by Bryan, JL
Captain Walker’s crew lashed the ferry to the dock.
“If we’re not taking the van, how are we getting around in Brunswick?” I asked. “Are we just hiring a Lyft or something? I’m not sure I’ve updated my credit card information on the app.” I pulled out my phone.
“We are not doing that.” Brad looked like he’d smelled a dead fish. Which he likely had, because there were plenty of fishy odors rising from the marsh. “It wouldn’t be secure enough for Wyatt…among so many other factors. I’ve chartered an executive sprinter.”
“What’s an executive sprinter?” I asked.
“Better than a Lyft,” Brad said. “Though feel free to order your own ride if you prefer.”
“No need, there should be plenty of room if Brad got us a decent one.” Wyatt started toward the ferry, and everyone else followed, like he was a powerful magnet and the rest of us were just iron filings trailing after.
“I did better than decent.” Brad sounded a little insulted. “There's a company that specializes in secure quality transport, thank goodness, on Saint Simons Island.”
Darika greeted Captain Walker in her usual crisp, cool way and introduced him to Wyatt and his entourage. The ferryman was cordial. In the background, his younger crew members couldn’t stop glancing over at Wyatt, definitely recognizing their famous passenger. If Captain Walker had any idea of Wyatt’s special status in the rest of the world, he gave no sign. All fares were equal to the old ferryman.
“Okay, hold down the fort,” Wyatt said to Darika as he stepped onto the ferry.
“Me? Hold the fort?” Darika looked perplexed. “I haven’t left this island in weeks. And I’m familiar with Brunswick. I was staying in a hotel there originally, before things here went…sour.”
“You mean before your budget blew up like Mount Vesuvius?” Brad imitated an explosion with both hands.
“Why don’t you go grab someone a tissue, Brad?” Darika snapped. “Or go polish a shoe.”
“Aw, are you about to cry, Darika? I know it's all been so overwhelming for you.”
“Our driver will know the way around,” Renoir said to Wyatt. “We’ll be fine without Darika.”
“Yes, thank you for that, Renoir.” Darika watched us climb aboard, leaving her alone on the dock.
She kept watching, seemingly at a loss for words, as the ferry pulled away from the island, leaving her there.
I felt bad for her, but I wasn’t sure whether to say anything, and actually would have preferred fewer people on this trip, ideally just Stacey and me. Wyatt seemed intent on getting involved, though, despite the advice of the people around him, and he wasn’t going anywhere without his bodyguard and assistant. And his chef, obviously, because he could hardly be expected to travel without one.
We gathered along the railing by the shaded passenger area, though we didn’t need the roof shade on this overcast day. The view of the water quieted us for a while. I watched for sharks as we crossed The Hole, the dark underwater pit brimming with the ocean's largest predators.
Chapter Twenty-Two
We passed Jekyll Island again, with its haunted-looking forest of dead and fallen oaks killed by salt, the old sun-bleached trunks like the bones of giants. Colorful pleasure boats and Jet Skis zipped through the waters around the island, riders whooping and cheering as though determined to ignore the vast and spreading specter of death along the shore, like the masked attendees at Prospero’s ball.
Beyond Jekyll, we quickly approached civilization, signified by the lighthouse of Saint Simons Island. Where Cumberland, Satilla, and to a large extent even Jekyll were now dominated by nature preserves, Saint Simons was enthusiastically and unapologetically commercial, brimming with tourist shops and rental cottages right up to the edge of the water.
“I guess we’re out of the middle of nowhere,” I said to Wyatt.
“That didn't take long,” he replied, grinning.
We docked at a secure terminal that was out of the public eye, though still not in the middle of nowhere.
Stacey and I were the last to leave the ferry. We glanced over at Captain Walker in his wheelhouse before we did. He didn’t come out, just raised his Hawks cap briefly and looked away.
Once off the boat, Brad strode confidently toward one of the few vehicles in the parking lot, a dust-gray cargo-sized van. Its windows looked cloudy and dull, giving no hint of what lay inside. Faded wheelchair symbols were stenciled on the back and doors; overall it looked like some kind of medical or charity transport for the elderly or disabled.
I cast a puzzled look in Stacey’s direction. This wasn't the kind of vehicle I’d expected.
As the six of us approached, the driver hopped out to meet us. She was smiling, heavyset and in her fifties, wearing a black suit with a starched white shirt. “You must be Brad. The office forwarded your picture.”
“I am he,” Brad said. “And you must be Lanita, our driver. I am so very, very pleased to meet you.”
“Thank you, sir. And while I will take you to any destination in the Golden Islands area, I can also serve as your local guide and mobile concierge. I am here to maximize your comfort and enjoyment in every possible way.” She pressed a button on her key fob.
A side panel of the van silently slid aside. A step folded down, inviting us in.
Brad leaned forward with a slight frown and a critical eye.
I wasn’t sure how critical he could be, because the interior space looked like the first-class cabin of an airplane, with four large leather chairs with armrests, plus a leather sofa built into the back. Thick, dark privacy curtains blocked all the windows, including the rear windshield; the driver must have had a rear-video feed to watch instead. The driver and front passenger seat were partially blocked from view by a large television screen.
The floors and paneling looked like hardwood, and a glass-fronted minibar glowed blue along the side opposite the open door. So that was an executive sprinter, I learned—limousine-quality accommodations hidden inside a large, plain-looking van. More spacious than a limo, too.
A bright blue swath of sky glowed down from the roof, which was odd because the day was overcast and threatening rain, like a teenage sky goddess slowly realizing she’d been stood up on prom night and preparing to unleash torrents.
“Video ceiling! I love these.” Wyatt bounded up into the van and found the controls for the ceiling screen and the interior lighting, which shifted from its original soft white to a bright red, then a deep blue, then a funky green, then a disturbing Pepto pink. The ceiling screen shifted to a thunderstorm, then stars and planets as if flying through outer space.
“This looks great,” Brad told Lanita, all hint of critical inspection gone, either satisfied with the interior or reflecting Wyatt’s positive response. “And I can’t say enough how glad I am that you’re here, and that your company is here and exists. Please continue to be here and exist for as long as I must work in the area.”
“I’m glad you’re happy, Mr. Brad,” Lanita said.
“I call the couch.” Farlee stepped up inside, but Brad shook his head.
“Not you, Farlee,” Brad told her. “You’re not riding with us.”
“What?” She looked offended. “I have at least three stops to make, depending on the selection at Jackie’s Seafood Market. There’s a local produce source on Saint Simons I want to consider—”
“Exactly,” Brad said. “And that’s why you have your own vehicle.”
“My own?” Farlee stepped out, looking excited.
“When I told them you’d be shopping for raw fish, they said they had just the thing.” Brad pointed to a rattling brown clunker as it pulled up behind the luxury-filled van. “There’s even a cooler for you in back. They were happy to tack it onto our not inconsiderable bill.”
Farlee watched as her own driver stepped out. He looked like Kid Rock in granny glasses, with a long mop of graying hair and a significant amount of facial stubble missed by his last attempt at shaving.
“Hey, is one of you, uh…” He rummaged through the pockets of his suit, which was similar to the other driver’s but ill-fitting, too tight in the stomach and baggy in the pants, and finally located an index card. “Farrell? Farma?”
“Enjoy your shopping,” Brad told Farlee. “This way you can take all the time you need.”
Farlee’s face went crimson, and it looked like a storm was brewing just behind it. “Thanks so much, Brad.” She stalked off to the junky, wheezing car.
“You’re a beautiful and kind old soul, Farlee,” Brad called as the slobby driver dropped his keys and recovered them on his way to opening the back door for her.
“Do you mind if I ride up front?” Renoir asked our driver, Lanita. “I like to keep an eye out.”
Her eyes swept Renoir up and down—tall, dark, handsome, his muscles obvious through his polo shirt. “You can ride with me all you like, sir.” She opened the passenger-side front door for him. “My magic carpet awaits.”
Brad glanced at us as he stepped inside. Wyatt had taken a front-row passenger chair and swiveled it backward so he could more easily monkey with the touchscreen controls for the cabin. Brad took the chair beside Wyatt and swiveled it backward, too.
Stacey and I followed, taking the opposite chairs. The four of us could have been meeting for lunch, especially if we pulled out the foldaway tables on the walls. The chairs were unbelievably soft; I felt my spine settle gently into a padded, supported spot. Controls along the arm invited me to lay the seat flat like a bed and look up at the planets and comets, or perhaps enjoy a nice automated massage, but I resisted those invitations.
“This is pretty sweet.” Stacey reclined a little and made the headset tilt forward.
“Where are we meeting Mr. P. D. Tribune, if that is his real name, which it obviously isn’t?” I asked. The side door closed quietly. When the van started to move, the ride was a smooth, pleasant glide.
“Hanover Square. He wanted to meet in public.” Brad unfolded the table in front of Wyatt and poured him a cup of water, using a collapsible cup and steel thermos from one of the bags he carried.
“That’s a park downtown,” Lanita said. There was currently no partition to the driver’s area, though one could be lowered. “I can have you there in fifteen minutes.”
“Let’s do it!” Wyatt said. He gestured at Brad, who slipped virtual reality goggles over Wyatt's head, then strapped wired gloves onto Wyatt's hands. “Let me know when we’re there.”
I could barely tell the van was moving. It was so well insulated against the outside environment that we could have been traveling anywhere in the world, focused inward on our screens and luxuriously comfortable chairs.
“I’ll have to meet this person first,” Renoir said, looking back at us from the driver area. “Make sure he’s not armed.”
“We can handle that if you want to stick with Wyatt,” I said. “And three would be kind of a crowd. We don’t want to scare off a witness who’s already being cagey.”
“I need to be there,” Renoir insisted. “One of you can come with me.”
“Okay. You okay with waiting here, Stacey?”
“Uh, in the VIP van? I’m good, yeah.” Stacey turned her chair back and forth, testing it out. “But hey, Lanita, can I ask? Why the wheelchair logos on the outside? This doesn’t look equipped for them.”
“It makes people look away faster,” Lanita said. “Some people want to ride in a showy stretch limousine or Humvee, and we offer those. But others prefer to travel anonymously, without turning heads. Sometimes you just want peace and quiet. Everything about the outside of the van is meant to make people look away. Pumpkin on the outside, coach on the inside.”
“An S.E.P. field,” Wyatt said, though still absorbed in the world of his virtual goggles, his fingers tapping in the air as if playing an invisible piano.
“A what?” Stacey asked.
“A Somebody Else’s Problem field,” Wyatt replied. “From The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy series? It’s a technology that renders you nearly invisible by making you look like somebody else’s problem, one other people try not to notice so they don’t have to get involved. So you're not truly invisible, but instead people avoid looking at you and then forget about you quickly.”
“Sheesh, that’s bleak,” Stacey said.
I raised the window shade next to my seat. The glass of the side windows had looked cloudy and dark from the outside, but that was something of a trick. From the inside, the view was crystal clear.
Colorful beach-town bungalows rolled past, then quickly gave way to an old-timey brick downtown with Victorian houses and buildings. One impressive brick and stone building bristled with spires and pediments and a soaring clock tower. Gargoyle faces bared their teeth from each of its corners, warding off evil spirits. Maybe the old Grolman place needed a few of those.
“What’s the gargoyle building?” I asked the driver.
“Old City Hall. It’s mostly used for weddings now.”
“Oh, yeah, it’s pretty,” Stacey said, leaning over me to look out. “Hey, maybe y'all should just get married there, Wyatt.”
“I hardly think it would be suitable—” Brad began, though he hadn’t looked at the building at all.
“Do you think so?” Wyatt raised the blind beside him. “Hey, that’s cool. Like an Italian palazzo spliced with a nineteenth-century bank.”
“I could make inquiries,” Brad said.
“Forget it. Satilla Island will happen. Adrienne will be floored.” Wyatt nodded as if to convince himself of this. Trying to program his own reality, like Darika had said.
I had my doubts about whether Wyatt’s fiancée would really be happy about the wedding location at all, especially given how little time they had to finish and prepare the massive old house. Wyatt seemed ready and willing to throw heaps of money at that problem, but his ability to do that was stuck on hold until we removed the ghosts.
I could see why he was here, giving it his close personal attention, monitoring us himself.
We arrived at Hanover Square in no time. It was a sizable lawn of grass paved with straight and narrow brick paths, a park that encouraged no funny business. A canopy of towering trees kept the paths and benches shaded and cooled, inviting visitors to enjoy a break from the hot, sticky Georgia summer. The park was surrounded by residential lanes with modest brick houses and a few tall, colorful ones with gingerbread trim on their porches and balconies.
Lanita parked in a quiet, out-of-the-way alley across from the park.
“Here we are,” she said. “First stop, the park. Second stop, just let me know.” She looked at Renoir as she said this.
“We’ll need to visit the courthouse and maybe the library, wherever the town’s oldest records are stored,” I said.
“Perhaps you should have your own fish car like Farlee,” Brad said.
“Our company only has the one,” Lanita told him. “For special occasions. Practical jokes, usually.”
“Aw, we’ll settle for an executive sprinter if we have to,” Stacey said.
“I guess we’re up.” I glanced at Renoir and moved toward the side door. It opened and rolled aside for me before I could find the handle.
As we stepped out, Renoir drew on a black baseball cap featuring the LookyLoon logo, the bird with its big red eye and L-shaped pupil.
“This is how the contact will recognize us,” Renoir said. “I think it’ll look better on you than me.”
“But you’re taller,” I said. “Like a billboard. He’ll be more likely to see you.”
Renoir gave me a half-smile and reluctantly put it on. “You got me there.”
“Why don’t you both wear one?” Brad suggested. “We have plenty.”
“It would be weird if we both did,” I said, then rolled the door shut before he could make any more suggestions.
Renoir and I started across the street toward the park.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It was sparsely popul
ated in the middle of the weekday. The brick paths converged from every side of the grassy square onto a three-tiered fountain at the center. A few benches along the heavily shaded paths were occupied, but most were not.
“Do we just wait here?” I asked as we approached the fountain.
“And stay on guard. This guy could be an all-out loon,” Renoir reminded me.
“Is that the best word choice when you work for the LookyLoon guy?”
“Probably not.”
We ambled around the fountain, orbiting it slowly like courting couples might have done a century earlier, keeping an eye out for any approaching strangers. Or gossipy matrons, it felt like.
“Six o’ clock,” Renoir finally said, and I looked back.
The guy approaching us wore a ratty tan bucket hat decorated with lures and buttons, as well as a khaki fishing vest with zippered pockets that could have held an alarming number of small knives or other weapons. He also carried an old leather satchel that could have held a gun.
“Let’s see if he follows.” Renoir verged off onto the next path, and I stuck close by him.
“’Scuse me,” the guy said, trying to hide it as a loud cough, like he was a spy for a really low-budget country.
We stopped and looked back at him. The man had long, unkempt gray hair, and he drew out a pack of Camels as he approached us. He lit one as he studied Renoir’s cap like he was looking for a secret code.
“Are you Publius D. Tribune?” I asked, feeling ridiculous as I heard the words come out of my mouth.
“I may have gone by that appellation a time or two, long ago,” he said.
“I’m Ellie, and this is Renoir. Is there another name we can call you?”
“You work for the LookyLoon guy?”
“We do,” I said.
“All right. I guess you can call me Chalmer. Tell me, does ol’ Fancypants Wyatt have any idea what he’s gotten into over on Satilla Island? Any idea at all?”
“Like what, specifically?” I asked.
“Y’all mean to say you haven’t found anything strange? Nothing to indicate all that used to go on?” Chalmer asked.
