by A. J Tata
“I’m telling you I saw him in the water swimming! He didn’t kill anyone! Especially Miller,” the female voice said. The two were walking inside the police station and the voices carried.
“We don’t know that just yet, Lindy. Rollie’s in there questioning him now and the Coast Guard called about him the other day, so I’ve got to call them, too. We’re pretty devastated about Miller and concerned about J.J.”
“Rollie’s a moron and you know it. Why in the hell would you trust him with something like this?”
On that note, Mahegan looked at Williams, turned his lip up a fraction, and locked his eyes on Williams’s round, meaty face.
“Your wife?” Mahegan prodded.
Williams was up and moving around the table toward Mahegan. Mahegan stood in time to position himself with Williams in between him and Johnnie Walker, figuring Walker for the better fighter. This alignment would force them to fight him piecemeal, one at a time.
“Sit down, asshole,” Williams screamed.
Mahegan was a good ten inches taller and much broader than the heavyset deputy. He thought he saw Walker swallow hard. Williams stopped about two feet from him.
Walker was moving now toward the opposite corner and Mahegan shifted to his right just enough to keep Williams coincident with his line of sight on Walker. They were opposite ends of an invisible line that had Williams as its center.
“What the hell is going on in here?” Johnson said, opening the barred door. Mahegan had rotated into the southeast corner while Walker had mirrored him into the northwest corner. Williams, Mahegan guessed, was scared, so he stayed where he was.
“I’m thinking we need to lock him up, sheriff,” Williams said.
“Well then, why didn’t you cuff him? Big guy like this and you’re in here playing around like you want to kick his ass. You’re armed and you’ve got Walker in here, and we all know he’s nothing but a big teddy bear, so knock this bullshit off.”
Teddy Bear. Mahegan’s cheek twitched, the closest he had come to smiling in a long time. His crow’s-feet crinkled slightly on the left side.
“You can fight?” Johnson said. “You move around like a boxer.”
“I can defend myself, if that’s what you’re asking. What happened to your congressman in Duck?” Mahegan said.
“I got diverted by an eyewitness out here that says she saw you swimming in the sound. Says she was kayaking out there and saw you take old man Midgett’s johnboat out early, tie it off at the buoy outside Millionaires’ Row, and then swim into the sound. The medical examiner has already looked at the body and given me twenty-four hours as Miller Royes’s time of death. So that means you couldn’t have done it today, though you could have done it a day or two ago and were looking for the body.”
Johnson let it hang out there like a question.
“That make sense to you, sheriff?”
“Not really, but you’re not denying it.”
“I didn’t do it. Why would I reveal my own crime? This falls into the no good deed goes unpunished category. I’m not from here, so you treat me like I not only have no rights but that I don’t know anything about what’s supposed to happen in here. You’ve got Barney Fife and Teddy Bear in here and you’re lucky I didn’t have to defend myself.”
“I need a statement from you that details what you saw and what you did. Then I’m going to direct that you not leave Roanoke Island until we get a bit more fidelity on this issue. Especially since we’ve got another man missing. Might have something to do with those Copperhead folks.”
“I can do the statement, but I’m heading to Arlington, Virginia, tonight or tomorrow.”
“Not going to happen. I’ll lock you up if you’re telling me you’re a flight risk.”
Mahegan thought about it a moment. “I’m not a flight risk.” Of course, he was a flight certainty, but he would come back after he had visited Colgate.
He provided his statement, which took another hour, signed it, and then was brought forward by a different deputy, who had him sign out of the log and told him, “Wait for the sheriff.”
As he waited, Mahegan looked through the window and saw the black pickup truck cruise slowly past the parking lot.
Chapter 7
Mahegan studied the walls inside the police station. Little League trophies lined the bookcase in the foyer. There was a low shelf that ran along the length of the building, separating the civilians from the police. The two green ledger books Mahegan had just signed were open on the shelf.
“Have a seat,” Johnson said, leading Mahegan into his office. The sheriff was holding a manila folder with Mahegan’s name on it.
“You understand I have to be thorough here, correct?”
Mahegan nodded and sat in a gray padded chair.
“Ever been here before? To Roanoke Island?”
Mahegan nodded again. He remembered his father telling him about the Lost Colony that had once resided on Roanoke Island but had strangely disappeared in 1588. As part of his father’s never-ending search for their roots, they had explored the entire Outer Banks one year.
“My dad brought me here once. We studied the Lost Colony, debated the two theories that either the Croatan killed the settlers or helped them.”
“Where do you come down on the issue?”
“I figured the Englishmen got bored with the whole settlement thing, had been eyeing the squaws, and started nailing some Croatan ass.”
“Could be,” Johnson said. He kept a straight face. “Birth certificate says Frisco? But the database shows something happened in Maxton, North Carolina, too.”
Mahegan hesitated. He didn’t want to revisit the Maxton issue until he had enough information to do something about it. He thought of his mother in Frisco: blond hair, freckles across the bridge of her nose, and willowy, like a runway model. She was constantly teaching him about the sea and his Native American heritage. Then he thought about the move and all they had left behind in Frisco and all that he had lost.
“Yes, born on Hatteras Island. When I was a teenager, we moved to Robeson County, where there were more jobs for Native Americans. The Lumbee tribe is there.”
Mahegan spoke in clipped sentences, the only way to control his ragged emotions that he associated with the contrasting memories of his peaceful childhood in Frisco and the violence he had experienced in Maxton.
“You’ve got a sealed juvenile file. Care to explain?”
“Nothing to explain. Sealed for a purpose, sheriff.”
“News reports say your mother was killed by a group of rednecks bearing Confederate flag tattoos and shouting, ‘Indian lover bitch.’ That’s got to give a kid some rage, right? Enough to . . . kill? And like it?”
“You seriously want to go there with me?”
Mahegan’s anger began to surface. He had compartmentalized his mother’s death and what he had done afterward.
“Point is, there might be precedent here for murder,” Johnson said.
Lightning flashed in Mahegan’s mind.
“I was fourteen. Four men raped and killed my mother. I came home while it was happening . . . and defended myself.” As a nearly six-foot-tall fourteen-year-old, he had critically injured all four of his mother’s assailants. The memory was like shards of glass slicing through his heart.
“Shows you spent two years in the juvenile system. Just doesn’t say what for.”
After two years in the juvenile homes, he had disconnected from society, lost without his parents. His mother was gone and his father disappeared, heartbroken. He didn’t blame his father for vanishing because Mahegan remembered his own inner compass then spinning wildly out of control, lost without bearing.
“That file ought to show you I got my shit together, too.”
“It does. Shows you joined when you were seventeen. Took some college classes, made it through basic, airborne, Ranger, and even made officer. Then Delta. But with an asterisk.”
“Asterisk is none of your business, sheriff.
”
Johnson looked up at Mahegan through sun-baked eyelids, then back at the report.
The asterisk, Mahegan knew, was the diagnosis of impulsive, aggressive behavior.
The doctor had said, “Probably traceable to the attack on his mother.” Mahegan had wanted to pummel the doctor, but hadn’t, and he later proffered that as an explanation to General Savage on how he could keep it under control.
Johnson flipped the folder shut and stared at Mahegan.
“And the dishonorable discharge?”
“That’s pending,” Mahegan said, less confident this time.
“Like football referees watching an instant replay? Currently under review?”
“I don’t watch much television, sheriff. I served honorably and there’s one ass hamster who wants to use me for his political gain. Feel free to read up on that on your own time, but it’s bullshit.” Mahegan had appreciated Savage’s terminology for General Bream.
Mahegan studied Johnson as he paused. The man wore a thoughtful expression, pensive, as if he was reflecting on his own run-ins with people trying to tear him down. As a politician, Mahegan figured, Johnson had to have experience with that.
“You’re free to go,” Johnson said. “I find out you’ve left town, I’ll find you and throw your ass in jail. You’re staying with Midgett, so check in with me or one of my deputies every day.”
“Me not being from here and all,” Mahegan said.
Johnson looked at Mahegan’s Ranger tab tattoo, paused, and said, “Listen. Thanks for bringing in the body. It’s not every day we get one of these. I know you served our country. I’m former Navy myself. Good luck with the discharge determination.”
Mahegan nodded, and then said, “Knife?”
Johnson shook his head.
“Holding it for evidence . . . and as insurance.”
Mahegan locked eyes with the man for a long moment. A thousand megawatts of current were coursing through his veins and he was pulling back on the urge to react violently. What had made him such a good soldier and leader was exactly his ability to feel the raw emotion while keeping it in check. Mostly. Except for a few instances such as Hoxha the bomb maker. What he was feeling now was somewhere halfway between normal and what he felt when he heard the bomb destroy Colgate’s vehicle. He could feel the combination of the brutal deaths of his mother and his best friend weld together to form a formidable catalyst in his mind. An undercurrent of emotion, which he could not afford and now struggled with daily, was usurping his reason. So he worked hard at suppressing the anguish and all of the anger that welled forth.
Mahegan shook his head. “I’m getting my knife back,” he said, and stepped past Johnson into the hot September sun.
As he began to walk the mile back to the Queen Anne’s Revenge, he heard a familiar voice.
“Hey, you. Swimming guy.”
He stopped and saw a blond female who was probably in her mid-twenties. She was wearing a neon pink bikini top with a half T-shirt torn so that the left shoulder was exposed. On the shirt were the letters “OBX” shorthand for “Outer Banks.” Wearing Daisy Dukes and Tevas, she was leaning against a yellow Land Rover Defender, complete with brush-guard and a rack of four spotlights fixed to the black roll bar. Mahegan knew that this was not an inexpensive vehicle. She was wearing black Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses.
“Yeah, I’m talking to you,” she said, pointing at him. “I saw that in there. Pretty good. Rollie’s an idiot. Glad you’re out.”
He noticed her voice had an Elizabethan English lilt to it. He remembered the distinctive dialect of the Outer Banks from his childhood.
She walked over and held out a slender hand. “Hi. I’m Lindy Locklear and I officially busted your ass out of jail.”
Mahegan nodded. “Thank you.”
Her grip was strong, teeth perfect, face flawless, and her muscles cut tightly beneath bronze skin. She had parked at the far end of the lot and nodded toward her Land Rover.
“C’mon. I’ll give you a lift back.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because you intrigue me?” She playfully tossed the comment out as a question.
“I could be a serial killer,” Mahegan quipped.
“That would be the most interesting date I’ve had down here.”
“Date?”
“Yeah. You’re going to buy me dinner on the way back as a thank-you for vouching for you.”
Mahegan contemplated his choices. Walk back barefoot along the hot pavement from the jail to the Queen Anne’s Revenge or catch a lift with this attractive woman who only asked for some chow in return for breaking him out of his bind.
“I can grab a quick bite. I have someplace to be,” he said thinking of Colgate.
“Well, hope it’s on the island here, right?” she said, coyly.
Mahegan looked away and then back at her, thinking he would find a way to get to Virginia in the next twenty-four hours. “Okay. It’ll have to be an IOU, though, unless I get my stuff first.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “I’ll buy. They rough you up?”
Mahegan looked at her. “What do you think?”
She looked at him, then said, “Didn’t think so,” and walked to her Land Rover. Mahegan followed.
As they pulled out, he looked back at the police station. The sheriff was standing at the window, watching them.
Chapter 8
Lindy Locklear drove the Land Rover like a pro, shifting effortlessly. The wind tossed her hair like a long yellow scarf blowing in the breeze.
“Mind if I get a shirt first?” he asked. “Maybe some shoes?”
She reached back into the flatbed where four seats faced each other in the unique British design and grabbed his mocs.
“Here. Try these on.” She tossed them on his lap and looked down at his chiseled frame. “Since I’m driving and it’s not cold out, I say ‘no’ to the shirt. Besides, you don’t need one where we’re going.”
Mahegan thought a moment and said, “You grab these from the boat or did the sheriff give them to you?”
“I kayak every morning right off the beach by my house. I take these binos with me and watch,” she said, holding a pair of Bushnell Elite 8x43 binoculars.
Mahegan looked at the binos and then at her. “Those are for hunting, not watching.”
The corner of Locklear’s mouth twitched before she broke into a grin and looked at him. “Maybe I’m doing both.”
“So, from a half mile away you’ve been watching me swim the past week?”
“Yep.” She smiled.
“What were you looking for before you were watching me?”
Locklear slowed the Land Rover as she wound through a series of roads that led past a high school, a botanical garden, and finally a gate, which was open. Warm air spilled over the windshield and through the open half doors. She pulled onto a gravel road that paralleled the beach. He knew they were at the north end of the island and moving west, as they had just passed a sign for the Lost Colony Theater.
The gravel road ended at a quaint tan bungalow that appeared to be half home and half office. A sign on the front of the building read: CROATAN HISTORICAL SOCIETY.
“I thought we were eating?”
She jumped out of the Rover and jogged past the bungalow onto a small beach that sat on the tip of Roanoke Island. The sun was hanging low in the western sky and in about an hour they would have an unobstructed view of the sunset in the nexus between Croatan Sound and Albemarle Sound to the north. Mahegan could hear the slight buzzing of traffic whipping across Route 64 and it reminded him that he needed to ask Sam Midgett to borrow his truck.
“I just need to pick something up,” she called over her shoulder. Mahegan watched her take two steps with one leap onto the covered porch that faced north. He stepped out of the vehicle, took two strides, and stopped. He stared at a ship in the sound to the north about a half mile out. It appeared anchored, or at least stationary, and seemed to be a replica of an ol
d sailing ship. Mahegan didn’t know his boats as well as he’d like, but maybe it was a brig or a simple merchant carrier. There were black holes dotting the side of the ship like windows and it occurred to him that they might be a battery of cannons. The bow of the ship was angled to the northwest and the sails were wrapped tightly around the three massive masts.
For a better look, he reached inside the Land Rover and pulled out the powerful binoculars, held them to his face, adjusted the eyepieces to fit his vision, and zeroed in on the bow of the ship.
Painted in gold letters were two words.
Teach’s Pet.
Intrigued, Mahegan slid the binoculars along the starboard side of the ship and noticed that the portholes were squares and housed either replicas or actual cannons. Interesting. He noticed ropes and lines coiled tightly around the masts. The ship was motionless, dark, uninhabited.
Hearing a noise to his rear, he turned slowly, moving to put the Rover between himself and the noise. A dense wooded area separated the bungalow and beach from the road on which they had traveled inbound. He used the binoculars to scan the forest and caught some movement. It was just a flash of light, could have been anything, but Mahegan was experienced enough to trust his instincts.
He had spent the better half of a day recovering a dead body, being questioned, and filling out a statement, and now he was trapped on the sand between an unknown entity lurking in the woods and a row of cannons on the Teach’s Pet, which he now knew was a ship’s name.
Mahegan placed the binoculars in the front passenger seat and was about to move into the first cut of the woods when Locklear came charging out of the bungalow, Tevas slapping against the wooden porch and blond hair trailing behind her like a vortex.
“Why didn’t you come in?” she asked. Mahegan noticed she had placed a gold necklace around her neck, which suspended a large gold C on the torn T-shirt above her moderate breasts. The way she came bounding off the porch demonstrated an athleticism that smacked of lacrosse or maybe field hockey, though she was tall enough to have played basketball.
“Wasn’t invited,” he said, keeping his eyes on the forest. He noticed a mixture of tall oak, birch, and maple spotted with a lower canopy of dogwood and magnolia. The density of the forest, so close to the beach, surprised him.