SAVANNAH GONE (18 page)

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” I replied.

She clucked her tongue to show me she wasn’t buying it. “Everything you do is out of the ordinary Fontaine.”

We swung into the Sapelo visitor center parking lot. Caroline nosed the Interceptor into an empty parking spot and we got out of the car. Down at the ferry landing, I could see the Department of Natural Resources boat waiting on us.

~ ~ ~

The DNR enforcement ranger was a rawboned guy named Joe McCoy. He had dark hair cut short, lean ropey muscles and a deep mahogany tan. Vertical creases were etched into his face. He met us at the dock. Caroline flashed her badge, and McCoy invited us on board. “You folks must be investigating the murder.”

“That’s right. I’m Detective Ross. This is Ray Fontaine. He’s assisting me with the investigation.”

I asked him, “Were you acquainted with Claire Robertson?”

He nodded. “Sure was. Not many people work out on the island. I imagine I’ve met most of ‘em. Damn shame is what it is. I hope you catch whoever did it.”

Caroline said, “We appreciate the lift. How long will it take to get out to the island?”

“Fifteen, twenty minutes max.” He looked at Caroline’s holstered Glock. “Detective I see you’re armed. Except during the controlled hunts we hold in the fall, firearms are strictly prohibited on the island. Mr. Fontaine, are you carrying as well?”

I raised my shirt and showed him the heater strapped to my hip. “Cut the crap,” I said. “This isn’t a fucking duck hunt. We’re here to investigate a murder. Detective Ross is an officer of the law, and I’m licensed to carry concealed anywhere in this state.” Give the game warden a badge, and he thinks he’s Eliot Ness.

McCoy eyeballed me for several long seconds. “If you want to grab a seat, we can get underway.”

I said, “Before we shove off, I’d like to know if you’ve noticed anything out of the ordinary that might assist us in the investigation?”

“Afraid not,” he said. “Though Claire and I’d met, I can’t say I knew her very well.”

“I’m not asking how well you knew her. I want to know if you noticed anything that can shed some light on her murder. You mentioned how few people work on Sapelo. Theoretically, anything out of the ordinary would stand out. Am I right?”

“Makes sense,” he said. “But you have to understand, it’s a big island...eleven miles long, three miles wide, and over sixteen thousand acres. Most of it wild. The majority of the work the DNR does is on the northern end of Sapelo, in what’s known as the Richard J. Reynolds Wildlife Management area. The Marine Institute’s lab facilities, as well as their housing, are located on the south end of Sapelo.” He paused for a beat, then said, “None of us are out there to socialize Mr. Fontaine. We all have a job to do. Regarding Claire, our paths just didn’t cross very often.”

I have a hypersensitivity to bullshit, and that sounded like a crock of it to me. With so few people on the island, who else are you going to hang out with after work? I wanted to ask him about Jack Hutchins, but Caroline’s brow was furrowed and she was tapping her foot, growing impatient by the minute. Tough. I played a hunch and said to McCoy, “You mentioned the DNR does most of its work on the northern end of Sapelo. Isn’t that where the archeological excavation is under way?”

“That’s right,” he replie
d. “Most of the digging on the island
has taken place at Chocolate, one of the old antebellum plantations.”

Then I lobbed him a leading question, which isn’t exactly kosher. You’re not supposed to lead a witness. “What are they digging for, some of R.J. Reynold’s buried gold?”

He gave me a thin-lipped smile. “Everyone’s heard that rumor. Personally, I think it’s ridiculous. What they’re doing out at Chocolate is trying to reconstruct what plantation life was like for the slaves that worked the fields.”

“Can you say with certainty that Reynolds didn’t bury gold on Sapelo?”

“I think you misunderstood,” he replied. “What I’m saying is,
if
R.J. Reynolds buried gold on Sapelo, none of it is still out there.” He looked from Caroline to me. “Think about it. The Hog Hammock residents are having trouble paying their property taxes. Supposedly their relatives were the ones that helped Mr. Reynolds bury the gold. If some of it was still hidden on the island, don’t you think they would’ve dug it up by now?”

I hadn’t thought of that. I asked, “What have they managed to turn up at Chocolate?”

“I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask Jack Hutchins. He’s the archeologist leading the dig.”

“Count on it.”

“I think we’re ready to head out,” Caroline said. She took a seat toward the back of the boat.

McCoy nodded, fired the outboard motor, then let it idle for a several minutes. He turned to me and said, “Can I get you to cast us off Mr. Fontaine?”

I untied us from the dock, made my way to the back of the boat, and grabbed a seat across from Caroline. Morning sunlight fell on her face. Despite the obvious stress weighing on her, she looked good sitting there. I winked at her. She narrowed her eyes and mouthed, “No fucking around.”

Do I deserve this? Here I am, pitching in and helping out, trying my damnedest to help her solve the case. And she’s busting my balls and acting like a hard-ass. I know she’s under a lot of pressure to wrap this up, but some days it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed.

McCoy glanced at us over his shoulder. Caroline nodded. He pushed the throttle forward, and the boat’s propeller churned the dark briny water.

We started off at a languid pace as the boat pulled away from the dock. Caroline turned and looked out over the water. I followed her gaze and watched a squadron of brown pelicans flying in formation. When we reached the middle of the river, McCoy opened it up. The boat’s hull rose out of the water. Soon we were up to plane, skimming across the water like a skipping stone.

~ ~ ~

Here’s a little-known fact: Georgia, with only one hundred miles of coastline, has almost as much salt marsh as the rest of the east coast combined. Since most of our islands can’t be reached by bridge, the ecosystem is healthy and intact. During the springtime, the tidal rivers of the lowcountry warm, and the brackish waters become an essential breeding ground for crabs, shrimp, and fish. Dolphins work the estuaries, feeding on the abundant aquatic life.

The river twisted to the east, and McCoy had us moving at a good clip. Thick marsh laced with tidal creeks were on both sides of us.

As you might have guessed, I’m not exactly a new-age kind of guy. I don’t believe in power spots, vortexes, or any of that ridiculous nonsense. But something undeniable happens to me when I’m out here on the water. The effect on me is visceral, deeply felt and profound. I guess you could say I feel plugged into some unseen force of nature. The swaying marsh grass, the serpentine rivers, the sky, the clouds, and the unspoiled Sea Islands make me come alive like no other place on the planet. It’s one of the reasons why I love living here.

As I sat in the back of the ranger’s boat, my senses were on full alert. I wanted to carry that heightened sense of acuity with me, bringing justice to whoever killed Claire Robertson. I don’t want to get all metaphysical, but I felt locked in like a heat-seeking missile searching for its target.

The truth was out there somewhere. And goddamn it, I was determined to find it.

Off our starboard side, a sailboat glided out to sea, the bright sun reflecting off its sails. I turned my eyes
to the east. Thick cumulus clouds hung like Chinese lanterns from an endless sky. We rounded a bend in the river and the candy-cane striped Sapelo lighthouse came into view.

As we approached the island, I noticed the state-run ferry moored at the Marsh Landing dock. McCoy eased up on the throttle, and the DNR boat slowed. I stood and made my way to the bow. We pulled up behind the ferry, McCoy reversed the motor and halted our forward momentum. I hopped out, he tossed me a rope, and I tied us to a wooden pylon. I gave Caroline my hand and helped her climb out of the boat.

Finally. Here we were on Sapelo at last. Standing on the dock the morning sun felt strong as it beat down on us. On this side of the island, the wind was down and the air was still; it felt a good five degrees warmer here than on the mainland. Behind me, I heard a splash. A fish or some other sea creature had broken the surface. I watched as the concentric circles expanded.

“Thanks for the ride,” Caroline said to McCoy. “I’m not sure how long we’ll be out here. How do I get in touch with you when we’re ready to return to the mainland?”

“I’ll be at the DNR office all day. Drive up when you're finished and I’ll take you back over.” I was about to ask him where the office was located, but he said. “I don’t know if you have a map of the island, but I’ve got one you can have.” He reached into the boat’s glove box and fished out the map. He unfolded it and pointed out the location of his office. Despite what he said about rarely crossing paths with the Marine Institute’s staff, the DNR office didn’t look far away to me. McCoy continued, “There aren’t many roads out here, but the map will help you get around.”

Caroline smiled at him. “We’re much obliged.”

He nodded. “Good luck.”

Before we walked away, I said to him, “I heard Jack Hutchins takes his own boat back and forth from the mainland, but the only boat I see is the public ferry.”

“There’s a second dock further up the river,” he replied. “He keeps his boat up there.”

As we headed down the dock, McCoy called out, “Be careful. We’ve got rattlesnakes, feral hogs, and gators out here.”

“That’s Alright,” I replied, glancing over my shoulder and patting my hip. “I’ve got Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson’s .357 right here.” Joe McCoy did not look pleased. Good. Fuck him.

Caroline and I continued down the dock toward the island. In the middle of the pier was an open-air pavilion where passengers could wait in the shade before boarding the ferry. At the end of the dock was a small dirt parking lot where a group of weather-beaten vehicles sat baking in the sun.

“What are we driving?” I asked Caroline.

She nodded toward a battered and faded SUV. “It’s that Isuzu Trooper over there. The keys are supposed to be under the floor mat.”

As we approached the Trooper, I glanced at the map. The Ranger was correct; there weren't many roads to keep up with. The main road, which ran north to south through the center of the southern half of the island, was called The Autobahn. And it appeared The Marine Institute was close, near the southern edge of the island. I found the Reynolds Mansion on the map. It wasn’t far either.

I took me a minute to locate Chocolate Plantation. It was on the northwestern side of Sapelo, along what was known as West Perimeter Road.

Caroline said, “I’ll drive. You navigate.”

The Trooper turned out to be a sun-forged heap of rusted metal. The muffler was loose and hung low to the ground, and the windshield had a vascular network of spider vein cracks. But it had large knobby tires and looked like it could handle the island roads with little trouble.

I opened the passenger door; stale hot air hit me like a blast furnace. Caroline opened the driver’s side door. She bent down and reached under the floor mat and located the keys. “Shit. This is a standard shift...I can’t drive a stick.”

“It’ll be better this way,” I said, smiling. “I’m a terrible passenger. Toss me the keys and I’ll drive.”

“If you make one sexist remark Fontaine, I swear I’ll shoot you.” On second thought, maybe I should’ve let the ranger take Caroline’s gun.

We switched sides. I handed her the map and she gave me the keys. I slid behind the wheel, pushed in the clutch, and fired the engine. It sputtered, then rumbled to life with a cough of exhaust smoke. Caroline got in and slammed her door.

Before we pulled out, I asked her, “What did you think of Ranger Rick’s little speech back there on the mainland about not socializing with the other island workers?”

She puffed out her cheeks and let out a deep breath. “His name is Joe, and what the hell are you talking about?”

“Think about it,” I said. “What are there...twenty, maybe thirty people working out here. What do you think they do after work?”

“I don’t know Fontaine.” She turned in her seat and looked at me. “Why don’t you illuminate me? What do they do out here after work?”

“The same thing everyone else does,” I replied. “They knock back a couple beers, play cards, walk on the beach.” I looked at her for a long moment, then said, “You pop in the pickle and raid the nookie jar. These are all wildlife people Caroline. They have a lot in common. After work, they’re not going straight back to their apartments and stare at the walls. I say the ranger is full of shit.”

Caroline groaned. “Pop in the pickle. What is this cooking class for horny fifth-grade boys? Who cares what these people do after work. We’re not here to analyze the sex lives of the other Sapelo workers. We’re here to piece together what was going on in Claire’s life before she was murdered. That’s it.” Moments later she added, “Besides, I thought McCoy was kind of cute.”
Cute
? Give me a fucking break.

“Come on Caroline. McCoy’s a classic teeny-weenie overcompensater. It’s called Napoleon complex of the crotch. Why else do you think he was trying to take our guns? The guy drops his pants, he’s got a third pinky dangling between his legs. I’m betting he wears a size seven shoe and uses a peanut shell and a rubber band for a jock strap.”

Despite her obvious frustration with
moi
, Caroline laughed. “You need help Fontaine, but you’re way beyond the couch. Now knock it off, and let’s go.”

~ ~ ~

I thrive on friction. No friction, no heat. No heat, no fire. Without a few gritty particles of sand, the oyster can’t produce a pearl. It’s why I like to stir Caroline up. I use the snarky banter to keep me sharp and focused. Besides, it’s damn good fun to get under her skin. Nonetheless, I tabled the sexually laced culinary comments, threw it in first, and pulled out of the parking lot.

I looked over at Caroline. She had the Sapelo map unfolded on her lap. “This is Dock Road,” she informed me. “It looks like we take it until it dead ends, then take a right on the Autobahn.” She looked up and smiled. “The Autobahn? You gotta be kidding me.”