Katy turned to me. “Your students had to do the shot bit?”
“Every time.”
Early in my career, before I was lured into forensics, my research involved the use of monkeys to study the aging process in the skeleton. I’d taught all the primatology courses at UNCC, including a field school on Murtry Island. I’d brought students out for fourteen years.
“Hm,” said Katy, popping a clam into her mouth. “This is going to be O.K.”
At seven-thirty the next morning we stood on a dock at the northern tip of Lady’s Island, eager to go to Murtry. The drive had been like traveling through a terrarium. A heavy mist covered everything, blurring edges and throwing the world slightly out of focus. Though Murtry was less than a mile out, I looked across the water into nothingness. Closer in, an ibis startled and lifted off, its long, slender legs trailing behind.
The staff had arrived and were loading the facility’s two open boats. They finished shortly and took off. Katy and I sipped coffee, waiting for Sam’s signal. At last he whistled and gave a come-on gesture. We crumpled our Styrofoam cups, threw them into an oil drum turned trash barrel, and hurried down to the lower dock.
Sam helped each of us board, then untied the line and jumped in. He nodded to the man at the wheel, and we putted out into the inlet.
“How long is the ride?” Katy asked Sam.
“The tide’s up, so we’ll take Parrot Creek, then the back creek and cut through the marsh. Shouldn’t be more than forty minutes.”
Katy sat cross-legged on the bottom of the boat.
“You’d do better to stand and lean against the side,” Sam suggested. “When Joey throttles down, this thing jumps. The vibration’s enough to rattle your vertebrae.”
Katy got up and he handed her a rope.
“Hang on to this. Do you want a life vest?”
Katy shook her head. Sam looked at me.
“She’s a strong swimmer,” I assured him.
Just then Joey opened the engine and the boat surged to life. We raced across open water, the wind snapping hair and clothes and ripping the words from our lips. At one point Katy tapped Sam’s shoulder and pointed to a buoy.
“Crab pot,” yelled Sam.
Farther on, he showed her an osprey nest atop a channel marker. Katy nodded vigorously.
Before long we left open water and entered the marsh. Joey stood with feet spread, eyes fixed straight ahead as he twisted and turned the wheel, piloting the boat through narrow ribbons of water. There couldn’t have been more than ten feet of clearance in any of the alleys. We leaned hard left, then hard right, twisting through the cut, our spray showering the grass to either side.
Katy and I clung to the boat and to each other, our bodies pitching with the centrifugal force of hard turns, laughing and enjoying the thrill of speed and the beauty of the day. Much as I love Murtry Island, I think I have always loved the crossing more.
By the time we reached Murtry the mist had burned away. Sunlight warmed the dock and dappled the sign at the entrance to the island. A breeze teased the foliage overhead, sending splotches of shadow and light dancing and changing shape across the words: GOVERNMENT PROPERTY. KEEP OUT. ABSOLUTELY NO ADMITTANCE.
When the boats were unloaded and everyone was inside the field station, Sam introduced Katy to the staff. I knew most of them, though there were a few new faces. Joey had been hired two summers earlier. Fred and Hank were still in training. As he made introductions, Sam gave a quick rundown of the operation.
Joey, Larry, Tommy, and Fred were technicians, their primary duties being day-to-day maintenance of the facility and transport of supplies. They did painting and repair, cleaned the corrals and feeder stations, and kept the animals supplied with water and chow.
Jane, Chris, and Hank were more directly involved with the monkeys, monitoring the groups for various types of data.
“Like what?” Katy asked.
“Pregnancies, births, deaths, veterinary problems. We keep close tabs on the population. And there are research projects. Jane’s involved in a serotonin study. She goes out each day to record certain types of behavior, to see which monkeys are more aggressive, more impulsive. Then we run that data against their serotonin levels. We’re also looking at their rank. Her monkeys wear telemetric collars that send out a signal so she can find them. You’ll probably spot one.”
“Serotonin is a chemical in the brain,” I offered.
“Yes,” said Katy. “A neurotransmitter thought to be correlated with aggression.”
Sam and I exchanged smiles. Atta girl!
“How do you gauge whether a monkey is impulsive?” Katy asked.
“He takes more risks. Makes longer leaps, for example, high up in the trees. Leaves home at an earlier age.”
“He?”
“This is a pilot study. No girls.”
“You may see one of my boys in camp,” said Jane, strapping a box with a long antenna to her waist. “J-7. He’s in O group. They hang around here a lot.”
“He’s the klepto?” Hank asked.
