Death at Dames Hundred

By A. E. Pritchard

To whom will Ursula Tilghman sell Dames Hundred land as she seeks to finance a
memorial to her husband? Will it be millionaire developer John Alexander Bassett, hungry to extend his power over St. Martins on Marylands Eastern Shore. Or will it be her stepson Stephen who wants to build a multi-racial new town on Tilghman land beside the Rehobeth River? The contenders vie for Ursulas favor, new and powerful interests join the struggle, warnings appear in the form of slaughtered animals, and murder strikes. Accountant Daniel Pryor and his lover Eurydice
Smith join with State Trooper Celine Litowska, ensnared by her own secrets, in a quest for the killer, but not before death strikes again at Dames Hundred.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 19, 2009
• ISBN: 9781440134951

A. E. Pritchard

A. E. PRITCHARD earned a PhD from the University of Maryland. The former college professor is the author of two other books in her St. Martins mystery series: Death’s Dark Angel and Death at Dames Hundred. She and her husband live on the Florida Gulf Coast.

Book preview

Prologue

Stephen Tilghman’s eyes studied the two scans of his brain on the luminescent viewing panel, but his mind refused to connect what he saw to the depths of the head he carried on his shoulders.

Nicholas pointed to the yellow area in the second scan, a fraction larger than its companion on the first. You can see the tumor’s progress—just here—by comparing the two images. Not a great deal at this point, but encroachment nonetheless. And it will continue to increase, I’m afraid. Things didn’t turn out as we hoped. Nicholas, dropped his hands, slid them into the pockets of his white lab coat and waited.

Stephen’s mind stretched canvass taut. It had to be a mistake. Today was the day when Nicholas, his friend from undergraduate days and now a leading neurosurgeon at the NIH Neurological Research Center in D.C., would confirm he’d turned the corner, the medication had worked and the growth in his brain was receding.

What are you talking about?" He’d fired the same question at the aging GP down on the Shore who’d been the first to diagnose the malignant mass. Then, like now, his mind had refused to take it in. How could a man in his late seventies know that alien spongy tissue lurked in his head simply by looking into his eyes with a tiny white light and listening to his symptoms? He had come to Nicholas, sure the diagnosis was wrong. But Nicholas had confirmed it. More, the tumor could not be excised, he’d said, even with the keenest laser scalpel. But there was hope—slim, but real. They could try medication to stop its progress. So they had done that for three months, and today the scans would show that the obscenity in his head had been beaten back.

I’m sorry Stephen. Nicholas, gray eyes compassionate, reached up again to circle the ball of his left index finger over the bright mass of the tumor-invaded tissue. The drug has slowed it, but not stopped it as we’d hoped, and it would have by now if it were going to. You should continue taking it though. It’ll give you some added time. The fluorescent lights hummed loud in the small, windowless consultation room.

Added time? Are you telling me I’m going to die? Stephen demanded. The words formed in the air as if someone else were speaking. Die? His father had died two years ago. But that was his father—a man in his sixties who’d had a stroke. He was only thirty-five with his life before him. He could not die.

Nicholas unclipped the two scans, slid one over the other, slipped them into the large manila envelope. Yes, Stephen. The medication should give you some time. But I’d be raising false hopes if I let you believe the tumor’s progress is likely to stop. Every indication tells me it won’t and yes, in that case, you will die.

Stephen stared unseeing at his own hand. He could not speak, and Nicholas let the silence lie between them. At last words came. I hear what you’re saying, but the idea won’t hold. Everything’s flat—no connections. Is it the drugs? Or the tumor itself?

I don’t know, Nicholas said. But I suspect it’s something in your own psyche. He tapped the envelope on edge with a slow, two-handed motion, avoiding Stephen’s eyes. Then he looked up. You’re not ready for this. You’re a young man.

And how in God’s name do I get ready? His anger vibrated in the words.

I don’t know that either. I believe, though, that readiness will come in its own time.

Time! The word exploded between them. For Christ’s sake, Nicholas. You keep talking about time. You tell me I’m dying and you talk about time!

Yes, because you have some. A year or more before disabling effects set in. Perhaps a bit longer if the medication—

Stephen thrust himself up. The shrill shriek of the metal chair against the tiled floor knifed through Nicholas’s voice. With all this time you’re giving me, I’d better be on my way back to Dames Hundred. I’ve got the oldest church in the mid-Atlantic states to bring back to life, a multi-million dollar community development initiative to move forward, the needs of my parishioners to meet, and I’ve got to personally ensure St. Margaret’s first full implementation of the liturgical calendar in ten years!

Stephen. I’m on your side. I want to help.

Nick cared. He could hear it, even through the ring of his own voice and the clamor of his mind’s denial. He sagged back into the chair, grasped this head in his hands. Help? he said, then looked up. Yes, I know. And I shouldn’t be taking it out on you.

You’re not. You’re trying to make sense of it. But look, you can do a lot in the time you have. We’ll keep close watch on things. We’ll know when you have to back off and let some things go. For now, you can function normally—work, drive, exercise, carry out your responsibilities as a clergyman. You can eat and drink what you like, lead an active life.

A normal life. That’s what you mean, isn’t it? But we both know it can’t be normal with this monstrosity gorging itself on my brain.

It can be normal—for a year, maybe more. You’ll know when you have to cut back, probably first with driving. There’ll be a gradual darkening of your vision at the sides. But not yet. Brusque reassurance framed Nicholas’ words.

He thinks he’s gotten me over a hump, and he’s relieved. The sensation of splitting in two swept over him, as if he were looking down at the small room while at the same time he sat within it.

There is one thing, Nicholas was saying, something you’ll want to consider. We can begin thinking about it today, or we can wait. Whatever’s best for you.

From his mind perch, he watched Nicholas’s mouth, heard the words issue forth. He watched his own fierce intake of breath, the clench of his teeth, heard his own reply. Let’s talk now. I want to know everything.

All right, then. Nicholas’ eyes were cautious. At the end, he said, and the word end reverberated in Stephen’s mind then as suddenly stopped, you’ll become comatose and unable to express your wishes. If you prepare appropriate advance directives, you’ll ensure that you receive the type and extent of end-of-life medical treatment you desire. The options range from life support to withdrawal of all support. Nicholas paused.

He’s waiting for me to climb up the next hump. He quelled a bitter laugh.

It’s vital to make your wishes clear and let your family know—now when you have all your faculties. I have forms you can complete in my office. You can take them with you, look them over and think about it. Nicholas stood, turned for the door.

He willed himself to stand, cross the room and walk into the hall where Nicholas waited. They marched, side by side in step, toward the double doors at the hall’s end. They passed the nursing station, reflections gliding in the glass windows. Positive and negative space. Like the Creed, he thought, the quick and the dead—Nicholas the living with his straight, white-blonde hair and white lab coat. He the walking dead—black hair, black suit, black shirt—darkness cut only by the white circlet of his clerical collar. What do you recommend? he asked.

Nicholas shook his head. I can describe the implications of choices people often make, but in the final analysis . . .

I have to decide for myself. He felt the first two fingers of his right hand reach up to massage his brow.

It takes time to think it through, to decide and put it in writing. But in a very real sense, it’s part of the readiness process. Nicholas thrust his hands in his trouser pockets so the white coat bunched out behind him.

I can’t bear thirst. The thought blazed. He shook his head, forced himself to speak in reasonable tones. If I’ll be comatose. I don’t want tubes, artificial feeding, a living death. I only want water and relief from pain. Saying it sent a cool shaft from his throat to his core. He paused to get a full sense of it—a bar of polished steel, something to grasp. But it won’t come to that. I can beat it. He looked directly into Nicholas’ eyes.

The doors at the end of the hall opened, and a figure silhouetted in the light advanced toward them. Stephen saw it take shape as a woman in white, a nurse; saw her look at her watch, then turn right through one of the doors that lined the hall, leaving it open behind her.

I want you to beat it as much as you do. And we can wait with these decisions. I’ll remind you again the next time you come in. Nicholas’s voice hinted at resignation, as if he were dealing with an implacable child.

No! No matter what happens, I want to settle it now. I’m telling you what I want, and you can see that it’s taken care of. I won’t change my mind.

Nicholas studied him. Very well. But you need to take the forms and fill them out. As if to punctuate his words, an electronic beeper pinged. Nicholas plucked it from his lab coat pocket and studied its display. I’ve got to check on a patient just out of surgery—a couple of doors down. I’ll be right back, get the forms and walk you to the parking lot. We can go over any questions you have before you leave.

I told you. It’s in your hands. If I go into a coma, just be sure I have water and drugs for pain.

Please, Stephen, go back and wait in the consultation room. I’ll be back in five minutes with the forms. Nicholas strode toward the double doors, and the hall filled with silence.

The minute hand of the large, steel-rimmed clock on the consultation room wall jumped from mark to mark between the black numbers that circled its flat, white face. He could hear a small click telling away each second. The black pointer progressed over three, four, then five minutes. He forced himself to think of Dames Hundred, to picture the drive down the oyster-shell covered lane to Hundred House on his right and his beloved St. Margaret’s on his left. But the image dissolved, and his vision sparkled with gyrating light spots. He shook his head, envisioned flinging it back and forth to dislodge the tumor then smash it against the bony wall of his skull. I’ll beat it. I swear to God, I’ll beat it. The thought swelled in him like rage, and he knew he could no longer sit idle. He must go home, must get about his work building a new community on the Rehobeth. He lunged through the door and down the hall, but stopped at the sound of a voice crooning.

It was a large room. In the far wall, tall, arched windows filtered in golden afternoon light. He could see four hospital beds, each attended by racks and equipment stands. The two closer to him lay empty, sheets taut, pillows squared and smooth. In one of the two farther from him, lay a sheet-covered form, and beside it, the nurse who had come down the hall bent down as she crooned. As if sensing his presence, she straightened and smiled. Her pleasant, middle-aged face was barely lined. Dark hair salted with grey swept back to a small bun. She wore no cap, but the round gold pin of her nursing school gleamed on her left breast.

Good afternoon, Father. Come and see how we are today. She beckoned, then bent to the bed again. Powerless, he moved into the room as she gently wiped the face of her patient. Lullay, lullay, my little child she sang, Oh, my sweet love, lullay. She looked up at him. She can hear me, I’m sure of it. This is your first time, isn’t it, Father.

He nodded.

The dear lass is on life support. But you mustn’t be distressed by her appearance, Father. She’s resting.

She had mistaken him, an Episcopal clergyman, for a Catholic priest—one of several, apparently, who visited here. His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could not swallow.

I need to check in for just a moment at the office. she said. We’re expecting another patient this afternoon. Pray for her, Father, till I get back. It’s like the singing. It gets through. She brushed past, crisp, white and motherly.

The room settled around him like fold upon fold of gauze, and he struggled through swaths toward the bed. He barely recognized the form as human, curled in a fetal shape with a tube leading from a nostril and another from beneath the sheet. She, the nurse had said and called her a lass. But what lay there was skeletal, flesh nearly gone, and bones stark from brow to fingers. As he watched, she ground her jaw back and forth, paused to grimace with cracked lips, then ground again. The fingers of her right hand, long nails curved into claws, scratched at the sheet’s edge. He could see wear on the fabric. A salt rush filled his mouth.

I wish you hadn’t come in here, Stephen.

He turned, confronted a sword-like Nicholas, white coat stark in the doorway, arms rigid at his sides. But isn’t this where I belong? he said with low, angry emphasis. Isn’t this what you’re talking about? Deciding before it’s too late?

Nicholas held up a restraining hand.

Stephen gestured toward the curled shape. This is what you mean. This is what happens when someone doesn’t decide.

Nicholas nodded.

Rage leapt free in him. So! Someone decided for her! He stepped between Nicholas and the bed. Who has the right to let her suffer this way—to murder her day after day?

We don’t know that she suffers—in spite of her appearance. Nicholas said. It’s very complicated, Stephen. Nothing’s absolutely clear or easy about the options in terminal cases. But this is no help to you. Come away.

No! The syllable leapt from his mouth like a live thing. Explain it to me—who chose these options and why! I have a right to know as a spiritual advisor to people who face death and because— All right, Stephen. But not here. In the consultation room.

No. Here. With her.

Nicholas’ body resisted, but he spoke. This patient is in deep coma—as a result of meningitis and other complications. Brain necrosis is advanced.

I understand. Her brain is dying. But did she ask to be kept this way? How long will she lie here like this?

Nicholas stepped to the far side of the bed, covered the questing fingers of its occupant with his hand. She left no indication of her wishes. Her legal guardian, a parent, has decided that she should remain on life support.

Religious conviction, I suppose! Stephen extruded the words through gritted teeth.

Nicholas straightened. I don’t know. Her guardian has been apprised of the options but asks that she be kept alive. The guardian visits her regularly, I understand, and seems certain she’s functioning at some level of awareness. She receives nutrients, and her body processes continue. We don’t know how long she will live.

Guardian! Whoever he or she is. It’s blasphemy!

Stephen, come away. You cannot solve this. Nicholas’ words rang with passion, and Stephen knew his friend spoke the truth. He knew, too, that Nicholas was doing all he could to honor the woman and her family, in spite of what must surely be his own convictions. But even as he understood, he raged to seize control.

The nurse asked me to pray for her. he said, and I intend to do that.

Nicholas studied him for a long moment, then turned for the door.

Stephen lowered his head. It felt heavy. He thought of the tumor, and fingers of fear brushed his heart. He drew a ragged breath and forced his lips to form the words of invocation as he took the sleeper’s free hand in his own and turned his gaze inward. Let the Spirit come and light the flame within me, he prayed aloud.

Dimly, the light began to glow. His breathing slowed, and the constriction in his chest eased. The light strengthened, and the flame grew until it filled his mind. He entered the flame, and the words flowed like sweet water from his mouth. Oh Savior of the world, who by thy precious Blood hast redeemed us; save us, and help us we humbly beseech thee, Oh Lord. He leaned toward the grimacing figure and made the sign of the cross on the narrow, furrowed brow, closed his eyes for a moment to glimpse again the cleansing light of the flame, then opened them. Once more he made the sign of the cross on the sleeper’s brow then stepped back. Now he was centered on the light. He had but to lay out his own fear before God, and he would be comforted. He would gather the strength he needed to finish his work and surmount this challenge. He breathed in, then out.

He heard her nails scratching against the sheet. The sound, like scales moving over dead leaves, slithered into his mind, coiled itself around his tumor. Fear rose up in him like a great suction. Helpless, he watched as it engulfed the light and filled him with a thick, palpable darkness.

1

Celine felt his grip, hot on her upper arm. She pulled back against the evidence lockers. The vice tightened then released like a fever’s sudden cooling. He laughed.

Touchy lady. He laughed again, a throaty sound, phlegm-laced. He stepped back, thrust his hand against his right hip, raised his other and slammed it against the lockers so he loomed over her, a thick, human triangle barring her way. Twice her size, yet his movements pulsed with a tight rhythm punctuated by the sound of his hand slamming the locker door. His bulk filled her vision, and her breath cut beneath her ribs. She tightened her gut around the acid spurt of fear, forced herself not to rub the touch of him from her arm. He stood there, canny and watching with shrewd, expectant eyes. Jim Gilchrist, six foot four, big shoulders and square hands radiating square fingers highlighted by glistening golden hairs. The blue-wash eyes alight in the broad face—like the faces in that exhibit of Communist hero art she’d seen last week, gross, impenetrable, peasant Russian.

You’re a good-looking woman. A slanting look, questioning, sly. Damn good looking. What’d you want to be a state trooper for—cover it all up? Let’s have coffee and you tell me about it.

No, she said. Thank you, but no. I’ve got two reports to write and testimony on the drug case to go over with the lieutenant. She shot him what she prayed was a crisp, professional smile. Heart pounding in her throat, she edged to move around him.

Unrelenting, motionless, he blocked her way. Litowska. Celine Litowska. What are you so starchy about? What d’you think—I’m making a pass at you? He chuckled, then smoothed his face as if he’d pressed a secret switch. Wouldn’t be appropriate. He flashed finger quotes around appropriate, then crossed his arms. You think I don’t know that? Come on. I’ve had sensitivity training like everyone else around here. I just want to be friends, give you a hand now and again, like I would anyone else. His grin leered. We’re bound to be partners eventually.

She swallowed, knew he saw it. It’s good to know I can count on you. But right now—

Sure. He cut her off with a sarcastic hiss. Keep your chill. He pulled his arms into an at-ease position, rocked forward on the balls of his feet, then back. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to interfere with your oh-so-important work. On the other hand, friends can come in handy—even for loners like you. He grinned again, but his eyes were flat. I get the message. Nobody cracks your ice.

She shook her head, half raised a protesting hand. But he laughed outright. Then with a malicious wink, he swept her a bow and signaled with an open-palmed gesture that she could pass.

She stepped around him, drove herself past his force field, felt his eyes on her buttocks, heard his parting words insinuating in her head.

Yeah, a real loner.

She rounded the corner and forced herself to walk toward the women’s room. She pushed the door open, saw with a rush of relief that the cream-tiled room yawned empty. It was cold, morgue-like compared to the rest of the barracks. She slid her hands down the sides of her khaki uniform pants, pressed her thighs to hold in the fear and pull strength from anger. The hard push of her holster hit her inner arm. Why had he moved on her now when she’d been here nearly two years? She’d been assigned to Cape Station after two years at the Baltimore barracks and two in the western part of the state. Her antennae had picked up Gilchrist from the start, yet he’d stayed in the background, hadn’t moved on her, she had to believe, because of her father who’d retired from this very unit six months before she, herself, had come. Within weeks of her assignment, her dad had been slaughtered in his own cruiser out on Route 113, hit by a hog carrier driven by an illegal immigrant high on crystal meth.

Gilchrist had served in the honor guard at the full-dress funeral. But he’d looked through her as if she were invisible when he and the others escorted the Maryland-flag-covered casket down the long aisle to the front of the church, then afterward, out to the hearse and on to that dark, gaping rectangle sliced in the earth at the graveyard. And like the rest of them, he’d stepped around her that first year, especially when her mother’s death followed so close on her father’s. In the second year, when she’d proved it wasn’t the pain of her parents’ death that drove her, but her own competence; when she’d made sergeant and the rest of them had fitted her in and made her part of the team, he’d stayed in the shadows. And she’d assumed things were okay, that Gilchrist respected her like the rest did, and that what she’d told Dad was working out. She’d been able to forget Gilchrist, imagined she’d escaped him.

But it had been a stupid, stupid mistake. He’d been there all the time. Watching, waiting. And now, without warning, he was out in the open. Why? Because he thinks enough time has passed, and he knows you’ve got no one to tell. The edgy voice inside her, the one that all her life had told her things she knew before she’d admit knowing them, hissed the scorn-laden words. She held up both hands to push the idea away. But like Gilchrist, it refused to retreat. Christ! To be so blind. But she knew in a flash of insight that not seeing what was on Gilchrist’s mind was what Dad had warned her about, the blindness that can come with being a loner. It flooded back, their talk after she’d come home to St. Martins, a prodigal from four years in the wilderness.

I want to be a trooper—do investigative work, she’d said as he removed his uniform belt, heavy with equipment and weapons.

He’d tensed, held the belt across two hands, palms up like a priest’s stole, tilted a question with his head.

I know. It seems crazy—me a rebel and home only a couple of weeks. But it’s not.

He’d sat down, watched her. She could hear her mother in the kitchen.

It was that newspaper job in Pennsylvania. A fluke. Got to be an investigative reporter because their main guy died of a heart attack. I worked with the police pretty well—probably because they knew I was a trooper’s daughter. Anyway, the paper let me keep following up on local crimes. And I found key evidence more than once. I’ve never felt like that, a sense of power and like I’d found a way to make a difference. She’d laughed and pulled energy with breath. More like something found me. Anyway, I like trying to figure things out. She’d laughed again, half ruefully and half in genuine amusement. And would you believe it, Dad? I like organization, regularity. I had to live rough to find it out.

He’d searched her face. But what about that? When you were out there on your own. Your record, the people you were with? They’ll look at everything. There can’t be any—

There isn’t. No drug convictions. Not even a speeding ticket. Sure I lived with people on the fringe, but they were just outsiders, not criminals. We kept to ourselves. No run-ins with the law. And I worked through it, saw it was too shapeless for me. I came in out of the cold, and finished the community college program, then got the job on the paper. Now I’m back home on the Shore, and I want to be a Maryland state trooper.

But this would be different. You’re out there as a symbol of the state, part of an authority system that’s not of your own making. You have to serve on the same terms as everyone else—terms that are tough for people who like to go their own way, terms that play hell with relationships. You hardly have a private life. Everyone knows who you are, expects you to be a model—

Dad, I want to serve, she’d insisted. I want to be a trooper like you, because of you. I had to find it out the hard way, but I did, and I’m prepared to lead the kind of life being a trooper requires.

He had shaken his head.

Look, she’d cajoled. In the first place, I’m not in any kind of relationship, and I don’t want to be. I saw the strain of it on you and Mom, and on us kids too. I’m a loner, and I like it that way.

He’d eased his gun from its holster, removed the clip and turned to lock both in the wall safe. He’d closed the small but thick round door with studied movements, spun the dial and turned back to her. Yes. I know. But being a loner’s got its dangers. It isolates you, can make you miss signals. And besides, you can get pretty righteous. How many times have I seen you mouth off and not be able to stop? That’s why you left home in the first place. Are you really any different now? Do you really understand that if you do this, you have to keep your eyes and ears open, and your mouth shut—time and time again—about things that seem stupid or irrelevant. You’ve got to play by the rules, hold your tongue and do your work.

I understand that, Dad. I can do it. Believe me.

Not for me. Not because of me, or something you think you owe me. For yourself—if this is what you really want.

I understand, Dad. I’ve grown up, and I know what I want. I can listen to other people, work on a team and hold my tongue when I have to.

He’d fixed her with a long look, then he’d held out his hands. She had taken them in her own with an unspoken promise to make him proud and never, never ashamed. Remembering, she raised her hands palm up and looked at them, felt the palms grow warm. She reached to hold on to the cold porcelain edge of the wash basin.

What now? How could she keep on doing the work that stood at the very center of her life and hold Gilchrist off? He had everything on his side: twenty years service, the respect of everyone here as the man who knew all there was to know about the Shore and its subcultures, his ability to see right to the heart of a case, know what counted and what didn’t in an investigation. Christ! She swore aloud this time. What would happen if he turned those beams of his on her? She shuddered. He’d strip her naked, know every detail of her life and use it all to— Her stomach roiled, like a fistful of stones grating against each other. Parts of her life didn’t fit with pressed khaki uniforms and side arms. What kind of shield would she have against Jim Gilchrist. He’d dig, use what he’d find against her, and she’d lose everything. How could she protect herself?

She looked down at her hands again, white-knuckled on the edge of the basin, no rings on the fingers, the nails short and well-manicured. No relationships, she’d told Dad, and she’d meant it. If only she had someone to talk to. Someone to help her figure out how to hold off Gilchrist without making him turn on her. For an instant, she could picture herself in a small office, shades drawn against the afternoon sun, talking to someone who really listened. Someone like Lieutenant Titus, maybe, the tall, African-American trooper who commanded the barracks. She pictured his slim, long fingers, tented in front of him on the desk, could see him study them as she explained her problem with Gilchrist, could see him look up with a brief frown, and feel the sense of shame that would sweep over her at the distaste in his eyes. No. Not Titus. And not that shrink in Baltimore—the woman psychologist whose name was up on the bulletin board. What had the notice said? Something about complete confidentiality, about making an appointment on your own time and not having to get permission or let any supervisors know. Sure it was a fine idea when things went really bad, like the time that trooper shot his partner. But her problem with Gilchrist? In the first place, it couldn’t be kept simple. She’d have to go over her whole life. Worse, just let her try to go up there and talk to the woman, and Gilchrist would find out. Somehow, some way, he’d find out. She could see it, him behind her out on Route 50, or standing there on the pavement in front of the psychologist’s office, the grin on his face—

That’s right. Jack up the paranoia. Get yourself to the point where you can’t think straight. The scorn in the voice of her inner oracle had ratcheted up to full contempt, and she pulled back, stung, felt her cheeks redden. She pulled breath again, eased it out and waited. Slowly the slate of her mind wiped clean. Tonight she’d go through it piece by piece and decide what kind of threat Gilchrist posed. Map out ways to deal with it. But it would have to wait. For now, she had the briefing with Lieutenant Titus and the state prosecutor about the fishing-boat drug case. They wanted to be sure her records were tight with no cracks that would let the attorney for the conglomerate that ran the boats weasel in, then chew up the warrants they needed. She pushed at her wavy hair, dark and close cut, smoothed her khaki shirt under the brown leather belt and turned to pull open the heavy restroom door.

Gilchrist stood across the hall reading something on a clipboard. She froze as the door whooshed closed behind her and he shot her a look of bald desire. She fought to hold down an acid rush. Looks like we’ll be working together on this one, he said. Did a little side checking on the two vessels that were running the shit, and it looks like they may be part of a larger distribution network. What’s really interesting is they may be using the ritzy Rehobeth area to get it to the mainland, then on to the Baltimore-Washington metro area.

Ritzy Rehobeth area? she echoed, buying time to think.

He gave her a