Deadly Catch (3 page)

“Yeah, well, I don’t like getting pushed around, even with words.” I waved the waitress over and ordered a draft Bud for me and another Coke for Dave. “How long has he been sheriff?”

Dave shrugged and stared at the melting ice in the bottom of his glass. “I’d say about a year or two after he got out of the Army. ’Ninety-five, ’ninety-six, I’d guess. His daddy was sheriff before him.”

“Yeah? A regular dynasty.”

“I guess you could call it that. His brother-in-law has been mayor of St. George for the last ten years or so.”

A familiar image flashed through my mind. “George Harper, the real estate tycoon?” I’d seen “Friendly George’s” grinning mug plastered on billboards all over Palmetto County.

“That’s him.”

The waitress brought our drinks, set mine on the table with a less-than-delicate thud, and left without offering so much as a smile.

“Looks like word’s getting around already,” I said. I held up and eyeballed the frosted mug of beer. “You think it’s safe to drink this?”

Dave chuckled. “Loretta’s got a thing for Bo, but I doubt she’d resort to poisoning for him. She’s got way too much competition to be that drastic.”

Twenty minutes later an ambulance pulled up, no lights or siren to signal its arrival. A couple of EMTs got out, walked around back, and opened the doors. They pulled out a gurney and rolled it down the path toward the bay. Dave and I finished our drinks and walked outside for a better look.

Down by the bay, four F and W officers wearing rubber gloves and breathing masks lugged a white body bag up the hill. Sheriff Pickron and two men in wetsuits followed close behind. When they met up with the EMTs they placed the body onto the gurney. The EMTs strapped it down, then a couple of officers pushed while the EMTs pulled the load up the path. Reaching the parking lot, they rolled the gurney to the ambulance and loaded it. After a few words with the sheriff, the EMTs climbed into the ambulance and drove off toward the causeway.

The men in wetsuits headed back downhill toward the bay as Bo Pickron walked up to Dave and me, his face a bit pale and looking none too happy. He scowled at me and held up a clear plastic bag containing what looked to be a folded, black-handled pocketknife.

“Ever see this before, McClellan?”

I took the bag from his hand and looked closely. It was a Buck, and I had indeed seen it before.
Mac
was inscribed on the stainless steel butt, a gift from my ex-wife a few years back, before she ditched me to “find herself.”

I felt the right cargo pocket of my shorts. It was empty. I’d forgotten all about the knife when I’d emptied my shorts to go wading. “Yeah, it’s mine,” I said, slipping my hand into the pocket to find a small hole in the corner of the net material.

“You mind telling me how it wound up under the body?”

I glanced at Dave and handed the bag back to the sheriff. “It’s like I told Officer Reilly. I snagged something with my lure and went wading to retrieve it. When the crabs scattered and I saw it was a body, I stumbled backward. The knife must’ve slipped through this hole in my pocket.” I turned the net pocket inside out and pushed my finger through the hole. “I don’t know, maybe I kicked it when it fell out.”

Pickron snorted. He seemed unconvinced by my story. “And you say you’ve got no idea how the body got there?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

The sheriff tossed the bag to a deputy standing nearby. He crossed his arms across his chest, trying to look more intimidating, I guessed. “You realize what the odds are that you’d motor across the bay to this particular spot, make your first cast of the day, and just happen to snag a body? A million to one, maybe?”

I’d just about had enough of this bull crap for one day. “Look, Sheriff, I’m no statistician, but if I had anything to do with this, then why the hell would I sink my lure in the body, plant my pocketknife under it, and call the law? I can think up a couple of dozen better alibis than that.”

We sparred back and forth the next few minutes. Finally I asked him if I was under arrest.

“No, but this isn’t over yet, not by a long shot. We got an autopsy coming up. You better not even think about leaving the county.”

“Gulf Pines Campground, Sheriff, site 44. I’ll be around.”

It was after four before Sheriff Pickron gave the okay for Dave Reilly to ferry me out to my boat. Even then, we had to detour around a wide area marked by yellow crime-scene tape attached to small buoys F and W had staked out to search for evidence. A larger orange buoy indicated the body’s former location. Divers were still snorkeling in and around the grass flats.

I stepped off his boat and onto mine and gave my boat a quick survey. The spinning combo I’d used when I hooked the body was missing. Good thing I had backups. My tackle box was open and a jumbled mess. It would take a couple of hours to straighten things out after their thorough search. The batteries were removed from my radio and lay scattered across the deck, but everything else aboard seemed to be in place. I hoisted and secured the anchor, then fired up the motor and slowly pulled away toward the mainland. Dave followed alongside for a short distance, then waved and gunned his Mako toward Parkersville where the Fish and Wildlife headquarters was located.

Dark clouds were building in the northwest, and distant jags of lightning cut the sky. I opened up the throttle and made good time for about a mile until the wind shifted and the boat began bucking waves. I throttled back a bit and changed course so that I was heading a little west of the marina. That made for a smoother ride, though it would likely add several minutes to my return trip.

I made decent time for another mile or so until the wind increased and it began to rain. I had to cut back on the throttle even more to compensate for the rougher, blue-black seas. The wind seemed to be arguing with itself over which way to blow, and I found myself playing the wheel like I was driving on a winding mountain road. The rain was pelting now. I grabbed my phone, shielding it from the downpour the best I could. Gripping the wheel with one hand, I punched in Gillman’s number.

“Gillman’s, this is Kate, how may I help you?”

Being tossed about on an angry sea reminded me of why I’d joined the Marines and not the Navy or Air Force. I’d always felt more comfortable with my feet planted on solid ground, even when people were shooting at me. I figured when the shit hit the fan my chances of survival were better on terra firma than sinking to Davy Jones’s locker or falling out of the sky like a rock. Kate’s calm greeting relieved some of the tension this greenhorn mariner was feeling.

“Kate, it’s Mac. It’s getting rough out here. Any idea what’s up with this weather?” There had been no indication of bad weather in the report I’d gotten before I’d left the marina that morning.

“Hold on a minute, Mac, I’ve got another call.”

Kate wasn’t the only one busy. I pressed the heel of my phone hand onto the wheel to help turn hard left, keeping the bow pointed toward a three- to four-foot oncoming swell. The boat lifted over the wave and steadied. I put the phone back to my ear.

“Mac . . . Mac, you there?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m about halfway between the island and you, heading a little west to keep into the sea.”

“That’s good. I just checked NOAA radar. The squall’s not too bad. It should blow by in another fifteen or twenty minutes. Try to keep your bow facing the waves and keep your throttle up as much as you can without taking on water. You don’t want to get turned sideways in the trough.”

“Roger that,” I said, resisting the urge to preface it with
No shit!
“Thanks, Kate. See you when I get in, if I’m not too late.”

“We’ll be open till all the boats are in. Hey, how did things go with the . . . you know.”

Another big swell was approaching. “Let’s talk later. I’m a little busy right now.”

Kate proved to be a good prognosticator. If she ever wanted a job at The Weather Channel she could count on me for a recommendation. Twenty minutes later the storm blew by and I was under patchy blue skies with calming seas. To the east and south the squall was still raising hell.

Two or three hundred yards from shore the waves had died down enough that I was able to turn east and head parallel along the beach for the marina. A flight of brown pelicans passed low overhead, returning from whatever refuge they’d sought from the storm. They dipped and glided just above the wave tops, their wingtips acting like a blind man’s cane. A small school of bottlenose dolphin appeared off my starboard and rode shotgun with me for a while, until they tired of the game and disappeared.

The storm had forced my boat farther west than I’d thought, and it was a good thirty minutes before I sighted the seawall that protected the mouth of the canal. A line from Robert Louis Stevenson’s “Requiem” ran through my mind as I turned past the seawall into the slick calm waters of the canal. “
Home is the sailor, home from the sea . . .
” It was good to be back.

I cut the throttle to just above idle and relaxed, more than happy to obey the many
No Wake
signs nailed to the wooden walkways skirting both sides of Canal Park. The canal was lined with sheltered picnic tables. I waved at a resilient older couple sitting in lawn chairs, fishing rods at the ready. Gulls and pelicans stood atop pilings, preening and drying their feathers from the recent downpour. My stomach growled as the scent of barbeque drifted from a couple of the ritzy houses built near the canal. After what I’d seen earlier, I was surprised to find I still had an appetite. I grabbed a beer from the cooler and popped the top.

I steered the boat between the support pilings of the Highway 98 bridge and made the sharp right turn where the canal ran behind the marina. I motored past several occupied docking spaces until I came to number 14, then cut the motor and eased the boat into the slip. After securing the bow and stern lines, I stowed my gear, gathered up the day’s trash, and stepped onto the dock, surprised to find my legs a little wobbly. I checked my watch. Six-thirty. Considering the storm, I’d made decent time. I finished my beer, tossed the can and handful of trash into a nearby container, and headed up the wooden stairway toward the marina store.

Wisps of steam rose from the asphalt parking lot. Glancing across the bay, I could barely make out the island. The sky there was dark and angry, and heavy rain clouds hung low over the horizon. A pickup truck drove by the front of the store. I waited for it to pass, sidestepped a puddle, pulled open the heavy glass door, and stepped inside.

Bells jingled and the wooden floor creaked under my deck shoes. Kate glanced up from behind the counter where she was waiting on a customer. She flashed a quick smile, her shoulder-length auburn hair shining under the fluorescent lighting. It was past normal closing time for a weekday, but a few customers still wandered about the store looking at tackle or souvenirs or clothing. I cut through the aisles to the back of the store, grabbed a Budweiser longneck from the cooler, and sat on a swivel deck chair in the boating accessories department. It had been a long, grueling day, and I was whipped mentally and physically. One thing months of combat had taught me was to grab shuteye when and where you could. Before I knew it, I’d dozed off.

I jolted awake, striking out with both hands and sloshing beer across the floor.

“Sorry, Mac! I didn’t mean to scare you.” Kate stared wide-eyed at me, keeping a safe distance away. “I was about to close up and saw you sitting here.”

“Jesus, I’m sorry.” My hands were shaking. I’d come close to punching her lights out, and it scared the hell out of me. These damn startle responses had ridden my ass like a monkey ever since Iraq. “You got a towel or something I can use to mop up this beer?”

“You sit tight,” she said. “I’ll take care of it.”

I watched as Kate walked back into the main room and grabbed a roll of paper towels from behind the counter. I tried not to dwell on the way her jeans fit like a second skin, or how the Irish-green
Gillman’s Marina
polo did little to hide her topside assets. The store appeared to be empty except for the two of us. In a minute she was back, kneeling a few feet away, swabbing the deck with a handful of towels.