His head spun. The only thing you needed to become a drug dealer down here was to have an MD license… They were as bad as the ones who pushed the pills. Bloodsuckers.
He gazed at the doctor who was narrating the video. He sounded smart, almost caring. Probably just some actor.
Vance’s chest felt like a furnace.
The video came to an end. “Let us know how we can help you…” the doctor said, staring at Vance with those earnest eyes.
He was about to turn back to the counter with the gun in his hand when he noticed the doctor’s name.
He wasn’t an actor at all. In fact, Vance now realized, he was the one person who should rightfully pay. Not these people here. They were just pegs, like him.
The one who had profited most from Amanda’s suffering.
Suddenly Vance felt uplifted, stronger, infused with purpose. He eased the gun back into his pants.
He stared at the earnest, smiling face, sure now where his rage should truly be directed.
The Harvard Pain Remediation Centers of South Florida.
Henry Steadman. M.D.
Part IV
Chapter Thirty-Five
The first place I went to in South Carolina was a town called Summerville, north of Charleston.
It was actually a pretty place, nestled among woods of tall pines and, I guess, well named, as the road map said it had been a kind of summer refuge in the 1800s from the stifling humidity and heat of Charleston.
The name I had was a Donald Barrow. 297 Richardson Avenue. The map said it was just outside of town. The plate number ADJ-496. According to the information I had, it was registered to a 2004 Buick Marquis.
I ordered a sandwich in a local shop on Main Street, which was ringed with budding azaleas, then took it back to my car and drove to the address-an old white clapboard house on a street shaded by tall pines-and ate it, looking over the house, in my car.
I really didn’t know what to do. How to handle this. I wasn’t exactly a pro at this. What if it was the right place? What if the Buick was blue, and I went up to that door and the face came back to me and I stared directly into the eyes of the person who had done these horrible things? Realizing my daughter was there!
And he recognized me! He had to know my face.
I’d been running that scenario over in my mind since I’d left Florida.
I wrapped up my sandwich and placed it on the seat next to me. I tucked in my shirt and took a breath.
I left the car and walked up the short walkway leading to the house and onto the porch, trying to calm my heart, which was beating fast.
Anxiously I rang the bell.
I heard footsteps inside, and a middle-aged woman with flecks of gray in her short, curly hair came to the door.
“Hello,” she said, and when she didn’t recognize me, she asked in a pleasant drawl, “Can I help you?”
“Hi.” I stepped forward. “Is Mr. Barrow at home?”
“Mr. Barrow…?” The woman hesitated with a slight look of surprise. “May I ask why?”
I stepped forward. “I was sent by his insurance company. To take a look at his car.”
“A 2004 Buick Marquis? Plate number ADJ-496… It was in an accident, I was told.”
The woman looked at me curiously and shook her head. “There must be some mistake. There hasn’t been any accident…”
“You’re sure?” I asked her again. “Maybe if Mr. Barrow is at home…?” Here in the Deep South people were generally polite and unsuspicious. If I were in South Florida, she’d already be asking to see my ID.
“I’m afraid my father isn’t here. He’s
The plates could always have been stolen.
She thought about it for only a second, then stepped out and led me around the side of the porch. “It’s in the garage. But I assure you, it hasn’t been in any accident.” She went down another set of steps that led to the garage, pushed a button, and the garage door started to go up.
There was a white Buick in one of the two bays. With a South Carolina plate. ADJ-4967.
“You’re right. Clearly, it hasn’t been in any accident,” I said, shrugging.
“I can assure you, it hasn’t been out of the garage in the past six months,” the woman said. “Since my father left. For the life of me, I can’t see how anyone could have thought…”
“No, probably our error,” I said. This clearly wasn’t the car I was looking for. “I’m sorry to bother you. I hope your father gets well.”
“Well, thank you,” she said, “but I don’t know. He’s eighty-six. You know how it is.”
“Yes, I know,” I said.
I went straight back to my car, before it occurred to her to ask for some ID or for the name of the insurance company I represented. There was also the fear that she might call the police, especially after I noticed her looking at my car.
I drove away, out of town the way I had come, and when I thought I was safe, I pulled into a gas station, my heart still pounding.
One down.
ADJ-4653. That was next. A town named Martinsville.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“Daddy?
I’d heard the ring and grabbed one of the phones from the passenger seat, and saw the call was from Hallie!
I didn’t know if I was alerting half the police in Florida, and
