Life Everlasting Read online

  Was he doing any good?

  He ran his fingers through his curly brown hair and closed his eyes. Just as he worked with wood to build something that would last generations, he wanted to use his musical talent to create something enduring in God’s kingdom. Results in wood he could see; any sign of healing in Baxter had so far eluded him.

  The greatest surprise of the afternoon had been the participation of a total stranger—Sarah Locklear, the private-duty nurse who supported with her voice what Ted played on the keyboard. Ted and Sarah’s seamless improvisational worship would have made veteran jazz performers jealous. Nevertheless, upon reflection, Ted was disappointed. He wanted results, not a sensory high. The music minister didn’t play so that he could feel good; he played as a way to bring heaven to earth. While he savored the emotional by-products that flowed to him through musical expression, his fingers touched the keyboard for other reasons.

  Ted glanced down at the polished wooden floor of the church. Hadn’t Jesus spit to make mud that healed the eyes of a blind man? Didn’t Peter’s shadow cast the power of God on those it touched? The music minister hadn’t been called to spit, but to play. He believed that the gospel included healing through worship. Thus, while the session at the cottage had been glorious, it had not produced any change in Baxter Richardson’s condition and could not, in Ted’s mind, be labeled a success.

  Frustrated, he stood and looked up at the lightly stained beams that met in sharp points overhead like the skeleton of an ancient ship. Years before, he’d defeated the artistic seduction that ensnares some musicians in narcissism. His current enemies had simpler names, like doubt and unbelief.

  “What else should I do? What else can I do?” he asked.

  No answer came from the rafters.

  He approached his piano, a seven-foot Steinway made in Hamburg at the apex of early twentieth-century European piano craftsmanship. In the gathering dusk, the black instrument waited patiently for him to bring it to life, but he hesitated. He ran his fingers over the cool surface of the lid and then lightly stroked a few keys without producing sound. Without inspiration, he didn’t want to run through a few scales or technical exercises. He left the sanctuary and started to walk across the crushed-shell parking lot to the old parsonage where he lived. It was almost supper time.

  But suddenly, the inner nudge he learned not to ignore stopped him.

  Recognition of the prompting brought a wry smile to the minister’s face and made his forehead wrinkle. He returned to the sanctuary, sat quietly on the piano bench, and waited. It didn’t take long. He touched the keys. For now, he knew what to do. God had created him to play, and that was what he would do until more faith or insight came.

  Alexia left Rachel Downey and walked across the parking lot at the rear of the building. Mornings were chilly in late November along the South Carolina coast, but the temperature was usually comfortable by the late afternoon. Petite yet muscular from many years as a long-distance swimmer, Alexia draped the jacket that she’d worn earlier in the day across her arm. With summer’s humidity gone, she was surrounded by a crispness enhanced by the salty air from the ocean several miles to the east.

  Santee wasn’t the easiest place for a female attorney to find her way, but Alexia loved where she lived and had the pioneering spirit of her mother, who had defected from a Soviet youth soccer team during a tour of the United States in the 1970s. Alexia had moved to Santee after graduating from law school in Florida and worked as an associate at Leggitt & Freeman, where she earned a measure of respect through hard work and an undeniable ability to handle herself in the courtroom. A few months before she would have achieved partnership status, however, she ran into trouble when her representation of several divorce clients created conflicts of interest with the general business clients of the firm. The dispute between Rena Richardson and her father-in-law, Ezra, one of Leggitt & Freeman’s biggest clients, was the final blow. When Alexia refused to disclose confidential information about Rena to Ralph Leggitt, he told her to clean out her desk and leave.

  After briefly debating whether to slink out of town, Alexia decided to stay and open her own law office. Most of her clients followed her from the old firm, and a ten-thousand-dollar retainer from Rena gave her an instant cash reserve. Soon, the house on King Street would become Alexia’s new headquarters. It was only a couple of blocks from the courthouse, and she anticipated turning it into a place that reflected her own tastes.

  All in all, now that the shock and disappointment of her termination had worn off, Alexia was glad for the transition. She had no doubt that in a few years she would look back on her dismissal and consider it a blessing in disguise.

  She drove along Highway 17, the coastal road that ran like a hemline along the Atlantic Ocean, and thought about the time she and Ted had spent with Baxter Richardson. Ted Morgan could perform classical works of piano with a skill that rivaled her collection of recordings, and Alexia had been equally amazed at his ability to improvise. But when the music minister played a portable, electric keyboard as an instrument of prayer and healing, something unique occurred. The manifestation of God’s presence invaded the room. The air took on a weight, a heaviness, as if a thick robe of glory had been thrown over the small living room. And when the private-duty nurse with long black hair and deep, dark eyes began to sing, Alexia bowed her head in awe. She’d never seen a miracle, but the fact that Baxter remained unchanged when the music stopped was almost more surprising to her than if he had awakened and asked for a glass of water. Of the trio present, only Alexia knew that if Baxter returned from the shadowlands, he would have to face the consequences of his attempt to take his wife’s life.

  Alexia turned her silver BMW onto Pelican Point Drive. Her dog, cat, and house on the marsh awaited her.

  Detective Byron Devereaux lightly rubbed his fingers back and forth across his thin, dark mustache. Various items from the Claude Dixon murder investigation littered his desk. He adjusted his round glasses.

  A picture of Rena Richardson’s red convertible, the car stopped by Deputy Dixon for traveling twenty-five miles per hour more than the speed limit, held his attention for a moment. Then his eyes drifted to a written transcript of the deputy’s garbled radio transmission to the Charleston County sheriff’s office. The transcript stated that the driver was “male,” but in listening to the actual recording at slow speed, Devereaux couldn’t rule out the possibility that the deputy said “female.”

  In the center of the desk was a picture of Claude Dixon’s body at the scene. There were no visible marks or bruises on the overweight officer, and no evidence of a struggle. At first, Devereaux surmised the driver was a juvenile who took the sporty car for a joy ride and then panicked when stopped by a police officer. But that theory didn’t explain how the patrolman was killed. Perhaps the driver was an expert in martial arts who could deliver a quick, deadly blow; however, the autopsy showed no evidence of injury to Dixon’s face or solar plexus. The cause of death was “cervical fracture”—a broken neck. A bruise on the back of the deputy’s head and the position of his body left little doubt that he died when his head struck the asphalt pavement. But what caused the deputy to fall? A careful inspection of the ground around the body revealed no footprints except those made by Dixon’s size-twelve boots.

  Dixon’s service revolver, handcuffs, wallet, car keys—everything except his notebook—were present and accounted for. Devereaux suspected that the murderer had taken the notebook because Dixon had recorded incriminating information.

  Again, the detective reviewed the notes of his conversation with Rena Richardson and her lawyer. Richardson reported the convertible missing about an hour before it was found in a Charleston parking lot. She’d not allowed anyone to borrow the vehicle and hadn’t seen anyone suspicious in the wealthy Santee neighborhood where she lived.

  Someone knocked on his door.

  “Come in!” he called out.

  The door opened, and a rookie detective with sandy
hair entered the room.

  Devereaux glanced up. “What is it, Bridges?”

  Rick Bridges handed Devereaux a stack of fingerprint images.

  “These are from the Richardson vehicle. The steering wheel and gearshift lever had been wiped clean before the car was abandoned, but there were prints everywhere else, inside and out. We sent the best specimens to the FBI. Two matches.”

  Devereaux looked at the prints.

  “One is a very good right thumb,” Bridges continued, indicating the print. “The other is a partial ring finger, also the right. Both were taken from the passenger-side door handle.”

  “Are they from the same individual?” Devereaux asked.

  “That’s what the report says.”

  “Who is it?”

  Bridges handed Devereaux a brief written report sent with the prints.

  “Henry L. Quinton. Thirty-four, Caucasian. He’s originally from Newark. He’s wanted for questioning in the murder of a police officer in Providence.”

  Devereaux looked up from the report in surprise. “How old is the Rhode Island case?”

  “Five years.”

  “Did you talk to anyone about it?”

  Bridges nodded. “Yes. They’re sending me what they can, a mug shot and psych profile from an arrest about eight years ago. Rhode Island thinks Quinton had links to an organized crime syndicate in New York. Still might. The officer killed was under investigation by internal affairs in Providence. It may have been a preemptive hit.”

  Devereaux sat back in his chair. “So much for the idea that this was a joy ride.”

  Bridges nodded. “And someone with a New Jersey accent would stick out like a 1930s gangster in Santee. When we get the mug shot, we’ll canvass every convenience and liquor store in the area. If the guy opened his mouth, someone will remember him.”

  “Maybe,” Devereaux said. “A lot of people from up north are moving into the fancy golf course communities.”

  “If he’s still stealing cars and killing police officers, I doubt he spends his free time on the golf course.”

  Rick Bridges’s optimism was as green as he was. Devereaux put the lid on his own skeptical observations.

  “Do you want to get more involved in this case?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. You’re in charge of running down Quinton. I’ll let them know upstairs.”

  3

  Thou com’st in such a questionable shape.

  HAMLET, ACT 1, SCENE 4

  Pelican Point Drive accessed a large tract of land tied up in bankruptcy court since its developer went under. Alexia had acquired an odd-shaped lot on the north end of the parcel from the bankruptcy trustee, who wanted to square up the tract before seeking a buyer. To date, he was still looking.

  She drove a half-mile to the edge of the coastal marsh and prepared to turn left on an unmarked, one-lane road covered with broken seashells. The isolated location of her home did not frighten Alexia. In fact, in the spring and fall she occasionally slept on her screened porch in a wide Pawleys Island hammock.

  Not expecting any traffic, she was startled when a gray van appeared. Occasionally the curious would drive into the area, but the van was traveling too fast for someone taking a leisurely drive along the marsh. The vehicle veered toward her so suddenly that she had to swerve to avoid being struck.

  “Watch it!” she yelled. The tires on the right side of her car went off the crumbling asphalt into the sand. The van came within inches of her, and she caught sight of the driver, who wore a cap pulled down over his face. She glanced in the rearview mirror but couldn’t identify the vehicle’s out-of-state plates.

  Rattled, Alexia put the car in reverse and backed up. The left rear tire slipped off the pavement into the sand. Not realizing what had happened and still upset, she jerked the car into drive and stepped on the gas pedal. A few seconds of spraying sand later, she was stuck.

  Alexia had lived on the coast long enough to know that fighting the sand was as futile as punching a tar baby. Hitting the steering wheel in frustration, she got out and inspected the damage. The right rear wheel was sunk halfway to the axle. The left rear wheel was within an inch of a piece of asphalt that would have given her enough traction to move forward. She could walk home but didn’t like the idea of abandoning her car for the night. Anyway, she would have to get it out eventually.

  Retrieving her purse, she flipped open her cell phone and called her roadside-assistance service. The lady who answered took down her information, put her on hold, and then told her it would be at least an hour before someone could arrive to help her.

  “I’m not far from my house,” Alexia said. “I can walk home, and the driver can come there first.”

  “I’m sorry, but your plan only provides towing service from the location of the disabled vehicle to your residence.”

  “It’s less than a quarter mile from the car. If it’s going to be an hour before someone gets here, I’d rather wait at home than here at the car.”

  “Just a minute,” the woman said.

  Alexia took off one of her shoes and dumped out a spoonful of sand. She loved the coast, but not when it invaded her nice shoes.

  “Thank you for holding,” the woman said. “I checked with my supervisor, and the rules require you to stay with the car until the driver arrives.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Alexia blurted out.

  “It’s a security measure. We can’t be responsible for any damage or theft before the wrecker arrives.”

  “But he’ll be picking me up before towing the car,” Alexia protested.

  The woman adopted the tone of a mother addressing a stubborn child. “Ms. Lindale, we’re a towing company, not a taxi service, and we can’t assume liability for matters not covered by your plan.”

  Alexia silently blamed the unknown attorneys who had sued roadside-assistance companies and scared them into curtailing services. She spent a few frustrating seconds trying to come up with an alternative but couldn’t think of one.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll be here.”

  “Thank you for this opportunity to serve you,” the woman replied. “Your service number for this call is 23892. Please reference this number if you need to call back.”

  Alexia closed the phone. As soon as her membership came up for renewal, she’d try another company.

  The sun dropped toward the horizon. Shadows from a stand of scrubby trees began to lengthen and stretch across Pelican Point Drive. Alexia leaned against the hood of her car and looked across the marsh. A few hundred yards away lay a narrow barrier island too fragile for commercial development. Alexia had claimed it as her private refuge. She owned a small, battered aluminum boat with a tiny motor, and as often as possible, she would take the boat to the island and swim on the ocean side while her black Labrador, Boris, happily paddled alongside her. There would be no time for a swim this evening.

  She leaned over, picked up a broken clam shell, and tossed it into the inky waters of the marsh. The muddy bottom was crawling with blue crabs. A couple of times a year Alexia would set out a trap near her house and invite her secretary, Gwen Jones, over for a crab boil. Gwen, in her early fifties, had lived all her life in the Santee area and ate crabs Cajun style, leaving nothing but the shell. Alexia was more traditional and extracted the morsels of sweet white meat from the claws and legs before dipping them in melted butter.

  Alexia checked her watch and saw it had been almost an hour. She wandered slowly up the road toward Highway 17. Beyond a bend on the other side of the trees, the road was straight, and it was possible to see almost all the way to the junction. Alexia walked through darkening shadows into the small grove and rounded the bend. She looked to the west in hope of seeing the wrecker. Instead, she saw the gray van, parked under the trees at the beginning of Pelican Point Drive. Alexia eased back into the shadows.

  Alexia knew the spot as a place where people would swing off Highway 17 and have a picnic. But it was not the time
of day or season of the year for a picnic. She couldn’t see any lights or signs of movement. She glanced up at the sky. Darkness would overtake it completely in a few minutes.

  Alexia was caught between anger and apprehension. She was mad at the driver but concerned that he hadn’t immediately left the area. Why would he risk the possibility that Alexia might call the police and report him as a reckless driver?

  Alexia had no neighbors. Her house didn’t have an expensive security system. She didn’t own a gun. She had a canister of pepper spray in the glove compartment of her car, but she’d not taken it out since the last time she traveled to Atlanta.

  The lights of the van came on. Alexia turned and fled back down the road as fast as her shoes would let her go. She plotted her strategy as she ran. She would lock her car and take a path through the brushy undergrowth that led to the other side of her house. If the van appeared, she could call the police.

  She reached her car, locked it, and scurried down the path. Lights from a vehicle cut through the gloom and came through the small wooded area. Alexia crouched and took out her cell phone. Her hand shaking, she was punching in 911 when the vehicle came into view.

  It was the tow truck.

  Alexia looked down at the ground and exhaled in relief. She came out of the shadows as the driver climbed from the cab and inspected the status of her BMW. The wrecker’s diesel engine rattled as Alexia crossed the road.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she said.

  The driver jumped at the sound of her voice.