Dance of Death Read Free

“Brent . . . Brent . . . ,” she said softly through her tears. She saw the wet, sticky blood trickling from his head, sliding lazily across his face. It sounded like water moving over rocks in a creek. She prayed, “Oh, God, please let him be okay.” Brent was dying, but she didn’t know what she could do to save him.
    William Brent Poole Jr., just ten minutes earlier, had been celebrating his third anniversary. Loving and caring for his wife. Making plans for their child and their marriage. And sharing hope that marked their future. It didn’t seem right.
    The masked man did not yet understand the magnitude of the tragedy he had inflicted on the night of June 9, 1998, when he shot Brent Poole at close range, putting two bullets in his brain and leaving him for dead. A young life had suddenly been snuffed out at the threshold of his adulthood.
    For the next twenty months, the inexplicable logic of why someone would have wanted Brent Poole dead would become the greatest challenge for both Brent and Renee’s family. An enormous amount of time, money, energy, resources and manpower from seven divisions of police authorities in South Carolina, North Carolina and Virginia would dedicate themselves to solving that riddle. Ultimately, the answer to that question would be determined by a court of law and the American justice system.

CHAPTER 2
    Renee was alone and frightened.
    She sat still and looked at her husband as he struggled to live. He was still hanging on, but not by much. She stared at his body as he spasmed involuntarily. His blood continued to pulsate from the open wounds underneath his chin and above his left ear. Dripping from his head and onto the sand, it formed a bright red narrow stream, crawling over the sand and flowing toward the sea.
    Renee felt as if somebody had poured hot molten lead into her stomach. The unavoidable trauma of having witnessed the shooting had been much too intense. She found it difficult to breathe and unconsciously kept pulling at her T-shirt. Her ears roared as if her head were being held down in a five-gallon bucket of water.
    He needs help, she silently repeated over and over. He needs a doctor.
    Renee tried to stand and felt the blood drain from her head. Her knees buckled. She tried again, but couldn’t get her body to cooperate. Her brain seemed paralyzed.
    â€œ Get help, get help,” she kept mumbling.
    Renee finally swayed to her feet. She wanted to help Brent, but didn’t know what to do. Everything was in a fog—like she was in some two-bit movie. Not really in it, but just standing on the outside watching the images of the shooting. In her mind’s eye, the reel was stuck and the same scene played over and over again.
    You’ve got to get help, a voice inside kept repeating.
    Renee was determined to override her physical body. She looked around, but there was no one else on the beach. She stood still and screamed, but nothing came out. She tried to scream a second time. Still nothing. Remembering the lights from the police car earlier on the beach, she looked to see if it was still there. It was.
    Yes, I see it. There. On the beach. A truck was coming toward her at about one hundred feet away. She’d stop the truck and get somebody to help her. Walking away from Brent’s body, she staggered down the beach like a sunburned wino who had just finished off his last pint.
    Even though it was near midnight, Myrtle Beach was still pulsating with people, mainly tourists and families beginning their summer vacation. Out on the boulevard, cars were backed up for miles, bumper to bumper. While the neon and fluorescent lights flooded the heart of town, a crowd of people in shorts and T-shirts strolled back and forth from the Pavilion Amusement Park and ocean to the hundreds of high-rise hotels and cottages that bordered the beaches. She could hear their laughter floating with the wind, but they were oblivious to Renee’s pleas