Angelica grabbed a light rain jacket.

“You girls stay put for a moment,” she said.

“Hmmm...Gus, can we put the boxes in the garden shed over there?”

“You betcha, ma’am.”

Gus backed the van up to the shed. Angelica walked inside to clear a spot.

“How many boxes do you have?”

“Let’s see. Three full boxes of organic bone meal, ma’am.”

Angelica surveyed the shed. Everything had a place and everything was in its place. She walked to a shelf that was just over the height of her head, about six feet high. There was a clearing on the shelf next to a couple of watering cans. She reached up to grab the cans. As she did she felt something soft brush the back of her hand. She pulled her hand down, mildly startled. A strong gust of wind slammed the shed with a loud bang and closed the door on the van with Gus in it. Angelica looked for something to stand on and found a milk crate. She turned it over so she could stand on it and raised her eyes to the shelf. Peering over the edge she saw a wadded-up piece of stained, blue fabric. She took it down and stepped off the crate. The door of the van opened.

“Almost got myself locked in here,” Gus said with a smile.

Angelica smiled back. “If you don’t mind, just put them up on this shelf next to these tomato cages.” Gus took three plain brown boxes and stacked them on the shelf. He looked at how well organized the shed was and reached back up to align the boxes.

“There you go ma’am. Just sign here if you please and I’ll be on my way.” Angelica signed the form. “Nice to see you again, Gus. Come back anytime.” Most customers in Rabun County were nice, Gus thought, but he was struck by how genuine Angelica’s smile was. “It was my pleasure, ma’am. Y’all take care in this storm.”

Gus drove away as Angelica unfolded the cloth. It was a blue jacket. A man’s jacket, she realized, though she had never seen it. It was spotted with dark reddish-black stains. She examined them closely and scratched them with one of her long fingernails. “Blood,” she whispered as she looked at the label of the jacket. “Large,” she murmured. “Blake wears extra large.” But it wasn’t the size that puzzled her. It was the initials J.S. that were marked on the label in permanent, black ink.

***

Blake pulled into the courthouse parking lot just before 11:00 a.m. After the call with Clint he had driven up and down the strip in Clayton, hitting the Dairy Queen and going back to the traffic light, turning right down Main Street and circling back once he hit the bottom of the hill. Just as he had done countless weekend and summer nights in high school. Only now he wasn’t cruising for girls, wasn’t hootin’ and hollerin’ after a game. He was stalling. Thinking.

Leaning against the wind, he pulled the door to the sheriff’s office open and walked in, the glass door slamming shut behind him. A steady rain had just begun and its sting surprised him since the hurricane wasn’t expected to make landfall in Savannah for another seven hours, and the eye, or whatever was left of the system, wouldn’t be near Clayton until the following morning. Blake looked out the door at clouds that seemed to be drooping and cascading down, smothering the valley. He turned and approached the woman at the front desk. “Is the sheriff in?” he asked Lucy.

“He is. Do you have an appointment?”

“Uh...no. Can you tell him that Blake Savage is here. If he don’t have time that’s−”

“Let me check, Mr. Savage. Just wait a moment.”

Blake looked at the floor. At the ceiling. At the wall...anything to not make eye contact with anyone wearing a uniform. His eyes landed on the poster on the wall of Rabun County’s Twelve Most Wanted, four photos across, three rows down. Four of the most wanted were black male. Curious, Blake thought, given Rabun County’s overwhelming majority of whites. Three of the twelve were women. One in particular caught his attention. Her head tilted down in the mugshot, all badass, as if her eyes were saying, “You can’t catch me coppers, not in a thousand years.” Only, they did and here she was for all to see. Multiple fraudulent use of credit cards, theft of property, weight 137 pounds, tattoo on left ankle, brown hair, brown eyes.

Blake imagined himself fleeing. His mugshot would be in square number one, accused of raising pigs and, oh yeah, channeling anthrax through them to unsuspecting diners. Like that was my fault. He felt bad about the illnesses as he was sure everyone did. But, was it his fault? He didn’t think so. It was an accident. That’s all, just an accident. But someone always had to be held accountable, there had to be someone to point to and say “he did it.” He was sure that Clint...probably even the sheriff wanted that person to be…

“Blake?” Lonnie said.

Blake turned his head to see the sheriff coming through the door with some papers in his hand.

“Hi, Sheriff.”

“What can I do for you?” Lonnie asked.

“My wife asked me to see you when I came to town. She said you left a note for her. She’s−not feeling too well.”

Lonnie nodded and handed Blake the Coast Guard message he was holding. “Sorry to hear that. This came in yesterday. I wanted to deliver it personally.”

Blake took the note and read it. “Jeez,” he said. “I’ll take this to her right away. Thanks, Sheriff.” Blake stepped back and began to turn.

“Blake, can you take a look at this before you leave?” The sheriff handed Blake a picture of Jesse standing behind a huge boar, lying dead on the ground.

“What’s this?” Blake asked, knowing full well what it was.

“You don’t recognize him?”

“Can’t say that I do, Sheriff.” Blake looked at the scene, at the corner of the sheds and the front end of the F100 in the background. He felt his face turning flush.

“This here’s Jesse Simmons, the fellow in that blue jacket behind the pig,” Lonnie said. “You see that truck behind him? You know anyone down your way with a truck anything like that? That might help us find this boy for his folks.”

Blake’s throat dried. He concentrated not on the photo, only on trying to produce some saliva. He couldn’t. He scratched his head, appearing to think for the sheriff. Blake was thinking all right, calculating. “I don’t, Sheriff, but if I see a truck like that I’ll be sure to call you.”

He looked into the sheriff’s eyes until he saw they were fixed on him. Blake dropped his eyes and then tried to prop them back up.

“Thanks Blake, you do that. I’d appreciate it. I know his family would too.”

“Well, gotta be going, Sheriff. Thanks for getting this to us.” Blake waved the Coast Guard memo as he began to leave.

“Sure thing. And be careful, Blake...there’s a storm coming your way.”

Blake kept walking through the door as if he was trying to flee not only the sheriff, but the sheriff’s words as well. There’s a storm coming your way, Blake repeated to himself as he climbed into his truck. He headed north toward Dillard, intent on circling around for a few hours, afraid to go home just yet. He still needed time to sort everything out.

Lonnie walked back into his office. As he entered he said, “Lucy, run me a report of all vehicles registered to one Blake Savage.”

Chapter 32

Blake sat down at the bar in Red Dawgs just after 1:00 p.m. and ordered a sweet tea. “Sure that’s strong enough for you?” the bartender said with a smile. “Want I should make it a double?” Blake tilted his head back and forced a grin. “Yeah, just tea, that’s all.”

He stared at the television in Clayton’s only sports bar along with the other two customers in the bar. Everyone else had the good sense to be home. CNN had a camera set up somewhere in Savannah that showed a blur, mostly. Horizontal, driving rain and wind were already steady at over ninety-five miles per hour. The eye of Isabel wasn’t expected to make landfall until 5:00 p.m. The talking heads fought for airtime, each thinking they had a unique perspective on the pending devastation. What they really wanted was airtime during the coastal cataclysm to pad their resumes.