by Kathy Reichs
At Meeting Street, I glanced to my right. Just south, near the Battery, loomed the Claybourne mansion. Chance’s mail was delivered to one of the poshest addresses in town. Big money country.
Turning left, we passed City Hall and the white spire of St. Michael’s Episcopal Church. Our route sliced through the heart of Charleston’s shopping district. Expensive storefronts displayed high-end clothing, and aggressive restaurateurs called from doorways, urging us to feast within.
Continuing up Meeting, we skirted the old market, often called the slave market, though slaves were never sold there. It’s now a world-famous open-air bazaar.
Gullah women wove sweetgrass baskets on the sidewalk, hoping to score bucks from out-of-towners. Tourists in visors and sneakers examined trinkets and crafts spread across tables. Further up, outside Hyman’s Seafood, a line of would-be diners snaked from the front door.
Eight more blocks brought us to Calhoun Street and the main branch of the Charleston Public Library. Built in 1998, the building is modern brick and stucco.
We entered and crossed a brightly lit atrium to a help desk manned by a small, rat-faced guy. Skinny, maybe thirty-five, he had black hair, oiled and razor-parted. His brown sweater-vest covered a tan shirt hung with a yellow paisley tie. Brown corduroy pants completed perhaps the most boring ensemble ever conceived.
“Can I help you, children?” Annoyance pinched Rat Face’s already pinched features. A dog-eared copy of Battlefield Earth was pressed to his chest.
Time for some buttering up.
“Yes, sir,” I chirped. “I certainly hope so. We’ve got a research problem. My teacher said that only public library people are smart enough to help.”
Rat Face puffed at my largesse, so I plowed ahead. “I know your time is precious, but could you spare a moment to mentor us?”
The weaselly face brightened. “No trouble at all! My name is Brian Limestone.” He laid down his book. “What’s yours?”
“Tory Brennan. These are my friends, Shelton and Hiram.”
“A pleasure. Now, what do you fine young scholars require?”
“We found an old dog tag,” I explained. “We’d like to return it to its owner. Seems like the right thing to do.”
“Wonderful! What thoughtful, special children!” Limestone hopped from his stool and scurried around the desk. “I have an idea. Please follow!”
Limestone bustled toward a staircase, leaving us to keep up. We climbed to the second floor and entered a chamber labeled The South Carolina Room.
“I suggest you start here,” Limestone instructed. “See if your soldier was a citizen of Charleston County. We have directories dating from 1782, phonebooks from 1931.” He pointed across the room. “If that proves unsuccessful, most of the city’s newspapers are on microfilm. The oldest dailies were first published in 1731.”
I surveyed the large room. This wouldn’t be easy. But Internet searches had generated an overwhelming number of F. Heaton hits. Slogging through local records seemed a reasonable plan.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Limestone. ” I laid it on thick. “You’re a genius. We’d have been totally lost without you.” Big smile. “Looks like we have our work cut out for us!”
“Call down if you need anything,” Limestone offered. “Such sweet kids,” he remarked, tiptoeing from the room.
The door had barely closed before Hi pounced.
“Oh, Mr. Limestone, thank God you were here! I would have wet my pants without you!” Hi fake-swooned into Shelton’s open arms. Both started laughing, drawing frowns from the other patrons.
“Zip it,” I responded, giggling. “It worked, all right?”
I looked around, searching for a place to begin.
It was going to be a long afternoon.
CHAPTER 19
Two hours later, frustration reigned.
We’d gotten nowhere with the directories and phonebooks. Ditto for birth certificates and marriage licenses. I began to accept the fact that F. Heaton wasn’t local after all.
Hi tried more online sources, but found squat. Shelton was searching newspaper obituaries, looking for a needle in a haystack. Our confidence was in the basement. The name Heaton was simply too common without more information.
The only thing left was the longest of long shots. Sighing, I starting thumbing through records of the Charleston Orphan House. A long shot was better than no shot at all.
Formerly the oldest orphanage in America, the state of South Carolina demolished the Orphan House in 1951. By law, records remained sealed for seventy-five years, meaning the files in the library stopped at 1935. I wasn’t holding my breath.
So my find came as a total shock: a musty file labeled Francis P. Heaton. Snatching the weathered folder, I rushed to a table.
“Guys! I’ve got something!” No need to worry about lowered voices. We were the only people left in the room.
Shelton and Hi crowded close as I opened our first lead of the day.
The contents were underwhelming. Two documents. The one on top appeared to be a standard intake form. I reviewed the scant information provided:
Name: Francis P. Heaton
Born: 1934
Parents/relations: unknown
Date accepted as ward of State: July 15, 1935.
Manner of acceptance: left on doorstep of Charleston Orphan House
“They left him on the freakin’ doorstep?” squawked Shelton. “That’s cold!”
“It was the Great Depression,” Hi countered. “That’s greatly depressing.”
“Enough,” I shushed. “There’s more.”
Below the typed information, someone had penned a few lines in an old-fashioned hand:
The infant was left outside the orphanage gates during the night of July 15, 1935. A note attached to the child’s swaddling provided only a name. Investigation failed to unearth any information regarding the child’s natural parents. The Board has therefore assumed responsibility for Francis P. Heaton as a ward of the State of South Carolina.
“Do you think it’s our boy?” asked Shelton. “Francis P. would’ve been in his thirties during the Vietnam War.”
“Could be,” said Hi. “What’s the other page say?”
The second document was a standard sheet of loose-leaf paper. I flipped it over, revealing a handwritten message in the form a journal entry.
The date scrawled on top read November 24, 1968. Although shakier, the penmanship matched that of the first document. The message had been written by the same person who’d completed the intake form thirty years earlier.
Terrible news for Thanksgiving. Frankie Heaton was killed in action last month fighting in the Mekong Delta. I’d not heard from him in years. A Gazette story reported that Frankie fought valiantly as his entire squad was overcome.
Biting my lip, I forced myself to keep reading.
What a wretched war! My heart breaks to think of Frankie’s daughter, Katherine. Only sixteen, and with her mother gone, now an orphan herself. May the Good Lord bless Frankie’s soul, and watch over his child.
The note was signed with an illegible name.
We all stared at it mutely.
Shelton spoke first. “What’s the Gazette?”
“A Charleston paper that went out of print in the early seventies,” Hi said.
“I think Frankie’s our guy.” Shelton sounded as downcast as I felt. “But if he died in the Mekong Delta, how did his dog tag end up on Loggerhead Island?”
“His daughter was fifteen in 1968.” Hi calculated in his head. “She’d be fifty-seven now.”
“Then the tag belongs to her,” I said vehemently. “We’ve got to find Katherine and give it back.”
Hi nodded. “Let’s try Google. We have a full name. It might work this time.”
Shelton and Hi moved to the computer bank, anxious to distance themselves from my emotional orbit. I didn’t follow. A tremendous sadness had enveloped me, more powerful than expected.
Across the span of
decades, I empathized with Francis Heaton’s daughter. Like Katherine, I knew how it felt to lose a mother. She’d lost her father, too. The world could be very cruel.
And Francis himself? The child abandoned on a doorstep had grown into a man who fought for his country. And paid the ultimate price. Unspeakably sad.
“Tory!” Shelton sounded wired. “Oh man, check this out!”
Reading Shelton’s screen, my shock doubled.
Worse and worse.
Shelton’s keyword search had brought up a crime site exploring missing person cases. According to the information, sixteen-year-old Katherine Heaton disappeared in Charleston, South Carolina, in 1969, leaving no trace.
Vanished. Gone.
“This can’t be legit,” I studied the screen. “The Stab Network? What ridiculous blog is this, anyway?”
“Not exactly CNN,” Hi agreed. “Hit the sources page.”
Though the entry listed references, none of the links worked. But the story cited quotes from the Gazette.
We flew to the microfilm reader. Shelton located and spooled the reel containing Gazette issues from 1969. For the next hour we huddled together, absorbing the saga of Katherine Anne Heaton.
Katherine’s disappearance had captivated Charleston. On August 24, 1969, the young woman left home, headed for the docks at Ripley Point. She was never seen again. For weeks the police scoured the region, found nothing. In mid-September the search was called off.
During the investigation, the Gazette published several background pieces. Katherine grew up in West Ashley, a modest neighborhood east of the peninsula. She attended St. Andrew’s Parish High School, achieved excellent marks, even won a merit award for science. Friends said Katherine planned to attend Charleston University after graduation.
I skimmed through weeks of newspapers, desperate for a happy ending. Nothing. Katherine’s story simply ended.
Then, a bombshell.
In October of 1969, the Gazette ran a front-page story profiling Charleston County citizens killed in Vietnam. Among them was Francis “Frankie” Heaton. The reporter noted that Frankie Heaton was the father of still-missing Katherine Heaton, in whose disappearance police continued to have no leads.
“Guys, listen! According to an aunt, Katherine Heaton wore her father’s dog tags to honor him.”
“That’s it.” Shelton whistled. “We’ve got the right Heaton. I bet she dropped the tag on Loggerhead.”
“But why would Katherine be out there?” I wondered aloud. “Her bio suggests she wasn’t the party-island type.”
“Did they ever find her?” Hi asked.
“Not in 1969.” Shelton replaced that reel in its box. “Should we move ahead to 1970?”
“My word, you’ve been diligent! Any luck?” We all turned at the sound of Limestone’s voice.
“Yes, sir. We discovered quite a bit, but have more questions.”
“Splendid. The library closes soon, but perhaps I can be of additional help?”
Shelton took charge. “Have you ever heard of a girl named Katherine Heaton?”
Something flickered in Limestone’s eyes. Was gone. “What did you say?” The whiney voice had raised an octave.
“Katherine Heaton,” Shelton repeated. “Local girl, went missing in the sixties? Her pop was a soldier in Vietnam. Ever heard of her?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t help you.” A different Brian Limestone stood before us. The encouragement was gone. The man now seemed anxious. “I’ve got to close this room now, if you’ll please excuse me.”
“Sorry to be a pain,” I soothed. “We’d just like to know what happened to Katherine. We got caught up in the old newspaper articles. Can you show us where to find more of her story?”
“No, I cannot. I’m very busy. I thought you were doing schoolwork.” A bony finger pointed to the exit. “Please leave. You’ll have to return another time.”
We exchanged glances. Limestone was shutting us down. Bewildered, we gathered our things and hustled from the building.
Outside, I glanced back at the library. Limestone stood inside the door, watching us intently.
“What was that?” I asked. “An evil twin? The guy couldn’t cut us some slack?”
“For real,” agreed Shelton. “The minute I ask for something, he’s a grade-A dick.”
“Librarians,” remarked Hi. “Always hatin’ on the brothers. Good thing I didn’t open my Jew mouth.”
“No doubt.” Shelton chuckled. “Probably donning his bedsheet and hood as we speak, saluting a Nazi flag! Racist.”
I grinned. “He’s not a big fan of women, either.”
We were joking, of course. Whatever had gotten into Brian Limestone, it wasn’t bigotry.
When our amusement faded, anxiety settled in its place. The librarian’s sudden change of attitude was unnerving.
I remembered Limestone’s face just before he’d morphed into a jerk.
His expression.
Had that been . . . fear?
CHAPTER 20
My body dozed on the boat ride home.
Not so my brain. It kept a half-open eye on my surroundings, and on my bench position between Hi and Shelton.
We’d barely caught the last ferry. Thankfully, Ben’s dad had waited an extra ten minutes before making his final run from the city.
Dusk gave way to night as we bounced across the chop obscuring the shoreline, the harbor, and Fort Sumter.
My sleeping psyche meandered through visions and memories. Dreaming, but aware at the same time.
In my dream I wandered deep woods at night. Alone. The midnight air infused me with a bone-deep chill.
I wasn’t afraid, but felt an urgent compulsion to search. Though undefined, the drive was all-consuming. A massive, essential something was missing, and everything depended on my finding it. I needed, but didn’t know “what.”
Knee-high fog wafted among the trees, thick and soupy. Pale moonlight struggled, but failed to penetrate the gloom. Direction-blind, I lurched through the vapor, eyes probing my surroundings, sifting for clues. Nothing.
The formless urge grew stronger—to trace, to determine, to ask. But what was the question?
After stumbling a few more yards, I halted. Recognized the terrain. I was in Y-7’s clearing. Right where we’d found the dog tag.
My mind wandered the heart of Loggerhead Island.
Something called out from deep in my subconscious. Saying what? I couldn’t catch the message.
Instinctively, I scanned the ground. Dense, rolling fog hid the forest floor. I needed to see beneath, to inspect the earth.
I can’t find anything in this soup.
As if on cue, the mist parted and rolled from the clearing. I froze, confused. Then comprehension dawned.
I’m dreaming. I can do anything I want.
I considered exiting the fantasy. Knew I could. Some instinct told me to remain, hinted that my unconscious was trying to tell me something.
My mind searched the dreamscape. The field looked as I remembered it. I crisscrossed the open space, seeking anything that might spark my interest. Nada.
The clearing itself?
I launched myself skyward. Fifty yards up I pivoted to face the ground. Perched upon nothing, I hovered in midair, gazing down.
Too dark.
I summoned daylight. Bright sunshine scattered the shadows. Bathed in glowing rays, the ground now looked as it had during our weekend visit.
This was fun.
Like a bird of prey, I scanned the terrain, hoping for dots to connect in my brain. But what was I looking for?
I ramped up my concentration. Details registered. The shape of the ground. The varied greens of the vegetation. Y-7’s agitation.
My mind circled, clutched. What did these things mean?
Abruptly, gravity reasserted control and plunged me earthward. I flailed, flapped my arms. Useless. I dropped like a rock. The ground hurtled up to greet me.
A scream echoed in my ears. M
ine?
Hi danced backward, yanking his hand from my shoulders.
“Jeez, Tor! We’re here.”
My head snapped up. Disoriented, I glanced around.
The Morris Island dock. Shelton. Hi. A very startled Mr. Blue.
“Sorry, Hi. I passed out a bit.”
“No problemo. You hit like a girl.”
Hi dropped his voice so Ben’s father wouldn’t overhear. “I’m going to relieve Ben. I’ll let you know how Coop’s doing.” He lumbered down the plank. “Toodles!”
Shaking cobwebs, I said goodnight to Shelton and Mr. Blue, who motored off to collect the last stragglers from Loggerhead. Kit included, I assumed.
I trudged toward my house.
Hours later, sleep wouldn’t come. Over and over, snatches of the dream replayed in my head.
The clearing. Why did I keep seeing the clearing?
Restless, and Red Bull-awake, I powered up my Mac, accessed Google Earth, and pulled up satellite photos of Loggerhead Island. An aerial survey took time, but eventually I identified a likely spot.
Zooming in, I recognized the tree Hi and I had used for cover during Y-7’s smackdown. Excitement fizzed in my chest. I had the right location.
By maxing the magnification, I got picture clarity that was spectacular. Even more amazing, the image mirrored the setting of my dream.
What is it that bugs me?
I cataloged the scene. Circular clearing, roughly twenty-five yards in diameter. My stalwart oak standing alone on the left. Ground grassy, with a slight depression at center.
So why the mental Psst?
The depression?
I studied it. The indentation was roughly six feet in diameter and appeared to be overgrown by vegetation darker than the surrounding grass.
Or was that merely shadow?
Okay. So what? The ground dipped. Water pooled at the low point. Higher moisture in the soil attracted different plants.
I rubbed my eyes, preparing to forget the whole thing.
Wait!
The subliminal message fired into my conscious inbox.
Ground slump. Vegetative change. Six foot radius.
Oh my God.
For a hot moment I forgot to breathe. Then I sucked in six or seven deep gulps, hyperventilating.
