HOMOSASSA SHADOWS

by Ann Cook

  “Thought about what I asked? We could have a great time in Gainesville before you go back to work. Pick up where we left off last night.” She heard the smile in his voice. “Anyway, you’d like the people at the museum.”

  Brandy felt a rush of electricity, remembering his body against hers, his voice urgent in her ear. The feeling scared her. “I probably would like to see the museum,” she said carefully, “but I’ve got unfinished business here, Grif. I don’t want to go away with Daria still missing. Then there’s the Hart case. I’ve got some theories about that.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve made enemies here, asking so many questions. You’d be wise to make yourself scarce.”

  “All the more reason to stay. Someone’s hiding something.”

  Another pause. “I’ll look for you before I go,” he said and hung up.

  Before she left the house, she tried to reach Strong. He wasn’t there. “I called last night,” she said to the officer who answered. “Yesterday I heard some suspicious sounds coming from a bedroom at Alma May Flint’s house. Ask him to have a deputy check it out.” She hung up, dissatisfied.

  In the boat Brandy lowered the shaft of the electric trolling motor into the water, and holding her breath, switched it on with a remote. It clicked a few seconds, then she felt the slight vibration as it purred on, its prop inching the boat backward. Good. Its silence would be handy. After she turned it off, she hit the tilt, dropped the gasoline engine’s prop into the water, cruised down the canal to the river, and turned about a mile west to the gas pump at the closest marina. When she handed her charge card to a lanky young attendant with his baseball cap on backwards and his pants at half-mast, he asked, grinning, “Out looking for another body?”

  She thought of Alma May, of Melba and Tugboat, even of Fishhawk. “I just hope it isn’t mine,” she said.

  The Grapple home was quiet as she passed, but Tugboat’s boat was gone. Against a slight head wind she churned into Tiger Tail Bay and watched an osprey fly toward the nest, and settling there, drop a fish beside its mate. Soon fledglings would appear. Only two boats passed her on the way to the Gulf. A Wednesday saw little river traffic. Along one isolated shore she could see volunteers beating through the underbrush. If Daria had been hidden, for whatever reason, she could be concealed right under their noses. From Tiger Tail Island the lone houses scattered along the riverbanks would be quick for a kidnapper to reach.

  Instead of first cruising on toward Alma May’s property, Brandy detoured north into the Salt River and idled toward an abandoned concrete block cottage at its mouth. She switched off the engine, raised the tilt, and inserted the prop of the electric motor into the water at the bow. Behind her a crab fisherman’s boat slipped past, moving toward traps that bobbed like globes in the bay ahead. The river was shallow, but a splintered pier jutted a few feet from the bank.

  As the pontoon drifted toward the remains of the wooden dock, she cut off the motor and secured the boat to a post. She saw no sign of human habitation, even though campers sometimes set up tents on these islands. A charcoal fire had recently been lit further down the waterfront. Grateful for her knee-high boots, she stepped through the boat’s gate, tested the rickety dock, and jumped over onto a riverbank strewn with oyster shells. A red front door on the cottage, its paint peeling, did not look tight. She pushed it and it creaked open. If anyone were here, she reasoned, it would’ve been locked. She called out. The scuffling she heard in response sounded like rats. She peeked inside. The room was vacant. No one had been there in years. Dust coated the concrete floor, unmarked except for the tracks of lizards and mice.

  Still, she told herself, as she boarded her boat again and cast off, the investigation proved the electric trolling motor would work when needed.

  She remembered seeing yet another empty dwelling—not a house exactly. Grifhad pointed out a shack near the Indian Mound where he had temporarily stored some pottery fragments. He wasn’t the only one who would know about the shack. Fishhawk and Bibi, had been to the mound with Grif. So might Tugboat or Melba and Alma May; any combination of the three could be the pot hunters the Florida Marine Patrol chased off weeks ago. But it was a place almost no one else would know about. The cabin wasn’t visible from the Little Homosassa River.

  Taking the starboard side of the Salt and skirting oyster beds, Brandy wound her way into Shivers Bay, past widely spaced houses, many deserted, perched along the shore. She avoided a thick stretch of sawgrass and the occasional crab trap, as well as shoals along the port side. At the mouth of the Little Homosassa, she slowed and studied the water even more carefully, then steered cautiously into the smaller river. The channel markers did not extend into the Little Homosassa, but in a few minutes she recognized the dead tree trunk curving above the water that marked the mound location. Here, four days ago, she and Hackett had pulled their boats ashore on the narrow beach.

  She cut off the engine and switched on the electric motor again. No reason to signal her arrival. The crab fisherman she’d spotted earlier chugged on ahead toward Sam’s Bayou, stopping now and then to check his traps. Before beaching her boat, Brandy waited until he disappeared behind the cabbage palms and twisted turkey oaks at the next bend. Then remembering the swarms of mosquitoes, she checked in her bag for insect repellent, gave herself a liberal spraying, and dropped the boat keys into her jeans pocket.

  In a few minutes she struggled once again up the dim path, fighting not only mosquitoes but also giant deer flies. The wind had picked up and murmured among huge red cedars on either side. Behind her lay miles of interconnecting rivers, savanna, black mangroves, and distant hammocks. At the summit she paused, seized again by the feeling Fishhawk must fear—an awareness of the silent bones that lay beneath the soil. How many had been removed, even before Hackett came? As she caught her breath after the climb, she examined the ground. She could not tell where the bundle burial shaft had been dug. Hackett had concealed it well.

  On one side of the mound, the clapboard hut leaned between two cedars, its windows boarded up, its door closed. A perfect hiding place, she thought, pulse quickening. Someone, still not identified, might want to force Fishhawk off Tiger Tail Island, might put on pressure by threatening his little daughter. If that were the case, Daria could be all right, but the kidnapper would need to bring in water and food. Perhaps drug her, lock the doors. No one would hear a child here. She stared back at the river. Nothing stirred.

  Brandy picked her way with care, conscious that she might be stepping on four-hundred-year old graves, until she reached the shack. New planks with metal plates for a padlock had been nailed to the door, but the only lock in use was a simple outside hook, probably to keep the door from swinging open. No eighteen-month old toddler would be able to jar it loose. Quietly, she lifted the hook. The only sound was the wind in the trees, the only smells the stale odor of stagnant water from a small cove nearby and the faint scent of cedar leaves. She slung her canvas bag over a shoulder, listened, and then pushed against the door. It swung open and she slipped inside.

  This time the interior was reasonably clean, but it reeked of mildew. The rough concrete floor felt damp to the touch. A streak of light sliced through a crack in the window frame. She waited until she could see in the gloom. Along one wall stretched the counter where Grif had set his pots fragments. She could still see imprints in the residue of dust, but no sign of a child. In the rear another door stood ajar. She pushed it open and found herself in a tiny lean-to storage room with a dirt floor. It was empty except for a tarp thrown over objects on a shelf along one wall.

  She lifted it, trying not to disturb anything beneath. Under it lay pottery fragments, some large, some decorated like the ones Grif had shown her. Surely, he had not left these artifacts here. Vandals must again be at work. In one corner someone had stuffed a bag of white powder—cocaine? Brandy sagged with disappointment. No sign of Daria. At least she could report what she had found, only scattered pottery and probably drugs.

 
Smuggling had always been a problem on this jagged coast. She dropped the tarp back in place. Still, the shack had been worth checking. Deputies searching for Daria wouldn’t think of it.

  Brandy had turned to leave when a sound outside paralyzed her—the crunch of shells under heavy boots. She froze. Someone was tramping over the hill, then down toward the hut. She held her breath, peered through a crack in the flimsy wall, saw nothing but cedars and sky. The outer door creaked. She shoved the door before her shut and pressed against the store-room’s pitted back wall, eyes wide, heart thumping. Had Grif come back for more pots? To herself she cried “Please, let it be Grif!”

  The outer door banged open, footsteps echoed across the wooden floor. Then the inner door flung wide and a figure loomed before her—not Grif s. Even before the man laughed, his fleshy frame was unmistakable. A shaved head ducked under the lintel.

  “Didn’t pay me no never mind, did you, bitch?” Tugboat said. “No never mind a-t’all. Still sticking your nose where it ain’t wanted.” One meaty hand grabbed her by the shirt and yanked her into the larger room. His moist lips and beard stank of whiskey, but he hadn’t drunk enough to be harmless. He dropped his grasp and stood, legs apart, hands on his hips. She felt faint with terror, knowing what he might try next.

  But for now he wanted to talk. “Let’s see. Found yourself a good place to poke around, I reckon. A good place. Hardly nobody comes up here. And your boyfriend’s done finished his work. Now ain’t that a shame.” He spat a wad of tobacco into the corner of the room. A spider, its body the size of a fifty-cent piece, scurried into a corner.

  Brandy said nothing. She hadn’t seen his Rottweiler. Was the dog trained to attack? Tugboat reached forward and snatched the canvas bag from her shoulder. No great loss, she thought. Bug repellent, note pad, a few bills, some coins, a lipstick and comb. He rummaged through it, grinned, and threw it back.

  “Reckon I’ll just lock you up a spell, so’s you can think about the trouble you in.” He pulled a padlock from a jeans pocket. “I’d best do a little planning, before your boyfriend comes looking for you.”

  Brandy’s throat felt like ashes; her body stiffened. Grif was busy, wouldn’t try to reach her until tomorrow. John wasn’t coming at all. Carole wasn’t due back for another week. Brandy had asked a neighbor to feed the animals if she was out late. No one knew her schedule. She had written in her notebook on the porch that she would search the north end of Tiger Tail Island, not here, and Annie had her cell. Brandy waited, trembling.

  Tugboat squinted into the room. “Got to do things right. Lots of digging been going on, what with your boyfriend fooling around up here. Oh, I know what he’s up to. But he’s gone now. No one’s gonna pay no attention to a tad more digging. Reckon them old Indian bones won’t mind a little company.” He grinned at his joke. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back.” He gave another gravelly chuckle, stepped outside, and the door slammed shut. Brandy heard the hasps snap together on the padlock. She had a few minutes, no more.

  Had he gone for a gun? A man like that always had one, a rifle probably for hunting. And a shovel? Rope, maybe? She spun wildly around, raced back into the storage room, and knelt in one corner. She had seen something. It seemed unimportant then—a crack under the foundation board that supported the back wall. She thrust a finger through the opening. The dirt was almost pure sand, not shells as she feared. In the rear of the shed, rain had washed much of the loose soil down the slope.

  The clay fragments on the shelf must be sturdy. She lifted the tarp and picked up a piece about six inches square with a sharp, serrated edge. It felt firm and grainy in her fingers. How much time? Maybe Tugboat would stop for another swig. Her heart drummed, hands shook. She began to dig. Once Jeremiah Strong had told her, if you can push your head through an opening, your whole body will fit. Useful knowledge for jailers, and he had served once, he said, in the county jail. Her nails broke, dirt rained down on her jeans and shirt, her face became a sandy mask. She dared not stop, even to glance at her watch. What lay outside? She would have to try to reach her boat. She couldn’t find help on this lonely island.

  At last she threw herself down, face up, and tried to slither under. Her forehead struck the splintered bottom board and bled. She dug some more, tried again. This time she scraped the board, squirmed further.

  Pushing hard with her feet in the sand, she shoved her way into the open air, reached back into the opening for the canvas bag, and took a few seconds to swipe some ofthe sand back into the hole. Don’t leave a clear trail, she thought, and dropped the pottery fragment into her bag. Then she squatted, quivering, her frenzied gaze searching for a route to the river. Behind the hut lay a stretch of silvery needlerush, knee high, beyond it more clusters of red cedars, a spiky century plant. A light wind felt cool on her sweaty forehead.

  How had the Seminoles escaped the soldiers and seemed to vanish? They crawled.

  Brandy dropped to her knees, worked her way into the tall rushes, lay on her stomach, and pulled herself along, hoping that the movement of the wind would hide her own motion. She could hear nothing. No boat engine. No footsteps. She did not dare rise and look back. Instead, she tried to remember where the base of the mound lay. She had to circle it, make her way to the water, through the reed and marsh grasses, avoiding the spines on the sharp side of the sawgrass. She had pulled the boat ashore near a stand of tall cedar. For that she said a grateful prayer.

  Brandy lost all sense of time. Reaching forward with aching fingers, she pulled her body after them, writhing like a snake through high grasses that scratched and scraped. Sand spurs embedded in her hands, clung to her shirt and pants. Mosquitoes and yellow flies buzzed and stung. Her nostrils filled with the acrid odor of damp soil and soggy weeds.

  Finally, she allowed herself to creep forward on her knees, keeping her head well down. Her hands began to sink into marsh. She must be nearer the river. When she reached the shelter of the cedars, she crouched forward, picked up a fallen branch, still laced with a few berries, as a shield and slithered from tree to tree. She was out of sight of the shack now, but keeping a circular distance from the mound summit. Tugboat might’ve left the island, gone elsewhere for his gun and his tools. Her spirits rose.

  Above an osprey soared up with a fish in its claws. That meant the river. She spotted a heron poised on the low branch of a turkey oak. It must be fishing along the shore. She dropped her leafy camouflage and knelt behind a wide cedar. She could see her boat, but not Tugboat’s, although it could be in the cove. Hers was about ten yards away. Again she crawled over sharp oyster shells, hands bleeding. Not daring to look up, she shoved the pontoons into the water and pulled herself through the aluminum gate. With a paddle she pushed the pontoons far enough to cover the electric prop. Tugboat had not searched her pockets, had not found her keys. Maybe he thought she had left them in the boat. She would drift out into the current, then switch on the electric motor. As soon as she could get far enough down river, she’d shift to the gasoline engine. Her pulse pounded.

  And then Brandy heard the shout. “Thought you’d get away, bitch?” Tugboat stood in a clear space between two cedars, maybe twenty yards away, his Rottweiler beside him, a rifle in his hand. The dog might’ve tracked her. Through the silent air she heard the metallic shell snapping into place. She had been so close, so ready to sneak away. Tugboat could’ve been watching her, could’ve relished her struggle through the weeds before he finished it with one powerful bullet. A boy teasing a doomed fly. In that second, one half of her brain felt paralyzed, the other half thought: I’ve been here before. But Fishhawk had not meant to kill her with his rifle. Tugboat clearly did. To lose to Tugboat now—it was too much to bear.

  Brandy dropped to the deck. Her fevered mind grasped one hope—where was the crab fisherman? By now he should be on his way back. On her port side she could hear the faint drone of an engine. As Tugboat lifted the rifle to his shoulder and lowered his head to sight down the barrel, the thrumming sound incre
ased. Around the closest bend glided the flat-bottomed boat, the gray-bearded fisherman at the tiller. His engine roared, then abruptly stopped. Brandy leaped up, shouted, “Help!” waved her bag.

  He steered nearer. “Something the matter? Can’t get ‘er going? Need a tow?” He tipped back his cap and waited. A teen-aged boy stood amidships holding a trap. At some level of consciousness, Brandy was aware of a large blue crab wiggling down the wire toward a bucket. Their engine idled.

  She found her voice, did not look back at Tugboat. “Think I can get her started okay now,” she shouted. “Can I follow you in?”

  The man nodded and called back, “Keep to the middle of the channel.”

  Before she switched on her gasoline engine, she glanced at the shore. She had heard Tugboat’s loud laugh, but he had now vanished. She could not tell if the fisherman had seen him. Her pontoon boat surged ahead as she shifted gear with trembling fingers, came around, and plowed along behind the crabber. Each time he stopped to check a trap, she stopped. As they made their slow way back to the commercial fishing docks, she did not hear a boat behind them.

  There she waved her thanks to the man and his son, noted the name “Margaret Ann” on its hull, and cruised on to the marina. She could not bring herself to go back alone to the house. She wondered if she would ever feel safe alone again. She wanted to be around people, but her matted hair and filthy shirt and pants made her look as if she’d dragged herself out of a coal mine. The one person she wanted to see was Detective Jeremiah Strong. Fat chance. At the marina pier near the motel, she tied up and stumbled up onto the patio deck beside a small outdoor Tiki bar, sat down at a picnic table, and dropped her head on her arms. Had Tugboat laughed because he only meant to frighten her with this threats, or because he was for the moment outwitted?