by Tom Poland
“When did you see her?”
“Well, hell, that first day y’all were here, I watched you from the dunes. She pissed you off right away, sneaking off at dawn. Well, I knew soon as I saw her who she was. I went to Conjura and told Lorie. She asked me to put the amulet there to protect her mother.”
“From what?”
“You, for one. The island itself for another.”
“I’m no threat to her.”
“How could she know that? She asked me to protect her mom, so I delivered this amulet airmail. My osprey, she’s pretty damn special. She can hover in one spot like a helicopter and do most anything I command.”
Oleander and I loaded Voodoo into his cart.
“We’ve got to bury the dog.”
“Let me have him,” said Rikard.
“For what?”
“My gators.”
“I can’t have you going back and letting Tyler see her pet like this.”
“You’re just wasting him then,” Rikard said.
“Maybe so, but he deserves a resting place. His time on earth wasn’t good at all. Watch camp, we’ll be back—”
Rikard cut me off.
“Listen.”
Wind and surf was all I heard. Then, far away, the wind seemed to bring a reverberating, beating, acoustic noise. It fell away then came back in bursts. The sound shifted, fell away, then returned with vengeance, pounding our chest bones. Then we saw it. A chopper skimming the sea, a black, menacing dragonfly of destruction. It came in fast and straight, zooming into the sun and then out to sea, its noise dropping in great Doppler-like degrees. Swinging around to make another pass at us, I could make out its silhouette. It was military, a Sikorsky Blackhawk. The chopper descended from the sun itself onto the powdery beach, throwing up a vortex of dust.
For me, choppers were harbingers of bad news. A hazy godlike figure leapt from the door, materializing before our eyes. Rikard reached into his shirt.
From the swirling maelstrom, came a mirage, a man carrying an assault weapon, an apocalyptic figure, heading straight for us.
INSANITY’S EDGE
Oleander stood beside me, the chopper’s wind pressing his gown against his frame, revealing his breastbone and ribs. With the small shovel upon his shoulder, he looked like a prisoner of war about to dig his own grave. Rikard reached into his shirt and handed me a Glock 29.
“Here’s your chance to kill a man,” said Rikard. “Shoot that bastard while he’s blinded by all that dust.”
I took the gun, and Rikard shielded his eyes from the dust boiling around us to see better.
“Shoot him in the head and chest and then head for the dunes. That chopper will rise up and try to cut us down like weeds.”
Using both hands, I aimed the Glock at the dust-obscured shape. I felt the trigger, tense and ready to snap but hesitated. “Shoot him,” Rikard yelled, but I couldn’t. Then, slowly, stealing forth like an apparition, he emerged. Stepping out of the maelstrom into clear air, he saw the Glock aimed dead at him.
“Don’t shoot!”
It was Cameron, and the assault weapon was nothing more than a heavy black tripod.
I dropped the Glock and Rikard shot me a knowing wink.
“Cameron, am I glad to see you,” I said. “Sapelo is everything you said it would be and more.”
“Mullet Man, it’s you,” said Cameron
“That it is. Mullet Man himself,” Rikard said shaking Cameron’s hand.
“Who looted camp?” Cameron asked, looking to the dunes over my shoulder. “And the poor dog, who—”
“Don’ know. We were going in when you landed,” I said, then introduced Oleander, who bowed.
“I see you have a woman camping with you,” said Cameron. “I saw her things scattered all over your camp. What did you do? Pick up a hitchhiker?”
“Kind of.”
The pilot revved his engines. Cameron turned to the chopper. “Hold on. These guys didn’t want to come here at all.”
Cameron jogged over to the chopper where men in olive fatigues were unloading camera cases and duffel bags. A man in charge with shiny insignia got right in Cameron’s face, talking over the engine noise. The chopper’s lights began to flicker as the man with flashing insignia climbed into the craft. The Blackhawk lifted off, turning toward the mainland and was soon gone from sight, trailed by ghostly harmonics that shook the air less and less until the silence was deafening.
“It’s a good thing the chopper boys owed me a favor or I wouldn’t be here,” Cameron said. “They’re from the 117th Air Control Squadron, Georgia Air National Guard, in Savannah.”
“How did the mountains go?” I asked.
“It was cool up there. I could have stayed longer but I got what I needed, some great shots of Looking Glass Falls up in Pisgah National Forest. It’s a small waterfall, but small can be good.”
“It took you long enough to get here.”
“I had no luck contacting you. Sapelo might as well be across the Atlantic.”
“Damn right. Well, you’re here now and we’ve got some work to do.”
“We came in on the south side but couldn’t find you. We worked our way up the island, spotted your camp and landed.”
“So, Rikard’s right. That’s what made those depressions over there,” I said.
“From the looks of your camp, I expected you to be dead,” said Cameron. “I tried to get Jackson to ferry me over here but no one can find him.”
“Jackson’s dead.”
“Dead. What happened?”
“He blew up with his boat right in front of me and Tyler.”
“Tyler?”
“The woman camping with me. We’ve got to get moving. I’ll tell you about Jackson—and the woman—later.”
“How’d them cast nets photos turn out?” Rikard, said jumping into the mix.
“Great. Made the cover of two magazines.”
“Two magazines? Well, well, well, I’m a damn celebrity.”
“That’s right,” said Cameron. “You’re a star.”
Cameron broke into his gear and there was some head-nodding going on between him and Rikard.
“Okay if I take some shots of your dog,” said Cameron.
“No … what difference could it make?”
“We saw a hospital ship off the north end,” said Cameron. “What’s with that?”
“It’s here to give the villagers medical treatment,” I said.
While Cameron photographed the dog, Oleander and I restored order to camp. When Cameron was done, Oleander got his cart, and we rolled Voodoo south of Jackson’s grave to bury him.
***
I like Oleander more and more. He had been good to Tyler and me. He had brought us food and had stopped by to visit a few times just for the hell of it. He seemed lonely as a man who has lost a family is lonely, the worst loneliness there is.
We took turns digging a spot for Old Voodoo, the fierce wolf-like dog.
“I was on my way to gather oysters at the south end, but I came also to tell you something. The professor, Mal, is in the village. Garret sent him there with the doctor. The boys tell me Mal is chained to a post. Everyone laughs at his strange talk.”
“Oleander, can the boys escort us into the village? If you get them to meet us, I will bring Mal back to camp. Will the boys do that?”
“Could I get the boys to do that? They might, especially now—forgive me—especially now that the fierce dog is dead. I will assure them I buried it.”
“Can we meet tomorrow at the spit where I saw the boys crabbing?”
“Where the boys were crabbing? Yes. We will meet you there when the sun is at its highest. Well, your dog is at rest now,” Oleander said, patting sand firm across the ridge-shaped grave. “Now I must leave,” and with that Oleander left for the south end to harvest oysters.
Soon I would have enough information to complete my voodoo assignment. Cameron could photograph Rikard conjuring. I would hold off on the mone
y until I was certain I wouldn’t have to worry about someone killing me over it. As for the professor, I didn’t give a damn if he returned to Atlanta with me, especially if he were crazy.
The new mission—documenting the poachers’ deadly trade—that’s what counted. Here was a story with the potential to change my life. Buoyed by the possibilities, I arrived at camp to find Cameron and Rikard brewing coffee on my propane stove, cups lined up waiting.
“You fellows must need a boost,” I said.
Cameron had an amber bottle of Irish whiskey pouring it into each cup.
“I brought the whiskey to make a toast.”
Cameron poured the coffee into the cups and swirled them one by one. I took a mug, sweetly aromatic, and would very much have liked a thick topping of whipped cream.
“Get them up,” said Cameron. We clinked mugs.
“To Slater Watts, voodoo writer, island explorer, and Brit Watts who’s awake at last.”
“What?”
“Brit’s awake Mary told me herself.”
“When did this happen?”
“About twelve days ago. While I was up in the mountains, Mary called your art director, Pauline, who left a message at my studio. I picked her voicemail up and called Mary. She said she needed to talk to you, that your daughter had come out of her coma. I called Tatum’s Shell Station to tell Jackson to find you, to get a message to you. Now I know why I didn’t hear from you. Tatum wrote a note Jackson was to give you. Said he’d send him over to the island for you.”
“Yes, Jackson had a note in his wallet … but we couldn’t read it … the seawater ruined it. How is Brit?”
“She’s got a ways to go, won’t be released any time soon. They’ve got tests to run. Mary said it’s a miracle. Said her first words were ‘Where am I?’ ”
“Does she know about her mother?”
“Apparently not. They’re waiting for you to tell her.”
“No one but me should tell her. What a day. You descend from the sky like a prophet with the very words I’ve wanted to hear for years.”
“I thought you’d shoot me before I could say a word.”
Rikard came over.
“Wish I could take the credit but I can’t. Now we know why my conjuring didn’t take. Bon Dieu knows his stuff for sure.”
“That’s” right, I said. “You said she was awake or dead. Now we know.”
We had another Irish coffee. I had never felt such elation and I knew the time to wrap up my mission had arrived. Suddenly, going back to Atlanta consumed me. Just a little more time and I’d be out of here.
We double-checked camp for missing items, and everything seemed okay. I could only hope the money was safe, though in the greater scheme of things it mattered little. Cameron spotted the cell phone lying near Tyler’s tent, and seconds later I heard a beep. He had turned it on. “There’s no signal here,” he said. “Too bad.”
“Leave that damn phone alone,” I said. He looked at me like I was crazy, then tossed it into Tyler’s tent.
I thought it best to abandon camp for now. It made sense to return to Conjura for the night.
“Well, damn. I might as well be running a Holiday Inn,” said Rikard. “So all right, I’ll take you and old Camera Man in. You got to shoot me doing a hex anyway, and I’m gonna throw one hell of a hex on Garrett. I just need to steal his shadow.”
“Steal his shadow?” I asked.
“That’s the first step,” said Rikard, drawing a finger across his throat.
***
We loaded the bateau and left for Conjura, riding heavy in the water from Cameron and his gear. The engine noise made talking difficult, which was fine. I was content to think about Brit and the best and safest way, if there were one, to catch the poachers in action.
We cruised through inlets, over arms of water, and across bay-like expanses where everything was picturesque, and Cameron began to snap off a shot now and then. Blue runs edged in greenery shot by us, as Rikard stood over the wheel, a captain on his bridge, negotiating the creeks.
With no blindfolds—the fabled priest of Forbidden Island was softening—we made our way to the lodge where Rikard forbade Cameron from taking photos. We ascended into the great treehouse where I introduced Cameron to Tyler and Lorie, who was immediately taken with them. He told Tyler he’d take portraits of Lorie, Ogden, and her.
I picked Tyler off the floor and swung her in a circle.
“Brit’s back. She’s awake.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. Everything is turning out like I hoped it would.”
We went back into our bedroom to talk while Cameron studied Lorie’s pelican, Ogden.
“Have you told Cameron about the poaching?”
“No. Not around Rikard. I need to talk to him alone. Sit here with me, I need to tell you something.”
Tyler sat on the bed, eyes questioning.
“Well, Brit is wonderful news, but I have some bad news too. When we got to camp this morning, someone had ransacked our tents. Everything had been opened up and emptied. It’s a good thing we were here. I hate to think what might have happened if they’d caught us asleep. Someone must know about the money. How they know I can’t imagine, but someone knows.”
“What about Voodoo? Is he all right?”
“That’s what I have to tell you. He’s not—”
“Where is he?”
“He’s not with us anymore. Someone killed him. Oleander and I buried him down below Jackson.”
Tyler drew back from me as if she were trying to withdraw into herself.
“Why would someone hurt him? He had a hard life. They could have spared him. He was just a sad old dog.” Crying softly, she looked back at me with reddening eyes. “I’ll go to his grave tomorrow and place a wreath on it.”
“I’ll take you,” I said, holding her close.
“So sweet Oleander was there,” she said, tears upon her cheeks.
“He was going to gather oysters and dropped by. Every time I’m around Oleander I like him more and more. He seems too civil for this place. Tomorrow he’s getting some boys to escort Cameron and me into the village. Mal’s there. At least that’s what Oleander said.”
“The professor is in the village? Why didn’t the villagers kill him?”
“Oleander says they will for certain.”
“Do you even care?”
“In a way, I suppose. We’re going in to get Mal. I’ve got to figure out what to do with the professor and his money. Once I do that and once we photograph Rikard casting a spell, the only thing left is documenting the poachers’ deadly trade. But you know how Rikard feels about that. He may change his mind. Maybe. If Cameron and I can convince Rikard to let us document the poachers, I’ll be here a while. If not, I’m heading home as soon as we wrap up the voodoo article. My girl’s waiting for me.”
Tyler composed herself, and we went out to face a world one dog poorer.
Cameron, sitting at the bamboo table, as always, was working over a camera, placing a long telephoto lens on a Nikon.
“Where’s Rikard?”
“Gone into the creeks to shrimp.”
“Let’s go outside,” I said. Cameron and I went into the heavy afternoon. I told him everything about the poachers. Everything.
“Brit hasn’t talked to me in five years. If we can’t get the poachers on film reasonably soon, I’m heading to Atlanta.”
“Suppose we can’t do the poaching story now,” said Cameron. “Would you want to come back? Not many stories like this come along.”
“I can say ‘yes’ now but once I get to Atlanta, city life will get its claws in me and time will slip away. Then one day, I might wake up and it won’t matter. I don’t want this to be just another thing I regret in an offhand way.”
The rainbow seeker drifted from me. He was off somewhere, lost. Far away. He stayed there in his deliberate world where impulse had no place. He had gone far, stayed there, made some determination, then set forth coming back to me.
A sigh escaped.
“I never had children but I was one. We were children once years ago ... Let’s say we don’t do the story,” his voice heavy, “what do you think it will be like to be a child of Sapelo? To grow up knowing you have a number on your shoulder and that some day, your number will be up. What do you think that must feel like?
“Suppose we do the story,” he continued, his voice firm, “just what do we do with this story once we’re back on the mainland?”
“The country’s top papers, The New York Times, The LA Times, The Washington Post, USA Today, would run it,” I said. “Newsweek and Time would run it. The networks, Fox, CNN, and the rest would jump all over it.”
“And then what?”
“A groundswell of public opinion would build, and sooner or later publicity would force intervention. I suppose the United States would step in and settle things. Who knows? The federal government might rescind its agreement to let Sapelo exist as it does. The poaching would stop though. That’s for sure.”
“So, we could do something big that’s right, something good.”
“Yes, right. All right, we’ll do the story now, but soon and I mean soon, I’m going to Atlanta. It’ll be good to see Mary too.”
“Mary, yes, you need to see her,” said Cameron. “You really need to see her.”
***
Rikard returned with gleaming brown shrimp, and we all pitched in picking vegetables from the sun-starved garden. Despite the garden’s woes, it amazed me how elegant a dinner Rikard’s remote outpost could produce.
Swamp shadows lengthened and all that greenery surrendered to blackness even as the outlying land lay bright beneath the sun. Kerosene lamps flickered and the bubbling fragrance of seasoned shrimp spread through the lodge. The evening promised happiness. Tyler had Lorie. Brit was awake. Rikard would put a killing hex not just on Garrett I hoped, but all the men who killed Cade, and Cameron would work on Rikard to soften his anti-poaching story stance.
Before dinner, Tyler said a prayer for Voodoo. We would miss him, but we had new things to make us happy and we had made his last days on Earth better than they would have been. The wine poured, and talk ranged from babies to voodoo to Cascade, the new bottled water. That people would buy water amazed Rikard. “That proves it. City folks are crazier than Hell.”