Coastal Disturbance

by Jessica Speart

  I stared at the man in disbelief, remembering something my old boss, Charlie Hickok, had once said.

  It takes forty-two muscles in your face to frown, but only four to smack an asshole upside the head.

  Right about now, that suggestion was sorely tempting.

  “The party’s over, Wendell. You have no rescue and rehabilitation permits, no professional personnel, and no business making money off manatees as if they were a sideshow attraction. I’m personally going to see to it that Manatee Mania is shut down within the next forty-eight hours,” I fumed.

  Wendell calmly strolled back to his seat, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “My, my. I’m beginning to think you could use a little relaxation yourself, Miss Rachel.”

  “I’m not the one that you should be worried about.”

  Holmes sank into the chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “As for closing the water park, I don’t believe that’s gonna happen. In fact, you might wanna check in with your boss. Tell you what. You can even use my phone.”

  Wendell propped his feet on the desk and pushed it toward me. “Go ahead. I don’t mind eating the dime on a long-distance call.”

  Something was definitely wrong. It was clear that Wendell had information I didn’t by the way he was trying to set me up.

  “That’s generous of you, Wendell. But the government still pays for my phone calls.”

  “Maybe not for long,” Holmes replied with an enigmatic smile. “By the way, tell wonder boy Gary Fletcher that he also better behave. Otherwise, your friend’s gonna find himself in a heap a trouble.”

  A sickening feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. If I didn’t leave this instant, I might very well commit homicide.

  “You’ll be hearing from me soon,” I vowed, and flew out the door.

  My feet hardly touched the steps as I raced down them. The screams of children on the waterslide barely penetrated my ears. It was the dull thud of my shoes pounding against the ground that insistently drove the message home.

  Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong.

  The thought consumed me as I rushed past the entrance booth.

  “You didn’t go and disturb Mr. Holmes, did you?” Ma Barker leaned out and yelled.

  I didn’t respond, but jumped in my Ford and tore down the road, jabbing at the car phone with trembling fingers.

  “Agent Lowell speaking.”

  “Did you get the information I sent about Manatee Mania water park?” I demanded, forgoing all pretense of a cordial greeting.

  My question was met with deafening silence. The only explanation was that I must have driven into a dead zone. I pulled off the road, my body shaking from anger and frustration. It was as if all the air inside my vehicle had been mysteriously sucked out as I tried to take a deep breath, hoping to slow the racing of my pulse.

  Count to ten, I told myself.

  Oh, to hell with that. I was about to hang up and redial when Lowell finally spoke.

  “We’re putting this one on the back burner for a while. I want you to lay off.”

  “On the back burner? That’s such an interesting expression, I can’t help but be curious. Exactly what does it mean in this case?” I caustically inquired, my fingers tightly gripping the steering wheel. If it hadn’t been bolted on, I would have pulled the damn thing off.

  “It means just what I said. No action is to be taken at this time.”

  “And why is that?” I persisted, refusing to back down.

  “Because there are other things that take priority,” Lowell replied between clenched teeth.

  “Not in my book, there aren’t. What’s more important than extricating a bunch of endangered manatees from a rinky-dink water park, where they’re being illegally held and commercially exploited?” I seethed. “Go ahead. Please fill me in. I’m dying to hear exactly what it is that takes priority. Or could it be political pressure that has you on the run?”

  This time the silence nearly shouted, so palpable was the tension.

  “I’m not the enemy, Porter. So stop pushing my buttons,” Lowell curtly responded after a moment. “All right, I might as well tell you, since you’re bound to find out anyway. Manatee Mania is receiving a belated permit giving them the right to exhibit manatees.”

  “What are you talking about?” I practically screamed.

  “How can that be? Didn’t you read my report? Don’t you know what’s going on in that place?”

  “I’m just repeating what I learned a few hours ago, myself. An emergency request was filed on their behalf after your visit yesterday. A decision has been made, and the D.C. office is granting them the permit,” Lowell tautly informed me.

  “That’s total insanity!” I exploded, not wanting to believe that it was really true.

  “Possibly, but there’s also nothing you can do. So, I suggest you swallow the pill, bitter as it may be, and move on,” Lowell instructed.

  I almost thought I heard a note of regret in his voice.

  “Listen, Porter. Let me give you a word of advice. It’s a piece of commonsense philosophy that a former head of Interior regularly preached to us. Compromise isn’t the answer some of the time. It’s the answer all of the time. You may not like it, but I strongly advise that you learn to live by that rule.”

  It was my turn to respond in stunned silence. I’d heard those exact words from Clark Williams less than an hour ago. Either the coincidence was extraordinary or—I barely dared believe it—the two were conspiring against me.

  “Oh, yeah. There’s something else I need to tell you before I forget. You’re going to want to pick up a copy of the local paper down there tomorrow morning.”

  “Why?” I asked, my mind still reeling from the discovery.

  “Thanks to you, Fish and Wildlife will be making front-page news.”

  That bit of information jerked me right back to reality.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Read the article and find out. Maybe it’ll clue you in as to why Manatee Mania is getting their permit. One other thing. This is my last warning, Porter. Do yourself a favor, and stay out of trouble.”

  He didn’t say good-bye, but simply hung up.

  My shakiness returned, gripping me stronger than ever. Only now it was fueled by the burning desire to get to the bottom of all this. I had no intention of allowing the manatees to become pawns in a political power game, their fate to die a slow, undignified death.

  I got back on the road and sped down the blacktop, as if racing away from a crime. Truth be told, one was already in progress. It was the destruction of a species for the price of admission to Manatee Mania Water Park.

  If the resources could scream, maybe those in power would finally listen. As it was, I fully intended to do their hollering for them for now.

  Eleven

  I stopped at the first convenience store I passed, and picked up a couple of six-packs. Then I broke at least three different rules by popping open a can and drinking it down. What the hell. Having polished off the first one so quickly, I figured I might as well suck down a second. I sat on the store’s front stoop and proceeded to do that, while mulling over the conversation I’d just had with my boss.

  I now wondered if Lowell was out to get me. Was it possible that he’d surreptitiously sabotaged my case from the very start? Not just with Manatee Mania, but also by betraying me to Clark Williams. How else could he have found out so quickly that I wasn’t supposed to be working on Labor Day?

  Something was making me feel dizzy—either the heat, or the stress, or the beer. Still, I couldn’t stop replaying the conversation in my mind. Nearly as bad was the realization that even Wendell had information from which I’d obviously been excluded.

  You’re simply being paranoid, my inner voice tried to rationalize.

  But no matter how much I told myself that, I kept coming back to the same conclusion—someone up top was out to get me.

  Heading back into the store, I
grabbed a bottle of Mylanta and took a few swigs, then snatched a peek at my watch. It was time to hook up with Eight-Ball. I hopped in my Ford and drove off.

  I followed Eight-Ball’s instructions as best I could, though I was approaching from a different direction. Even so, the landmark he’d told me to watch for soon came into view—Bennie’s Red Barn Restaurant.

  I turned onto South Harrington Road and immediately found myself engulfed in a time warp, as stands of ancient live oak reached out with gnarled limbs to embrace me. No sooner was I pulled into their sphere than I traveled down a stretch of road, through wild, unruly country. This was a place where grapevines grew thick as men’s thighs, and Spanish moss swayed in a hint of breeze like long, bristly horsetails.

  Two giant hands formed the canopy above, whose inter-locking fingers blocked out the late afternoon sun. A stand-in for Woody Woodpecker coyly hid in the foliage, where he hammered out a rhythmic tune. Meanwhile, resurrection fern curled up along twisted tree trunks, withered and gray, waiting for one good rainfall. That’s when the fern would bounce back full and green, proving that life springs eternal. It was then I realized exactly where I was.

  South Harrington is an old black community hidden off the main road—a place filled with history, magic, and beauty. It’s remained much the way the island originally looked hundreds of years ago. The reason being, it was deeded to emancipated slaves after the Civil War and the land has been passed down through each succeeding generation. These direct descendents continue to live on South Harrington today, even as the rest of St. Simons is snapped up and developed for the gentry.

  Brightly painted bungalows, with torn mesh windows and tattered screen doors, sat back off the road; the structures so old that some are original slave cabins. Word had it this area was one of the last holdouts in the island against developers and big money.

  I continued on past a little girl skipping barefoot in a yard of sandy loam. Her hair was pulled back into braids and decorated with bright red ribbons. The child stared at me through big, brown eyes as I drove by, paying little heed to the puppy that playfully nipped at her heels. It made me feel all the more an intruder slinking through a place to which time had now come knocking.

  That perception was further strengthened as another row of shacks came into view. Old women kept watch from dilapidated porches, dressed in raggedy housecoats and plastic shower caps. They all rocked in syncopated time, like a senior citizen chorus line, anchored to wooden chairs that squeaked in perfect unison. But what truly united the women were the handpainted signs that stood diligent as armed guards on each front lawn, bellowing the same angry proclamation.

  DON’T ASK/WON’T SELL!

  It was South Harrington’s version of an outraged scream. Little detective work was required to discover exactly what they were protesting.

  An old house had been razed on a lot across the street, while the tract next to it showed obvious signs of a building in progress. The groundwork for a yuppie McMansion was being laid. But it was the billboard springing up from the ground like a weed that caused me to slam on my brakes.

  FUTURE SITE OF MARSH MEADOWS

  LUXURY HOMES AND CONDOMINIUMS

  A GOLDEN DREAMS DEVELOPMENT!

  Evidently, Clark Williams wasn’t restricting himself to just the north end of the island, but also planned to go full steam ahead in this area.

  I could feel the old women bristling like angry porcupines, wrongly assuming that I was a prospective buyer. I threw the Ford into gear and moved on, not stopping until the road dead-ended at Village Creek Landing. This was where Eight-Ball had said I would find him.

  Grabbing a six-pack, I got out of my vehicle and began to walk along the marsh. The surroundings were so quiet I literally heard oysters popping in their beds, while gnats droned in discordant harmony around my ears.

  Plop!

  I turned in time to catch sight of an otter “belly whopping” down a mudbank on its stomach of rich brown fur. The critter propelled itself even faster with the help of its twelve-inch tail, while chattering away in glee. Had I still been a child, I would gladly have joined him, happily oblivious to the problems of dead critters and sad manatees.

  A moment later, I spotted Eight-Ball and noticed something tied onto his wrist—a cord attached to a cast net. I watched as he lifted the finely woven mesh in both callused hands and twisted his body ever so slightly. Then casting forward, he propelled the net over the water with a quick snap of his wrist. The task was executed in one fluid motion, displaying the grace of a ballet dancer and the precision of an Olympic discus thrower. The net swirled through the air, billowing into a wide circle before landing upon the water. Then it slowly sank, pulled down by tiny lead weights attached to its hem. A snowy egret stood patiently waiting nearby, solemn as an undertaker, as if hoping to partake of the catch.

  I pulled a can of beer from its plastic ring and handed it to Eight-Ball, after which I opened one for myself. I took a sip and my body began to relax as a buzz settled in, lightly vibrating from my toes to the tops of my ears.

  “What are you catching?” I asked, looking down at the water.

  The liquid was dark as Eight-Ball’s skin. A fish jumped, shattering the serene surface, which broke into thousands of viscous splinters. They slowly reconverged into a fairy’s ring of concentric circles.

  “Shrimp for tonight’s dinner.”

  The words whistled between what few front teeth he had left, and his watery eyes looked tired and red.

  He slowly drew the net up from the water, pulling on its cord so that the web closed tight as a drawstring purse around its prey. Water dripped off the plastic filament to land on my feet, as an array of fish and shrimp futilely flopped about inside the mesh. Eight-Ball transferred the contents into a blue ice chest, and then threw the net into the air once more. This time, it resembled a petticoat that flew through the sky with an effortless whooosh, as if tossed by a bride eager to shed her garments.

  “I want to thank you for calling me with that tip about Purvis Creek,” I said, as the net disappeared under the water.

  “I went out this morning and took some samples. We should know soon enough if there’s a problem.”

  “Oh, there’s a problem, all right,” Eight-Ball confirmed.

  “I know cause there ain’t nearly as many blue crab, whiting, and redfish as there used to be. I just kept going there anyways cause it was easy to get to, and ya gotta fish if ya wanna eat. Which is why I’m real glad to be back home again on St. Simons. There ain’t any dead critters or birds floatin’ around in these waters.”

  Eight-Ball discreetly glanced my way, probably to see if I was disappointed.

  “But there’s lotsa dead things in other spots around Purvis that I can take you to,” he eagerly offered. His lips continuously moved over his gums, as though trying hard to dislodge something.

  Eight-Ball filled a moment of silence by polishing off his beer. I promptly opened a second and gave it to him. It was then I noticed the tremors running through both his hands, as he lifted the can and took a sip. Though I tried my best not to stare, I couldn’t help but be curious. I wondered if Eight-Ball possibly had Parkinson’s. A relative of mine had contracted the disease and, to this day, I remembered the way she would shake. I decided not to ask anything too personal yet, but to stick with more routine questions.

  “So tell me. How did you and Clark Williams first meet?”

  “Mr. Williams? Well, he comes around a lot where I work. You know, he’s friends with my boss and all. In fact, it was Mr. Drapkin introduced us. He told Mr. Williams how I know lots about fishing and the marsh. And it’s true, I surely do. Pretty much like the back of my hand,” Eight-Ball said with pride.

  I believed him. He’d probably grown up in this area and had explored every creek and stream as a child.

  “There’s only one place on this island where I never did fish,” he added.

  “Really? Where’s that?” Maybe there was something ba
d on St. Simons, after all.

  “Ebo Landing right close to here, down along Dunbar Creek.”

  “Why? What’s the problem?”

  Eight-Ball’s eyes wandered over the water and he cocked his head, as if listening to a sound I couldn’t hear. “Africans snatched from the Ebo Tribe drowned themselves there, every last one of ’em, rather than become slaves when they were shipped over here to Georgia.”

  My limbs turned icy cold, and I shoved my hands deep into my pockets.

  “You can’t fish there no more anyway, even if you wanted. Not since they built all those big fancy houses with private docks. But it don’t matter none. Truth be told, you couldn’t pay me to go there no way, no how. I ain’t lyin’ to you when I say that Ebo Landing surely is haunted.”

  I didn’t feel the need to respond after my own experience last night. Instead, I wanted to get off the topic as quickly as possible.

  “You never told me exactly what it is that you do at DRG,” I said, deftly changing the subject.

  “Oh, you know. A little of this, a little of that. Whatever’s needed.” But his eyes kept drifting back over the water.

  “Just general handyman stuff to keep the place running.”

  Then I asked a question I’d been curious about ever since we’d first met.

  “Why are you called Eight-Ball?”

  A bittersweet smile flitted across his face. “It’s ’cause I got a knack for telling the future. Turns out it’s both a blessing and a curse. Sometimes even those in the spirit world get jealous of me. That’s why I’m so tired today. The hag came and rode me last night.”

  I almost hated to ask. “A hag?”

  “Why, it’s a spirit that every man can expect to meet at least once in his life. She comes to the door, takes off her skin, leaves it on the floor, and then rides you through the night, returning you to your bed in the morning.”

  Uh-huh. What it sounded like was one too many evenings spent watching the Playboy Channel.

  “You may think you’re hollerin’, but you can’t even speak. She’ll do it till you get so tired you’re barely alive. But I took care of it last night, alright. She won’t be comin’ back and botherin’ me no more.”