Shattered

by Donna Ball

  Small-town newspapers were what he knew and what he liked and he no longer apologized for that. He knew that he was living in the end of an era; already the print paper was supported almost entirely by its web version and the ads it generated. The daily newspaper was going the way of the dinosaur and there was nothing he could do to stop it, but as long as it survived, Guy Dennison wanted to be a part of it.

  The occasional crooked councilman, the land-use debates, the small-time drug bust— those were enough excitement for him. He liked a paper where the managing editor could go out and round up stories, where county officials didn't care if he came to lunch wearing a wrinkled jacket, and where, when the mood struck him, he could turn the whole thing over to his staff and go fishing without worrying that the fate of the free world might be irretrievably affected by his absence. He liked knowing that, for as long as his career lasted, he never had to look at another gunshot wound or gangland-style execution or listen to a mother's choked, terrified voice describing the last moments of her missing child. He never, if he chose, had to even know about another missing child.

  He lived on a boat. He owned a cell phone, a police scanner, and a television that picked up one station when the tides were right. When he went into a restaurant or a bar, people called him by name. Sometimes he was alone more often than he wanted to be, and he often spent more time regretting the past than he liked to admit, but he was, in general, satisfied with his life ... or at least as satisfied as he ever expected to be.

  The office of the Gulf Coast Sentinel was on the river side of town, a small brick building with a twisted live oak shading the crushed-shell parking lot. There was a sandwich shop on one side and a bait-and-tackle shop on the other, and half a block down, the paved road turned into a sandy track that led into the marsh. If St. T. had possessed a low-rent district, this would have been it.

  The office was arranged like a beehive, with the reception/subscription desk centered in a small cool foyer that was decorated with Press Club awards and banner copies of memorable front pages. The reporters' room—three desks, six telephones, and a computer—branched off to the east, advertising to the west, Guy's office to the south, and the publisher and general manager's office to the north adjacent to the front door. Ed Jenkins, the publisher, was on the telephone and beckoned to him from behind the open door of his office as Guy came in. Guy waved to him and picked up his messages from the receptionist’s desk.

  Rachel, the receptionist, gave him an exasperated look as she noted the wrinkled coat he carried casually in his hand. “You know, you could save a fortune in dry cleaning if you would just hang your jacket up once in a while.”

  “What? You're supposed to dry clean these things?” He glanced through the message slips as Rachel took the jacket from him and, with an air of exaggerated forbearance, hung it on the coat rack next to the door. “Who is this?” He waved one message slip at her, the name of which he didn't recognize.

  Rachel glanced at the message slip, puzzling for a moment, then said, “Oh, yeah. Some guy with a basement full of rats. He says he uses them to predict earthquakes.”

  Guy lifted an eyebrow. “In Florida?”

  She shrugged. “According to him, we're due for a big one.”

  “So say the rats.” He dropped the message slip into the trashcan by her desk. “I don't suppose Walt Marshall called, did he? We were supposed to take his new boat out this weekend.”

  “Not that I know of. This one fellow called two or three times, but he wouldn't leave a message.”

  Guy grunted and started for Ed's office. “Well, put him through if he calls.”

  “Who? The mystery man?”

  “No, Walt. He's got a new Sea Ray and I haven't even seen it in the water yet.”

  “Who's that, Walt Marshall?” Ed was hanging up the phone as Guy came into his office.

  “Yeah, have you seen his new boat?”

  “No, but he was telling me about it last Rotary meeting. Says it can do forty knots in a high sea without even straining a gear.”

  Guy grunted. “That I'll have to see. We're going to try to take it out this weekend if the weather holds.”

  “That water's like ice.”

  “I don't plan to spend much time in the water.” Guy sat down in a well-worn black leather chair and stretched out his legs. “Anything happen while I was gone?”

  “A woman walked into the Sun Coast bank in Appalach, put a package wrapped in birthday paper on the teller counter, and demanded fifty thousand in cash. She said the package was a bomb. The teller handed over the money and the woman departed, leaving the package on the counter. In the mad rush to evacuate the bank, the package got knocked off the counter and the lid fell off. There was a slip and pair of panties from J.C. Penney inside, no bomb. The perpetrator, meanwhile, got half a block down the street when the dye bomb went off. The police picked her up in the laundromat on West Main, trying to wash the red dye out of her purse. 'Woman caught laundering money'. What have you got?”

  “Three Thousand Spring Breakers Descending on St. T. and One Hundred Eighty Kilos of Coke Being Held Prisoner in the County Jail.You get all the good stories.”

  “That's why they made me publisher.”

  “Oh, and the county commission voted to move the Barbecue Cook-Off to the weekend after Memorial Day because the mayor's wife is having surgery in Tallahassee Memorial Day weekend.”

  “What's she having?”

  “Hysterectomy.”

  “Remind me to send flowers.”

  “You bet. Listen, it'll take me about twenty minutes to get this in the computer and then we'll start laying out the front page. What kind of art do you want to run with the headline?”

  “Well, I'd like to have a picture of you and me on Walt's new boat.”

  Guy grinned. “Second choice.”

  “Excuse me, Guy?” Rachel leaned around the edge of the doorframe. “That man is on the phone again. Do you want to talk to him?”

  “Who?”

  “The one who keeps calling and won't leave a message.”

  “Does he have a name?”

  “He just said to tell you he's an old friend. Do you want me to put him through?”

  Guy glanced at Ed inquiringly, and Ed made an acquiescent gesture with his hand. “Take it here. I think I left the art folder with Jacobson.”

  He left the office and when the call buzzed through, Guy picked up the phone. “Guy Dennison.”

  “Well now, you're a hard man to track down.”

  The voice on the other end was a low, smooth drawl, generally Southern in accent, not particularly educated, and completely unfamiliar to Guy.

  “Not usually.” Guy sat on the edge of Ed's desk and, with absent curiosity, turned his calendar around to read the notations there. Nothing interesting. “Who is this?”

  “Come on, now, Guy, you don't mean you've forgotten already. You're gonna hurt my feelings if you're not careful.”

  Guy said, “Listen, I'm pretty busy here, so if—”

  “Let's just say you did me a service, once upon a time,” said the man on the other end of the line. His voice turned harsh as he added, “And now, old buddy, it's payback time.”

  Guy's attention sharpened. “What are you talking about?”

  He answered smoothly, “So how's that pretty little wife of yours, Guy?”

  Something about the way he said that made the fine hairs on the back of Guy's neck prickle. He said, as casually as possible, “You know Carol?”

  “Carol, yes.” Too smooth, much too smooth. “She's a real looker, isn't she? And living up there in that great big house all by herself...”

  Ed came back into the office, art folder in hand. With an abrupt motion, Guy, gestured to him to close the door, saying into the phone at the same time, “Who is this?”

  The frown on Ed's face faded at the tightness of Guy's tone, and, after only a moment's hesitation, he closed the door. Guy pushed the speakerphone button and lowered the receive
r gently back into the cradle.

  “—really don't know, do you?” The voice, amused and contemptuous, sounded tinny as it filtered through the telephone speaker. “Hell, this is going to be more fun than I thought. Let me give you a little hint.”

  Ed and Guy looked at each other as the man on the other end of the telephone began to sing softly, “Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb...”

  The sound was chilling in the hushed room. Guy felt it all the way down his spine.

  And then the voice demanded harshly, “Do you know where your little girl is, Guy? Do you?”

  Guy lunged for the telephone, snatching up the receiver in a gesture that was as futile as it was dramatic. Nothing but the cold, dry sound of the dial tone met his ear.

  Guy looked at Ed slowly, his face white. It was a long time before he could speak. “Christ,” he said shakily, and that was all he could manage. He sank into the desk chair and stared fixedly at the telephone until Ed came over and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. Guy looked up at him. And all he could do was repeat, softly, “Christ.”

  ~

  Chapter Four

  The town of St. Theresa-by-the-Sea—known affectionately as St. T. by locals—was technically one of three small islands which had once been a single unit. Little Horse Island—so called because it resembled a horse when seen from the air—was three nautical miles to the west, and had been separated from the mainland some time in prehistory due, it was thought, to undersea volcanic activity. Lighthouse Island had been created much more recently, when the channel was cut in 1972, neatly slicing off the northern tip of St. Theresa Island. The historic lighthouse, once one of the most photographed in the state, had gone with it, and was now a crumbling, if scenic, reminder of times gone by. Of the three, only St. Theresa Island was inhabited. Bordered by the Gulf on the west and south, an inlet bay on the east, and the Catchaw River on the north, it was a vista of scenic bridges, lush tropical vegetation, and expensive beaches. The nearest shopping mall was sixty five miles away, in Panama City. Tallahassee, over a hundred miles to the north, was the closest major center of commerce, and most people in St. T., like full-time residents on the other barrier islands that lined the “Forgotten Coast” of Florida's Gulf, contented themselves with making the journey to the city once or twice a month for necessities that could not be obtained locally. St. Theresa County, eighty-two-square miles of snakes and trailer parks, would have been bankrupt long ago were it not for the resort attractions of St. T. And in the resort business, profit meant real estate.

  There were twelve thousand full-time residents in St. Theresa-by-the-Sea and thirteen real estate companies, each one of them fighting tooth and nail for its share of the exclusive beachfront lots, million-dollar homes, and inflated rental management fees. Beachside Realty was only a two-agent operation, but it held its own in the real estate wars, thanks in great part to the ambition and determination of Carol Dennison.

  When Carol and Guy were first married, her ambition was a good thing; the only thing, sometimes, that kept three meals on the table. Guy was a cub reporter for the Miami Herald, making barely enough to support himself, much less a wife, and Carol was trying to teach elementary school in a city that was becoming increasingly violent, for a salary that was doing less and less to make ends meet. She studied for her real estate exam at night and when she made her first sale— a one-bedroom condo for $86,000—they celebrated with a nine-dollar bottle of champagne and started looking for a house.

  The house they found was in St. Theresa County, where a group of savvy investors was just beginning to activate a plan for a luxury beachfront development in a little fishing village called St. Theresa-by-the-Sea. Carol and Guy both were disillusioned with Miami and were ready to try small-town life; Guy had an offer from the Gulf Coast Sentinel which almost, but not quite, matched the salary he was leaving behind and, most important, neither of them wanted to bring up a child in the city.

  Carol went to work for Laura Capstone in the coral-pink building at the corner of Pacific and Main, and seven months later Kelly was born.

  It never occurred to Carol to stop working. For one thing, they simply couldn't afford it. For another, she was really good at selling real estate; better, perhaps than she had ever been at anything in her life—even being a mother. She closed a half-million-dollar deal when Kelly was five days old, with the baby sleeping quietly in an infant seat on the floor of the lawyer's office. In fact, Kelly spent most of her preschool life playing on a quilt in the corner of the office, being passed from Laura to Carol, depending on which one of them had a free hand; or strapped in her car seat in the back of one of their cars while they inspected property or showed a house. Carol was helping to build a business, a community, and a future for them all. She didn't think in terms of sacrifices, not then.

  They lived in eight houses before Kelly started first grade, always trading up until finally ending up in the rambling cedar three-story on a bluff overlooking the ocean where Carol still lived and in which Kelly had lived until the day Carol came home to find nothing left of her daughter except an angry note.

  She had no need for the house now, of course. It was far too large for her and difficult to maintain. The taxes were murder and her money could certainly be more wisely invested elsewhere. But she couldn't leave the last home Kelly had known. Not when there was a chance her daughter might come back someday, needing her mother, or might call.

  During the off season, the society of St. T. was divided into three distinct castes: the local working class, like fishermen and carpenters; the merchants, business owners and other full-time residents; and the real estate people, who were a breed apart. The bars and restaurants of the area inevitably catered to separate segments of society. Captain Jack's Seafood Shack, with its raucous music, dartboard, and pool room—also the best fried shrimp on the island, which was served on a paper plate to absorb the grease— was preferred by the working class. Bay Breezes, with its varied menu and peaceful bay views, was a favorite of families. Michael's Grille, centrally located oceanside and tastefully decorated, with its stunning views and restrained menu, was the perfect place for realtors to take their clients for lunch, and to gather after a long day's work to brag about successes and catch up on industry gossip.

  Carol was by no means a regular at Michael's. If she didn't have a late appointment or a rental house to check on, dinner was generally a salad and a glass of wine, and she was happy to be in bed by nine o'clock. But Laura had insisted on dinner at Michael's tonight, no doubt because she didn't want Carol to sit at home alone and brood about the phone call from last night.

  Carol was not the kind of person to sit by the phone and brood, but that phone call had opened the door to a lot of painful memories. She thought Laura was probably right: This was not a good time to be alone.

  On a Wednesday night in early March the restaurant was less than half full, mostly with people they knew by name. They seated themselves before the big cathedral window that overlooked the ocean, where, for about ten minutes, they had a spectacular view of purple-shadowed surf tumbling against the shore while the last of the daylight faded away. Now the only view they had was of the dancing flames from the central freestanding fireplace reflected in the dark window glass, and a corner of the bar that angled off in the room next door.

  “Things are looking up,” said Laura with a firm approving nod of her head. “Porpoise Watch is rented for the season, and we've got somebody coming tomorrow to look at Pelican Perch—another full-season rental—and here it is barely March. Another month like this and we might be able to make our quarterly tax payment.”

  Before the economic meltdown, Beachside Realty had owned and managed between twelve and fifteen ocean-front houses. Now they were down to the five, of which Porpoise Watch and Pelican Perch were the original two. Although Laura was only half-joking about the quarterly tax payment, there had been times when the office expenses and both their salaries depended entirely upon the re
ntal income from those houses. It was always a relief to have them occupied.

  Still, Carol said glumly, “Another month like this and we might have to start selling T-shirts to make the mortgage payments.”

  Laura lifted an eyebrow playfully, twirling a pineapple spear in her drink. “Well, if it's only T-shirts...”

  At Carol's lack of response, she shrugged and said, “Come on, kid, so you lost a couple of sales. It's not like you can't make them up before summer ends. Beach real estate is on the upswing, don’t you listen to the news? Why are you so down on yourself lately?”

  “Low self-esteem.”

  “Oh, right, that's always been your biggest problem. That must be why you've been president of the board of realtors only three times in the past five years, not to mention the ranking member of the million-dollar club for two years running and, frankly, I don't think I'll go on. I'm starting to depress myself. How's the swordfish?”

  Carol shrugged disinterestedly.

  Laura looked at her sympathetically. “Do you know what you need? A vacation. I mean, business isn't going to pick up here for another month at least. You know what spring break is going to do to the traffic around here in another month, and with your back acting up again, why don't you just take off for a couple of weeks?” She speared another forkful of pasta.

  “But that's the trouble with living in Paradise, isn't it?” replied Carol wryly. “There's no place to go on vacation.” Then, with an obvious effort to hold up her end of the conversation, Carol said, “Why don't you have a date tonight, anyway? I thought you and that pony-tailed fellow were on your way to becoming an item.”

  “Winston?” She waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Too weird.”

  Weird, in reference to Laura's dates, was a relative term, but Carol chose not to point that out. “I thought he was nice.”