Wilmington, NC 04 - Murder At Wrightsville Beach

like some sort of primeval beast, a multi-legged dinosaur with a humped back. We approached the pier and J.C. told us to stop. Foam tickled my ankles.
    "Okay, up there. Up to the boardwalk."
    Street lamps shone down on our slow procession but there was no one out. I prayed for a Wrightsville PD patrol cruiser out checking on things but none came by.
    We crossed the sand to the Oceanic Restaurant. J.C. motioned us up the ramp that ran along the south wall of the restaurant. At the top of the ramp a tall gate barred our way. "It's locked," I said aloud, relieved.
    But J.C. only sneered, "That rusty lock won't stop us." He lifted a foot and kicked the gate open, then chuckled, "The other night when I was here, it wasn't even locked."
    The other night? I thought furiously. Oh my gosh , the night Devin drowned. He was confessing to Devin's drowning.
    He steered us out on the pier, past the white plastic tables and chairs that were arranged under strings of lights. About a third of the way out on the pier, we came to the barricade with its "Danger" sign.
    "Okay, squeeze through," he instructed. "Go ahead, there's plenty of room. I've done it, so can you. " The spaces between the railings of the barricade were wide.
    "J.C., take the handcuffs off," I pleaded. "I need my hands to balance me while I crawl through that opening."
    "That's why I cuffed you in front. You've got the use of your hands. Now hurry up. You first, Campbell. Once you're out there, I know you aren't going anywhere." He laughed.
    "You're crazy, Lauder. I'm not going out on that pier. It's about ready to collapse."
    J.C. pressed the muzzle of the gun against the back of my head. "Do as I say or I'll pull this trigger."
    "Okay, okay!" Jon said and sat down on a cross rail. He swung his legs to the other side, then slid his upper body through.
    "Now you," J.C. said, motioning with the gun.
    I acted clumsy, stalling for time, pretended I couldn't do it. "I'm not as agile as you guys," I lied.
    "Just do it!" he yelled and pressed the gun up under my chin to show me he meant business.
    "Don't shoot her!" Jon yelled. "Here, Ashley, take my hands, I'll guide you through." He reached for me and I let him lead me, lifted my legs and climbed through the opening.
    "Stand clear," J.C. ordered, "Give me room."
    As sinewy and elastic as he was, he maneuvered through the opening in one motion. A flock of seagulls that were roosting on the pier let out raucous cries; angry that their sleep had been disturbed they flew up to circle the pier.
    The pier was unsteady and swayed with our every movement. The decking undulated, buckled up then dropped down, like a roller coaster.
    "Get moving," J.C. said, "down to the end."
    The end of the pier was closed off by a few spindly railings, scarcely strong enough to hold the few gulls that settled there again.
    Something sharp pierced my bare foot. "Ouch," I cried, and jumped on one foot.
    "Steady, Ashley," Jon said, supporting me.
    "It's just a splinter," J.C. said. "Stop being such a baby. Now walk down to the end!"
    I hopped to keep my weight off my injured foot but my abrupt movements caused the pier to shift and I screamed.
    "Stop that!" J.C. yelled.
    I bent over again, trying to reach the sharp splinter with my cuffed hands.
    Then I realized that in moving toward me to help me regain my balance, Jon had deliberately placed himself between J.C. and me. With his body blocking mine, he confronted J.C. "If you think I'm going to let you throw her off the end of this pier, you're nuttier than I thought."
    I pressed up closer to Jon's back, making myself as small a target as possible.
    J.C. waved the gun at us menacingly.
    "Go ahead, shoot us now," Jon taunted. "That'd be better than a slow death by drowning. And who knows," he added, "maybe you'll miss. Maybe a cop car will come by and see us up here. Or a surfer will come out for a swim."
    J.C. was growing angrier by the moment. "You think I won't shoot you?"
    "Like you shot Valentine Russo," I accused. "Valentine! Who'd been your friend for decades, who helped you get established on the art scene. Are you going to shoot us like you shot her? She didn't even put up a fight. Why did you do it, J.C.?"
    I wasn't able to see his face clearly but I visualized the sneer.
    "She saw something she wasn't supposed to see. Meddling bitch. Then she had the nerve to call me and say, 'Hey J.C., we've got a little problem here. I'm mystified. There's something odd about this signature.'" He