dating an accountant named Leo for almost sixteen years.
As for the kids, Emily graduated from East Carolina University and eventually moved to Raleigh, where she worked as a manager in a department store, preparing most likely to take over her mom's business one day. Alan lived in the orchard in a double-wide that his mom had purchased for him and hadn't gone to college, but he had a steady job and in the photographs that were sent to Dawson, he always seemed happy.
Once a year, the photographs arrived in Louisiana along with a brief update on Marilyn, Emily, and Alan; the private detectives he'd hired had always been thorough but had never pried too deeply.
He sometimes felt guilty about having the Bonners followed, but he had to know whether he'd been able to make even the smallest positive difference in their lives. That's all he'd wanted since the night of the accident, and it was the reason he'd been sending checks monthly for the past two decades, almost always through anonymous offshore bank accounts. He was, after all, responsible for the greatest loss their family had experienced, and as he ran the quiet streets he knew he was willing to do whatever he could to make amends.
Abee Cole could feel the fever inside him making him sick, and he shivered despite the heat. Two days ago, he'd taken his baseball bat to a guy who had provoked him, and the guy had surprised him with a box cutter. A dirty one that left an evil-looking slash yawning across his gut. Earlier this morning, he noticed green pus oozing out, smelling like a sewer despite the drugs that were supposed to help. If the fever didn't break soon, he had half a mind to take the bat to his cousin Calvin, since he'd sworn the antibiotics he'd stolen from the veterinary office would work.
Right now, though, he was distracted by the sight of Dawson running on the opposite side of the street, and he considered what to do about him.
Ted was in the convenience store behind him, and he wondered whether he'd spotted Dawson. Probably not; otherwise he'd be rushing out of the store like a wild boar. Ever since he'd heard that Tuck went toes up, Ted had been waiting for Dawson to show up. Probably while sharpening his knives and loading his guns and checking his grenades or bazookas or whatever the hell other weapons he kept at that rat hole he shared with Ella, that little tramp whore of his.
Ted wasn't quite right in the head. Never had been right. Just a bundle of rage, that one. Nine years in prison hadn't taught him how to keep it in check, either. In the past few years, it had gotten to the point where it was almost impossible to keep Ted in line, but as Abee often reflected, that wasn't always such a bad thing. It made him an effective enforcer, ensuring that everyone involved in producing crank on their property followed his rules. Ted scared the crap out of everybody these days, family included, and that suited Abee just fine. They kept their noses out of Abee's business and did what they were told. While he didn't particularly care for his younger brother, Abee did find him useful.
But now Dawson was back in town, and who the hell knew what Ted was going to do. Abee had figured that Dawson would show up on account of Tuck dying, but he hoped that Dawson would have had the sense to stay just long enough to pay his respects and leave before anyone knew he'd even come home. That's what anyone with a lick of sense would have done, and he was sure that Dawson was smart enough to know that Ted wanted to kill him every time he looked in the mirror and saw that crooked nose staring back at him.
Abee didn't give two licks what happened to Dawson, one way or the other. Bu
t he didn't want Ted creating unnecessary trouble. It was hard enough to keep things going already, what with the Feds and the staties and the sheriff poking their noses into the family business. It wasn't like the old days, when the law was afraid of them. These days, the cops had helicopters and dogs and infrared and snitches everywhere. Abee had to think about such things; Abee alone had to plan for such things.
Thing was, Dawson was a lot smarter than the meth-head tweakers Ted usually dealt with. Say what you want about Dawson, but he'd beaten the crap out of both Ted and his daddy when both of them were armed, and that meant something. Dawson wasn't afraid of Ted or Abee, and he'd be prepared. He could be ruthless when necessary, and that should have been enough to give Ted pause. But it wouldn't, because Ted wasn't going to be thinking straight.
The last thing he needed was for Ted to be sent away again. He needed him, what with half the family tweaking and prone to doing stupid things. But if Abee couldn't prevent Ted from going off the rails when he saw Dawson, Ted just might find himself standing before the judge again. The thought made his stomach burn, compounding his nausea.
Abee leaned over, vomiting onto the asphalt. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as Dawson finally disappeared around the corner. Ted still hadn't come out. Abee gave a mental sigh of relief and decided not to tell him about the sighting. He shivered again, his gut on fire. Jesus, he felt like crap. Who would have thought the guy was carrying a box cutter?
It wasn't like Abee was trying to kill the guy--he just wanted to send a message to him and anyone else who might be getting ideas about Candy. Next time, though, Abee wasn't going to take a chance. Once he started swinging, he wasn't going to stop. He'd be careful--he was always careful when the law might get involved--but everyone needed to understand that his girlfriend was off-limits. Guys better not look at her or talk to her, let alone get any ideas about getting into her pants. She'd probably get huffy, but Candy needed to understand that she was his now. He really didn't want to mess up that pretty face of hers to make a point.
Candy wasn't sure what to do about Abee Cole. Sure, they'd gone out a few times, and she knew he probably thought he could boss her around now. But he was a guy, and she'd figured out guys a long time ago, even bull-headed types like Abee. She might be only twenty-four years old, but she'd been on her own since seventeen, and she'd learned that as long as she wore her blond hair long and loose and stared up at guys with that look, she could pretty much make them do whatever she wanted. She knew how to make a man feel fascinating, no matter how dull he might really be. And for the past seven years, it had served her well. She owned a Mustang convertible, courtesy of some old guy in Wilmington, and a small Buddha statue that she displayed on her windowsill, which was supposedly made of gold and was from a sweet Chinese man in Charleston. She knew that if she were to tell Abee that she was running low on cash, he'd probably give some to her and feel like a king.
Then again, maybe that wasn't such a good idea. She wasn't from around here and hadn't known who the Coles were when she'd arrived in Oriental a few months ago. The more she'd learned about them, the more uncertain she felt about letting Abee get too close to her. Not because Abee was a criminal. She'd taken a coke dealer in Atlanta for almost twenty thousand dollars over a few months, and he'd been as delighted with their overall arrangement as she'd been. No, it partly had to do with her discomfort around Ted.
They were often together when Abee came in, and frankly, Ted scared her. It wasn't just the pockmarked skin or brown teeth that freaked her out; it was more his overall... vibe. When he grinned at her, there was a gleeful malevolence about it, like he couldn't decide whether to strangle her or kiss her, but thought that both would be equally fun.
Ted had given her the serious creeps from the get-go, but she had to admit that the more she'd gotten to know Abee, the more she worried that the two were cut from the same cloth. Abee was getting a little... possessive lately, and that was beginning to scare her. In all honesty, it was probably time to move on. Drive north to Virginia or south to Florida, it didn't really matter. She'd leave tomorrow, except that she didn't have the cash to make the trip yet. She'd never been good at holding on to money, but she figured that if she really worked the customers at the bar this weekend and played her cards just right, she could earn enough by Sunday to get the hell out of here, before Abee Cole even realized she was gone.
The delivery truck lurched from the centerline to the shoulder and back again, the result of Alan Bonner trying to free a cigarette by bouncing the pack against his thigh while simultaneously trying not to spill the cup of coffee he had wedged between his legs. On the radio, a country song was blaring, something about a man who'd lost his dog or wanted a dog or liked eating dogs or whatever, but lyrics had never been as important as rhythm, and this tune had serious rhythm. Add in the fact that it was Friday, which meant he had only seven more hours of work time left before the long, glorious weekend ahead, and he was already in a good mood.
"Shouldn't you turn that down?" Buster asked.
Buster Tibson was a new trainee with the company, which was the only reason he was even in the truck, and all week long he'd been complaining about this or asking questions about that. It was enough to drive anyone crazy.
"What? You don't like this song?"
"It says in the manual that playing the radio loud causes distractions. Ron mentioned that specifically when he hired me."
That was another annoying thing about Buster. He was a stickler for the rules. It was probably why Ron had hired him.
Alan finished tapping out the cigarette and stuck it between his teeth while he searched for his lighter. Thing was wedged deep into his pocket and it took a bit of concentration to keep the coffee from spilling as he began to dig it out.
"Don't worry about it. It's Friday, remember?"
Buster seemed dissatisfied with his answer, and when Alan glanced over he noticed that Buster had ironed his shirt this morning. No doubt he'd made sure that Ron had noticed. Probably went into the office with a notepad and pen, too, so that he could write down everything Ron said while simultaneously complimenting Ron on his wisdom.
And what about the guy's name? That was another thing. What kind of a parent named their kid Buster?
The delivery van lurched onto the shoulder again as Alan finally freed his lighter.
"Hey, where the hell did you get the name Buster, anyway?" he asked.
"It's a family name. On my mom's side." Buster frowned. "How many deliveries today?"
All week long, Buster had been asking that question, and Alan had yet to figure out why the specific number was so important. They delivered nabs and nuts and chips and trail mix and beef jerky to gas stations and convenience stores, but the key was not to speed through the route, or Ron would just add more stops. Alan learned that last year and he wasn't about to make that mistake again. His territory already covered all of Pamlico County, which meant driving endlessly along the most boring roads in the history of mankind. Even so, this was far and away the best job he'd ever had. Way better than construction or landscaping or washing cars or anything else he'd done since he graduated from high school. Here, there was fresh air blowing through the window, music as loud as he wanted, and no boss constantly breathing down his neck. The pay wasn't half bad, either.
Alan cupped his hands, steering with his elbows while he lit his cigarette. He blew the smoke through the open window. "Enough. We'll be lucky if we finish."
Buster turned toward the passenger window, speaking under his breath. "Then maybe we shouldn't take such long lunches."
The kid was seriously irritating. And that's what he was--a kid, even if, technically, Buster was older than him. Still, the last thing he wanted was for Buster to report back to Ron that he was slacking off.
"It's not about the lunches," Alan said, trying to sound serious. "It's about customer service. You can't just run in and run out. You have to talk to people. Our job is about making sure our custome
rs are happy. That's why I always make sure that I do things by the book."
"Like smoking? You know you're not supposed to smoke in the van."
"Every man's got a vice."
"And blasting the radio?"
Uh-oh. The kid had obviously been compiling a list, and Alan had to think fast.
"I just did that for you. Kind of a celebration, you know? It's the end of your first week and you've done a great job. And when we finish up today, I'll make sure Ron knows that."
Mentioning Ron like that was enough to make Buster quiet down for a few minutes, which didn't seem like much, but after a week in the car with the guy, any silence was a good thing. The day couldn't end soon enough, and next week he'd have the van to himself again. Thank God.
And tonight? That was all about getting the weekend started right, which meant doing his best to forget all about Buster. Tonight he'd end up at the Tidewater, a hole-in-the-wall just outside town that was almost the only place nearby that offered any kind of nightlife. He'd drink some beer, play some pool, and if he was lucky, that cute bartender might even be there. She wore tight jeans that hugged her in all the right places, and she leaned forward in her skimpy top whenever she handed him a beer, which made it taste that much better. Same thing Saturday night and Sunday night, too, for that matter, assuming his mom had plans with her longtime boyfriend, Leo, and didn't drop by his double-wide like she had last night.
Why she didn't just marry Leo was beyond him; maybe then she'd have better things to do than check on her grown son. What he didn't want this weekend was for his mom to expect him to keep her company, because that just wasn't going to happen. Who cared if he was a little worse for the wear on Monday? By then, Buster would be in his own delivery truck, and if that didn't call for a little celebrating, nothing did.