by Howe, A. E.
“And if it’s not?”
“Let’s cross our bridges one at a time.”
“I’m done if you want to get yourself a bath!” Grace yelled from the bathroom.
“I’m off to go… prowling,” Blasko said with a slight smirk and a bow.
“Wish me luck tomorrow.”
Blasko could hear an underlying insecurity in her words, an emotion he seldom saw in Josephine. The memory of her uncle and this odd quest to find what he’d left behind were clearly affecting her self-confidence.
He reached out and touched her cheek lightly, brushing a strand of honey-brown hair away from her face. “Everything will be fine. I will see you tomorrow night.” He leaned forward and gave her a gentle kiss. “And whatever you discover, we’ll deal with it together.”
Josephine grabbed for his hand and squeezed it before letting him go. She waited until he had closed the door before dabbing at the tears that had formed in her eyes. Josephine was forced to admit that this little adventure was bringing up feelings of loss that she thought she’d left behind a year ago when she’d said goodbye to her father. There was fear too. Fear that she would learn things about her uncle that she didn’t want to know. Whatever he’d done on the island all those years ago had ended with him dead.
Blasko walked softly around the balcony outside his room until he was at the back of the hotel. Looking around to make sure he wasn’t being watched, he slipped over the railing and dropped softly to the ground beside a palm tree.
After hundreds of years, Blasko still marveled when he encountered new sensations. The feel of the sand giving way beneath his feet was one of those, mixed with the exotic smells of the Gulf and the night-blooming jasmine growing along the wooden fence marking the hotel’s property.
As he walked toward the docks, he could smell another odor, something lurking underneath the stale smell of beer and tobacco. At first he thought it was just the scent of fish brought in by the trawlers, but it was more than that. There was an organic smell like that of a wet animal, and it was coming from more than one location. Mixed with the odor was a hint of decay.
Over the centuries, Blasko had perfected the art of walking in the shadows. Tonight he was particularly careful to stay hidden from the casual observer as he made his way toward the bar. When he was a block away, he saw the red neon sign that clung to the clapboard wall. The Dragon was spelled out in garish red, but the letter “R” was burned out.
Blasko crouched beside an overturned rowboat whose splintered hull assured him that its days on the water were long over. From there he could see into a cloudy window on the side of the bar, plus he had a clear view of the front door opening out onto the sidewalk. Several men were leaning against the wall, talking and smoking.
Though they spoke in near whispers, Blasko was able to hear parts of their conversation. They were talking about going out in their boats, which seemed perfectly normal as they were obviously fishermen, but they never seemed to discuss a purpose or destination. Their voices all held an odd undertone, as if they were gasping for air, and sometimes their words seemed to be in a language unlike anything he’d ever heard. “Fu’logg huq tov,” he thought he heard one of the men say. As he puzzled this out, Blasko also wondered why they were all bundled up in jackets and knitted caps on a night that was warm and sticky, with only the breeze from the water to make it bearable.
A dozen men came and went from the bar. They would nod to the others standing outside and occasionally join them for a brief conversation. As an hour passed, the foot traffic toward the docks seemed to increase, then Blasko realized that he could hear the throbbing sound of diesel engines moving away from shore. While he wasn’t familiar with the ways of fishermen, Blasko didn’t think it was normal for them to be heading out after midnight. Perhaps it has to do with the tides or the running of the fish, he thought. I’ll have to make inquiries when I can.
Blasko considered entering the bar, but the only thing that stopped him was the thought of Josephine. Solving the mystery of her uncle’s death meant too much to her. If he barged into the bar and burned bridges with the locals, spoiling her chances of discovering what had happened to Peter Nicolson, he’d have a hard time making amends. It was better to save the direct approach for later. Instead, he slid away from his vantage point and walked toward the docks. He wanted to watch the boats going out to sea.
As he walked, Blasko noticed that there was mold growing on some of the houses and buildings. The fences around some of the yards were falling down and old cars and trucks parked on the streets looked like they hadn’t moved for months. Many of the houses were lit by only the dim glow of gas lighting. Obviously there is electricity on the island, he thought. Can this many people not afford it? He guessed that even this remote fishing village had been unable to escape the effects of a national economy in tatters.
Blasko had intended on heading directly to the docks to watch the departing trawlers, but instead he turned down one of the residential streets near the waterfront. What he saw was unnerving. He remembered entering a mountain village centuries before, where everyone had been slaughtered by a warlord from the north. The village had been deathly quiet, yet still he had felt the sense of morbid life. He’d soon come to understand that his enhanced hearing was bringing him the sounds of insects as they devoured the corpses of the slain villagers. Walking down the sandy avenues of Cedar Island and looking at the rotted, moss-covered boards holding the houses together, he got the same feeling. Several times he saw someone come out of one of the homes and scuttle-hop eerily across the road to another house or down to the docks.
Disturbed, Blasko headed back toward the docks. He stuck to the shadows, as there were several men milling about and hauling equipment down to the dozen boats that were still secured to cleats. Quietly, Blasko eased into the sagging doorway of a derelict structure on the edge of the dock where he could watch the men through a dusty window.
The fishermen seemed as capable of moving about in the dark as he was. No one was using a lantern or flashlight, and yet they never stumbled or bumped into each other. The moon was almost full, which probably accounted for some of it. However, with all the various tools and equipment lying about, to say nothing of the rotted boards and railings, Blasko was impressed that the men were able to move around without hurting themselves.
One by one, the strange fishermen made their boats ready, then cast off and motored out into the Gulf. Though he couldn’t be sure, Blasko’s gut was telling him that there was something very odd about their behavior.
With only a few hours until sunrise, he left the docks. As he walked back to the hotel, he was surprised to see Eric Donavan leaning against a tree in a vacant lot, staring down at the docks. At first Blasko thought it best to avoid him, but feeling frustrated about how little he’d learned so far, he decided to talk to Donavan. He knew that Josephine had already floated the allergy-to-sunlight excuse, so he would be able to use that to explain why he was wandering around in the middle of the night. Blasko thought it would be interesting to hear Donavan’s reason for being out at this hour.
“Good morning,” he said, startling Donavan as he’d planned.
“Baron Blasko, what are you doing out here?”
“I’m afraid that my aversion to sunlight forces me to live a nocturnal life. I saw you standing here and was wondering if you are another… What do they call it over here? Oh yes, a night owl.” Blasko smiled.
Donavan nodded. “Sort of. I’m a professor of biological anthropology back in Vancouver, but I also have an interest in marine biology. I’ve been waiting for the boats to come back so I can collect anything… odd that they’ve caught.”
“When do the boats come back?”
“Usually just before dawn.”
“I don’t know anything about fishing, but that seems unusual.”
Donavan’s feet shifted back and forth. “I’ve found most fishermen to be a clannish lot. These are no different.” He paused for a moment, as
though he were considering whether to go on. “You are right that the men on this island have some peculiar habits.” He looked at Blasko keenly. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Of course.”
“When I first got to the island, I went to them and asked if they would save anything unusual that they caught for me. I offered to pay them. I’ve done this in a dozen different fishing villages and have always been met with a grin and a handshake. But here, they told me to leave them alone. I did find one willing to rent me a trawler, but that’s as far as it went.”
“So?”
“So, some nights I hide here and wait for the boats to come back. I usually have about an hour between when the men leave the docks and the sun comes up to go down there and crawl around under the docks, collecting anything they’ve discarded.”
Blasko was impressed with the man’s determination. “Have you found any notable specimens?”
Donavan looked away. “I’ve found… bits and pieces that seem… unique.”
“Do they catch many fish?”
“An impressive amount of red snapper. They sell what they catch to Mrs. Lachlan’s brother, who runs the local store. He gives them credit and takes the fish to the mainland, where I assume he sells it.”
“Do they sell any locally?”
“The islanders won’t eat fish.”
They watched the docks in silence for a few more minutes. The moon was setting, so Blasko assumed that Donavan would be able to make his way down to the docks without being seen. He wanted to go down with him, but the risk of being caught in the sunrise was too great.
He was just about to depart when Donavan said, “You’re from Romania, right?”
“Yes.”
“Like Dracula.”
Blasko tensed, but managed to give a little chuckle. “Ah, my famous countryman. We owe Bram Stoker a nod for putting our homeland on the map.”
“Funny that you have an allergy to sunlight,” Donavan said lightly.
“I do not find my condition humorous,” Blasko said, mustering all the indignation he could, which was considerable.
“I’m sorry. I just thought it was curious. The moon has gone down. I should head for the docks.” Donavan walked away with his hands in his pockets, looking only a little embarrassed.
Blasko turned toward the hotel. He was beginning to feel a gnawing craving for fresh blood. For the journey, they had packed on ice several bottles of the blood that Josephine ordered from a medical supply company. It was stale and never gave him the restorative energy of fresh blood, but Josephine was so squeamish about him hunting his own that he tried to stick to the legally acquired blood she provided. He had tried repeatedly to convince her that he did no harm when he hunted. After all, he was able to take enough for himself and leave the donor unconscious, but alive. Besides, I only pick people who deserve to have the lives sucked out of them, he thought to himself, knowing that wasn’t the sort of argument that Josephine would appreciate.
Mrs. Lachlan had made a point of telling them that she locked the hotel at midnight, so he made his way around to the spot where he’d jumped down and deftly climbed up the palm tree. Once on the balcony, he brushed off his clothes and started to walk around to his room. However, he heard voices as he passed a window and moved closer to the wall, being careful not to make any noise.
“Why are they here? That’s what we need to find out,” said a voice that Blasko recognized as Neith’s.
“You had to come to my room at five in the morning to tell me something I’d already figured out?” Captain Hume retorted.
“I have been thinking about it all night. Be grateful that I waited until morning.”
“This is only morning if you were raised on a farm. For the rest of us, it’s still the middle of the night.”
“I don’t like them showing up like this.”
“I don’t like it either. I played cards with the woman and she was definitely fishing for information.”
“Who’s going to look into this?”
“Zhao maybe. He’s the great researcher.”
“I’m going to keep an eye on them.”
“We all need to do that. There’s too much at stake. Now, get out of my room and let me go back to sleep.”
“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough. We already have the man in the cabin by the cemetery to worry about.”
“Rehashing it isn’t going to solve anything now. Go on, get out.”
Blasko walked quickly back to his room. Once inside, he heard Anton’s loud snoring. The man had made himself invaluable, but his personal habits and refusal to leave Blasko’s side often grated on the baron’s nerves.
“Anton, get up. I must prepare for the morning.” Blasko tapped Anton’s shoe.
“Yes, Baron.”
Anton was on his feet almost before he was awake. He fussed around the baron, taking his coat and helping him settle in to sleep with his broadsword on his right side and a 1911 Colt .45 tucked into a holster built into the left side of the coffin. Blasko had recently been caught unawares while he slept and he wasn’t going to allow that to happen again. In addition to his weapons, the coffin also had interior locks that he slipped into place after Anton closed the lid. Before drifting off, he thought about the strange conversation he’d overheard and wondered again about the odd group of tourists.
Chapter Eight
“See if you can talk to some folks today, find out what you can about the town,” Josephine suggested to Grace the next morning.
“That’s not goin’ to be so easy. I’m the only black person on this island,” Grace said doubtfully.
“Is this a sunset town?” There were still many communities throughout the South where black people weren’t welcome after sunset.
“No, ma’am. I don’t get that at all. Seems there were some livin’ here years ago, but they all just moved.”
“Was it a lack of jobs?”
“I’ll ask around.” Josephine knew that Grace actually enjoyed having a reason to snoop and gossip.
“I’m going to get a little breakfast, then head to the post office to see if Uncle Petey’s letter is still there.”
“You want me or Anton to come with you?”
“I’ll be fine. The postmaster might speak more freely if I’m alone. Besides, Anton should stay with Dragomir during the day.”
“What can I fetch for you while I’m out?”
“I don’t need anything, thank you.”
“Miss Josephine, you have to need somethin’. If you want me to walk around town askin’ questions, I got to have a reason for bein’ out and about.”
“Good point.” Josephine took a minute to think. “We’re on the water so I’ll need a scarf, maybe two.” She reached into her purse and took out a ten-dollar bill.
“That’s goin’ to be a nice scarf,” Grace said, looking at the money.
“Get yourself whatever you want with what’s left.”
With her clothes and hair in order, Josephine made her way downstairs to the dining room. Neith was seated at the main table, drinking tea and writing in a small journal. She looked up as Josephine walked in.
“Mrs. Lachlan will be back momentarily,” she said.
“Some tea and toast will be a good start,” Josephine said, going to the sideboard.
With a plate and cup in hand, Josephine sat at the table close enough to see what Neith was writing, but one glance told her it was a wasted effort. The script was in Arabic.
“Are you excavating the mound today?”
Neith gave her a look of annoyance. “We have made several preliminary excavations. I am currently drawing up plans for a large dig next month when I will have several undergraduates to assist me.” She turned back to her writing without making further eye contact with Josephine.
“I’d love to see the mound.” Josephine was determined to ignore Neith’s attempts to ignore her.
“Perhaps.”
“We don’t have much of a
n agenda for the next couple of weeks.”
Neith sighed. “I will be very busy.”
Josephine gave up and let Neith concentrate on her work while Mrs. Lachlan served a breakfast of eggs, bacon and grits.
Once Josephine was finished, she headed out to the post office. It was located in a small brick building a block away from the hotel. It was separated from the dry goods store next door by a short alley that was barely as wide as a man’s shoulders. Josephine looked down the alley as she walked past and saw an orange tabby saunter into a doorway.
A bell above the door rang loudly as Josephine entered the tiny lobby of the post office. An older woman in a faded print dress with a drooping bow in her hair came out of the back.
“May I help you?”
“I hope so. My name is Josephine Nicolson. This is going to sound—”
“Who did you say you were?” The woman looked like she had seen a ghost.
“Josephine Nicolson.”
“Where… um… are you from?” the woman stuttered.
“Sumter, Alabama.”
“After all these years!” The woman glanced at the side window. “Oh my, come on back here.” The woman lifted a section of the counter and motioned Josephine into the back room.
“You know who I am?” Josephine asked. Of all the reactions she had expected, this was not one of them.
“You’re Pete’s niece.”
“You knew my uncle?”
“We were… friends,” the woman said, blushing, then shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten my manners. I’m Mitzi Alexander. This is just so overwhelming.”
“I found a letter my uncle wrote before leaving home. It said he would leave another letter here.”
“He did. I’ve guarded it all these years.” As Mitzi spoke, she kept looking around as though she thought someone might be listening. The room had several windows that were open to catch what little breeze there was. Mitzi quickly shut all of them. “I hid it,” she said, coming back to Josephine.
“Were you worried someone would steal it?”