15 Seconds (18 page)

Chapter Forty-Three

T
he 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 . . .”

“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

F
rom 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 thing . . .
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.

I almost felt the tears sting in my eyes. It was as if I was connected to her in a way I couldn't describe.

I took a table at the other end of the restaurant. I grabbed a menu from the holder and held it in front of my face.

I was petrified that if I just walked right up to her, she might scream—I was still a wanted murder suspect. So I took out the cell number she had written down for Fellows and dialed it.

My heart jumped with excitement. I saw her look at her phone and, curious at the number—it probably read,
Unknown Caller—
answer in a halting tone.

“This is Carrie.”

“What's old, rusted, and jangles around a lot in a box?” I asked.

She hesitated, checking the number again, confused.
“What?”

“ADJ-4392. Or I sure wish it did!”

I watched as Carrie Holmes's eyes went wide.

“How's the food here? I hear it's the best north of Blackville!”

This time her eyes jumped up and darted around the restaurant, finally settling on me, my menu lowering, the cell phone at my ear.

I took off my glasses. Peered at her through the four-day-old growth and the golf cap.

Her jaw dropped.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
she blurted.

It sounded a lot more like a demand than a question.

“The same thing you're doing here. I just saw Fellows. He told me you were here. I didn't realize I had the right plate number until now!”

The color began to rush from her face, giving way to a look of distrust or bewilderment. Or maybe even concern.

“I didn't mean to alarm you,” I said. “Please, please, don't be afraid. I want to come over and talk. You don't have to worry about me in any way. You know that! Can I do that? Can I come over, Carrie? I—”

“No!”
she barked. “Stay where you are!” Then, grasping how ridiculous this all was and that she had nothing to fear, she kind of took a step back and said nervously, “Okay. Okay. But look, I—”

Neither of us seemed to be finishing sentences very well.

She was flustered. A bit unnerved. The same way I was flustered. I pushed out of my seat and headed toward her down the aisle. My legs, a little rubbery. I could see she wasn't sure whether to yell out or jump up and arrest me. And I didn't know whether to hug her in gratitude or make a run for it.

I sat down in the seat across from her.

I couldn't help but grin. “I was right, wasn't I? You found the blue car. You traced the plates. To Fellows. That's why you're here. Which basically means the car
was
at both crime scenes. Just like I said.”

She nodded tentatively.

“Which then means you know I'm completely innocent, don't you? You know I'm being set up.”

Suddenly I couldn't control my grin.

“Look, all I know is—” She barely got the words out of her mouth when the waitress came up. A little chunky, her hair up in a bun, the name Nanci embroidered on her blouse. She plopped a menu in front of me.

“Well, you two seem to have hit it off . . . Specials are on the board. Chili's Southern style, which means no beans. It's always good. Chicken and biscuits seem to be crowd-pleasers too.”

“Just gimme a second,” I said to her, maybe slightly abrupt. Then, softening my tone: “How about I take whatever she's having . . .”—pointing to a bowl of soup in front of Carrie.

“Turkey okra,” Nanci said. “Crackers
. . .
?”

“Yes, crackers! Thanks . . .” She continued to stand around as she wrote my order on her pad.

My eyes went back to Carrie. Both of us seemed to smile.

“You know I wasn't in North Carolina the day that gun was bought,” I finished my thought. “The same blue car was at both crime scenes! What was it, a Mercury or a Ford?”

“Mazda,” she said, chuckling. “Look, I don't know anything for sure. It's possible you could have sent someone else to get that gun. Gun shows are notorious for being loose with records . . .”

“Carrie . . .”

“And that car at both crime scenes doesn't actually prove anything. It surely doesn't prove you didn't do it, only that there could be some other possible explanation. Or that you had an accessory . . .”

“Carrie,”
I said again.

“What I do know is I work for the Jacksonville Sheriff's Office. And you shouldn't be here, Dr. Steadman. I shouldn't be sitting—”

“Carrie!”
I said one more time, raising my voice. “You don't have to be afraid. I know you believe me.
You're here
.”

Her eyes slowly relaxed and she curled her hair around her ear as she blew out her cheeks and leaned back against the padded booth.

And nodded.

I said, “It's okay.”

Nanci came back with my salad and soup. “Bowl's hot,” she said, setting it down.

“Thanks.”

“And free refills, just so you know.”

“Good.” I shot her an exasperated glance. “Thanks.”

She went away, and Carrie looked at me. She took off her glasses. “What did Fellows tell you?”

“I figure the same thing he told you. That he has no idea where the plates might be. He showed you the box?” I took a sip of the soup.
“Jeez
.” It scalded my tongue. “This
is
hot!”

Carrie nodded, holding back a thin smile. “Guess we both got the same spiel.”

“So it
was
Fellows?” I said, taking another sip of soup, and I had to admit, after living out of fast-food drive-through windows for the past four days, it tasted good. “Where those plates came from.”

She nodded again. “How did you get here?”

“Had someone I know spiff a DMV worker in South Carolina. I had them pull everything that began with ADJ-4 . . . Then I worked my way down the list.”

“Not bad.” Carrie smiled. “Do you believe he doesn't know where the plates went? That he has nothing to do with it?”

“I don't know . . .
You're
the detective . . . But it still means something, though . . . It means whoever
is
involved is from around here. They had to have had some contact with Fellows.”

“You know anyone from this area?” she asked.

“No.” The South Carolina connection stumped me. “I don't.”

“So why would someone be doing this to you?” Carrie fixed on me. “If they wanted to kill you, they could have done it at any time. Instead, they went after Martinez and your friend.
Why?
” Her gaze stayed tight on me.

“I don't know. I've gone over this a hundred times. And I still have no idea.”

“But the person who did do it . . . he not only had to be connected to Fellows, but in some way he also had to know about you. When you'd be in Jacksonville. What you were doing there. Where you were headed. He knew about your friend Dinofrio . . .”

I hadn't thought about Mike for a day now and it hurt to bring him to mind all over again. That he had died while trying to help me hurt even more
.
I nodded emptily and closed my eyes.

I wanted to tell her about the calls. About my daughter. Keeping it from her was killing me inside. She had already put so much of herself on the line for me.

“I'm starting to think, if this whole thing is simply to entrap me, for what I don't know, Martinez had to have been in on it too. I mean, killing him was either a spur-of-the-moment thing, or . . . Or it was planned. That could be why he stopped me and pulled me out of the car in the first place, for basically nothing . . . But how could anyone have known where I'd be? At that exact time? And what I'd be driving?”

“You were followed,” Carrie said, her blue eyes fixed on me. “Probably right from the airport.”

“
From the airport . . . ?
This is all insane!” I said, cradling my head in my hands. It was wearing on me, but the more I thought about it—the rented Caddie, my destination, Mike—someone must have known. I thought back to Martinez. His insistence about the insurance thing and how I was driving down a one-way street . . . Had that all been meant as a kind of provocation? To anger me? To make me react?
Sir
,
if I have to tell you to shut your mouth again, it will not go well for you . . .

Had Martinez been a part of it too, and . . . ? As I racked my brain searching for answers, I suddenly heard those two loud pops all over again and saw him slumped over the wheel.

Had this whole thing been set up to have him stop me and then kill him—and then have his murder pinned on me?

Light-headed, I pushed myself back against the banquette. “Who could hate me so much to want to cause me this kind of pain? You're right, he could have killed me. He could have done it a dozen times. But he's not trying to kill me. He's—”
He's trying to torture me,
I wanted to say.
He's stolen my daughter!
“How does it feel to have everything you value taken from you? Everything you hold dear.
 
. . .”
“He's trying to pay me back. For something I did to him. It's like he's got me trapped and he's just toying with me before he comes in for the kill. And it's incredible how my life has somehow managed to fit into their plan . . .”

“Toying with you . . . ?”

I looked at her, drew in a breath, and sat back. I realized how crazy it all sounded and started to make a joke out of it. “Sorry. It's a hell of a lot to go through if someone simply didn't like how their boobs came out.”

Carrie's eyes twinkled with an awkward smile.

“I'd have gladly redone them—gratis
. . .”
I shook my head and smiled. “Anyway, I just want to say, you're very brave. Hell, I know how
I
felt just driving out to that godforsaken place . . . They obviously breed those community outreach gals pretty tough.”

She put her glasses back on and smiled at me. “You're proving to be pretty self-reliant yourself. Given your occupation.”

Nanci came up again. “Everyone doin' okay? Seems you're liking . . .” We both nodded. She asked if we needed anything else, and we shook our heads no. “Then I'll be right back.”

I looked at Carrie and something came to mind. From the first time I called her. “So what was it?” I asked. “The first time I spoke with you, you said you were just coming back . . . ?”

“
Sorry?”

“The first time we spoke. You said it was your first day back. From being out for a while . . .” I noticed a wedding ring. “Honeymoon? Maternity leave . . . ?”

“No . . .” She tilted her head and shrugged, her expression shifting, lips pressing together in a tight smile. “It was nothing.”

“Nothing . . . ?”
It occurred to me that maybe she'd been sick, and I shouldn't have pried. “Sorry, I didn't mean to get personal.”

“Dr. Steadman, we really have to figure out what the next step is here.” Her gaze returned to business now. “You just can't keep on running.”

She was right, of course. But she didn't know the truth. All my hopes had been based on tracking the killer through the license plates, and now we had found the source, and that hope was gone. Now there was no place left for me to go, except to keep running.

I tried to convey with my eyes that there was more going on than I could possibly explain. “I have no choice, Carrie.”

“There is a choice. Look, I know I haven't slept in a night and my thinking might well be off, but we
have
things now . . . We have the video of that car at both crime scenes. We have you in your office, operating, the day that gun was bought. That's all something. We have Fellows—somewhere, somehow he connects to whoever's doing this. This isn't like before. They'll have to check these things out.”

“No, you just don't understand . . .”

“You have
me
.” Her gaze was powerful and resolute, but then she allowed a self-deprecating smile. “I know that's not exactly like having the attorney general on your side . . . But I can guarantee that these things will get looked into.
And
your safety. You can even do it from up here, if you like. There won't be any guns blazing.”