Quint Mitchell 01 - Matanzas Bay (26 page)

“I think we’re about ready,” she said, taking a sip of the chardonnay I brought with me. “Do you mind putting the rice on the table? And pour yourself some more wine while I take care of the stir-fry.”

I carried the rice to the table in the dining area adjoining the kitchen. While I poured my wine, Serena joined me with the platter of steaming shrimp and vegetables.

“Thanks for bringing the wine, but it wasn’t necessary.”

“Never let it be said that Quint Mitchell is a boorish dinner guest.” I flushed as I remembered how my boorish remark caused her to run out of the restaurant.

We ate in silence for the next fifteen minutes, neither of us prepared to wade into the dark swamp separating us. When we were finished, I put down my fork, and broke the silence.

“Serena, I—”

“There’s no easy—”

We both spoke together, laughing in embarrassment. “You go ahead,” I said.

She folded her hands together in front of her. “First of all, I want to apologize for the way I acted at the restaurant.”

I tried to tell her she had no reason to apologize, but she plunged ahead.

“No, I over-reacted, and it wasn’t fair to you. Now that you’ve met my uncle and heard his story, though, you probably have a better idea of who I am and why I might have these conflicted feelings.” Serena gazed toward the plush leather chair where Walter Howard had sat as if checking to see if he was still there.

“It took a lot of courage to tell his story to a stranger.”

She nodded in agreement. “The truth is he’s kept it pretty much to himself. I never heard his story until a year or so after I returned from college.”

I looked at her with raised eyebrows.

“He had moved to Daytona Beach with his family after it happened. My father moved to Chicago, and we lived there through high school.” She paused and took a sip of wine.

“After we returned to St. Augustine, and I went off to college, dad persuaded Uncle Walter to move in with him. His wife, my Aunt Aletia, had died, and his daughter had married and moved to Atlanta. There was nothing keeping him in Daytona.”

“But didn’t your father tell you what had happened?”

“Not exactly. He told me his brother had been part of the civil rights movement in the sixties, and hadn’t been treated well by some of the racists in the community. Then I returned home from college filled with myself, thinking this nearly white girl could do or be anything she wanted. I even dated a white man for a while until my father told me Uncle Walter had something he wanted to share with me. That was the first time I heard the complete story about his beating at the hands of Bat Marrano and the Klan.”

I reached over and placed a hand on hers. She didn’t move away, but slowly looked up at me.

“You can’t imagine how I felt when you told me you were working for Mrs. Marrano. She’s part of this family of … of racist dogs who almost killed my uncle, and you were working to find her husband’s killer.”

Her eyes glistened, her emotional turmoil churning my stomach.

“You heard what my uncle said about the two boys. Who do you think they were?”

I recalled what Henderson had told me about Bat Marrano taking his grandsons to the Klan rallies. “Bill and Buck Marrano.”

She pulled her hand from under mine as though an electric shock had passed between us. “Buck and Bill.” The names exploded from her mouth. “Your client’s husband jumped at the chance to beat on a helpless nigger.”

“But that was such a long time ago,” I replied. “You can’t blame Erin for what her husband might have done as a kid. Besides, you never said anything to me about this when I took the case.”

“I should have,” she admitted. “Anyway, you were the first white man I’ve dated in twelve years. I hadn’t intended to get involved, but you grew on me.” She offered me a hint of a smile before turning her head away, maybe hoping I hadn’t seen it. Too late.

“The thing is, I still have feelings for you.”

I came here tonight convinced our relationship was beyond resuscitation. In my mind we were here for only one reason—to sign the death certificate and make it official. But if I was reading her right, a faint heartbeat still existed.

I stared at Serena who seemed to be waiting for me to pick up on her cue. Her honey brown eyes sparkled, but for a moment I saw bright blues and pictured myself kissing Erin Marrano. I wanted to tell Serena it was too late for second acts. Tell her I couldn’t handle the kind of emotional heartburn that would surely come with a renewed relationship. Instead I said, “Hey, I have feelings for you, too.”

Thinking I should learn to keep my big mouth shut, I leaned over to kiss her. At least I tried to kiss her.

Serena pushed me away. “No, Quint. I’m telling you this just won’t work.” She read the confusion on my face and added, “I’m sorry.”

***

We eventually sorted things out, confirming our friendship for one another and promising to stay in touch. All the insincere things men and women say to each other when they break up. At her door, I kissed her on the cheek and she offered me a sad smile and a pat on the back. Jamming my hand into my jeans, I pulled out my car keys and the yellow piece of paper fluttered to the floor.

“What’s this?” Serena bent to pick it up.

“Nothing.” I held out my hand but she was already reading the anonymous note.

“When did you get this?”

“This afternoon. I’m on my way over there now.”

“You don’t even know if it’s legitimate. Someone could be fooling with you.” Serena gave me the note and I stuffed it back into my pocket.

“You’re right, but I can’t ignore it. What if it’s legit?”

“Maybe you should call the police and let them handle it.”

“No, that would screw everything up. The note said to come alone. Someone has to know something about Marrano’s murder. This could be the break I’ve been looking for.”

She held my eyes for a long time before saying, “I’d feel better if you called me after the meeting.”

“You don’t have to worry. Like you said, it’s probably someone’s nasty idea of a joke and I’ll find myself alone with the alligators.”

“Quint, promise me that you’ll call.”

I shook my head as if to say she was a big worrywart, but secretly I was pleased to know she cared. “Fine, I promise I’ll call you as soon as I find out what this guy has to say. One way or the other, I should be on my way home by ten-thirty or so.”

“Get out of here,” she pushed me through the door into the hallway. “And Quint …”

I turned around. “Yeah.”

“Be careful.”

THIRTY-FOUR

The Alligator Farm was bathed in shadows as I turned off Anastasia Boulevard into the darkened parking lot. Scaly and beaked creatures of all sizes and dispositions were sequestered behind a high wooden fence flanking the perimeter of the zoological attraction.

One of Florida’s oldest tourist spots, the Alligator Farm began its life over a hundred years ago as a scam, a place of
burning waters
. The owners figured if people would pay to see oil burning in a pond they might pay to see alligators, which in those days were so common you might trip over one on your way to the privy. Today, St. Augustine’s Alligator Farm is part of the American Association of Zoological Parks and Aquariums with a diverse collection of animals and one of the largest wild bird rookeries in the State of Florida.

By day, the palm trees and scrub oaks dotting the parking area formed a pleasant enough environment for the visiting tourists, but the attraction closed at six and now an uncomfortable air of apprehension hung over it. Dark and foreboding, the shadowed fence loomed like a malignant organism lying in wait to pounce on any unwary creature unlucky enough to wander too close.

Standing next to my car, waiting for my vision to adjust to the darkness, I felt the smothering presence of the elongated shadows. There were no other cars in the parking lot even though it was five minutes past the ten o’clock meeting time. I wondered if Serena was right, and someone was messing with me. She had woman’s intuition on her side, but maybe, just maybe, this was the lucky break I’d been searching for.

I walked around to the passenger side, opened the door and reached into the glove box. Retrieving my revolver, I slid it into the waistband of my jeans. This might be a harmless meeting where a name was the only surprise thrown at me, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

I tried to imagine who my mystery informant might be—a secret witness to Marrano’s murder. Possibly a disgruntled girlfriend hoping to get even. Could it be someone I knew? No face appeared in my mind’s eye, and I still had no clue who left the note on my windshield. It didn’t matter, I told myself. With Poe’s attempted suicide, the pressure mounted. Find the evidence to free him. Find it quickly, or I feared Poe’s fragile mental underpinnings would collapse.

I walked to the corner of Anastasia Boulevard and Old Quarry Road hoping to see someone waiting for me. No one in sight. In the distance a dog barked and a twinkle of light appeared. Soon the barking stopped and the light winked out.

Trudging to the front of the attraction, I heard night calls of birds and the huffing and grunts of what I assumed were either alligators or crocodiles on the other side of the fence. From a previous visit, I knew the Alligator Farm had an impressive collection of crocodilians, including one monster they called Maximo, a 15-foot, twelve hundred and fifty pound saltwater crocodile from Australia.

During that visit, I’d watched in fascination as the massive creatures swarmed toward a feeding perch, clawing and leaping at chunks of raw meat dropped into their midst. Perhaps these night noises I heard were a crocodilian version of Morse Code, a signal that fresh prey was approaching.

A thick hedge of pittosporum fronted the fence surrounding the Alligator Farm. For the first time I noticed a service door cut into the fence to the left of the conservation center. I pulled at the metal handle on the door. Locked.

A slash of light slithered past me and I turned to watch a car driving along Anastasia Boulevard. The gloom returned as the car faded into the distance. Ten minutes had passed since I arrived, and I feared Serena may be right.

Patience, I reminded myself. I owed it to Poe to stay the course, to solve the puzzles surrounding this case. I’d always been good at solving puzzles, and it got me to thinking that I’d been treating the case as another puzzle in search of a solution. Not placing enough emphasis on the potential for danger.

We’re all familiar with those insipid movies where the moronic teen in her bra and panties creeps down the stairs into a darkened basement despite everything, including the ominous music, warning her to run in the other direction. Of course, she gets what she deserves when the crazed killer takes her head off with a machete. I’ve always laughed at those scenes and knew I’d recognize a dangerous situation with or without the portentous soundtrack in the background.

Before I had a chance to worry about a man with a machete, the dog down the street began barking again. I stared in the direction of the racket, wondering if a stranger lurking in the shadows had triggered the dog’s response. Reflexively, I grasped the handle of the Smith & Wesson.

Something crashed to the ground in the parking lot near my car and I spun around feeling goose bumps erupt on the back of my neck. I pulled the revolver from my jeans, prepared to defend myself.

The weak light spilling from the spots on the front of the building illuminated a palm frond lying near the front of my car. It hadn’t been there when I’d parked. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, lowering the gun to my side. Smiling at my jumpiness, I told myself life wasn’t like a bad horror movie.

As I turned away from my car, the gun still in my hand, I heard a rustle in the hedge behind me. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a dark shape rise up from behind the thick foliage. My muscles tensed. Adrenaline spiked into my system. I pivoted toward the hedge, raising the gun as I turned, but the looming figure had already moved and something smashed into my right temple. My legs buckled. The gun slipped from my hand. A battery of brilliant tangerine-colored sparks burst through my head, and I fell into a black, crystalline sea.

Consciousness played fickle games with me, and I remembered hearing what must have been the door in the fence scraping open. I seemed to be floating in a thick fog, unable to move, but I forced myself to open my eyes. A stocky man dressed in dark clothes, his head covered by a hood, pulled the door closed. My head throbbed and my stomach lurched, the sour taste of shrimp stir fry paying me a return visit. Feebly, I reached out with my right arm and attempted to grab his leg. The man in black easily eluded my grasping fingers and a heavy work boot shot out toward my head.

More pain before blessed blackness carted me away.

Minutes later—or perhaps hours—I emerged from my stupor only to wish for the sanctuary of sleep as a roaring filled my ears and crushing pain reverberated through my skull. I pictured myself tied to a railroad track, my head resting on one of the tracks, and a train engine rolling over it. Then backing up and doing it again.

Through the fog of misery, I felt myself dragged roughly by the feet, my head bouncing along the ground. The grunts of large animals filtered through my dazed brain. I heard water splashing, and knew this night would end horribly for me if I didn’t do something.

I recalled the feeding frenzy I witnessed during my last visit to the Alligator Farm—dozens of prehistoric creatures clawing over each other to snatch a piece of raw rodent dropped from above. Powerful jaws snapping, the water boiling with whipping tails and probing snouts. If they put on such a show for a piece of goddamn rat, I thought, what would they do for a real hunk of meat?

I grabbed at the weeds and swamp grass trying desperately to slow my rush to extinction. They slid through my hands, leaving them raw and bleeding. Finally, I managed to wrap a hand around a small bush. The bush held and I caught my breath, trying to lift my head to see the person on the other end of my legs.