Safe house, Apache Dance, Az…

Jake Slaughter walked out onto the cabin’s deck for a few minutes of solitude after the long flight back from Quito.

He had already put the death of de Alvarez in Ecuador behind and it was time to move on. This was his stand-down, a momentary liberty from his covert black ops Delta team and the operational control of the Joint Special Operations Command.

He breathed deeply the cool night air and drew hard on a Sam Adams longneck.

Wine-red alpenglow washed the crenelated peaks of the Tucson Mountains and the vast Saguaro forests of the Sonoran Desert. The renowned Desert Museum was visible from the house perched high up Golden Gate Mountain, south of Gates Pass Overlook.

“Aphrodisiac for the senses,” he muttered, his husky voice the upshot of an arid climate and one too many rum-soaked cigars. “Surely the Almighty scooped out this place on one of his better days.”

He scanned the open vista, the stands of desert scrub, Saguaro and Cholla cacti crowded into the valley below as he listened to the melodic hum of nectar-feeding bats, the din of Hawk moth and other foraging insects. In the distance a Javelina or Coyote ran down an evening meal, as myriad bird species burrowed into the safety of their nests for the night. His eyes crinkled above a smile and he finished off his beer. 

His personal phone slapped him out of a sound sleep at seven the next morning. He sat up, his cracking knees a bitter reminder that he was aging by the minute, the pounding in his head an indicator that he was getting a bit long in the tooth to down a half-dozen longnecks and still function at peak proficiency the following day.

“Hello.”

“Jake? It’s Michael in New York, did I wake you?”

 “You’re nothing if not consistent, Mikey.”

“Hell, it’s ten o’clock here in the real world, been at it for three hours already.”

“Right.” Michael Franks was Jake’s long-time book editor at Simon and Schuster in New York. “What’s up?”

“Got your message about heading off to Beaufort. I received your photographs and sent them off to be scanned, but can you get the final written draft of the book to me before you go?”

In his precious spare time, Jake made photographs, dozens of them over the past couple of decades. The book in question was the third in a series of six, all showcasing intimate landscapes of the western desert and the southeast Atlantic coast.

The books both entertained and informed, qualities his readers especially liked. He normally tripled his advance, a quality his publisher relished.

“I’ll have it on your desk by the end of the week, Mikey, will that make you happy?”

“Wish all my clients were like you, Jake.”

“No, you don’t. You put up with me because I make you a crapload of money.”

“I thought I just said that.”

Jake chuckled. “Goodbye Michael.”

“Look Jake, I have to ask one more time. Have you given any further thought to the book signing tour? It’s been a long time since your east coast fans got a peek at your mug.”

Jake rubbed a fingertip along the scar on his stomach. “I don’t handle crowds very well, you know that.”

“Understood, but do me a favor and at least think about it, okay.”

“All right, Mikey, so long.” 

What the hell, he was going to head home for a few weeks to check out the new family digs, first time is some years, so maybe a tour wasn’t a bad idea.

Outside he heard a car pull up and its doors open. He looked down and waited. The envelope slid under the door and the car sped off moments later. “Damn,” he muttered. The envelope would contain an encoded and encrypted flash card detailing his next assignment.

He poured a cup of coffee and walked out the back door, the early morning air redolent of musk, sandalwood and honey. He pulled the invitation he’d received out of his jeans pocket:

It’s time, Beaufort High’s class reunion, June 7-9 at Lancaster Hall, downtown Beaufort!

Regrets only, please!

“Regrets? Hell yeah, I’ve got a few.”

    CHAPTER 3                      

South Carolina…

Jake was going home.

He crossed the border into South Carolina, stopped for gas and then continued south on I-95 toward the coast, toward Beaufort and the Lowcountry, toward the family home on the Morgan River.

Six PM and the mid-June sun cast biased shadows across the flat expanse of highway. The driving was effortless and he sang along with the 60’s oldies on 98.5, The River, out of Beaufort.

Ninety minutes later, he motored through downtown Beaufort, fingers tracing the scar on his stomach and recalling fellow writer, Robert Fulghum’s, words: ‘A high school reunion is not a reunion with other people as much as it is a reunion with yourself. Daily, we reunite with self in the mirror. The high school reunion is an invitation to look into a larger mirror’.

He parked and locked the car and walked through the door of Plum’s, a popular sandwich and ice cream bar.

He glanced around and at the eclectic mix of nautical motif and rock and roll memorabilia that still decorated the place: Shrimp nets shrouded the walls and sea shells, starfish and horseshoe crabs sat on worn lobster traps. Plastic Elvis, dressed to the nines, legs askew and head bobbling still occupied center stage atop an old-fashioned Wurlitzer jukebox. 

 “Jake?”

He turned, his mouth turning up at the sight of his old friend. “Hey, Gary.”

Gary Stanton, like his father before him, was the Slaughter family lawyer, the keeper of the keys and the captain of finance and real estate holdings. He was Jake’s age, a close friend throughout high school, but looked ten years older, with a round jovial face, thick gray hair and bushy eyebrows pasted over intelligent brown eyes.

“Good to see you again.” He pumped Jake’s hand. “Been too long, twelve years or so, right? For your folks thirtieth anniversary? You’re still looking good, tan and fit.”

Jake smiled. “You as well, Gary, but like me a bit heavier and a touch of gray.”

Gary spread his arms in a conciliatory gesture. “Goes with the territory. Hell, we’re all just grown-up versions of who we once were, right? You’re going to see that up close and personal at the reunion.”

Jake grinned. “Thanks for all you’ve done while I’ve been away. I mean it.”

“Hey, that’s my job and you’re my friend, Jake. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

It had been Gary to whom Jake had sent money, a lot of it over the years, and his instructions had been specific: Buy up, using a nom de guerre, waterfront parcels along the rivers in and around the lowcountry and then enlarge and remodel the family’s compound to his parent’s liking. As a result, the Slaughter’s real estate holdings had increased substantially over the past decade.

“Well, Gary said. “Give me a minute to hit the restroom and we’ll be on our way.”

Jake nodded, ordered a cup of coffee and then looked around the restaurant. Teenagers laughed and kissed and hugged in the booths, hands running over faces, through hair and fanning south toward intimacy. He tried to remember the last time he’d felt that young. Part of him envied them, setting off down the road on the great adventure that stretched out before them.

Another part didn’t, for he’d often found that road strewn with speed bumps and hurdles.

“Right, then.” Gary returned. “All set?”

They caught up with each other during the ride out to the Slaughter compound, enjoying the warmth of the late-June evening laughing and joking at shared memories from their youth. Gary didn’t mention Jesse and Jake didn’t ask.

“So, have you heard from your folks, yet?” Gary said.

“Last week. Should roll in around the Fourth of July.”

“Going to be nice having the Slaughter clan home again. How about your sister, Sharon? Still up in Indianapolis, isn’t she? Heard from her?”

“She, Tom and the kids will be here for Thanksgiving.”

They rolled through the gated entry to the compound twenty minutes later.

Gary shut off the car and turned in his seat. “Okay, here are the keys to the beach house. Sarge would have been here, but he’s still up in Charleston and won’t be back until tomorrow. I had the place freshly painted and stocked with a few staples. Oh, and there’s Cabernet and Chardonnay in the cupboard, Sam Adams and Coors longnecks in the fridge and a bottle of twelve-year old Macallan on the kitchen table.”

Jake smiled. “Thanks for everything, Gary.”

“Anytime, my friend. I’ll see you at the reunion, then?”

Jake nodded.

The Slaughter Family compound, located on the northeast tip of Dataw Island, consisted of a five thousand square foot main home, a carriage house, two exquisite guesthouses and three hundred feet of surf, sand and foam bordering the deep blue of the Morgan River and St. Helena Sound.

Then, there was the beach house, Jake’s house. The home in which he’d grown up had been expanded and redesigned over the past ten years, with spacious, open rooms, airy cathedral ceilings and an exquisite floor-to-ceiling flagstone fireplace.     

His eyes lit up as he walked toward it, a lone sentinel on the point of a thin tongue of sand jutting out into the river.

He stopped at the bottom of the steps, regarding the graceful wrap-around porch, and in the dying light saw himself as a child growing up beside the river, complete with its still-life summer scenes of golden marshes and brilliant sunsets. Living here as a child had always turned to boating, shrimping, fishing and relishing the pristine Lowcountry vistas that still captured the hearts of painters and photographers alike.

Beaufort and its surroundings held a special kind of magic for him and he felt inclined to be captured all over again.

He walked up the steps, turned the key, opened the massive oak door and walked in.

The large loft bedroom, as he’d instructed, overlooked the great room and faced a massive stone fireplace. He went upstairs, unpacked, glanced around and smiled. The place looked damn good, just like he’d envisioned. Felt damn good, too.

Downstairs, he poured two fingers of Scotch over a single ice cube, then walked outside, strolled down to the beach and out to the end of the long, wooden dock.

Moonlight glittered on the jet-black water and the air smacked of summer: brine and earth and the tang of ebb tide. He sat down, feet dangling in the tepid water, sipped Scotch and listened to the evenly paced rhythm of his heart. 

The cool evening breeze still whispered only one name: Jesse Cochrane.