“Hey, Candi! Would you mind scooting over here a minute, sugar?” he called to his ace marine biologist.
She wiggled toward us, having apparently achieved a master’s degree on how to swing her hips.
“She’s also a real Georgia peach, if you know what I mean,” he snickered, in an aside to Gary.
I glanced over to find my pal could barely keep his tongue in his mouth.
“You oughta see her playin’ with the manatees. One of them even rolls over when she gives it a treat. But then take a look at her. Hell, I’d do the same myself.”
I was tempted to arrest her, if for nothing else than that she made me feel like roadkill. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on her five-foot, six-inch frame, while she had plenty of curves in all the right places. As for her tan, it was a perfect caramel as opposed to my own skin, which was a lovely shade of red.
“Candi Collins, this here’s U.S. Fish and Wildlife agent Rachel Porter and her associate, Dr. Gary Fletcher.”
Candi Collins. Even her name was tailor-made for a layout in Playboy.
Candi adroitly sized up her audience, knowing just how to play it. She charmed Gary with a smile, and flashed me the evil eye.
“Wendell tells me that you’re one of the marine biologists here at Manatee Mania,” I began my interrogation.
“Actually, I’m the head biologist. Isn’t that right, Wendell?” She slipped her arm through his, while batting her big blue peepers.
“Absolutely,” he enthusiastically agreed.
“So, where did you get your degree?” I inquired, figuring it should be easy to trip her up.
“University of Florida in Gainesville.”
“And your master’s?”
“Mote Marine Laboratory in Sarasota,” she smoothly responded, without having to think twice.
Damn! I’d thought for sure I’d catch her on that one. But Candi confidently flicked her luxurious mane of long blond hair, nearly whacking me in the face.
“Well, it was nice to meet you both. Just let me know if I can be of any further assistance.”
Even I couldn’t help but stare as she sauntered back to the pool, her hair swaying in rhythm with her hips.
Don’t hate me just because I’m beautiful, they seemed to say, mimicking an old TV commercial.
Actually, it seemed a good enough reason to me.
For chrissake, Rachel, get a grip! So what if you’re no longer twenty-five and parts of your body wiggle when you don’t want them to?
Oh, shut up! I snarled to my rational inner self.
“Meanwhile, all this expansion is taking place on wetlands,” Gary added, bringing me back to earth.
“For pete’s sake, are you beating that dead horse again? Nobody ever gave a damn when this place was called a swamp. So why should they care now that you’re calling it a wetlands?” Wendell huffed. “I don’t know why you have such a beef with this place, anyway. After all, the state’s on board with my plans.”
“Gee, I wonder why? Maybe because they’re greedy for the revenue that they hope will roll in from tourist bucks,” Gary jabbed.
“Damn straight. And what’s wrong with that? There’s gonna be a helluva lotta jobs created,” Wendell righteously added.
I drew closer to the pool where the manatee now lolled, only to see that she had a calf by her side. The mother gently nuzzled the youngster, who responded in kind with a series of squeals, chirps, and squeaks. Once again, I found myself seduced as the baby looked up at me with a pair of dewy basset hound eyes. It was all too easy to see why people felt compelled to make a physical connection. Still the question remained, should a place like this be allowed to make a profit, turning endangered species into moneymaking pets?
I received my answer as the manatee mom tenderly enveloped the baby in her flippers and they slipped beneath the surface to steal a moment of privacy.
It was then that another realization hit—neither animal bore any sign of a fresh scar.
I turned and looked at Holmes. “One more thing, Wendell. How did these manatees come to be injured in the first place?”
Holmes puffed out his chest, looking remarkably like a large pigeon. “Why, from boat propellers, of course.”
If that were true, then why hadn’t I seen any marks?
I decided not to tip my hand yet, as another family now climbed into the pool. Only mama manatee wasn’t in the mood for photos. She tried to pull away as her baby started to cry. But the family solved that problem by tightly wrapping their arms around her neck. The despondent creature’s spirit finally broke, and she gave up her struggle. Maybe I was imagining things, but I could have sworn the manatee looked at me with sad, pitiful eyes.
What the hell was I doing, anyway? Screw Wendell, screw the water park, and screw trying to be nice. It was time to bring this freak show to an end.
“Okay, that’s enough! The photo shoot is over,” I angrily intervened, flashing my badge as they began to protest.
“It’s alright, folks. Just come on back later, and the session will be free,” Wendell offered, doing his best to smooth things over.
I irately confronted him. “I’ll be reporting what I’ve found to Fish and Wildlife’s regional office. If I were you, I’d prepare for this park to be shut down.”
However, Wendell’s reaction surprised me as a sly smile crept across his face.
“Oh, I sincerely doubt that. You see, I’ve got everyone from the Chamber of Commerce to the county and state behind me. Not to mention some mighty powerful friends in very high places. But ya’ll come back any time, you hear? Why, I’ll even arrange for you to get some free passes.”
Wendell looked way too pleased with himself as he walked back to his office. So much so that he reminded me of the Cheshire Cat. Only this tom behaved as though he’d just caught, plucked, and deep-fried a couple of unsuspecting chickens. It made me all the more determined to get this park closed down pronto.
We headed out, passing the Ferris wheel, the fast-food café, and the gift shop. Each was filled with a steady stream of customers eager to part with their money. The manatees apparently had more glam power than I would have thought. That was further confirmed as we passed the entrance booth, where a line of people impatiently waited to shell out fifty bucks. There could be little doubt that business at Manatee Mania was booming.
We climbed into my Ford and drove back down the road, past a new sign for the park. All the while, I continued to be amazed by what I’d just seen.
“Where do you suppose Wendell ever got the money to open a place like Manatee Mania? I mean, he doesn’t strike me as someone who’s rich. Just look at his office and the clothes that he wears.”
“Yeah, and you haven’t even seen the trailer he lives in. From what I hear, the girls at the park call it his Viagra Palace.”
I raised an eyebrow, wondering how Gary had managed to get that piece of information.
He caught my expression and laughed. “I can be quite charming when I put my mind to it. Speaking of which, don’t let Wendell fool you. The guy is clever as a fox.”
“I don’t doubt that for a second. I also noticed there’s no love lost between you two. In fact, you certainly learned to push his buttons pretty fast.”
“What can I say? It’s an innate talent. I like to think of it as one of the simple pleasures in my life. As for where he got the money, it’s interesting you should ask. Remember I promised to fill you in on what Clark Williams has been up to? Well, your buddy’s been a busy boy since leaving the Interior Department.”
My curiosity kicked into high gear at the mere hint that there could be some sort of tie-in.
“Tell me about it.”
“Well, after the Interior Department, Williams worked as a lobbyist for a high-powered PR firm in D.C.—which, by the way, is owned by his father-in-law.”
That was nothing unusual as far as politics and nepotism were concerned. Still, I found the association to be an interesting one. “His father-in-law’
s a heavy hitter?”
Gary nodded. “Yeah, it seems daddy-in-law dearest has quite the moneyed clientele. We’re talking heavy-duty industry groups like oil, timber, mining, natural gas, and development concerns. Now imagine that his hotshot son-in-law suddenly becomes part of the firm, bringing with him all his Interior Department connections. Clark quickly became the new golden boy, helping to skyrocket Daddy Warbucks into the position of chief fund-raiser for your favorite political party.”
“Okay, you’ve nabbed my interest. But I still don’t see how Manatee Mania fits into all this.”
Gary gleefully rubbed his hands together like an overgrown kid with a secret.
“Here’s the best part. Daddy and Williams had a falling out a few years ago. Evidently, Clark was caught with his you-know-what in the company cookie jar.”
“You mean they found that he was filching the firm’s money?”
“No, worse. Clark was screwing his father-in-law’s favorite secretary. Anyway, Williams left D.C. with his tail between his legs, and decided to strike out on his own. That’s when he came down here to the Golden Isles in search of gold, and damn if he just didn’t find it.”
Gary paused, letting the tension mount until I thought I would burst.
“Tell me what it is, already!”
“Consider what was relatively cheap down here just a few years ago, and yet virtually guaranteed to rise in value.”
“I hate riddles,” I growled, figuring that should be warning enough that I was in no mood for games.
‘L-A-N-D. Land.” The word reverently tripped off his tongue, as though it were a priceless gem.
“You mean, Williams has his own development company?” Maybe it was because I had always scraped by that I couldn’t help but feel a certain grudging amount of respect.
“Uh huh. The Golden Dreams Development Corporation, and it’s fully lived up to its name. Everything the business touches turns to gold. Golden Dreams has been gobbling up enormous parcels of land all along the coast. Williams is now concentrating on buying whatever’s left on St. Simons.”
“Is there much?”
“Believe it or not, there’s still a good chunk of undeveloped real estate along the northern end. That’s why he joined forces with Holmes. It was Golden Dreams that provided the seed money for Manatee Mania. Williams is betting the water park will continue to be a great draw as far as attracting families. Think of it as his hook for getting them interested in St. Simons. Pretty smart, huh?”
Absolutely brilliant. “So then, Williams is the real owner of the water park,” I concluded.
“I’d say he’s more the landlord,” Gary explained. “That’s the real reason Wendell is pushing so hard to expand Manatee Mania. He wants to make it a top-notch tourist destination, and Golden Dreams is willing to invest the money right now. It’s all part of their master plan to convince newly affluent people to buy in the area.”
“And why not? It’s a beautiful spot, with the added advantage of built-in entertainment for the kids. What a great marketing strategy for selling luxury houses.”
“We’re not talking just houses. They’ve also got drawings for a couple of golf courses, churches, and a senior assisted-living facility. Hell, from what I hear, there’s even going to be a fancy-schmancy condo complex. But that’s only part of Clark Williams’s grand scheme for taking over the universe. You care to take a stab at what else he’s got going on?”
“Don’t make me guess, or I swear I’ll corner the market on Weight Watchers desserts and not let you have any.”
“Okay, okay,” Gary laughed. “It’s common knowledge that Williams is planning to make a run for Congress.”
That bit of news took me by surprise. If it were true, no wonder my boss had been nervous.
“Do you seriously believe he’d jump into that arena after his experience in Washington?”
“Are you kidding? He’s already got a campaign office set up in downtown Brunswick.”
Well, well. Whadda ya know? It seemed I’d hit a double header. No wonder Wendell had bragged of having friends in high places. Not only was Williams the driving force behind Manatee Mania, but he was also a political contender. Thank goodness my visit to the water park had been made before learning of Williams’s involvement. Otherwise, I might have been accused of intentionally trying to harass the man yet again. Just wait until he learned that I planned to close down his crown jewel.
I dropped Gary back off at his office.
“All I want after a day like this is to go home, groom my horse, and wash down a bunch of Weight Watchers chocolate eclairs with an endless bottle of scotch.” Gary paused. “So, how about it? Wanna join me?”
For the first time, I realized how lonely he probably was. Gary’s wife had died of a heart attack a few years ago, and the shock of her death had taken its toll. Why is it that we spend our time mourning those who’ve passed on, when it’s the ones left behind that need us the most? I’d learned for myself that with each passing death, another piece of our soul is lost. Since then, Gary’s life had come to revolve around two things—caring for his horse, and drowning himself in work. It was a reaction that I thoroughly understood.
As tempting as his offer was, more pressing was my need to head back to the office. I wouldn’t be able to rest until I’d written the report, faxed it to my boss, and knew that Manatee Mania would be promptly closed down. No way did I want those mammals to remain in that hellhole one moment longer than necessary. I was fully determined to get them back in the wild where they belonged.
Gary picked up on my hesitation. “Don’t worry about it. I know you’re busy. Besides, you’ve got that man of yours at home to attend to.”
Great. Talk about your whopping sense of guilt. I’d been so busy that I’d barely seen Santou this entire week.
“You’re right. Then you don’t mind if we do it another time?”
“Absolutely not.” Gary grinned. “Just try to leave your office before midnight. Otherwise, I’m afraid you’ll turn into a pumpkin one of these days.”
The man knew me far too well. I’d learned early on that twenty-four hours, seven days a week, wasn’t nearly enough time to get all my work done. Not when I was the only game in town, as the sole field agent in Georgia. In truth, it was all too easy for me to identify with endangered species—basically, because I felt like one, myself.
Seven
I battled my way through rush hour traffic, finally reaching my office, where I unlocked the door. Once inside, I groped around in the dark. This was the government’s way of letting me know that I wasn’t permitted to work overtime. Six o’clock was the magic cutoff hour when the overhead lights were automatically shut off.
I solved the problem by plugging my own lamp into a wall socket. Then sitting at my desk, I quickly wrote my report, after which I e-mailed, faxed, and shot a hard copy off to my boss in Atlanta. I didn’t give a hoot about Clark Williams, or who his contacts in Interior might be. I was determined to make this case, no matter what. Best of all, it was only a little past eight o’clock. That still left plenty of time to have dinner with Santou.
I dialed all of his numbers, one by one—cell, office, car phone, and house. But he was nowhere to be found. Jake was clearly unavailable. That being the case, I decided to head into Savannah and eat at my favorite down-and-dirty barbecue spot.
I drove into town and ditched my car, knowing Savannah is a city that demands to be savored. What better way to explore its cobblestone streets than on foot? The historic district was my favorite spot. I trod its sidewalks now, hoping to spy something new and exciting with each twist and turn. Tonight a group of jugglers performed in front of the old cotton warehouses lining the waterfront.
From there I worked my way north, past an architectural hodgepodge of houses ranging from Greek and Roman Revival, to Federalist, Victorian, and Regency. What I loved best were the intricate cast iron railings festooning an array of deliciously ornate balconies.
This was a city that had managed to resist progress throughout its history for a very simple reason. One day its founder, James Oglethorpe took off for England after issuing the proclamation: Don’t do anything until I return.
Of course, he never came back and the city never changed. It’s still a place where tea is taken at noon, voodoo is practiced at midnight, and socialites sip martinis while sitting in front of poet Conrad Aiken’s grave. Where else can you find a cemetery whose pathways are lined with “voodoo bricks” designed in a maze, their purpose to keep the spirits from escaping?
But then, Savannah is one of the most haunted cities in the U.S., the souls of those who’ve died here unable to rest, ever since Union soldiers desecrated their tombstones while marching with Sherman to the sea. As a result, the dead still haunt the streets vainly searching for their graves. Only when they find their proper burial place will they finally be able to sleep.
A veil of Spanish moss grazed my face, and I quickly hurried along. Each house that I passed now sprang to life, having turned ghostly in the dark. The sound of heavy footsteps abruptly came from behind, falling into rhythm with my own. I’ve learned the need to face down my demons when they approach and swiftly turned around, only to find I was alone.
A sigh escaped my lips, and the thumping of my heart slowed down. Once again, I’d managed to slip past Savannah’s specters that were haunting the streets on their nightly rounds.
I scurried up the few remaining blocks and turned into an unmarked alley. From there, I followed my nose. Night was in full swing, and the moon now lit my course.
The smell of barbecue grew stronger, prompting my feet to rap-tap-tap along the cobblestones toward a beam of yellow light that dappled the street up ahead. A lightbulb’s rays streamed through a screen door to create a pattern of tiny tic-tac-toe boards. I pulled the screen open and stepped inside the one and only Mo’s BBQ Joint.
Sheets of fake red brick sagged where they leaned against the walls, tired as tuckered-out hound dogs, and an ancient fan creaked like the bones of an old man, its blades rasping as they circled overhead. Five steps and I reached the counter, placing my order with a woman so old that the ceiling fan seemed spry. She walked with a limp, wore a fancy gold bow in her hair, and had a face as wrinkled as a dried-up apple.
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