Deceived (4 page)

Chapter eight

It had been a while since he’d been there, but Sam headed toward the waterfront and took a seat in the outside dining section of Provision’s Restaurant overlooking the township’s smaller of two marinas. The larger marina, Sam knew from experience, was overcrowded and overpriced, but the smaller one had a longer waiting list, plus a tight anchorage for a few snowbirds heading north or south on their annual migrations via the Intracoastal Waterway.

Sam and Angel had anchored here many a night and had rowed in to Provision’s for shrimp-burgers and beer. Tonight, the same “island” music blared from hanging speakers in rafters, and the smell of French fries and onion rings wafted throughout the small establishment. The owners were almost as famous as the food because of their generosity to the community when they closed shop every winter and headed south on a migration of their own. Each year, a different destination. A few nights before they left, they cooked all they had in the freezers, popped the kegs, and invited the town to a free dinner. No wonder they had the following they did, Sam noted, as he looked around at the tables that were filling up fast.

Sam ordered a Bass ale and grouper cheeks. His dinner companion was a snowy egret that landed on the rail and watched him intently. Without calling attention to his actions, Sam pulled the dry bag out of his pocket and unfolded the origami-like paper it contained. Just as Deloris had said, it was an incomplete grid with initials written in what Sam recognized to be Lee’s handwriting. There were four columns with a few scattered initials in each one: DS, AK, and CO were in the first column, with question marks and lines drawn from each to the second column’s only initials: LO. Another set of lines left LO and joined the next column, again with a single entry: JH. The fourth column contained words or names; Sam guessed them to be boat names:
Firefly
,
Moonglow, Seawitch
. Again, a question mark held court beside each word.

Whatever Lee had been learning, he was putting on the grid. Sam puzzled over it for a few minutes, then folded it tightly and returned it to the dry bag, which went into his pocket.

He watched the evening’s tide come in until dark. He saw several shrimp boats coming in to port, their tall riggings coming up as they got closer to Johnson’s, which stood only a stone’s throw from Provision’s.

Sam watched the crowd expand to overflowing on the dock jutting out into the small bay and marina. At low tide, the muck and mud held a faint tinge of sweet in the salty decay. A few of the smaller boats listed in their interior slips sitting on a soft bottom of mud and silt. Sam thought he might like to get out of his marina one day and cruise like the snowbirds he’d seen over the years. They’d anchor out in tranquil spots like this, close enough to a village like Southport and to a small bar like Provision’s. Their vessels became part of the scenery, fueling the dreams of every wanderlust-bitten soul and adding to the seaside town’s charm for the tourists.

“Picture postcard perfect,” Sam cynically thought as a brutally handsome deck jock rowed his buxom redheaded princess up to the dock for supper. Their boat was unscathed, uncluttered, and totally unlike his own. It was these yachties whom wannabes thought of when they breezed through a copy of
Cruising World Magazine
. Yet these sailors were the minority among the cruising community, and certainly only an abstract of the town they bestowed their presence on. They were merely passing through.

Sam finally relinquished his table to the bouncy waitress who zoomed past him as she tended to other customers. She stopped by his seat so frequently to ask, “Is everything all right?” that he knew she wanted to turn that table and that he had overstayed his welcome. He obliged, slipping a tip in a crammed tip jar resting atop a metal counter on the way out.

It was still early, so Sam did what most every other visitor to Southport does. He strolled the waterfront. The largest structure facing the water was Johnson’s Fishery, one of the town’s mainstays. Sam remembered reading
about old man Johnson’s death a few years ago. A newspaper article said it was a freak accident that claimed the life of the expert seaman and one of his long-time drinking buddies, Hale Carouth. Sam recalled reading how the two made their way back to the channel of Cape Fear on a moonless night after a day of fishing. A shrimp boat running at full speed cut through the twenty-four-foot sport fishing vessel, and the shrimper claimed he never saw the boat. He said he didn’t see any running lights, either.

Sam had heard that shrimpers are notorious for running without their radios on, so it was quite possible that he never heard the warning call from Johnson, if there was one. The whole town turned out for the funeral, though only Hale’s body was found among the wreckage. The case was dismissed as a maritime accident, and no charges were filed.

Sam remembered reading that Johnson’s son Tripp took over the fishery. Tripp was the first of his family to go to college, and he had some grand ideas about how to improve an already decent business. But as most of the established fishing and shrimping families were used to doing it the way it had been done for generations, they were none too pleased about the changes and new rates. They took their business down the waterway to Calabash and the equivalent of “turf wars” ensued among the local fishermen, forcing Tripp to change his rates to favor the local fishermen again in order to support his other marketing ideas. He opened a bigger retail outlet to the delight of locals and tourists, started an island delivery service ferrying goods to weekly renters and islanders on Bald Head Island and Oak Island, and also wooed out-of-state wholesalers to move his goods through interstate truckers.

To Sam, it looked like the new owner’s efforts were paying off. The fishery looked clean and sported a fresh coat of red paint, and on its exterior walls hung brightly painted crabbing buoys and netting, reminiscent of Mystic Harbor.

Too bad the rest of this stretch of the road lags in vision,
Sam thought. Beside the face-lifted fishery was a run-down restaurant, the Sea Enchantress, that was often the site of police calls, and the locals who wanted the town to stay local were proud of it. Tourists usually walked on the opposite side of street, making the Enchantress’ clientele gleeful. Further up the waterfront was a small boardwalk that straddled the short dune on the river and led to a spit of beach where young couples tried for a little romantic privacy from time to time. From this beach, the roar of the Bald Head Island ferries could be felt. Their wake often made it to shore, rippling waves occasionally washing up surprises.

Lee had once found a small packet of marijuana floating when he and Jenny had walked this beach after an early meal at the other riverfront restaurant at the foot of Howe Street. They stopped to take in the view for a moment, he had said, when the biggest of Bald Head Island’s three ferry boats, the
San Souci
, came to the no-wake zone sign where the open part of the Cape Fear River meets the narrower Intracoastal Waterway.

The twin engines roared and slipped, one slowing and the other racing as it failed to make a gear. The captain deftly maneuvered the passenger vessel to slow it down gradually with power from only one engine. By the time it had reached the entrance to the ferry landing down the river a few hundred yards, he had managed to bring the boat to a slow glide and bumped off the pilings to make it turn into the marina. Lee told Sam he heard later that the boat rammed the dock, but it was moving at such a slow speed that damage was minimal. The powerful wake made by the fish-tailing boat pushed up debris onto the beach, and a neat little watertight package landed practically at Lee’s feet. He had told Sam that when he opened it, he grinned and took it to his buddy, Chief Richard Gossett of the Southport Police Department. The two had known each other a long time, and Lee said that the chief would take care of things.

Wonder what ever came of it,
Sam thought, surveying the river. He made his way back over the sand and continued his walk along the river’s edge. He passed by the watchtower, Lois Jane’s Inn, and then up to the parade grounds atop a hill overlooking the riverfront and beyond to dredge spoil islands, and to Bald Head. The tree-lined streets of Southport, laid out in a grid pattern, held quirky names like Howe, Dry, I, and Am. The last two were added in jesting remembrance of Prohibition days. But the tidy, picturesque town was the jewel of Brunswick County, and real estate prices reflected this heightened state of awareness. Bald Head Island developers had carved out a new ferry landing rimmed with condos just up the river road near the Fort Fisher-to-Southport ferry landing, and other developers were snatching them up as fast as they could talk the longtime landowners out of their assets and parcel out lots under the grand 200-year-old, live oak trees (the oldest, near the town’s library, was claimed to be 800 years old).

Doubling back through narrow streets lined with antique shops, Sam found himself in front of an ice cream shop. The smell of oversized waffle cones wafted through the open doorway, tempting Sam.

“Why not?” he said, half aloud as he entered the small shop lined with sacks of coffee beans on one side and a long freezer and counter affair on the other.

“Death-by-chocolate on a sugar cone,” he ordered from the sunburnt fellow behind the counter. Two licks later, he was outside in the cooling night and heading back toward his car.

His stroll was disturbed by a cloud of dust kicked up by a passing semi rig rumbling toward Johnson’s Fishery. When Sam got to the parking lot servicing Provision’s customers, he noticed the truck had a New York license plate and considered the amount of driving one would have to do to cover territory between Florida and New York, collecting fresh seafood all along the way.

Sam drove slowly through some of the side streets and back out to Howe Street, which was also Highway 211. Southport was a booming town, now sporting a new Sharky’s Superstore, much to the chagrin of many of the swank historic district homeowners. They loved that it was close, but they also hated that it was close.

Turning on Highway 87, Sam rolled down his windows and enjoyed the night air as he approached the entrance to the old Brunswicktown ruins and Orton Plantation. He kept meaning to go there, but he never seemed to remember it as a destination when he had time off. He made a mental note to check it out soon. The road from there to Wilmington was desolate, with only an occasional deer surprising a driver racing for the next hourly ferry to Bald Head Island.

Sam had been over there once, but the boat ride was expensive, considering he’d had to rent a golf cart or a bike to get around once on the resort island where no cars were allowed. Sam had been more than a little put off at the snobbery of the waiter and pricey food he found in the resort’s restaurant the one time he and Angel had gone. He had hoped to rekindle a dwindling romance between them, but between the high costs, the voracious mosquitoes, and their fighting about money problems, it wasn’t a fun day, as he recalled.

Angel had been interested in seeing some of the more isolated beaches known collectively as East Beach, but Sam refused to rent a golf cart. Instead, they walked around the marina to a small beach that faced the river. It really wasn’t much to look at, and anyway, Angel had pointed out, they could see it from the ferry’s deck.

After going to a little coffee shop and browsing in the gift shop near the bed and breakfast inn called Theodosia’s, Angel had wanted to stay the night. But Sam had said they couldn’t afford it, and they had fought about money on the walk back to the ferry.

Now that he looked back on it, the $189 a night for a room might have made a difference in their relationship.
Not the money, but the effort,
he thought. Angel didn’t really care if they stayed there, but she did want and need some romance, Sam knew. Sam used money as an excuse, though that wasn’t the reason. He was selfish, and he knew it. He didn’t spend money on
them,
even when he knew it might make a difference.

Sam’s thoughts were interrupted by bright headlights in his rearview mirror. The narrow two-lane road had little traffic, so surely the large SUV with rack-mounted lights would pass. But it didn’t. It just sped up as it approached Sam. He stomped on the gas to pull away from it. The SUV followed suit, this time ramming the back end of his loaner car. Sam swerved to the edge of the road, then regained control. Once more, the SUV sped up and rammed the left side of the Altima, pushing him off the pavement. But instead of backing off this time, it slammed Sam’s car hard in the left rear panel as Sam tried to get back on the pavement. The force set his car spinning out of control, down an embankment, and into a dense row of pine trees lining the road. When the airbag didn’t deploy, Sam’s head struck the steering wheel and windshield. The last thing he remembered hearing was the sound of screeching tires as the SUV sped away.

Chapter nine

“Dude…are you…like…dead?”

Sam could hear a voice, distant, but throbbing, like it was coming from inside his head. He wanted to sleep, but the voice persisted.

“’Cause if you’re dead, I’m thinking I might like to check out your wallet.”

Now vaguely aware of a hand moving down his backside to his wallet, Sam felt a tugging and jostling. With all the strength he could muster, he sprang upright and reached with his right hand through the open window for the voice.

The voice shrieked, and Sam latched on to the throat from which it emanated. With a firm hold, he pulled the throat into the car and mashed the button to put up the electric window until it hit the underside of the would-be pickpocket’s armpit, capturing an arm, shoulder, and head inside the car. Then Sam let go of the voice’s throat. The voice gulped and gasped for air as the window held it tight.

Sam turned on the car’s dome light, momentarily blinding his catch. The voice belonged to a dark-haired, pony-tailed woman in her mid-thirties and wearing a soggy, battered Hawaiian print shirt.

“Dude! I didn’t mean it! I…I was checking to see if you were all right, man! Really, I didn’t mean anything by it,” she babbled.

Sam glared at her. She looked harmless enough. Sam looked around for the SUV with the rack lights on top, but he couldn’t make out anything in the brilliance of the dome light.

“Why were you trying to run me off the road?” Sam asked calmly.

“I didn’t do this to you. You were this way when I found you.” She was emphatic.

“What’s your name?”

“Monroe.”

“
Monroe
,” Sam mimicked. “Is that your first or your last name?”

“Last.”

“Got a first name, Monroe?”

“Yes, but…but you just call me Monroe.”

“What is your first name, Monroe? I would like to know whose hand it is that is reaching into my back pocket.”

“Oh, sorry. Like I said, I thought maybe you were dead.” Monroe pulled her hand up as far as she could given her current predicament and offered to shake Sam’s hand.

Sam didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he climbed slowly over the passenger’s seat and out the door. He staggered around the back of the vehicle and to Monroe’s back side to frisk her.

“What the…? Hey, you’ve done that before. You a cop?” Monroe asked nervously. “What are you going to do, dude?”

“Well, for starters, I thought I might see who you are, and what you’re up to. You have the right to remain silent.”

“But I didn’t do anything wrong!” Monroe protested.

“You don’t think running someone off the road and leaving him for dead is right, now, do you,
Monroe
?”

“I told you, man, you were already off in the ditch when I found you!” Monroe shouted. “I was just checking to see if you were all right, and if you weren’t, well, I was gonna find out who you were, so I could, you know, notify somebody or something.”

“Then where did you come from, Monroe? I don’t see your car around anywhere,” Sam said as he quickly looked around the area.

“I don’t have a car right now. I was hitching. Or trying to, anyway. I saw this huge truck with blinding lights on top racing up the road behind me, so I dove into the ditch a few hundred feet back. Then I saw it clobber you, and I figured you were a goner when you went off the road the second time. Hey, can you lower the window or something? My arm is about to fall off here!”

Sam reached for the door handle and jerked the door open. The force of the door hit Monroe on the chest, making her yelp.

“Cripes! You didn’t need to do that.”

Sam reached into the car and mashed a button, which lowered the window, freeing Monroe.

Monroe stood there, rubbing first her arm, then her head. “Uh, I’ll be moving along now.” She started backing away from the car and from Sam, but not fast enough.

Sam grabbed her arm and pushed her into the car. “What kind of a truck was it? Did you see the license plate? What color?” Sam rapid-fired his questions.

“I don’t know! I told you, the rack lights were blinding. When I dove into the ditch, I didn’t see anything! May the fleas of a thousand camels attack the driver in his crotch, and may his arms be too short to scratch!”

“What?” Sam started to laugh, but he hurt. “What did you say?”

“I’ve placed a curse on the driver,” Monroe straightened herself, “on your behalf.” Monroe bowed slightly toward Sam, and she smiled a toothy grin. “These things work, see. I learned them from my uncle who traveled all over the world, and he regularly cursed those who betrayed or hurt him, and blessed the ones who helped him. I’ve found over the years that they work for me, too. Now that driver who tried to run you off the road—and me over, for that matter—will certainly meet with a, well, let’s just say an uncomfortable fate.” Monroe was quite pleased with herself as she stood there rubbing a sore arm.

“Whatever,” Sam said. He pushed Monroe aside and gingerly got back into his car. His head was throbbing, and his chest hurt where it had hit the steering wheel. “Believe what you want.” The engine responded after a couple of tries, though the hood was smashed and the front-end dislocated.

“Hey! Aren’t you gonna even say thanks?” Monroe feigned her hurt. “The least you could do is offer me a ride.”

She ran around the car and pulled on the handle, but Sam had already locked it.

“Dude, you don’t mean to leave me out here!” she shouted through the closed window.

“You were out here already! You tried to snatch my wallet, and given the opportunity, you probably would have made off with my car, too!”

“Awww, really, I am sorry about all that. Look: I’ll make it up to you. What’s your name? I will bestow a blessing on you. Are you a cop?”

“Yes.” Sam unlocked the door and let Monroe in. “I am a cop. Where do you live, Monroe?”

“Wilmington. East Fourth Street. I appreciate the ride. I delivered this big-ass boat to an equally big-assed man on Bald Head. He didn’t know the first thing about powerboats, and he got this forty-two-foot boat, see. Then he wanted me to party with him at his dock on Bald Head Island. I think he was scared of his new boat or something. Anyway, before I left the dock in Wilmington, the broker told me that he’d send someone for me, but we never connected. So I told the new boat owner maybe he should run me home again, and he said he would. We started out of the marina, but then he got so drunk on the ride up the creek that I was scared to go any farther with the jerk.”

“So you probably put a curse on him, too, right?” Sam snickered as he backed out of the trees and ditch and slowly climbed the embankment to the road.

“I sure did. ‘May he drink a toast to his liver as he kisses it goodbye, and may a thousand mosquitoes feast on his fat, drunken head.’ Oh, and ‘May his golf cart batteries run out of juice before he gets back home,’” Monroe added, in delight.

“You’re making these up.”

“Sure am, and I have a good time doing it, too!” Monroe smiled. “Molly. My first name is Molly.” Monroe put out her hand a second time to Sam.

This time, Sam shook it briefly. “Sam McClellan.”

“So, Sam, why was that guy trying to run you off the road, anyway?”

“I have a hunch,” Sam said half-aloud.

“Care to share? I mean, I feel we are partners or something since he tried to run me over, too.”

“I don’t think he tried to run you over. I think you just got in the way.”

“Yeah? And what’s your excuse?”

“I think I am getting in the way, too,” Sam stated quietly.

“Um, you wanna talk about this?” Molly offered.

“No.”

“Okay. I was just trying to help you out, man. I mean, I know people in this town, and I could, like, put some feelers out for you or something in return for you giving me a ride home tonight. It’s a long walk on that road from Southport, especially at night. Those alligators can get mighty hungry.”

“Alligators?”

“Yeah, about where you crashed. They live in the pond on the way into Orton Plantation. Me and a bunch of friends used to stop there to see them when we were on our way back to Wilmington. Each time we stopped, there were more of them, and they were monsters!”

“You stopped by there often, did you?”

“Yeah. For a while, I worked on a boat.”

“Why not work out of Wilmington?” Sam’s head hurt as he squinted against the lights of the occasional oncoming car.

“The money is in Southport. We used to go out on the commercial fishing boats there. The days on the water were long, but the pay was good for a while. In Wilmington, I could be a deckhand on a headboat, but young boys are eager to get your spot, see. So they work for less. I needed more, so I had to go to Southport, where I could move up in rank and pay. Last year, when shrimping got so competitive from the foreigners coming in, well, I gave up on that and started working for a powerboat broker as a delivery captain. The gigs don’t happen often, but when they do, they are good money.”

“How many boats do you deliver in a month?”

“About three, but there are other opportunities from time to time. I’m a free agent. I work four gigs now and the money’s all right. You can let me out up ahead at the corner.”

“Don’t want me to know where you live or something, Molly?” It was Sam’s turn to feign hurt.

“It’s not that. I’m going down the street to the bar, the Barbary Coast. This is closer. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been there, but it’s like a second home to me.”

“I’ll bet,” Sam said as he pulled to a stop to let Molly hop out.

“Thanks for the ride. Stay out of trouble.” Molly opened the door and saluted Sam. Just before she got out, she said, “May the sun shine on you as you track down the ass who tried to kill us, and may you find him when nobody else is around so you can teach him some manners.”

Sam nodded and chuckled at Molly’s blessing. “Stay out of trouble, Molly Monroe.” He pulled away from the corner and headed to his marina in Carolina Beach.