Chasing the Son

by Bob Mayer

  Parris Island was to the west, where the Marine Corps did its own version of turning boys into men; they were much more effective at it than the Institute, because their mission was to prepare soldiers for combat, although, again, in the end the definition of what it meant to be a ‘man’ was up for grabs. Kono had the Fina on a waterway cutting through St. Helena Island, a path few boaters would attempt and one that was entirely dependent on understanding the tide. Chase and Gator flanked him on the bridge as they finally came out in Trenchards Inlet.

  “Pritchards Island,” Kono said, nodding at the land ahead. “No man other than Tear live there.”

  “University of South Carolina has it set aside for research,” Gator explained.

  “No man allowed,” Kono said, ignoring his sometimes partner-incrime, “or else face bad spirits. Blackbeard buried many a sailor in the beach there. Many of my people are buried there after escaping from working the rice.”

  Kono cut throttle and the patrol boat slowed. An old dock, looking like it hadn’t been used in decades, was ahead. The pilings were rotting and several boards were broken. A rowboat was to the left of the dock, flipped over. It looked like it had been used recently, the wood in good shape.

  “I remember this place,” Chase said as he spotted a crumbling concrete structure beyond the surf line, nestled among the palmettos.

  “Old Coast Guard station,” Kono said. He pointed to the right. “Good view of shipping channel during big war.”

  “You took me here when we were kids,” Chase said.

  “Aye,” Kono acknowledged. “To let Tear see you. But you never seen him.”

  Gator grabbed a line and jumped into the water. He tied the Fina off.

  Kono pointed to the flag on the bow. “Recognize it?” It was a black flag with a white skeleton holding a chalice which it appeared to toasting from and in the other hand a spear that was thrust through a heart.

  “No,” Chase said.

  “Blackbeard’s flag,” Kono said.

  “Cheery,” Chase said. “He’s waiting,” he added as an old man appeared in the open doorway of the old Coast Guard building.

  The old Gullah was wearing denim coveralls and a black turtleneck. Like Kono, he was barefoot. His white beard flowed down to his belt buckle. His dark skin was wrinkled and worn.

  “You let me talk,” Kono said as he and Chase went ashore. “He speaks English but it’s easier if he and I talk in Gullah. Okay with you?”

  “It’s okay with me,” Chase said. “How he’d get the name Tear?”

  “He cried for a long time once,” Kono said simply.

  Chase’s cell phone buzzed, picking up the signal off a tower on Parris Island. “Hold on.” He recognized the number and answered it. “Go.”

  “Chase, Riley. Briggs did have Farrelli checking after Erin. And your son. He does go by Harry Brannigan, not Horace Junior. And he disappeared at the same time as Doc Cleary.”

  “So they’re together,” Chase said. He wasn’t too thrilled with Harry, but he’d never liked Horace much either. His mother had named him after the poet for some strange reason she’d never explained.

  Of course, he’d never asked.

  But his son being with Doc Cleary relieved a lot of his angst.

  “Most likely,” Riley said. “And get this: he was a student at the Military Institute of South Carolina before he disappeared.”

  Chase had attended West Point primarily because he’d been given an automatic appointment; tendered to the son of a Medal of Honor winner. Chase had never known his own father, killed in Vietnam, and it shook him to realize that his son was in the same predicament. But why would he go to M.I.S.C.? Then he remembered: Doc Cleary wore the ring.

  “Any idea why they took off?” Chase asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Any idea where they are?”

  “Nope. But there’s some guy, Fabrou asking around for him. He’s involved in a land-grab for Daufuskie. Not sure how that’s connected in any way, but it might explain why Doc got out of town so fast and took Harry with him.”

  “All right,” Chase said, more confused than when he’d answered the phone, but now armed with one key piece of information: his son was with Doc Cleary. That was a comforting thought. He turned the phone off and joined Kono with the old man.

  Gator remained on board the Fina.

  The two were talking in their native tongue, bits of which Chase could understand.

  When Chase came up, Tear held up a hand. “Let us speak so he can hear,” he told Kono. He smiled at Chase, revealing a single missing tooth in the front center. “I was Marines long time ago. Vietnam.”

  Chase nodded. “I was Army.”

  “Not as good as Marines,” Tear said.

  “So says every Marine,” Chase allowed.

  Tear laughed. “You are blood friend to my great nephew here,” he indicated Kono.

  Chase nodded.

  “You have a son. One you didn’t know you had.”

  “Yes. I just found out he’s with Doc Cleary,” Chase said.

  Tear nodded. “Doc took boy in when he come down from Charles Town. Then Doc and boy take sail.” He waved a hand toward the water. “Doc can set a good sail.” Tear sat down on the concrete step.

  “Do you know why my son came down from Charleston?” Chase asked.

  “Bad things happen up there in that place,” Tear said.

  “The Military Institute?” Chase asked.

  Tear nodded. “Bad place. Bad spirit near the water. I crab there when younger. Never liked going by.”

  “Do you know exactly what happened?” Chase asked.

  “Someone die,” Tear said. “Word is your son to blame.”

  “What?” Chase was surprised at this twist. “Who died?”

  “Son of big woman in Charles Town.” He gave a slight smile. “Old Mrs. Jenrette. Been around longer than me.”

  “Did my son have something to do with this death?” Chase asked.

  Tear looked at him. “He there. What truth is, I don’t know. Doc say your son not at fault. I believe him.” Tear straightened his back with effort. “Getting old is no fun. Doc used to give me medicine and take care of me. Now I have to use VA. Not as good as Doc. My advice? Don’t get old.”

  “It’s better than the alternatives,” Chase said.

  Tear laughed. “True, that be true.” But the smile was gone from his face. “Doc protects your son. As he protected your mother until she passed. Lilly was fine woman. Doc knows he can’t bring boy back until old Mrs. Jenrette dies. Which not be long word is I hear.”

  The pieces of the puzzle didn’t fit in Chase’s mind. “Someone from Savannah, a guy named Fabrou, has been asking about my son. Do you know of them?”

  “Fabrou big man in his own mind,” Tear said. “Easy thing to be. But dangerous man. He owns big piece of Daufuskie. That island name go back, all the way to Yammacraw Indians who lived there before white men, or even black men, come. These islands we came to as free men a long time ago. We live here free now.”

  “What does Daufuskie have to do with Doc and my son?”

  Tear shrugged. “Everything in this land connected.”

  “Do you know where Doc and my son sailed to?”

  “Ocean be wide,” Tear said. “Once they gone out on ocean far from land, I can no longer hear them in the rhythm of the tides.” He indicated the Low Country around them. “And last I speak with Doc, he not coming back unless it safe for your son. And not safe. Mrs. Jenrette from Charles Town whose son died; she wants your son dead. A heart for a heart is what she say.”

  Chapter Seven

  Thursday Evening

  “You do not look well,” Mrs. Jenrette informed Dillon.

  “I’m fine,” he replied.

  She was in her study, a large room off of her master bedroom. On one side were double doors leading out to the second floor balcony, which ran the entire front of her mansion on South Battery Street. The shadows were slanting fr
om the trees in bloom outside as the sun headed down in the west.

  “Proceed,” Mrs. Jenrette said. She was seated behind an ancient, wooden desk, the top large enough to land a helicopter. The surface of the desk was covered in Plexiglas and underneath that, covering the expanse, was a map of the Low Country coastline from Frances Marion National Forest in South Carolina down to Savannah and Tybee Island in Georgia. Dillon stood in front of the desk, flanked by chairs, neither of which she had offered to him.

  He quickly related events at the High Cotton and the Institute.

  “You do not believe the accounts given by Monsieur’s Gregory, Mongin and Fabrou?” Mrs. Jenrette said at his conclusion.

  “I believe they are withholding some information,” Dillon said.

  “How do you propose to get more information out of them?”

  “I’ll go for the weakest link,” Dillon said.

  “Who do you believe that is?”

  “Jerrod Fabrou.”

  “Hmm,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “The Gregory boy, Preston, is very sharp. His great-grandfather came from low birth. A smuggler. His grandfather made a fortune during Prohibition, running booze all along the coast, bringing it in from the islands, using the secret ways his father had taught him. I remember him. He made sure his son, Preston’s father, was legitimate.” She laughed. “So Thaddeus Gregory went into politics, which I view as more wicked than smuggling. But his name is clean. And the family has high hopes for Preston. Given the father is a United States Senator, you can only imagine how truly high their hopes are.”

  “He’s a dick,” Dillon said.

  “A succinct assessment,” Mrs. Jenrette said, “but be careful of him.”

  “I will.”

  “And the Institute? Are they hiding something or simply protecting their image?”

  “Aren’t they the same thing?” Dillon asked. “The Corps will always close ranks. The Superintendent told me I could go to the barracks but that was the extent of his assistance. Whether he called over to someone in the Corps, or someone in his office did, or it was simply the Corps reacting, it doesn’t really matter. Cadet Wing is backing up the official account.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the photo. “I found this on Brannigan’s desk.” He took a couple of steps forward and put it on the deck. He had to lean far forward to slide it in front of her.

  Mrs. Jenrette picked up a pair of reading glasses and peered at it. “Doc Cleary. I do not recognize the woman.”

  “I’ll find out who it is,” Dillon said.

  “Doc Cleary,” Mrs. Jenrette repeated in a low voice. “I remember when he wasn’t so old. He was quite the dashing cadet at the Institute. A most eligible bachelor in his own rights although his family wasn’t on par. Came from dirt, and I don’t mean that in a disparaging way, but the fact is, his folks were farmers up-country in the Piedmont. They did well, but not that well. Ran into some hard times and got foreclosed on. But Doc, he moved on from the Institute. Worked his way through the Medical University of South Carolina here in Charleston. Then moved down to Hilton Head.”

  She put the photo down and Dillon reached across to pick it up.

  “Bear with me one second,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “Thomas, can you tell Mister Rigney to come up.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Thomas moved out of his corner in the office and through the double doors to the hallway. He was gone for less than a minute and returned leading the lawyer.

  Rigney nodded at Dillon as he came to a position in front of the desk.

  “Take a seat, gentlemen,” Mrs. Jenrette finally allowed, indicating the two high-back chairs facing her desk. She did not notice that Rigney took his chair somewhat gingerly.

  “Mister Rigney, what did Mister Fabrou uncover?”

  Rigney pulled a thin manila folder out of his leather briefcase. “It’s a bit confusing. A woman named Sarah Briggs asked Mister Farrelli to make inquiries about one Erin Brannigan; mother of our subject.”

  “Who is Sarah Briggs?” Mrs. Jenrette asked.

  “It’s a false name,” Rigney said. “Used by a woman who ran an offshore gambling site. She’s disappeared, along with a lot of people’s money. And somehow that was connected to Karralkov. Who is no longer with us.”

  “Go on.”

  “Farrelli was able to uncover little, but he called me earlier and said that someone else is asking, not just about Erin Brannigan, but more importantly, about the boy.”

  “And who is this?” Mrs. Jenrette asked.

  “A man named David Riley,” Rigney said. “Apparently, he’s a friend of the boy’s father, one Horace Chase.”

  “Ah!” Mrs. Rigney remembered. “The photo, Dillon.”

  He stood and brought the picture back to her.

  “Yes,” she remembered. “Lilly Chase.” She tapped the woman on the photo. “She co-habitated with Doc Cleary. Not a scandal on Hilton Head, where they are mostly drunkards, sinners and fornicators, but rumor of it reached here.” She smiled. “We have many drunkards, sinners and fornicators here in Charleston but we are much more discreet about it.” She continued to stare at the photo.

  “So,” Mrs. Jenrette finally said. “Lilly is the grandmother. This Horace fellow is the father. Erin Brannigan is the mother. The family tree is falling in place. But where is Harry Brannigan now?” When Rigney didn’t answer, she sighed. “Tell me what you do have.”

  “This Riley character is a small-time bookie on Daufuskie Island,” Rigney said.

  Mrs. Jenrette’s head snapped up from the picture. “Daufuskie? How is he connected to the the Brannigans?”

  “He’s connected to Horace Chase,” Rigney said. “They were both in the Army. Special Operations, although somewhat different eras. Riley retired about a decade ago and Chase just recently, after doing a stint as a Federal agent.”

  That got Dillon’s interest. “Special Forces or Special Operations Forces?”

  “What the difference?” Rigney said.

  “Special Forces is a subset of Special Operations,” Dillon said. “Gives me an idea of their training and their attitude if I know exactly.”

  “I’ll check on it.”

  “This Chase fellow is no longer a Federal agent?” Mrs. Jenrette asked.

  “No, ma’am. Farrelli wouldn’t tell me exactly what happened, but Riley and Chase were apparently just involved in an incident involving the Russian mafia; indeed, it appears they are the reason Mister Karralkov is no longer a factor in the Low Country.”

  “Impressive,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “I would owe them a debt of gratitude except for the family connection between Mister Chase and young Mister Brannigan. I fear I must bring sorrow to Mister Chase’s life as his son has brought to mine.”

  “The other news,” Rigney said, “is that these two men are also trying to find Harry Brannigan. Apparently Mister Chase did not realize he was a father until just recently.”

  Dillon stirred. “They might do the job for us. I would assume, given their backgrounds, they are rather capable.”

  “They might,” Mrs. Jenrette allowed. “But then they would also come between us and what I desire. Go to Hilton Head tomorrow,” she ordered Dillon. “But for tonight, follow up with the Institute as we discussed. I believe they have given you cause for action.”

  Dillon rubbed the mark on his face. “They have.” He nodded. “I think pressuring the younger Fabrou will give me leverage with the elder one.” He turned to Rigney. “Tell me more about these guys: Riley and Chase. Do they work alone?”

  “I’m getting more information on them,” Rigney said. “A couple of nefarious character named Gator and Kono work with them at times. Both are known smugglers. Usually alcohol to avoid taxes.”

  “Sounds like they’re following the footsteps of Preston Gregory’s family,” Dillon noted.

  “Not exactly,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “There was a much larger profit margin during Prohibition.” She waved a hand, dismissing that topic. “If Mister Chase finds his son first, it might
make your task more difficult.”

  Dillon nodded. “I’m talking to Jerrod Fabrou tonight. Then I’ll go to Hilton Head tomorrow. It sounds like Mister Fabrou is already involved. I’ll give him some more motivation.”

  “Very good,” Mrs. Jenrette said.

  “There was also this,” Dillon said, pulling the leather pouch out. He opened it and put the bracelet on her desk.

  Mrs. Jenrette picked it up. She read the inscription out loud: “’With You I Should Love To Live; With You I Should Love To Die’.” She nodded. “Horace.”

  “Chase?” Dillon said.

  Mrs. Jenrette laughed. “They don’t teach the classics at the Institute do they anymore? My husband had to take Greek and Latin there.”

  “I took Farsi,” Dillon said.

  “I suppose that’s more useful in these days,” Mrs. Jenrette said. She wiggled the bracelet. “The saying. It’s from the Roman orator and poet, Horace. There are versions of it though, depending on how it’s translated. It’s more common to translate it as ‘With you I should love to live, with you be ready to die’.”

  “What about the boat’s name?” Dillon asked.

  “Epodes is a form of oration or poetry that Horace used,” Mrs. Jenrette said. She closed her eyes and recited: “’Then farewell, Horace, whom I hate so. Not for thy faults, but mine’. There’s more but that’s Lord Byron’s ode to Horace’s words.” She tossed the bracelet back toward Dillon. “Find me the man I want. I don’t need to know his personal stuff.” She seemed bothered by the bracelet. “You may go.”

  Dillon took the bracelet and left Rigney with Mrs. Jenrette and her servant.

  “How goes Sea Drift?” Mrs. Jenrette asked.

  “We’re still on schedule to close the deal on Saturday,” Rigney said. “My concern is any action by Mister Dillon toward Mister Fabrou could compromise that.”