My Sister's Keeper

Chapter 39

39

DANE BONNER TURNED OFF Highway 133 west of Wilmington near Kendall Chapel and guided his Escalade through thick brush along an overgrown dirt trail leading back to a nineteenth-century farm house. He'd stolen the property from a client that had gotten the death penalty for the rape, torture, and murder of an eleven-year-old boy the man had picked up hitch-hiking. Although it was located in Brunswick County, it was just minutes from Wilmington along the western side of the lower Cape Fear River—a tract he now called "The Bonner Place."

The two-story frame house had been built in the late 1800s and had been wired for electricity later with exposed cables running up and down the outside of the house. The barns and sheds had been added in the more affluent 1950s. Behind the barn, there was a bulkhead and dock on the river. He got out of his car, pulled open the front doors to the barn and parked the car inside.

Bonner lit a kerosene lantern, unbolted the front door to the house, and stepped into a narrow hallway. There were doors on his left and right and stairs going up to the second floor. The house had not been cleaned or even opened for fresh air in two decades. A hole in the roof had gone unattended for years and the air reeked of dampness, mold, and bird droppings. The wallpaper throughout the house had turned dark brown and, in places, drooped from the walls like pig's ears. Cobwebs shadowed all corners and the floors were barely visible under a chalky layer of dust. He stepped into the front room to his left and walked to a metal table placed against a dark window. The corner of the room nearest the center of the house had a fireplace set in it at a 45-degree angle that shared a chimney with a fireplace in the next room. Behind the wire grill were the carcasses of black birds and squirrels unfortunate enough to get trapped in the chimney. In the room beyond, a double window was completely covered over by a hardy sprig of poisonous Carolina Jessamine that had somehow managed to find its way through the floor and now sought a way out.

Bonner sat, struck a long wooden match, lit a pair of oil lamps that he pulled in close to his face, and leaned forward to evaluate his reflection in a magnifying mirror set on a wire stand.

The time was near for Dane Bonner to reclaim his body.

Dipping a cotton swab into an aging glass bottle of mineral spirits, he dabbed the solution into his thick black mustache and heavy eyebrows to dissolve the glue that held them in place. Slowly the gum released the pieces of his disguise and he peeled them off one at a time, being careful not to rip the skin. Still the glue irritated his face and left a rash above his lip and eyebrows that he smeared with cold cream.

Wetting a fingertip on his tongue, he removed the dark brown contact lenses that hid his fiery blue eyes, put them away, and combed styling gel through his graying hair. After giving the cold cream one last blending, he donned a pair of designer eyeglasses and checked his reflection.

Soon. Very soon.

Leaving, he climbed into the other car parked in the garage—a silver Porsche Boxster— and fired up the brassy engine.

EIGHTY-FIVE MILES AWAY, Greg Walker eased off I-40 near Calypso at its intersection with US 701, turned right, and pulled up to a gas pump at a truck stop. The parking lot was overrun with tractor trailers, campers, and overnight travelers hoping to make better time driving at night. As he inserted the fuel nozzle and squeezed the trigger, he also pressed his legs together and scanned the building for a restroom. The cool air made the urgency in his bladder worse as he shuffled from foot to foot. On the opposite side of the pump, an older woman with a bold streak of gray in her hair filled the tank while a younger woman and two kids slept in their station wagon.

When the nozzle finally tripped off, Greg slapped it back on the pump, screwed the cap back in place, and loped toward the entrance holding his side. He brushed past a drifter sitting next to the door holding a sign that read Memphis, straightened up as best he could, and hustled as casually as possible toward the men's room at the rear of the store.

Banging into an empty stall, he gripped the handicapped bar, closed his eyes, and released his bladder. The ground shook and the building rattled. His head jerked around as multiple car alarms went off simultaneously and people began shouting and screaming. A sprinkling of dust drifted by his eyes and settled on his shoulders as he held his position until the last of the liquid dribbled from his bladder.

When he left the restroom, the screams and blaring horns grew louder and he instantly felt the heat from the enormous fire burning in the parking lot. His shoes skidded on tiny squares of glass from the windows blown in along one side of the building. Stepping out through an opening now missing its glass, he saw men struggling against the heat trying to get close to a car on fire at an exit to the parking lot, and another man running toward the fire with a large hand-held fire extinguisher. The woman driving the station wagon rammed the car behind her, shoving it out of her way while the children in the back seat screamed.

Another explosion propelled the burning car up and backward toward the gas pumps. Flames leapt fifty feet into the air and everyone scattered for cover. The attendant hit the emergency kill switch and waved everyone away. "Get back!"

Greg ran toward the spot where he'd left the Corvette, but it was not there. He turned in a circle looking for it and ran to the middle of the parking lot searching the entire area. He turned back to the burning car and his eyes fell on the silhouette of the man inside slumped against the steering wheel  his clothes on fire—then moved down to the wheels. Polished chrome wheels. Corvette wheels. A tire blew and Greg began to shake. Just a little at first, then an uncontrollable violent rattling of his bones. His knees became weak and his lungs spasmed. He backed away, turned, and stumbled back into the building, snatched a cold soda and a map, tossed five dollars on the counter, and walked down the road heading back toward I-40.

Looking over his shoulder, he could see the glow of the fire and thick black smoke curling into the night sky, sparks shooting upward like fireflies.

As fire trucks and police cars wailed by, he flipped his collar up, crossed the highway, and stuck his thumb out.