The rain pelted the metal roof of the guesthouse, a drumbeat that rattled Robby’s nerves in the dizzy morning after the long sleepless night. Torrents of rain fell, forming new lagoons out of the fairways and cart paths between his place and the big house. As he stood in the open doorway he considered whether an ocean kayak might serve as better transport instead of the mad dash he intended to risk through the early storm bands to confront Cynthia with what he knew. To assault her with the truth about Carrington.
His sneakers were soaked and his entire body was drenched before he reached the slick but arched footbridge, the air around him filled with the cacophony of water crashing water, ground, leaves, limbs all around. Although it was an hour before mid-day the light was as dim as dusk. Robby continued to run with abandon, without a care for his appearance and his clothes, only to end the madness, set things right, close out the game.
Go home.
Admit his mistakes. Eat shit. Do anything. Anything. To see his baby again.
His baby girl, Rebecca. Maybe he couldn’t see her every day. Maybe those days were over and could never be reclaimed. But he realized perfectly well that he had no business thinking he could find a new life here, back in the place of his old life. All the while he stood listening to Carrington’s bullshit and his machinations and his excuses and his theories, Robby’s thoughts focused on what he was missing: the end of summer days with his daughter. Not somebody else’s daughter. His own. Despite all. Despite all the bad, criminally bad things he had ever done, Robby looked with pride and happiness on the one thing he ever did that was purely right.
The love he had for his child. He could not let that fall away, fall away and die like he allowed every worthless thing in his life to do. He would return to her, face any consequences, deal with whatever shit her mother wanted to throw at him, accept it all, just to watch her grow up. Make and stick to one lasting commitment in his life: to be a father.
To stop running, he ran. Ran hard through the rain to tell her what he knew to be true. That he was an innocent bystander in the chaos. He didn’t know all of the answers, but he knew a few.
With the water soaking and matting his shorts and his dry-fit golf shirt clinging tightly to his back, Robby had burst through the front door and from the hallway charged into the living room saying her name: “Cynthia!”
Gail Heinrich stood up from her chair with surprise and she turned to see Robby dripping and squeaking in the archway to the grand room. Cynthia remained seated at one end of the couch, her back to Robby.
“Cyn...”
Cynthia turned her profile slightly, didn’t look directly at him, and spoke calmly, surely. “Rob…could you—?”
Heinrich wasn’t so polite. She said with agitation, “Would you please excuse us?”
“I need to speak—,” but Robby couldn’t get the words out before Cynthia spoke again.
“Would you mind giving us some privacy, Rob?”
Robby sputtered. He wanted to bust out and tell them both what he knew. But Cynthia’s cold reaction caught him off guard. So he withdrew into the hallway.
“We need to talk.”
It was Mateen, whispering near the foot of the grand stairway.
Robby’s sneakers made wet outlines on the Italian marble as he retreated toward Mateen. “What?” he said with disdain.
“Don’t expect that insurance lady to confide in you anymore,” Mateen whispered. “She’s delivering some new information to my sister.”
“Yeah, and I got information, too.”
Mateen ignored that and continued. “The good news, for me anyway, is that the state police are looking at you. Unfortunately for you. Your prints are all over the suitcase and the money you found.”
Robby’s lips bunched into a sneer. “No kidding. I know that.”
“That points to some kind of deal you may have made—,”
Robby grabbed Mateen by the shoulders, gripping his shirt and balling it in his fists. “I didn’t do any deal!”
Mateen signaled for Robby to quiet down, and he softly held Robby’s wrists, as he whispered, “I’m with you, Bullet. I’m trying to help you.”
Just then a booming voice sounded from the entryway. “Excuse me!” Robby loosened his grip on Mateen’s shirt and they both turned to see two uniformed South Carolina state troopers in rain gear and large hats covered in slick repellant standing in the open doorway. They were both huge white boys, indistinguishable, probably thirteen feet tall between them, filling up the scene as they ducked their heads inside. “State police. I’m Officer Fleming and this is Officer Carter. Is Mrs. Avila home?”
“Hairston,” Mateen answered. “She’s Ms. Hairston. She’s in there,” and he pointed to the grand room.
The officers removed their dripping big hats and stepped through the archway. Mateen and Robby hung back at first, listening to the loud but mumbled introductions, but then they hovered slowly behind. Robby observed the back of Officer Fleming’s close-shaved head and the creased folds of skin at his neck. He caught a glance at Officer Carter who was eyeing him right back as Officer Fleming did the talking.
“We’ve re-run the autopsy performed earlier by the local medical examiner on the body found in the marsh behind your house. Though the body was badly torn apart of the gators…the second autopsy shows that there’s a bullet in the remnants of the skull. Which means this wasn’t an accidental death.”
“Carrington,” Cynthia whispered.
“Ma’am…we haven’t concluded our identification of the body at this time. We are still in the process of identifying any remaining dental evidence. The gators did a job…and the gunshot entry was through the mouth…blowing away the teeth.”
“Lord,” Cynthia said.
“Wow,” said Heinrich.
“That means we don’t know for sure who this is,” Officer Carter said with his eyes trained on Robby.
“What?” Cynthia said, and she stood up from the couch. “It’s Carrington—“
“Like I said,” Carter interrupted. “We don’t know that.”
“Excuse me, but if it’s not him…then who?”
Officer Carter didn’t hesitate to say, “We have some theories—”
But Officer Fleming was less inclined to go there. “—that we shouldn’t discuss right now.”
They all stood there silently for a few moments. Gail Heinrich couldn’t stand to fill in the silence with more silence.
“Like?”
Officer Carter jumped in. “There are Charleston airport security photos taken routinely now since 9/11 of passengers boarding private charter flights.” Carter held out a large photo to Cynthia and Heinrich. “This one shows somebody who’s supposed to be Russ Venable boarding his flight to Alaska a few weeks ago. But his family says that it’s not Venable in the picture.”
Heinrich smiled with her eyes wide at the sight of the photo and said under her breath, “Thank you, Jesus.”
Officer Carter turned to face Robby and closed the distance between them, holding the photo close to his face. “Do you recognize this man?”
Robby tried to hold tight to his emotions. Reserve his desire to jump back and head for the door when he saw that the grainy photo showed a dark-haired white man with a scruffy face wearing a New York Mets baseball cap. Before he could answer Officer Carter’s question, Officer Fleming had a question of his own.
“You have any idea where Carrington Avila is, Mr. Cochran?”
Mr. Cochran? These troopers knew who he was. They knew from Heinrich. They had his prints on the suitcase and the money. They were probably aware of the existence, or the rumor, of a gun that would have his prints, too. They figured they might be holding a picture of him, too.
He knew the truth. He knew a big part of the truth. But that truth might not save his skin. In fact, it might hang him.
Robby shook his head.
“Is that a no?”
Robby resisted the temptation to look at Cynthia, but kept his eyes on Fleming. “Not if you don’t.”
“What?” asked Officer Carter.
“Excuse me?” Robby responded.
“What do you mean, ‘not if you don’t?’”
“I assumed…like everybody else…that Carrington was with you.”
The room was silent as that reply sunk in. In time, Officer Fleming turned to Cynthia. “We’re going to be conducting a search Mrs. Avila…I’m sorry…Ms. Hairston…around the house and property area. Do you object at all?”
“No,” she replied firmly.
“Thank you, ma’am. Excuse us…we may have some more questions for you all later.”
Officers Fleming and Carter stepped by Robby and Mateen on the way to the door. Robby walked to the window. Through the heavy rain he saw the headlights of half a dozen or more South Carolina state police cars flash from the driveway.
For the rest of that day Robby sought an opening, a chance to get Cynthia alone. But when she wasn’t with Heinrich or Mateen or the state police, she was aloof, hidden from sight, going about preparations. He was an outcast in her house, no longer made to feel welcome. And yet no one would come right out and accuse him of doing anything wrong. It was all insinuation and avoidance. And anticipation. The TV news constantly reported the hurricane strike warnings. Robby’s guilt was loud, but unsaid. The threat of an immediate evacuation from the island was inevitable, but still unspoken.
A piss poor excuse of an investigation conducted by barely competent men more concerned with the weather than with a murder of a Senate candidate.
What can you say? It’s Lowcountry, boss.
He finally found her in the attached greenhouse, securing plants and windows. He watched her quietly for minutes, it seemed, unsure how to approach as the rain batted the glass. Until he couldn’t contain it.
“What are you doing?”
Cynthia did not shirk from her task of taking down hanging plant baskets from dangling wires. She methodically moved through the rows taking one down, then the next. “It’s a lost cause I suspect. It was insane to build this.”
Robby stepped cautiously behind her. No one else was around. They were alone.
“Cynthia,” he began. “Did you…?”
She neither turned, nor responded at first, but continued removing the baskets from on high and tucking them beneath a shelf below. “Did I what?”
“You know I didn’t…” Robby said, pleadingly. “You know I didn’t have anything to do with—,”
“Yes?”
“—with Venable. I wasn’t involved in that. What do you know?”
“I don’t know anything.” She continued pressing on without looking in his direction.
He couldn’t contain it any longer and grabbed her arm from behind. “Then what happened that night?”
“I don’t know!”
She pulled back sharply from him and in the process scratched his wrist. He recoiled his arm to his mouth, instantly sucking on the cut with his lips.
“I swear I don’t know,” she said.
“They suspect me…don’t they…of doing something? But you know that I didn’t, right? Because we were together. You were with me.”
Cynthia searched his eyes for a long moment. And she seemed to soften and nod when an exterior door to the greenhouse jolted open and a state police officer entered.
“Do you need help, ma’am?” he shouted above the wind gust and the rain.
“No,” she said without looking at him. “Everything is okay.”
“I’d recommend that you clear out of the greenhouse and get inside. We just got word on the evacuation.”
Cynthia looked at the officer, then back to Robby, as a stronger gust of wind blew the exterior door forcefully from the officer’s hand and shattered a plate of glass. Cynthia moved to the door and the officer feebly apologized for the damage and the disruption.
“Rob. Could you find a broom to sweep up this glass?” she called out, but when she turned to find him, he was gone.
(Read Chapter Thirty-Three and catch up on previous episodes of Blacksmith's Girl.)