Poisoned Soil: A Supernatural Thriller (38 page)

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.

Blake’s phone vibrated. He looked and saw a 404 area code.
Shit!
He said to himself. He exhaled deeply and then answered the phone.

“Blake, Clint Justice again. I have spoken with Nick Vegas and I need to come visit with you.” Clint hadn’t spoken with Nick again, but he would. Something hadn’t smelled right to Clint with Blake’s story and he felt it was important to meet him right away.

“Okay,” Blake said after a pause. “What for? When?”

“Now,” Clint said. “I’m already on my way. Just passing Gainesville.”

“NOW!” Blake said as he kicked the barstool out and stood. “Are you crazy? You seen the weather?”

“I’m on my way, Mr. Savage. Should be at your house in a little over an hour.” Clint hung up. He had pulled over at a gas station at the Mall of Georgia exit on interstate 985. He hadn’t passed Gainesville yet, as he told Blake. He should have by now, but the winds were already steady at over 60 MPH in Buford and getting worse.

“This is crazy,” Clint thought. He put the car in gear and continued north. It was crazy but he thought it would be easier to pressure Blake into the truth than Nick, and Clint always birddogged the truth.

Blake threw down a few bucks to pay for his tea and headed to the door. “Heading out, Blake?” the bartender said. “He’s calling an audible,” one of the customers yelled as he lifted his beer into a salute. “Good call, Blake!” Blake ignored both men and pushed through the door, missing the text that began scrolling along the bottom of the CNN screen.

“Anthrax claims sixth victim in Miami. Jackson Memorial Hospital has yet to release the woman’s name.”

Thick, tropical storm conditions had already settled in on Rabun County and the rain came down in sheets. The air was heavy and humid even with the wind blowing steadily out of the south at close to 60 MPH. Blake drove east down Warwoman Road, normally a lush, peaceful drive. Now, wipers couldn’t clear the water from the windshield as angry trees swayed violently on each side of the narrow, two-lane blacktop. Blake widened his eyes to concentrate as he gripped the wheel firmly. He slowed to ten miles per hour as he snaked around a series of hairpin turns that he often navigated while pretending to be an Indy driver. The temptation was nearly irresistible to look at the trees above, to be prepared to dodge if they plummeted in his direction. He fought the temptation and resisted looking down the ravines to his right or up the steep banks to his left. He knew that many of those timber skyscrapers would lose their grip on the mountain if the wind and rain kept up like this.

Blake turned left on Hale Ridge and began his ascent. The close call from earlier in the day leapt out and took center stage in his consciousness. He drove slowly right in the center of the road, praying that he would meet no fool crazy enough to descend the mountain in these conditions. Autumn leaves fell as fast as the raindrops and clung to his windshield under his wiper blades. He resisted the temptation, barely, to look up at the trees that threatened to crash on his truck and smash him into the wet surface.

Finally, he came to his driveway and turned in, suddenly hitting the brakes and pausing to think. He put the truck into park and jumped out. Rainy bullets pelted his face as he leaned his shoulder into the 4x4 mailbox post until it wriggled free in the wet ground. When it did, he wrapped his arms around it, pulled the mailbox out of the ground and threw it in the back of the truck, taking with him the only indicator marking the entrance to 13 Hale Ridge.

Looking like a golden retriever climbing out of a dirty pond, Blake bolted into the kitchen at 2:00 p.m. and shook off the rain as Angelica and the girls played in the living room. “An indoor play day,” she had told them.

“Hi, honey,” she said with a tepid smile.

Blake exhaled, as if he had just successfully fled from a predator and needed to catch his breath in the safety of his den. “Hi. What are you gals up to?”

“We’re playing Connect 4,” she said. “And watching the weather.” Angelica rose and looked at Blake. “I have something for you,” she said. She walked into the kitchen out of earshot of the girls and reached on the shelf above the coat rack. She pulled down a blood-stained blue jacket and handed it to Blake.

“What−what’s this?” Blake asked, shocked to see it, but knowing full well what it was. “Where did it come from?”

Angelica looked up at him in the center of the kitchen. Just as he towered over her physically, she towered over him morally and spiritually. “Well, I can assure you that I don’t know, Blake. But I suspect you do.”

“I don’t kn−”Angelica interrupted Blake by placing her right index finger over his lips. She held his gaze sternly as she twirled her beads with her left thumb and index finger.

“He who makes it wrong must make it right, Blake. Otherwise, he will be found guilty and justice will be swift.” An image of Angelica’s grandmother flashed before her as she recalled what she had been taught about Cherokee beliefs. She repeated what she had learned to Blake. “Good is rewarded, Blake. Evil is punished.”

Blake stared at his wife as she circled him, keeping her touch on his shoulders and catching his gaze each time she fronted him. He felt lightheaded and lost his focus, forgetting for a moment where he was and feeling somewhat hypnotized. Angelica stopped before him and offered a final warning. “This jacket has a home, Blake. Someone is looking for it. Find its rightful home.” Blake stood dumbfounded with his eyes and mouth wide open. He had no idea what to say as he stood drowning in a sea of fear and confusion. He shook his head and tried feverishly to change the subject.

“I uh...I went by to see the sheriff. He had this note for you.”

Angelica took the note from Blake. She read it carefully. “Miami? Intensive care?” Angelica said. She looked up at Blake and then turned to look at the girls. “What does this mean?” she asked. Angelica knew what the message meant, but it was her habit to ask Blake what something meant, just as it was her habit to defer to him on decisions. She didn’t take responsibility for Blake’s decisions. Nor did she feel she could control them. But she could react to them and make choices consistent with her own values.

“What should we do?” she asked.

“I reckon you should call the hospital,” Blake said.

“I’ll try Rose’s cell phone first,” Angelica said. “Oh dear.” Angelica walked to the kitchen phone and lifted the receiver. Blake took off his jacket and hung it on the coat rack next to the door. She clicked the button on the wall phone several times. “Blake, there’s no dial tone.”

Blake took the phone, clicked it several times and found the same thing. “Phones are out,” he said. He looked at his cell phone. No service. That wasn’t a surprise as it was rare to get more than one or two bars in the best conditions on Hale Ridge. In this weather, no chance.

“We’ll keep trying,” he said. “It’s too dangerous to go out now and it’s gonna get a whole heap worse.”

Angelica walked to the south-facing kitchen window and stared out. A solid sheet of water cascaded slowly over the glass, giving the impression of a flowing mirage. In her mind, the sounds of the house, of the girls, and of the storm faded, and she heard nothing, only silence. She peered deeply into the mirage and saw her twin sister lying motionless as strangers loomed over her limp body. Angelica concentrated as she tried to see if Rose was lying in a bed—or in a coffin. She stared out the window as if in a trance, thumbing the beads around her neck while murmuring softly.

When a flash of lightning raced brilliantly across the sky and shattered the mirage, Angelica didn’t blink.

***

Clint saw the Dairy Queen on the left when he arrived in Clayton. He followed the directions on his navigation system, turned right, and went down Warwoman Road. Sheets of rain slammed the right side of his car as he drove east on the narrow road. Steep banks sloped down from each side. He had noticed very few cars as he came into town, although the RaceTrac station remained open.