Part 26 (2/2)
”Scene. Christ.”
When I slammed the door and leaned in the open window he started with a new argument.
”Tempe, think about it. Monkey island. Buried corpse. The local mayor. If there's a leak the press will go crazy with this, and you know how sensitive the animal rights issue is. I don't need the media discovering Murtry.”
”That could happen no matter who works the case.”
”I know. It's-”
”Let it go, Sam.”
As I watched him drive off, the pelican circled back and swooped low above the boat. A new fish glistened in its beak.
Sam had that same tenacity. I doubted he would let it go, and I was right.
17.
AFTER DINNER AT STEAMERS OYSTER BAR, KATY AND I VISITED A gallery on Saint Helena. We meandered the rooms of the creaky old inn, inspecting the work of local Gullah artists, appreciating another perspective on a place we thought we knew. But as I critiqued collages, paintings, and photos, I remembered bones and crabs and dancing flies. gallery on Saint Helena. We meandered the rooms of the creaky old inn, inspecting the work of local Gullah artists, appreciating another perspective on a place we thought we knew. But as I critiqued collages, paintings, and photos, I remembered bones and crabs and dancing flies.
Katy bought a miniature heron carved from bark and painted periwinkle blue. On the way home we stopped for coffee ice cream, then ate it on the bow of the Melanie Tess Melanie Tess, talking and listening to the lines and halyards of the surrounding sailboats clicking in the breeze. The moon spread a s.h.i.+mmering triangle outward from the marsh. As we chatted I watched the pale yellow light ripple on the undulating blackness.
My daughter confided her ambition to be a criminal profiler, and shared her misgivings about attaining that goal. She marveled at the beauty of Murtry and described the antics of the monkeys she'd observed. At one point I considered telling her of the day's discovery, but held back. I didn't want to sully the memory of her visit to the island.
I went to bed at eleven and lay for a long time listening to the creak of mooring lines and willing myself to sleep. Eventually I drifted off, taking the day with me and weaving it into the fabric of the last few weeks. I rode in a boat with Mathias and Malachy, desperately trying to keep them on board. I brushed crabs from a corpse, watched the seething ma.s.s re-form as fast as I scattered it. The corpse's skull morphed into Ryan's face, then into the charred features of Patrice Simonnet. Sam and Harry shouted at me, their words incomprehensible, their faces hard and angry.
When the phone woke me I felt disoriented, unsure where I was or why. I stumbled to the galley.
”Good morning.” It was Sam, his voice sounding strained and edgy.
”What time is it?”
”Almost seven.”
”Where are you?”
”At the sheriff's office. Your plan isn't going to work.”
”Plan?” My brain fought to patch into the conversation.
”Your guy is in Bosnia.”
I peeked through the blinds. At the inner dock, a grizzled old man sat on the deck of his sailboat. As I released the slats he tipped back his head and drained a can of Old Milwaukee.
”Bosnia?”
”Jaffer. The anthropologist at USC. He's gone to Bosnia to excavate ma.s.s graves for the UN. No one is sure when he'll be back.”
”Who's covering his casework?”
”It doesn't matter. Baxter wants you to do the recovery.”
”Who's Baxter?”
”Baxter Colker is the Beaufort County coroner. He wants you to do it.”
”Why?”
”Because I want you to do it.”
That was straightforward enough.
”When?”
”As soon as possible. Harley's got a detective and a deputy lined up. Baxter is meeting us here at nine. He has a transport team on call. When we're ready to leave Murtry, he'll phone over and they'll meet us at the Lady's Island dock to take the body to Beaufort Memorial. But he wants you to do the digging. Just tell us what equipment you need and we'll get it.”
”Is Colker a forensic pathologist?”
”Baxter's an elected official and has no medical training. He runs a funeral home. But he's conscientious as h.e.l.l and wants this thing done right.”
I thought for a minute.
”Does Sheriff Baker have any idea who might be buried out there?”
”There's a lot of drug s.h.i.+t that goes on down here. He's going to talk to the folks over at U.S. Customs and the local DEA people. Also the wildlife agents. Harley tells me they were staking out the marshes in the Coosaw River last month. He thinks one of the drug brethren is our best bet, and I agree. These guys value life about as much as a used Q-Tip. You will help us, won't you?”
Reluctantly, I agreed. I told him what equipment to gather and he said he'd get right on it. I was to be ready at ten.
For several minutes I stood there, unsure what to do about Katy. I could explain the situation and leave it up to her. After all, there was no reason she couldn't go with us to the island. Or, I could simply tell her that something had come up and Sam had asked me for help. Katy could spend the day here, or leave for Hilton Head earlier than planned. I knew the second was a better idea, but decided to tell her anyway.
I ate a bowl of Raisin Bran and washed the dish and spoon. Unable to sit still, I threw on shorts and a T-s.h.i.+rt, and went outside to check the lines and water tank. While there I realigned the chairs on the bridge. Inside again, I made my bed and straightened the towels in the head. I rearranged the pillows on the salon sofa and picked fluff from the carpet. I wound the clock and checked the time. Only seven-fifteen. Katy wouldn't be up for hours. Putting on running shoes, I quietly let myself out.
I drove down Route 21 east across Saint Helena to Harbor Island, then Hunting Island, and turned in at the state park. The narrow blacktop wound through a slough still and dark as an underground lake. Palmetto palms and live oaks rose from the murky bottom. Here and there a shaft of sunlight sliced through the canopy, turning the water a honey gold.
I parked near the lighthouse and crossed a boardwalk to the beach. The tide was out and the wet sand glistened like a mirror. I watched a sandpiper skitter between tidal pools, its long filament legs disappearing into an inverted image of itself. The morning was cool, and goose b.u.mps formed on my arms and legs as I went through my warm-up.
I ran east beside the Atlantic Ocean, my feet sinking only slightly into the packed sand. The air was absolutely calm. I pa.s.sed a formation of pelicans bobbing on the gently rolling water. The broom sedge and sea oats stood motionless on the dunes.
As I jogged I studied the ocean's offerings. Driftwood, rippled and smoothed and covered in barnacles. Tangled seaweed. The s.h.i.+ny brown sh.e.l.l of a horseshoe crab. A mullet, its eyes and innards gnawed clean by crabs and gulls.
I ran until my lungs burned. Then I ran some more. When I got back to the boardwalk, my trembling legs could barely carry me up the stairs. But mentally I felt rejuvenated. Maybe it was the dead fish, or even the horseshoe crab. Maybe I'd simply raised my endorphin level. But I no longer dreaded the day ahead. Death occurred every minute of every day in every place on the globe. It was part of the cycle of life, and that included Murtry Island. I would unearth this corpse and deliver it to those in charge. That was my job.
When I slipped back onto the boat Katy was still asleep. I made coffee, then went to shower, hoping the sound of the pump wouldn't disturb her. When I'd dressed, I toasted two English m.u.f.fins, spread them with b.u.t.ter and blackberry jam, and took them to the salon. Friends tell me that physical exertion is an appet.i.te depressant. Not for me. Exercise makes me want to devour my body weight in food.
<script>