I Want Candy

  Hugo scampered down the hall in his print boxer shorts, wife-beater undershirt, and black socks held up with garters. Candy was duly impressed. For an old, bowlegged dude, he sure could book it.

  Chapter 13

  Turner stood in the center aisle of the empty Tip Top truck stop restaurant, feet wide apart, staring down at the twisted body on the worn linoleum floor. The deceased lay in a puddle of dark red blood. Male. Caucasian. Age anywhere from eighteen to twenty-five years, but that was just a guess, since they’d found forty-five boxes of cold medicine in his backpack and what was obviously a fake ID. And though they were still waiting for the medical examiner to arrive, Turner was fairly certain he could call this one—the cause of death was the bullet hole smack in the middle of the poor kid’s forehead.

  Fortunately, they had more witnesses than they knew what to do with. The state police had set up two interrogation stations out in the parking lot, where fourteen truckers, two waitresses, and a busboy were in the process of giving their statements. So far, everybody seemed to agree on the basics: the victim arrived after midnight and ordered a bottomless cup of coffee. He didn’t say much to anyone, not even the waitress, and sat in a booth that afforded him a good view of the entrance.

  And then at twelve-seventeen A.M., the restaurant door opened, and a man wearing a ski mask took one step inside, raised and pointed a rifle outfitted with a fancy scope, and shot the kid as he tried to run.

  The shooter jumped in a car waiting at the curb and was gone before anyone could think to get a look at the vehicle, let alone a plate number. But one trucker claimed he’d seen the suspect get into a full-sized pickup, probably a Ford or Chevy, which Turner knew would narrow things down to about half the population of the state of North Carolina.

  He heard the restaurant door open and Turner nodded in Kelly O’Connor’s direction. Right behind her was Trent Marshner from the State Bureau of Investigation. Both of them looked particularly grim.

  “This kid was one of Spivey’s regular errand boys,” O’Connor said.

  “We see him here at least a couple times a week hooking up with the Spivey kid,” Marshner said.

  O’Connor nodded. “This is a standard calling-card execution—just your basic howdy from one cartel to another, letting them know they’re in town.”

  “What?” Turner felt sick hearing that information. “You’re telling me there are now two Mexican cartels fighting over Cataloochee County’s meth output? Are you shittin’ me?”

  “Spivey’s output, more specifically,” O’Connor said. “He’s gotten big enough that he’s worth fighting over.”

  Turner shook his head. “We’ve got to shut those bastards down. Now. Before innocent people get hurt.” Turner waved his hand around the truck stop dining room. “Any one of those witnesses could’ve been gunned down tonight. This is insanity. What exactly are we waiting for with the Spiveys? Why can’t we go in right now and just bust the place up?”

  Marshner and O’Connor shot each other a look before they gave him an answer.

  “Listen, Sheriff,” Marshner said. “We are well aware that your main concern here is protecting the citizens of your county.”

  “You’re damn right.”

  “Turner, we are very close to snagging a much bigger fish than just Spivey. You know that.” O’Connor touched his arm. “That’s been our goal from the start, and Dante is getting excellent stuff, more every day. We’re close to having enough evidence to indict some of the regional big guys, arrests that will make a real dent in the meth trade in this part of the country. Just a little longer.”

  “This shit is getting too rough,” Turner said, shaking his head. “We need to shut them down. Now.”

  “You’re tired.” O’Connor shrugged.

  Turner glared at her. “And you’re gonna get people killed.”

  The minute he exited the restaurant, he spotted J.J. over by the diesel pumps. He waved for Turner to come over. This was the last thing he wanted to deal with, as usual.

  “Hey, Jay.”

  “TV crew from Asheville been here yet?” J.J. asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Good. Don’t talk to them.” J.J. grinned. “So what have we got?”

  Turner looked around the crowded parking lot and knew this would be the hottest topic in town in the morning. “Looks like a drug-related killing. A young kid, probably mid-twenties, no ID, was shot inside the restaurant. The unknown suspects drove off. We don’t yet have a specific description of the vehicle.”

  J.J. stopped scribbling in his notebook and frowned at Turner. “That’s it? You got nothing else?”

  “Not at the moment, Jay. You can just say the investigation is ongoing.”

  J.J. sighed and shoved his notebook in his back pocket. “I swear to God, Halliday—you are the only man I know who can make a bloody murder sound downright boring.”

  * * *

  Agent Dante Cabrera stood silently against the back wall of the barn that served as Bobby Ray’s meth lab. Spivey’s men were putting together the latest shipment, which Dante would spend the rest of the night driving to the drop-off point at the Florida state line.

  Dante considered himself the very definition of cool under pressure, but after the recent hit at the diner, he couldn’t help feeling jittery. Full-scale gang warfare was a real possibility, and since he was responsible for the latest transport and exchange, he was directly in the crosshairs.

  The rest of Spivey’s men seemed just as tense. No one had said a word since Dante got there, and the tension in the room was palpable as they did a final count of the product.

  Just then, the Spivey kid sauntered in with a cake in his hand, a dopey grin on his face, and not a care in the world.

  “You baking now, Gerrall?” one of the guys said. “I hope you didn’t get any icing on your panties.”

  The rest of the guys laughed, and Dante could tell they were relieved to get a break from the day’s tension.

  Gerrall clearly didn’t appreciate being the butt of their joke. His cheeks turned red and his nostrils flared. “For your information, my girlfriend made this for me. You didn’t believe she was real, but if she wasn’t, how would I have gotten this?”

  “Please,” one of the guys said. “There’s no way an actual woman made that for you. You probably got that from the supermarket.”

  “Yeah,” another guy said. “Nice try, kid. But it’s obvious that the only pussy you’ve ever seen is the one between your legs.”

  The room erupted in laughter, and Gerrall’s cheeks grew even redder. But before he could respond, his old man came charging in, heading straight for him.

  Gerrall must have known what was coming, because he swiftly set the cake on a wooden counter just seconds before his father backhanded him, sending him sprawling across the floor. There was a sharp crack as the kid’s head hit the ground, and then a groan as Bobby Ray delivered a sharp kick to the ribs.

  “That’s what happens when you get one of my smurfs killed, you dumb little shit,” Bobby Ray said. “Haven’t I told you that as one of my outside guys, it’s up to you to keep an ear to the ground so you can prevent shit like this from happening? You hear me, boy?”

  Dante cringed inwardly as Bobby Ray gave his son another kick, and Gerrall groaned in pain. The agent wished he could intervene, but he couldn’t risk blowing his cover.

  “Apparently your smurf had a whole lotta cough syrup on him when he was shot,” Bobby Ray continued. “You know what that means? Huh? Answer me before I—”

  “No,” Gerrall gritted out. “I don’t know.”

  “It means the cops are going to come sniffing around, and they’re going to find out that your dead smurf had an appointment to meet you. But he never made it, ’cause he went and got himself shot first. And it ain’t going to take a genius to figure out that as my son, you’re connected to me. If that happens, if I go down because of you, then I’m going to show you a whole new world of pain. You got that, shithead?” He g
ave Gerrall a final kick, then ordered his men to go outside and start packing up the vehicle for the night’s run.

  Dante stayed inside with the kid, who gradually caught his breath and hoisted himself to his feet. Gerrall’s eye was already beginning to darken and swell, and a pool of blood formed at the corner of his mouth, which he wiped away with his sleeve.

  Dante maintained his position against the wall, arms crossed in stoic silence. It was an essential part of the persona he’d constructed for this latest undercover job, where he cultivated an image that was hulking, silent, and menacing. It allowed him to remain part of the scenery and freed up the men around him to talk openly. It also prevented him from drawing unnecessary attention or slipping up, which could lead to a slow and painful death.

  “Asshole,” Gerrall muttered as he bent over and coughed, then winced from the exertion.

  “I wish I could get out of here till this all blows over,” he continued, as much to himself as to Dante. “Too bad I got nowhere to go. I would stay with my girl, but she doesn’t have a place either. But that’s gonna change. I’m gonna get us a real nice house where we can build a life together. Our very own love nest. And we’re gonna be happy, too. Want to see her?”

  Gerrall took out his phone and pulled up a picture of the woman Dante knew to be Candy Carmichael. It was taken from the side, which was more than a little creepy because the woman clearly didn’t know she was being photographed.

  “She’s real pretty, huh?” Gerrall said. “She’s the reason I’ve gotta get away from him. So I can start a family of my own. And when we have our own kid, I’ll never treat him how my dad treated me. That kid’s going to have the best of everything. I’d rather die than turn into my dad.”

  Dante’s heart went out to poor Gerrall. There was no denying that he was misguided. But he’d never stood a chance, growing up with Bobby Ray and suffering years of abuse like he had. Dante wished he could help somehow, maybe help set him up with some professional help. But it wasn’t the time or place to concern himself with the kid’s mental well-being. He had a job to do. He had to keep his eye on the big picture or a lot of innocent people would wind up dead.

  * * *

  Monday morning right after breakfast, Candy made a big show of carrying her boxes and overnight case to the car and saying her good-byes to the residents of Cherokee Pines. Mr. Miller watched the spectacle from the open door of his office, a smug smile on his fleshy face. Mildred Holzmann cried. Hugo told Candy he’d miss her and really seemed to mean it. Jacinta acted like she was devastated that Candy was leaving, which would seem odd considering her less than thrilled reaction to her arrival. So when Candy kissed her cheek in a fake good-bye, she whispered, “Tone it down, Mother. See you tonight.”

  The highlight of Candy’s day was when Turner came in to Lenny’s for lunch. He ordered the chili and a side salad and she felt his eyes on her while she worked. His attention caused her to put a little extra zing in the way she moved. She felt alive, desired, sexy—even in a jeans skirt and a diner T-shirt. She couldn’t seem to stop smiling. The only downside to Turner’s visit was that she wasn’t able to touch him.

  “How was everything?” she asked when he came to the register to pay his bill.

  “Beautiful,” was all he said.

  Among the dollar bills he placed in her hand was a folded piece of paper, but by the time she noticed it, Turner was already on his way out the door. The note remained unread as she watched him leave, time stood still, and her legs went wobbly. Truly, watching Turner Halliday walk was like seeing waves crash upon the sand or witnessing the sun rise over the mountains—a natural wonder so raw and powerful that it made a person damn glad to be alive.

  Then he was gone. With a sigh, Candy unfolded the note, and read three words in his cursive handwriting: “I want you.” With a shaking hand, she tucked it away in her apron along with her tips.

  On her afternoon break, Candy went to look at three more apartments, all of them pigsties. As it turned out, there weren’t many clean, quaint, and furnished apartments in Bigler going for four hundred dollars or less a month. She returned to work feeling dejected. Her mood improved while she baked six cakes—two devil’s food, one spice, one carrot, one yellow, and the lemon cake for that little Spivey weasel. She hung out at the library for a couple hours, then sat on a bench in the Trinity Lutheran garden, remembering the feel of Turner’s kiss. When she returned to Cherokee Pines at ten P.M., she followed Gerrall’s instructions and went to the kitchen delivery entrance in the back, where she found the door wedged open with a rolled-up brochure. She locked the door once she was in, tossed the brochure in the trash, and left Gerrall his lemon cake on the counter. She managed to sneak down the hallway without attracting his attention.

  On her second day of living a secret life, Candy took a quick shower and escaped out the back door before the Cherokee Pines kitchen staff arrived. She worked all day, went to look at two more apartments—both gross—and baked five cakes. Once again, the highlight of her day was Turner’s visit for lunch.

  “I’m mad at you,” he said as soon as he sat down at the counter.

  She felt her heart drop. “Why?”

  “Because it seems everyone in town has tasted one of your cakes in the last week except me.”

  The relief poured through her, so glad that he was teasing. “Now that’s something that can be easily fixed, Sheriff.”

  Candy rested her elbow on the counter and propped her chin in her hand as Turner devoured that cake. With each forkful, he closed his eyes in pleasure and made a humming sound deep in his throat. “Damn,” he said when he was finished.

  “Still mad at me?”

  “No way.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  Turner shook his head and smiled. “I got no words for how much I enjoyed it.”

  Candy smiled so big she worried her face would break.

  “So,” Turner said, pushing the dessert plate to the side and leaning in on his forearms. He flashed those eyes up at her and produced one of his trademark smiles, and Candy forgot how to breathe. “You got any other talents I should know about?”

  “Counter order up!”

  * * *

  She was back at Cherokee Pines at ten, where she found the back door propped open again. She left Gerrall’s cake on the counter and was scurrying toward the hallway when she let out a yelp—someone was there, in the dark, waiting for her!

  Gerrall flipped on the kitchen lights. Candy gasped. His face was all bruised. One of his eyes was blackened and swollen shut.

  Candy waited for her heart to stop thudding. “What the hell are you doing stalking me like that? You scared the living shit out of me!”

  “Just having some fun. Did you bring my applesauce cake?”

  “Uggh!” Candy slapped the swinging door open and tiptoed down the hallway counting the doors until she reached Jacinta’s, sixth on the right. As a precaution, she ducked below peephole level when she passed by Lorraine’s door—that woman would jump at the chance to report Candy’s illegal status to Miller. Jacinta was waiting and opened the door in silence, much to Candy’s relief.

  “Whew!” she said to her mother once she was inside. “Living on the down low’s harder than it looks.”

  Jacinta smiled. “That’s what Hugo always says.”

  “And I’m starting to really wonder about that Gerrall Spivey guy—he’s creeping me out big-time.”

  “I think you made a mistake trusting him with your secrets,” Jacinta said, shaking her head. “Like I said—he’s not from good people.”

  Wednesday started the same way. Turner came for lunch and ordered a chef’s salad. Candy put some extra croutons on for him. He had a piece of her white chocolate almond cake for dessert and when he was done he laughed and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

  “Good?”

  “Candy, you should open your own bakery. Seriously.”

  “Right.”

  “Hey, Bigler’s only bakery
closed up years ago and the town needs one. Why not?” The suggestion was so earnest and his smile so sweet that it almost sounded less than completely ridiculous.

  Candy pressed her thighs together as if to check on Sophie. No, she reassured the bracelet and herself, not in this lifetime.

  “Can I get you anything else?” she asked him.

  That’s when Turner reached across the counter and took Candy’s hand in both of his. She was so surprised that she froze, sure that everyone was staring. Public displays of affection in this town were significant statements, no matter who was on display. But public displays with the town sheriff during the Lenny’s lunch rush had to be considered an outright spectacle.

  Turner didn’t appear the least bit concerned. “You know, I won’t be working these crazy hours for the rest of my life,” he offered. “I want to spend time with you. I want to take you out—you know, for real, once things slow down at work. I just wanted you to know that it’s not always going to be this tough.”

  Candy brought her other hand up to wrap around his. “I’d like that.”

  “Dating a cop can be a challenge sometimes.”

  “Hmm. I noticed,” she said. “Ice cream interruptus and all that.”

  Turner lowered his head and laughed. When he looked up, she leaned across the counter and planted a quick kiss right on his lips.

  Once Turner had left, she enjoyed the sensation of floating for a few minutes, right until Cee-Dee Creswell shuffled over to the register to pay for his senior lunch special.

  “How was everything for you today, Mr. Creswell?” Since that was her standard question and the old guy was one of her counter regulars, Candy didn’t even raise her eyes to him until she noticed he didn’t answer. “You okay?” She looked up and held out his change.

  Mr. Creswell glared out the windows of the diner, as if intentionally ignoring Candy. Maybe he was becoming hard of hearing. That had to be it, Candy decided. She’d known this man her whole life. He went to the same church as her family. He’d been a client of her father’s. And Mr. Creswell held a special spot in her childhood, since the hardest whupping she ever got was after she, Turner, Cheri, and J.J. got caught doing belly flops in the mud pit out behind his smokehouse.