He left the pickup’s motor running while he went into a bank to “cash out,” as he put it. When he returned, he brought with him a zippered bag, which Britt figured contained currency.
“I’ll owe you half of our expenses,” she said. Her wallet was in her handbag, in her car, in the river. She didn’t like being completely without means, but she had no ATM card or ID with which to withdraw anything from her bank. Not that she would anyway. A bank withdrawal would be the first thing Clark and Javier would watch for.
“Don’t worry about it,” Raley said. “Money’s the least of our problems.”
“What have you lived on for the past five years? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“I sold my house. The cabin cost a fraction of the equity I got from that sale. I had another car. Sold it, sold my fishing boat and trailer. Liquidated everything. Bowling ball, skis, bicycle, scuba gear, everything. I don’t have as many toys now, but I don’t have as many expenses, either.”
“Are you okay with that?”
“I’m fine with that.” He looked over at her and added, tongue in cheek, “About as fine as you are with having no family.”
He slowed down to survey the inventory of a place on the highway that advertised used cars, boats, trailers, generators, and propane tanks. Easy terms. Priced to sell.
About fifty yards past that was an AME church. Raley turned in to the church parking lot and pulled the pickup into the shade of a live oak draped in Spanish moss. He counted out several thousand dollars from the money bag and pocketed the hundred-dollar bills. He told her to stay in the truck. “If anyone comes close, honk the horn, and I mean sit down on it.”
He walked back to the car lot. She watched as he moved along the row of cars and pickups. Soon a short, potbellied man, whose shirt showed sweat rings under his arms, came out of the sales office and approached Raley. They shook hands, had a brief exchange, then the salesman began pointing out various models for Raley’s consideration. He dismissed some straightaway, inspected a few, deciding against them until he was directed to a sedan with a generic body style and drab color.
While the salesman gave his pitch, Raley walked around the car kicking the tires, then got behind the wheel. He turned on the ignition, popped the hood, checked the engine, looked underneath the body to check for oil drips-or so Britt assumed-then seemed to make up his mind. He followed the happy salesman into the office and emerged a few minutes later with a handful of yellow papers and a set of keys.
He drove the car to the church, parked it behind the pickup, then came to the passenger side and opened the door for her, handing her the new set of keys as she alighted.
“You drive that car. They won’t know to look for it. I’ll take the truck. If something happens-”
“Like what?”
“Anything. You keep going. Drive straight to Charleston and throw yourself on Detective Clark’s mercy. Got it?”
“I thought you would trade the truck in,” she said as she followed him over to the new purchase.
He stuffed the paperwork, including the title and a short-term insurance policy, into the glove compartment. “A trade-in is a transaction too easy to trace. Besides, I like my truck.”
“Where are you going to leave it?”
“The airstrip. I thought about taking it to Delno’s, but I don’t want to involve him. I don’t think they know about the airstrip, so it’s best to leave it there, even though it means doubling back several miles.” He saw her settled behind the wheel of the sedan. “All right?”
She adjusted the seat and the mirrors. “The upholstery stinks.”
“Can’t have everything. Follow me, but stay close. Don’t let a car get between us. Okay?”
“You don’t have to worry about that.”
He closed the door but left his hands in the open window. “Remember what I told you, Britt. If something happens to me, you keep going.”
But nothing untoward happened. They arrived at the airstrip without incident. They took their belongings, including the pistol, from the pickup, then got into the sedan together, although he took over the driving. She noticed him giving his pickup a wistful glance as they pulled away from the old hangar. He was abandoning his one remaining toy.
“Now where to?” she asked.
“Home sweet home.”
“Where’s that?”
“I’ll know it when I see it.”
It was quaintly called a motor court. Twelve cabins were tucked into a grove of trees set back off Highway 17, west of the Ashley River, which they would cross to get into Charleston proper. The motel had little to recommend it. There was a swimming pool, but it had been drained; the bottom of it was littered with debris both natural and man-made. Enclosed in a chain-link fence was a rusty swing set that had a yellow plastic seat hanging by only one chain. The rest of it was missing.
Again Britt was left alone while Raley went into the office. He returned. “Number nine.”
“Presidential suite?”
“Yes, but there’s no room service after ten p.m.”
The appointed cabin had two double beds with a nightstand and lamp between them. There were a small table with two chairs, a bureau with a cracked mirror above it, a TV, and an air conditioner in the window just under the ceiling. Raley flipped a switch, and it came on with a reassuring hum and a waft of cool air.
Britt lifted the bedspread and inspected the sheets. She didn’t see any unsightly or suspicious-looking stains, and the percale smelled of strong detergent and bleach. There was a paper band across the bowl of the toilet, which was also reassuring.
“Not too bad,” she said as she emerged after washing her hands in the minuscule sink.
Raley had taken off his shirt. Seeing his bare chest was a reminder of the night before, which caused her to stub her toe on the doorjamb. “Mind if I take a turn?” He motioned with his head toward the bathroom behind her, but her mind was still snagged on the erotic memory and she failed to answer. “I’m gonna be late,” he said.
Snapping out of it, she stepped aside, and he squeezed through the narrow doorway, carrying his suit and dress shoes in with him. Since his hands were full, Britt reached for the door knob and closed the door for him.
She sat on the bed she’d claimed as hers, looked up at the acoustic tile ceiling, down at the orange shag carpet. The commode was flushed. Water ran in the sink. She heard a thump, as though a bony body part had bumped against the tile wall, followed by a muffled curse.
She’d never lived with a man and wondered if this was what it sounded like. Hearing a shoe drop, she smiled.
He came out five minutes after going in, but the change he’d brought about in that period of time was remarkable. He was dressed in the suit slacks and an ivory shirt. His hair had been finger-combed. He’d put on the dress shoes but was carrying the suit jacket.
“You look nice,” she said. Actually, he looked great.
“Thanks. I’ll put on the jacket when I get there.”
“Tie?”
“Forgot it because I didn’t see it in my closet. Maybe I threw them all away. Anyway, when Fordyce and McGowan see me, they won’t be thinking about neckwear.”
“So you’re going to make yourself seen?”
“Oh, yeah.” He glanced at the bank bag he’d set on the table, along with the plastic-wrapped files and the pistol. “In case of emergency, take those and run.”
“Do I have your permission to look through the files?”
He hesitated, then said, “After you do, don’t rush out and call your cameraman.”
“I won’t.” He looked at her with patent mistrust. “I won’t. I promise.”
He gave a curt nod. “Keep the door locked. Don’t even look through the peephole without having that pistol in your hand. Don’t open the door for anybody except me. Remember, not even a cop could possibly know you’re here, so don’t be deceived by a uniform. I’ll stop on my way back and pick up some food. Any requests?”