by JC Simmons
When she finally looked at me, I saw only puzzled helplessness; the face calm, but something about it made me wish that she didn't have to discover such sadness.
"You are a son-of-a-bitch, Leicester, and you've got it so wrong. Yes, I was in love with Anna, I still care for her a great deal. But now it's not that kind of love. We went through all that. We worked it all out."
There was both serenity and suffering in her expression, like a smile of pain, only she wasn't smiling.
"I'll tell you something else, since you've got it all figured out, Mr. Private Investigator, I've never had a homosexual experience in my life. When I fell in love with Anna, it turned my whole world upside down. I didn't know if I was a lesbian, or if I was just going crazy. I didn't know what was going on with me."
She did not look like a woman being tortured now, but like a woman who sees that which makes the torture worth bearing.
"When I started having such deep feelings for Anna, I became confused. I didn't know what my feelings were any more. I've never loved a man, or anyone else, as much as I loved Anna Yillah. We were with each other every day for eight years. We dated men all through college."
Shifting uneasily in the cockpit, I realized this woman was baring her soul, and it made me uncomfortable. A tension pulled at the corners of her mouth, drawing the skin taut, giving them the edged prominence of a holocaust survivor.
"Going to work with Anna on Cat Island made me the happiest person on the face of the earth. We did some brilliant work together, made some important discoveries.
"One night after dinner we went for a long walk on the beach and I told her how I felt. She stopped and looked at me for a long time. It was a look I'll never forget; there was feeling, compassion, and sorrow." She paused, looked up at the black sky. The mast of Picaroon, framed silvery against the dark, seemed like a lance stabbing at her heart. "It wasn't a sudden pronouncement of revulsion or rejection, it was open communication of individual feelings pouring out between us that night on the beach. There was no way Anna could have a physical relationship with me, and there was no way that I could continue to work with her every day. I knew that I was throwing away six months of work, but in the end there was no other choice. I took the job in Texas."
"I'm sorry, Susan. It must have been a confusing time."
Her voice caught, but she immediately regained control, and in the mastering of her emotions, she seemed to relax. Walking to the stern of the boat, she peered into the oily water. "You're the first person I've ever talked to about Anna. It feels good to get it off my chest, therapeutic, somehow. And I don't even know you." Her cheeks seemed drawn in, the muscles of her face performed the motions of a faked smile.
"Maybe it's because we share a common interest in Anna Yillah."
Susan sat back down. Going below, I got another wineglass, filled it with Freixenet, and handed it to her.
"I hated you a while ago when you said I was using this as an excuse to get close to Anna again." She shrugged, the movement running through the curve of her shoulders like a small convulsion. "We've written each other every week since I left the lab, except for the time she was in the hospital."
I did not say anything. Maybe I had been wrong about her.
"I want to help, Jay. I'll do anything you ask."
"Tell you what," I said, standing and looking south toward Chandeleur Island. "All of Anna's papers and lab notes are here on the boat. Stay tonight and go over them. We can talk about what you find in the morning, over breakfast."
"Thank you." Her face with the sharp planes, the green eyes, the reddish-brown hair, seemed to emerge as if from a fog suddenly lit by a ray of light.
"Take the forward vee-birth. Go over everything carefully. I can't tell you what to look for, you're the scientist. I'm going forward, check the lines and hatches. I'll see you in the morning."
When I finished with the chores and returned below, Susan was already in the vee-birth with the papers. She had closed the accordion partition separating the cabins. Light filtered through and I knew that she was already reading the material.
Lying on the portside bunk, I thought about Susan Weems, remembering the slim figure and the long showgirl legs. She walked with a masculine, straight-line abruptness, but she had a peculiar grace of motion that was swift, tense, and somehow oddly feline. Goodnight 'Panther Lady' I said to myself. We have been together to the jungle and we have killed the beast.
I dozed off to the gentle movement of Picaroon on her mooring.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The dream was intense. A beautiful lady with long, tan legs, blond-streaked hair, and evil eyes made passionate love to me. I awoke slowly, the single sheet soaked in sweat. There were no sounds; it was dark and still. The luminous dial on my watch read five a.m.
Something was wrong. It was a cold feeling, like the evil darkness of terror reaching out and touching the soul of my heart and squeezing. Sitting up, I saw that the light was still on in the vee-birth, the door closed.
Easing out of the bunk and pulling on my pants, I went to the accordion doorway, and slowly slid it open. I sensed something foreboding that was almost tangible and probed me like a finger. The instant I saw her I knew she was dead. Blood had pooled under her torso, and there was a lot of it. Her throat had been cut. I could see the severed trachea with ugly, white tendons sticking out like ivory claws of death.
Sitting on the side of the vee-birth, I felt of Susan's ankle. It was cold. She had been dead for several hours. I put my head in my hands and wished desperately to be somewhere else.
Easing up beside Susan, I saw the handsome face, reddish-brown hair spilling onto the mattress soaked with drying blood, the eyes open, empty. Bending close to her, I whispered in her ear, "I'm so sorry. It is all my fault. I have caused your death with my bad judgment, I have taken it all from you."
Reaching up, I pushed on the hatch cover over the vee-birth. It opened easily, without squeaking. I had oiled it yesterday. There was blood around the rim. Whoever killed Susan had been trying for me. No one knew she was aboard Picaroon. If they made a noise at the hatch, Susan probably opened it, thinking it was me. Her head had been pulled up through the opening, the throat slit, probably all in one motion. It would explain the blood on the hatch and why there was no scream. One cannot cry out once the trachea is opened and the vocal cords severed.
Susan was dead before the killer realized she was the wrong person. Up top, I saw that there were footprints on the dew-laden deck, however Picaroon had factory-inlaid anti-skid which was rough and grainy, and precluded any identifiable prints from being lifted.
Below, I covered Susan's body with a blanket. Closing the doorway to the vee-birth, I sat on the portside bunk and thought that there is no pattern to who lives and dies. Most of us, we cannot accept that. We invent all kinds of talismans. None of them work. In life people die because they do, some of them quick, some by the hands of others; a few with terrible, agonizing diseases, but in the end we all die. The ultimate injustice is that bad things happen to good people.
Light began to come into the boat weakly at first, cold and hazy. Then it cast oblong shadows across the door behind where Susan lay. Thinking about something else did not help. She was dead. Nothing could change that fact.
Guy answered on the first ring. He advised not to phone the police until he could get to the boat and look things over. Agreeing, I said that I was going around to the marina office and talk with the attendant.
The man had silver hair and was about my age. His gaunt face belied a hard life, but the stocky frame appeared to be in good shape. Around five foot ten, I guessed his weight at a hundred and eighty pounds. When asked if he'd seen anything unusual during the night, his response was short. He had not.
Watching his face intently, I explained what had happened to Susan Weems. His reaction was utter nonchalance.
"This doesn't bother you, a woman's been killed?"
"It's been a quiet night, like every ot
her night."
"You some kind of Mongoloid?"
"Ease up, man. I've seen more than my share. Don't matter no more."
"Combat?"
"Vietnam."
"In country?"
"Yeah. Marines, I-26." His eyes squinted into slits. "Khe Sahn, sixty-seven and sixty-eight. I grew up on hill 881. You there?"
"No. I heard that was rough. All you men are heroes to me. Fighting a war no one appreciated for politicians who've never fired a shot in anger."
"Yeah," His eyes were nearly closed. "You kill the woman?"
"No, but you can bet your ass I'll find out who did."
"If I can be of any help…"
"Thanks, I appreciate it. Keep it quiet for now. Name's Jay Leicester, I'm a private investigator working on a case."
"Hebrone Opshinsky."
We shook hands. His grip was strong, but his hands were small, callused, used to hard work.
Back at the boat, I waited for Guy. The Mississippi Sound was calm, the water a gray, cold-looking, anti-life color. It seemed to reflect the way I felt.
"Jesus, Jay." Guy quickly looked away from Susan's body. "Okay, give me every detail. Do not leave anything out. We may be in for a long haul with this."
Starting with the attempt on the companionway hatch the night before and moving through events leading up until now, I recounted everything I could remember.
"Did anyone hear your conversation with Susan in Houston?" Guy was all business, his brilliant law-trained brain working fast and clear.
"No, but the receptionist will remember me, if the police want to check."
Guy rolled his eyes, and dialed the Gulfport police. The marina was in their jurisdiction. Too bad it wasn't in our old friend, W.W. Wadell's.
The police detective was a real hard-ass, one of those men who gets mad because there is nothing to be mad about. His breath smelled of stale whiskey, old coffee, and cigarettes. He had the thin, reddish skin and narrow, bloodshot eyes of a longtime drunk. He should have retired long ago.
After Susan's body was taken away and we had been over my story a half dozen times, the detective insisted he take me downtown. They put me through the usual procedure for a murderer; fingerprints, photos, checked for blood on my hands, which they already knew was there, and scrapped under my nails. Guy screamed at every step. He threatened to sue everyone connected, including the Mayor and the Chief of Police. None of this affected the detective. He'd seen it all before.
After being left in a bare interrogation room for a sufficient amount of time, the detective came in, sat down across from me, and stared directly into my eyes. "I don't like peepers, never have. You people are all alike. You don't know what you're doing; you leave bodies lying around for me to have to clean up. Hell, Leicester, I don't even like your looks."
Having been in rooms like this before, I wisely kept my mouth shut.
Walking to the door, the detective hollered, "Hey, mouthpiece, get your ass in here."
Guy walked in and sat down at the table. He didn't look so good. The detective walked around and stood behind him. He had that self-aware look of a man who understands reality is what he makes it, and that the poor and ignorant cannot do much about it.
"Look at what we have here, a peeper and his mouthpiece, now there's a combination for you. Two worthless son of a…"
Guy caught me as I started up out of the chair. "You charge me, you bastard. You book me or I'm walking. I'm not going to sit here…"
"Sit down, peeper." The detective smiled at my outburst. I'd played right into his hand. "I'm not going to charge you. We did what your mouthpiece asked, called Joe Glossman over in Ocean Springs. He vouched for you. God knows why such a powerful and influential man along this coast would, but he did. Robbins here, I've known all his life. Knew his dad, he was a good cop. I don't think you killed the woman, peeper. I'd burn your ass if I did.
"I've heard about you. You're a loose cannon, and you're not welcome operating in my territory. You can go, but I want to be kept informed of every lead you turn up, every one. You understand? Now get out of my sight."
We walked out into a bright, sun-filled morning. The wind was blowing in from the sea and you could feel and smell the heavy salt in the air. This meant there was a storm brewing far out in the Gulf of Mexico.
"Well, what's your next move?"
"Anna has to be told about Susan. I'll go out to Cat Island and do it now, but first, Picaroon has to be cleaned."
"Forget it, it's already been taken care of. You want me to go with you to the island? The morning's shot to hell anyway."
"It's a personal thing to be done alone. I'll see if Moran will let me use his cigarette to make the run. It's fast, and will get me back quick, there's a killer who has an appointment with me."
"Call me when you return and let me know how Anna took it."
"I will, and thanks. I'm sorry to have to bother you with this."
"'Twas me that got you here."
Guy dropped me off at Chris Moran's charter boat. He was an old friend who was quick to loan me his fast, pencil-shaped cigarette boat. Twenty minutes after leaving the marina, I was rounding North Point of Cat Island, and slowing for the narrow channel leading to the dock. Tying the cigarette to one of the cleats, I walked slowly up the winding shell path to the house. This was something I did not look forward to, but it comes with the territory.
* * *
The crashing and pounding of the surf on the beach was clearly audible, confirming the coming storm. Heavy weather was making somewhere far out to sea. A line of brown pelicans flew in perfect formation toward a part of the island called West Point. The pelicans were probably headed for the shell bank, out by what is known as the 'ruins.'
No one was at the house. I headed for the lab. Willets, white egrets, sea gulls, and royal and common terns were all ripping and roaring around the pounding, roiling surf. At a curve in the path something caught my attention on the side of one of the small pine trees. Imbedded deep into the rough bark was the skeletal remains of an arm, including fingers, from a small mammal. Probably driven into the bark during the last hurricane, it seemed an ominous presentiment of evil.
Anna, Vickey, George, and two visiting scientists were hard at work when I entered the lab.
George looked up, "Mr. Leicester. How you doing? Won't be long before we break for lunch. Want to have some more North Point oysters with us?"
The big strapping youth waved thick paws through the formaldehyde-laden air. "How about it, Anna? Let's have an early lunch."
Anna introduced me to the visiting scientists, both of whom were from Maine. Vickey continued to work, again avoiding the chitchat.
"There's something Anna and I need to discuss. We'll meet y'all at the house."
Anna washed her hands, looked quizzically at me. "What's up?"
"Let's take a walk."
Among the chaos surrounding the beach, I told her as gently as I could.
She sat down in the sand, buried her head in her arms. Looking far out to sea, I said nothing.
Finally Anna said, "Help me up, Jay. I'll tell the others after lunch. We can talk later, and you can give me all the details."
We walked silently back to the house. Her emotional stability surprised me. She appeared much more fragile, and I expected some hysterical reaction to Susan's death. People handle death in different ways.
When the meal was finished, Anna stood, got everyone's attention. Her scarred and tortured face had a blank expression; the scraggly hair stuck out in odd directions. Her eyes said nothing. "I have been attacked. Susan Weems is dead. She was killed last night while in the company of this man, Jay Leicester. The police say that he had nothing to do with it. There has been another threat to my life. I think I am in grave danger. I might be killed. It may happen on this island. If any of you want to leave, please do so today. This man has been retained to protect me from harm. He did not do a very good job for Susan Weems. Thank you."
W
ith that, she abruptly left the table, and went to her room. Everyone's eyes turned on me. There was nothing I could think of to say.
The two visiting scientists said that in lieu of the circumstances they had better leave. I did not blame them.
George said he would run them over to Gulfport, but that he and Vickey were not leaving the island. Vickey nodded in agreement.
Departing a half an hour later, Vickey accompanied George. It would do them good to get away from the island for awhile, gather their thoughts. I asked them to call Guy Robbins for me and tell him I would not come back to the boat tonight, and to tell Chris Moran I'd bring his boat back tomorrow. They said they would take care of it."
Helping George carry some baggage down to the dock, he asked me about Susan. I told him exactly what happened.
"What's going on, Mr. Jay? If someone wanted to kill Anna, why would they wait for two years? Does she really still believe someone caused a pelagic tiger shark to attack her? She's been through a lot, but I think maybe she's losing it. There's been some strange things happened in the last couple of months."
"What kind of strange things?"
"She says some things, you know? Keeps mumbling about an island in the Pacific Ocean, and some sea god. I know she's of Polynesian descent. I thought maybe that's what it was. She's a smart lady, and has thought some far out things before, but all this…I don't know."
"Me either, but I'm working on it. How are her meds? Does she still take a lot of drugs?"
"You think all this is caused by the drugs she's taking? I hadn't thought of that."
"It's something to look into."
Watching the Mako work its way out of the channel, I thought that the next half-hour was going to be rough, but talking with Anna could not be put off.
* * *
Back at the house, I found Anna sitting in the big living room, staring at the empty fireplace, a finger on her right hand tracing the line of an erose scar on the left side of her face. Her eyes looked empty.
"Are you alright?"
"I'm so sorry. Susan's death threw me. Did everyone leave? I don't blame them."