Rich Blood (Jason Rich #1)(67)

As the watercraft slowed, Jason realized they were coming up on the tip of Goose Pond. He saw a marina and, in front of it, a wooden-looking shack with some tables in the back. He squinted and read a sign. THE DOCKS.

“What’s this place?” he yelled over the sound of the engine, leaning close to Chase and breathing in the smell of fruity perfume tinged with sweat. A pleasant scent.

“My favorite restaurant,” she said. “No bullshit. Just great food and the best view on the lake.”



Fifteen minutes later, they were seated at a wrought-iron table on the edge of the patio. It was the table closest to the lake. After they’d roped the Sea-Doo off on the pier, Chase had walked around to the front and said something to the manager, after telling Jason to have a seat where he was now. When she’d returned, he’d asked, “What’d you tell him?”

“That I wanted my usual spot.”

“Come here a lot.”

“At least once a week when the weather is warm. Always by boat or Sea-Doo. Sometimes the Tonidandel gang come with me.”

“I can’t believe those boys all moved back home.”

“Well, I can. Something about Mill Creek. Even you, the billboard lawyer himself, back on the cove.”

“My circumstances are a bit different. Are the brothers still crazy as hell?”

“As shithouse rats, but they are solid gold down deep where it counts. And you better be glad the Tonidandels like me. They don’t give a damn about you, but they’ll do anything I ask.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I’m a veteran,” she said. “All three brothers were, at one time or another, in the 101st Airborne—the Screaming Eagles—and Satch was a full colonel. All honorably discharged. All a bit fucked up with PTSD, and, like me, they’re like Texas toilet paper.”

Jason wrinkled his face.

“They don’t take shit off nobody. Anyway, when I told them I served in the army and showed a few of my scars, it was like they accepted me as one of the boys. They invite me over to watch the Bama games, and, if anyone comes nosing around my house for any reason, they’ve got my back.”

“God, country, and Alabama football.”

“Roll Tide,” she said, winking at him. “Honestly, though, Jason, the Tonidandels are good folks. And damn good friends.”

“Have you been . . . more than friends with any of them?”

“None of your damn business.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Shut up and order.”

Jason turned to see a man coming his way. He didn’t have a pen or paper and took down what Jason said by memory. Jason ordered a ribeye steak, baked potato, and salad while Chase ordered the shrimp and grits.

“House specialty,” she said.

“Well, you’ll have to give me a bite.”

For a few moments, they drank their drinks—ice water in plastic cups—and enjoyed the ambience of the quaint restaurant. A Kenny Chesney song, “No Shoes, No Socks, No Problem,” played on the outside speakers, and Jason breathed in the simple elegance of folks enjoying a meal and company with an incredible wide view of the lake. The sun was beginning to set a deep orange out over the water.

“I became an alcoholic in the army,” Chase said, her voice soft. “When we were in Afghanistan, we’d have layovers here and there, and everyone would get shit faced. You know, to kill the loneliness. When I got back home, it carried over. That, and the nightmares.”

“When did you get into drugs?” Jason asked.

“That wasn’t until I got back. I was drinking so much that I needed an upper to get going.”

“Meth?” Jason asked.

“Sand Mountain’s finest.” She took a sip of water. “That’s another reason why I should have shot Tyson Cade the other night.”

“Did you buy from him?”

“Everyone who buys meth in Marshall County gets it from Cade.” She snapped the words off as if she were firing them from a gun.

Jason leaned back in his chair and stared at her. He wanted to ask more questions about the dealer, but the agitated look on Chase’s face made him decide against it. “So . . . what happened?”

“I went to rehab for forty-five days. Since getting out last November, I try to make at least one AA meeting every couple of weeks.”

Jason rubbed his chin, thinking through what she’d said. “You said the nightmares carried over?”

“At least one a week.”

“Forgive me for asking, but did you . . . I mean, while you were in the army—”

“Did I kill anyone?” she interrupted.

“Well, yeah.”

“Not directly . . . but yes.”

“How?”

“I flew Apache attack helicopters. The crew in our vessel fired on targeted locations and yes, we killed enemy soldiers.” She took another sip of water.

“When was the last time you flew a helicopter?”

“Last week, actually. I’m a MedFlight pilot for the hospital. It’s an on-call job, and I don’t get called often. I also give firearms classes twice a week at the shooting range the Tonidandels own in Grant, Alabama.”

Jason looked at her. She was gazing out over the water. She wore a faded gray Rolling Stones T-shirt over mesh shorts. Her skin was olive brown, her do up in a ponytail with a couple of stray hairs dangling in her eyes that she kept batting away. She was beautiful, he thought. Just as she’d been when she was seventeen years old and they’d taken the canoe down into the back of the cove, where the water narrowed to a creek and the water was ice cold from the natural spring. Where they’d held hands and walked along the rocks, yellow wildflowers swaying in the grass. Where they’d eventually taken their clothes off and swam and splashed and kissed, and Jason placed a flower in her hair. And, eventually, after laying a couple of towels down in the small boat, they’d made love. His first time. Her first time. When they were engaged in the act, it felt like everything had stopped. His breath. His heart beating. All he could remember was the intoxicating odor of wildflowers and the incredible sensation of pleasure and fear and anxiety rolled up into long moments of bliss.