past when I’ve had law enforcement problems out here. I can trust Kim.”
“Will she stay all night?” While I’ve never been a timid woman, holding murderers or drug dealers at bay was not a job I would want.
“No problem.” He was already dialing. “Kim is an ex-marine.”
“She can handle intruders?”
“She eats nails for breakfast.”
Someone answered and he asked for Officer Waggoner.
“Wait till you see her,” he said, covering the mouthpiece with his hand.
By the time the staff reconvened everything had been arranged. The crew took Katy in their boat, while Sam and I stayed behind. Kim arrived shortly after five and was everything Sam had promised. She wore jungle fatigues, combat boots, and an Australian bush hat, and packed enough munitions to hunt rhino. The island would be safe.
On the drive back to the marina, Sam again asked me to do the recovery. I repeated what I’d told him earlier. Sheriff. Coroner. Jaffer.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” I said as he pulled up to the walkway. “Thanks for taking us out today. I know Katy loved it.”
“No problemo.”
We watched a pelican glide over the water, then fold its wings and dive headlong into a trough. It reappeared with a fish, the afternoon light metallic on its wet scales. Then the pelican tacked and the fish dropped, a silvery missile plummeting to the sea.
“Jesus Christ. Why did they have to pick my island?” Sam sounded tired and discouraged.
I opened the car door. “Let me know what Sheriff Baker says.”
“I will.”
“You do understand why I can’t do the scene, don’t you?”
“Scene. Christ.”
When I slammed the door and leaned in the open window he started with a new argument.
“Tempe, think about it. Monkey island. Buried corpse. The local mayor. If there’s a leak the press will go crazy with this, and you know how sensitive the animal rights issue is. I don’t need the media discovering Murtry.”
“That could happen no matter who works the case.”
“I know. It’s—”
“Let it go, Sam.”
As I watched him drive off, the pelican circled back and swooped low above the boat. A new fish glistened in its beak.
Sam had that same tenacity. I doubted he would let it go, and I was right.
17
AFTER DINNER AT STEAMERS OYSTER BAR, KATY AND I VISITED A gallery on Saint Helena. We meandered the rooms of the creaky old inn, inspecting the work of local Gullah artists, appreciating another perspective on a place we thought we knew. But as I critiqued collages, paintings, and photos, I remembered bones and crabs and dancing flies.
Katy bought a miniature heron carved from bark and painted periwinkle blue. On the way home we stopped for coffee ice cream, then ate it on the bow of the
My daughter confided her ambition to be a criminal profiler, and shared her misgivings about attaining that goal. She marveled at the beauty of Murtry and described the antics of the monkeys she’d observed. At one point I considered telling her of the day’s discovery, but held back. I didn’t want to sully the memory of her visit to the island.
I went to bed at eleven and lay for a long time listening to the creak of mooring lines and willing myself to sleep. Eventually I drifted off, taking the day with me and weaving it into the fabric of the last few weeks. I rode in a boat with Mathias and Malachy, desperately trying to keep them on board. I brushed crabs from a corpse, watched the seething mass re-form as fast as I scattered it. The corpse’s skull morphed into Ryan’s face, then into the charred features of Patrice Simonnet. Sam and Harry shouted at me, their words incomprehensible, their faces hard and angry.
When the phone woke me I felt disoriented, unsure where I was or why. I stumbled to the galley.
“Good morning.” It was Sam, his voice sounding strained and edgy.
“What time is it?”
“Almost seven.”
“Where are you?”
“At the sheriff’s office. Your plan isn’t going to work.”
“Plan?” My brain fought to patch into the conversation.
“Your guy is in Bosnia.”
