Some People Die Quick

by JC Simmons

  Anna turned and looked at me, then turned away. Almost imperceptibly, she said, "The birds sound so wonderful in the still of the early morning."

  "Yes, you're right."

  "I'm so sorry I woke you."

  "It was time for me to get up. Would you like some breakfast?"

  "No, thank you." She laughed softly, looked up at the few remaining stars. "Not after all I ate last night. The coffee will do fine."

  "I talked with Guy Robbins yesterday. I'm to meet with him after lunch. If it's okay, I'll ride back to the coast with you. I'll rent a car down there."

  "You talked to Guy yesterday?"

  "Yes, I wanted to make sure you weren't some weird character with a strange made up story, contrived to lead me to my worst enemies."

  It was a joke, but when she responded the way she did, I felt terrible.

  She looked down at the ground. "Yes, I do look the part. I wish so desperately that I didn't."

  She turned and walked back into the house. There was nothing I could say.

  After I'd thrown my ditty bag in the trunk of Anna's car, I found that her mood had changed. She was now cheerful and ready to travel. It was obviously something she had been dealing with for two years. The mental scars weren't completely healed, and I had not helped the situation one bit.

  She allowed me to drive, as she was still tired from the medical exams of yesterday. The trip to Gulfport was a good one. The sky was clear except for a few mare's-tails that fanned out high up in the cold air of the atmosphere. When we passed through the small town of Wiggins I had a fleeting memory of a tough case I worked a few years ago involving the death of a beautiful young lady. Seeing Anna reminded me of her. At least Anna was still alive. I would do my best to see that she stayed that way.

  Anna would remain silent for long periods of time, and then all of a sudden something would trigger her, a low flying airplane, a brightly colored car, or a pretty scope of longleaf pines in a field of green clover. She would start to talk easily, freely, about her life and her work. She was winning the struggle.

  Anna had grown up in San Francisco. Her family migrated from the Marquesas Islands around the middle of the eighteen hundreds. They earned their living as fishermen in the Bay area. Her father had been lost at sea when Anna was eighteen. Her mother never recovered from the loss, and died shortly after from a broken heart.

  With a small insurance policy from her mother's death and, by liquidating the family assets, Anna put herself through Stanford University. She earned a Ph.D. in Marine Biology by the time she was twenty-five years old. From Stanford, she traveled to the little fishing village of Ghardaqa, on the Egyptian coast of the Red Sea. There, she studied fishes for a year as a Fulbright Scholar.

  It was during this year that she discovered the Moses Sole; a flatfish which had the remarkable ability to repel sharks from eating it by secreting a milky substance from glands located on its upper body. Anna became extremely interested in this research. As a result, she received a Federal grant to continue with this field of study.

  Anna selected the Gulf Coast of Mississippi to do her research, mainly due to the invitation of the State Marine Fisheries, and the abundance of the Charcharhinus Leucas, the Bull Shark. The C. Leucas migrates in great numbers to the barrier islands of the Mississippi Sound to bear their young.

  Anna set up her lab on Cat Island, a privately owned, odd-shaped spit of land twelve miles off the coast of Gulfport. There she began her research with the Bull Shark. For a year things were in a state of halcyon bliss. She had been given a house to stay in by the owners of the island. The State furnished her a lab, a twenty-foot boat, and sent supplies every other day from the mainland.

  Two graduate students in marine biology from the State University were sent down to study with her, and to help with the research. She was so busy and so happy with her work that she rarely ever left the island.

  During one of her lulls in conversation I asked what was so important about her research.

  She answered without hesitation. "One of the aims of every shark researcher has been to find an effective repellent; one which could be used by swimmers, scuba divers, victims of either airplane or shipping accidents, or by anyone else who enters waters known to be frequented by dangerous sharks."

  Slowing for a log truck making a wide turn into a lumberyard, I said, "Yes, that would be beneficial. The news media has been full of increased shark attacks along Alabama and Florida's beaches this year."

  "To date there has never been a repellent that would deter a shark. The Navy developed a dye which was supposed to turn away an attack, but statistics proved this was mostly for the moral support of the person in the water, rather than any actual help in warding off the shark."

  She paused, looked out the window. Urging her on, I said that I had read of downed pilots in World War Two who had used the chemical, Shark Chaser. They said the sharks would swim through it without any visible effects.

  She turned back toward me, putting her feet up under her on the seat. "Scientists have tried many chemicals. Some seemed effective, such as maleic acid, and copper sulfate. They even tried decomposing shark meat, which studies showed exuded ammonium acetate. But the feeding mechanism of the shark is a very complex, well-developed system. It has stood the time of three hundred million years. Each of the more than two hundred and fifty species of shark can react differently. Even individual ones of a common species will go against the norm. Then there is the phenomenon of the feeding frenzy. When this occurs, sharks will eat anything, including each other."

  Having once seen this awesome event take place, I asked, "Have you made any progress with the feeding frenzy research?"

  "Yes, I'll show you some papers we've written on the subject when we get out to Cat Island."

  We arrived in Gulfport around eleven-thirty. Anna said that she was hungry, so we drove to Lil Ray's Seafood House where we feasted on gumbo and fried shrimp.

  After lunch, we drove to the Broadwater Marina where Anna had left her boat moored. It was the same marina Guy Robbins kept his sailboat, Picaroon. A gambling casino had recently moved a houseboat into the marina and was in the process of building a new hotel complex. Eventually all the pleasure boats were to be moved out of the place so people could donate their dollars to chance. A sad situation, but progress for the coast.

  Anna said that she would run out to Cat Island and wait for me. I told her that my meeting with Guy would not take more than a couple of hours, and that I would get him to run me out to the island. When asked if she could make the trip alone, as the Mississippi Sound looked choppy, she laughed, reminding me that she had been making this run for over three years without mishap, and could probably find her way back today.

  Her boat was at the fuel dock. I helped with the lines and watched as she expertly maneuvered out into the channel. I watched until she was outside the markers, headed toward Cat Island. The Sound was rough, but she was having no problem.

  Driving around the marina to slip 117, where Guy Robbins kept Picaroon, I found that he was late, so I walked along the dock looking at the other boats. There were sportfishermen, charter boats, sailboats, and several big ego massaging cruising yachts. Most of them horribly unseaworthy, but they rarely ever left the dock, so it didn't matter.

  Growing tired of wandering around, I returned to Picaroon and was sitting in the cockpit when Guy drove up.

  "Sorry about being late," he said as he jumped aboard. "Got tied up with the hanging Judge."

  He knew I would remember Judge Thomas. He tried to send me to the state penitentiary for something that he knew I had nothing to do with. He did not like private investigators. One had supplied compromising photos when the Judge was involved in his own divorce.

  "You want to take the boat out? Do some sailing?"

  "I want you to run me over to Cat Island. We can talk on the way."

  "You going to stay on the island? I thought you wanted to stay aboard Picaroon?"

  "
Anna said she had a spare bunk. I want to get the lay of the place. She will bring me back tomorrow. I'll need the boat then."

  We made Picaroon ready to get underway. She was a fine sailing vessel. Her overall length was forty feet, with thirty-six feet of waterline; she had a hull speed of a little over eight knots. With a twelve-foot beam, she drew five and a half feet when loaded. A Colven Archer design, built in St. Augustine, Florida, she was double ended, with a radius-chined steel hull. She was sloop rigged. Picaroon was as strong and as seaworthy as any boat of her class that I had ever sailed.

  Guy didn't take her out of the Sound, which was a real shame, because she was a true ocean-going, bluewater sailboat. He was an expert coastal navigator, but had no open water navigational experience, and would not learn. He stayed close around the barrier islands.

  I had gone with Guy to Key West to sail her back to Gulfport after he bought her. We had followed a hurricane across the Gulf of Mexico. It was a good sea trial, and she had performed admirably.

  We motored out of the Broadwater Marina and, when we passed the last channel marker, Guy kindly gave me the helm. The tree line of Cat Island was already visible on the horizon.

  "You know, Jay, you should move your office down to the coast. Every case you've had lately causes you to end up here."

  "Maybe one day." We watched a line of birds form an erratic zig zag pattern low on the water. "If you'll sell me Picaroon. She can be my office and home."

  He clutched his heart. "Anything but this old girl. You know I wouldn't part with her for any amount of money."

  "Don't blame you."

  We sailed in silence, enjoying the rising and falling of the bow in the choppy water, the salty spray on our faces.

  "Tell me what you know about Anna. Why did she come to you about hiring a private investigator? Did you represent her in some legal matter?"

  He wiped at some invisible smudge on the cockpit combing. "I do a lot of work for the university. When the accident happened, they asked me to look into it. They were funding a great deal of the project Anna was working on. I handled the paperwork for the State and the Feds. So I already knew Anna. There is not a lot I can tell you. As soon as she was able to have visitors I went to see her in the hospital, more so to let her know she had friends who were going to look after her and help any way that we could. It was important for her to know that she had friends. She has no other family.

  "What do you think happened?"

  Guy thought for a minute before he answered. "The obvious conclusion is that it was a simple accident, but she kept saying some complicated stuff about an attempt on her life. Everyone involved, including the police, doctors, and Coast Guard, thought she was having some problems with all the medications it took to kill the pain and keep infections down. We thought she was hallucinating."

  "It sounds as if she had a really rough go. She must be one tough lady."

  "This girl was really messed up, Jay." Guy shook his head. "The surgeons didn't think she was going to make it, but she had a strong will to live. It was six months after the accident before she got someone to listen to her. By then the trail was cold as ice, and seemed extremely complex scientifically."

  "How did she finally convince someone to listen to her?"

  "I don't know if she really did. The police looked into it to get her off their back. They found nothing."

  "Do you still believe it was the medication?"

  He scratched his chin. "I thought at first it was a routine shark attack, but after she got off the narcotics and was able to be trusted in what she was telling, I believed every word she said. Don't ask me why, because it's as far-fetched as anything I've ever heard. Then two weeks ago she was threatened again. That's when I thought of you. You are knowledgeable in the areas involved. You think you can help her?"

  "Sure going to try."

  We passed behind a large ship as we crossed the deep-water channel leading into the Gulfport harbor. She was of Bolivian registry, and was probably bringing a load of bananas from South America. She was rusty and ugly, and it would surprise me if she could survive a good blow. I felt sorry for the crewmen aboard.

  We rounded the north point of Cat Island and came in behind the broad sand beach that faced east. The island always reminded me of a hammerhead shark when seen from the air or a chart. The origin of the name has eluded me.

  There is a narrow channel that runs up to the only boat dock on the island. The chart showed six feet at mean high water. We were concerned with getting Picaroon into and out of the channel. Arriving at the entrance, we found Anna waiting in her small boat. Jumping off Picaroon, I waved good-bye to Guy.

  We waited until he rounded the headland, then Anna eased the little Mako runabout up into the narrow, shallow channel. Picaroon would never have made it without running aground.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Cat Island lies low in the water; its broad white sand beach, which faces east, creates a constant pounding of the surf from the prevailing winds. Many hundreds of feet of beach have eroded away over the years, only to be replaced in other years from sand washing out of the mouth of the Mississippi River, thirty miles to the south; a continuing process played over and over by Mother Nature.

  The island is covered in old growth, short leaf pines. The trees cannot be cut because of sand imbedded in the wood. The owners bought the island originally to raise cattle. Unable to harvest the pines and having whole herds of cattle wash out to sea during seasonal hurricanes, they gave up and donated the land to the State for use in research projects.

  Anna let her boat glide slowly up to the narrow dock. Old pilings banded in groups of three were covered with years of guano. They were standing the test of time, and all were still firmly set in the seabed.

  We made the lines fast and walked the winding shell-laden path up toward the house. A southeast wind was rolling breakers ashore on the beach, and the sound of the surf echoed across the island. Seabirds, feeding at the high water line, wheeled and soared as they fought for food. The smell of the sea and salt air enveloped us.

  We rounded a turn in the path and suddenly there was the house. It surprised me; I had not expected it to be so big. Located in a grove of water oaks on the highest point of land, it seemed out of place on such a small island.

  Anna showed me through the house. It was strangely quiet and empty. Built of Georgia pine, it was designed with an open ceiling supported by massive twelve-inch square beams and two by twelve-inch planking. A covered porch ran around all four sides. The structure had withstood some pretty severe blows, not to mention Hurricane Camille, and appeared to be able to weather many more.

  A fireplace, built from colorful sandstone blocks, was big enough to stand up inside. The living room was twenty foot square and, down a single hallway, off the living room, were four bedrooms, each with its own bath. There was a huge kitchen with a walk-in pantry, and something I had not seen in a long time; an old, four burner, wood stove sitting alongside a gas one. Power outages or gas shortages would be of no concern for the occupants. Electricity was supplied from a single diesel generator located in its own shed twenty yards from the main house.

  Anna guided me down the hallway to a ladder that led to the roof. A square balcony had been added to the top of the house and there was a tremendous view of the entire island. The view would be spectacular on a clear night. The balcony had not been an afterthought to the original builder.

  Someone spent some money building this house. It was isolated and twelve miles over open water to the nearest neighbor. I guess whoever built it thought they had better do it right.

  Anna showed me to one of the empty bedrooms. She said that after I had freshened up we'd go down to the lab and meet her two graduate assistants.

  Putting my ditty bag on the bed, I looked around. The bedroom was small compared to the rest of the house. Even with its own bathroom and shower it reminded me of a college dorm room. However the bedroom was functional, and obviously designed only
for sleeping.

  Walking back down the hall to the living room, I found Anna sitting, facing the huge, empty fireplace. She seemed like a child, only I knew there was a lot going on in that scientifically oriented brain. There must be a way to penetrate her thoughts, get inside her psyche. A lingering feeling told me that she was not telling everything she knew. There was no way to put a finger on it, but the feeling was there.

  Standing silently behind her chair looking at her, I remembered Guy saying she had received recent threats. For some reason she failed to mention them to me.

  "I can feel you behind me, Jay," she said suddenly, startling me. "Are you looking at what's left of this ruined body?"

  "Why didn't you tell me about the recent threats?"

  She stood and faced me, arms crossed over her stomach. "The ones that came to Guy's office? They don't mean anything. Probably environmentalists. Extremists are always doing something, making threats on any scientific endeavor they feel may harm a single scale on a fish. Don't get me wrong, I'm an environmentalist at heart. I just grow tired of the radicals. God knows we had them in San Francisco. Maybe the world needs them in order to change some things."

  Ignoring the bleeding heart argument, I said firmly without being ugly, "From now on, you let me be the judge of what threats are serious and those that we ignore."

  She smiled as best she could. "By all means. It's your ballgame." Turning and starting toward the front door, she beckoned me. "Come, we'll go to the lab before it gets too dark."

  There were no vehicles on the island, but there were roads, not paved ones, but narrow lanes lined with seashells. They had been bulldozed throughout the island as a means to harvest the pines. Now, except for the ones used by the scientists, the land was reclaiming them.

  As we exited the house, the wind had calmed, but we could still hear the surf pounding on the beach. Shells crunched under our feet, crabs scurried sideways out of our path. The road curved south, then back east, toward the ocean.

  Following behind Anna, I watched her quick, athletic movements. The road suddenly stopped, and we gazed upon a broad expanse of white sand, the crest of the rolling surf sparkling in the late sun. To our left was the lab. Built high upon a dune, thirty feet above the tide line, its construction was of a clapboard rectangle and painted a refrigerator white. Later I was to learn that the bright color enabled the lab to be used as a marker from seaward.