But he had to admit one thing: Heron Key had never seen an attack like the one on Hilda before the arrival of the veterans. There had been plenty of minor crimes against property, and of course there were some amateurish attempts at larceny, the same as you would find in any small town, nothing exotic. The veterans’ camp was the first influx of outsiders the town had seen since the original Bahamian pioneers in the 1890s. That they were a deeply troubled bunch of souls was not in dispute, but were any of them really capable of such viciousness? Of course they are. They’re all trained killers.
Dwayne knew he must retain control of the investigation, could not be seen as anyone’s patsy. “I am following several leads at the moment, which include the veterans but is not limited to them.”
“You’re wasting time!” Ronald leaped to his feet. “He’ll get away! He could already be gone. You’ve got to surprise him, tonight!”
There was spittle around Ronald’s mouth. His face had gone very red, which made even more of a contrast with the white bandage. Dwayne thought he looked like a man about to have a heart attack. “They’re Americans, Ronald, just like you or me. They have rights.”
“They’re not like you or me,” said Ronald. “Not at all. And if you don’t do what’s necessary”—he sat back, folded his arms—“then the citizens of this town will.”
Dwayne did not like the fervent light in his eyes. He had seen it before, many times, in the light of burning crosses.
Chapter 11
By midmorning, Trent Watts was already in a foul mood. It was partly the weather, which would play hell with their schedule. Rain pattered steadily on the roof. He looked outside. The other cabins sagged into the muddy ground. He doubted they’d be able to put in a full day. They were already behind, because everything took longer here than elsewhere. If it wasn’t the heat sapping the men’s strength, it was the unreliable local labor, which supplemented the veterans’ efforts but disappeared during fruit-picking season. Or the damned climate. You couldn’t keep supplies dry. Cement set to blocks inside the sacks, wood warped, rope went moldy. Water was the construction worker’s worst enemy. He’d rather build in the desert.
Then came the phone call. Even before he answered, Trent had a sense that it would not be good news. It was that busybody, Jenson Mitchell. The man was not unhelpful, just so careful and methodical about everything that even the smallest request turned into a federal case. “Mr. Watts,” he said, “I’m calling to let you know that a big storm may be on the way. I assume you have an evacuation plan?”
Trent sighed. Here it was again, Mitchell’s nose butting in where it didn’t belong. The Conchs were panicking over a little wind and rain. He’d seen cows and tractors flung fifty feet into the air by a twister before. “Mr. Mitchell, I thank you for the concern, but we’ll be fine here.”
“With respect, Mr. Watts, if it does come, you’re going to need more protection than you’ve got. There isn’t room for your men in the shelters in town, so—”
“You mean, you’re not sure?” Trent gripped the phone between cheek and shoulder while he fished around his desk for a fresh cigar. It would take at least two days to organize a train to evacuate the men, not to mention all the lost work time and resulting delays to the schedule. His superiors in Jacksonville were already on his ass most days, asking how he was going to make up the lost time. He could well imagine their reaction to a request for evacuation ahead of a “possible” storm.
“We’re watching it,” said Mitchell, somewhat guardedly, “and talking to the weather center in Key West. These things can blow up fast, and when they do—”
“I think you mean if, Mr. Mitchell. If.” He snipped the end off the cigar and stifled a yawn. These people made him so tired. They hadn’t been to war, didn’t know what real danger was. “I’ll put in a call to Jacksonville. That’s all I can do.” A shape filled his doorway. The deputy sheriff. He had been expecting his visit, but even so, he wondered just how much worse his day could get. “Now you’ll have to excuse me. I have a visitor. Good day to you.”
The deputy shook the water from his hat. “Morning,” he said. “Nice weather for ducks.” He grimaced at the lame remark. Tiredness seemed to weigh him down like a sodden overcoat.
“Yep,” said Trent. “Take a seat.” Dwayne sat in the folding chair opposite Trent’s desk. “Just had your Mr. Mitchell on the phone, telling me it’s time to build an ark. That your opinion too?”
Dwayne did not answer for a moment, just stared at the silver waterfall spilling across the doorway. “Jenson is a better storm tracker than any of those fancy scientists down in Key West. He can feel a big one coming, just by the wind and the waves and his barometer. If he’s worried, you should be too. For that matter, all of us should.”
“Well, I’ll take that under advisement.” He lit the soggy cigar. “I assume you’ve come about the attack on that woman last night?”
“Yes. We have reason to believe that one of your men might have been involved.” He had to raise his voice over the noise of the rain on canvas.
“Oh, really? And why is that? Aside from the fact that it’s always easier to accuse outsiders? That’s just lazy, Deputy.” Although he had no love as such for the veterans, who he thought were mainly deranged, work-shy drunks, Trent did not need a scandalous crime attached to his project.
“I’m also pursuing other leads, I can assure you. However, a boot print was left on her nose,” Dwayne said. “Here, I’ve made a sketch.” He pushed a limp piece of paper across the desk. “I need to see your men’s boots.”
Trent took a moment to study the drawing. “You sure this is from a boot? Don’t look like nothing we wear here.”
Dwayne shrugged and pocketed the piece of paper. “Well, even so, we’ve got to check. Your cooperation would be much appreciated.”
Trent could tell that Dwayne was beyond exhaustion, most likely not thinking that straight, although there was no mistaking his determination. He also realized that if Dwayne had any clear leads, he wouldn’t need to look at everyone’s boots. In Dwayne’s position, Trent would take the camp apart, from top to bottom.
He thought it entirely plausible that the attacker was among his men. There had been no witnesses, and it sounded like the lady herself wasn’t talking and might never do so again. These men were desperate to keep their jobs, which was the first decent paid work that many had received in years. It would not surprise him at all if whoever had bashed her head in thought he was free and clear. That Henry Roberts thinks he’s so smart. He could have done it, no question. And he was dancing with her. He blew a smoke ring. It wobbled upward, then dissolved into the sagging roof. An idea began to form as he studied the deputy’s weary face. It might be very much in his interests to help Dwayne’s investigation. The image of Henry’s boot on Two-Step’s neck flashed into his mind. “You’ll have it, Deputy. Come back at dawn on Sunday. They won’t be expecting anything then. That’s the best time to catch them unaware.”
After Dwayne left, Trent stared at the phone, deciding what to say to Norbert Grimes in Jacksonville. The storm, he felt certain, would prove to be a figment of the Conchs’ rum-soaked imaginations. There was nothing to link any of his men to the attack on that woman—yet. But that could well change. He could feel his career prospects flowing away like the river of mud that had formed outside his cabin. If he wanted another of these government contracts, he needed to demonstrate his capabilities to handle just such difficult times.
He made some quick calculations. In terms of the press, a story about a veteran attacking a woman in a place most people had never heard of would be unlikely to get much coverage outside of the local area. He could deal with that in his own time. But it would be just his luck for the storm to cause one of his men to get a splinter in his pinkie. Then Trent would carry the can, not the bosses up in Jacksonville. He took a deep drag on his cigar and picked up the phone.
&nb
sp; • • •
As the afternoon wore into evening, the rain eased and the sky began to clear, so that by sunset things looked very different.
At the country club, Missy mopped rainwater from the porch. The country club was a handsome, rambling building with white-painted walls and dark green shutters and trim. It had been built by Ronald LeJeune’s grandfather and attracted sport fishermen from all over the country, especially moneyed Yankees looking to escape the northern winters. She sometimes helped out at the club when extra hands were needed.
The air had begun to steam once the sun came out. It hummed already with mosquitoes, despite the pot of pyrethrum smoldering beneath the porch steps. Dolores Mason and Cynthia LeJeune rocked slowly in their chairs, glasses sweating in their hands. Missy listened with one ear to the conversation, lulled by the rhythmic, wet slap of the mop and the creak of the chairs. Dinner was under control, unless Missus Mason decided she wanted the okra after all. The men were indoors, absorbed by a new fishing rod that Mr. Mason had purchased in Miami.
The clouds had gone, leaving a blaze of color on the horizon. Lazy, pink-tinged waves brushed the shore. From the beach came the faint scratch-scratch of the staff raking up the storm’s debris.
“Looks like it should be a nice day tomorrow,” ventured Cynthia with a swirl of her glass. The ice clinked softly. “Although I hear that Jenson is watching a storm. I sure hope it blows itself out; my nerves can’t take much more.” She had acquired a permanently tearful look since the barbecue and constantly twisted a moist handkerchief in her heavily ringed hands. “My poor Ronnie.” She sniffed.
“Yes, terrible,” agreed Dolores, although to Missy’s ears, she sounded less than interested. Dolores’s face suddenly lit up. She leaned forward. “Have you heard the latest? Turns out one of those…men at the veterans’ camp is baby Roy’s daddy.” She arranged her toned legs to display the fine bones of her ankles. Missy was suddenly alert.
“Which one?” asked Cynthia. Her heavy-lidded eyes blinked slowly. She always reminded Missy of a sleepy old turtle.
“The one who comes from here, that big buck with the scar on his neck.” Dolores sipped her drink, nibbled some mint between her small, white teeth, and tossed it on the floor. Missy’s mop whisked it away. “Henry something.”
“Henry Roberts?” asked Cynthia.
Missy banged the mop into the chair. “Careful, girl,” snapped Dolores. “Yes, indeed,” she continued as she leaned back in her seat. “Henry Roberts.”
“Poor Dwayne,” mused Cynthia with a small shake of her head. “Right under his nose. That’s got to hurt, a proud man like that.” She settled herself more comfortably in her chair and swatted a mosquito on her neck. “And Noreen always seemed like such a mouse. Never thought she’d do such a thing.” She drained her glass. “Just goes to show, everyone’s got a secret.”
Dolores twined her string of pearls around a lacquered fingernail, eyes out to sea. “So they do, Cynthia,” she said, almost to herself. “So they do.”
Missy averted her gaze from the two women lest they see the shock there. She kept her jaws clamped shut to prevent the words from escaping her mouth. It ain’t true! You wrong!
She pushed the mop around the chairs in quick, tight circles. There was no way he would do such a thing. Not Henry, not the man she knew. He was a good person, maybe the best she had ever met. But then a droplet of doubt trickled into her mind and turned black and white to muddy gray. The mop’s progress slowed. He had been gone a long time, done things she could never imagine. How well did she know him, really? She would have placed any bet on what the old Henry would do, but now…he had changed. A voice in her head said: It ain’t likely, but it ain’t impossible neither.
No, said the other voice in her head. Some things don’t change about a person, no matter what happens to them. Who they are, in their heart, stays the same.
She did not know what to believe. The mop smacked again into the chair and Dolores shouted, “Missy! What’s wrong with you?”
“Sorry, Missus Mason.”
“Quit that mopping now and get Mrs. LeJeune a drink.”
“Yes, Missus Mason. Right away.”
She went into the clubhouse, struggling to corral her thoughts, which were leaping around her head like a herd of wild ponies. The glassy eye of the giant stuffed sailfish glowered at her from the wall above the drinks cabinet. It always looked as if it was about to swoop down and skewer her with its long, needle-sharp nose.
And then it was like that pointy nose skewered the bubble of panic in her head. It came to her, with calm certainty, what she must do. She would talk to Henry, and they would clear the whole mess up. Yes, that was the answer. She would talk to him, and he would make it all right. Her limbs relaxed as she realized that it was just a rumor, the kind that happened when folks couldn’t find the truth. They reached for the next best thing. This was the juiciest scandal that Heron Key had seen for some time, far better than the time when the pastor spent the money from the poor box on bootleg hooch that he kept hidden beneath the altar.
It would be all right. She exhaled. It was going to be all right. I just got to believe.
When she returned to the porch, Missus LeJeune was dabbing at her eyes with a hankie. She reached a trembling hand toward the glass on Missy’s tray. “How can something so terrible happen here? Of all places? Poor, poor Hilda. Have you been to see her?”
“No,” Dolores said and lit a cigarette. She leaned back and picked a shred of tobacco from her teeth. Smoke veiled her face for a moment, but in that instant, Missy thought she saw a look of pure contempt cross her pretty features. Then it was gone.
Missy took up the mop again and made slow, careful work of the porch steps.
“It’s awful,” said Cynthia. “Just awful. It’s a miracle she’s still breathing. But I tell you one thing: she may come through this, God willing. But she won’t be pretty anymore, that’s for darn sure.” She sighed and rearranged her bosom. “I took Doc some mullet from the smokehouse. The man looks like he hasn’t eaten in a week.”
“What a good idea,” said Dolores, suddenly a lot more cheerful. “Missy,” she called. “Fix one of your pineapple upside-down cakes for me. I’m going to take it to Doc Williams. And I’ve changed my mind—we will have the okra tonight.”
“Yes, Missus Mason.” Missy ceased her mopping. The rest of the dinner, of fried chicken and mashed potatoes with giblet gravy, was almost ready. She would make the cake after she cleaned up from dinner, which would be sometime after midnight, if the men got drinking.
As she hurried to pick the okra, her thoughts once again began to spin. She turned it over and over in her mind. It could not be true…could it?
She went to pull more onions. The okra needed lots and lots of onions.
• • •
At the end of the day, Henry and his men loaded their gear into the back of the truck for the return trip to camp. The engine came to life in a burst of shrieks and splutters. The driver attempted to avoid the worst of the potholes, but it was still an extremely bumpy ride. A plume of choking coral dust rose from the road, blown by a stiff wind.
“That asshole, Two-Step,” said Franklin. “He’s ruined it for all of us. Violet Hudson seemed to like me.” His one eye registered angry disappointment.
Henry studied his scarred face. It had been a long time since anyone treated Franklin as a civilized man instead of a dangerous vagrant. Henry had seen him give Violet the little sandpiper carved from driftwood. It was Franklin’s favorite.
“The Bible tells us it is hard for thee to kick against the pricks,” Lemuel said.
Henry laughed. “For once, Lemuel, you got it just right.”
“When you gonna see your ‘old friend’ again?” asked Jeb, just audible over the grinding of the truck’s gears. His slight frame was nearly jostled out of his seat.
Henry and Lemuel each laid a hand on him to hold him steady. “She busy tonight, serving at a dinner party up at the country club. We supposed to meet tomorrow night, but I need a plan for how to get out of camp and back.” There was no way he could fail to turn up for Missy—worse still, without being able to communicate with her. She still believed in him after everything he had done.
“You wait till it gets dark,” said Jeb. “Then you sneak out. We cover for you.”
Henry thought about this. It would mean arriving late, but he was sure Missy would understand, once he explained.
“Uh-huh.” Lemuel nodded. “We sure will.”
“That right, on one condition,” said Franklin. He scratched at his empty eye socket. “You be back before dawn and you bring us some of Selma’s peach cobbler.”
“That two conditions,” Sonny pointed out.
“Hey, fellas,” said Jeb. “At least the weather’s on our side. I hear there’s a storm coming.”
“You wouldn’t know it to look at that sky,” said Franklin.
“It’s coming, all right,” said Henry. There was a brisk wind, laden with moisture. It was a welcome change from the baking heat of the past few months, but he knew to be wary.
“Good news for us!” exclaimed Jeb. “Means we get a day off!”
“And we lose a day’s pay,” said Sonny gloomily.
The truck hit a particularly deep pothole, which threw everyone onto the floor of the bed at the back, even Lemuel. A muted “Sorry, boys!” came from the driver’s cab.
“I always wanted to see one of them big storms,” said Franklin as he raised himself painfully back onto his seat.
Henry eyed the racing clouds. They looked to be in an awful hurry. “I believe,” he said, “there’s a good chance you may get your wish.”
• • •
Under a Dark Summer Sky Page 12
