“There used to be a slave hospital right over there that was originally built in 1767.” She aimed her finger like a pointer toward the marsh and Lazaretto Creek, the area where I’d walked last night.
“I never knew there was a slave hospital here on Tybee,” I responded, wondering if it were really true.
“Oh, yes. Amazing, isn’t it?” Marie intently stared into the distance, as if she could actually see the old building.
“That’s what ‘lazaretto’ means. It comes from the Italian word for pest house. Lazaretto Creek Bridge was named after the quarantine settlement founded here during that period. This is where people who got yellow fever were left.”
Yellow Fever. The words conjured up images of jaundiced patients, their bodies racked with fever, pain, and nausea, as they bled from their eyes, nose, and mouth.
“Ships would stop at Tybee and drop infected slaves at the hospital before continuing on to Savannah. In fact, not all boats even bothered to stop. Some captains simply pushed sick slaves into the river, forcing them to swim here on their own. If they made it to the hospital, they were taken care of. If not, they simply drowned. Those who recovered were later sent on to the slave market to be sold. And those who died were buried in unmarked graves around the marsh.” Marie’s voice fell to a whisper, her fingers lightly touching her forehead, shoulders, and chest to form the sign of the cross.
Though the day was already heating up, my teeth began to chatter.
“It’s their cries that you’re hearing, my dear. But don’t worry. I’ll take care of it for you.”
Call me crazy, but I truly wanted to believe her. “How can you do that?”
Marie smoothed my hair back and gently kissed my forehead. “Why just the same as I did for myself, of course. All we need to do is sprinkle some special water on the ground.”
“You’re not talking about holy water, are you?” I asked in alarm, my stomach starting to churn.
I could just see it now. I’d have to break Marie out of jail for stealing holy water from a church.
Marie pretended to brush some lint off my shirt, as she leaned close and whispered in my ear. “That’s what I let the spirits believe. But what I really use is Evian water. They don’t seem to be able to tell the difference.”
Then she pulled back and continued on in a normal tone of voice. “One other thing, dear. Don’t ever do that again.”
“Do what?” I questioned, wondering what I’d done wrong.
“Follow a voice outside in the dark. Especially one that’s calling your name,” she sternly warned.
I was about to ask why, only to be interrupted as my cell phone rang.
“That you, Miss Porter?” inquired a voice as dry as parchment paper.
“Yes, this is Agent Porter,” I replied. “Who’s this?”
“It’s Eight-Ball. You remember me? I was running Mr. Williams’s boat through the marsh the other day.”
An image flashed through my mind of a slave bending over in a field of cotton, his back lashed and bleeding under the hot summer sun. Just as quickly, the vision was gone.
“Yes, Eight-Ball. I remember. What can I do for you?”
“For me? Nothing. You already done plenty by not giving me a ticket. I want to thank you again for that.”
“No problem. Just don’t go speeding through the marsh anymore.”
Eight-Ball chuckled, and the laugh sat high in his throat, where it sounded like the clicking of bones.
“I’ll try not to. But there’s another reason I called. I wanna tell you what I seen out in the marsh.”
My eyes wandered back to the spot where Marie had pointed and, for a brief second, I felt certain that I also saw the remnants of the old hospital.
“What’s that?”
“A buncha dead birds, along with a coupla critters and stuff. I spotted ’em when I was fishing yesterday.”
“Do you mean that some animals were shot, and their carcasses dumped there?”
“No, there weren’t no bullet holes in them or nothin’ like that,” Eight-Ball’s voice crackled like static electricity.
“They just kinda looked like they keeled over, is all.”
Some people have a built-in barometer when is comes to choosing what lotto numbers to pick, which horses to play, and what games to call. Mine works differently than that. It lets me know when I’m about to venture into a case that might swallow me whole. There it was now—the slightest twinge in the pit of my stomach. I pretended to ignore it—though that had never stopped me before.
“Where did you see all of this, Eight-Ball?”
“It’s a place I like to go crabbing in Brunswick, called Purvis Creek. To tell you the truth, I seen other dead critters there before. I just wasn’t sure who to call. ’Sides, I don’t like to get involved in things, if ya know what I mean.”
I had a pretty good idea. The best way to stay out of trouble was to keep your mouth shut. It was a lesson that I, myself, had been told to learn more than once.
“Thanks for the tip, Eight-Ball. I’ll check it out. Also, would you mind giving me your telephone number? That way I can call, in case I have any questions.”
“I wouldn’t mind. Only problem is, I don’t have a phone.”
Though he didn’t say where he was calling from, I figured Eight-Ball was probably already at work.
“Okay then, how about if I meet you somewhere later on? I’ll take you for a beer.”
“I usually go fishing at the end of the day. Course, you can come by the river and bring a six-pack with you,” he suggested.
That sounded fine. Except that this was a big coastline. I’d need more specific directions than that.
“Are you talking about where you found the dead animals?”
“No, Miss. I ain’t gonna fish there no more. Something’s real wrong with that water. I’m stayin’ with my cousin over on St. Simons. The best fishing around there is a place called Village Creek Landing at the end of South Harrington Road. You know where that is?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll find it.”
The twinge in my chest had now developed into a steady thump. No doubt about it, I was definitely on the track of something big. I put the cell phone away as Alfred reappeared, carrying a tray.
“For the two most beautiful women in Tybee,” he said, serving us each a cup of coffee, along with cranberry muffins. “Sorry it took so long, but I couldn’t locate the muffins anywhere. I finally found them stashed in the linen closet.”
Marie resignedly shook her head as she took a bite. “Naturally. That’s one of Thomas’s favorite hiding places. If he doesn’t start behaving, I might have to get rid of him, too.”
“Don’t say that, dear. He’s really not a bad sort. After all, he lets me spend my time with you,” Alfred gently reminded her.
I finished my coffee and said good-bye. It was only as I headed down the steps that I once again remembered Marie’s warning. I quickly clambered back up, where I caught Marie’s eye just as my head peeked above the floor-boards. Her hand jerked, causing her coffee to spill.
“My goodness, Rachel. You startled me. You look like a decapitated chicken.”
Alfred deftly blotted her off, and I plunged ahead with my question.
“Sorry, but there’s something I wanted to ask. Why did you tell me never to follow an unseen voice at night that’s calling my name?”
Marie’s expression turned deadly serious. “Because it’s dangerous. There’s only one reason why a spirit would call to you. You’re being beckoned to join them in the afterlife.”
Terrific. I should have figured it would be something like that.
The chill that had passed through me now took up permanent residence.
Nine
I flew south on I-95, as much to flee unseen ghosts as to make good time, while punching Gary’s work number into my car phone.
“All right, it’s your turn to come out with me today,” I said by way of hello as he answered the line.<
br />
“Oh, yeah? Whassup?” he asked, in pitch-perfect imitation of an annoying TV commercial. Okay, so it was actually funny the first few times.
“Remember the old man I told you about? The one who was ferrying Williams around the marsh? Well, he just called. It seems Eight-Ball’s been finding lots of dead wildlife along Purvis Creek in Brunswick. And since you know the area, and have a boat, you’re my main man today. He mentioned there were no discernible marks on any of the animals or birds to indicate how they had died. I thought you’d find that of interest.”
“What? You mean nothing to show they’d been bludgeoned, stabbed, or shot by our local contingent of good old boys?” Gary joked.
“Nope. Eight-Ball seems to think it might have something to do with the water.”
“Ah, so now he’s also a part-time biologist.”
“All I know is that Purvis Creek was his favorite fishing spot up until yesterday, and now he won’t go there anymore.”
Gary remained silent for a moment. “Then I guess he must be serious. In which case, it could be any number of things, ranging from a disease outburst to contamination of some sort. What say we take a few samples and see if there’s any truth behind what your friend thinks? I’ll have the boat hitched up and ready to go by the time you get here.”
My Ford tore down the blacktop, bypassing rural towns on a concrete swath of highway that sliced sharp as a butcher’s knife through Georgia. Billboards whizzed past, advertising everything from barbecued pork to pecan pie. My stomach would normally have been growling by now, but my mind was elsewhere. I was thinking of chiggers, black rats, and palmetto bugs and how they all liked to live in Spanish moss. In some ways, it was as deceptive as the beauty of the South. It always came as a surprise to realize that something unbeknownst was slumbering deep inside, cunningly biding its time before choosing to reveal itself.
My car phone abruptly rang and I jumped, having been caught off-guard.
“Hey, Porter. How’s it hangin’?”
I instantly recognized the voice. The caller was Spud. How apropos—just when I was thinking of vermin.
“Everything’s fine, Spud. What’s up with you?”
“Nothing much. Just that I heard you found yourself some performing manatees yesterday. It sure as hell took you long enough. But congratulations, anyway.”
It was as if someone had snuck up from behind, and jabbed me with a shot of adrenaline.
“Why would you think I found something like that?”
“Oh for chrissakes, cut the act, Porter. My old girlfriend called and yelled at me. The bitch is convinced that I dropped a dime on the place.”
I found it funny that his former sweetie should be just as big a blabbermouth as he was.
“And who might this old girlfriend of yours be?”
“A bimbo by the name of Candi Collins.”
Well tie me up and knock me down. I quickly turned the wheel, as I came close to veering off the road. It just went to show there was no accounting for taste, on either of their parts.
“You mean to tell me that you once dated a marine biologist?”
Whatever Spud was munching on must have gone down the wrong way. I waited as he hacked it up, spat it out, and then took a slurp of something.
“Marine biologist, my ass! The only thing Candi knows about fish is how to serve it. And by that I mean, she waited tables at the Huddle House before this manatee water park gig came along.”
Spud had a wonderful way of making me see things from a totally different perspective. I actually found myself beginning to sympathize with Candi.
“Is there a reason for your call, other than to pass some time and shoot the breeze?” I inquired, anxious to end the conversation.
“Yeah. I’ve got a helpful little tip for you. Why don’t you ask Candi how they got all those ugly-ass sea cows in the first place?” he suggested.
“I’ve got an even better idea. Why don’t you just spit it out and save me the time and trouble?”
“Who, me? I don’t know nothing,” Spud blithely responded. “I’m just trying to think of ways to help you along with your job. Sometimes the right word here and there is all it takes. Happy hunting, Porter!” he cheerfully signed off.
My guess was that Candi Collins must have recently dumped Spud’s rear end, proving once again that pissed-off spouses and disgruntled ex-lovers always make the best informants. In any case, it was a connection worth checking out—if for no other reason than to hear Candi’s side of the story.
But Spud’s call had spurred more than just idle curiosity. My suspicions were newly aroused. Something odd was definitely afoot at Wendell’s water park. All it took was one look at the manatees to see they bore no sign of recent injuries—and certainly none that required rehabilitation.
I arrived at Gary’s office to find that he was already waiting outside, with his twelve-foot johnboat hitched up and pertly sitting on its trailer. I chuckled to myself as I caught sight of its tag. The S.S. Lucille had been named after his horse.
“Ah! Take a deep breath, Rach. Don’t you just love the reek of chemical plants and paper mills first thing in the morning?” he asked, expansively thrusting his arms open wide. “Time’s a-wasting. Let’s get going.”
I hopped out of my Ford and into his pickup, nearly squashing a box of Weight Watchers brownies in the process.
“Hey, watch it, Pepper. I don’t work well without my requisite daily supply of snacks,” he said, removing a brownie from its half-crushed box and taking a bite.
We headed out, taking a different route this time, down Newcastle Street, where we passed the defunct Kress Five and Dime, before motoring by old Victorian houses that had once been beautiful in their prime. Run-down bungalows now sprang up beside them, their shabby exteriors partially concealed by ancient live oaks. The trees themselves appeared to be on the move, anxious to leave for better environs, their roots breaking through slabs of concrete pavement to show their displeasure.
After that we drove by the projects, where poverty, crime, and hopelessness all crowded together in a morass of public and low-income housing. Downtown Brunswick was not unlike a chain of wobbly dominoes. One after another, local stores and businesses had taken a tumble, so that this once-thriving town was now struggling to survive.
We swung onto Highway 17 and set our sights directly ahead for the causeway leading to St. Simons. It lay unfurled like a glittering silver strand, and we quickly drove across, leaving Brunswick behind to enter the promised land.
Ba bump. Ba bump. Ba bump.
Each revolution of our tires brought us that much closer, as the reek and filth slipped away like so much fairy dust. Gary’s pick-up veered onto an unmarked road, clearly knowing the way all on its own. We traveled down a concrete ramp that carried us straight into the marsh. Once there, Gary turned the vehicle around and parked. Then we unhitched the S.S. Lucille, and slid it ever-so-neatly into the water.
“It’s all yours, Captain Kirk,” I said, and sat back to enjoy the ride.
The engine kicked in, and a flock of black-and-white wood storks took flight, the graceful flap of their wings so heartstoppingly beautiful that I literally ached inside. I watched until my attention was drawn to a great blue heron that stood as if frozen in time. Thin and elegant, the bird looked as regal as one of the island’s wealthy women, where it posed motionless in the water, silently stalking its prey. Then bending its long graceful neck in an S curve, the heron lashed out without warning, neatly impaling a fish on its sharp, pointed beak.
The world changed yet again as Gary steered back toward Brunswick and Purvis Creek, where seething smokestacks angrily raged against the sky. A trailer park stood on the bank to our left, along with a few listless residents who whiled away the time with fishing poles in hand. Crab buckets merrily floated nearby, looking like little round coffins.
We continued on, puttering in the S.S. Lucille, until we rounded a bend where no one was in sight. Gary turned off the eng
ine.
“Slip these on,” he instructed, handing me a pair of latex gloves and boots, as he did the same.
“Why are we stopping here?” I asked, not seeing any dead critters on the bank.
“Take a look around.”
I had already done so, but did again, hoping to appear smarter than I felt. Big surprise, it didn’t help. I had no idea what I was supposed to be looking at.
Gary finally took pity and focused my attention in the proper direction. “See the grass over there?”
“Uh-huh,” I responded, still not ready to admit that everything looked A-okay to me.
“Well, it’s all the same height, except for one spot to the right where it’s definitely a bit shorter. Not only that, but there’s also a lot of brown and yellow grass mixed in with the green. It’s enough to clue me in that the vegetation is stressed. Now take a gander over to your left and tell me what you see.”
I stared hard, first squinting my eyes and then opening them wide. Maybe I was just imagining things, but it was worth a stab.
“The grass appears to be much greener and the vegetation looks as if it’s growing in a fan shape,” I responded, feeling like a promo for Erma Bombeck’s book, The Grass Is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank.
“Very good,” Gary commented, sounding slightly surprised. “Those are some of the visual tip-offs for a contaminants expert. What it tells me is that something’s not quite right in this place.”
He stepped out of the boat. “Don’t wander off, but stay close to me. Oh yeah. And try to walk in my footsteps.”
I dutifully followed.
Squish, squish, squish.
My rubber boots gently sank into the soft marsh floor, as if I were walking on wet foam rubber. We hadn’t gone very far when something caught my eye. A few dead fish were floating on their sides among a field of spartina grass. They looked as though they’d been steamed, and were ready and waiting to be served for dinner. It took a moment before I realized what was so strange about them. Their skin had been partially sloughed off.
“Hey, Gary. Over here,” I called out.
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