Missing Witness (8 page)

After another moment of reflection, Beckford spoke up again.

“And something else. Your real opponent in this lawsuit isn't Terry Ludlow. Or even MacPherson. Not by a far stretch.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ludlow's a drunk. And probably a dope addict to boot. He's one of the low-life characters along the beach. He tends bar over at Joppa's Folly. There's no way in the world he could have come up with enough money to hire Virgil MacPherson. This much I know—there's a guy behind Terry Ludlow that's pulling all the strings. Somebody who's paying Virgil MacPherson. Somebody who's really running the show.”

“Who are you talking about?” Will asked.

“A guy by the name of Blackjack Morgan.”

“That his name?” Will asked with a chuckle.

“I'm not lying to you. The guy actually went into court and got a name change. I think he did it because of the way he won his first boat down here about ten years ago.”

“Game of blackjack?”

“Exactly,” Beckford said. “An ace and a king. Perfect twenty-one. The word down here is that Morgan has the luck of the devil. Came down here a little more than ten years ago. And in that period of time, he's set up a diving operation, a salvage company, and a tavern. And now he's working on a real estate development company. The guy's not educated. Not smart in that way. But he's street-smart, if you know what I mean.”

Will nodded.

“And then there's the other stuff about Morgan…”

“What other kind of stuff?” Will asked.

“To my knowledge, he's never been convicted of a criminal offense down here on the Banks. But the word among the drug community is that he's buying and selling big-time. He's been clever enough to not get caught—yet. When he first came down here a grand jury almost indicted him for the suspicious disappearance of his girlfriend. Presumed dead. He managed to slip out of that too. That's the kind of guy you're dealing with.”

“Well, what interest does he have in funding Ludlow? The island?”

“That I don't know. I just do know, based on our investigation, that Morgan's paying attorney MacPherson's legal bills.”

Will jotted down a few more notes and then rose to leave.

“You've been very helpful. Anything else I should know?”

Beckford paused before volunteering the last piece of information. “The fact is,” he said, reaching under the leg cast to scratch, “I have my suspicions. Not based on anything particular. But because of everything I know in general about Blackjack Morgan, it wouldn't surprise me if that guy was somehow behind my automobile accident. Morgan's done a great job of fooling a lot of folks on the Banks. He's even got a good rapport with some of the judges.”

Will shook hands with the attorney, and then walked quickly through the hospital on his way to the parking lot. Beckford's last statement was not a welcome bit of information. The last thing Will wanted was a case involving another pathological opponent. He had had, over the years, too many of those kinds of cases.

On the other hand, Will's curiosity about August Longfellow—and the truth about Isaac Joppa—had been piqued. He decided there was one more conversation he needed to have. He needed to talk to Longfellow and find out something about the real odds of proving Isaac Joppa's innocence. And about the two mysterious women in Joppa's life.

10

B
LACKJACK
M
ORGAN
, C
ARLTON
R
OBIDEAU
, and Orville Putrie were in the back office of Ocean Search, Incorporated, Morgan's ocean salvage company. The two mechanics and the secretary had gone for the day. Now, the only light left on was in the grimy office, where a flickering, buzzing fluorescent fixture illuminated the room from the ceiling.

All three were staring at the corroded metal box on the desk.

“Give me the rubber mallet and the chisel,” Morgan barked out to Robideau.

He took the chisel and laid it against the clasp of the lock. He swung the mallet back and then brought it down hard on the chisel. The box hopped across the desk from the blow. Then he tipped the box over on its side and began ferociously hammering down on the chisel, which lay against the clasp of the padlock.

Chips of old iron and corroded metal flew as he pounded.

After a few minutes, the lock gave way and broke into several pieces. Morgan grabbed the box and tried to pry the top open. But the top wouldn't open. He then took the box and slammed it down on the metal desk several times.

Then he took the chisel and mallet and began banging the chisel into the edge that separated the lid from the rest of the box.

When the lid still wouldn't open, Morgan turned to Robideau and said, “You take over. Smash it up. Split it open. I want this thing opened now!”

Robideau swung back the mallet—pulling his arm back so far he almost hit Putrie in the face—and then brought it down hard on the handle of the chisel—which split the corroded metal.

He grabbed the lid and box with his bare hands and began pulling the metal apart, bending and twisting it.

After a few minutes of effort, his muscles straining and rippling, he was able to twist the lid off and reveal the contents.

Morgan pushed Robideau away and put his face down close to the opening of the box and stared in.

Robideau was looking over his shoulder. “Hey. There's nothing but sand and a seashell in there,” he said with a guffaw.

Putrie shouldered his way in between the two taller men, glancing in for himself.

Morgan took the twisted box and emptied the contents on the top of the desk. There was sand, some ocean water, and a single seashell.

“So you sent me down in a nighttime dive for this junk. A whole lot of nothing. Zero. I can't believe this,” Robideau said in disgust.

Morgan lifted up the seashell. It was a light, bone-colored shell. But it was a unique-looking shell, tapered at one end and blunt at the other, about six inches long. And it was smooth and worn as if it had been polished in a machine shop. Morgan turned it over.

And then his eyes widened. He stared closer.

In the middle of the other side of the seashell, in what looked like an inscription with India ink, there were two almost hieroglyphic symbols. One looked like a “Y,” but with a line intersecting up through the middle—perhaps it was a cross with the two arms bent up. And next to it was an upside-down “U.”

Morgan held it close to his face and stared at the strange symbols.

Then his eyes moved to the tapered end. And there the shell had been inscribed with two letters, also in black ink. The ages—the centuries—had erased neither the symbols nor the initials that had been inscribed there.

The initials consisted of two letters. And when Morgan saw them, his mouth dropped open.

The letters were “E–T.”

Robideau looked over Morgan's shoulder. “I get it—ET, phone home!” he said with a big grin, pretending to raise a telephone to his ear.

“You idiot!” Putrie said, shaking his head in disgust. “Don't you understand what that means? E–T?”

Robideau was still unenlightened.

“Edward Teach, you moron.”

Morgan held the shell up in front of his face, gazing at the symbols, then over at the initials, then back to the symbols that had been inscribed in the shell in front of him. Then he noticed, in even smaller print at the other end of the seashell, a date: “Oct. 11, 1718.”

“Well, well,” he said with a smile. “We got ourselves something here.”

Robideau reached out to touch the shell, but Morgan pulled it away, and pointed his finger directly in Robideau's face.

“No one touches this shell. That means you.” Then he turned to Putrie and added, “And that means you. Nobody touches this shell except me.”

When Morgan finished saying that, he had, unconsciously pulled the seashell to his chest, clasping it tightly over his heart.

“Nobody touches this—except me,” he added with a guttural whisper. “Nobody.”

11

J
ONATHAN
J
OPPA HAD BEEN THINKING
about his son, Bobby, all day. His relationship with the twenty-year-old was never far from his mind. It was a constant source of frustration and despair.

Joppa had tried to call his son twice during the day, but had only gotten his voice mail at his small Kitty Hawk beach shack.

As soon as Joppa got home from the church that day he called his son again. This time he got through.

“Hey, Bobby, this is Dad,” he said, trying to sound upbeat. “How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Look, I checked the listings, and the Yankees are playing the Orioles tonight. I know you're a big Yankees fan—I never could talk some sense into you about the Yankees!” Joppa said, trying to turn the conversation into a joke.

But it didn't work. There was silence on the other end.

“So, how about it?” Joppa continued. “If you're not doing anything tonight, why don't you swing by and watch the game over at my place? I'll get a bunch of junk food. It'll be fun.”

There was a long, pregnant pause on the other end. Then his son spoke up.

“I've got some stuff going on tonight. I'm busy.”

“Well, you don't have to make it for the whole game. If you want to swing by anytime tonight…”

There was another pause, and finally Joppa decided to fill the silence.

“Look, Bobby, I'd just like to see you. Like to hang out together.”

“I've got a lot going on,” Bobby said unenthusiastically.

“It's just that we really haven't talked, not really. Not spent much time together since…” And with that, Joppa considered whether or not he
wanted to broach the subject.
Why not,
he thought to himself.
I've got to break through somehow
.

“The last time we really had any kind of conversation was six months ago when you were in rehab. That didn't go very well. I know you think that I was strong-arming you. Getting you admitted for drug treatment…”

“The discussion on that is closed,” Bobby said with a clipped voice. “You did what you had to do. I'm going to do what I got to do. I'm trying to live my life here…”

“I know that. And I respect the fact that you're a man, and you've got to make decisions on your own. I just want to be around with you. To help out. If I can,” the father said, struggling for some words of encouragement for his son.

“Yeah, you tried to help. You stuck me in the hospital. I was going to kick the drug stuff myself anyway. I did not have an addiction problem. Anyway, it's my life. My choices, you don't understand that.”

“Sure,” Joppa said, now with some irritation in his voice, “it's your life. But you can't expect me to just sit in the dugout watching you self-destruct. I'm not going to do that. I love you too much for that. It feels like a no-win situation—”

“Look, Dad. It's okay. I'm fine. I don't think talking about this is going to solve anything. I'm okay. I've got a couple of part-time jobs. Enough money to pay the rent. And groceries. You've done your dad thing. You've checked in on me. So let's just call it a day.”

“Bobby, just remember I love you. So just try and stop by sometime. Just call me once in a while. Anytime. Okay?” Joppa struggled to keep his composure.

“Sure. Right. Thanks for calling.”

There was a click at the other end.

Joppa looked at the receiver and ran his hands through his hair. He shook his head and stretched his other hand out, making an empty gesture to the air, in helplessness.

He wanted to get down on his knees right there and pray to God for some insight on how to reach his son.

But then he had not been on speaking terms with God for some time. That, of course, reminded him of the hypocrisy—of being a Christian minister who, himself, did not commune with God.

Back in seminary, he had felt a mysterious, all-powerful tug to spiritual things. Once he let go of baseball, Jonathan thought that ministry would fill the inner abyss. And…for a while, it seemed so. But then, as he read
the Bible and studied theology and the writing of the church fathers, there was a change. He felt hemmed in. Surrounded. It was all becoming much too personal. Though it felt like God was closing in, Jonathan managed to keep it out there.

After Carol's death, it had started with his leaving his pastorate at the vibrant First Evangelical Church of Charlotte to accept the position at the smaller, stodgy Safe Harbor Community Church in the Outer Banks. He would continue helping other people—and do it in the name of God. But whatever urge he once had to seek that place where God could truly be known—and be revealed—that was now past.

So now, with the telephone still in his hand—and the obnoxious tones of a disconnected line beeping on the other end—Jonathan Joppa had no spiritual mountain to climb, no burning bush to consult. He could only hang up the phone. And struggle against the rush of tears.