Now, she was prepared to break the snake’s back with the broom handle. Except that given her position, and the lack of space for a windup, doing such a thing was physically impossible. She would have to practice her sweeping, another talent honed under Merriam’s tutelage.
Isabel clutched the broom in both hands, leaned forward, and with all her strength swept the snake toward the front door.
It moved a few feet but didn’t like it. She saw the white cottony lining when its mouth opened. She swept again, harder, pushing the writhing creature toward the door. One more thrust and it was out, sailing through the air. She jumped down and slammed the door.
For reasons she couldn’t explain, she climbed back onto the countertop and sat cross-legged, holding the broom. She was still there fifteen minutes later when Harry Mercer arrived.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Harry hammered on the door until he heard Isabel say, “Come in. It’s open.” He had known what Scooter had done as soon as he found the bathroom door open and Sis the cottonmouth gone. His chest ached with the desire to get his hands on Scooter and kill him.
Isabel was sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter, holding a broom across her lap. Her face was milky white. She said, “Harry, a cottonmouth got in here.”
Harry closed the door behind him. “Where did it go?”
“I swept it out.” She waved the broom with an odd smile. “I swept the damn thing out. You should’ve seen it. You know”— she giggled— “Merriam killed one, a rattlesnake, with a broom once, but I just swept it. Like a conscientious housewife.” She laughed again, a breathless rasp, and said, “What in the hell are you doing here, Harry?”
He said, “Let me get you a drink. All right? What have you got?” He walked into the kitchen, opened cabinets. He found a bottle of gin, poured some over an ice cube, and put the glass on the counter beside her. “Do you want me to help you down from there?”
She frowned. “No, thanks. I got up here by myself all right.” She picked up the glass and drank. “Didn’t I tell you not to come over?”
“I thought maybe you’d changed your mind.”
She drank more gin, giving him a look he couldn’t read. “So here you are.”
“Yeah.”
Isabel seemed to be waiting, giving him a chance to say something, but when he didn’t take it, she said, “How did that snake get in here, do you think?”
He couldn’t look at her. He shifted his gaze. “Got to be an opening somewhere. Around the pipes, maybe. You want me to look?”
She stayed up on the counter, drinking her gin, while he checked the pipes. After a while, he said, “I’m going to look outside. You got a screwdriver? And a flashlight?”
“The screwdriver’s under the sink. The flashlight? I guess I dropped it over there, on the sofa.” As he went out, she said, “Be careful. It’s still out there somewhere.”
He shook his head. “It’s in the slough by now.”
No sign of Sis outside. Harry pushed through the bushes at the back of the trailer, shining the light in front of him. Insects whirled in its beam. He found the place where the pipes led into the kitchen. The metal cladding around the opening was rusty and loose. Although the gap didn’t seem large enough for a snake of any size to get through, Harry tightened the screws.
He also shone his light on a ventilation panel that was hanging loose, affording a larger opening. That’s where Scooter had put Sis in. He probably brought her over in the plastic garbage can. Harry snapped the panel back in place.
When he went inside he said, “I found it. Out by the kitchen pipes. I tightened it up for you.”
She climbed stiffly down from the counter. “I was thinking I might have to sleep up here.”
One important thing he did have to say. “I left Kathy.”
She frowned. “You what?”
“I left Kathy.”
“Who’s Kathy?”
“My wife.”
He could tell by her face that she’d had enough. She looked ready to scream and blow her top. He rushed on. “It was going to happen sooner or later. Anyway, I wanted to tell you she’s the one who wrote those letters to you.”
“What?”
He should have left this for another time, but he wasn’t sure there would be one. “I had told her about us, a long time ago when she and I were courting. She never forgot, and when you came back, she got worried.” He had hit a snag. “She told me she wrote the letters because she was worried—” He stopped, then tried again. “She was worried that I still loved you,” he said. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
She didn’t say anything. After a minute, he said, “Anyway, I’m glad you’re safe.”
She looked directly into his eyes. “Are you?” she said, and he saw in her face that Scooter was right. She had gone into the house. She knew.
Loss and desolation filled him. He said, “I would never hurt you, Isabel.”
Her lip curled. “Wouldn’t you? You don’t think it hurts me to know that you’ve been using my house – Merriam’s house— as your base of operations? You’ve been sneaking around salvaging a Spanish wreck, Harry. What happened to Merriam? Did she figure out what you were up to? Did she disapprove of you breaking and entering her property? Because I’ve figured it out, and I disapprove, believe me.”
It was the worst. Worse than the worst. After a silence Harry said, “You take care, all right?” Lifting a hand in farewell, he left. The lock on the door clicked behind him.
TWENTY-EIGHT
After Harry left, Isabel called the Marine Patrol. She told the woman who answered the phone that she wanted to report an illegal salvaging operation that was being carried on using a property of hers as a base of operations. Explaining the situation was challenging, and she wasn’t sure she had convinced the woman that she wasn’t drunk or insane. Eventually, she had agreed to call back in the morning.
She had hardly slept, in fact could barely make herself stay in the trailer at all. Thoughts of the cottonmouth alternated with thoughts of Harry Mercer, and by the time day broke she knew she had to get out. She called the Marine Patrol again, and this time got someone who sounded fairly interested in her story. He said they had an operative in the area who would be in contact with her, but there was no indication it was going to be immediately. She would try calling again later, but in the meantime she was getting out of Cape St. Elmo. She packed an overnight bag just in case, and took off for Gilead Springs. Although the trip was a long shot, compared with her other preoccupations its outcome seemed admirably predictable: Either she would find some trace of River Pete Addison in Gilead Springs or she wouldn’t.
At almost noon, she passed the Gilead Springs city limits. It was a small town, formerly a spa where people came to take the waters from warm sulfur springs. Those days were long gone. Now, the town consisted of a Taco Bell, a brambly old cemetery, a few beautiful Queen Anne houses, a row of unimposing stores, and the Gilead Springs Lodge, a cavernous stone building dating from the glory days of Gilead Springs.
Across from the Lodge was the county courthouse. The courthouse would be as good a place as any to start looking for Pete Addison.
The echoing halls seemed deserted, and Isabel soon remembered it was lunchtime. She wandered until she found a door with PROPERTY RECORDS painted on it in gold. She tried it, expecting to find it locked. It wasn’t. A gray-haired man in shirtsleeves sat at a desk, eating a sandwich— tuna salad, judging from the smell. When she appeared, he put it down, dusted his fingers, and listened attentively to her query about people named Addison who might have owned property in the area.
“Addison?” His forehead wrinkled. “I don’t know anybody by that name, and I’ve been here a good long time. When would this have been?”
“I’m not sure. In the twenties maybe.”
He guffawed. “Well, I don’t go back quite that far. I can let you look at the records, but they’re not cross-referenced and computerized yet. The money to do it got
knocked out of the budget last year. If you want to dig through, you’re welcome.”
“Thanks. I’ll give it a try.”
“I’ll get a batch and get you started.”
Time passed. Workers in the Records office returned from lunch, chatted, went back to their tasks. After two hours, Isabel was starving, cross-eyed from studying small print, and generally discouraged. She was also relatively, but only relatively, sure that Pete Addison had not been a property owner in Gilead County.
She returned the last pile of documents to the man and thanked him. Damn it, she had been so pleased at her good luck with Donna Pursey, she had made the mistake of believing it would continue. “If I wanted to trace somebody who used to live in Gilead Springs, where else would I look?” she asked the man.
He hung his head back and studied the ceiling. “I guess you could try the graveyard,” he said.
She left the courthouse and tottered, weak with hunger, to the Taco Bell. Try the graveyard? Why not? The overgrown cemetery was only half a block away. Carrying her taco, Isabel picked her way through blackberry vines and dead leaves to a stone bench under a tree.
After she finished eating, she got up to wander along the ill-kept paths and decipher the tombstones. She tried to be methodical, working her way from the front to the back fence bedecked with yellow rambling roses. She was on the next to last row of stones, and the sun was lowering, when a voice said, “You looking for anybody in particular?”
The voice had come from behind the rose-hung fence. She looked up, to see a shrunken man wearing a straw hat with a gaudy band. Only his head was visible over the mass of roses. Isabel shaded her eyes. “Addison. Pete Addison.”
The man shook his head. “He ain’t there. I know every one of them stones. Lived next door to them for forty years.”
“Did you ever hear of Pete Addison?”
The man shoved his hat up on his forehead. “You doing genealogy? We get a fair number doing genealogy.”
“Well…” There was no way to explain. “Sort of.”
He wagged his head. “No Pete Addison there, and I never heard of him, neither. ’Course, this ain’t the only cemetery around. You got St. James, that’s the Catholics, up on the highway, and Rose of Sharon, out next to the Primitive Baptist Church.”
Isabel’s hands went to her aching back. St. James. Rose of Sharon.
“And there’s the new memorial park, too, on the coast road,” the man finished triumphantly. He shook his head. “No Pete Addison in this one, I can tell you.”
Isabel murmured, “All right, all right” under her breath, but the man, having delivered his message, had disappeared. She wasn’t about to tackle St. James, Rose of Sharon, and the new memorial park tonight. She started for the Gilead Springs Lodge, hoping it wasn’t fully booked.
TWENTY-NINE
Buddy Burke was past Westpoint. He was damn near home.
For the first time, he got the idea that everything might work out. Maybe Joy wasn’t cheating on him with Mr. S. Maybe she had bought Kimmie Dee the boots by now. If that was the case, he’d go back and serve his time and be satisfied.
Buddy sure hoped it would end up that way.
Buddy was sitting on an upturned bateau back in the weeds near the Deep Creek landing, eating salami. His shotgun was propped beside him. Buddy could have shot something to eat, a squirrel or a rabbit, but he had discovered it was easier to steal. You didn’t have to skin, gut, and cook a salami. It was hanging right there in the store for you to take. Hell, he had stolen the knife he was cutting off the bites with, too. Buddy had learned a lot on this trip, but what he’d learned most about was stealing.
Down in front of him, across the weeds and rutted clay, was the boat-launching basin. Deep Creek, then the river, then the canal, was the route Buddy would take to Cape St. Elmo. He was too close now to risk hitching a ride. Too many people around here knew him. And he’d had enough walking through woods and swamps. Buddy had done the trip by boat many a time on hunting and fishing excursions.
There were several boats at the basin, either pulled up on the bank or moored to the dock. That was the good news. The bad news was, a white-haired man wearing a railroad engineer’s cap was sitting under the pavilion, drinking coffee and looking out at the water as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He was sitting there when Buddy arrived, he had sat there during the twenty minutes Buddy had been eating his salami, and he looked likely to keep on sitting there until sundown or later. All well and fine, except Buddy didn’t want to wait until sundown to take care of his business.
He watched the engineer. Retired. Not a thing to do but sit and watch the creek go by. Must be nice to have nothing more than that on your mind, and to hell with other people, who had goals to accomplish.
Buddy chewed, meditating. He could go on down there now. One of the boats had a motor on it; he had already spotted that. Chances were he could get it started and be on his way.
Except, he had to be sure. Once he started checking it out, the engineer would get suspicious if he had any brains at all.
Buddy finished his last bite and wiped his hands on the knees of his jeans. When he got home, he’d have a real bath, not a cold rinse from somebody’s outdoor faucet. When he was clean, he’d play with Kimmie Dee and Toby. Truthfully, Buddy had never quite cottoned to Toby the way he had to Kimmie Dee, but anyway, they’d all have a good time. It could work out all right.
As Buddy watched, the engineer emptied out the rest of his coffee on the ground. Buddy hoped this meant he was about to leave, but all he did was put the cup on the table and settle back to watch the creek some more.
Buddy couldn’t wait any longer. He had to move. He picked up his shotgun and sauntered toward the basin. Ripples broke on the wet clay and a rusted bait can rolled back and forth in the shallows.
Not looking at the engineer, Buddy stood at the edge of the basin and studied the boat he wanted. There were oars in it and a gas can. It might be exactly right, but he had to get closer to make sure. As nonchalantly as he could, Buddy got into the boat and stood still until it finished rocking. He stepped over the front seat to get to the motor. Yes, he thought he could—
“You looking for something, son?”
Buddy raised up from where he had bent over the motor. The old engineer had left his place and was standing on the bank, watching Buddy. The engineer’s face was bright pink and wisps of white hair stuck out from under the cap. Buddy cleared his throat. “This is my brother’s boat,” he said.
The engineer didn’t say anything for a minute. He pulled out a blue bandanna and wiped his neck. He said, “That boat belongs to Mr. Robert Dawkins. Mr. Dawkins is a friend of mine. His only brother died of bone cancer last year.”
Now, Buddy should say, “Screw you, I was just looking.” He should jump out of the boat and haul ass away from here. He’d find another boat or walk through the woods like he’d been doing. It wasn’t a big deal.
Instead, he went into kind of a commando crouch, cocked his gun, and pointed it at the engineer, all in less than two seconds. He watched the engineer’s face go meaty purple.
The engineer put his hands up. “I didn’t say nothing.”
“I heard you all right,” Buddy said. He thought, I’ve taken enough.
Buddy jumped over the side of the boat into calf-deep water. His boots sank into the sludge and he felt water rushing into them. He didn’t care. He strode through the shallow water to the engineer and said, “People like you ought to mind their own business.”
“Yes, all right,” the engineer said. His pudgy hands were shaking so fast Buddy couldn’t make out one finger from another.
Buddy jerked the engineer’s bandanna out of his pocket and gagged him. The engineer made a choking sound. Buddy marched the engineer into a stand of trees and shoved him down in the brush. He took off the engineer’s belt and bound his hands together and tied them around a sapling. He’d probably get loose, but not until Buddy was long gone.
<
br /> All of this had been done in what seemed no time at all, but now Buddy felt an urgent need to move. He ran back to the boat, shoved off, and paddled out into the creek. He’d get down a ways and find a place where he could work on the motor and get it started.
He was going home. In spite of everything, it might work out all right.
THIRTY
Isabel had slept well in her clean, spartan room at the Gilead Springs Lodge. Today, she had decided, was the last day of her search for River Pete. She would go to St. James, Rose of Sharon, and the memorial park. That was it. Then she would have to face returning to Cape St. Elmo.
After breakfast, armed with the desk clerk’s directions to the cemeteries, she drove out of Gilead Springs in the morning heat.
It didn’t take long to cross the small burial ground at St. James Church off the list. When that was done, Isabel proceeded to Rose of Sharon Primitive Baptist, which proved to be a different story. Rose of Sharon church was a large, new-looking brick building with a bright tin roof and a towering spire. Behind it was the cemetery, which appeared to be several acres of treeless hillside divided by neat copings.
She pulled up in a gravel parking lot and cut the motor. To look at every grave would take days. She’d have to find somebody who could tell her who was buried here. Either that or forget it.
She got out, crossed the parking lot, and walked into the front door of the church. The air inside was deliciously cool. There was no one in sight.
There had to be an office. Following the sound of typing, Isabel walked along an aisle to a side door. In a small room she found a woman sitting behind a desk, typing on a large manual typewriter. A burned-wood plaque beside the door read CHURCH OFFICE. Beneath it was a smaller matching plaque: HESTER DAVIS, CHURCH SECRETARY.
The woman— Hester Davis, presumably— continued typing. She looked to be in her seventies, with ruffled gray hair and one ear plugged with a hearing aid. She wore a red wool sweater buttoned up to her neck. When Isabel was standing directly in front of her, she gave a start and said, “Goodness!” After she recovered, she continued: “What can I do for you?”
Michaela Thompson - Florida Panhandle 02 - Riptide Page 16
