by Kathy Reichs
Shelton rode in front, scanning for dolphins. I sat in back with Hi.
Bow and stern, I reminded myself. The boys spent hours learning nautical terms. Future pirates? News reports say they’re back in business.
Now and then the bow rose, dropped with a smack. Spray washed over us, salty and cool. I loved every watery drop.
I could feel a smile spread over my face. The day was looking up.
After twenty minutes of open water, a blue-green blur took form on the horizon. I watched it grow and solidify into a landmass.
Eventually we drew close, slowed, and pulled alongside a sugar-white beach.
The sand stretched ten feet back from the water. Beyond it, high-canopied trees and a dense understory shrouded any view of the island’s interior. Waves lapped the shore. Frogs and insects performed an afternoon symphony of whines and hums. Now and then a branch rustled and an animal barked overhead.
There wasn’t a man-made thing in sight.
Ben throttled down. The boat bobbed gently as we cruised by, observing the landscape in silence.
A sense of mystery cloaked it. Something primal. Untamed. Wild.
Loggerhead Island.
CHAPTER 5
“Whoa whoa whoa! Comin’ in hot! Hit the brakes!”
Shelton recoiled as Sewee clanged into the pier. I lost my footing and smacked the deck with my butt. Hard.
The boat scraped along the wharf, screeching in protest. Tough day for the mighty vessel. Complaint box material.
Springing up, I somehow managed to snag a stray mooring line attached to the quay. We steadied, came to rest. Docking complete.
Not exactly smooth, Captain.
“No brakes on a boat.” Ben grimaced, disappointed with his seamanship. “Parking’s tricky. I’m working on it.”
“Work harder.” Hi rubbed a banged knee. “You currently suck.”
“I couldn’t do it,” I said, hoping Ben wouldn’t sulk.
He chuckled instead. “Not my best effort, but the ship’s okay.” A strong backslap. “Come on, Hiram. No harm, no foul.”
Hi conspicuously pointed kneeward.
Ben shrugged. “No blood, no foul?”
“Sure. But now my back hurts, so you still lose.”
Shelton popped onto the dock and secured the lines. A few loops and tugs, and we were moored. Practically valet.
“Done.”
“Let’s hustle, people! Go time!” Hi, looking green, climbed over the side and wobbled down the landing. “I have something ‘natural’ to do in those woods.”
Seasickness. Look out.
I disembarked and followed with the others.
Loggerhead Island is a speck compared to Morris, only half a square mile. No residents. No roads. No Starbucks. Just a few buildings clustered together on the southern end. Don’t be fooled though, it’s a serious place. High tech. Top-of-the-line labs, state-of-the-art equipment, twenty-four hour security. Small, but expensive.
The Loggerhead Island Research Institute. LIRI. But Loggerhead works just fine solo.
The island got its name from the sea turtles that nest on its eastern shore. Pirates were the first European inhabitants. Seeing it as a great spot to dodge colonial authorities, Blackbeard and his pals holed up and stored “inventory” between attacks on merchant ships. Or on other pirates. Or maybe they partied with other pirates. I’m not really sure.
Anyway, that phase didn’t last long. Eventually, the Brits rousted the pirates and some Lord Powderedwig built a cotton plantation. Slaves did the work, of course. Jerk. But one day they got him. Big lesson. If you’re a jackass who buys other people, don’t set up shop hours from help. Should your slaves object to the arrangement, you’re fish bait.
The military took Loggerhead next. Bases, guns, et cetera. After that, the island lay empty for several decades. In the seventies title was given to CU, and the university filled it with primates.
No kidding. Most of Loggerhead is now a monkey colony. Free-ranging rhesus monkeys. Hundreds of them, literally running wild in the trees and on the ground. It’s not like they can escape. Too far to swim elsewhere.
True, the research compound is fenced, but that’s to keep primates out, not in. The chain-link is only partly effective. Smart little buggers, they sneak through constantly. Like pocket ninjas.
The island truly is an amazing place. Wander into a simian clash and the sound is unbelievably loud. I mean, who wouldn’t want to hang out in a giant monkey cage once in a while?
To be clear, the institute does not conduct product testing or anything like that. The research is purely veterinary medicine or observational work, like behavioral studies. Otherwise, I wouldn’t go there. Or let Kit work there.
Pretty awesome, huh? There are only a few other places like this on the continent. Scientists come from everywhere. You need beaucoup shots and major clearance to get access.
Well, most people do. We just crash the party.
I stepped from the dock onto a narrow beach flanked by high, rocky promontories. Seagulls fluttered from our path, squawking in annoyance. I scanned my surroundings.
Loggerhead is shaped like a penguin with the “head” facing northwest. The penguin’s middle bulges slightly, making him appear well fed. The docks are located on the southern end, extending from the imaginary avian butt. From where I stood, features composing the penguin’s feet limited my view.
To the right, a conical peak sprouted from the island’s southeastern corner. Tern Point. To the left, a tree-choked plateau rose sharply to twenty-foot cliffs overlooking the sea. The small bay by which we’d entered lay cupped between the point and the plateau, its beach and dock completely shielded from rough seas.
No wonder pirates loved the place. Seclusion. A good place to stash a ship in a pinch. Yo ho ho!
The island’s northern end is marshland that peters out into a short tidal flat. You can’t walk the last hundred yards, too marshy-mushy. Not that you’d want to. Gator country. Snap, snap.
Though Loggerhead’s top and bottom are inhospitable, its sides are beautiful. Nothing but white sand. The long, narrow western stretch is named Chile Beach because of its shape, but old-timers call it Dead Cat. Hear the surf whining across the sandbars, just once, you’ll understand. The real prize lies on the eastern shore: Turtle Beach. Shorter and wider, it’s paradise. Best in the world.
That covers the perimeter. The island’s interior is all closely packed forest crisscrossed by creeks. Plus monkeys.
From the dock where we came ashore, a trail climbs northeast, up and over a steep rise that hides the LIRI buildings from sight. Hi was halfway along it.
“He’s useless on boats,” Ben said.
Agreed. Hi even got sick on the ferry.
“Let’s give him a second to . . . unwind,” I said.
“He’s looking for somewhere to puke.” Shelton was somewhat less delicate. “A man needs privacy in his weaker moments.”
No one argued with that. We’d all seen the Heaving Hi Show. Sequels always disappoint.
“You really want to find the dogs?” Shelton tugged his earlobe, a nervous tic. “They’re no joke, Tory. You got lucky last time. It was crazy.”
Half right. What I’d done was stupid. Wild canines can be unpredictable, even deadly. Especially wolfdogs. And I certainly had put myself in danger. But I don’t believe luck played a role.
Point of fact: I’ve never in my life felt threatened by a dog or wolf. For some reason, canines respond to me. It’s like we speak the same language. I can’t explain it.
The pack didn’t scare me; I was looking forward to seeing it. But I knew the others were uneasy with the idea of drawing too close.
“Shelton’s right,” Ben said. “Dog whisperer or not, you can’t take a risk like that again.” He skipped a pebble over the water. “I thought you were done. I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t been there.”
“The whole scene was unreal,” Shelton agreed.
Here’s
the story.
Some years back, a graduate student departing a research station in Montana found a half-dead female wolf cub buried in a snowdrift. Having no other option, and against all rules, he smuggled the puppy with him to his next posting—Loggerhead. Somehow he lost track of his ward. Upon completion of his project, unable to find the pup, he simply left.
Over time, the wolf pup became an unofficial pet for Loggerhead’s staff. Nicknamed Whisper, she moved like smoke, appearing silently for her meals, then disappearing into the woods.
Whisper grew and matured. Well-fed, she remained playful with people and unaggressive toward the monkeys. Though never officially sanctioned, Whisper was allowed to live where she chose and roam free on the island.
Roughly a year after Whisper’s arrival, a male German shepherd mysteriously entered the scene. No one knows how he got to Loggerhead. No matchmaker ever claimed responsibility.
Miss Whisper must have fancied the boy. The first wolfdog puppy was born a few months later. For a year the canines rolled as a trio. Then a second cub joined the family. I was first to notice the new addition, two months after my own arrival in November. I even named him.
How did we meet?
The gang and I were lounging on Turtle Beach when a splintering sound drifted from the woods. Intrigued, I snuck through the trees, expecting monkey mischief. Instead, I found the dogs circling a hole, whining and darting. A tiny cry was rising from somewhere below.
Hearing, perhaps smelling me, the pack froze. Six eyes locked on my chest.
I stopped dead, not moving a muscle.
Whisper stared in my direction, snout up and sniffing the air. She’s big, the pack leader. A full-blooded wolf. Upset. At me.
Yikes.
My sweat glands kicked into high gear.
A growl rumbled deep in Whisper’s throat. She stepped toward me, ears erect, fur bristling her spine.
A rational person would have retreated. But when it comes to dogs, I’m certifiable. Something in that hole needed my help, I was certain of it.
Slowly, I inched ahead, willing Whisper to understand.
Trust me. I’m not a threat.
Whisper’s eyes were so wide I could see the whites. Her lips curled, displaying gleaming incisors. The growl morphed to a snarl.
Second warning.
“Shhhh,” I cooed. “I’m a friend.” I inched forward. “Just one peek. I promise I mean no harm.”
Movement flickered in the corner of my eye. I stole a peek.
My friends, safely distant, watched with disbelieving eyes.
Ignoring them, I took another undersized step.
Whisper lunged, stopped two feet before me.
A third growl, full throated. This time, the other dogs joined in. The sound was fierce, terrifying.
A flood of adrenaline shot through my body.
Maybe this was a bad idea.
Lowering my gaze, I slowly spread my hands. Stood rock still, urging Whisper to understand. I knew my safety balanced on a knife’s edge.
No sound. No movement.
Blood pounded in my ears. Sweat trickled my back.
Keeping my chin down, I raised my eyelids. Whisper’s gaze locked onto mine. She seemed to hesitate, to debate in whatever way wolves do.
Then, abruptly, she circled to stand with her mate and child. As one, the three glanced at the hole, back at me.
I had permission. I thought. Hoped.
I risked another tentative foot forward. The pack watched intently, but held position.
Quickly, Tory. Your pass will expire.
Moving forward, I looked down into the hole, an abandoned shaft, once boarded over. The brittle wood had just given way.
Ten feet down, a small furry bundle yelped pitifully. Two perfect blue eyes gazed skyward. A wolfdog puppy.
Seeing me, the pup scrambled to its feet and scratched the dirt wall with its small paws, desperate to be reunited with its mother.
Without thinking, I dropped to my stomach, grabbed a ropey vine, swung my legs over the rim of the shaft, and braced my feet against the wall. Death-gripping the vine, I began to lower myself in a modified rappel.
One hop. Two.
A shadow fell across me. I looked up. Three canine faces hung above my head, eyes following my every move. No pressure.
Oh so carefully, I descended.
Three. Four. Five.
Halfway down, my feet encountered a series of narrow shelves. Using them as stair steps, I closed the gap to where the terrified puppy crouched. It barked in excitement, eager for rescue.
When I reached the pup’s level, I sat, catching my breath. My new friend crouched on a broken barrel with Cooper River Boiled Peanuts stamped on its side. He crawled into my lap. Face lick. Adorable.
That’s when I named him. Cooper.
A sharp bark sounded from above. Whisper was growing impatient.
Carefully lifting my cargo, I stood, back to the wall, surveying my options. The shaft was uneven, with protruding rocks and roots. A relatively easy climb.
Easy, if a pack of angry canines aren’t topside, waiting to eat you for lunch.
Cradling the pup in one arm, I began hoisting myself up with the other, one foot at a time. Grab. Pull. Step. Grab. Pull. Step.
Wiggling close, my passenger gave a funny little bark.
“I agree, Coop. Hang on.”
My arms were burning when my face broke the plane of the ground. And came nose-to-snout with a wolf.
Whisper. Jaws inches from my throat.
Moving slowly, I placed Coop on the ground. Mama wolf clamped her teeth on his scruff, lifted, and bounded into the brush.
Two more flashes. The pack was gone.
Trembling, I pulled myself from the shaft and tried to dust off.
I grinned. Mission accomplished, and me not dead.
Still brushing dirt, I looked over at my companions. Hi was hyperventilating. Ben and Shelton were slowly shaking their heads. The collective relief was palpable.
All three made me swear to never act so recklessly again. I promised, but just to placate. I knew, given the circumstances, I’d do it again.
Returning to the beach, I sensed, more than heard, rustling off to my right. I glanced into the woods. Two golden eyes gleamed in the shadows. Whisper. She studied me a moment, then disappeared into the forest.
Perhaps my proudest moment.
Months had passed since that encounter. I’d seen little of Whisper or her pack.
If I found them, would they remember me? Would Coop?
Yes. I was sure of it.
With that happy thought, I was ready to explore.
After allowing Hi a few more seconds to regroup his gut, we strolled over the rise and down the path to the research compound.
And ran smack into trouble.
CHAPTER 6
Hi had been captured by the enemy.
Okay, I exaggerate. But not much.
As we crested the rise, the LIRI complex came into view downslope. A dozen structures stood tightly packed within eight-foot-high chain-link fencing. Glass and steel buildings contained research labs. Aluminum sheds provided storage for equipment, monkey chow, supplies, and vehicles. The perimeter fence had only two openings: the main gate leading to the dock behind us, and a smaller one leading to Turtle Beach.
Hi was standing by the main gate. He wasn’t alone.
“Now he’s done it.” Shelton shielded his eyes as he peered downhill. “We’re gonna catch hell.”
“Crap.” Ben’s voice was tense. “It’s Karsten.”
Of course, I thought. Who else?
“He’s waving us down,” Shelton said. “Anybody else care to run for it?” Sarcastic. There was no point in running. Professor Karsten knew who we were. Worse, who our parents were.
Ugh.
“Let’s go.” I spoke with more confidence than I felt. “Karsten knows we’re allowed to be here if we don’t break the rules. I don’t get why he’s always hassling
us.”
Loggerhead is essentially closed to outsiders. But since our parents are employees, the Board permits us to visit as long as we avoid restricted areas and don’t cause problems.
“Dr. K’s never liked us being on the island,” Shelton said. “My dad told me he constantly brings up banning us, but can’t get the votes. The jerk acts like we’re terrorists or something.”
“You did break that ATV.” Ben, deadpan.
“Right.” Shelton’s eyes rolled. “Shelton broke it. Not Ben and Shelton, because Ben is better at hiding in the woods. So only Shelton.” He cuffed Ben’s shoulder. “By the way, you’re welcome, Blue.”
“I said I owe you one.”
We began trekking downhill. To either side I could see nothing but trees. No surprise. No permanent structures exist outside the main facility. Some rough paths crisscross the island, but very few. From the get-go, LIRI was designed to have as invisible a human footprint as possible. The reality comes pretty close.
As we descended, I thought about all the cool research hosted at Loggerhead. The primates are my favorite, but there’s also a stacked marine biology station. That’s where Kit studies his beloved turtles and dolphins. The nature preserve attracts ornithologists and botanists. Butterfly guys, too. Swamptown brings the gator fans. Archaeologists have excavated a few sites on the plateau and in the interior.
An elite confederacy of nerds. My peeps.
By the time Shelton, Ben, and I got to the gate, Karsten had dragged Hi inside the enclosure. At our entry, he spun and angrily gestured us to him.
We obliged. No choice.
Dr. Marcus E. Karsten: Professor and Department Chair, Charleston University College of Veterinary Medicine; Head Administrator, LIRI.
Head Ass, if you ask me. That’s where he kept his, most of the time.
Famous for his work on the Ebola virus, Karsten had an impeccable reputation in animal epidemiology. He supervised all research conducted on Loggerhead.
The man was also a complete tool.
Not much to look at, either. Late fifties. Skinny. Glasses. Dark, thinning hair worn in the ever-popular comb-over. Lab coat pressed so sharply the creases could probably slice cheese.