Some People Die Quick

by JC Simmons

  Rounding Phoenix Spit, we saw laughing gulls, Willets, and a few royal terns, but the chaotic feeding had ceased, the struggle for life had eased, at least for the moment. Smugglers Cove was much as I remembered, better seen from the sea than the beach.

  As we approached the shell bank at West Point there was a big flock of pelicans. They flew as we neared, but we could see that it was a nesting area.

  Rounding the north side of the island, a colony of red wing grackles and a little green heron flew in a feathering of wings. Anna pointed out a dove, a white heron with yellow feet, and a purple gallinule. We saw Kingbirds, bullbats, swallows and an unidentified duck, and there were fish hawks. Anna thought she saw an alligator. They are prevalent on the barrier islands.

  It had been good to see the island again. I could visualize from where the enemy would come. We returned to the little dock an hour before night. Anna was anxious to get to the house in order to go up on the roof and watch the sunset. Walking her up to the porch, I said good-bye, promising to come out early in the morning. I wanted to get to the mainland before dark.

  Stopping by my room, I picked up a few things. The sun was setting as I started down the path to the dock. Throwing my ditty bag on deck, I untied the lines, and stepped behind the wheel. The tide was out and it was the oppressive moment of transition between light and night. A swarm of mosquitoes rose out of the marsh, a tender breath of decaying matter wafted, warm and sad, over me. It stirred the certainty of death in the depths of my soul. Starting the engine, I raced at full speed out of the narrow channel.

  Not a whisper of wind blew. The Sound was smooth as glass and the boat ran like it was sliding over ice. The flashing beacon of the Broadwater Marina seemed stark and bloodless against the darkening sky.

  Guy was standing on the finger pier as I eased the Mako into the slip beside Picaroon. He grabbed the line, made it fast to a cleat, and offered me a hand. I climbed out of the boat.

  "W.W. called. I thought you should see what he found."

  "Thanks for not talking about it over the radio. You do good work."

  "Approbation from Jay Leicester is praise indeed," he said, bowing at the waist.

  "You have it on board Picaroon?"

  "Yes. I'm not sure what it means, but you can judge for yourself."

  We climbed aboard and went below. It was dark now and lights around the marina reflected off the water in hazy, moving patterns. It was hard to see in the cabin, but a manila folder caught my eye. Turning on an overhead lamp, I sat down and opened the folder, finding a rap sheet on one Robert L. Sabado. I scanned it hurriedly, then again more slowly. Age: twenty-five; Height, six feet one inch; Weight, one hundred eighty pounds; black hair, black eyes; Distinguishing marks: missing little finger on left hand, large tattoo of panther from top of left shoulder extending to elbow, thick, jagged scar on left shoulder; Occupation, shrimper. Nine arrests.

  The sheet went on to list everything from petty theft, to breaking and entering, to burglary, to assault and battery. There were two convictions with total time served as one year with the county. Across the bottom W.W. had scribbled: Drives maroon seventy-three Plymouth two door hardtop.

  "This may be the one who's breaking into the boats."

  "You don't remember, do you?"

  "What?"

  "Sabado. Lawrence "Bobo" Sabado. You helped send him to Parchman penitentiary back in eighty-seven. He's this kids old man."

  "Well I'll be…a chip off the old block. If he's Bobo's son then he sure knows his way around a boat. He was probably born on a shrimp boat."

  "W.W. said he'd pick him up and push him a little, if you want?"

  "No. If he's anything like his old man, he won't say anything. It seems pretty far-fetched to think he had any involvement with Susan Weem's death. He certainly did not know I was aboard Picaroon. His breaking into boats and stealing radios I could care less about. Let the local Police deal with him."

  Guy had a rather sad expression on his face. He looked out a porthole, then back at me. "There is something W.W. told me that is not in the report."

  "About Sabado?"

  "He's had a steady girlfriend for the last four years." Guy put his hands in his pant's pockets and looked me in the eyes. "It's Vickey Fourche."

  I did not pronounce the words so much as spit them out, one by one. "Son of a bitch."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Guy left around midnight. Lying on the portside bunk, I stared at the light slanting in through the porthole above my head. The night noises around the marina were muffled, lonesome sounds, no laughter, no tinkle of glass, and no shared intimacy. The wind was calm, shrouds were not banging against masts, boats were not straining against moorings; sometimes life seems pernicious, an existence one can never win, or ever hope to win.

  Someone stepped firmly on Picaroon's deck, and I felt the boat shift ever so lightly. Reaching for the magnum in the ditty bag I was using for a pillow, I sat slowly up.

  "Leicester, you aboard?"

  Recognizing the voice, I put the pistol back in the bag, and slipped into my pants. Unlocking the hatch, I said, "Come on down, Hebrone."

  "I got something you might want to hear."

  He slid catlike down the ladder. We shook hands.

  Leaning against the chart table, he said, "I saw the lights on earlier."

  "Thanks for running Anna out to Cat Island this morning."

  He nodded, looked intently at me, said nothing. There was a deadliness about this man. In the dim light filtering through the portholes, his gray hair seemed to shine silver, like a distant moon. The way he was poised, his body reflected a man still able to take care of himself. He had been "in country" during the Vietnam War, but that was a long time ago. We all slow down.

  "I would have to dye it."

  "What?"

  "The hair, I saw you looking. It would have to be blackened to infiltrate again."

  "I don’t understand."

  "You ever in the military, Leicester?"

  "No."

  "During my second tour, I lived with the Montagnards. There were six of us. We were trained in infiltration; wore no uniforms, carried no I.D. Did not exist as far as the military was concerned. Word would come down that a certain individual needed removing from a ville. We'd go in during the night, either kill or bring the individual back for interrogation. We've taken people from inside a hooch with a dozen VC lying asleep on the floor."

  Hebrone paused, seeming to have made his point. I had no idea what that was supposed to be, but waited, watching. He would tell me in time. He had not moved a muscle since he leaned against the table. His lips did not appear to move when he spoke. His was a bleak school not of teachers, but of lessons, all unspoken, few forgotten; a place of black emotions, chill in their appearance, rigid in their demands.

  "Word is around the dock some people would like to see you dead. You're getting in the way of something important."

  "I'm a big boy, Hebrone."

  Slowly, lips unmoving, he said, "Guy Robbins, he's a straight shooter, treats a man like somebody. You two are pals."

  My curiosity for his point had increased to a pitch, now fatigue and resignation were replacing it.

  As if sensing my despair, he said, "The one who did the Weem's woman was not a pro. If he was, you'd be dead."

  "Pretty obvious."

  "If you are any good at your job, I figured you knew. I've got a name for you."

  "Bob Sabado?"

  It was a tiny smile, a crack in the stone, then it was gone. "If you need any help in taking him out, let me know."

  "Thanks, but why do you want to help?"

  "Go forward, look in the vee-birth, Leicester."

  I did, there was nothing there. Looking back into the galley, he was gone. This time the boat did not move, nor did I hear footsteps.

  * * *

  Lying on the bunk, I thought of Sabado. Occasionally the very youngness of a criminal moves me toward leniency. They never truly realiz
e the limits of life, or of its brevity. It is a dangerous thing, though, because young kills as quickly as old and dead is still dead.

  I wished that my next move was clear, but it was not. Now I tried not to think, merely to sleep, but the sound of thought went on, like the gentle whisper of waves on a dark beach. Suddenly it was daylight. The boat strained on its mooring, the wind whistled in the rigging. My watch read six-thirty. It was blowing outside, but the sky was clear, the air clean. Starting a pot of coffee, I called Guy Robbins.

  "Get up, Guy. You can't sleep all day, old son," I said, echoing his exact words from yesterday morning. Payback.

  "It's Sunday, for God's sake. What's up?"

  "Hebrone Opshinsky paid me a visit."

  "So?"

  "He thinks you are an okay sort."

  "A lot of people think that of me. What did he want?"

  "He's been nosing around the docks, came up with the same name we did. Seems the word's out that I'm getting in the way, need to be removed. Just thought you should know in case my body is dredged up out of the Sound in a shrimp trawl."

  "We better get the sheriff, and the Gulfport and Biloxi police in on this."

  "What about the Highway Patrol, the National Guard, and alert the Air Force Base? We don't want to leave anybody out."

  "I get your point. So what's your next move?"

  Pouring coffee, I said, "I'm leaving for Cat Island shortly to talk this over with Anna. It's a little early to assume that Sabado and Vickey Fourche are behind all of this, although it points that way. Anna will know if it's possible for Vickey to have had access to her research data, and be able to benefit from the repellent even if she were to be killed."

  "I'll be here at the house or on the boat if you need me."

  Hanging up the phone, I sat down on the bunk and sipped the strong, black coffee. Glancing at the vee-birth, I thought of Susan Weems, and how her beautiful, limp body lay in a pool of its own dark, coagulated blood. How my ineptness and stupidity had caused her death as surely as if I had taken the knife and sliced through her throat. Now I knew what Opshinsky wanted me to see. Taking the last sip of cold coffee from the mug, I held it gently in both hands, then threw it as hard as I could toward the vee-birth. It shattered into hundreds of pieces with a crack like a rifle shot. It cannot be Vickey Fourche; it just cannot be her.

  * * *

  After picking up the pieces of the cup, I took a quick shower. If I hurried, I could be on Cat Island by 8:00 a.m. A feeling of lethargy swept over me, lack of sleep was taking its toll. Quickly throwing things into my bag, I planned to stay on the island until this was finished. Anna's safety dictated it.

  The cylinder of the nickel-plated magnum swung open easily. The gun was old and worn, and we had been together for a long time, had survived some rough situations. Experience had taught me that a person with a weapon and the will to use it cannot be mastered, they can only be killed. The magnum was effective. After checking the bullets, I closed the cylinder, making sure it locked into place. The extra box of .357 ammo lay silent, and deadly in the ditty bag. The bullets, a new type called, Starfire, are designed to form the shape of a five-sided star and, on impact, spin like a buzz saw as it works its way through the vital organs of the human body. They were ugly and they killed, but then that's what they were manufactured to do.

  The nineteen-foot Mako pounded, lurched, and rolled as I ran full throttle across the azure waters of the choppy Sound. The wind blew at fifteen knots, causing the shallow water to form whitecaps on angry, short, steep seas. The sky was crystal clear. Cat Island shimmered in the heat like some moving creature. Closing on the island the brilliant verdigris of the scrub pines stood stark against the blue of the early morning sky.

  The pounding movement of the boat, the clean, fresh smell of the salt air, and the warm wind blowing in my face dissipated the feeling of lethargy. By the time I tied the Mako to the dock below the main house, I felt refreshed and full of renewed energy.

  The house was empty and silent. The rough walls worked me over slowly as if I was a dangerous stranger. Someone had burned a fire in the big hearth recently, and the resinous, astringent smell of freshly sawed, slightly burned wood filled the room, reminding me of cold, winter days in the mountains. Down the hall, I put my ditty bag on the bed, noticing that the drawers in the small bureau were open, as if someone had been through them. The mattress on the bunk bed had been repositioned. Someone searching? For what?

  "Hi," a voice said from behind me.

  Startled, I spun and crouched, reaching for my bag. It was Vickey Fourche.

  "Whoa. I didn't mean to scare you. I heard the boat come up the channel and figured it was you. Anna said you'd be out early. It's my week to do the housekeeping. I was out back hanging up some clothes. Here, help me put these sheets on your bed."

  Helping with the linen, I watched her move athletically around the tiny room with jealously. Her body seemed designed as an exercise in consistency, of style, a style of youth, of tight flesh, short legs and swift movements. The round, plain face had the fine precision of sculpture. Her suntan intensified the pure, clear obsidian black of her eyes, which were still and changeless, never giving a hint of what she thought. Her rapidly evolving expressions seemed to reflect whatever she felt, as if she had nothing to hide. The sun-bleached, brownish-red unkempt hair, hard peasant features, and bare, callused feet told me that she was a woman of the sea. She was dressed in her island uniform, khaki shorts and loose, baggy shirt. I tried to match her with Bob Sabado. I could not, because I only knew his father.

  "You had breakfast?"

  "No, but thanks anyway. Where's Anna?"

  "At the lab helping George with an experiment. He's working with skate embryos. They are opening up egg casings, injecting them with carcinogens, attempting to induce tumors. Did you know sharks and rays don't have tumors?"

  "No."

  "They are the only creatures we know of that don't, and so far no one has been able to induce any form of tumor in them. Interesting, don't you think?"

  "No cancer in sharks. Yes."

  Vickey padded into the kitchen, returned with two cups of coffee, handed me one, and went into the living room. Pointing to the embers in the fireplace, she asked, "Want me to stoke the fire?"

  "No."

  We sat in the big chairs and sipped the hot liquid.

  "Vickey, tell me about Susan Weems."

  A blank expression crossed her face. She stared into the fireplace as if roaring flames flickered and danced. Sitting back in her chair, she said, "It's sad that she's dead. I never really liked her, but I don't want to see anyone die."

  "What did you have against her?"

  She tucked her bare feet under her, ran a hand through rumpled hair. "I guess because she and Anna were so close. They worked on the repellent project, and it was all so secret. They never included George or me in any of the experiments, although we weren't supposed to be involved. God knows we had enough of our own work to do."

  "So what was your problem?" I asked again, watching her reaction.

  Shifting position, she raised her knees to her chin, her legs were hard and golden, and though she kept them closed, with her arms locked around her calves, a glance showed me she wore no panties under her baggy shorts, this posture communicating a pathos that drew me to her, against my will.

  "Jealously, I guess." She looked up at me; her face had a drained look of pacification. There was no mockery, no antagonism. It was as if Susan Weems was a piece of data to be dealt with, assimilated, used or discarded. "Anna is my mentor. I idolize her. Susan was weird, man. She could stare burning holes through you if you made a mistake, or said something scientifically incorrect. A real bitch."

  "Were you and George one of the reasons she left Cat Island?"

  She looked surprised that I could think such an idea. "God no, that woman couldn't be intimidated by anyone, much less a couple of grad students like me and George. Why all the questions about her?"
/>   "I feel responsible for her death, and I'm going to find out who killed her."

  "Why are you responsible? I thought she was killed by a burglar?"

  "You know any boat burglars, Vickey?"

  "Certainly not." She glanced quickly at me, then at the floor. Her eyes said more than they intended. One did not need a galvanic skin response to sense that lie. She would have danced the needles on a polygraph instrument. "What's make you ask a question like that?"

  "You are from Biloxi, grew up on the water and around shrimp boats. It's a small community, the boat people. I though you might know some scumbucket who had a reputation for breaking and entering, maybe did some time with the county."

  She stood, her eyes looked at me like those of a one-way mirror, the ones that let all the rays in, but none out. "Well, I don't know anyone like that. I've got work to do. You staying for dinner?"

  "I'm staying until we find out who killed Susan Weems and who is trying to harm Anna."

  "Good. I'll put you a steak out to thaw." With that, she disappeared through the doorway.

  Vickey had lied about Sabado, but she wasn't a fool, she knew the question already had an answer. So what made her deny it? It would have been easier to say she knew several petty thieves around the docks. She had tipped her hand.

  An ember floated up the chimney and Hebrone Opshinsky popped into mind. Why would an almost total stranger volunteer to help kill Bob Sabado? Did he know more than he was telling? Staring into the fireplace, I started to see the roaring fire that Vickey Fourche saw, the one that did not exist, except in both our minds.

  I got up and headed to the lab.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The wind was still blowing a good fifteen knots. Walking down the winding path toward the lab, I could hear the roar of breaking waves. It was not a good day for surf fishing. The air had a clean, fresh smell, heavily tinged with salt. Sand blew around in the strong gusts stinging my face and arms, imbedding more grains into the trunks of the scrub pines.

  Out on the beach, the rollers looked huge and frightening, giving the impression that they would overrun the low-lying island. In reality they weren't reaching the high-water mark.

  Approaching the stark, white lab, I saw someone walk out on the narrow porch at the top of the stairs. It was George Lenoir. He spotted me, then turned and went back inside without waving. Entering the door brought the same chemical smells as before. It would be hard to get used to the odors and the bottles of ugly specimens, and huge, partially dissected fish of every species. At least the interior of the lab was protected from the wind, and the open windows did help ventilate the air.