14 - J. T. Ellison [88]
“I know you were shocked as hell to see her fall so hard for me. What you’re saying is that maybe this is for the best. Right? You haven’t approved from the beginning.” He glared at the older man. “And quit calling me son.”
“Hey, Junior. You just don’t get it, do you?”
Baldwin rocked back on his heels, staring at Fitz with his mouth open. The indignation grew in his chest and he couldn’t help but lash out.
“You son of a bitch. You talked her into running, didn’t you? You gave her a way out. I know she’s been a little freaked about this big wedding thing, but…I can’t fucking believe this.” He stomped away, then whirled back, shoulders bunched, hands balled at his side. “And you stand there grinning like a fool, thinking this is funny?”
Fitz coughed into his hand. “Funny? Naw, I wouldn’t call it funny. Your reaction is amusing, yes, but I don’t think this situation is at all humorous. How well do you really know her, son? Do you honestly believe she’d stand you up at the altar?”
“I…” Baldwin swallowed hard. His hands unclenched, his shoulders slumped. He gritted his teeth, a small muscle in his jaw leaping to life. Did he? Did he really think that the love of his life would be so merciless and fearful as to not show up for their wedding? The lump in his chest started to dissolve, only to be replaced by a larger, much more painful knot.
“Finally figuring it out, aren’t you, son?”
Yes, he was. Fitz was pissed at him because he’d lost faith in Taylor. That he’d believed even for a fraction of a second that this strong, astounding, beautiful woman wouldn’t have the guts to tell him to his face that she didn’t want to be with him. The dread washed over him like a bucket of water. He looked at Fitz, seeing him for the first time. The smile wasn’t pleasant, it was tight and worried, small lines shooting between the older man’s brows.
“Jesus, Fitz, what do you think happened to her?”
“I don’t know, but I think it’s time to go inside and ask for help.”
Twenty-Eight
Nashville, Tennessee
Sunday, December 21
11:00 a.m.
The banks of the Cumberland River were rocky and icy. Leftover snow had been tromped through by the search-and-rescue teams, turning it a smoky gray. A helicopter hovered overhead, the whapping drone desultory. Search and Rescue had been revised to Recovery. Slumped-shouldered men and women wandered the bank, looking at each other blankly. It didn’t seem possible. Taylor Jackson, drowned in the river that fed vibrant life to her city.
John Baldwin stood on the VIP platform overlooking the River Stages facility. In happier times, the concrete pad would be filled with A-list partygoers reveling in the music of the most famous and popular bands. Now the platform was a staging area for the search. For the recovery.
After ninety minutes, it wasn’t technically a “search” anymore. The Nashville Fire Department, faces ashen and drawn, had called in the Office of Emergency Management Rescue unit. Cadaver dogs were on the bank of the river, two black Labs shivered in the boats floating on the icy surface. OEM had launched a craft loaded with the FISH, the side-view sonar that would be able to distinguish between a lumpy log and a body in the murky, fast-flowing water.
No one needed to say it aloud. In water this cold, Taylor wouldn’t have lasted more than five minutes. Logic told them there was a body out there somewhere. The only thing to do was drop the sonar and see what they could see. Which was absolutely nothing. After several hours, the call came to put the drag bar in the water. OEM’s Search and Rescue volunteers were doing everything possible to find her body before the river swept her away, the massive currents flowing north toward Kentucky.
Baldwin’s face was hard, worn. The lines around his eyes were etched deep, like a vein of quartz running through a Paleolithic stone. Taylor’s murder, if he could bring himself to