She couldn’t line up a shot, not in that pitching boat, and not at that range. “Stay down and hang on!” David yelled.
“I’m not a kid!” she wanted to say, but realistically she could do nothing to help. She felt David change the boat’s course, swinging it back and forth in irregular arcs, trying to be as difficult a target as possible. Then they hit a wave awkwardly and the Grady-White shuddered and faltered, wrestling with the sea. A wave broke over them, drenching them, and a sudden fear gripped Kit. Would they, too, end up as bodies on the beach?
4
KIT FELT THE BOAT’S HESITATION AS A LARGE WAVE KNOCKED IT SIDEWAYS. David adjusted its course and the boat began to make headway again. Four more shots rang out in a staccato burst, and Kit heard David cry out. She looked one more time at the pursuing boat, and then her heart jumped. “He’s leaving! He’s leaving!” she said.
David turned, saw the same thing, and straightened their course, heading directly for the Chincoteague Channel. Another large wave broke over their stern and doused them, one last parry from the sea. Kit glanced over her shoulder twice more. The pursuers were definitely giving up. She moved up into the seat next to David. “Are you all right?” she asked, but he didn’t respond.
The lighted buoy marking the entrance to the channel appeared. As David swung north, cutting below the tip of Assateague, Kit got out the chart and flashlight and started guiding David through the marker buoys. Once they were well in the channel, David switched on their running lights again. That’s when Kit saw the blood.
David stood over the sink in the Main Street house, his hand gripped in a tight fist, blood dripping from a cut on his arm.
The bullet—Kit presumed it was a bullet—had scored his arm and dug a little deeper into the flesh just behind his wrist.
“I think we should go to a hospital,” she said.
“No.”
“This is a gunshot wound.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It has to be reported.”
“No way.”
Kit stared at his face, trying to read it. “David …”
“There must be some sharp metal on the boat. A burr or something. I just ran into it, that’s all.”
Yeah, right. Kit didn’t buy it. “It could be cut to the bone.”
He didn’t respond.
“Does it hurt?”
“I just need to wash it.”
But his hands were shaking and he seemed frozen, staring at the blood, so Kit took over. She found a minimal first-aid kit and a washcloth in the bathroom, soaped up the cloth, and gently washed the cut. Then she made David sit down on a kitchen chair, and she laid a bead of Neosporin along the entire wound. She used butterfly bandages on the deepest portion to bring the edges closer together, and then covered those with large adhesive bandages. While she worked, she was aware of the feel of his skin, the sound of his breathing, and the smell of Irish Spring soap. At one point he leaned forward to see what she was doing, and his cheek brushed her cheek, and she felt the faint bit of stubble on his face, and she remembered what it was like when she was married, to have that intimacy with a man.
When she finished, he said, “I am really sorry. I never should have taken you out there. I put you at risk.”
Kit rolled her eyes. “I’m an FBI agent. I’m supposed to chase criminals. What do you think I do for the Bureau? Knit bulletproof vests?”
That drew the hint of smile.
“And anyway, this is my case, remember? You think I’m going to solve it sitting in an office?” She threw the paper trash away and began rinsing the washcloth out in the sink. David got up. He seemed to catch his balance on the kitchen chair; then he walked into the living room.
Kit plunged her hands under the faucet stream. It was the very sink in which she’d washed dishes when her grandmother lived there. It was so odd, being in this house—so familiar, but different. Same squeaks in the floor, same old hot water heater, same sink … but different paint and furniture and carpeting and curtains—and people.
When she finished, she dried her hands and walked into the living room. He sat on the blue couch, his arms resting on his knees, his eyes riveted to a spot on the floor.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He startled. “Sure. Yeah.” He sat up straight.
But Kit saw something in his eyes. Her heart twisted. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“You’ve just been shot for the second time, in how long?”
He looked at her sharply. “I wasn’t shot!”
“Maybe not tonight. But I saw the scar on your shoulder. It looks fresh.” She saw him take a deep breath. “How did it happen?”
He looked down.
“David?”
The air seemed heavy around them. Finally, the story began to trickle out. “My partner and I were coming back from our sixth homicide in five days in northeast D.C.” David’s voice sounded low, distant. “We hear the dispatcher put out the call for a pedestrian down, hit-and-run, white Chevy Tahoe. Suddenly, my partner, Russ, sees the Tahoe up ahead. I’m thinking, we should just call it in. But I’m frustrated and I want some action, so instead, I flip up the blue light and chase him. Russ is yelling ‘Go! Go!’ We follow the guy into an alley. We don’t know the other end is blocked by a delivery truck. So now the suspect is trapped. He bails, and I can see he’s young, maybe sixteen, if that. Just a punk kid. Russ and I jump out, yell at him to put his hands up, and the kid … the kid draws on us.”
Kit stayed quiet but her heart pounded.
“Our guns are out, too. So we shout, ‘Put the gun down! Put it down!’ But he doesn’t. I can still see him standing there, his hand shaking so hard. Then somebody fires and all hell breaks loose. The sound in that alley is incredible. His gun, our guns … I get tunnel vision: all I can see is the kid. Everything seems like slow motion … as though I can almost catch the bullets coming toward me. My gun is roaring in my ears. Then I feel a white heat rip through my shoulder and I realize I can’t pull the trigger anymore. So, I switch to my right hand and fire again. It went on for what seemed like a long time. In reality, it’s like seventeen seconds. And in the end, the kid is dead, and I am standing there with blood running off my arm.”
Just like tonight, Kit thought. Her heart thumped. “And Russ?”
“He’s fine.”
“How long ago did this happen?”
“March.” David sighed.
“Sounds like it wasn’t your fault.”
“I should have let the uniforms handle it. If I had, the kid would be alive. He was young, that’s all, young and scared.”
“He’d just committed a hit-and-run!”
“He was an A-student, headed for college. Some dudes had been bullying him; that’s why he was carrying a gun. He’d never been in trouble before. Didn’t have a record. He was scared and he overreacted. And we killed him,” David snapped his fingers, “just like that.”
Kit knew that typically after a police shooting the department takes the officer’s gun, puts him on administrative leave, and tells him not to talk about the incident. Those actions convey a presumption of guilt, which, more often than not, imprints itself on the officer’s conscience. Even a later finding that the shooting was justified sometimes can’t erase those feelings. “Did you go through an inquiry board?”
“Sure.”
“And?”
He shook his head. “We were cleared.”
“How’s Russ dealing with it?”
David shrugged. “He doesn’t seem to have a problem with it.”
“He’s still on the force?”
“Yeah.”
“When’s the last time you spoke with him?”
“I tried calling him a week or so ago. Couldn’t get him. Somebody told me he and his wife have been arguing. I think she may have kicked him out.”
Kit bit her lip. Didn’t David see the connection? “What have you done to try to let go of this
? Counseling?” she asked.
“I did the mandatory counseling. It didn’t help. So I figured I’d quit. My boss suggested I take a break. Somebody told me about Chincoteague. It seemed like a good idea.” He rubbed his hand on his leg. “I don’t know why this one bothered me so much. I mean, I’ve seen a lot of death.”
“But you’d never shot anyone?”
“Not a kid.” David’s eyes seemed focused far off. “You don’t treat kids like that.”
Kit didn’t sleep that night. She kept feeling the ocean tossing them, kept hearing the gunfire, kept seeing the blood dripping from David’s arm, kept rolling David’s words over and over in her mind. You don’t treat kids like that. He sounded so … lost.
As the clock crawled past five, she sat up in bed. At one time, she would have had half a dozen verses to encourage a person in David’s situation. Verses like, “I know the plans I have in mind for you, declares the LORD; they are plans for peace, not disaster, to give you a future filled with hope.” And “Trust in the LORD with all your heart; don’t rely on your own intelligence.”
But somehow those verses were now caught in her throat, tangled in the tight web of her emotions surrounding her divorce. They seemed like platitudes, not promises—wishful thinking, not the word of God.
Moved by her uncomfortable thoughts, Kit slipped through the darkened house and stepped out on the deck. The fingers of dawn were spreading over the marsh, summoning the day. Shafts of pink and blue light emerged from the east. Across the Assateague Channel, the lighthouse still blinked its ancient warning: shoals ahead. A heron took off from the shallows just twenty-five feet from her, his huge wings beating a slow rhythm as he skimmed just above the water. Off in the distance, someone started an outboard motor.
Her thoughts skipped like a stone across the water. It had been easy to cast herself as the victim in the divorce, to place the blame on Eric. Just about everyone who knew them sympathized with her, everyone, that is, except his new friends in the world of academic law. But what had she contributed to the divorce? What was wrong with her?
Forgiveness eluded her. She hadn’t let go. She couldn’t let go. Eric had rejected her.
And so, apparently, had God. The God she thought she knew, anyway.
At 8:00 a.m. sharp, Kit pulled into the parking lot at the Coast Guard Station, entered the building, and asked to speak to Rick Sellers.
“Why didn’t you tell me about IOOS?” she said, piercing him with her eyes.
“IOOS? Oh, gosh, well … I guess … I totally didn’t connect it with your case.”
“It provided just the information I needed.”
“You know, we don’t use IOOS much ourselves.”
She frowned to convey to him that his excuses were gaining no traction. She told him about the gunfire on the ocean.
His brow wrinkled with concern. “That’s incredible!” He ran his hand through his hair. “Do you think this has anything to do with the kid you found?”
“I don’t know. But the boat was traveling near where he was probably dumped overboard.”
“And who were you with?”
“David O’Connor.” She explained who he was, leaving out the part about his wound.
Rick nodded. “Look, I’ll file a report …”
“With whom?”
“The commander. Tonight we’ll send a boat out there to see what’s going on. What time did you say this happened?”
“Between 11 and midnight,” Kit said.
“I’m on it.” He stepped behind his desk as if action was imminent. “And I’m sorry, Kit, about IOOS. It honestly skipped my mind.”
It “skipped his mind” or he “didn’t think it would relate” to her case?
Brenda Ramsfeld called Kit’s cell phone as Kit drove away from the Coast Guard station. “Hey, I’m referring these reporters to you.”
“What are you talking about?” Kit gripped her phone and almost missed her turn.
“They’re coming around here, asking questions about that dead kid. Wasting a lot of my time. So I told them it was your case, check with you.”
“Did you give them my number?” Kit’s face felt hot.
“No. I told them you had rented a place on the island. That’s all I said.”
“Don’t give them my information!”
Kit hung up and called Connie. “For crying out loud, don’t tell them anything,” Kit said.
“Oh, don’t worry, honey. I got your back. I already sent one packing. Told ’em our rental information was confidential. Like medical records.”
That brought Kit’s heart rate down a notch. Then another thought occurred to her. “Connie, is Bob around? Do you think he’d help me with something?” Her best lead so far was the plant material—the acorns and tomato seeds—found in the victim’s clothing. She already knew that plants, like animals, had DNA specific to each individual, and that plant DNA had been used in a few cases to link a suspect to a crime. But the FBI lab didn’t do DNA testing on plant material. It had to be sent to a contract forensic botanist at the University of North Carolina at Wilmington.
In the meantime, Kit could pursue general knowledge of agriculture on the Delmarva Peninsula—a subject Connie’s husband knew as well as anyone.
“You gonna take him off my hands? Well, honey, have at it,” Connie joked. “Can’t never tell where he is on his days off. Here’s his cell number.”
Kit pulled over into a deserted parking lot. The fact that the child was a Latino with a load of tomato seeds in his gut pointed to the possibility, at least, that he was the child of migrant workers employed on one of the vast tomato farms on the Delmarva Peninsula. And that determined her next step—find out as much as she could about tomato growing in the area.
That’s where Bob came in.
5
A TRUCKER, CONNIE’S HUSBAND BOB RAN DRY GOODS UP FROM NORFOLK, four days on, three days off. Unlike Connie, he didn’t come from Chincoteague—he’d grown up in Salisbury, Maryland, about fifty miles north, which is why Connie went by her maiden name. “If you’re a Jester, on Chincoteague you are somebody,” she had explained. “Ain’t no man can come up to that.”
Kit dialed his number. “Bob? It’s Kit McGovern.”
“Well, hey, girl! What’s my favorite Fed up to?”
“I want to know about big farm operations on the Peninsula.”
“You thinking about changing careers? Or is this about some farm boy?”
She laughed. “Can I just ask you some questions?”
“Sure.”
Kit started in, but Bob stopped her. “Whoa, honey. We need to do this in person. Where are you?”
Ten minutes later, Kit walked up to Bob and Connie’s front door. The low brick rambler house sat on Chicken City Road, sheltered by tall pines and trimmed by riotous impatiens in full bloom. “Come in, come in!” Bob said, when he opened the door. His bald head, fringed in white, framed his tanned face. He looked healthy, and considering he’d had a heart attack just a few years before, Kit thought that a blessing.
Bob showed her into the kitchen where he had already spread out a map of the Delmarva Peninsula. “Now, how kin I help you?” he asked. She explained what information she wanted. He started pointing out some relevant features. “You’ve got major poultry operations here, here, and here,” he said, making small circles on the map. “There are smaller plants, too, but those are the big ones.”
“Do they use migrant workers?”
“Not usually. Their product isn’t really seasonal. Some migrants may find work in the plants and decide to stay on.”
“What other big agricultural operations are on the peninsula?”
“A whole lot. You’ve got major growers here, here, here, and here,” he said, drawing triangles this time. “There’re a lot of truck farms, too … low-acreage operations where they grow melons, tomatoes, squash …”
“Tomatoes?”
“They get shipped to the big east coast markets—New York
, Philly, D.C.—really all over. Now they would use ag workers. From July on, especially. So do the melon farmers. Virginia’s the fourth largest tomato grower in the U.S. Lots of acres planted in tomatoes.”
“Where do the field workers come from?”
“South of the border.”
“And where do they live when they’re here?”
“There aren’t many farms that have housing for them anymore. You used to see that, you know … those little white houses, almost shacks, around the edge of a farm. Nowadays, most of them are housed in those little strip motels all up and down the peninsula. The ag concerns don’t want to be responsible for their immigration status, so they contract with a foreman. He supplies the actual workers. If there’s an immigration enforcement problem, it’s on him.” He stood up straight. “Hey, look. What’s your schedule? I don’t have to be at work until tomorrow afternoon. Why don’t I just show you?”
Kit climbed into Bob’s old red Chevy pickup and they left Chincoteague, traversing the causeway to the mainland. Bob turned right on Rt. 13 and headed north. “I’m guessin’ you’re interested in illegals,” Bob proffered.
“I’m interested in tomato growing,” Kit responded. “Growing, harvesting, shipping … the whole routine.”
Bob glanced at her. “Got some criminal tomatoes around, huh?” He laughed at his own joke. “I heard of ‘cereal killers’ but nothing ’bout criminal ’maters.”
Kit rolled her eyes.
“All right, then. Some of the big growers have been turning to corn to supply the poultry houses. And ethanol, of course. That’s the biggest dang boondoggle ever … ethanol. Why don’t we just shoot ourselves in the foot? Puttin’ food in the gas tank. How dumb is that?” He turned off onto a side road. “But this is the right time of year for ’maters. You came at peak pickin’ time.” He accelerated, and Kit noticed in the outside rearview mirror that a cloud of blue smoke had emerged from his exhaust. “Y’know,” Bob continued, “a few years ago we had that dang salmonella scare. ’Bout did farmers in. Kept the ’maters off the market for weeks. Finally found out the stuff was in peppers. Jalapeño peppers. Serrano peppers. From Mexico, no less. Go figure.”
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