Part 29 (1/2)
We took Highway 21 out of Beaufort to Lady's Island, crossed Cowan's Creek to Saint Helena, and continued for several miles. At Eddings Point Road we turned left, and drove past miles of weather-beaten frame houses and trailers set on pilings. Plastic stretched across windows and porches sagged under the weight of moth-eaten easy chairs and old appliances. In the yards I could see junked auto frames and parts, makes.h.i.+ft sheds, and rusted septic tanks. Here and there a hand-lettered sign offered collards, b.u.t.ter beans, or goats.
Before long the blacktop made a hard left and sandy roads took off ahead and to the right. Baker turned and we entered a long, shady tunnel. Live oaks lined the road, their bark mossy, their branches arching overhead like the dome on a green cathedral. To either side ran narrow moats of algae-coated water.
Our tires scrunched softly as we pa.s.sed more mobile homes and run-down houses, some with plastic or wooden whirligigs, others with chickens scratching in the yards. Save for the model years of the beat-up cars and pickups, the area looked much as it must have in the nineteen-thirties. And forties. And fifties.
Within a quarter mile Adler Lyons joined us from the left. Baker turned and drove almost to the end and stopped. Across the way I could see mossy gravestones shaded by live oaks and magnolias. Here and there a wooden cross gleamed white in the murky shadows.
To our right stood a pair of buildings, the larger a two-story farmhouse with dark green siding, the smaller a bungalow, once white, its paint now gray and peeling. Behind the houses I observed trailers and a swing set.
A low wall separated the compound from the road. It was built of cinder blocks laid sideways and stacked, so the centers formed rows and layers of small tunnels. Each hollow was packed with vines and creepers, and purple wisteria meandered the length of the wall. At the driveway entrance a rusted metal sign said PRIVATE PROPERTY PRIVATE PROPERTY in bright orange letters. in bright orange letters.
The road continued less than a hundred feet past the wall, then ended in a stand of marsh gra.s.s. Beyond the weeds lay water the color of dull pewter.
”That should be four-three-five,” said Sheriff Baker, s.h.i.+fting into park and indicating the larger home. ”This was a fis.h.i.+ng camp years ago.” He tipped his head toward the water. ”That's Eddings Point Creek out there. It empties into the sound not too far up. I'd forgotten about this property. It was abandoned for years.”
The place had definitely seen better times. The siding on the farmhouse was patched and covered with mildew. The trim, once white, was now blistered and flaking to reveal a pale blue underlayer. A screened porch ran the width of the first floor, and dormer windows projected from the third, their upper borders mimicking in miniature the angle of the roof.
We got out, rounded the wall, and headed up the drive. Mist hung in the air like smoke. I could smell mud and decomposing leaves, and from far off, the hint of a bonfire.
The sheriff stepped onto the stoop while Ryan and I waited on the gra.s.s. The inner door stood open, but it was too dark to see past the screen. Baker moved to the side and knocked, rattling the door in its frame. Overhead, birdsong mingled with the click of palmetto fronds. From inside, I thought I heard a baby cry.
Baker knocked again.
In a moment we heard footsteps, then a young man appeared at the door. He had freckles and curly red hair, and wore denim overalls with a plaid s.h.i.+rt. I had a feeling we were about to interview Howdy Doody.
”Yeah?” He spoke through the screen, his eyes moving among the three of us.
”How are you doing?” asked Baker, greeting him with the Southern subst.i.tute for ”h.e.l.lo.”
”Fine.”
”Good. I'm Harley Baker.” His uniform made clear this was not a social call. ”May we come in?”
”Why?”
”We'd just like to ask you a few questions.”
”Questions?”
”Do you live here?”
Howdy nodded.
”May we come in?” Baker repeated.
”Shouldn't you have a warrant or something?”
”No.”
I heard a voice, and Howdy turned and spoke over his shoulder. In a moment he was joined by a middle-aged woman with a broad face and perm-frizzed hair. She held an infant to one shoulder, and alternately patted and rubbed its back. The flesh on her upper arm jiggled with each movement.
”It's a cop,” he said to her, stepping back from the screen.
”Yes?”
While Ryan and I listened, Baker and the woman exchanged the same B-movie dialogue we'd just heard. Then, ”There's no one here right now. You come back some other time.”
”You're here, ma'am,” replied Baker.
”We're busy with the babies.”
”We're not going away, ma'am,” said the Beaufort County sheriff.
The woman made a face, s.h.i.+fted the baby higher on her shoulder, and pushed open the screen door. Her flip-flops made soft popping sounds as we followed her across the porch and into a small foyer.
The house was dim and smelled slightly sour, like milk left overnight in a gla.s.s. Straight ahead, a staircase rose to the second floor, to the right and left archways opened on to large rooms filled with sofas and chairs.
The woman led us to the room on the left and indicated a grouping of rattan couches. As we sat she whispered something to Howdy, and he disappeared up the stairs. Then she joined us.
”Yes?” she asked quietly, looking from Baker to Ryan.
”My name is Harley Baker.” He set his hat on the coffee table and leaned toward her, hands on his thighs, arms bent outward. ”And you are?”
She placed an arm across the baby's back, cradled its head, and raised the other, palm toward him. ”I don't mean to be unpolite, Sheriff, but I got to know what you want.”
”Do you live here, ma'am?”
She hesitated, then nodded. A curtain rippled in a window behind me and I felt a damp breeze on my neck.
”We're curious about some calls made to this house,” Baker went on.
”Phone calls?”
”Yes, ma'am. Last fall. Would you have been here at that time?”
”There's no phone here.”
”No phone?”
”Well, just an office phone. Not for personal use.”
”I see.” He waited.
”We don't get phone calls.”
”We?”
”There are nine of us in this house, four next door. And of course the trailers. But we don't talk on no phones. It's not allowed.”
Upstairs, another baby started to cry.