I called out. “What day is garbage pickup?”
“Hell if I know. Why?”
I’d taken a load of papers to the front-yard Dumpster the previous Monday.
“Why?” Pete repeated himself.
I grabbed a flashlight and bolted out the front door and down the steps. Wind was now seriously whipping the palmettos. I could smell rain. The storm wasn’t far off.
Flipping the Dumpster lid, I heaved out a blue plastic newspaper recycling tub.
I started at the bottom, hauling out papers, checking dates with my beam, holding the rejects down with one foot. Halfway through, I became aware of a car moving up Ocean Boulevard. I continued working through the stack.
The headlights drew closer.
Bingo! May 19. Front section. Gusts rippled the pages in my hands.
The car slowed. I ignored it.
I found last Friday’s business review, classified ads, local and state news.
The car stopped opposite “Sea for Miles,” twin beams angled toward the Dumpster.
I looked up, but could make out only the lights.
Ryan? I felt a flutter in my chest.
The car did not move on or turn into the drive.
I shielded my eyes.
The driver gunned the engine. Tires spit loose dirt and the car shot forward.
Something flew toward me.
Dropping the paper, I threw up my hands.
18
SOMETHING HARD WINGED OFF MY ELBOW. Pain fired up my arm. I felt liquid and smelled beer.
With my good hand, I swept my flashlight in an arc. The beam fell on a beer bottle angled against the Dumpster.
Thrown by whom?
Kids on a joyride?
Some joy.
Intentionally aimed? At me personally?
Last Friday’s paper was now scattered across the yard with portions pasted by the wind to the outside of the Dumpster. I gathered sections and returned to the house. Pete had moved from the kitchen to the den, and was scribbling on one of his legal pads. Glancing up, he noticed me holding my arm.
“Lightning strike?” At least it wasn’t another accountant joke.
“Some moron whipped a bottle out a car window.”
Pete’s brows dipped. “You OK?”
“Nothing a little ice won’t heal.”
I made light of the incident, but inside me a gnawing doubt was beginning to sprout. Pete had spotted a strange vehicle at the house early Sunday morning. Now this. Was someone trying to deliver a message? Joyriding vandals didn’t ordinarily stop and survey a target. Or aim at people. Express dislike of something I had done? Dickie Dupree? I resolved to pay closer attention to my surroundings.
While icing my elbow, I reread the story in last Friday’s Post and Courier, and entered Jimmie Ray Teal into my spreadsheet.
Teal, Jimmie Ray, 47. Male. Last seen May 8 leaving Jackson Street apartment. Brother. Medical appointment.
I was wondering about Teal’s racial background when another thought struck me. The city councilman’s son, Matthew Summerfield, was another missing person. But the kid didn’t really fit the pattern of the other Charleston MPs. What pattern?
Summerfield, Matthew IV, 18. White male. Last seen February 28 leaving Old City Market. Drug user.
I fell asleep listening to Pete’s kick-ass storm.
* * *
That night I dreamed disordered dreams. Ryan holding an infant. Gullet shouting words I couldn’t catch. A toothless man panhandling with a Hornets cap. Emma beckoning from a dark room. My feet wouldn’t move, and she receded from me.
I was awakened by the sound of my cell. Reaching for it, I felt pain in my elbow.
“Gullet here.” I could hear voices in the background. Phones. “We’ve got us another one.”
My stomach tightened.
“Storm washed a barrel up south of Folly Beach. Couple of fishermen took a peek, found a body. The area’s county, so my office caught the call. Miz Rousseau’s indisposed again, said you should be included. Appears you’re becoming de facto coroner, young lady.”
At 7 A.M. the young lady was not up to a snappy retort. “Give me directions,” I said, fumbling for pen and paper.
“Got no time for you getting lost. Meet me at the morgue in thirty minutes.”
“What’s the rush?” Bristly. But Gullet was right. I’d probably have trouble finding the place.
“Tide’s coming in.”
I yanked on jeans and a T, pulled my hair back, slapped on mascara, and hurried downstairs.
Pete was gone, I assumed to continued actuarial torture. Boyd and Birdie were in the kitchen, eyeing each other over an upended cereal bowl.
Birdie split when I appeared. Boyd sat. He had milk on his snout.
“You’re busted, chow.”
I placed the bowl in the sink, poured coffee, and checked my arm. A bruise was starting that would eventually grow to spectacular proportions. And colors.
When I unpegged his leash, Boyd went berserk. I ran him out to the curb. The yard was littered with palmetto fronds and other debris.
After watering the Dumpster, the mailbox, and a fallen branch, Boyd started up the road. I tugged him back to the house. He twirled the eyebrow hairs. Are you nuts?
“Payback for the Cheerios caper,” I said.
The brow hairs went crazy.
I downed a granola bar and headed for MUSC. The sheriff was waiting by the morgue door.
Gullet took the James Island connector over the Ashley and headed south. Shortly, signs gave directions to Folly Beach.
As he drove, Gullet shared what he knew. It was little more than he’d told me on the phone. Fishermen. Barrel. Body.
I asked why the coroner had requested my presence. Gullet speculated that the corpse would be less than pristine.
I gazed out the window, letting houses, trees, and utility poles blur. Gullet initiated no further conversation. I noticed he kept sneaking glances at my elbow.
I remembered Pete’s Sunday morning car. Last night’s bottle. What the hell. If someone was bent on harassing me, it might help for the sheriff to know. I told him what had happened.
“You raise some hackles around here?” Gullet asked in his usual flat tone.
“I pissed off a reporter named Homer Winborne.”
“Winborne’s harmless.”
“And a developer named Richard Dupree?”
“Surprised the State Department hasn’t pressed ole Dickie into service. Man’s a born diplomat.”
“Is he harmless?”
Gullet hesitated. “Mostly.”
Mostly? I let it go.
Fifteen minutes after crossing the Ashley River, Gullet veered onto a small road cutting through marsh. On both sides, spartina and needlerush arrowed from sparkling amber toward an immaculate blue sky. Lowering my window, I breathed a primeval perfume of growth and decay. Oysters. Fiddler crabs. A million invertebrates older than time.
Buoyed, I gave communication a go.
“Did you know that South Carolina has more marsh acreage than any other Atlantic Coast state?”
Gullet looked at me, then back at the road.
“The lab boys finished with Pinckney’s wallet.”
“Anything in it besides the license?”
“Nothing much. Bunch of coupons for buy-one-get-one-free meals, a grocery store discount card, a lottery ticket, sixty-four bucks, and a Trojan Magnum XL.”
“Pinckney was an optimist.”
“In more ways than one.”
For the rest of the trip I observed egrets, bodies white amid the rippling green grass, spindly legs rising from the dark mudflats.
When Gullet pulled the Explorer to a stop, I had only a vague idea where we were. Ahead were two shacks shaded by an enormous yaupon holly. Beyond the shacks, a wooden pier jutted into what I guessed was either the Stono River or some tentacle of an Atlantic estuary.
Two vehicles were present. A cruiser with lights flashing, radio sputteri
ng, and a black panel truck.
Red-winged blackbirds rose in a squawking gaggle as Gullet and I climbed from the Explorer. A uniform left the cruiser to greet us. I recognized the hawk nose and razor creases. Deputy H. Tybee.
“Sheriff. Ma’am.” Tybee touched his brim to each of us. “Gentleman named Oswald Moultrie discovered the DOA while checking his crab pots this morning. Lives yonder.” Tybee raised his chin to the first shack.
“Thought they’d stumbled on Blackbeard’s lost treasure?” Gullet was staring past Tybee toward the pier.
“I don’t know the answer to that, sir.” Humor was not Tybee’s forte. “Following your orders, we’ve secured the site and left everything as we found it.”
“You got statements?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who lives in the other shack?”
“The one with the red awning belongs to Moultrie’s brother, Leland.”
I followed Gullet as he left Tybee and walked toward the water. I could see that the inlet was narrow, at points barely wide enough to allow the passage of two boats. The tide was out, leaving the pier high above the bank. The rickety wooden structure reminded me of the egrets, rising from the mud on long stick legs.
Two men sat smoking under Leland’s awning. They looked like clones. Black. Wiry. Gray plastic glasses. The Brothers Moultrie.
Lee Ann Miller and another sheriff’s deputy were at the shore end of the pier. Gullet and I joined them. Greetings were exchanged. The deputy’s name was Zamzow. He appeared close to being sick.
As I walked to the pier, my nostrils picked up a sharp, rancid odor mingling with the smell of salt and decaying vegetation. Behind me conversation continued. Speculation on how the barrel had gotten up the creek. Suggestions concerning the best way to retrieve it.
Blocking the voices, I focused.
The pier was outfitted with a wooden platform for scaling and gutting fish. Flies were holding a jamboree on its surface. Two rusted crab pots lay to one side of the platform. A long-handled ax leaned against the other.
I looked down.
The water was dark green, the mud black and slime-slick. Tiny crabs darted this way and that, moving sideways, claws brandished like gladiator shields. Here and there, I could pick out the three-prong pattern of bird tracks.
The barrel lay half submerged, a dead thing beached by the storm. Boot prints led to and from it. The surrounding mud was chaos, churned by the Moultries’ efforts to drag their booty up the incline.
A chain looped the barrel. Some links were corroded, most looked solid. I noted nicks in both the barrel and chain.
The barrel’s lid lay on the mud, inner side up. A deep gouge buckled one edge.
Inside the barrel, I could see a hairless scalp, a face, the features eerily pale in the muddy brown water.
I was ready.
“Looks like an oil drum,” I said, rejoining the others.
“Rusty as a coffin nail,” Miller said. “Any logo or lettering is probably long gone.”
“The barrel may be old, but the chain’s not. Get close-ups and bag the ax. They probably hacked through the links with the blade, then knocked the lid off with the blunt side.”
“Leland claims the thing popped open on its own,” Deputy Zamzow said.
“Right,” I said.
“How do you want to handle the body?” Miller asked. “I’m thinking we should take the whole shooting match.”
“Absolutely,” I agreed. “We don’t know what’s in that barrel.”
Miller gave one of her mile-wide smiles. “When I heard ‘barrel,’ I brought the stinky van and an acre of plastic sheeting. I’ve hauled one or two of these babies in my time.”
Gullet spoke to Zamzow. “Get your vehicle in here.”
The man hurried off.
Gullet turned to Miller. “You got chains?”
“Rope.”
“Waders?”
Miller gave a decidedly unenthusiastic nod.
“We’ll run lines round the thing, haul her up the bank, then get her onto a hand truck.”
Miller looked at the creek. “Could be snakes in there.”
“Cottonmouths, maybe even a water-lovin’ rattler or two.” Gullet’s voice held not a trace of sympathy.
Miller crossed to the van and returned with waders and two coils of yellow polypropylene rope. Dumping them at our feet, she began shooting scene photos.
With Zamzow hand-signaling, Tybee positioned the cruiser. Then Zamzow tied two lines to the bumper and ran each out to the end of the pier.
Tybee stayed at the wheel. Miller and Zamzow rejoined Gullet and me. No one made a move for the waders.
“This old gal’s no water princess,” Miller said.
“I’m a nonswimmer.” Zamzow’s face was the pale green of a Monet landscape.
The Moultries observed from their lawn chairs.
The day was heating up. The tide was turning. Behind us, flies were doing Riverdance on sun-baked fish guts.
Grabbing the waders, I yanked off my sneakers, shoved my feet down the legs, and maneuvered the straps up onto my shoulders. Then I drew a deep breath, bellied over the pier, and dropped to the bank. Miller tossed me gloves and I tucked them under one arm.
The mud was slippery but firm. Stepping gingerly, I worked my way toward the barrel, crabs skittering from my path.
Gloving, I retrieved and pushed the lid into place. My stomach rolled. Up close, the stench was nauseating. After whacking the lid tight with a rock, I yanked off the gloves and signaled for a line.
Zamzow tossed down the first length of rope. I fashioned a noose, slipped it over the unsubmerged end of the barrel, rolled it down about eighteen inches, and tightened the knot.
Bracing against the barrel, I maneuvered toward its submerged end. As I moved, flecks of rust broke free and dropped to the mud.
At the water’s edge I stopped and did a quick scan. Not a coiled body in sight.
Deep breath. Go.
The incline was steeper than I’d anticipated. One step and the creek covered my shins. Another and it was over my knees.
Slogging forward, I rounded the barrel. The water was now waist high, my legs lost to the murky gloom.
I signaled, and Zamzow tossed another rope. Forming another lasso, I placed the knot on top of the barrel, drew a deep breath, and squatted.
The water felt cold against my face. Eyes squeezed, I tried wriggling the noose up under the submerged end of the barrel. Again and again it slipped. Again and again I came up for air, squatted, and struggled some more, clawing at the mud, forcing the line between the barrel and the bank. The effort made my battered arm ache.
The fourth time I surfaced, Gullet’s voice boomed out: “Freeze!”
Clawing wet hair from my face, I looked up. Gullet’s eyes were pointed at the opposite bank.
“What?” I panted.
“Stop. Moving.” Low and even.
Instead of listening, I turned and followed Gullet’s sight line.
My heart slammed into my throat.
19
MONDO GATOR. SIX, MAYBE SEVEN FEET. I could see mud-caked scales, a yellow-white throat, jagged teeth jutting up from a powerful jaw.
A jaw that was pointed directly at me.
As I watched, the gator slipped from the bank and disappeared below the surface.
Heart banging, limbs pumping, I churned shoreward.
Gullet jumped from the pier and slip-slid across the mud. Balancing on the barrel with one hand, he extended the other. I grabbed on and pulled with all my strength. Pain jolted my bottle-battered elbow.
The oil-slick mud sent me slithering through Gullet’s grasp. I fell back and muddy water closed over me. The waders filled and grew heavy.
Adrenaline fired through my system. Throwing one shoulder, I rolled and groped, enveloped in darkness.
Where was the barrel?
Dear God. Where was the gator?
Desperate, I frog-kicked, found the bank with my h
ands. Planting both feet, I surfaced. Gullet whistled and pointed to a rope he’d tossed into the water.
Miller was shouting, “Haul ass, darlin’! Haul ass!”
A Moultrie brother stood beside Miller. He had something in his hands. He and Zamzow were looking off to my left.
The engorged waders made movement a struggle, last night’s nightmare in real time. Muscles straining, I slogged toward the rope, aware of the reptile behind me.
Was it behind me?
Something splashed to my left. I braced for teeth on my flesh.
“Pull!” Miller shouted.
Reaching the rope, I crooked one knee against the bank, hauled, and lunged upward. I felt Gullet’s hands. I felt terra firma.
For a moment I stood doubled over, legs trembling, muddy water pouring from the waders. When I looked up Miller raised both thumbs and beamed.
“Didn’t think gators liked salt water,” I panted.
“This un ain’t picky.” Grinning, Moultrie scooped a chicken neck from his bait bucket and tossed it upstream.
Inverted V’s rippled outward as the gator swam toward the poultry.
* * *
We waited twenty minutes on the pier, drinking coffee and watching the gator maintain a holding pattern ten yards up the creek, submerged save for its vertebrae and snout tip. It was unclear if the animal was looking back at us, protecting its dinner, or dozing.
“Tide’s not getting any lower.” Gullet tossed his dregs down onto the mud. “Who wants to wrestle Ramon?”
Oswald Moultrie had provided us with the gator’s name, and the fact that he was a regular in the creek.
“Might as well be me. I’m already wet.” Wet hardly covered it. Mud smeared every inch of my body.
“No need to prove you ain’t afraid of gators,” Miller said.
“I’m not afraid of gators,” I said. True enough. I’m afraid of snakes. I kept that to myself.
“Got some heat now.” Zamzow brandished a Remington shotgun that he’d retrieved from the trunk of his cruiser. “Critter starts moving this way, I’ll park a bullet in his brain.”
“No need to kill him,” Gullet observed. “Shoot into his path and he’ll turn back.”
I handed Miller my Styrofoam cup. “Tell Moultrie to keep the Bojangles ready.”