Death Du Jour tb-2

by Reichs, Kathy

  I spent my childhood summers near Beaufort, and most of those as an adult, the chain being broken only recently, when I began my work in Montreal. I witnessed the mushrooming of fast-food strips and the construction of the county government center, dubbed the “Taj Mahal” by the locals. The roads have been widened, the traffic is heavier. The islands are now home to golf resorts and condos. But Bay Street remains unchanged. The mansions still stand in antebellum grandeur, shaded by water oaks draped in Spanish moss. So little in life is constant; I find reassurance in the languid pace of life in Beaufort. The tide of time itself ebbs tardily to the eternal sea.

  As we descended the far side of the bridge, ahead and to the left I could see a colony of boats docked on Factory Creek, a small loop of water off the Beaufort River. The late-afternoon sun glinted off their windows and glowed white on masts and decks. I drove another half mile on Highway 21, then turned into the parking area at Ollie’s Seafood restaurant. Winding my way through live oaks, I headed to the back of the lot and pulled in at the water’s edge.

  Katy and I gathered our groceries and duffel bags and crossed a walkway from Ollie’s to the Lady’s Island Marina. To either side lay mudflats, the new spring shoots green among last year’s dark stubble. Marsh wrens rasped complaints at our passing, and darted in and out among the cordgrass and cattails. I breathed the gentle blend of brackish water, chlorophyll, and decaying vegetation, and felt glad to be back in the low country.

  The walkway from the shore led like a tunnel through the marina headquarters, a square white building with a narrow third story running the length of its roof, and an open passage on the first floor. On our right, doors opened to washrooms and a laundry. The offices of Apex Realty, a sail maker, and the harbormaster occupied the space to our left.

  We passed through the tunnel, descended a floating gangplank with horizontal wooden risers, and crossed to the farthest of the docks. As we walked its length, Katy scanned each of the boats we passed. The Ecstasy, a forty-foot Morgan out of Norfolk, Virginia. The Blew Palm, a custom-built fifty-three-footer with a steel hull and enough sail to go round the world. The Hillbilly Heaven, a classic nineteen-thirties power yacht, once elegant, now weathered and no longer seaworthy. The Melanie Tess was the last boat on the right. Katy eyed the forty-two-foot Chris Craft, but said nothing.

  “Hold here a second,” I said, dropping my bundles onto the dock.

  I stepped onto the stern, climbed to the bridge, and worked the combination on a toolbox to the right of the captain’s chair. Then I dug out a key, unlocked and opened the aft entrance, slid back the hatch, and lowered myself the three steps to the main cabin. Inside, the air was cool and smelled of wood and mildew and pine disinfectant. I unlocked the port-side entrance and Katy handed me our food and duffels, then came aboard.

  Without a word my daughter and I left everything in the main salon, then darted around the boat, snooping out the decor. It was a habit we’d started when she was very young, and no matter how old I live to be, it will remain my favorite part of stays in unknown places. The Melanie Tess wasn’t exactly unknown, but I hadn’t been on her in five years, and was curious to see the changes Sam had described.

  Our survey revealed a galley one step down and forward from the main salon. It had a two-burner stove, a sink, and a wooden refrigerator with an old-style icebox handle. The floor was parquet, the walls, as everywhere, teak. On the starboard side was a dining nook, its cushions covered in bold pinks and greens. Forward of the galley were a pantry, a head, and a V-berth large enough to sleep two.

  Aft lay the master stateroom with its king-size bed and mirrored closets. As in the main salon and dining nook, it was done in teak and bright cotton foliage. Katy looked relieved to see a shower in the master head.

  “This is so cool,” said Katy. “Can I have the V-berth?”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Totally. It looks so snug I’m going to make a little nest up there, put all my stuff along those shelves.” She mimed lining up and straightening small objects.

  I laughed. George Carlin’s “stuff” routine was one of our favorite comedy bits.

  “Besides, I’m only going to be here two nights, you take the large bed.”

  “O.K.”

  “Look, a communiqué with your name on it.” She took an envelope from the table and handed it to me.

  I tore the flap and shook out a note.

  The water and electricity are hooked up so you should be set. Give me a call when you’re settled. I want to take you out to feed. Enjoy.

  Sam

  We stowed the groceries, then Katy went to arrange her stuff while I dialed Sam.

  “Hey, hey, darlin’, you’re all tucked in?”

  “We’ve been here about twenty minutes. She looks beautiful, Sam. I can’t believe it’s the same boat.”

  “Nothing a little money and muscle can’t accomplish.”

  “It shows. Do you ever stay on board?”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s why the phone and answering machine are there. It’s a bit over the top for a boat, but I can’t afford to miss messages. You feel free to use that number.”

  “Thanks, Sam. I really appreciate this.”

  “Hell, I don’t use her enough. Someone ought to.”

  “Well, thanks again.”

  “How about dinner?”

  “I really don’t want to impose on—”

  “Hell, I need to eat, too. I’ll tell you what. I’m going out to the Gay Seafood Market to buy grouper for some damn thing Melanie’s cooking up tomorrow. How ’bout I meet you at Factory Creek Landing. It’ll be on the right, just after Ollie’s and just before the bridge. It isn’t fancy, but they make some mean shrimp.”

  “What time?”

  “It’s six-forty now, so how ‘bout seven-thirty. I want to go by the shop and pick up the Harley.”

  “On one condition. I’m buying.”

  “You’re a tough woman, Tempe.”

  “Don’t mess with me.”

  “Are we still on for tomorrow?”

  “If it’s O.K. with you. I don’t want t—”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Have you told her?”

  “Not yet. But she’ll figure it out once you meet. See you in an hour.”

  I tossed my bag onto my bed, then went up to the bridge. The sun was dropping, its last rays tinting the world a warm crimson. It flamed the marsh to my right and tinted a white ibis standing in the grass. The bridge to Beaufort stood out black against the pink, like the backbone of some ancient monster arching across the sky. The boats in the city marina winked across the river at our little pier.

  Though the day had cooled, the air still felt like satin. A breeze lifted a strand of hair and wrapped it softly across my face.

  “What’s the agenda?”

  Katy had joined me. I checked my watch.

  “We’re meeting Sam Rayburn for dinner in half an hour.”

  “The Sam Rayburn? I thought he was dead.”

  “He is. This one is the mayor of Beaufort and an old friend.”

  “How old?”

  “Older than I am. But he’s still ambulatory. You’ll like him.”

  “Wait a minute.” She pointed a finger at me, and I could see thought working in her eyes. Then a synapse. “Is this the monkey guy?”

  I smiled and tipped my head.

  “Is that where we’re going tomorrow? No, don’t answer. Of course it is. That’s why I had to get the shots.”

  “You had it checked, didn’t you?”

  “Cancel the bed at the sanitarium,” she said, holding out her arm. “I’m certified tuberculosis-free.”

  When we arrived at the restaurant Sam’s motorcycle was parked in the lot. Last summer it had joined the Lotus, the sailboat, and the ultralight as the newest addition to a long list of playthings. I am never sure if these toys are Sam’s way of fending off middle age, or his attempts at integration into the activities of people after years of focusing on the activities of
primates.

  Though he is a decade older, Sam and I have been friends for more than twenty years. When we met I was a college sophomore, Sam a second-year graduate student. We were drawn to each other, I suspect, because our lives to that point had been so different.

  Sam is a Texan, the only child of Jewish boardinghouse owners. At fifteen his father was killed defending a cash box that held twelve dollars. Following her husband’s death, Mrs. Rayburn sank into a depression from which she never emerged. Sam shouldered the burden of running the business while finishing high school and caring for his mother. Upon her death seven years later, he sold the boardinghouse and joined the marines. He was restless, angry, and interested in nothing.

  Life in the military only fed Sam’s cynicism. In boot camp he found the antics of his fellow recruits profoundly annoying, and drew deeper and deeper into himself. During his tour in Vietnam he spent hours watching birds and animals, using them as an escape from the horror around him. He was appalled by the carnage of war, and felt tremendous guilt about his role in it. The animals seemed innocent by contrast, not motivated by elaborate schemes designed to kill others of their own kind. He was especially drawn to the monkeys, to the orderliness of their society and the way they resolved disputes with minimal physical injury. For the first time Sam found himself truly fascinated.

  Sam returned to the States and enrolled at the University of Illinois at Champaign-Urbana. He finished a bachelor’s degree in three years, and when I met him was the teaching assistant for the section of introductory zoology to which I was assigned. He had a reputation among undergraduates for a quick temper, a harsh tongue, and being easily annoyed. Particularly by the slow-witted and the ill-prepared. He was meticulous and demanding, but scrupulously fair in his evaluation of student work.

  As I got to know Sam I found that he liked few people, but was tenaciously loyal to those he admitted into his small circle. He once told me that, having spent so many years among primates, he felt he no longer fit in human society. The monkey perspective, as he called it, had shown him the ridiculousness of human behavior.

  Sam eventually switched to physical anthropology, did fieldwork in Africa, and completed his doctorate. After stints at several universities, he ended up in Beaufort in the early 1970s as scientist in charge of the primate facility.

  Though age has mellowed Sam, I doubt that it will ever change his discomfiture at social interaction. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to participate. He does. His seeking the office of mayor proves that. Life just doesn’t operate for Sam the way it does for others. So he buys bikes and wings for flying. They provide stimulation and excitement, but remain predictable and manageable. Sam Rayburn is one of the most complex and most intelligent people I have ever met.

  His mayoral honor was at the bar, watching a basketball game and drinking draft beer.

  I made the introductions and, as usual, Sam took charge, ordering a refill for himself, Diet Coke for me and Katy, then herding us to a booth at the back of the restaurant.

  My daughter wasted no time in confirming her suspicions regarding tomorrow’s plans, then pummeled Sam with questions.

  “How long have you directed this primate center?”

  “Longer than I care to think about. I worked for someone else until about ten years ago, then bought the damn company for myself. Just about went to the poorhouse, but I’m glad I did it. Nothing beats being your own boss.”

  “How many monkeys live on the island?”

  “Right now about forty-five hundred.”

  “Who owns them?”

  “The FDA. My company owns the island and manages the animals.”

  “Where do they come from?”

  “They were brought to Murtry Island from a research colony in Puerto Rico. Your mom and I both did work there, somewhere back in the early Bronze Age. But they’re originally from India. They’re rhesus.”

  “Macaca mulatta.” Katy pronounced the genus and species in a lilting, singsong voice.

  “Very good. Where did you learn primate taxonomy?”

  “I’m a psych major. A lot of research is done using rhesus. You know, like Harry Harlow and his progeny?”

  Sam was about to comment when the waitress arrived with plates of fried clams and oysters, boiled shrimp, hush puppies, and slaw. We all concentrated on spooning sauces onto our plates, squeezing lemons, and peeling a starter batch of shrimp.

  “What are the monkeys used for?”

  “The Murtry population is a breeding colony. Some yearlings are removed and sent to the Food and Drug Administration, but if an animal isn’t trapped by the time it reaches a certain body weight, it’s there for life. Monkey heaven.”

  “What else is out there?” My daughter had no reservations about chewing and talking at the same time.

  “Not much. The monkeys are free-ranging so they go where they want. They set up their own social groups and have their own rules. There are feeder stations, and corrals for trapping, but outside camp the island is really theirs.”

  “What’s camp?”

  “That’s what we call the area right at the dock. There’s a field station, a small veterinary clinic, mostly for emergencies, some storage sheds for monkey chow, and a trailer where students and researchers can stay.”

  He dipped an oyster in cocktail sauce, tipped back his head, and dropped it in his mouth.

  “There was a plantation on the island back in the nineteenth century.” Small drops of red clung to his beard. “Belonged to the Murtry family. That’s where the island gets its name.”

  “Who’s allowed out there?” She peeled another shrimp.

  “Absolutely no one. These monkeys are virus-free and worth mucho dinero. Anyone, and I mean anyone, who sets foot on the island is cleared through me, and has to have a shitload of immunizations, including a negative TB test within the last six months.”

  Sam looked a question at me, and I nodded.

  “I didn’t think anyone caught TB anymore.”

  “The test isn’t for your protection, young lady. The monks are very susceptible to TB. An outbreak can destroy a colony quicker than you can say jackshit.”

  Katy turned to me. “Your students had to do the shot bit?”

  “Every time.”

  Early in my career, before I was lured into forensics, my research involved the use of monkeys to study the aging process in the skeleton. I’d taught all the primatology courses at UNCC, including a field school on Murtry Island. I’d brought students out for fourteen years.

  “Hm,” said Katy, popping a clam into her mouth. “This is going to be O.K.”

  At seven-thirty the next morning we stood on a dock at the northern tip of Lady’s Island, eager to go to Murtry. The drive had been like traveling through a terrarium. A heavy mist covered everything, blurring edges and throwing the world slightly out of focus. Though Murtry was less than a mile out, I looked across the water into nothingness. Closer in, an ibis startled and lifted off, its long, slender legs trailing behind.

  The staff had arrived and were loading the facility’s two open boats. They finished shortly and took off. Katy and I sipped coffee, waiting for Sam’s signal. At last he whistled and gave a come-on gesture. We crumpled our Styrofoam cups, threw them into an oil drum turned trash barrel, and hurried down to the lower dock.

  Sam helped each of us board, then untied the line and jumped in. He nodded to the man at the wheel, and we putted out into the inlet.

  “How long is the ride?” Katy asked Sam.

  “The tide’s up, so we’ll take Parrot Creek, then the back creek and cut through the marsh. Shouldn’t be more than forty minutes.”

  Katy sat cross-legged on the bottom of the boat.

  “You’d do better to stand and lean against the side,” Sam suggested. “When Joey throttles down, this thing jumps. The vibration’s enough to rattle your vertebrae.”

  Katy got up and he handed her a rope.

  “Hang on to this. Do you want a life vest
?”

  Katy shook her head. Sam looked at me.

  “She’s a strong swimmer,” I assured him.

  Just then Joey opened the engine and the boat surged to life. We raced across open water, the wind snapping hair and clothes and ripping the words from our lips. At one point Katy tapped Sam’s shoulder and pointed to a buoy.

  “Crab pot,” yelled Sam.

  Farther on, he showed her an osprey nest atop a channel marker. Katy nodded vigorously.

  Before long we left open water and entered the marsh. Joey stood with feet spread, eyes fixed straight ahead as he twisted and turned the wheel, piloting the boat through narrow ribbons of water. There couldn’t have been more than ten feet of clearance in any of the alleys. We leaned hard left, then hard right, twisting through the cut, our spray showering the grass to either side.

  Katy and I clung to the boat and to each other, our bodies pitching with the centrifugal force of hard turns, laughing and enjoying the thrill of speed and the beauty of the day. Much as I love Murtry Island, I think I have always loved the crossing more.

  By the time we reached Murtry the mist had burned away. Sunlight warmed the dock and dappled the sign at the entrance to the island. A breeze teased the foliage overhead, sending splotches of shadow and light dancing and changing shape across the words: GOVERNMENT PROPERTY. KEEP OUT. ABSOLUTELY NO ADMITTANCE.

  When the boats were unloaded and everyone was inside the field station, Sam introduced Katy to the staff. I knew most of them, though there were a few new faces. Joey had been hired two summers earlier. Fred and Hank were still in training. As he made introductions, Sam gave a quick rundown of the operation.

  Joey, Larry, Tommy, and Fred were technicians, their primary duties being day-to-day maintenance of the facility and transport of supplies. They did painting and repair, cleaned the corrals and feeder stations, and kept the animals supplied with water and chow.

  Jane, Chris, and Hank were more directly involved with the monkeys, monitoring the groups for various types of data.

  “Like what?” Katy asked.

  “Pregnancies, births, deaths, veterinary problems. We keep close tabs on the population. And there are research projects. Jane’s involved in a serotonin study. She goes out each day to record certain types of behavior, to see which monkeys are more aggressive, more impulsive. Then we run that data against their serotonin levels. We’re also looking at their rank. Her monkeys wear telemetric collars that send out a signal so she can find them. You’ll probably spot one.”