Pulling out my badge, I tilted the shield so that it caught the rays of the setting sun. Then I waved once again. But rather than head back, the driver simply slowed the craft, as his companion began to question him. A brief exchange took place, and he followed the driver’s finger to where it pointed in my direction. Mr. Sportsman deliberately turned and squeezed off a few more rounds, so that another two clapper rails fell into the marsh like oversized raindrops. Only then did the boat make its way back toward land.
All the while, the hunter never sat, but maintained a regal pose as though he were Washington crossing the Delaware. Perhaps he simply didn’t want to soil his clothes. Even from this distance it was easy to tell they were first-class threads.
This was the challenge—dealing with arrogant hunters determined to do whatever they damn well pleased. I could usually predict their reaction just by the way they approached—along with their shock that a woman had been given the power to step on their neck.
The elderly driver jumped out and sloshed about in the water, as he pulled the boat’s nose onto land. Only then did Mr. Sportsman deign to leave the craft, his handmade Le Chameau leather-lined chasseur boots stepping firmly onto dry ground. I’d seen them worn only by the wealthiest hunters around. They must have set him back a good four hundred bucks, placing him in a most exclusive category. I took a closer look at the man I’d soon be dealing with. Appearing to be in his late fifties, he was tall and fit, sported a full head of dark hair, and had intensely blue eyes. He wasted no time, but strode purposefully toward me like a Humvee on a mission.
“My driver indicated you were urgently waving us in,” he spoke as he walked. “He also thought you were holding up some sort of badge. I certainly hope you didn’t end an excellent run of hunting on this fine Labor Day without good reason. Just tell me that you’re not one of those errant females who’s lost and in need of directions,” he affably joked.
Had any other man said that, I would have taken offense. But there was something about this guy that was different—and it wasn’t just his disarming smile. It immediately became clear that he knew how to play to an audience. I also had the distinct impression he usually got whatever he wanted. That alone made me all the more determined to stick to my guns.
I flashed my badge, trying hard to ignore that his clothes were spotless, while mine hung plastered with sweat against my skin. Even worse was that my shield didn’t get the reaction I’d hoped for. The hint of a smile flickered across his mouth.
“I’m afraid I have to ticket you for shooting clapper rails from a running motorboat,” I informed him. “You must be aware that’s a violation of federal game laws.”
The words didn’t merely roll off the man; they brought a full-fledged smile to his lips.
“Surely that’s not necessary. In fact, it seems a bit overzealous,” he lightly reprimanded. “Isn’t there some way we can work this out?”
He spoke with such supreme confidence that I felt almost like a contrary schoolgirl. Equally annoying was that there was something oddly familiar about the man, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Clearly, we didn’t travel in the same social circles. Everything about him shouted noblesse oblige, while I was more a Wal-Mart type of gal. Hell, even his rifle reeked of money with its diamond inlays, etchings of oak leaf clusters, and back-slanting tips of rosewood. It was obvious that my sporty friend was some sort of fat cat. Every detail about him shouted privilege, breeding, and wealth. Even the way he stood, so perfectly calm, revealed he believed it was his God-given right to walk away without paying a fine. I couldn’t help but wonder what it must be like to feel so entitled. My guess was that I was about to find out.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” I coolly responded. “I’ll need to see your license.”
He remained silent until his identification had been firmly placed in my hand.
“Not even as a professional courtesy?”
It was then that my eyes caught sight of the name on the license. I now realized just who it was that I’d caught. No wonder the man was grinning from ear to ear, certain that he’d be let off. Clark Williams was a former Undersecretary of Interior for Fish, Wildlife, and Parks.
My stomach clenched at the dilemma that I suddenly found myself facing. Either ticket the man as I would any ordinary Joe. Or let him walk, reinforcing the belief that if a violator is rich and powerful enough, he was beyond the law.
I knew that Williams was watching me closely, silently betting I would play the game. An old joke among agents floated through my brain.
Bust the wrong hunter and you’ll find yourself transferred to the Okefenokee swamp.
That was convenient. It just so happened the Okefenokee was only about forty miles away from here. Besides which, there wasn’t much further I could slide down the Service’s totem pole. I tried not to think about that—or what could be gained if I agreed to play along. Instead, I wrote out the ticket and gave him a fine.
I didn’t look at Williams until after I’d handed him the flimsy piece of paper. His complexion was mottled with rage. Then I chose to further provoke the man by flippantly spouting instructions that he clearly already knew.
“You can mail in a check, unless you decide to appeal. In which case, you’ll be notified of a court date and time.”
Williams continued to stare at me without a word.
“By the way, I’ll take those birds,” I cockily added, pointing to the lifeless clapper rails that lay in his boat.
“Eight Ball, bring them over here!” he commanded, his eyes never leaving mine.
The old man hopped to it, having thoughtfully strung the birds together during this time. He handed the clapper rails to Williams and I reached out to take them, only to be met with steely resistance. It wasn’t that Williams pulled away; he just wasn’t ready to release them yet.
“What’s your name, young woman?” he ominously questioned, his voice balefully soft and low.
Damn! No matter how it was said, the word “young” always warmed the cockles of my heart.
“Rachel Porter,” I staunchly replied.
“Well Agent Porter, it appears you’ve still got a good deal to learn. These damn birds are going to wind up costing you a hell of a lot more than they’re going to cost me.”
A chill went through me, but I was damned if I was about to back down now.
“Is that a threat?” I challenged.
His eyes never flinched, making it perfectly clear that our showdown was far from over.
“It’s much more than a threat. It’s a guarantee. You’ll soon discover this isn’t the way to get ahead in your agency. Enjoy Georgia while you can, because you won’t be here for long.”
It was my turn to smile. He should only have known my history.
Williams spun around on his Le Chameau boots and strode back to the Lexus, leaving his lackey to do the dirty work. The elderly man finished maneuvering the boat onto its trailer, and then hesitantly made his way toward me.
A slight figure, his skin was slate black like a chalkboard and his posture stooped, as though he’d been carrying a heavy burden for far too long. Wrinkled fingers nervously plucked at the legs of his pants like the slim beaks of baby birds, and his lips rhythmically moved back and forth across his gums.
“’Scuse me, Miss. But you gonna give me one of them tickets, too?” he asked in a voice that crackled like creased tin foil.
Whatever the man was being paid as a weekly wage, it certainly wasn’t enough.
“Do you work for Mr. Williams?” I inquired.
“Nah. I got me a job over at DRG.”
I knew DRG to be a chlor-alkali plant in Brunswick, not far from the local U.S. Fish and Wildlife office of ecological services. The plant processed salt water, turning it into caustic soda and chlorine that was then used by paper mills as a bleaching agent.
“But Mr. Williams, he hires me to take him out hunting in the marsh every now and then,” he continued.
There was no way I could give the old man a ticket. I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself.
“Tell you what. If you give me your word not to speed in the marsh anymore, I’ll let you off without a fine.”
“I’ll try my best,” he replied, his eyes veering toward the Lexus.
No more needed to be said. I instinctively knew what he meant.
I watched as he slowly walked back to the SUV and climbed into the passenger seat. He’d barely had a chance to close the door when the Lexus took off. Then I got into my own vehicle and set off for home, increasingly aware that I was about to be engulfed by an impending firestorm.
Williams’s history with Interior had been notorious, to say the least. Stories still floated around concerning his flagrant disregard for the law when it came to fulfilling the desires of the rich and politically connected. Word had it that he’d been wined and dined by high-priced lobbyists every night of the week. I didn’t know how much truth there actually was to the rumors. But his philosophy when it came to the preservation of wildlife was well known.
If you can’t hook it, shoot it, or screw it, then it’s not worth conserving.
Three
The sun was already gone by the time I headed north along the coast to my new home on Tybee. Eighteen miles outside of Savannah, it’s the very last in a chain of islands strung together by causeways stretching across the marsh. The temperature had grown cooler, allowing me to lower the Ford’s window. I took a deep breath, and the nighttime scents magically infused my soul. Then I crossed the bridge over Lazaretto Creek and made a wish, knowing that I was now home.
I drove past bungalows on wooden stilts that looked like long-legged flamingos. Warm orange light poured from each one, as if they were Halloween pumpkins all lit up in a row. I’d grown to love the island, partly because it had the feel of a place that time had forgot; partly because it reminded me of the much-neglected Jersey shore. Tybee certainly had its share of cheap roadside motels and stores selling cheesy souvenirs. On the other hand, there were no golf courses, gated villages, color-coordinated houses, or luxury resorts. Instead, the island preferred to cultivate what was alluded to as “ticky Tybee tacky.”
This was a beach bum community in the truest sense—a place of delicious eccentricity filled with colorful characters ranging from rich to poor, redneck to gay, all the way to celebrities, artists, and fishermen. Those in the know affectionately referred to the island by its nickname—the Redneck Riviera. Even the pirate Blackbeard had once hung out here. Legend had it he’d not only headquartered his crew on the island, but that his treasure was still buried beneath its sands. We must have been former soulmates, since I’d immediately felt at home on my very first visit.
I turned down a narrow alley where it looked like some of Blackbeard’s crew probably still lived. Lush foliage crept onto the gravel road, covering what little civilization there was in unruly undergrowth. Live oaks, dripping with Spanish moss, resembled impoverished royalty draped in remnants of tattered refinery. All the while palmettos conspiratorially hovered behind their drooping fronds, as if quietly plotting a coup.
I pulled into the carport of the house I was renting, a tiny bungalow with a turquoise metal roof. Vines crawled up along the abode’s wooden walls, competing for space with the mildew, while an old ship’s chain lay stretched across the length of yard. Each day its metal links seemed to sink into the spongy ground a little deeper. I felt certain that one day I would wake to discover I’d been swallowed up by the marsh.
Hopping out of my Ford, I found myself serenaded by music coming from next door, where a player piano pumped out “You Light Up My Life.” Debbie Boone, eat your heart out. The lyrics were warbled by a thin voice that held all the delicacy of a reed instrument, and belonged to my present landlady, Marie Trumble. A true aficionado of music, she’d once been a well-known torch singer.
I glanced over to where Marie sat near her living room window, dressed in her usual evening attire—a faded blue beaded gown. There appeared to be fewer beads on her dress with each passing month, and a fake diamond tiara was perched atop her head as she trilled songs that sounded oddly like Muzak.
Marie’s house was as flamboyant as she was, with a pagoda roof, stained glass windows, and seashells lining the walkway. Her black cat, Houdini, lent an air of mystery to the place. His amber eyes tended to freak visitors out by following them every-frigging-where they went. Right now, the feline was taking a much-needed snooze on the hood of Marie’s beloved old Cadillac Eldorado, with its humongous fins and white pebbled roof. Houdini lay sprawled out like a fat inkblot on the yellow bomber.
I skipped up the steps and entered my own abode, only to wonder if I was in the right place. Dancing lobster lights had been strung around the kitchen, their claws silently clicking as if in rhythm to a Spanish tune. Candles were lit and the table was set with two chipped, mismatched plates. Funny, how I used to dream of drinking wine from Waterford crystal and eating haute cuisine off Lenox china. These days I preferred to eat my frozen meals straight out of their Hungry Man plastic containers. That way, there were fewer dishes to wash.
Forget the plates, forget the lights. Far better was the man standing in my kitchen. This was the real reason I’d left Montana—to try and make a go of it with the longtime love of my life, Jake Santou.
I watched as he concentrated on stirring a pot, his hands covered in lobster mitts. They made him look like some kind of half-man, half-shellfish that had come from out of a deep lagoon. He quietly hummed along to Marie’s medley of tunes, his mop of dark, curly hair shining in the reflected glow of the lobster lights. The strand of plastic crustaceans seemed equally determined to light up my life as well, whether I wanted them to or not. Right now the numero uno thing on my mind was a martini. I figured I deserved it. Heck, I’d not only duked it out with “Quick Draw” Magraw, but also ticketed Clark Williams, very possibly blowing my career sky high all on one holiday afternoon.
The bottle of vodka beguilingly beckoned. I was so focused on making my way over to it that I momentarily forgot about anything else in the room. What stopped me were a pair of sinewy arms that wrapped themselves about my waist and held me in place.
“Whoa! Hold on there, chère. What’s this? Here I’m cooking you dinner and I don’t even rate a hello?”
Santou twirled me around to face him, and bent me backward in a mock embrace.
“Where have you been, woman?” he joked. “It’s getting late.”
I planned to respond with a witty rejoinder, only to have my breath taken away. Santou knew exactly what to do; he slowly began to kiss my neck. I was a goner as Jake seductively worked his way down toward my breasts, sweeping me over the edge.
“Dinner can wait,” he growled.
Scooping me up, he carried me into the bedroom. I forgot about clapper rails, powerful officials, and crooked sheriffs as Santou pulled my T-shirt over my head. My jeans quickly followed, falling past my feet and onto the floor. The frustrations of the day melted away as I willingly gave myself over to the moment. The sheets grew damp beneath our flesh and the skirmish continued in a struggle worth fighting for. I finally found relief as I softly fell into a deeper part of myself, and my demons temporarily crept away. I could tell that Santou felt the same way. It was then, when we were both fully satiated, that we became one with the quiet throb of the marsh outside the window.
It wasn’t until afterward, when the day’s events came rushing back, that I again had the urge for a drink. Jake must have felt me move against his chest, and his fingers entangled themselves in my hair. Last year had been a turning point in our relationship—we’d very nearly tanked. It was then that we’d realized how much we truly meant to each other and decided to take the plunge. That was when the C word had come into play—Commitment.
Marriage was still more than I was ready for. After all, we were two independent people who needed time to adjust to the etiquette of sharing the same place. We’d already discovered th
at it required diligence, patience, and stamina. But what neither of us had counted on was that other C word. It proved to be far more difficult than I could have ever anticipated—the horror of Compromise. Sometimes I wished the word had been altogether banned from the English language. Just divvying up the damn closet space required the skills of a United Nations ambassador.
“Are you ready for dinner?” Santou lazily murmured.
I nodded. Whatever he’d been cooking smelled terrific.
We took a quick shower, threw on our robes, and headed into the kitchen, where Santou put the burner back on and gave the pot a quick stir. I made good use of the time to pour myself a hefty glass of vodka. Add a splash of vermouth, an olive, and voilà! I had my own rock ’em, sock ’em version of a martini.
“You planning on drinking for two?” Santou questioned, with a disapproving look in his eye.
“I’ve had a rough day, is all,” I gruffly responded, feeling slightly guilty without knowing why.
“Then I guess your day didn’t quite go as planned.”
I looked at the man as I sipped my martini and began to relax a little more. What was his problem, anyway? How could something that made me feel this good possibly be bad?
“Actually, I’d say it was one for the books.”
Santou dished his homemade gumbo into two bowls filled with rice, and my stomach began to growl.
“I was rousted by the local sheriff of St. Mary’s Bluff and run out of town. After that I ticketed a former Interior official on a game violation.”
Santou chuckled, and I took another sip of my drink. Maybe it was the vodka kicking in, or perhaps I was just beginning to mellow, but living together was starting to feel like the norm. I leaned over to give Jake a kiss on the cheek, as I wondered why we’d waited so long.
Coastal Disturbance Page 2