Bottom Feeder Page 2

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “I’m having a meeting here tonight. Make sure the boardroom has food and drinks and stay out of my sight until tomorrow morning. Understand?”

  From what I witnessed on the disk, compliance is in my best interest.

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  The gate rings at seven. I curl on the floor of the terrace attached to my bedroom, watching as several men—two clad in Savannah PD attire—exit a non-descript cargo van. Ugh. That is so cliché.

  Daddy greets the men with his usual southern charm before ushering them into the house. I jump up to double-lock my bedroom door. The only place inside this house where true privacy exists is in my closet, tucked behind a small space between the wall and a large three-way mirror.

  I sit behind the mirror and stare into the blackness, willing the sound of Simon’s screams out of my head. When that doesn’t work I crawl out from behind the mirror and begin organizing shoes, purses, and refolding shelves of clothes.

  One thing I know for sure: the disks cannot be in my possession. He will kill me if he knows. I cannot protect them if he kills me.

  More questions come to mind with each shifting thought. Should I watch the other two disks? Who sent them? Why would someone send them to me? Are they a warning? Should I turn Daddy in? Would he threaten to hurt Dixon or Violet if I did?

  Violet. How do I tell someone, who is like my mother, that she is in danger each day she wakes up because of me?

  Mama died seven years ago. I don’t like to talk about her death. When I am alone or in a cafeteria of hundreds of Coastal High students, I cannot cry for her. Crying is a sign of weakness. My number one rule is never let them see you cry. That is why I don’t like to talk about Mama. That is why I cook to be close to her.

  Violet Monroe has been like a mother since I met her two years ago. She has a strong mistrust and dislike for my father. I know I can trust her. But getting Violet involved in this mess is out of the question.

  Dixon often refers to my father as The Don, Georgia’s very own Godfather. Now I see he might be on to something.

  Judging by the two men in uniform downstairs, I cannot go to the police. Right now, they are probably discussing the best methods of getting rid of evidence. Or bodies. Or both.

  When the t-shirts and yoga pants have all been refolded, I sit behind the mirror with the backpack clutched to my chest. I do not sleep.

  Instead of going for my usual run the next morning, I shower, throw on a linen summer dress, strap on the backpack and tuck my flip flops under my arm. I tiptoe downstairs and pause before I open the side door furthest from Daddy’s bedroom.

  He has several computers and tablets in his office I can use for research, but the door is always locked. I contemplate going back upstairs to sneak in the office using the hidden back staircase that leads into the room. The stairs run behind a wall that Mama called the “escape route.” The furthest I’ve ever been is Daddy’s office, but I know it leads somewhere outside the property. The office door from back there is tucked between the wall and a hidden door inside the body-sized vault where he stores his gun collection. I used to hide from Larry between the wall and hidden door until Daddy found me one day. He said the passage was for emergencies only.

  Regardless, going into his office is risky. He probably has more trackers on his computers than the CIA.

  I prop my beach cruiser against the chipped exterior of the Jarrett’s 1940s ranch house. I tap softly on Dixon’s bedroom window. He peeks one eye from behind the curtain then lifts the window for me to climb in.

  “For the sake of Jaysus, it’s four thirty,” Dixon says grumpily. He stretches his lean, wiry arms above his head and curls beneath the comforter.

  “I need your computer,” I whisper, grasping the backpack like a life shield.

  “What happened to yours?”

  Instead of explaining, I kick off my flip flops and snuggle beside him. His rumpled hair falls over his closed eyes. I am reminded for the millionth time since junior year just how gorgeous my best friend really is.

  I am not in love with Dixon. I love him, but not, like, love him. Even if I did love him like that, Dixon is not interested in me. He is gay. No one knows this because he dates girls. I guess that makes him bi. But he would rather be with guys. Besides, he is way too high maintenance for my taste.

  I place my hands on either side of his face and kiss the tip of his nose. He smiles and wraps his arms around me. I drift to sleep.

  “It must be really bad this time,” he whispers when I nudge him awake two hours later. I nod. “Use Libby’s.”

  Forty-five seconds of research later, I find the closest office is four hours away. If I leave within the hour, I can make it to Atlanta and back without question. Although the content is still traceable, I clear the search history, delete the cookies and empty the recycle bin on Libby’s computer. To be a little safer, I pull up a program to overwrite the data then clear the history and cookies again.

  The smells of vanilla-flavored coffee and s’mores Pop-tarts heating in the toaster are oddly comforting as I tread softly into the kitchen. Dixon has eaten the same breakfast every morning since we were thirteen. Drinking coffee and eating chocolate is a rite of passage in the Jarrett family.

  “I’m driving to Atlanta today,” I whisper.

  Dixon brings the mug to his lips. Sits it down. Picks it up. Sits it down. “I’m going.”

  “You can go, but you can’t go where I’m going.”

  He blinks. “What?”

  How do I explain why I would need to be in an FBI field office? Even if I wanted to tell him, I couldn’t. If Daddy ever found out and questioned him, Dixon would know too much. He can read a liar like an English professor reads Chaucer. Every word, every twitch of the face, every slight body movement; he knows what is truth, a lie, an indecision, a smirk beneath straight lips.

  How do I know? Because he taught me.

  Every weekend he took me to the mall, Forsyth Park, and other public areas to test me. I learned American Sign Language, how to read lips, body language, and involuntary facial microexpressions. The science isn’t perfect, but it’s pretty close. Sometimes I studied photographs or videos of random people. Daddy would ask if I noticed certain expressions or emotions on their faces. Even if someone hides things in a masked, neutral, or simulated expression, each person has their own facial and body blueprint. A twitch of the fingers, white knuckles clamped into fists, nervous tapping or shifting of feet.

  The UPS lady.

  She wasn’t a new driver. She knew what was in the envelope. Great. One more thing to add to the growing list of Crap I Need to Figure Out.

  “What’s this about?”

  I need Dixon to be able to say with a straight face—no smile, dilated eyes, quirks of the jaw or twitch of the eyebrow—that he has absolutely no idea about anything.

  “I’ll explain what I can on the way.” I scoop up the backpack. The weight of its contents is a heavy burden to carry. I feel the evil cutting into my back and skin, wrenching deep into my core without mercy. “I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

  Dixon perks up. “We’re taking the Beemer?”

  I nod. It’s a risk, but one I have to take.

  I make a detour on the way home, stopping by a rare, working pay phone to call the number listed on the website. After several transfers I finally reach an agent. Alexander Mace.

  “What did you say your last name was?” the agent asks.

  Actually, I did not say my name at all. “Is that relevant?”

  “Carrington, was it?” I remain silent. “As in, Cordell Carrington?”

  Again, “Is that relevant?”

  “Any information on Cordell Carrington is relevant to me. Especially from Madelyn Carrington.” Agent Mace pauses dramatically before adding, “You are his daughter, am I correct?”

  Jackson

  January

  I celebrated my nineteenth birthday in the mountains of Afghanistan. There was
no cake. My only gifts were lessons learned and body counts adding up on both sides. Shitty gifts, if you ask me. I learned all it takes to survive is an untied bootlace.

  Nineteen years on this earth and my life has dwindled down to one birthday on foreign soil where I fired my weapon at a real person for the first time. That night I rested my head inside my Kevlar helmet and made sure my boots were laced and tucked. That night began the first of my nightmares.

  May

  I am going home today for the first time in two years. Over twelve months of training, followed by a twelve month deployment kept me away from Georgia. When my feet hit American soil thirty-four days ago, I wanted nothing more than to be in my own home, underneath the ratty stitched quilt that’s been draped across my bed since I was two.

  I was supposed to come back weeks ago. The army had other plans for my transition back to everyday life. Those plans did not include anything I wanted or needed. Bi-weekly psych evaluations were issued to ensure my mind still functions correctly. Each session consisted of recreating twelve months in hell.

  Whether or not the fighting is in your own backyard or someone else’s, no one wants to revive their war experience. The psych assigned to me does not seem to understand this, proved by his endless prodding into my head.

  Along with nightmares and flashbacks, the paranoia is enough of an everyday reminder of my experience downrange. The psych says these are symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD. Whatever. When I returned to Fort Bragg it didn’t take long to discover I wasn’t the only one with these issues. The psych doesn’t have the last word when I leave each session with, “Regardless of war, we all have conflict to deal with. One of these days, Doc, I’ll ask what your problem is.”

  I may not be able to control the nightmares or flashbacks, but I am in command of my actions. Whatever those may be. I purposely place myself in the middle of large crowds to learn how to control my heart rate, my breathing, and my instinct to react in hostile responses once someone in that crowd touches me. There are times when just a little something sets me off. I hate that I feel anger and animosity toward innocent people.

  At the end of the day, what I do with the aftermath of battle is up to me to figure out. I don’t need a psych to tell me my mind is messed up. I already know it is. These days my life revolves around the effects of war. Which is why this trip home is so important. I need the normalcy.

  By the time I was seated on the plane leaving Raleigh, I had not slept in thirty-six hours. As soon as my required twenty-four hour duty was over, Private First Class Dominguez drove me directly to the airport. For once I am thankful for his constant chatter. I am exhausted, but don’t dare sleep in public, even around another soldier. The nightmares are relentless.

  Being an Airborne soldier, I spend hours in planes on a regular basis. Then I jump out of them. The thrum of the engine is nauseating, yet almost comforting, and my eyes threaten to close immediately once we are in the air. Good thing the excessive turbulence keeps me awake. Not to mention the screaming babies, the unknown stench seeping from the pores of the gentleman next to me, and two ladies behind me arguing because one is trying to use her cell phone after the flight attendant asked her not to.

  Claustrophobia settles, closing around me like a tomb. I begin to sweat. To get angry. To get angry at being angry. I touch my head to my knees and breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

  When the plane touches down in Savannah, I cannot get out of my seat fast enough.

  I step through the gliding doors of Savannah International and overhear the security guy hassling someone for sitting at the curb too long. Before I see her, I hear the person he’s talking to threaten to tell his mother about his lack of manners. The poor bastard flushes red and quickly apologizes. Seeing the woman in action is the first indication that I am truly home.

  Mama runs to me with a smile. The scent of flowers wafts in the air as she throws her arms around my neck. The final confirmation that I. Am. Home.

  I toss my bag in the trunk and melt into the front seat of her ten year old Honda Civic. On top of the console is a container of sweet tea and Ziploc bags filled with pralines and gooey butter cake.

  Just as the last bite of the most delicious gooey butter cake is settling nicely in my stomach, Mama breaks the news.

  “We are attending a party tonight for Cordell Carrington’s daughter, Maddy.” I groan, wondering if this day will ever end.

  “Now Jackson,” she continues in her Georgia drawl. “I wouldn’t be going if the graduation party were for anyone else. I don’t like Cordell—he’s a pretentious butthead—but I love that child. She’s a quiet little thing, nothing like her daddy.”

  I force my eyes closed, hoping for one minute of rest and hoping I don’t fall asleep. Some days, without closing my eyes, death surrounds me. I see it, hear it, feel it deep within every cell of my body. Other days I am plagued with the smell. Death has a pungent, sulfuric stench; an aroma permanently engrained in my nostrils. My eyes pop open as my stomach snarls in protest.

  “Besides,” Mama says, “You’re looking for a car. Cordell owns several new dealerships in and around Savannah.”

  My entire body seems to fold in on itself when she swerves to miss roadkill.

  This is not Afghanistan. Get it together.

  Insurgents sometimes used roadkill to serve as camouflage for improvised explosive devices, or IEDs. This method is not as common in Afghanistan as it was in Iraq, but it does happen. It did happen. Once. To my team. That’s all it took.

  The psychs tell me the paranoia will pass with time.

  This advice might be good for the future, but it sure as hell isn’t helping right now.

  I am set to auto pilot as I shower and dress in semi-formal clothes to attend a party for a girl I don’t even know. I know about Cordell, though. Sort of. He is something like a legend here. No one really knows him, but everyone knows him. If you know what I mean.

  Our arrival at the estate on Tybee Island is an intense reminder of Cordell’s wealth. He has a foot dipped in everything from pipelines to real estate to bars to clothing boutiques and an international import/export business. What that entails, exactly, no one seems to know.

  He also owns several large warehouses on the outskirts of Savannah. I am unsure what kind of work goes on in them, but apparently it’s something big because the man is loaded. He does not donate wings of buildings, he donates blocks of buildings and contributes millions every year to nationwide charities that aid in diminishing poverty.

  While that is all well and good, what I am interested in are his auto dealerships. Specifically his private collection of Classics. My personal favorite is a flat-onyx 1971 Plymouth Barracuda convertible, equipped with a hood scoop and a hemi. Yes, a hemi.

  A moment of silence while I drool over that, please. I wonder if he’d let me sit in it . . .

  Mama and I are greeted by a round, platinum blonde, excessively-bubbly woman who introduces herself as the party organizer—no name, just “I’m the party organizer.” I glance nervously at the huge crowd, trying to gather the nerve to keep my head together.

  “About three hundred people,” Mama answers my unspoken question.

  A marble floor and double horseshoe staircase deck the entryway. Each of the antique wrought iron wall sconces probably cost more than I make in six months. I’m Better Than You seems to be the overall theme of the house.

  Even with the body heat illuminating from the crowd, the place has an eerie chill that has nothing to do with the air conditioning. An uneasy feeling settles in the pit of my stomach.

  “Jackson, will you get my shawl from the car?” Mama asks. “This dress is a little too low-cut for my liking. I can’t be proper in a dress like this.”

  Mama is a five-feet-five inch ball of feisty fire, with a vocabulary that would make a Marine blush if you backtalk her. But goodness forbid I allow her to be anything but proper.

  I bypass the valet and pull a spare key from my pocket.
I take my time walking to the car, inhaling the breeze coming off the marsh. The crisp wind is a nice change from North Carolina’s merciless humidity.

  Mama is speaking with Cordell when I return to the house. I remind myself of the importance of this man—namely, his car collection.

  The crowd is beginning to overload my senses to a dangerous level. Hopefully I can shut them out and manage the exhausting task of conducting a decent conversation. I square my hunched shoulders, straighten my spine and advance in silence.

  Mama smiles when I drape the shawl across her shoulders. “Jackson, you remember Cordell Carrington.”

  “Nice to meet you again, Mr. Carrington.”

  “Call me Cordell, son.” He looks me over like a carnival prize as we shake hands. “Violet tells me you’re in the army. Stationed at Bragg?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cordell asks the usual questions about rank, drill sergeants, jumping out of planes. I answer like a rehearsed monologue. It’s always the same questions with the same answers that both please and dismay. I give them a little, but not too much.

  “What’s your job, son? Infantry? Military Police?”

  “EOD, sir.”

  “Like that one movie?” Since The Hurt Locker won an Oscar, this is usually the question that follows when someone asks about my job.

  Mama steps away to mingle. She does not want to know what I do at work. I like to keep it that way. Most people think the military is made up of puppets trained to defend and kill. Although I am skilled in both of these matters, my job is to defuse situations. Literally. And guarantee that I am no one’s puppet.

  “It was a good movie, sir,” I answer, deflecting the question.

  A pretty blonde girl, dressed in a white shirt and black slacks removes Cordell’s empty glass from his hand, replacing it with a full one. She winks before walking away.

  Note to self: Find her later.

  I take notice of the deep caramel color and strong scent of alcohol in Cordell’s hand. Very good, very aged, very expensive small-batch bourbon. The type of liquor that has one sole purpose: to knock the average man on his ass after the first shot.