Scooter, standing over him, said, “You’re a fool, you know that, Harry? A small-time fool.”
“The wreck—”
“The wreck is tapped out, haven’t you realized that? There isn’t any more gold down there. Somebody else got it. Where do you think that bottle came from? Somebody took most of the gold out long ago.”
Harry was choking on desperation and his own blood. “You’ve got to give me my share, anyway,” he rasped.
“Your share! When you fucked us up every possible way? Go let your girlfriend out of the closet. She’s your share.”
Harry was holding his arm to his bleeding nose. “What closet?”
“The closet in the house, sucker, where I put her so she wouldn’t get in the way. She’s been there since last night, so she’ll be plenty glad to see you. Maybe she’ll even let you—”
Harry stumbled to his feet and swung at Scooter. He put more behind it that he thought he could, and although Scooter ducked, he didn’t completely avoid the blow. Harry caught him on the ear and knocked him off balance.
Then something strange happened.
Isabel— yes, it was Isabel— rocketed out of the undergrowth and grabbed Scooter from behind. Now even more off balance, and dragged by Isabel’s weight, Scooter dropped to one knee as he clawed at Isabel’s arms.
Wondering if he was hallucinating, Harry shambled forward on spongy legs and fell on Scooter, knocking him flat. As Scooter writhed beneath him, Harry shouted, “Rope! In the boat!” and moments later Isabel was back with a handful of nylon twine.
Scooter spat in Harry’s face as they struggled to tie him up. Feeling the spittle on his cheek gave Harry the impetus to crack Scooter on the side of the head with all his strength. Scooter’s eyes rolled up and his body went limp. They trussed his legs and arms and stretched him out in the long grass, and Harry waded into the brown water and rinsed his face. To Isabel he said, “I’m glad you showed up.”
She was sitting on the bank, looking battered and filthy. She said, “He put me in the closet. Kimmie Dee let me out. She’s gone for the police.”
Harry was sick, deep within himself, to think of what she had suffered because of him. “Isabel, I’m sorry.”
“I thought it was you,” Isabel said dully.
“No.” He blotted his nose some more. It had almost stopped bleeding. “You know what we’ve been up to, don’t you?”
“I’m pretty sure. Why don’t you tell me?”
He told her. He told her how Scooter had found the wreck when they came to help Clem Davenant when his son drowned, how they decided to salvage it and set up a base in the house because it was out of the way. “Miss Merriam never even knew we were there, I promise you,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. If she’d known, she wouldn’t have kept it to herself.”
“What about the Marine Patrolman, then? Darryl Kelly?”
Harry didn’t understand. “The one that had the accident? What did he have to do with us?”
“I thought maybe he caught you.”
It took a while before Harry saw what she meant. She believed he was the kind of person who would kill two people in cold blood, one of them an old lady he’d known for years. When he’d finished protesting his innocence she said, “You can’t answer for Scooter, though.”
That was true. He couldn’t answer for Scooter.
While they talked, Harry’s eyes had been on the loaded skiff. He had made a decision. “Isabel, if I leave, would you come with me?”
“Leave?”
“Right now. Take the skiff. Take off and go, before the law gets here.”
She looked startled. She said, “No, thanks. I’ve done that already. And I feel bound to tell you it doesn’t solve anything.”
“I know that’s what they say, but I never tried it.” Harry stood up. In spite of all the pain from Scooter’s battering, he was feeling better.
Isabel got to her feet. She said, “Don’t do it, Harry. They’ll come after you.”
“Maybe they won’t find me. I know the coast pretty good.” He was walking toward the boat now. He lifted a flap of the tarpaulin. Yes, there was some of his diving gear. And the tackle box with the coins in it, and some of the other stuff. He straightened, turned to Isabel. “Come with me.”
“I’m not coming, Harry. I can’t stop you, but you’re making a mistake.”
In the distance, a siren howled. Harry untied the mooring rope and stepped into the boat. He cranked the motor, settled himself by the tiller, and waggled his hand in farewell. Now it’s my turn to go, he thought, and, filled with exhilaration, he watched the prow of the skiff cut through the brown water as he went deeper into the swamp.
THIRTY-EIGHT
The sound of Harry’s motor throbbed in the distance for so long Isabel was not quite sure when she ceased to hear it. She stood on the dock, watching Scooter’s motionless body, half hidden by grass. After a while, she realized that his eyes were open. He stared at her, unblinking.
The sirens had stopped. The police would be on their way. They would go to the house first. If she didn’t hear them soon, she’d go find them.
Scooter’s pale blue eyes were on her.
She said, “Did the Marine Patrolman catch you taking something from the wreck?”
No answer.
“My aunt saw what happened to him. Did you murder her, too?”
The blue eyes glared.
“You were right about the wreck. The treasure isn’t there,” Isabel said. “The treasure hasn’t been there for centuries. My great-grandfather found it, buried under a tree behind the house. And then he took it, and—”
“I didn’t kill anybody,” Scooter said. “You aren’t saying I killed somebody. Harry must have done it. Where’s Harry?” He thrashed from side to side. “Harry!”
Isabel heard voices in the woods now. Coming closer. She said, “Harry’s gone.”
She was surprised to see Scooter’s eyes redden. “Harry was my partner,” he said. “None of it was your business. Nobody needed you.”
“Harry’s gone,” Isabel repeated.
“They’ll catch him, the dumb fuck,” Scooter said. His voice was hoarse.
“Hello!” the voices called. “Where are you? Isabel?”
She cupped hands around her mouth. “Here! This way!” To Scooter she said, “Are you the man with the hood?”
A disdainful look again. “Do you think I’m a monk or something?”
“You wear a diving hood, don’t you? Isn’t that something divers wear?”
“Some do. Not me.” The subject didn’t seem to interest him. “They’ll catch Harry,” he said. “He won’t even make it out of the county.”
Then they were surrounded by people and voices.
THIRTY-NINE
“I was so alone. Oh, Buddy.” Joy Burke sobbed.
“I know, Joy. I know.” Buddy patted his wife’s back. This was what he had wanted, wasn’t it? Yes, it was.
Over his wife’s head, his eyes met Kimmie Dee’s. Kimmie Dee looked cute today in a polka-dot dress and her hair in a ponytail. Buddy was as proud of that child as he could be. As far as he could tell, she wasn’t too impressed about people gushing over what a brave girl she was.
Kimmie Dee said, “Daddy, will you be able to come see me in the talent contest on July Fourth?”
Buddy shook his head. Joy’s face was buried in his neck and he could feel her tears wetting the collar of his pajamas. “I got to go back to jail for a while, honey. I won’t be out in time for that. Maybe somebody will make a video for me.”
“So alone,” Joy said. He patted her back some more.
Toby, seeing his mother crying so hard, started to wail. Kimmie Dee pulled on his chubby arm and said, “Hush, Toby! Be sweet for Daddy.”
After a minute, Toby’s face unscrewed. He said, “Dee.” Buddy thought he would burst. What a fine little fellow.
Joy pulled back and got
a tissue out of her bag. She blotted her eyes and said, “I would have come to visit you up there more, but it seemed like there was so much to do around here.”
“I know, sugar.”
“We’ll visit every time, now. Nothing else matters.”
“All right.”
A nurse came in and pointed to her watch. Buddy said, “Looks like time’s up.” He beckoned. “Come here, Kimmie Dee.”
She came and stood by the arm of his wheelchair. He squeezed her shoulder. “Kimmie Dee, while I’m gone you help your mama, hear?”
Kimmie Dee looked like she thought that was a dumb thing to tell her. “I will.”
“I’m so proud of you, honey. I’m going to come home as soon as I can.”
“Won’t that be fine?” Joy chimed in. “Having Daddy back home?”
Kimmie Dee leaned on the arm of the chair. She said, “What about Mr. Stiles?”
Joy’s eyes narrowed. “That bastard,” she said.
Buddy took Kimmie Dee’s chin in his hand. “We aren’t going to worry about Mr. Stiles anymore,” he said. “He’s history. Over and done with. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Buddy gave her a hug and kiss and then Joy held Toby up and Toby gave Buddy a wet little smack. Then it was Joy’s turn, and then they were all at the door, waving. Kimmie Dee waved one last time and her eyes met Buddy’s again. It occurred to Buddy, briefly, that he would never really know what went on in her head, and then the doorway was empty and he heard them talking to one another as they walked down the hall.
FORTY
“They reckon Scooter killed the Marine Patrolman,” Clem Davenant said. “It’s a matter of finding more evidence. In the meantime, there’s plenty to hold him on.”
“Good,” Isabel said. After a night in the hospital she was back in the trailer, propped on pillows on the sofa. Clem had brought her home and stayed to tell her the story. “Knowing how much Scooter hated me, I wouldn’t want to stay here if they let him go.”
“They won’t.”
“And… what about Harry?”
“They haven’t caught him yet, but nobody doubts they’re going to. It’s just a matter of time.”
Clem’s confident tone was irritating. Isabel thought of Harry in his bloody shirt, gliding through the swamp in the skiff.
Clem stood up. “I’ll be on my way.” He stopped to look at the blue-and-white bottle on its stand under John James’s photograph. “To think this came from the Esperanza, “ he said. “The ship Edward found. Those two salvaging that wreck— it’s like robbing his grave.”
Feeling argumentative, Isabel said, “The bottle hadn’t been on the Esperanza in years. It was buried out back of here. It was with the rest of the treasure John James and River Pete found and took to Cuba.”
Clem’s eyes were still on the bottle. “Edward worked so hard. He found that wreck. He never knew what a good job he did.” At the door he said, “Your bruises are healing?”
“Yes.” Isabel displayed her wrists, reddish purple and flecked with scabs. Her ankles looked much the same. “My ribs are still sore, but that’s about all.”
“Your ribs? What happened to them?”
Isabel could barely remember. She had a curved bruise on her ribs. “I’m not sure. I think—” It came back to her. “Oh, right. I was hiding under the house, lying pressed against a raised ridge, a kind of semicircular—” She stopped. She hadn’t thought about it before.
“A semicircular what?” Clem asked.
Isabel wanted him to go, wanted to consider her idea alone. “I don’t know. A ridge of hardened dirt, probably.” Except she didn’t really think it was hardened dirt.
She went to the window and watched Clem’s car pull out of the drive. Then she changed into jeans, sneakers, a long-sleeved shirt. She tied a bandanna around her hair to keep the cobwebs out. Under the sink with the other household tools she found a gardening trowel.
The afternoon heat was sultry and invaded her too-heavy clothes as soon as she stepped outside. The heat, and perhaps a leftover emotional kick, made her dizzy as she walked toward the house, and she stood by the back steps a few minutes, gathering her determination. Then she got down on her hands and knees and maneuvered herself through the opening between the sagging lattice barrier and the back steps, into the dim space where she and Kimmie Dee had hidden. The dirt, the spider webs, the buzzing of insects— all were as they had been.
Stretched on her belly, she ran her fingers lightly across the dirt. This was the place, she thought. Here, or maybe a little more to the right.…
There it was, the semicircular ridge. It was definitely not dirt. It was hard, metal. It wasn’t surprising that her ribs had been bruised by pressing against it.
She began scraping with the trowel.
At first the dirt moved easily, but a few inches down it was packed firm. She continued to scrape. The ridge, she saw, was not a semicircle at all. It was a circle, of about the same diameter as she could make with her curved arms.
By the time she had dug down a foot, it was clear that she had found a cast-iron wash pot. She remembered that a cast-iron pot had been lost, presumably washed away, in the storm of 1922. If it had merely been tumbled under the house by the water, surely it would have been found. Enough note had been made of its absence so that Merriam remembered it.
Isabel scraped at the packed dirt. Her hands and clothes were filthy. She worked doggedly, hacking away, until a particularly stubborn and immovable patch of dirt wasn’t dirt at all, but ragged burlap.
She peered into the pot’s black interior. The burlap was half-disintegrated. She pulled at it and a strip gave way, exposing more burlap. She pulled at that. As rotten as the first piece, it tore.
Gold gleamed underneath.
She was cold. Her teeth chattering, she reached out and touched a gold coin, a thick coin with uneven edges like the one she had seen at Addison Bainbridge’s house. The coin, with what appeared to be quite a few others like it, was wrapped in a burlap packet.
Feverishly, she dug with her fingers to loosen the packet. Her fingers touched burlap again. There were other packets underneath.
Tears filled her eyes as she looked down at the pile of coins in its tattered wrapping. John James hadn’t taken the treasure to Cuba with him after all. John James had given Merriam a letter, and Merriam had lost it. Now, Isabel could start to imagine what the letter had said: I must go away, but if you dig behind the back steps— Had he planned to return? I urge you to maintain secrecy, so it doesn’t benefit only my creditors—
Her cheeks wet, she gathered up the opened packet of coins and, holding it close, edged out from under the house, inching forward on her elbows.
If only Merriam had known. If only she had known, everything would have been different. Resentment at Merriam’s death vibrated in her. How could it be that Merriam would never know?
The man in the hood.
Scooter had told her he never wore a hood when he was diving.
She sat on the back steps and put the coins in her lap. They were as bright and beautiful as if they just been minted. She freed them from the disintegrating burlap and counted.
Twenty. Twenty gold pieces were lying on her shirttail. There were more still in the wash pot. Many more.
Why should I believe what Scooter said? But she did believe him. She believed him because he hadn’t known why she was asking. He hadn’t known Merriam had talked about a man in a hood.
She doubted he had even known that Merriam was staying at Bernice Chatham’s. But others had.
The coins clinked when she stood, holding the bottom of her shirt to form a bag. She started to run, jingling at every step. She had to get to the telephone. She had to—
“You found it, I see,” a voice said.
She whirled. Ted Stiles was leaning against the corner of the house, grinning, his hands in his pockets. He said, “You sure were occupied. I could have ridden down here on an elephant.” He took a step toward her. �
�From what Scooter is telling down at the jailhouse, I gathered Harry Mercer didn’t get away with the whole thing. Some story about a porcelain bottle, and stuff buried on the property. Seemed worth keeping an eye on the activities around here.”
“Go to hell,” Isabel said. Ted Stiles. Absurdly, Kimmie Dee’s letter came into her mind: I don’t like Mr. S.
“No, really,” Stiles said. “This is the best time there is. Not a soul in the world knows it’s been found except you and me.”
When he took his right hand out of his pocket, she saw that he held a gun.
Fighting to keep her breathing even, Isabel said, “I thought you were some kind of investigator, working undercover. That’s what Clem told me.”
Stiles chuckled. “I am. And when you’re talking about Spanish gold, that’s something worth investigating.”
They were face to face, Isabel clutching her shirttails. He reached down and picked up a coin. He turned it in his fingers, studying it, then slipped it in his pocket. “I tell you what, Miss Isabel. You’re coming along with me.” He pulled a folded handkerchief from his pocket, shook it out, and handed it to her. “Tie those coins up first.”
Isabel knelt and spread the handkerchief on the ground. Constantly aware of the gun pointed at her head, she piled the coins on the handkerchief, twisted it and tied two of the ends together to make a pouch.
“Nice,” Stiles said. He took the bundle from her. “Now, what we’re going to do is, we’re going to walk down to the lighthouse. Stroll down, like we wanted some fresh air before dinner.” He gestured with the gun. “This is going to be in my pocket, pointed at you. Let’s go.”
The day was waning. They walked up the drive under the rustling palms and turned toward the lighthouse. There were no houses in this direction, only the dense palmetto woods, with overhanging live oaks and towering pines. Along the shore the waves boomed.
“You knew where Merriam was. You kept asking about her,” Isabel said.
Michaela Thompson - Florida Panhandle 02 - Riptide Page 20
