by Debra Dunbar
Vincent couldn’t answer. He didn’t want to see it. Well, more to the point, he wanted to find Freedman first. But sure, there was something to that mystery on Deltaville that felt oddly compelling.
“Where’s this Bimini Island, anyways?” he asked.
“Supposed to be right at the mouth of the ocean,” Hattie said. “East of Newport News, but I think it was farther north than that. After my encounter with whatever lives in that shack I tried to get a man to this water pincher. Trying to find the elixir. Maybe save his life.”
Vincent whispered, “What happened?”
“He didn’t make it. By the time I made headway, he was gone, so I dumped him into the Bay.”
“Then what makes you think you found Bimini?”
She shook her head. “Maybe I didn’t. But…something tells me I did. I’d looked down the east side of the Bay, but when I was heading back north and about to turn home, I saw a campfire on a tiny bar. Nothing more than a patch of trees and some shoreline. But, it felt close. He felt close.” She shivered, then rubbed her hands over her arms. “Thought maybe I’d gone Bedlam.”
“This is all about some gut feeling, then?” he asked.
“Which is one reason why I want to stop at Deltaville. That’s where I set out. Better chances to retrace my path.”
Vincent took a long breath, then nodded. “Okay. Let’s grease this monkey.”
Hattie joined Raymond at the helm, and after a short conversation she’d convinced him to turn toward Deltaville.
The boat eased along the muddy bank near the burned-out shack. Vincent stood beside Lefty as Hattie hopped out into the surf to wade her way onto land, tying a mooring rope to a downed pine.
Lefty said, “Back here, again?”
“Our lady-legger thinks she ran across Bimini Island. Started from here, so we’re letting her run through the paces.”
“Do you really think you’ll find a pincher on this island?” Lefty asked.
“I think it’s my best shot. My only shot.”
“We’re in the Upright Citizen’s territory, Vincent. We get thumbed sniffing around this joint uninvited, they could kick up one hell of a fuss.”
“I know that,” Vincent grumbled. “But they got two pinchers already. We gotta work this angle.”
“Fine.”
Lefty jumped out of the boat and joined Hattie on the shore. Vincent followed suit. The three of them approached the charcoaled shack and Vincent spotted the length of wood he’d cleared with his hand to reveal the glyphs carved along the outside of the shanty.
Hattie muttered, “There.”
She pointed to a patch of mud just past the high tide mark.
Vincent nodded. “Yeah, I saw that.”
The image of three arcs surrounding a circle remained barely visible in the mud, having been washed by lapping waves here and there.
“What’s it mean, do you think?” he asked Hattie.
“Three lines around a center,” she said. “Could mean anything.”
Vincent said, “So, what you’re saying is you don’t know.”
“Yes,” she snapped. “I don’t know.”
“Fine. All I was asking.”
Lefty shook his head and turned back toward the boat. “So, we’re here. Now what?”
A sound captured Vincent’s attention. Crunching. Steps. Footsteps. He glanced toward the main clutch of buildings up the path.
And held his breath. Hattie stepped up alongside him, shaking her head.
A man was approaching. An old man with a gray beard and grizzled, weather-worn features. He wore rubbers and a wide-brimmed fisher’s hat.
Vincent whispered, “You see him, too?”
She reached for his arm, gripping it tight.
Vincent asked, “Is…is that him?”
Hattie nodded once.
The old man continued down the path, eyes narrow slit with the barest slivers of shocking pale blue irises peering from between his heavy lids.
Lefty hustled to join the two of them, arriving just as the fisherman reached the shack.
The old man gazed at the three in silence.
Hattie cleared her throat. “Hello?”
The old fisherman didn’t respond.
Vincent gave it a shot. “Do you live here?”
Again, no response.
He shrugged at Hattie.
Lefty tipped his hat. “Well, sir, don’t let us detain you. Come on, friends and countrymen. We have business.”
The fisherman cocked his head at Lefty. A rumble filled the old man’s chest. That rumble swelled in intensity until Vincent felt it through the soles of his shoes. What was happening?
Hattie pulled Vincent away a couple steps as the fisherman pivoted to face Lefty.
Vincent whispered, “Uh…Lefty? I think you shined him off.”
Lefty didn’t respond. His jaw was set, as were his shoulders. There was no way an elderly fisherman could scare off a man like Lefty Mancuso. Unless, of course, his eyes began to scorch with what looked like the flames from an under-trimmed candle.
Lefty scooted away.
Hattie held out her hands. “We don’t mean you harm. We’re just passing through.”
The fisherman glanced back at Hattie, and the flames that had erupted from his eye sockets subsided, leaving the icy-blue orbs they’d seen before.
“Okay, old-timer?” Vincent nudged. “We’re leaving.”
The fisherman turned on his heel, grabbed the door to the shack, and entered slamming the door behind him.
Lefty muttered, “Cheerful bastard.”
The three hustled back for the boat.
Raymond lifted a chin at the shack. “What was that all about?”
“Nothing,” Vincent replied.
Hattie pulled the mooring line off the tree trunk, then splashed through the surf to climb aboard. “All right, that was a bad idea. I’ll admit it.”
Lefty shook his head as he sat on the bench behind Raymond. “What was that thing, exactly?”
Vincent answered, “Hell pincher.”
“No,” Hattie countered. “That was no wizard, or warlock, or what have you.”
“You’ve met a lotta warlocks?” Vincent asked.
“I’m saying that creature isn’t human. It’s trying to look human. Maybe it’s even wearing a human like a suit. But…I could feel something beyond our understanding. Something deep. Infernal.”
Vincent nearly returned a flippant jibe but thought better of it. Instead, he asked, “So, you’re saying that was what? Some sort of devil?”
“Or demon,” she whispered.
Lefty crossed himself.
Raymond snickered. “Demons, huh? Well, that just figures with you people.”
Hattie turned back toward the Bay. “East by southeast, Raymond. Give me ten knots.”
Vincent leaned against the engine housing as the boat chugged to life, swinging an arc through the Piankatank to turn back into the Bay.
Those eyes. Flames.
Was that really a demon? And if so, why didn’t it burn the three of them alive like it did the others? One mystery at a time. He’d have ample opportunity to contemplate that old weathered fisher-demon after he found Doc Freedman.
If he found Doc Freedman.
Chapter 21
Hattie peered at the eastern shoreline peeking into view over the waves of the Bay. Nothing but water and the long, even line of the Delmarva Peninsula.
“Anything?” Raymond muttered.
She shook her head. This was harder than she thought it would be. Last time she’d made this trip, her body was filled with panic, fear, and awe from the encounter with the Deltaville demon. Nothing seemed real that night, as Little Teague died slowly on the deck of his own boat. Had she even seen an island at all? Or was it a fevered illusion?
Raymond grunted and turned for the sight glass protruding from the engine house. He gave it a couple taps.
Hattie asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothin’s wrong, baby girl,” he said. “We’re runnin’ about three gallons.”
“Will that get us back to Winnow’s?” she asked.
“Barely.”
She crossed her arms. “Why didn’t you fuel at Kent Island?”
“Didn’t know we were set to comb every inch of Bay between there and Newport News, is why.” He shook his head. “If we keep at this, we’re gonna need to make a stop.”
Hattie turned to check on Vincent and Lefty standing by the bow, then said, “They won’t like it.”
“Think they’re gonna like floatin’ dead in the water? ’Cause that’s the option.”
“Right. I know.” She half-climbed the engine house and peered over the side of the boat. “There’s the James. Hell, our closest friendly fuel stop will be up near Richmond, won’t it?”
“Okay,” Raymond said with a shrug.
She jabbed a thumb at the gangsters. “They’re going to love this.”
Hattie hopped down and called the two from the front to join them. They stood casually, watching as she chose her words.
“We have to let in up the James to refuel.”
Vincent shrugged.
Lefty, on the other hand, scowled. “No good.”
“Sorry,” she said. “No choice. We hadn’t figured on quite so much dilly-dallying, so we didn’t fuel at Kent.”
Lefty shook his head. “We’re a stone’s throw from Richmond, as it is. Being on the water, the locals won’t take us quite so seriously. But if we shore up and buy fuel?” He tsked. “That’s asking for endless trouble.”
Hattie snickered. “Endless trouble is precisely how I’d describe the two of you.”
Vincent grinned in response.
“We’re on unsteady terms with the boys down Richmond way,” Lefty told her. “Before we met the two of you, Vincent and I managed to build some bridges. I just feel as if putting in directly underneath their noses is the same as dousing that bridge with gasoline and striking a match.”
Vincent held up a hand. “Well, wait. All we’re doing is buying fuel. It’s not like we’re hauling casks up underneath their noses.”
Lefty sneered. “It would be better if we were. At least we’d have a reason to be in their territory. But with nothing to show for it, we look like we’re snooping around, scaring up trouble.”
Hattie sighed. “Listen, boys. Either we fuel here, or we turn back now and fuel up on Kent. That loses us a whole day if we do, and Lizzie’s got business lined up with you hoodlums. We can’t be out here chasing our tails all week, you know.”
Lefty tilted his head back. “Well, all things considered, that’s the better option. Listen, we’re in no hurry out here. If we have to turn back—”
Vincent interrupted, “Then we fuel here.”
Lefty dropped his head, took in a cleansing breath, then turned toward Vincent. “What?”
“Like she said,” Vincent replied. “We’re out here on their boat, presuming on their goddamned hospitality. We’re not really gonna turn them around and waste their time on account of fluttering nerves. It’s not like we’re doing business out here.”
Lefty squinted. “Aren’t we?”
Vincent didn’t respond.
Raymond cleared his throat. “It ain’t like we’re rollin’ up into the middle of the city, folks. We got a boy halfway down the James who runs a pier with a couple pumps. He knows what side the bread is buttered. He won’t kick up a fuss.”
Lefty sniffed, and wound up for a response, but Vincent cut him off. “Good enough for us. Right, Lefty?”
Lefty eyed Vincent with increasing displeasure, then finally nodded. “Your call.”
They angled into the mouth of the James River, chugging inland a while before a series of rickety piers slipped into view. Raymond eased the boat alongside one of the piers, then he and Hattie moored them to the pilings. A clutch of young men hovered around a pair of low-slung, sleek boats. They were varnished wood, cut into long, feminine angles. These were not working boats. These were pleasure craft.
Raymond reached for the railing to hop off, when Hattie took another glance at the crew. They were very young, mostly in their twenties. They were all white. And they were all staring at Raymond.
“Eh, boy-o,” she mumbled to Raymond. “Maybe let me kitty up this time?”
He blinked at her.
She added, “Safer that way.”
Raymond’s face twisted in confusion, expecting Hattie to explain. The thugs they’d dealt with on the Bianco Fiore—more accurately from the Bianco Fiore—lingered in her mind. She hadn’t filled Raymond in on the particulars of that group’s ambitions, nor had she wanted to, but this close to Richmond, she knew they were borrowing trouble sending Raymond to do the talking.
She said, “Just lay low, alright? Things gone and went complicated for us. I need you to trust me.”
“I trust you,” he replied.
“Good. Now, give me some money.”
Hattie hopped up onto the pier, and as she turned to approach the grease-haired proprietor of the slip, a thud pounded onto the boards behind her. She turned to find Vincent at her heels.
“I can manage,” she grumbled.
“I suppose you can. But I’m on strict orders to keep you from getting into trouble.”
“Strict orders?” she repeated with a smirk. “From whom, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Vincent rolled his eyes, then turned to nod at Lefty.
Hattie reached for his arm. “That old man’s got you on a short leash. You know that?”
“He’d probably say I have him on a shorter leash, but he ain’t here to defend himself. So, yeah.”
Hattie curled her arm around Vincent’s and steered him forward toward the pump house. Having Vincent alongside her would only help their chances of fueling quick and heading out without too much notice. Young women in working clothes only gathered attention this far south. A well-heeled fellow with a scrappy young companion could be written off as eccentric. No fuss.
They negotiated for fuel with what Hattie felt was far too much effort. The local gangsters must have put the screws to the simple businessmen on the water these days. She wondered if that wouldn’t soon be the fate of their tidy enterprise closer to Baltimore.
Vincent stood on the edge of the pier, head held high, hands in his pockets. He betrayed not the first sense of danger of the situation. He just loomed there confident that no trouble could befall him. It was bizarre. But then again, the man was a pincher, like her.
Well…not like her. He had the good faith and backing of an entire crime syndicate that traced its roots all the way back to New York City. How wonderful it must be to fear nothing.
As the fueling progressed, a clutch of young men wove their way around the piers toward their boat. Vincent picked up on the movement and gave Hattie a quick, reassuring nod. Hattie weighed her options. She could pinch light around her figure to present as male. That was her immediate plan when facing cocksure lads with attitudes. But she wasn’t the problem.
Raymond was the problem.
She spied Raymond, busying himself with the rubber hose winding from the pumphouse to the fuel tank of the boat. There were no options there. Even if she pinched light to make Raymond disappear, or otherwise present as something more fitting for these sharks circling her crew, it would cost more magic than she could afford.
With any luck, Vincent would redirect these boys, and no one would get hurt.
Vincent tipped his hat as one of their number stepped forward. “Afternoon, gents.”
The young man glared at him with a toothy leer, then turned to the others. “Oh, Lord Jesus. Looks like we got us one of those up-north wops, boys. Nothin’ funnier to me than a wop in a suit.”
A round of snickering from behind the man brought his leer into a smile.
Vincent shrugged, gesturing at the man’s wrinkled but clean shirt. “There’s something to be said about good, honest working clothes. Can I help yo
u fellows?”
The smile faded from the young buck’s face. “Yeah. You can.” He nodded at the boat, and Raymond who was watching stiff-armed. “You can take that darkie and go back up where you came from.”
Hattie balled a fist, then felt a hand on her shoulder. She glanced back to find Lefty giving her a firm nod. He stepped behind her and reached into his coat, and the pistol holstered within.
Vincent said, “We’ll be gone as soon as we’re topped off.”
Two of the thugs from the rear of the clutch stepped away, turning for the pump house. The rhythmic thumping of the fuel hose running beneath the wooden planks fell silent.
“Ain’t no fuel for animals here,” the young man grumbled. “Even ones in fancy-ass suits.”
Vincent took a step forward, and the entire crew braced, some drawing knives from their belts. “You sure about that?”
Vincent lifted his hand into the space between the two of them, fingers poised to snap.
Hattie braced herself. She knew what was in store…a time pinch. The anxiety bled out of her as she pictured the schemes available to them. By Vincent’s casual tone, he was likely to play with them a little before dumping them all into the water.
Before he could snap his fingers, a sudden gust of wind pounded into the young buck. His hair tossed into a cloud all around his face, and he teetered on unsteady feet on the edge of the pier. As he craned his arms in circles to keep his balance, another short, sharp breeze sent him flailing into the water.
Vincent stared at his fingers, then took a step backward. He peered at Hattie with a lift of his brow.
She shook her head.
A voice called from the pump house, “You boys better run along, now.”
The gang turned toward a man in a tidy off-white suit standing by the pumps, inspecting his nails. Mumbles spread through their number, and they quickly dispersed, returning to a low-slung speedboat at the far end of the wharf. The young buck treaded water, scowling at Vincent before swimming off to join the others. They pulled him aboard, and their craft eased out onto the water. As it angled away, Hattie spotted the words Bianco Fiore written across its transom.
The man in the suit threw a lever to restart the pump, then turned to pay a quivering man hiding inside the pump house before approaching Vincent. Lefty stepped around Hattie, his pistol remaining in its holster.