“A trip? Where?”
“You’ll see. All of you will see.”
CHAPTER
81
THE “LITTLE” TRIP WAS NOT MADE BY CAR. It was made in Lineberry’s private jet, a Gulfstream 650 with all the trimmings.
Both sisters and Blum looked in awe at the plane’s luxurious interior, with its dark wood paneling, colorful carpet, and cream-colored leather seats with gold trim. They were greeted by a uniformed flight attendant and two professional-looking pilots who presented calm expressions and firm handshakes.
As they settled into their seats around a highly polished table Pine said, “Where exactly are we going?”
“It’s a very quick trip by jet” was all Lineberry would say.
“This will be my first time on a plane,” said Mercy. “The guy who told me what it was like never flew on one of these, I don’t think.”
“Most people don’t, Mercy,” said her sister.
They took off like a shot and quickly climbed to forty-one thousand feet. They were served coffee and a light meal, and in less than an hour they were descending through the clouds once more. After the jet cleared them, Pine looked out the window and saw a city down below with a wide body of water to the east.
“Where are we?”
“Savannah, Georgia,” said Lineberry. “And that’s the Atlantic.”
“And why Savannah?”
Lineberry looked at her, a bit sadly, Pine thought. “Just trust me, Atlee. Please. Just once more.”
His subdued demeanor only heightened her anxiety.
An SUV and a driver were waiting for them at the jet park. They climbed in and drove off.
They wound their way through the outskirts of the city until they turned into a place that made Pine’s heart skip a beat.
“A cemetery?” She shot her sister an anxious glance before looking at Lineberry.
“Jack, what the hell is going on?”
Sitting in the front passenger seat, Lineberry simply gazed stoically out the window. Then he directed the driver to stop the SUV on a narrow, patchy macadam road near the back of the cemetery. There were a number of tombstones here, some ten feet tall, several old and massive ornate crypts, and some simple bronze grave markers set in the grass.
As Lineberry got out, Pine grabbed his arm.
“You better tell us right now what the hell is going on, Jack. This . . . this is so shitty of you. I mean, a cemetery? Please God, don’t tell me we came here—”
He interjected, “I asked you to trust me. Either you do or you don’t. I would never knowingly hurt you, but I am also not going to hide the truth from you, not anymore.”
He turned and led them over to one section of graves. He stopped at a sunken plot with one of the simple markers. They all gathered close around and looked at the name on it.
“Mark Douglas?” read Pine, before glancing up at Lineberry in confusion.
“He was only forty-eight when he died,” noted Blum, reading the birth and death dates.
“Yes, he was,” said a voice. “He died far too early.”
They all turned as a woman in her midfifties stepped out from behind one of the crypts. Her dark hair was shot through with silver and hung to her shoulders. She had on dark jeans, black boots, and a black sailor’s peacoat. She was taller than Pine but an inch under Mercy’s height. She was lean, and her facial bone structure was flawless, observed Pine; she looked so casually elegant and beautiful that it took Pine’s breath away. The eyes were so sparkling a blue they seemed fake. But Pine knew they weren’t.