Chapter III - Elsie and Angel
Every time the road curved behind me, I glanced back to see if Little had decided he didn’t need a presidential order to arrest a smart-assed country boy from the mountains. Twenty miles later, when Atlantic swung into view, I was still looking and sighing with relief each time the empty stretch of highway behind me appeared in the mirror.
The tiny collection of homes and businesses had never incorporated into a city. Some would call it quaint. Others would drive through without even knowing the minute splotch of life carved out of the swampy coastline had a name. Seeing the place for the first time felt like stepping into a time machine with the dial set back 200 years, but somehow dragging the present with you when you hit the Go button. Seventeenth-century houses still squatted on some of the side streets. Just as evident were mobile homes, satellite dishes, and four-wheel-drive pickups.
The state still touted commercial fishing as one of the main drivers for the coastal economy. In reality, the industry had been on its deathbed for decades, with declining catches and rising costs driving the smaller and more traditional operators out of business. Those that remained often found themselves at odds with residents, visitors, and conservationists over wasteful practices that littered the nearby ocean with thousands of dead fish. The most divisive of those practices carried the sanitized designation of legal discard. Explaining it would take a while, but imagine a net that holds fifty fish and a government that says you can keep one. The dead went back over the side to rot in the ocean. The system prompted howls of protest and demands for the state’s Marine Fisheries Division to adopt new restrictions and better regulatory control over the fleets.
The area’s economic lifeblood remained tied to the sea, but over the years, tourism had taken on a stronger and more vital role.
Ten miles up, the southern end of the North Carolina Ferry system delivered a constant flow of tourists and visitors. Where the state left off, capitalism took over. Another ferry, a privately owned enterprise based in Atlantic, serviced outlying islands not included on the state’s route, namely Portsmouth and another set of islands farther south that included the southern Core Banks. Split by Drum Inlet, both were popular fishing and hard-core camping destinations, hosting nothing but miles and miles of empty beach. The Gulf Stream slid by not far offshore attracting both sportsmen and migrating fish. Twice each year, spring and fall, the ocean teamed with schools heading north as winter released its grip on the upper latitudes and south in the fall when cooling temperatures drove them back to more hospitable waters.
Vacationers, anglers, and tourists passing through the 200 miles of pristine beaches and quaint seaside towns, poured more than a hundred million dollars into the local economy every year. Those fighting the commercial fleets took inspiration in the rising dollars, hoping to supplant a dying industry with one more sustainable and one that left the fisheries relatively intact.
On a map, the Outer Banks looked like one long barrier island stretching from the northern end of the state to the southern end. In reality, the Banks were comprised of a series of islands. Heading south, the last stop for civilization occurred at Ocracoke. The remaining islands of the Core Banks had been designated as National Seashore and were officially uninhabited. The northernmost of those, Portsmouth, had been named for the town that had once thrived at its upper terminus. Hurricanes and changes in shipping lanes had doomed the community as jobs and money flowed elsewhere. By the early 1970’s, the last inhabitants moved away, leaving the town and island empty. Soon afterward, the US government stepped in and took over the entire island. Workmen and park service officials descended, leaving the town restored and standing as a historic monument to a seafaring past.
A few fishing shacks run by the Park Service squatted at the southern end. In between lay twenty-two miles of open beachfront defended by high dunes and backed by mosquito-filled swamps. The only roads were the beach itself and a long, unpaved lane that ran behind the dunes. Driving on the island could be an adventure even if you did nothing else. On one side, incoming tides chased vehicles up to the dunes. On the other, drivers had to navigate a dirt road scored with ruts, water holes, and shifting sands that no one, not even the Park Service, maintained.
On a given day, Portsmouth could host anywhere from zero to more than a hundred people. Most came for the fishing and retreated to the mainland compliments of the Drum Inlet Ferry by nightfall, leaving campers with a nearly deserted island and nothing but the feel of nature, wild and untamed, as company.
Despite its name, Atlantic sat on the sound side of the islands. The ocean lay several miles farther east, across a treacherous body of water that ran as shallow as a foot in some places. Although a rough chop could build on the sound, the true menace lay in water depths that could vary from a few inches to several feet with little warning. Snags, shell beds, and wide strips of bottom barely under the surface pockmarked the crossing like booby traps for the unwary. In good weather, the crossing slid by easily enough. In bad weather, it could both beat you to a pulp and worry you into an early grave.
Core Sound had been the only place Angel had ever sailed in salt water. My father and I spent a week drifting between uninhabited islands, fishing, and cooking what we caught on a Coleman camp stove with the Milky Way slathered across the sky like a thin and diaphanous veil. The days had been warm, the nights cool, and the relationship between us at its finest. We were father and son and both had learned to respect the other as men instead of just as family. The trip turned out to be both the best and the last time we spent more than a day together.
The Northern Core Banks had served as our base. A good many folks referred to the island by the old village at the northern end. Mention the Core Banks and a hazy image sprang to mind. Tell them you wanted to go Portsmouth and they knew exactly where you were headed.
The sheriff had been wrong. My marriage to Becky left a lot of scars and ill will, but even bad times can lead to good lessons. I’d suffered through enough infection control rants to know that barring a miracle cure, The Fever carried the potential to act as humanity’s own K-T boundary, our own extinction-level event. Either way, a good many would die. My name had a decent chance of ending up somewhere on the official tally. I figured a few weeks of late summer sun, early autumn chill, fishing and solitude was as good enough a way to go as any.
While the plan might have sounded as if I’d turned into the hermit my friends had accused me of becoming when Becky left, the only person I could have brought with me was Jayne.
She had stood with arms crossed, her face expressionless while I packed the last few items into the boat. Even with our on-and-off relationship, I knew I was going to miss her. I also knew I was saying goodbye for what would most likely be the last time. Unlike the last few days with Becky, neither Jayne nor I were angry. We had no heated battles sitting behind us, no spiteful words. What we had was an easy, if somewhat guarded, acceptance of each other.
When I’d finally secured the last tie-down, I turned to what I figured would be an awkward moment. Final goodbyes are never easy. I can attest to the fact that they’re much more difficult when neither of you knows what the next day will bring, or whether a week later, if either of you would still be counted among the living.
If she’d asked me to stay, I would have. If she’d wanted to come, I’d have opened the door for her, belted her in, and headed down to the nearest convenience store for the six pack of Mountain Dew I knew she would want. Neither option had presented itself. Jayne was the more skittish of the two of us when it came to permanency and commitments. Becky and I fought our way out of our marriage. Jayne’s ended abruptly when her ex-husband decided to tell her about the woman he had been dating for eighteen months. I had scars. Jayne still carried open wounds.
“You take care of yourself, William,” she’d said. Anyone else would have thought her face impassive. I’d learned, though. Jayne could weather a hurricane without batting an eyelash. S
he carried her emotions deep and well protected. The only clue lay in her fingers. They tapped nervously against her arms when I turned toward her.
“You can come with me, you know,” I told her.
She shook her head. “No, you go. I believe in destiny and this is yours.”
“And yours?”
A brief smile tugged at her lips.
“I’ll let you know when I find out.”
We talked for a while, but that’s how I left her, standing in my driveway with her arms still crossed tightly across her midsection and her face betraying no emotion. Honestly, I’m not sure how much she had. Jayne tended to bolt anytime the relationship ventured toward getting closer. I let her come and go when she needed, but attachments grow when you spend that kind of time with someone, whether you want them to or not. Watching her disappearing figure dwindle away in the side mirror had cast a pall over the first few hours of driving. Part of me wanted to go back. Part knew she would be just as emotionless if I did. The situation contained no middle ground. Turning around would have screamed closer to her and accomplished nothing except to send her scurrying home.
Even with two days of driving behind me, the image remained both strong and bittersweet.
I pulled off the road onto hard packed sand overrun by crabgrass and dug through the center console until I found the address of Morgan’s General Merchandise. I’d originally called the Drum Inlet Ferry looking for long-term parking. Angel would be my home for a while at least. If I beat the odds and came back, I’d need the Durango. I couldn’t just leave it sitting on the side of the road.
After listening to my spiel, the woman on the other end had told me to call Elsie over at the store. The woman who answered identified herself as Elsie Morgan. She sounded old yet energetic over the phone, leaving me curious as to what she would look like in person.
I wasn’t sure where one would leave an SUV and a twenty-two-foot trailer at a store. She cleared that up quick enough when she told me to stop by on the way in, that she would show me the back yard. It wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but in Atlantic, options and people were few. I didn’t argue.
I also didn’t need the address. Halfway through the contents of the console, I looked up and saw the large, clapboard building a hundred yards ahead on the left.
The structure looked to be stuck somewhere between a convenience store and a grocery store in size. A long, low porch built of cedar and pine crossed the face, covered by a deep overhang roofed with sheets of copper-colored tin. A pair of rocking chairs graced one side of the entrance way. Both sat empty at the moment, but would have looked just as picture-perfect if a couple of old fishermen had been rocking the day away and complaining about the weather. Ferns hung thick and bushy from the edges, gracing a central point between each of the posts supporting the roof.
Unlike many of the other buildings in the area that suffered from too much sun, too much wind, and too little paint, Morgan’s General Merchandise gleamed brightly in the late summer sun.
The parking lot offered a testament to the clientele it served. The slots on the left side and front of the building were normal in size, accommodating both cars and pickups. Those on the right side stretched upwards of forty to fifty feet in long, narrow strips, laid out in such a way that anyone towing a trailer or boat could pull directly into one from the road. The exit looked just as easy to navigate. The Durango slid easily into one of those long, clearly marked slots with none of the vehicular gymnastics I had encountered in a dozen other parking lots on the way down.
I dug out a small leather bag stuffed with cash out of the glove box. I’d left Tennessee with a little over $9.000, separated out into different denominations. The sum represented roughly a quarter of what I had left from selling the two houses. I’d considered taking more, but somewhere in the back of my mind the mark carried a special significance. It took the better part of a week to remember why. Federal law required banks to report any transaction $10,000 and over to the IRS.
I had nothing to hide. I also had no desire to draw unwanted attention to myself. I had no idea what shape banks would be in if The Fever hit as hard as the experts had warned that it could. No one knew. Speculation ran rampant with some painting doomsday scenarios while others thought the situation as overblown as the fears that had surrounded the Avian Flu. The experts hadn’t wasted time issuing their dire warnings then either, over what amounted to a virtual no-show of a disease.
Opinions swung widely, highlighting the real truth. No one had any idea what would happen. After listening to the debate rage back and forth, watching every news broadcast be dominated by panelists who offered little more than speculation, I, and the rest of the country, had been left with no clear picture of what the future might hold. The warnings grew throughout the summer, reaching a fever pitch in early September. I owned no crystal ball, but the overload of alarming predictions spawned an impending sense of doom that cast a shadow on every aspect of life. It clung to every thought, every decision like a black cloud squatting on the horizon that grew bigger and stronger with each passing day.
I slid three one-hundred-dollar bills from the stack, zipped the bag up and put it back in the glove box. Elsie had reckoned she would let me leave the Durango out back for five dollars a day. Three hundred gave me two months. By then, I figured the Fever would have run its course or, more likely, I wouldn’t be around to worry about the vehicle.
The idea to head for the coast didn’t surface until I ran across a series on one of the reality TV stations called The Colony. It too offered a perspective on disease run wild, one where the few survivors had been reduced to scavenging for food and spent their days battling looters and rival camps over dwindling resources.
I knew then that if La Fiebre struck with any real force, the disease would only be half the battle. The rest would come from a shocked and terrified population severed from the support mechanisms that kept it alive and thriving. I had no desire to hole up in my house and shoot starving people. I remember wondering what Dad would do if he were still alive. The answer came instantly. I looked up at Angel and knew in that moment that I would go.
Nine thousand would see me through if I lived and would easily pay for the few items I would need. My father had stocked the boat with gear. I had filled it full of provisions along with a scattering of both comfort items and things tied strictly to vices. I’d gone overboard on the latter, loading up a half-case of Johnny Walker Black, a few bottles of Captain Morgan, three bottles of Carolina Red, and a dozen cartons of cigarettes. I don’t know why. I hadn’t smoked in years and the last pint of spirits had taken me months to work through.
Even the whiskey stirred memories. Dad had often joked about being named after a fifth of scotch. With bottles clinking in the box when I loaded it aboard the boat, I’d stopped long enough to pour a shot and raise a toast to John Walker Hill and voyages, those done and those yet to come. The thought running through my mind at the time hadn’t been centered on sailing or Angel, but on the greater voyage I’d be facing when The Fever made it to the island.
When it came to the cigarettes, I hadn’t smoked since my second year of college. I’d bought them at a gas station that had the prices posted near the pumps. I hadn’t planned on ever starting again, but knowing death might come in a few weeks took most of the threat out of the Surgeon General. As a side benefit, if by chance the disease passed me over while decimating the rest of the population, the smokes might at least trade well.
I crossed the parking lot amid a swirl of memories, walking against a warm breeze drifting in from the west. I’d left Tennessee the last day of September, a time when the climate along the coast usually carried hot days and cool nights. With the seasons in transition, nothing could be taken for granted. A front sliding through could turn what felt like summer into a cold, wet reminder that winter lay just around the corner. At the same time, my one experience with Portsmouth had been in early October when the weather had seemed lik
e a gift straight from heaven with deliciously warm days offset by nights chilly enough to warrant both campfire and jacket.
November would bring cold rains, driving winds sliding down from the north, and gray, storm-tossed seas. A few good days would remain, but the bulk of them would be gone. As fall progressed, the threat of northeasters also grew. I’d experienced both hurricane and northeaster. Trying to choose between the two amounted to sitting between the proverbial rock and hard place. Some might scoff at that idea given the press summer storms generated, but the largest waves ever produced by a storm had been recorded during a northeaster. Even worse, they could drag on for days, turning the ocean into a maelstrom of gale-force winds, monstrous waves, and clashing swells as wind and water battled over which direction the currents would flow.
The coast of North Carolina possessed a long and well-deserved reputation for bad weather. More than a thousand wrecks littered the coastline, lying in mute testimony to the strength and savagery of winter storms. The ship-killing equation contained more than one variable. Into the mix could be added the occasional hurricane that drew a bulls-eye on the thin string of islands and a daily potential for intense squalls. The combination of insane weather, steep waves, and strong currents had proven deadly, so deadly the area had been dubbed the Graveyard of the Atlantic.
I knew all of that, and still had chosen this place. Warmer and more accessible islands lay farther south. My father had loved the ocean and insisted on vacations along the coast when I was a kid. The constant trips, year after year, had left me with a decent knowledge of communities from North Carolina to Florida. While more appealing destinations existed, I put no money on the odds of making it to winter alive. If I did, I figured I could pick a nice day for the boat ride back.
I took the front steps two at a time, crossed the shade of the covered porch, and stepped into the store. The smell of cinnamon and apples struck me the instant I entered, the scent neither overpowering nor ripe, but rather hanging at the edge of the senses. The interior had been done completely in wood, with hardwood floors, pine walls, and ceilings giving off a rich, golden glow where sunlight filtered in through windows unadorned with blinds or curtains. A checkout station dominated the center of the entryway and beyond it, a cavernous interior seemingly too large for the building that housed it. Clusters of soft floodlights hung from a ceiling that looked to be at least twenty feet high. Along the walls, sliding ladders gave access to walkways above that separated goods arranged neatly below from storage bins on the abbreviated second level. The shopping aisles were neat and arrow-straight. A quick glance revealed everything from foodstuffs to copper pipe for plumbing. Near the back looked to be a feed and seed center, no doubt for the local farmers. The more I saw, the more General Merchandise aptly described the store.
A woman, who appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties, looked up when I stepped inside. She had dark, shoulder-length hair, impossibly blue eyes, and angular features that, like many of Atlantic’s buildings, had seen too much sun. Her face carried a deep tan spread across skin that looked leathery and hard—too hard for someone her age. In another ten years, the same skin would sport deep lines, wrinkles, and crows-feet that no miracle lotion could ever remove. She wore a sleeveless top, Capri pants, and flip-flops, all black. A quick glance revealed equally dark fingernails and toenails. A tiny glint of silver flashing from a pierced eyebrow completed the confusing blend of beach babe and Goth girl.
A small rack of over-the-counter medicines stood to the right of the cash register. A dozen different types of sunscreen crowded the bottom shelf. Given the weathered look of her skin, I wondered if she had ever picked up a bottle and read the back of it.
She offered a polite smile.
“Hi there.”
I nodded. “Hey. I’m looking for Elsie Morgan. I’m William Hill. I talked to her a while back about a place to park my vehicle while I spend a few weeks fishing?”
I let the last sentence trail off into a question, hoping she’d pick up where I left off.
She opened her mouth to respond, but closed it quickly when a side door I hadn’t noticed opened off to the right, exposing a small office beyond. The woman who stepped out looked old enough to be my grandmother. Her hair had gone past gray, into the solid white of someone old enough to have forgotten things I had never known. She wore it drawn back into a tight bun with wispy tendrils drifting down at the sides. Deep lines scored her forehead, complementing a spray of fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.
My grandmother passed away when I was six, leaving my memory of her tied to a few specific images. The strongest of them went back to her sitting in a rocking chair, shawl draped across her shoulders and breaking green beans fresh from the garden. Elsie Morgan carried the same distinctive blend of age and wisdom, needing nothing more than an ankle-length gingham dress to complete the picture. She had the shawl lacy, white and curled around her shoulders. The similarity in clothing ended there though as she wore a white blouse and gray slacks.
She leaned her head forward slightly and looked over wire-rimmed glasses trimmed in silver.
“I’ve been expecting you,” she said and held out her hand. I took it. Her skin lacked the soft, silky feel that comes with many older people. Instead, her handshake came across strong and firm.
She studied me for a moment with eyes as gray as the ocean on a cloudy day. I had the uncomfortable feeling that she was as busy sizing me up as I had been a moment earlier with her.
Mirrors don’t lie. We do, however. I’m not sure why, other than the fact that staring into a mirror over the course of a lifetime makes one too familiar with the features staring back at them. We tend to forget that first impressions are often dominated by the same characteristics that caricature artists use to create the cartoon portraits that are overdone, yet undeniably us.
When I’d left Morehead City earlier that morning, the mirror had shown me a stocky man in his early forties, who at five-ten was neither tall nor short, but stuck right on the average scale. A faded, moss-green ball cap sporting a logo for Stone Mountain, Georgia covered short, sandy hair that seemed at odds with the dark stubble forming on his cheeks. The face carried a slight tan, looked a bit scruffy, all of it framed by a strong, squared jaw. The shoulders stretched wide enough to hang a bag or two off them and not have to worry about either slipping off. I looked like I belonged on the beach. With the Jimmy Buffett T-shirt, cargo shorts, and tennis shoes, tourists off the ferry could easily mistake me as one of the locals.
With the old woman staring at me so intently, I shifted, as uneasy as I’d ever been in front of Juanita Whatley and wondered what I’d missed in the mirror. If anything set me apart, it had to be the eyes. Jayne had once described them as icy blue.
Elsie drew her hand back and pulled at the edge of her shawl. ”You’re the one going out to the islands for some fishing, aren’t you?”
She didn’t wait for me to answer, but looked over at the girl. “Tracy, hand me the day book underneath the cash register.”
The girl fumbled for a moment and then passed over a small wire-bound book.
The woman flipped through it. “Yes, here you are. Hill, William, right?”
I ventured a smile that ended up feeling crooked on my face.
“Sorta. It’s actually William Hill. But yes, I’m heading out for a few weeks. Fishing is usually good this time of year.”
She pursed her lips.
“Your boat outside?”
I nodded.
A pause long enough to border on awkward followed. With those old gray eyes so piercing and unwavering, it felt like she was looking straight through me to study something on the other side.
“Well, come on,” she said eventually. “Let me show you where you can put it in the water.”
I turned to follow her and found myself hurrying to catch up. Elsie Morgan carried some years on her, but none of them had affected her step.
She l
ed me back out into the sunlight and across the parking lot. Instead of angling toward the back of the store, she headed straight for Angel.
“I haven’t seen one of those in years,” she exclaimed as she drew up beside the boat. “That’s an Aquarius, a twenty-three footer, isn’t it?”
I nodded, surprised that she knew the brand. The company that built them went out of business decades earlier.
Elsie twisted her lips. “That’s a good one for bumming around islands, but it’s not a heavy-weather craft at all. You’re not planning on going far out to sea are you?”
I shook my head. “What are you, a walking encyclopedia of all things marine?”
She grinned, revealing straight teeth and a mouth full of them. “Hang around a place like this long enough and you’ll see everything that floats, even if it was intended for a bathtub. Where are you heading?”
“Portsmouth,” I said simply.
“Is that going to be your base?”
I lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug. “I don’t have a set itinerary. A good part of the plan is to not have a plan. I’ll find a narrow point on the island where I can park this thing off the back, and set up camp on the ocean side.”
Out on the road, a police cruiser rolled by. I stopped long enough to make sure my favorite lawman hadn’t hunted me down.
“If I get bored,” I said, ignoring the curious look on her face, “I’ll move. I imagine I’ll move a few times. There’s a lot of island out there, not to mention a few more above it and below it.”
She pointed to a large, rectangular box lashed down on the pop-top hatch. “What’s that?”
I grimaced. “That’s my father’s version of a dune buggy.”
She shot me a questioning look.
“Dad had always planned on sailing the entire East Coast from Maine to Mexico. He wanted to write his own travel book. He knew he couldn’t port a full sized ATV on the boat, so he took a blow torch to a golf cart and a lawn mower.”
I paused and winced. “That’s what came out of the marriage. The thing folds down to fit in that box.”
The expression on her face went from questioning to dubious. “Does it work?”
“It does,” I conceded. “I pulled it out and drove it around the house before I carted it all the way down here. It rides just fine, even though it looks odd and takes a while to inflate the tires.”
She shot me another look full of questions.
I answered the most obvious one.
“The tires have to be flat for it to fit in the box.”
“Ahh,” she mused. “Your father spent a lot of time thinking about this trip of his, didn’t he?”
“A good bit of his life went into it,” I said with a nod. “I may get bored. I might get lonely, but he spent his time thinking about the long haul. I could sail her a thousand miles if I needed to.”
She walked around the back of the boat, again pushing me to keep up with her. At the stern, she paused and ran her fingers across the word written in tall, blue letters.
“Angel, now that’s a nice name. Where is your father?”
I took a deep breath. “He passed away a couple of years ago.”
Elsie looked thoughtful. “Is that the reason the boat is named Angel? I thought it might be for a girlfriend, but knowing the history, that would make more sense.”
For the first time since we had walked out onto the asphalt, the sun felt hot. Jayne had asked me the same question. I lied to her. I don’t know why. I don’t know why I lied to Elsie Morgan either, but I did. The name was mine, personally mine. I realized that sticking it on the back of the boat for the world to see would prompt the occasional question now and then. I’d come up with a half-dozen plausible answers. I picked the one that seemed to fit the situation best.
“I figure, a man goes to sea, it’s always good to have an angel along with him,” I said.
The lines on her face grew deeper, but her voice came out soft. “So it is. I’ll take that, even though it’s not the real reason, is it, Hill William?”
The words came out in such a matter-of-fact voice that I began to wonder just how much Elsie knew about me. I scratched at my head, the sudden prickly feeling borne partly from being caught in a lie and the rest from a rising sense of irritation at the unwanted and unneeded scrutiny.
“You have me investigated or something?” I asked, trying to sound as if I was joking.
She waved her hand dismissively.
“I don’t need a detective. A man going off on his lonesome right now with so much trouble in the world wouldn’t have a wife when he got back and wouldn’t deserve one. A girlfriend would have made sense, but for the same reasons, she’d likely be along. That leaves something else and you looked away before you answered.”
I stared at her.
“I grew up on Portsmouth, but I didn’t stay there. I spent twenty years studying expressions for a company that sold services to the FBI. You looked away and your eyes firmed up around the edges. That’s a sign of pain and a need to avoid the question, which tells me it’s a personal pain. So, I’ll take your answer. It’s good enough.”
She rose up on her tiptoes and tried to peer over the gunwale. Fortunately, Elsie was too short and it too high. A frustrated look slid across her face. “From here, it looks like you’re set for a while, but I can’t see good enough to tell.”
I said nothing. I couldn’t decide if she was being nosy or simply curious. Either way, I was ready to move on.
“Well, hop in,” she said about the same time the thought crossed my mind. “I’ll show you where you can put her in the water.”
Quick, like a bird flitting from one bush to another, she scurried toward the passenger door. I raced to catch her and barely beat her to the handle.
“Here, what’s this?” she exclaimed and threw her head back. “Lordy, it’s been ages since a man opened a door for me.”
Laughter spilled out of the truck as I closed the door behind her. Shaking my head, I walked around to the other side and climbed into the driver’s seat.
“You smoke?” she asked when I fired up the Durango.
I thought about it for a long second. The cigarettes I had brought with me still lay untouched in their cartons. Even so, the thought crossed my mind that Elsie Morgan just might not be able to stand the smell of tobacco. I had no desire to irritate her since she would be watching over my belongings, but the threat might move things along a little faster.
“That I do,” I said.
“Drink?”
“Sure.”
A satisfied look crossed her face. “Good. I can’t stand people who act like they ain’t got any bad habits. You know the ones I mean?”
I blinked. “I’m not sure I do.”
She let out a sound that sounded like hmmpfh, but didn’t pursue the subject. “Why are you really going out to the islands, Hill William?”
Sheriff Little crossed my mind. I shot a compulsive glance at the side mirror. I could lie to Elsie about that too, but it didn’t seem worth the effort. The woman was sharp. She’d see through it in a second.
“To die,” I said.
She fell quiet for a long moment. Gray asphalt rolled beneath the Durango.
“How far is this place anyway?” I asked her.
“Just up the road,” she replied. “It could be weeks, maybe months before The Fever makes it out here.”
I smiled faintly. “I know.”
She acted like she wanted to ask something else, but raised a bony finger instead. “Turn right up there. Go slow. The water ain’t far.”
I turned off on the side road that proved to be the entrance to a boat launch. Less than a hundred feet ahead sloped concrete trailed off into smooth, blue water. A long, low dock, the top barely a foot above water, stretched out beside the ramp.
I swung the Durango in a wide arc, pulling it around completely until the ramp lay behind me. Using the side mirrors, I eased the vehicle backwards, cutting
the wheel deep at first to line up the boat with the concrete, then rotating it back in a gentler arc in the opposite direction. A few seconds later Angel’s transom hung over the edge of the water.
Leaving Elsie in the truck, I climbed aboard and raised the mast—a task that sounds simpler than it was. Swinging twenty-five feet of four-inch thick pipe from horizontal to vertical isn’t easy, even if the thing is made of aluminum. One slip and Archimedes joined forces with gravity to turn the mast into a monster-sized sledge hammer. Angel’s transom might survive the impact, but the odds favored a crushed stern.
Fortunately, I’d learned that trick when dad had taken me out as a teenager. I slipped the doubled end of a rope around the mast and held it straight with one hand, while I hooked the forward stay into place with the other. I had a few more preparations to make, but from trailer to dock took about fifteen minutes.
Once I had Angel tied up, I went back to the Durango and climbed inside. Elsie still sat in the passenger’s seat where she had watched me launch the boat.
“If you want,” I told her, “I’ll take you back to the store before I unpack the truck. I still have quite a bit in here that I need to transfer over.”
She looked thoughtful, but nodded.
“You got that thing set up fast. I’ve seen men piddle around with a sailboat for an hour.”
I grinned and turned the ignition switch. The engine growled into life with a deep-throated snarl that breathed power. “When Dad and I came down years ago, he fussed over everything. I didn’t think we’d ever get out on the water.”
The old woman shot me a curious look, but said nothing. I slid the SUV into drive and rode the mile or so back to her store, thankful for the cool breeze flowing in through the window. It took about ten minutes to make the round trip. When I returned to the launching area, I pulled the Durango as close to the dock as possible. I would have loaded the last of the supplies if Elsie hadn’t been with me. The thought of trying to hurry and then making the five-mile trip out only to realize I’d forgotten something, killed that notion before it ever gained a firm footing.
On the outside, Angel was as functional as a boat her size and type could be. Two radios graced the interior. Dad had mounted a VHF unit just inside the hatch on the port side. A long, low berth ran underneath it, up to the cabinetry that housed the sink, a 12-volt plug, and a common FM/AM radio with a CD player. Outside in the cockpit, he had installed a Ritchie Marine compass. Beside it sat a Hummingbird fish finder and depth meter combo, also powered by the ship’s battery. The final piece of the electronic puzzle came in the form of two GPS units. Neither had been designed for marine use. The small, backpacker’s GPS served as an emergency backup. The main unit with the large display and night mode backlighting, I pulled from the Durango.
The motor carried an alternator, which charged the batteries when Angel ran under power. He’d also installed mounting stations atop the pop top and the forward deck for two ten watt solar panels. A third means of generating electricity came in the form of a small windmill that could service both the boat and the dune buggy. I had never seen it mounted on either, despite the fact he’d had the thing for years.
Below decks, the space inside was tight and easily cluttered. With half her length dedicated to the cockpit outside, the actual living space inside worked out to less square footage than an average bathroom. The designers had packed as much as possible into the cabin, enclosing three separate sleeping areas, a sink and cabinet, and a tiny spot for what an enthusiastic seller would call restroom facilities. No one, not even a salesman on steroids, could call the accommodations luxurious.
The largest storage compartment on the boat ran back under the cockpit. Unfortunately, the factory had failed to provide any access to that area. Dad had rectified that problem by installing hatch covers in the cockpit that opened to the space below. I had no idea if or how he had tested the modifications, but Angel had remained dry inside while stored out in the weather and the latches seemed both solid and secure.
Despite having raised the mast, I had no intention of hoisting sail on the trip across. I wanted to make the crossing as fast as possible and had no desire to tack back and forth in fickle winds.
A good bit of the food I had packed consisted of dry goods with canned items relegated to meats and vegetables. A sixty-five quart Yeti cooler in the locker space underneath the starboard bunk acted as my fridge. I’d frozen all the meat inside before packing it, lining the bottom with ice, adding the frozen meat next, and covering it all with a final layer of dry ice.
The day-to-day cooler, the one I’d use for the first week, also bore the Yeti brand. It sat just inside the cabin, and held three bags of ice along with enough fresh food to see me through a few days at least. Still, I had no illusions. Even with the high dollar coolers I’d be out of ice within two weeks. That thought didn’t sit well. I could deal with eating what I caught, but no way of storing it meant a constant search for food. Almost as dismal a thought revolved around tea. I drank gallons of the stuff.
The sigh that slid out of me every time I thought about it highlighted my frustration. Even with more expensive and complicated machinery that could provide the desired level of cooling, I’d need fuel. No matter how I looked at the problem, two weeks seemed to be the limit.
The final bit of transfer occurred from items up front in the Durango, my cell phone, the dash-mounted Magellan GPS unit, the cash from the glove compartment, along with a dozen other things I grabbed up at the last minute. Angel probably sat three or four inches deeper in the water by the time I was done.
When I finished, I stood in the breeze, letting the cool air dry the sweat I’d built up carrying the supplies out to the boat. My mind roamed, worrying over what might still be hidden in some nook or cranny inside the Durango when I remembered the box of shells under the passenger seat. Dad had always carried a rifle aboard, a Marlin 30-30. If the caliber doesn’t ring a bell, think John Wayne with a lever action rifle against his shoulder. I’d left it mounted on the port side when I’d worked on Angel prior to leaving. A half-used box of shells lay inside one of the bunk lockers. I’d bought another before I left.
Finally satisfied, I drove back to the store, parking in the same elongated slot I’d used before. With the boat packed and the Durango empty, the itch to get underway ran strong. I killed the engine, took one last look around to make sure I wasn’t missing something I’d need, and then climbed out and headed into the store.
Tracy still occupied the checkout station, this time busy with a customer. She glanced over when I walked in and pointed toward the little office.
“She’s in there. She said to tell you to come on in when you got back.”
I nodded, crossed the entrance way, and stuck my head inside the open door. Elsie finished stuffing a water bottle inside a day pack before she looked up.
“All packed and ready to go?”
I gave her a lopsided grin. “I suppose so. I keep wondering what I’ve forgotten. I’m sure I’ll remember about the time I get to the island.”
She swept her hand in a broad wave. “There’s plenty out there in the store. Go wander around a while.”
I shook my head. “I have enough for now. If I get out there and need something, I can always make a trip back in. It’s not that far. With the motor, I’m guessing that I can make the crossing in an hour or so.”
She slid her chair back and motioned to another just inside the door. “Come on in. Have a seat. Let’s settle up on the money end of things. Give me your keys too. I’ll have Tracy run you back down to the dock. She can pull your Dodge out back when she returns.”
I fingered the money in my pocket. “You said five dollars a day, right?”
“That’s what we talked about, yes,” she agreed and then frowned. “I can cut that down for you though. Let’s just say this whole disease thing is a bust and you end up coming back. How long you planning on being out there?”
I had set a
side three hundred, figuring that within two months I’d know one way or the other.
“A couple of months at the most,” I told her.
She looked thoughtful. “I grew up over there, born and raised not a hundred yards off the bay in Portsmouth. My father moved us to Wilmington when I was twelve. I have family buried in the old cemetery.”
Her voice trailed off, but came back strong.
“I don’t know you, Hill William, but I know people and I know faces. You’re about as harmless as a toad frog.”
I said nothing, unsure of how to take her comment and wondering where it was going.
“I’d like to go back and walk the town once more. Stop by the graveyard and see my people one more time, just walk around and remember things.”
A calculating look slid across her face.
“How you feel about riding me over? I’ll cut the cost of storing your vehicle in half if you wait until tomorrow, take me over in the morning and bring me back late in the day.”
She raised her eyebrows and leaned closer, reminding me of a salesman trying to close a deal. “And I’ll even top off your gas tank for the trouble. You don’t have to worry about us either. Just drop us off and go about your business until it’s time to come back.”
Taken aback by her request, I still didn’t miss the change in pronouns when she switched from me to us.
“You don’t even know me,” I blurted out. “This place is full of people with boats. Why do you want to ride across to what amounts to a deserted island with a man you just met? That’s like some crazy story you read in the paper and wonder how someone could just go off with a stranger.”
To my surprise, Elsie rolled her eyes. “Hill William, I worked with some of the best profilers in the business. I know a lot more about you than you think I do. You could get ornery if crossed bad enough or put in danger yourself, but you’re a straight arrow. If I ride over there with you, you’ll bring me back, even if you’re cussing all the way.”
She waved a hand in the direction of the window at the opposite end of the office.
“What other boats? This time of year that lot out there should be packed with pickups, SUV’s, and four-wheelers. The fish are running, but the people ain’t.”
Elsie canted her head toward the road outside her window. “The ferry should be pulling out every hour this time of year. It’s not. It’s doing one run a day when it has enough cars to make a dollar or two. You’re the only sure bet I got.”
Knowing what I know now, Elsie would have probably won that argument had it run its course. She has a way of nudging people over to her point of view. Whether her maneuvering or my stubborn nature would have won that particular debate turned out to be a moot point because about the time I opened my mouth, a voice sounded behind me, an angry, snarling voice I’d heard a couple of hours before, standing outside my window telling me that the one thing I had done wrong was drive on its fucking road.
I turned, slow and careful. The sheriff stood near the cash register. His head barely fit underneath one of the cluster lights hanging from the ceiling. Another inch or two and he would have had to duck. The size didn’t bother me much. The look on his face did.
D. Little had passed the point of simple anger. He towered over the magazine rack near the checkout stand, his fists clenched in rage. Unfortunately, his fury had a target.
Even more distressing, that target happened to be me.
Chapter IV - The Ride