When my phone buzzed, I was sitting on a barstool at Claudia’s on James Island. It was Laura. She said Greg had gotten another call, then jumped in his Yukon and taken off. My sister had been suspicious for a while, and I know suspicions are like herpes—once they show up, they never go away.
It was hard to hear what she was saying. The bar was busy with the regular low-rent crowd. James Island has a redneck tinge to it, and the place was full of big men with ball caps, goatees, and those jeans with elaborate white stitching on the pockets. But Claudia’s had forty-five good beers on tap, so I was willing to ignore the alpha-male vibe.
I was drinking my second Dogfish Head 60 Minute IPA. Claudia had drawn the first one as soon as I walked in and it was on the bar waiting for me before my ass hit the stool. Being a regular has its benefits.
I set a cardboard coaster on top of my pint glass and stepped outside. There was a guy vaping just past the entrance. At first glance I thought he was trying to swallow a flashlight. I walked over to my Mercedes SUV, leaned against the bumper, and asked Laura for details.
“Greg just left,” she said. “Where are you?”
It was a redundant question. I was at Claudia’s almost every night.
“What’s going on?”
“Greg should be passing by there any minute. Follow him. I want to know who she is.”
Greg was a sergeant with the Charleston PD, my former employer. I’d told Laura sergeants are always on duty. Which means that now and then they get called and have to go in and take care of shit. I told her this again, but she wasn’t having it.
“Just follow him, Davis. Please do this for me.”
Laura was convinced Greg was cheating on her. That his late-night calls weren’t from work but from some woman who was probably younger, better built, and better in bed. The kind of woman who tore up the sheets in a silk teddy rather than snored and farted in a threadbare T-shirt from the 2009 Cooper River Bridge run. I told Laura she was paranoid. Greg adored her. The idea of him having a side piece was ridiculous. But then again, ridiculous and true aren’t mutually exclusive.
As Laura ranted, I watched the traffic flow on Folly Road, a busy four-lane that runs from Folly Beach through James Island and on to downtown Charleston. As if on cue, Greg’s white GMC Yukon roared past, headed north toward downtown. I told Laura I had to go, then hopped in my Mercedes and pulled out into traffic. I felt bad about taking off without paying. But I felt worse about leaving half a pint of good beer sitting on the bar.
Traffic was unusually light but enough to give me cover. Not that I needed it. I knew Greg was headed to the police department on Lockwood Drive. It wasn’t necessary to follow him. I could just roll up on my own, spot the Yukon in the station’s lot, then call Laura to tell her I was right. But if I wasn’t …
I was about a hundred yards behind Greg when he crossed the Ashley River and turned onto Lockwood without bothering to use his signal. By the time I closed the gap between our vehicles, Greg was just a few hundred feet from the police station’s main entrance. He cruised right past it.
Five minutes later I’d given up trying to guess where Greg was headed and followed him across the Ravenel Bridge into Mount Pleasant. We were almost to Sullivan’s Island when the Yukon turned left into a residential community. I caught the light, and it was a good minute before I made the turn. I couldn’t see the Yukon and wondered if Greg had disappeared into one of the driveways that fringed both sides of the road.
After about a mile the residential area turned industrial and I saw a sign for a twenty-four-hour storage complex. It was one of those places where people store stuff they don’t need but can’t bring themselves to get rid of: old furniture, VHS players, great-grandpa’s collection of antique back scratchers. Shit like that.
I pulled up to the gate blocking the entrance and counted five rows of blue buildings, each containing about ten storage units with white metal garage doors. Greg’s Yukon was parked next to one of the doors at the far end of the center building.
The complex was surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. I called Laura and asked if she and Greg rented a storage unit. She had no idea what I was talking about, and I hung up before she could ask any questions. When she immediately called back, I turned off the phone.
I drove past the complex and parked in an abandoned lot next to a convenience store. I was about to start walking toward the fence to get a better look when a gray Audi sedan pulled up in front of the entrance. A second later the gate started moving and its chain clanked against the gears like a roller coaster being tugged up a hill.
When the car pulled through, I took off in a sprint. Fifteen seconds later I was inside the fence and the gate was closed. I put my hands on my knees and tried to catch my breath. When I looked up at the razor wire, I realized I hadn’t really thought this plan through.
I walked toward the side of the middle row of units and peered around the corner. The Audi was parked behind Greg’s Yukon. I leaned against the building and listened for voices but didn’t catch anything more than the occasional sound of Greg’s high-pitched laugh. A few minutes passed before I heard the rattle of a metal garage door followed by two car doors slamming shut. I ran down the adjacent row and pressed my back against the building. When I looked around the corner, the Yukon and Audi were pulling through the gate. A moment later they were gone. The gate began to close, and I knew there was no way to reach it in time. I was trapped, at least until someone came through the gate, which might not be until morning.
I walked over to the unit where Greg had been parked. A four-digit padlock hung from a latch on the metal door. I grabbed the lock and entered the month and year of Laura’s birthday. No dice. I tried Greg’s birthday, then his and Laura’s anniversary, but the lock didn’t budge. I tried to think of other four-digit combinations that might be significant to Greg. When I entered 0715 and pulled down on the shackle, the lock opened with a loud click. That was the birthday of Cantrell, Greg and Laura’s asshole of a Boston terrier. I knew the date because just a few weeks earlier I’d watched them sing happy birthday to the dog while he gobbled up a cupcake Laura had made out of garbanzo flour and Greek yogurt.
I opened the storage unit door, stepped inside, and found a light switch on the wall to the right. The unit was about fifteen feet square and filled with big-boy toys: a Jet Ski, a set of golf clubs, a chromed-out Triumph Bonneville. Along the back wall sat several stacks of black Pelican cases, the kind professional photographers use to store their cameras and lenses. I pulled down one of the cases and opened it. It was packed with plastic gallon bags filled with marijuana. I stared at the bags for a long moment, wishing Greg had just been screwing around. An occasional piece of ass would’ve been easier to swallow than a felony-size stash of pot.
Each case I opened inched my temper closer to its red line. More bags of pot, bags of pills, rolls of cash, and a Glock 9mm handgun wrapped in a dish towel. By the time I’d opened all the cases, my veins were ready to burst. Greg was screwing around with my sister’s life, and I wanted to hurt him for it. The devils on my shoulder had some ideas about how to make that happen. They also suggested pocketing a few bags of pills before making any rash decisions.
I was considering my options when I heard the rattle of the entrance gate. A few seconds later Greg pulled up in front of the open storage unit door. He was glaring at me through the window of his Yukon while speaking to someone on his phone. He ended the call, stepped inside the unit, and pulled down the door.
Greg said he’d spotted my car and figured Laura had asked me to follow him. He told me he really wished I hadn’t done that.
I’d had a pretty good idea of what Greg was up to as soon as I’d seen what was in the cases. He was either shaking down small-time dealers for drugs and guns or he was slipping evidence out of the station. The former was more likely than the latter. It would be pretty easy, especially in some areas of North Charleston, for Greg to flash his badge and squeeze young wannabe gangstas for a few ounces of pot or a baggie of pills. Drugs he could redistribute to other dealers for quick cash. Getting guns would be a little more complicated, and traceable, and I figured that’s why there was only one.
I told Greg my theory.
“Well done, Sherlock,” he said. “So what are you going to do now?”
I pulled out my phone and turned it back on.
“Seriously?” Greg said. “You’re going to call this in?”
I ignored him and scrolled through my contacts.
Greg laughed. “You better hope the right person answers, ’cause there are people in the department way deeper into this shit than I am.”
I knew Greg was right. Even though I’d been with the force for only what seemed like a long weekend, I’d heard the rumors. Some said it was widespread throughout the department; others said it was just one or two bad apples. Either way, the bunch was spoiled.
Greg strolled over and grabbed a roll of cash from one of the cases. “Here. Take it. I know you need it.”
I focused on my phone. I knew exactly who to call. Someone in the department I could trust. Someone who could set this straight.
Greg reached over and snatched the phone out of my hand.
“Davis, just take the money and forget all this, okay? I’ll be out of it soon, I promise.”
Greg’s bullshit was stretching my temper like a rubber band. I didn’t want it to snap, for my sake and his.
I took a deep breath. “Give me my phone.”
Greg threw the cash back into the case, reached into another one, and pulled out a small baggie of white pills. He held it out like a peace offering.
“Take ’em. I’ve got all you need right here.”
The devils started whispering again: One bag wouldn’t hurt. Put it in your pocket. Go back to Claudia’s. The lone angel on my other shoulder repeated a single word: Laura.
I shook my head and held out my hand.
“Give me my phone.”
Greg smirked. “Davis, you really are a worthless piece of shit, you know that? Between the beer and the pills, I don’t know how you function. I’ve begged Laura to kick you out, but she says you need a babysitter. What you really need is a rope and a rafter.”
We stared at each other for a long moment. The devils were primed to have a go at Greg’s throat. The angel was busy humming John Lennon’s “Imagine.”
Finally Greg snickered and tossed the phone in my direction.
“Go ahead, call whoever you want,” he said. “Nobody in the department will believe a word you say anyway. You think they still don’t talk shit about you? The ex-cop with the short fuse. Raging Reed, that’s what they call you. It’s a good thing Laura feels sorry for you; otherwise you’d be living under a bridge picking fights with the other bums.”
The other bums. The comment stung because it was true. For the past two years I’d been living off the good graces of my sister. Sleeping in her and Greg’s guest room, eating their food, cluttering their kitchen with my brewing equipment. Taking the occasional assignment in order to prolong my slow-motion suicide of alcohol and pills.
I wanted to hurt Greg, but doing so would hurt Laura. I just needed to stay calm and call Perry. He would know what to do.
While searching for Perry’s number, I glanced up and saw a wicked grin cross Greg’s face. He threw the bag of pills aside and bent back down in front of the cases.
“Actually, I might have something else you need,” he said.
I didn’t like the sound of that.
As Greg rummaged through the cases, I pulled a seven iron out of the golf bag and held it over my shoulder. Greg stood up and slowly turned to face me. He was holding a gun. I guessed it was the gun I’d seen earlier wrapped in a dish towel. At the time I hadn’t bothered to check to see if it was loaded; it didn’t seem to matter then. But then wasn’t now.
When Greg saw the golf club, he raised the gun and started to speak. By that point I didn’t care what he had to say: the rubber band had snapped, and I swung the club like a lumberjack trying to split a knotty piece of oak. The head of the iron connected with the side of Greg’s neck. He fell over onto his back, and I straddled his chest. I punched Greg in the face. Then I punched him again. Raging Reed was firing on all cylinders.
When Greg stopped moving, I pushed myself up and tried to shake some feeling back into my hand. The room was spinning. The motorcycle, the Jet Ski, the Pelican cases were blurry streaks of blue, silver, and black. I dropped back down to my knees and closed my eyes. Nausea was building, and I could feel the burn of stomach acid on the back of my throat. I took a few deep breaths and finally worked up the nerve to open my eyes. Greg’s face was starting to swell. I choked back some vomit and tried to think. I needed to call an ambulance and I needed to disappear. But I knew better than to call 911 from my phone—I didn’t want any record of having been in that storage unit. I’d use Greg’s phone to make the call, leave the line open, then take my chances climbing over the razor wire.
I was searching through Greg’s pockets when I heard a noise outside. A moment later the door rose and the unit was illuminated with blinding light streaming in from the headlights of a car. I stood up and saw a figure standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the glow, its arm raised as if the person were offering to shake my hand. The shot sounded like the crack of a whip. My left leg went out from under me and I fell onto the concrete floor beside Greg. Suddenly my rage and fear evaporated. All I wanted to do was go to sleep.
Waking up is the worst part of my day. In those first moments after I regain consciousness and try to shake the spider webs off my brain, I make an assessment of exactly how shitty I’m going to feel for the next few hours. On a scale of one to ten, with one being full speed ahead and ten being don’t even bother rolling over, this morning was a seven. Which wasn’t too bad, considering recent history.
I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and checked the time—10:17 AM. My cell phone company promises service throughout 99 percent of the Southeast, but apparently the cabin I’d rented constituted the 1 percent dead zone. The company should have a map on their website with an arrow pointing to a tiny black dot in the middle of western North Carolina alongside a note that reads EVERYWHERE BUT HERE. Since moving into the cabin, my phone had become little more than an eighty-dollar-a-month digital clock.
I put the phone back on the nightstand and picked up a bottle of Xanax. I popped one pill in my mouth and washed it down with what little saliva I could muster, which wasn’t much. My tongue was dry and chalky, and I was convinced that one night I’d wake up and catch the cat that kept shitting in my mouth.
I walked into the kitchen and put some water on to boil, then opened the laptop on the kitchen table and checked my email. It was all spam. Offers to reduce my mortgage and cure my erectile dysfunction. Fortunately, I didn’t have either.
I was hoping to find an email from Laura. It had been almost a month since I’d heard from her. I checked the sent-mail folder, just in case I’d emailed something to her in those late hours when my body was still awake but my self-control had already turned in for the night. Thankfully, the folder was empty.
I put a teaspoon of instant coffee in a mug and filled it full of water from the kettle. I’ve never climbed aboard the fancy-coffee bandwagon; even those pod coffeemakers seem extravagant to me. I’d calculated that instant coffee cost me a little under seven cents per cup. That left more money for other things, like good beer, anxiety medication, and intermittent cell phone coverage.
I carried the mug across the living room and out through a sliding glass door that opened onto a large deck. It was unseasonably warm for mid-November. The thermometer with the Cheerwine logo nailed to one of the deck posts read sixty-five degrees, and I was comfortable in a sweat shirt and jogging pants. Not that I had any intention of jogging—those days were long gone. A bullet through the leg will do that to you.
In the distance a small scattering of fog drifted through the trees like coal smoke trailing from the chimney of an old train engine. They call this area the Great Smoky Mountains, and on most mornings, if you didn’t know any better, you’d swear fires were burning out of control all through these hills.
I sipped my coffee and fought the urge to go back inside and check my email again. The cabin didn’t have Wi-Fi, so the laptop was connected to a DSL modem on a counter next to the sink, and the cable wasn’t long enough to stretch farther than the kitchen table. Maybe that was a good thing.
The cabin was nestled into a steep hill in the Pisgah National Forest in a little town called Cruso. Cruso isn’t really a town, by definition. It doesn’t have a main street or a post office or even a bar; the closest alcohol is twelve miles away in Waynesville. But it does have a volunteer fire department, a Mexican restaurant, a golf course, and a gas station filled with cigarettes, beef jerky, and scratch tickets. It also offers what I was looking for most—solitude.
I’d discovered the cabin on Craigslist. A man named Dale Johnson was advertising it for $575 a month; I’d called from Charleston and asked if he’d take $500 if I’d pay six months in advance. I told him it would be just me, no pets, no drama, no trouble, just one guy who wanted some peace and quiet in order to write a book. Dale said he was a deputy with the local sheriff’s department and knew how to handle trouble. We went back and forth for a bit until he finally accepted my terms. I packed up the Mercedes that same day and headed out, leaving behind what I was trying to escape and wondering if it would still be there when I got back.
Four hours after leaving Laura’s house in Charleston, I drove across the North Carolina border and through a small town called Canton, where a paper mill enveloped the streets in a sour-smelling haze. A few minutes later I was headed east on U.S. 276 when I passed a sign that read WELCOME TO CRUSO: 9 MILES OF FRIENDLY PEOPLE PLUS ONE OLD CRAB. I figured if I stayed here long enough, I might be in the running for that title, or at least Old Crab Pro Tem.
Just past the golf course, the road curved to the south. The houses began to spread out the farther I drove, and by the time I reached the campground where Dale said he’d meet me, I thought I’d literally entered that storied location known as East Bumfuck.
I’d called Dale from Canton to tell him I was about twenty minutes away, and he was waiting in his patrol car when I pulled into the campground. When he stepped out, I couldn’t help but wonder just how out of shape a person would have to be to fail the physical fitness requirements for a law enforcement job in the area. He was at least 275 pounds, and not an ounce of that was ass. His back was flat as a board, but his belly hung over his belt like a sack of fertilizer about to fall off a tailgate.
I got out of the Mercedes and shook his hand.
“Davis Reed,” I said.
“Dale Johnson, nice to meet ya.”
I reached in my pocket and handed him a check for $3,500. He stared at it for a moment, then finally seemed to accept that it was legit. He grinned and said, “Follow me.”
We got back on 276 and continued south along the east fork of the Pigeon River to a dirt road marked by a black mailbox with the word JOHNSON spelled out in gold stick-on letters. We turned right and followed the road up a steep incline, doubling back several times. It was like tracing the path of an erratic EKG. The road was surrounded by forest and barely wide enough for one vehicle. I wondered what we would do if we met someone coming in the opposite direction, but Dale didn’t seem to be worried about that possibility—his patrol car slung gravel and whipped from side to side like he was responding to a break-in in progress. It was all I could do to keep up.
Eventually the road straightened out and we entered a clearing with a modest wooden cabin built into a steep bank. There was a rusted-out Jeep parked off to one side of the clearing next to a few pieces of firewood peeking out from under a ragged gray tarp. The cabin looked tired and worn, and I wasn’t sure if it had been wise to pay six months in advance for a place sight unseen.
The inside of the cabin was sparse. There was one bedroom, a tiny bathroom, and a wood-paneled living room with a stone fireplace along one wall. The kitchen was painted pale yellow, and a small wooden table sat in the center of a stained linoleum floor. A door next to the refrigerator revealed a set of wooden steps that led down into darkness. “There ain’t nothing down there,” Dale said when I opened the door and peered into the black expanse. “But look at this.” He grabbed my arm, and I followed him through the living room and out onto the deck. The view was breathtaking.
“You said you’s writing a book about Cold Mountain, right? Well, there it is. That’s it.”
The deck sat above the tree line like the top floor of an observation tower at a national park. In the distance a few small hills in different shades of blue and gray rose up from a valley of trees. Behind them, perfectly framed in the center of the vista, was the tall, rounded peak of Cold Mountain. It was a view that could never get old. ...
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