SAVANNAH GONE (21 page)

“Thanks, Joe. We’ll see you back at your office when we finish up.”

McCoy eyed me a little while longer, then nodded. He pushed himself off the truck, ambled back to the driver’s side door, and got back inside the cab. He cranked the motor, then disappeared into the island foliage.

When he was gone, I looked at Caroline. “You gonna tell me it was a coincidence that jerk rolled up on us like that? I’m telling you, I get bad vibes from that hayseed.”

Caroline threw me a steely look. “What are you paranoid as well as brain dead? He said he noticed us drive by his office.” She shook her head. “What’s next Fontaine...Joe McCoy was the second Kennedy shooter standing on the grassy knoll?” A moment later she added, “I thought you were gonna wait till we got to Chocolate before you started acting stupid. Now let’s go.”

She spun around and stomped back to the Trooper. I followed, chastised, but not convinced.

~ ~ ~

We bumped along in silence for another half mile, Caroline staring out her window, doing a slow burn. Turning in her seat toward me, she said, “Have you ever heard the term ‘fruit of the poison tree’ Fontaine?”

“Sounds like a dish my ex used to serve for breakfast.” Sometimes I think Caroline forgets I was a criminal investigator in Uncle Sam’s Army. And while military and civilian law don’t always dovetail, I know all about tainted evidence.

“Let me clue you in hotshot. Fruit of the poison tree means any evidence gathered illegally is inadmissible, a direct violation of a person's fourth amendment rights. I already told you what’s at stake in this case. You cannot hop on a man’s boat and search it without a warrant. If you fuck this case up—.” She was quiet for quite some time, then added, “And what’s with all the macho bullshit back there with McCoy? Did it ever occur to you that he may be able to assist us? It does us no good for you to intentionally piss everyone off. ”

“Piss him off? He’s pissing me off. Mark my word Caroline, that fucker’s got an agenda.” I glanced in her direction. “Rocky Raccoon shows up again, he’s going in the river.”

“Is that right? Well, my agenda is gonna be having you tossed if you don’t shape up. No more screwing around. I’m serious.”

We drove for a while longer, and Caroline went back to ignoring me. I glanced in her direction and asked, “What’s the name of the place where McCoy said he trapped the alligator?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, sounding irritated, staring out her window. “Bourbon Street, Bourbon Field...why?”

“Just wanted to make sure we didn’t stumble on it, that’s all.” Moments later I added, “See if Bourbon Field is on the map.”

She let out an audible sigh. “Hang on a second.” Caroline spread the map out, searching with her eyes. “Here it is,” she said, indicating a spot on the map. “Looks like it’s on the far northeastern side of the island.” She looked over at me and asked, “What’s going on Fontaine?”

I kept my eyes straight ahead and didn’t respond, trying to quiet my thoughts. When the ranger said he’d trapped the gator near Bourbon Field, it was like my head had been razored open and a piece of the puzzle trickled out. The poem I’d swiped from Lydia Baker had a line that said something about Bourbon Field. I racked my brain for the poem’s exact wording, but it was like trying to grab wisps of fog. And the harder I tried, the further it retreated into my memory bank, thin and vaporous. Then something clicked...
buried in Bourbon Field
.

Then another click:
Gold
. Was it possible Hutchins had been searching for gold in Bourbon Field all along? And if so, did he kill Claire because she stumbled upon something she wasn’t supposed to see? And had the key to the goddamned investigation been locked in my glove box the entire time? Before I got ahead of myself, I needed to have a look at Bourbon Field.

“Where’s the next road that cuts across the island?” I asked her.

“Looks like it’s about a half mile behind us,” she said, studying the map. “Why?”

“We’re taking a quick detour.” I pulled to the side of the road and turned the Trooper around. “Hutchins can wait. I want to take a quick look at Bourbon Field.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

When the foolish man hears of the Tao, he laughs out loud

Chinese Proverb

We arrived at Bourbon Field without fanfare, which is another way of saying Caroline didn’t yap at me the whole way. Out the passenger window, I spotted a large clearing through a break in the trees. I pulled the Trooper over and killed the engine, then hopped out and had a look around. The maritime forest was particularly thick here, pressing down and enveloping us. The dark labyrinth of tangled branches muffled the sound of everything except the ticking of the Trooper’s cooling engine. Caroline got out and stood next to me.

“What are we doing here?” she asked. “We’re nowhere near Chocolate.”

“Hang on a second.” I opened the passenger side door and consulted the map. “Let’s go,” I said, setting off on foot toward the clearing. “I want to take a look at that field.”

Caroline stayed firmly planted next to the SUV. “We’re not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell is going on.”

“I’ve got a feeling,” I said over my shoulder, “the key to the case may be lying out there somewhere in Bourbon Field.” If it hasn’t been dug up already.

“Does this have anything to do with that alligator?” she called out, racing to catch up. “Hold on a second...wait for me.” She muttered something about ruining her shoes. I smiled, but kept right on marching. Caroline trailed in my slipstream, grabbing at my elbow. She caught up, fell in next to me. “Spill it Fontaine. I need to know what we’re doing here.”

“I think Claire saw something out here that may have gotten her killed.”

“Like what?” she said, her voice stern. “And don’t give me that, ‘I’ve got a feeling crap.’ Lay it out for me, and it’d better not be about that gold.”

I stopped walking, turned and faced her. “Alright Caroline, here’s the deal. During the week when Claire was out here staying in the Marine Institute apartment, one of her Savannah neighbors, a woman named Lydia Baker, retrieved her mail. Back when this was a missing person’s case, I appropriated a letter off her that was addressed to Claire. The letter was postmarked Darien, and it was dated last Friday, the day Claire was killed. Inside was a strange cryptic poem that said something was hidden in Bourbon Field. I thought it was nothing, or had something to do with a bottle of booze maybe. I mean it just didn’t make any sense. It wasn’t until Ranger Rhubarb mentioned capturing the gator near Bourbon Field that something fell into place. I think it’s possible that whatever is hidden out here got Claire killed.”

Her nostrils flared and her jaw sort of clenched. She gave me one of her withering stares, the kind that can peel paint. I braced myself, waiting for the “We’re gonna do this by the book,” ball-busting. Finally: “Alright Fontaine. We’ll deal with how you got that poem when we get off the island. For now, let’s see what’s out in that field.” Caroline removed her shoes and started picking her way through the trees. “Let’s hit it,” she said. “The sun’s getting hot, and we’re burning daylight.”

When Caroline mentioned the sun, it jarred a piece of the poem free in my head. I think I had the first line...
there are strange things done in the midnight sun
. Was that it?

~ ~ ~

We broke through the trees on the western flank of Bourbon Field and left the shelter of the forest canopy, the sharp spring sunlight flooding us as we entered the clearing. I looked around and realized that Bourbon Field was larger than I expected: approximately five hundred yards long, and two hundred yards wide. Far overhead, a couple of hawks worked the field, circling effortlessly like an infant’s mobile hung high in the sky.

“I should’ve brought better shoes,” Caroline said, walking gingerly, watching where she put her feet. “What was I thinking?” She took a couple more steps. “Do me a favor Fontaine. Keep the gloating to yourself.”

“Walking barefoot is supposed to be good for you,” I said, barely able to contain myself. “It’s called earthing. The electromagnetic particles from the ground...”

“It’s called stow it,” she snapped. “Now what are we looking for?”

“We’re looking for holes or places where fresh dirt’s been turned over. Let’s do a grid search, walking ten to fifteen feet apart. Let’s start right here and work our way toward the marsh.” I nodded toward the eastern edge of the clearing.

We both stayed quiet then, scanning the field as we went. Thirty minutes later we reached a thin clump of trees on the opposite side of Bourbon Field. We passed beneath their twisted branches and continued walking for another ten feet or so.

Watching where she put her feet, Caroline said, “If we see an alligator, I’m out of here.” She took another couple steps. “And if you try anything funny, Fontaine, I’m ringing you up on a mail tampering charge.”

We made our way to the edge of the island and stood on a ten foot bluff. Below us was a stretch of marsh about a quarter mile wide. On the far side of the marsh there was another heavily forested island. “That’s Blackbeard Island,” I said, indicating with my chin. “Apparently Blackbeard, real name Edward Teach, hid out in the tidal rivers up and down the Georgia coast, waiting to ambush any passing ships.”

Caroline didn’t respond. Instead, she stood there silently looking toward Blackbeard. What a view. This was the Georgia coast at its best. Not another person or a man-made structure as far as the eye could see. Blue sky. White clouds. The salt, the sea, and the air. A pirate island on one side. The other island once owned by captains of industry at the peak of their power. Shit, back in the 1920’s, Lucky Lindy landed his plane on Sapelo. And maybe bags full of gold were buried out here too.

Caroline remained transfixed, her skin moist from the heat, her eyes reflecting the sky. A warm coastal breeze lifted her hair. She looked good. All cheekbones and attitude. I said to her, “A pirate walks into a bar with the wheel of his ship crammed down his pants. The bartender says, ‘Excuse me, sir, but what’s that ship’s wheel doing down your pants?’ And the pirate says, AAARRRGGGHHH! It’s drivin me nuts.”

She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, then let out an irritated sigh. “You’re driving me nuts.”

I smiled, then turned my gaze to the east. In my mind, I could see Blackbeard aboard his frigate, the Queen Anne’s Revenge, hiding out, lying in wait for an unsuspecting ship, then coming ashore at night in a lanterned rowboat with a treasure chest full of plundered gold. If Jack Hutchins wasn’t a killer, and I was ninety-nine percent sure he was, I would have enjoyed hunting for the treasure with him. I mean, who doesn’t enjoy a good treasure hunt?

The breeze continued to blow, and I could smell the Atlantic. My eyes swept the horizon. A series of tidal creeks snaked lazily through the marsh grass offshore. The largest creek was thirty to forty feet wide and came close to where we stood. I looked at Caroline. “I’ll bet at high tide you can get a good size boat up here.”

She nodded. “You’re probably right. It looks like it comes in off the ocean, skirts between the islands, and empties out into the
Sound.” She gave me a furtive look. “Level with me Fontaine. You really think there’s gold buried out here?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. But I think it’s possible Claire saw something out here she wasn’t supposed to see.”

“We need to check with Jenkins. I want to know if any of Claire’s research brought her to this side of the island.” She turned and looked at me. “When we get back to town I want that poem.”

I said, “I remember the first line…
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
.”

Her blue-green eyes went wide. “That’s the first line to The Cremation of Sam McGee. It’s a famous from Robert W. Service.”

“You sure?”

“I was a Criminal Justice major in college,” she said, nodding, “but I minored in English Lit. The Cremation of Sam McGee is a poem about prospecting for gold in the Yukon.” She thought for a moment, then added, “There’s no mention of Bourbon Field in it though.”

When Caroline said the name Sam McGee, she dislodged the remainder of the poem from the tangled recesses of my mind. I said to her, “I think I remember the rest of the poem. It went like this:

There are strange things done in the midnight sun.

Hidden in Bourbon Field.

Beneath the largest tree, just like Sam McGee.

Three hundred pounds concealed
.”

Caroline said, “Someone took the first line of Service’s poem and added the rest.” She spun around. “There aren't any trees in Bourbon Field Fontaine. It’s one big clearing.”

“I know, but Bourbon Field was the name of the antebellum plantation Caroline. These trees surrounding the field were probably part of the original grounds.”

“Why would someone write a poem like that Fontaine?”

“I don’t know, but supposedly R.J. Reynolds was afraid that his third wife was trying to kill him. Maybe he wrote that poem to alert his heirs to the location of the buried gold in the event she succeeded.” I did some quick math in my head. “Three hundred pounds of gold is worth approximately four and a half million dollars. We need to hunt down that bastard Jack Hutchins.”

If you sit by the river long enough, the bodies of all your enemies will float by

Chinese Proverb

I whipped the Trooper around and doubled back along East Perimeter Road. I cut across the island, then raced north, twin plumes of dust churning up behind us. The road was narrow and rutted. I gripped the wheel tight. Caroline had her right hand wrapped around a handle above her door and braced her left hand on the dash.

Five minutes later we made it to Chocolate. I locked up the tires, and the SUV shuddered into a skid beneath the shade of a live oak near the edge of the marsh. The tree was enormous, with gnarled branches that spread out relentlessly. It had to be several hundred years old, and could have stood on this spot since Blackbeard sailed these waters.