I pulled over, got out of the car, and leaned against a fender. The sun, a scorched orb hanging an inch
or two above the sprawling sea grass, lured birds and ducks and buzzing creatures aloft for one last
flight before nightfall. I watched the sun sink to the horizon, merge with the flat tideland, and set it
briefly afire. The sky turned brilliant scarlet and the colour swept across the marsh like a forest fire.
The world was red for a minute or so and then the sun dropped silently behind the sea oats and marsh
grass.
Whoosh; just like that it was dark.
When I got back into the car, I had a momentary attack of guilt. My mind flashed on Dutch and the
promise I had made to him. No scandal, I had told him. I thought about that for at least sixty seconds
as I drove on through the oak archways and across the narrow bridge to the Isle of Sighs. Nothing
here had changed. It was like driving into a time warp. here and there, along the rutted lanes, handcarved signs announced the names of houses hidden away among pine and palm. Once this had been
the bastion of Dunetown, a fiefdom for the power brokers who took the gambles, claimed the spoils,
divided them up, and ruled the town with indulgent authority. The ho.mes were unique, each a
masterpiece of casual grace.
Windsong was the fortress.
It stood at the edge of the woods and a mile from the main road, down a narrow dirt corridor, tortured
by palmettos and dwarf palms, that was more path than lane; a stately, two-story frame house, ghostwhite in the moonlight, surrounded by sweeping porches, with a cap of cedar shingles and dark
oblong shutters framing its windows. Before it, a manicured lawn spread a hundred yards down to the
ocean?s edge. Beyond it, past the south point of Skidaway Island, a mile or so away was the Atlantic
Ocean. The gazebo, where bands had once played on summer nights, stood near the water like a pawn
on an empty chessboard.
Memories stirred.
A lamp burned feebly in a corner room on the second floor and another spilled light from the main
room to a corner of the porch. Otherwise the place was dark.
I stopped near a dark blue Mercedes sedan that was parked haphazardly on the grass near the end of
the driveway, got out, and stood for a minute or two, letting my eyes deal with the darkness. Moon
shadows were everywhere. A south wind drifted idly across the ocean and rattled the tree branches.
Out beyond the house, a night bird sang a mournful love song and waited for an answer that never
came. It was obvious why Chief had called it Windsong; no other name could possibly have fit.
I remembered Chief and Stonewall Titan, ending each day sipping whiskey on that porch. I opened
the trunk and put my pistol under the spare tire and pressed the lid shut as quietly as I could. This was
no place for sudden noises.
