dog island

by Mike Stewart

  Susan’s eyes scanned the room, lingered on the window, and came to rest on the listening equipment. She was completely focused, trying with everything she had to find the good in what we had heard. I was touched by how hard she was working not to think about what it really meant.

  I said, “We’re a long way from dead, Susan. The tapes aren’t important. What is important—the good part—is that we know about Purcell’s plans ahead of time.”

  Susan brightened. “Yes, that is good. Now you know to stay out of his way and not to go wandering around his house again like you did this morning. Now we can figure out what to do.”

  I’ve always read about people in danger smiling bravely. That’s what I tried to do.

  While Susan rummaged in the refrigerator and began putting out cold chicken salad and sliced fruit for lunch, I trotted upstairs and packed. Purcell’s conversation with Poultrez had let me know one thing. It let me know to get as far as possible from anyone I cared about; it let me know that Susan’s dyed hair wouldn’t do much good if I was around to be seen and shot at and, more or less, murdered. Purcell had never seen Susan—particularly outfitted with her new brunette persona. My presence in the house would be a neon sign for Purcell and his tattooed toadies.

  The phone rang as I was packing my razor and other bathroom stuff. Someone downstairs answered. I tossed the small toilet kit into my duffel and carried my little hobo bundle down the rented teak stairs and put it next to our canary-yellow door. Susan glanced at the duffel and looked confused. Loutie held out the telephone receiver and said, “It’s Joey. I filled him in. He wants to talk to you.”

  I put the phone against my ear and said, “It’s been a fun morning.”

  Joey said, “Sounds like it. You get a look at Rus Poultrez?”

  “Yeah. He’s big. Not as tall as you, but he weighs more. I thought he was some of Purcell’s hired muscle when he went in, if that tells you anything.”

  The line was quiet for a few beats. Joey said, “I hear somebody wants you dead.” I didn’t say anything. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it, Tom. But I do think you ought to come down here with me. We can watch each other’s back.”

  “Not to mention that Susan and Loutie will be safer with me gone.”

  “Not to mention that.” Joey said, “Listen, the reason I called is our buddy, Thomas Bobby Haycock, looks like he’s getting ready to do a little smuggling. Maybe commit a felony or two.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Just been watching him so much I guess. I don’t know if there’s a list of reasons I think he’s going out, but I think he is. You know, he doesn’t have any of that swamp trash nookie hanging around. He gassed up the truck. And hell, I don’t know, he just has the look about him.”

  “I’ll call Billy Teeter and see if I can rent his boat.”

  “I’m thinking I should come with you on the boat. You could run into some trouble out there.”

  “No.” I said, “I want you to get over to the mainland and be ready to follow Haycock’s truck when he goes over tomorrow morning.” Joey started to argue. I said, “We can tiptoe around protecting each other, or we can figure this mess out and maybe bury Purcell and his people.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “But I’m right.”

  “Yeah,” Joey said. “I guess.” And he hung up.

  I placed the receiver in its cradle, and Susan’s voice, unnaturally quiet, came from behind me. “Where are you going?”

  I turned to face her. Loutie said, “He’s not running away, Susan.”

  Susan said, “I know,” but it sounded like a question.

  Loutie said, “Tom’s the only one of us Purcell and his men have seen, Susan. If he’s here and they want to kill him, then…” Her voice trailed off.

  I said, “Joey says Haycock’s getting ready for another shipment tonight. I’m going back down to the island and get Billy Teeter to take me out and have a look around.”

  Susan said, “You packed before Joey called about Haycock.” I was stunned. Susan really did think I was running out on her. Loutie quietly left the room. I walked over and put my arms around Susan’s waist. She placed her hands on my shoulders but not around me. She felt stiff in my arms.

  I asked, “Do you really think I’d run out on you because I’m scared?”

  Susan said, “I’ve been dealing with a lot by myself for a long time, Tom. I kind of thought that was over.” I said her name. She shook her head and kept talking. “I’m not eighteen. I know that just because we feel the way we do… Well, I know lust, or whatever this is, doesn’t always last. But I care about you, and I thought you’d be someone to get through the bad stuff with even if we didn’t last as lovers.”

  “I thought the same thing, Susan. But I can’t stay here like some kind of murder beacon to bring the Bodines down on you and Loutie.”

  Susan said, “I don’t think you’re running out and leaving me at Purcell’s mercy. I think you’re being a noble ass. You’re going to leave here and get killed, and I’ll get to go through another six months of guilt and misery and hell like the ones after Bird died.”

  I said, “Oh.”

  Twin crescents of tears filled Susan’s lower lids above the uncharacteristic, spiky shelves of dark mascara. Loutie and I had both read her wrong. Susan wasn’t upset because she thought I was a coward. She was getting mad at me in advance for getting killed.

  I smiled. “Jeez, Susan, just go ahead and kill me off, why don’t you?” I kissed her and tasted salt. She pushed away, then stood on her toes and put her arms around my neck. I said, “I’m kind of a resourceful guy. I’ll be fine. And remember, Joey will be around, and I’m not sure Joey’s someone who can actually be killed. And, as for you, you couldn’t ask for better protection than that scary chick in the other room.”

  From the living room, Loutie said, “I heard that.”

  Susan laughed, and I kissed her again. This time, she kissed back.

  Loutie Blue and I walked outside and, after I opened the trunk of my rented, silver-blue Bonneville and tossed my duffel inside, we stood by the car and talked. Loutie wanted to follow Rus Poultrez when he left Purcell’s place. I wanted her to stay in Seaside, keep an eye on Purcell, and keep Susan safe.

  The bottom line was that Joey worked for me and Loutie worked for Joey. So, in the end, I more or less insisted, and she stayed with Susan.

  I cruised into Apalachicola a few minutes before four. A soft breeze ruffled the fronds of tall palms lining the main drag; housewives steered station wagons and four-by-fours in and out of the Piggly Wiggly parking lot; a bony-tailed real estate type taped new listings on a plateglass window; and twenty or thirty cars and pickups cruised the streets with aimless intent. I curved hard in the air, circling the marina, and followed the suspended pavement over the bay and out of town. Fifteen minutes later, I turned right toward St. George and then left onto the narrow county road leading into Eastpoint. I had called ahead. I was expected.

  Billy Teeter’s partner-in-seafood, Julie, was planted in the same porch chair she had occupied the last time I was there. I parked and stepped out onto the narrow, sandy parking area. I said, “Hello,” and she nodded. She just nodded. Julie’s features stayed noncommittal. I asked, “Where’s Mr. Teeter?”

  “Around back.”

  “I need to park off the street.” Julie just looked at me. I added, “You know, out of sight.”

  She said, “Drive around back,” as if any fool would have known to do that.

  I steered over faint wheel tracks leading across the ragged yard and around the left side of Teeter’s Seafood and pulled in close to the back of the shack. A sandy pathway led down the shoreline past a series of commercial docks where blue-gray pelicans perched atop two of the creosote pilings that stuck up above concrete walkways. Diving bunches of ugly, mottled gulls picked at mounds of discarded shellfish that held just enough decaying flesh to keep the birds interested and to fill the air with the bi
tter stink of sea animals dying on land. Twenty yards west of the shack, Billy Teeter’s bear-like form rose above the deck of a shrimp boat so perfectly maintained that it looked like it had just come out of dry dock. I waved, and Billy parted his scruffy, bearded face into a surprisingly welcoming smile full of nicotined teeth.

  Down the path and out on the dock next to the Teeter Two, I called out. “Hello!”

  Teeter said, “You gonna need a coat out on the water.” I told him I had one and went back to the rented Pontiac to get it out of the duffel. Back on the dock, I said, “Am I supposed to ask permission to come aboard?”

  Billy Teeter smiled, put one foot on the gunwale, and reached out a hand. “Get on up here, boy.” Most white-collar types would never believe a human hand could get that hard. I thought about what my own soft lawyer’s hand must have felt like to Billy as he pulled my hundred and ninety pounds over the gunwale and into the boat with no more effort than most men would expend pulling a child into the family van. Billy said, “It’s good to see you again, Tom.” I reached into my pocket and came out with two hundred fifty dollars, and Billy shook his scruffy brown and gray chin. “No, sir. I ain’t done the work yet. You pay when we get back.”

  I held out the money. “You better take it. If I fall in the water out there and drown, you may not get paid.”

  The old man looked into my eyes before shifting his glance to my hand as he took the money and pushed it deep inside his hip pocket. In a matter-of-fact voice, he said, “You think you’re kidding.”

  I smiled. He didn’t. Billy turned and called out, “Willie!”

  A nineteen-year-old version of the captain emerged from the tiny bridge. Billy’s namesake stood about five ten. He had a football player’s overdeveloped neck and the thick back and shoulder muscles of a shrimper. Brown hair stood erect on the boy’s tanned head in an old-fashioned crew cut, and his square chin and jaws were smudged with a dark stubble of Teeter family whiskers. If young Willie had grown a seaman’s beard, his resemblance to old Billy Teeter would have been almost comical.

  Captain Billy said, “This here’s Mr. McInnes.” Willie didn’t speak. I reached out and shook a limp, calloused hand; and I was struck, not for the first time, by how softly most men who work with their hands shake hands with other men. Maybe it’s just something that people outside the white-collar world don’t do in the ordinary course of their lives, so they never get very good at it. Or maybe they’re just afraid they’ll hurt you.

  “Call me Tom.”

  Billy said, “Get Tom a life jacket. He’s gonna be wearing it soon as we leave the dock.” I doubted that the Teeters bothered with life jackets while shrimping, and that doubt was verified by young Willie’s amused expression. Billy saw his grandson’s face too. He said, “Straighten up, Willie. Tom’s a paying passenger. It’s gonna be your butt gets kicked if I see him with that jacket off.”

  Willie said, “I’ll keep an eye on him, Granddaddy,” but he kept smiling.

  Over the next two hours, the three of us talked over the best way to proceed. Billy sat on a crate, Willie sat on the gunwale, and I sat cross-legged on my bright orange, oddly emasculating life jacket. I described the location on Dog Island where I thought the smugglers would land around midnight. Billy and Willie discussed channels, oyster beds, and other things I didn’t know a lot about. Finally, Billy said he knew all he needed to know. He said we would wait until nine to leave. “Be black dark by then. And we don’t want to be floating around out there too long without putting nets in the water. It’d look wrong if anybody cared enough to pay us any attention.”

  With three hours more to kill, Willie found a deck of cards and we played stud poker to pass the time. The kid had grinned a little too broadly about Billy sentencing me to spend my hours on the water in a life jacket, so I played a little harder than I should have against a nineteen-year-old and ended up with eighteen dollars of his money. It was not a mature exhibition. My only saving grace was that I let his grandfather win most of it back. By 8:40, my playground honor felt mostly restored, and we were ready to get under way. I walked back to the stern, away from the shrimpers, and placed a call to Susan. There was no news of Carli.

  Willie cast off while Captain Billy fired the diesels. As we nosed away from the dock, young Willie walked up holding my orange flotation device by one finger like it was a dainty thing disdainful to his gender.

  I took it and tied it on.

  chapter twenty-one

  Inside Apalachicola Bay, black water chopped against the hull in jarring stutters. Captain Billy moved west along the buoy-marked intracoastal waterway, steering a course parallel with the shore before turning toward the dark silhouette of an ancient lighthouse on Little St. George Island.

  A fine, stinging rain began to fall as we cruised through the mouth of Bob Sikes Cut a few minutes after nine. Gray boulders held the edges of the narrow passage between St. George Island to the east and Little St. George to the west. Both islands are long, narrow strips of land, especially thin near the cut, and a strong man could come close to throwing a rock from one end to the other and from one island to the next. Inside the cut, stuttering chop turned smooth and then rose to a deep, steady roll as the boat pushed out into the Gulf.

  Our bobbing bow cut a line to the moonlit horizon, which seemed to roll up and down and side to side in an ever-changing figure eight with no sense of balance or equilibrium. It was fascinating to watch until I felt the queasily familiar pressure on the sides of my throat, the beginning flow of saliva, and the thick ropes of nausea crawling inside my stomach. I stepped outside the bridge cabin and washed away most of the nausea by leaning my head back, opening my mouth, and letting rain pellets splatter my face and neck and tongue.

  Captain Billy called out. “Boy, you gonna get cold later with that rainwater down your shirt.”

  I decided I’d worry about later when it came. I hadn’t had dinner, and the thought of dry heaves made a little freezing rain seem comforting by comparison.

  I yelled over the engines. “How far?”

  “Be there in thirty minutes or so. Taking the long way around. We got plenty of time.”

  The shore was a dotted line of lights now, and, in the distance, lightning began to splinter the horizon. Slowly, the ropes of nausea uncoiled and settled, almost comfortingly, into one small corner of my stomach. Then Billy turned east toward Dog Island. Heading directly into the waves had provided me with one sort of challenge, but now we steered a course parallel to the shore and the rolling swell gave the boat a whole new disconcerting movement and personality. As we moved back and forth, side to side, up and down, and sometimes, it seemed, round and round in a horizontal kind of way, my mind searched desperately for distraction, and I thought of an old joke about a young boy who married an older woman. After his honeymoon, the boy’s father asked if the girl had been a virgin. The boy responded that he thought the up-and-down had come naturally but the round-and-round must have been learned. I smiled, then leaned out over the gunwale and emptied Susan’s chicken-salad-and-sliced-fruit lunch into the Gulf of Mexico.

  The rest of our trip to the waters off Dog Island proved to be personally difficult, gastronomically repetitive, and a source of genuine amusement to the Teeter men. But, at first, it appeared to have been worth it. As we neared the island, Captain Billy called out my name. I loosened my death grip on the railing that had seen so much of my inner workings and looked up. He pointed at a short row of white lights suspended beneath a bright blue dot in the distance.

  I yelled, “What is it?”

  “Big pleasure boat.”

  “How can you tell?”

  Billy looked concerned about my faculties. He yelled, ” ‘Cause it looks like one.”

  Obviously he saw something I didn’t, but that wasn’t surprising. Billy Teeter had spent the better part of fifty years on those waters, much of it shrimping at night. I had to assume that he knew what he was talking about.

  It was close to ten.
Billy cut the engines to an idle and came out to stand beside me. He was wearing full yellow rain gear like a fisherman in a children’s story. “Whatcha wanna do?”

  I asked, “How suspicious would it look for us to just sit here and watch them for a while?”

  “Probably be fine. Depends on how jumpy they are. The captain’s gonna know shrimpers set still all the time to rig nets or check the water or just decide where to head next. With this rain comin’ down, anybody who knows boats is likely gonna figure we’re tryin’ to figure whether to head back in.”

  “So we’re fine here for a while.”

  “Yep.”

  At exactly 11:00 p.m., a blue spotlight flashed three times on the deck of the yacht. Young Willie had joined us; he was outfitted in a green plastic poncho. I told the Teeter men about the signal Joey and I had seen a week earlier at midnight on a deserted stretch of beach on Dog Island. And we waited. Willie said, “I reckon they’re not too worried about us if they’re givin’ the same signal.”

  Through silver streaks of rain, a pair of headlights flashed three times on shore, and I said, “It doesn’t look like it. It looks like they’re going to go ahead with the drop-off.”

  Young Willie was jumpy. I could almost hear the adrenaline pumping inside his poncho. A smaller blue light flashed midway between the yacht and the shoreline, and Willie pointed and said, “Look! Look at that. What’re they doing?”

  I said, “That’s the drop-off boat. They’re taking whatever they’re smuggling to shore.”

  Willie said, “Cool,” and Captain Billy shook his head.

  Another set of blue flashes was answered by headlights. I said, “The men in the drop-off boat are armed. We better cruise over now and check out the yacht. I’m guessing there’ll just be one or two men left onboard. They’ve got to be figuring that any trouble is going to come onshore.”

  Billy climbed into the bridge cabin and eased the engines into gear. We had started our rolling approach when a loud hum approached the stern out of the night. I called Billy and pointed into the dark rain. Billy squinted at me and then at the piece of night I had pointed into and then at me again. I stepped up next to the small door leading into the covered bridge. “Somebody’s out there. I hear a loud motor, like a speedboat or something.”