Dead Low Tide (6 page)

T
he golf cart trundled along behind a caravan of vehicles creeping up the island. I reached into the cooler and passed Kat her sandwich, then mentioned it seemed odd to see golf carts on the road with pickup trucks and SUVs.

“Actually it’s the cars that are the problem,” Kat explained. “Up until two years ago, golf carts and bikes were the only things allowed on the island. That bridge you came over on? It used to be a passenger ferry, but folks visiting whined about having to unload their stuff in a parking lot. Sissies. That’s
what a vacation is, different than home. So the town council ordered up an amendment to build the bridge. They kept the speed limit at twenty-five, though.” She braked for an elderly woman with a walker entering the crosswalk. “I still say that if you want to find out what happened to your sister, you need to run and see Poke Salad Annie.”

“Like a witch doctor is going to know where my sister is,” I replied.

“Told you, Annie is a Gullah. Never claimed she was a witch doctor.”

“What about that voodoo gumbo you told me she made?”

“That’s just what she calls it. Don’t mean she’s into black magic. Besides which, you’ve eaten angel food cake, I bet. Does that make you an angel?”

“You don’t really think there are such things as zombies, do you? I mean, seriously?”

“What I think dudden matter. You’re the one who said a dead person took your sister.”

The old woman cleared the crosswalk and we sped away.

Kat asked for a water bottle from the cooler. Between sips she said, “Folks in Haiti bury folks alive, did you know that?”

“Are we back to talking about zombies?”

“How it happens is like this. A bokor forces the victim to suck down this stuff called tetrodotoxin. It’s a chemical found in puffer fish.”

I knew what tetrodotoxin was, but I liked listening to Kat talk. She had a funny way of saying things.

“Even just a little bit can knock down the heart rate and make it look like the person has stopped breathing. It leaves a body feeling practically paralyzed. People who don’t know any better think the person has up and died.”

“Good thing I don’t live in Haiti.”

“After everyone skedaddles, the bokor sneaks back into the graveyard and digs up the body. ‘Course they’re not really dead, but the bokor makes like he’s using magical powers to bring ’em back to life. Person coming through a thing like that is gonna do whatever a bokor asks, on account of they don’t want to get planted a second time, know what I mean?”

“How do you know all this stuff?”

“I teach a weekly Bible study for recovering zombies.”

I eyed her skeptically. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Serious as a heart attack. Poke Salad Annie’s in our group. That’s how come I know about her voodoo gumbo. Sometimes she fixes a mess of it for us. If you’re still around this weekend, drop by. Right now we’re using
Undead: Revived, Resuscitated, and Reborn
as our study guide.”

Kat thrust her left arm out, signaling a turn. As soon as the oncoming traffic cleared, we pulled into the real estate office parking lot.

A Bible study for the undead. Unbelievable
.

Palmetto Island Realty overlooked the Atlantic Ocean on one side and a golf course on the other. A hedge of bushes provided a natural barrier between the parking pad and the shaded walkway. Kat parked the golf cart and I swung out.

“I’ll wait for you.”

“No need,” I replied. “This might take a while.”

“Got nothing else to do.”

The rental office was on the ground floor of the two-story building. A sign by a wide staircase invited homebuyers to the second floor. When I reached the top step, the receptionist behind the mahogany desk looked up from her typing. I told her I was there to see Ms. Bryant, that my father was a candidate for a sales position and I thought I would visit their offices. Whoever sent the email of Wendy had suggested Dad’s job offer was bogus. If so, then Ms. Bryant either was involved or might know who was behind it.

The receptionist studied me for a moment as if she couldn’t believe a boy my age would check up on his father’s work application. With a shrug, she gestured toward a waiting area of cushy chairs arranged in front of a large bay window overlooking a putting green. I wandered over and picked up a golf magazine.

In a few minutes a slender, twentysomething young man in a teal sport shirt and tan slacks came out of an office.

He introduced himself as Matthew Carter. “I understand you’re here to see Ms. Bryant and don’t have an appointment. I’m afraid she is busy showing a home. Is there something I can help you with?”

The way he said it made me think that helping me was the last thing Matthew Carter wanted to do. “Thanks, but I’ll wait.”

“She could be gone a long time.”

“I’m in no hurry.”

“How about you just give your name and number? I’ll have her call you when she returns.”

I seriously doubted Matthew Carter III, Senior Sales Consultant for Residential Development, as his name tag said, would pass along the message, but it was obvious the snotty sales assistant didn’t want me hanging around. He jotted down my number and started back to his office.

“You ever heard of someone named Poke Salad Annie?” I asked.

He paused in the doorway of his office. “Oh, sure. Crazy cracker lives in the swamp. Why, you need a hex put on somebody?”

“Can she really do that?”

He tucked the piece of paper with my phone number into his pants pocket. “I’ll see that Ms. Bryant gets the message.” He retreated into his office and closed the door.

“That was quick,” said Kat.

“Ms. Bryant is out with a client. I ended up leaving my number with her sales assistant.”

“That would be Matt.”

“You know him?”

“Matt caddied at the club for a spell. His granddaddy was one of the men who helped start Palmetto Island Resort. Did’n work at the club long, though. Golf pro kept getting complaints about Matt making improper comments toward the members, hitting on their wives and stuff. I might could’ve told them he was a bad seed, but nobody asked my opinion.”

“So you two have a history, I take it.”

“Oh yeah. He thinks he’s the next heartthrob actor. Few years ago, Robert Redford was down here filming a golf movie. Matt got a bit role as an extra. All he had to do was stand in the crowd and keep quiet, but he couldn’t even do that. He kept trying to steal the scene by spouting off one-liners while the actors were rehearsing. Finally he got booted. Next thing I hear he’s up in Wilmington auditioning for a supporting role in a horror movie about some Rastafarians from Jamaica.
Night of the Living Dreadlocks
, I think it was called.”

“Interesting. Did he get the part?”

“Didn’t ask, don’t want to know.”

Kat reached over and placed the water bottle in the drink holder. I caught a whiff of sunscreen mixed with just a hint of perfume and for a split second my heart skipped a beat.

My sister once complained that I had a heart of stone, that I was uncaring and insensitive to the feelings of others. Feelings are overrated. Feelings get you into trouble. My parents’ marriage was a good example. They’d fallen in love. Fallen — as if they didn’t have a choice, like someone had pushed them. But they did have a choice and that choice had been clouded by feelings, feelings that faded. Now my parents were thinking about breaking up and splitting up Wendy and me. Nope, far as I was concerned, feelings were to be pushed down and ignored and only allowed outside when on a leash.

I’d become very good at burying mine.

“Where to now?” Kat was asking. “Officer McDonald’s office?”

“Sure, if that’s okay.”

“Not a problem, but after I drop you off, I need to be getting back. The man renting the catamaran has phoned twice already to remind Uncle Phil that there’d better not be any problems. He’s coming in and wants everything to be perfect. It’s a boat, for crying out loud, not a Frisbee.”

O
fficer McDonald maintained his headquarters in the west wing of the town administrator’s office. The men and women who hurried through the lobby were slender and fit and dressed in starched brown uniforms. No rubbery bellies or aimless loitering. An informational brochure in the newly carpeted lobby informed visitors that public safety and emergency response on Palmetto Island were handled through a contract with the Savannah Police Department. A framed picture on the wall showed a staff of seven uniformed men and women. Officer McDonald stood in the middle of the front row.

Behind the sliding glass door a woman spoke into a headset. She called codes for various types of emergencies. I waited while she jotted some words and numbers onto a notepad.

Television and movies have distorted our view of detective work. I know this because of my work with the Crime Watchers and the scores of interviews we’ve conducted with real men and women of the law. Less than 10 percent of investigative police work involves the examination of bodies, fingerprints, and blood. Most detectives spend their days filtering through seemingly trivial facts, chasing down leads through minor traffic violations, researching stupid complaints made by John and Jane Doe, and interviewing uncooperative witnesses who don’t have a clue (and don’t care) what real law enforcement officers do.

First responders on all levels are underappreciated, underpaid, and underfunded by the communities in which they serve.

And at that moment I felt a little like an underappreciated police detective. The search for my sister had reached a series of dead ends and nobody, not even my parents, cared. They thought Wendy was hanging out on the beach or at the food court with new friends, but I knew different. I knew she was in serious trouble.

First, the kidnapper had my email address. He or she could have lifted that off the
Cool Ghoul Gazette
website, sure. But how did the kidnapper know I worked for
Cool Ghoul?
For that matter, how could anyone on Palmetto Island have known my
paying job involved writing articles for the
Gazette
and my real passion was solving murders by studying television episodes? It didn’t make sense that a local would have known this.

Second, Heidi May Laveau’s body floating up from the deep and grabbing Wendy was for show. Moviegoers may be infatuated with zombies and all things undead, but I knew decomposing corpses couldn’t rise from the grave and go around taking people. So why Laveau’s body? Kat knew more about the dear girl’s background than anyone I’d met. But could Kat have known about my work with the
Cool Ghoul Gazette?
Maybe she researched me. After Wendy’s abduction, Kat had easily tracked me down at the condo and lured me to the church. Had she been afraid I might go back to the creek with my parents? And if I had, was she worried I’d find the canoe, Wendy, and the person dressed up as Laveau? I had my phone. I could have called my parents and asked them to come back and pick me up. Maybe the church visit was Kat’s way of covering for someone. But who?

The most troubling of all was the knowledge that whoever had Wendy seemed convinced that I could give them life. I could see someone taking Wendy for money, even revenge. But to demand something I couldn’t deliver — that stumped me.

At last the receptionist looked up and slid open the glass. I explained who I was and asked if Officer McDonald was available. She instructed me to have a seat and went back to peck-peck-pecking on her keyboard. Whipping out my phone, I did a quick web search of Officer McDonald.

According to the bio on the Palmetto Island Law Enforcement website, Lieutenant Kevin J. McDonald joined the Savannah-Chatham Metro Police while serving as a Marine Diving Medical Technician stationed at Marine Corps Air Station in Beaufort, South Carolina. He left the Marine Corps with an honorable discharge after eight years of service and was hired as an officer. Upon graduation from the Criminal Justice Academy, he accepted a position as a patrol officer for the downtown precinct. Some months later he was promoted to the rank of corporal and assigned to the southside precinct as an assistant shift supervisor. Six months later, he assumed the rank of operations lieutenant of Palmetto Island.

The picture on the web page showed a younger-looking man with a buzz cut and fewer wrinkles around the eyes. The one item on his résumé that caught my attention was the diving certification. Whoever the individual was that had dressed up as Heidi May Laveau had been underwater a long time — maybe minutes — before snatching my sister.

A door opened. From the hallway an officer motioned for me to follow. Officer McDonald’s office was in the back of the building. He sat behind a metal desk. Without looking up he waved me into a vacant chair and went back to signing a stack of forms.

His was a tiny office with metal file cabinets, beige carpeting, off-white walls, and a window looking onto a parking lot. The room smelled of aftershave and leather. I sat erect in the wooden chair and waited.

Officer McDonald put away his pen and pushed a button on the desk phone. Moments later the officer who had escorted me from the lobby entered the office, took the stack of forms, and left, pulling the door shut behind him.

“I only have a few minutes,” Officer McDonald said to me. “What’s on your mind?”

“Mom and Dad told me you’re giving up the search for my sister. Mind if I ask why?”

“Not giving up, just changing the focus of the search. Did they mention we found the canoe?”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t prove anything.”

“Well, it proves your sister isn’t with that canoe anymore.”

“She’s not out shopping with friends. I know that for a fact.”

“Do you, now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, if it was me lost out there on Savage Island or some other place along that creek, I’d be yelling my fool head off.”

“I thought you knew. My sister has laryngitis.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that there were no footprints anywhere along that creek bank.” He stared blankly at me. “Last night you told me you and your sister rode down to the creek on bikes.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Where’s her bike now?”

I studied his face. The way he asked the question made me feel like
I
was a suspect in my sister’s kidnapping. “I guess it’s wherever your men hauled it to.”

“Wrong. We never
found
any bike. Not at the creek, anyhow. One of my officers did find one similar to the kind you were riding outside a townhome in the Turtle Dove Estates area. We checked the sticker. It’s assigned to the unit your family was staying in. You want to know what I think? I think your sister slipped off and spent the night with some friends.”

“We just got here yesterday; my sister hasn’t had time to meet any friends. Besides, she’s not like that.”

He rocked back in his chair. “Was there anything else you wanted? I’m due to jump on a conference call in a few.”

“What time did the call come in last night reporting my sister missing?”

“You know — you were there when your mom phoned it in.”

“By the time my parents and I got to the creek, TV crews were already at the creek taking pictures of the boathouse. How did the wildlife patrol get a boat in the water that quickly unless someone called
before
Mom?”

Officer McDonald rubbed his chin and sighed. “The report on you was right.”

“There’s a report on me?”

He reached into a wire basket and pulled out a manila folder. Flipping it open, he lifted a sheet and held it up for me to see. “Says here you helped solve a murder in North Carolina some months back.”

“Yeah, so, what of it?”

“Officer in charge of the case called you, and I quote,
‘arrogant and pushy. Boy acted like he knew better than me how to investigate a murder,’ unquote.”

“The victim was dressed like a vampire. Someone had stabbed him in the chest with a wooden stake. No one in charge acted like that was odd. I thought it might be a good idea to find out who the murderer was.”

“And you did that, how? By watching TV?”

“Something like that,” I mumbled.

He riffled through the folder and scanned another document. “Before the North Carolina case you accused a federal marshal in Colorado of murder.”

“He wasn’t a federal marshal, just the marshal of a ghost town. I found the actor playing the role of Billy the Kid dead in the hayloft. They told me I was mistaken, that it was part of the ‘ghost town’ experience. I did some digging. The marshal in Deadwood Canyon had motive, means, and opportunity, so I questioned him. Statistics show that law enforcement officers commit roughly the same number of violent crimes as the general population.”

“I wouldn’t be too quick to lump me into that group. You don’t want to get on my bad side.”

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. I had a hunch Officer McDonald didn’t care much for me and had only agreed to the meeting to keep my parents happy. Their daughter was missing and it was his job to find her. If I had questions or concerns, I imagined Officer McDonald felt obligated to entertain those questions, even if he did view me as a nuisance.

“Can you check to see if someone else called 911 before Mom did?” I asked. “Is that possible?”

Ignoring the question, he kept reading. “Says here in the murder of Bill Bell, you bungled the investigation. Messed things up so badly that the trial judge threatened to postpone the case until a hearing could be held concerning the circumstances surrounding the suspect’s arrest.”

“The man shot two people. I got a taped confession. How’s that not grounds for a murder charge?”

“Innocent until proven guilty. Just because
you
say he shot two men and
you
secured a taped confession doesn’t make it so. This wouldn’t be the first time an innocent man was wrongly accused. Not that it matters much now.”

“Well, it sure does matter.”

His face bunched into a scowl of concern. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on the desk. “Thought you knew. From the way you acted last night at the creek, I thought you knew everything.”

“Knew what?”

“The judge set bail at half a million dollars and released the deputy, Patrick Gabrovski, pending a thorough investigation into the circumstances surrounding his arrest. A few weeks later, Gabrovski was involved in a fatal traffic accident.”

“He’s dead?”

“Went off the road at a high rate of speed and slammed into a bridge abutment. Truck caught fire. They identified him from dental records.”

Suddenly a coldness gripped my heart. Gabrovski’s case was the first I’d cracked using our Crime Watchers formula, and the editor at
Cool Ghoul
had hired me primarily for my detective work in Deadwood Canyon. Calvin had made it clear that when Gabrovski’s case went to court I would be featured on the home page of the website and maybe even sent back to report on the trial. Now Gabrovski was dead. In a strange way, I felt responsible. If I hadn’t been so eager to secretly coax a confession out of him, I never would have messed with the case and he might be sitting in jail still awaiting trial.

Trying not to sound too disappointed, I said, “What does any of this have to do with you finding my sister?”

“Just this. We’re doing all we can to find your sister, same as we would for anybody else. And what we don’t need right now is you playing detective and making a mess of things … like you did in Deadwood Canyon. That’s why I asked your parents to keep you away from the creek, the reporters, or anyone else involved with your sister’s search.”

Officer McDonald picked up the phone. He punched a button and asked to have the emergency call log brought to him.

He hung up and said to me, “Anything else I can do for you?”

I wasn’t sure if I should push the issue. The conversation definitely had not gone as I’d hoped. “Your cousin, does he still work at WSAV?”

McDonald’s eyebrows arched. “Come again?”

“I know your cousin is or did work as the radio host at the station. I also know about what happened with the Hank Cash interview.”

The corners of McDonald’s eyes twitched. I’d seen the same irritated look from the marshal in Deadwood Canyon and the officer in Transylvania, North Carolina.

“What’s your point?” McDonald asked.

“I’ve been thinking that if your cousin really wanted to improve the ratings for his show, planting a make-believe dead body on Palmetto Island the week before Savannah’s big zombie festival would create a lot of buzz.”

His neck muscles swelled. “Careful, son. You’re real close to getting tossed out of this office.”

“And wouldn’t it be convenient if someone posing as a zombie snatched a body the night before the event was to start? Something like that would make news, I’m sure. You know, get people talking about the event who had never heard about a zombie festival? You were in the military, right? As a Marine Diving Medical Technician? Did you have anything to do with my sister’s abduction?”

“Now you’ve stepped
way
over the line. If it wasn’t for the fact that —”

A knock on the door cut him off before he could finish. The same officer as before stepped in, placed a call sheet on the desk, and left.

Officer McDonald scanned the report and grunted. “Guess you were right.” He placed the readout on the desk and turned
it so I could read. “Emergency operator received two calls about your sister last night.” He tapped the paper. “First one came in six minutes
before
your mother phoned.”

I studied the readout. “Hey, that’s my cell number!”

“Is it, now?” Officer McDonald leaned across the desk and said sternly, “What sort of stunt you trying to pull, young man, coming in here accusing me of having something to do with your sister’s disappearance when you know good and well
you
were the one who phoned it in?”

“Wha … Hang on, that wasn’t me! I didn’t even have my phone on me. It was in my backpack — the backpack
you
gave me when I got back to the beach.”

“Know what I think?” McDonald leaned back in his chair and locked his hands behind his head. “I think you and your sister planned this whole thing from the get-go. I think she snuck off to meet some kids and asked you to cover for her. You took a canoe from the rec center, shoved it out in the creek, and then called to make it look like she’d gone missing. Soon as she was away, you hurried back to the condo to meet your parents.”