Seizure(79)

“We’re supposed to trust this whack job?” Ben refused to address Chance directly.

“We’re talking in circles,” I said. “He can take us to the cross.”

“And I will.” Chance leaned forward. “But first tell me what’s going on. Why did you risk breaking me out?”

“Not part of the deal.” Hi folded his arms. “We sprang you in exchange for the cross. You’re not entitled to our life stories.”

Chance was undeterred. “Why do you want it? You saw the auction listing. The cross isn’t particularly valuable.”

“Our business,” Shelton said. “Just take us to your father’s fishing camp.”

“No.” Chance calmly intertwined his fingers. “If I have to take you somewhere the authorities might look for me, I want to know more.”


“You don’t get to dictate new terms,” Ben said. “Tell us where. Now.”

“You think you can force me, boy?”

Ben fired to his feet.

“Wait!” I shouted. “Everyone chill. Let me think.”

Seconds of tense silence.

“How about this?” I turned to Chance. “Take us to your father’s fishing camp. Produce the cross. Then we’ll tell you what’s going on.”

Shelton tsked. “We don’t have to—”

“He’s not going to help us otherwise.”

Chance nodded his head as he weighed options. “Agreed.”

Shelton puffed air through his lips. Ben stormed from the room cursing under his breath. Only Hi seemed satisfied.

Whatever. Under the circumstances, it was the best I could do.

“It’s settled,” I said. “So. Car or boat?”

Chance answered without hesitation. “Boat.”



Ben eased Sewee from the dock. “Well?”

Chance pointed north. “Sullivan’s Island.”

“At least it’s close,” Hi said. “We could practically swim.”

Hi’s joke did nothing to ease the tension. Ben barely held his temper in check, and Chance seemed to enjoy goading him. It was a recipe for trouble.

Ben motored across the harbor mouth, passing the tiny island of Fort Sumter, site of the opening shots of the Civil War. The sun was setting. Sullivan’s Island lay dead ahead.

“Head west past Fort Moultrie,” Chance instructed. “Then swing into The Cove. The camp is five hundred yards up the waterway.”

Sullivan’s Island is largely residential. No hotels, waterslides,or mini-golf. The lots are big and so are the homes. The coastline is surprisingly undeveloped, with much of it held in trust by the town itself. Much like Morris, the island has a rich military history, and many dwellings are old fortifications or barracks converted to modern use.

“There.” Chance pointed to a wooden pier jutting from the shoreline into the sheltered bay. “The cabin is back in those trees.”

“This is the ‘fishing camp’ you’ve been talking about?” Hi employed air quotes. “That’s a million-dollar house, easy.”

“I never claimed it was a canvas tent. We Claybournes like our comfort.”

Chance jumped to the dock and tied the bowline to a heavy metal cleat. “Come along.”

The dock bridged an acre of shallow, brackish water before entering a two-story boathouse. Inside, small watercraft occupied alcoves on each side, several accessible only by hydraulic lifts.

Chance crossed to a Jet Ski, dug a key from under the seat, then strode from the shed’s rear door into the yard beyond.

A gravel path wound up to a large log cabin. Chance unlocked the door and stepped back, gesturing us inside with a bow. “Make yourselves at home.”

We trooped through a gourmet kitchen into a massive great room. Chance walked a circuit, powering an array of antique lamps.

An enormous brick fireplace took up most of one wall, the mantel carved with the foxes-and-vines motif of the Claybourne family crest. Stuffed birds, rodents, and other small mammals crowded every inch. Leather couches faced the giant hearth, surrounding a rustic wagon-wheel coffee table. Deer heads stared glassy-eyed from all four walls.

“Who decorated this place?” Hi said. “The Crocodile Hunter?”

“Has a woman ever set foot in here?” I asked.

“Only the cleaning lady,” Chance said. “Hollis kept his clubhouse private.”

Shelton and Hi flopped onto a couch and began checking their iPhones.

Ben stepped face-to-face with Chance. “The cross.”

Chance smirked, about to argue for the sport of it.

“We had a deal.” I shot Chance a warning look.

Chance sighed dramatically, then pointed to an antique safe in one corner.

The safe was a black cast-iron cube the size of a washing machine. Stamped with the official seal of the United States Postal Service, the thing must’ve weighed a thousand pounds.

“It’s a collector’s item.” Chance rapped the side with his knuckles. “Constructed in 1880. My father’s servants store valuables inside when closing the cabin for the season.”

Chance moved backward.

Ben stopped him with an outstretched hand. “Combination?”

Chance shrugged free. “I’m not divulging family secrets. Step away.”