The television reporters and cameramen saw Winston as he approached, and they could tell something was afoot. They scrambled into a cluster at the edge of the asphalt. He recognized the crime reporter from the Wilmington Star News and the field reporter from the State Port Pilot just down the road in Southport. Nearly all of them held either a microphone, a tape recorder, or a camera.
Winston pulled the notepad from his back pocket and flipped through it until he found the page on which he’d jotted his talking points in the grocery store parking lot. He took a deep breath. “Good morning,” he said. “I’m Sheriff Winston Barnes. Last night, a little after four a.m., the sheriff’s office arrived on the scene here at the airport, where we discovered an airplane abandoned on the runway, along with the body of an individual.”
“What was in the airplane?” asked the blond-haired reporter from Channel 3. “Can you tell us who was flying it?”
Winston lifted his hand to show that he wasn’t done speaking, and then he continued. “At this time, the victim has been identified as Rodney Bellamy of Southport, and Mr. Bellamy’s family has been notified. We have no information that links Bellamy or his death to this aircraft, but I want to stress that this is an active investigation, and that the airport will remain closed until it is completed. If anyone has any information on the events of last night, you are encouraged to contact—” Winston watched a Chevy crew cab dually pull into the lot. frye and son construction was labeled on the side. The truck parked at the end of the row of cars on Winston’s right. “If anyone has any information, please contact the sheriff’s office. I will not be taking any questions at this time. Thank you.”
But of course that didn’t keep the gaggle of reporters from calling out Winston’s name and shouting questions at him as he and Kepler walked past them. Winston gave them all a pinched smile and a couple of patient nods, but he didn’t stop to speak to them, and they didn’t follow.
He and Kepler walked along the edge of the parking lot toward Marie’s car, and as Winston removed his keys from his pocket, Bradley Frye climbed out of his truck. Winston watched as Frye straightened his pants and made sure his shirt was tucked in. He noted the pistol Frye had holstered at his side. What in the hell is he doing with that? Winston thought.
“Sheriff, Deputy,” Frye said, nodding at Winston and Kepler. His smooth, tan skin, blue eyes, and parted blond hair made him look ten years younger than his forty-one. His white polo shirt and khakis were clean and pressed crisp and straight. A first glance would take Bradley Frye for old money, but anyone who hung around him longer than a few minutes would discover that his family’s money was new, and it was spent on things like big trucks, expensive boats, and parcels of land where spec houses were thrown up overnight. Winston was more accustomed to arresting men like Bradley Frye for drunk driving or picking up prostitutes than he was accustomed to standing against them in an election.
“Brad,” Winston said. He reached out and shook Frye’s hand. Kepler did the same. Winston noted a sense of embarrassment on Kepler’s behalf, and it endeared him to Winston, this small recognition of the awkwardness he found himself in as the two rivals stood toe-to-toe at a crime scene within earshot of the local media.
“I thought I’d come by and see if I could help out,” Frye said. “I heard y’all might have your hands full this morning.” He looked out toward the runway, and then he looked over at the gathered group of reporters. A few of them were recording the scene on the runway where the ambulance had parked. Two paramedics lifted a stretcher holding Rodney’s covered body into the back of the ambulance. Rollins and Rountree stood by and watched.
“We’re doing okay,” Winston said. “Things are moving along. Ain’t that right, Deputy Kepler?”
“That’s right, Sheriff,” Kepler said, his voice quiet. “Moving along.”
Winston looked at Frye. “But we appreciate you coming by.”
“Heard y’all had a dead colored boy out there on the runway,” Frye said.
For the moment, Winston ignored him and looked at Kepler. “You mind heading back out there? I’ll get somebody here soon to relieve you.” Kepler nodded, and then he turned and walked back toward the runway.
Winston turned to face Frye. “Man,” he said.
“What?”
“He was a man,” Winston said. “You said ‘boy,’ but he was a man.”
“Yeah, well,” Frye said, “y’all thinking drugs?”
“We’re not thinking anything right now, Brad,” Winston said. “We’ve got an investigation to complete. There’s plenty of time for thinking later.”
“Well, I guess we’ll see what the voters have to say about that next week, huh, Sheriff.” He smiled.
“I guess we will,” Winston said.
Frye squinted his eyes and looked out at the airplane on the runway. He smiled. “See some FBI fellows out there,” he said. “I bet that means it was drugs.” He crossed his arms. “Drugs from Mexico. And you got the coloreds out here waiting to unload them and move them through this county.”
“That’s a great theory,” Winston said. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work.”
Frye put his hand on Winston’s shoulder to stop him as he tried to step past him toward Marie’s driver’s-side door. Winston looked over at the reporters. Most of them were now busy winding cords and loading equipment back into their vans.
“You shoot him?” Frye asked.
“Don’t touch me, Brad,” Winston said.
“I know you took out a colored boy back in Gastonia. Good for you if you got this one too.” The ambulance drove past on its way out of the parking lot. “You just let me know what I can do, Sheriff,” Frye said. “I got a bunch of boys on my crew who’d be happy to lend a hand. I don’t plan to wait until I’m sworn in as sheriff to protect this county.”
Winston shrugged off Frye’s hand. He looked down at the gun on Frye’s belt, an expensive Browning Hi Power with a mother-of-pearl handle that Winston couldn’t imagine Frye even figuring out how to hold, much less shoot.
“You can start by leaving that sidearm at home,” he said. “It’s illegal to open carry, and I’d hate to have to jail my opponent so close to the election.”
“Would you now?” Frye said.
“I would,” Winston said, “but I will. Get back in your daddy’s truck, Brad. Go to work.”
Marie was standing behind the screen door when Winston pulled into the driveway. She waved, and he forced a smile instead of waving back. The truth was, his hands were shaking, just as they had been shaking since his stare-down with Bradley Frye. How had Frye known about what had happened in Gastonia? How would anyone know about that? To have it resurrected now was a shock that Winston was struggling to handle, compounding his worry over Marie, his grief for Colleen, and the appearance of this airplane that seemed to have fallen from the sky to land beside Rodney Bellamy’s dead body. And now the investigation was being taken from him and turned over to the FBI, and everyone was watching him just as Marie stood at the door and watched him now.