Under a Dark Summer Sky (11 page)

“You got something to say?” Trent swung his head left, right. “You think I can't make this worse? I surely can. Want to make it three weeks? Just try me.”

Henry imagined Missy waiting for him on the beach where they had arranged to meet the next night at sunset. “But, Mr. Watts, that means—”

“I know very well what it means but don't recall asking for your opinion,
Mister
Roberts. You will work at the bridge site each day and return to camp, where you will stay until work begins the next morning. No exceptions. No excuses. No whining.” He spat on the ground. “You brought this on yourselves. Anyone caught breaking the curfew is out of a job. Now git. Go make yourselves useful.”

• • •

Dwayne entered Doc's office and closed the screened door quietly. Hilda was unconscious again. Doc and Mama had repaired the wounds, but the swelling had worsened. Her entire head was a patchwork of purple bruises and black stitches.

“I don't like the look of this,” said Doc. “Don't like it one bit. Pressure is building up in her skull. Look at her eyes.” They bulged slightly under the swollen, discolored lids.

“What can you do?”

“The drugs I've given should bring down the swelling, but they haven't started to work yet. If it gets much worse, there will be permanent brain damage, even…” He shook his head. “We'll give it another twenty-four hours and then get her transported to Miami if there's no improvement.”

Dwayne moved closer to the bed. “What's this?” He indicated the odd pattern of marks on the bridge of her nose.

“Not sure,” said Doc, washing his hands at the sink. “I think it's from a boot, the sole of a boot.”

Someone
stomped
on
her
face.
The
bastard.
The marks were of a distinctive crosshatch pattern. “In that case, Doc, we need to find the owner of those boots.” For the first time since they had carried Hilda, bleeding and broken, into Doc's office, Dwayne began to feel some hope of catching who did it. Her breath came in shallow gasps. “Doc, will she live?”

Doc steered him into the other room. “She may be able to hear us. I don't know if she will live.”

Despite his extreme fatigue, Dwayne heard the pain in Doc's voice. It was clear he had not slept either. His glasses were greasy and slightly askew, and his eyes were dull with exhaustion. Grayish stubble shadowed his cheeks.

“Doc, you need to get some rest.”

“You're one to talk. I will…when I know she's going to pull through.” He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Have you got any leads?”

“Not yet,” said Dwayne, his jaw tight with frustration. He had driven around town all morning, talking to people who were still at the party when Hilda left. No one saw anything, which he could not believe. Someone must have seen something. It stood to reason, with all those people around. “After Hilda's little performance, everyone lost interest in her. It was like she disappeared. I can't find anyone who actually remembers seeing her leave.” He had ruled out Ike on account of him actually being in jail at the time of the attack. And Two-Step's crew were excluded because Hilda was still alive and unviolated when he took them in. He was running out of obvious suspects, which meant only one thing: lots more hard work.

Doc studied her face again, then turned to Dwayne. “The veterans all wear boots.”

Dwayne met Doc's tired eyes with his own. “I am well aware of that, Doc.”

• • •

As he pulled up to the police station, Dwayne spotted Ronald waiting for him. His morale slid onto the floor of the truck.
Oh
Jesus, what is this?
A large bandage covered Ronald's wounded cheek. Dwayne climbed the steps to the door. The weather now well and truly matched his mood. Angry curtains of rain arrived, blown sideways by the sudden wind.

“Come in, Ronald, and tell me what I can do for you.”

Ronald took the seat opposite Dwayne's desk. Papers covered every bit of the scarred wooden surface and flowed onto the floor in gentle drifts. Dwayne skewered a handful on the metal spike on the corner of the desk. “I've come to ask about the progress of your investigation.”

“What is it to you, Ronald? Shouldn't Nelson be here instead? Jimmy!” he called out.

A freckled face beneath a green John Deere cap appeared around the door frame. “Yes, Uncle Dwayne?”

“Get me some coffee!” Jimmy was Noreen's nephew. Dwayne had hired him to do menial tasks, to please Noreen's family, and already regretted it.

“Yes, Boss!” said Jimmy. The face disappeared.

“I'm representing the concerned citizens of Heron Key,” said Ronald. “We are sick of the menace of the veterans. Poor Hilda is the last straw.”

Ronald had always been pretty sensible, if a little pompous, but there was a new edge to his voice, his words distorted by the bandage on his cheek.

“I understand your feelings.” Dwayne spread his hands in what he hoped was a conciliatory gesture. “Last night's display by the veterans was inexcusable, but the superintendent assures me that they are all under curfew for two weeks, and after that will only be allowed in town with a chaperone.” Dwayne felt the need to steer the conversation back in the general direction of reality. “But we don't know,” he said carefully, “that any of the veterans were responsible for the attack on Hilda.”

“Oh, yes, we do,” said Ronald darkly. He was sweating, his eyes rimmed with red.

“What do you mean? Jimmy,” he shouted out the door, “where is that COFFEE?”

Jimmy hurried in and sloshed coffee all over Dwayne's papers. As he mopped up the spillage, Dwayne made a silent vow never to employ one of Noreen's relatives again.

“Who else would it be?” exclaimed Ronald. “We never had this kind of trouble before they came. They're either criminals, or sick in the head, or both. It's obvious: the man who did this horrible thing to one of our ladies is at that camp.” He smacked his fist onto the nearest pile of papers. “We demand justice for Hilda.”

Dwayne's tired brain struggled to cope with the wild inconsistencies in Ronald's argument. Ike's attack on him seemed to have tipped him over some kind of edge, followed as it was so quickly by the attack on Hilda. They seemed to have merged in Ronald's mind, into an irrational, unfocused, but very real desire for vengeance.

But he had to admit one thing: Heron Key had never seen an attack like the one on Hilda before the arrival of the veterans. There had been plenty of minor crimes against property, and of course there were some amateurish attempts at larceny, the same as you would find in any small town, nothing exotic. The veterans' camp was the first influx of outsiders the town had seen since the original Bahamian pioneers in the 1890s. That they were a deeply troubled bunch of souls was not in dispute, but were any of them really capable of such viciousness?
Of
course
they
are. They're all trained killers.

Dwayne knew he must retain control of the investigation, could not be seen as anyone's patsy. “I am following several leads at the moment, which include the veterans but is not limited to them.”

“You're wasting time!” Ronald leaped to his feet. “He'll get away! He could already be gone. You've got to surprise him, tonight!”

There was spittle around Ronald's mouth. His face had gone very red, which made even more of a contrast with the white bandage. Dwayne thought he looked like a man about to have a heart attack. “They're Americans, Ronald, just like you or me. They have rights.”

“They're not like you or me,” said Ronald. “Not at all. And if you don't do what's necessary”—he sat back, folded his arms—“then the citizens of this town will.”

Dwayne did not like the fervent light in his eyes. He had seen it before, many times, in the light of burning crosses.

By midmorning, Trent Watts was already in a foul mood. It was partly the weather, which would play hell with their schedule. Rain pattered steadily on the roof. He looked outside. The other cabins sagged into the muddy ground. He doubted they'd be able to put in a full day. They were already behind, because everything took longer here than elsewhere. If it wasn't the heat sapping the men's strength, it was the unreliable local labor, which supplemented the veterans' efforts but disappeared during fruit-picking season. Or the damned climate. You couldn't keep supplies dry. Cement set to blocks inside the sacks, wood warped, rope went moldy. Water was the construction worker's worst enemy. He'd rather build in the desert.

Then came the phone call. Even before he answered, Trent had a sense that it would not be good news. It was that busybody, Jenson Mitchell. The man was not unhelpful, just so careful and methodical about everything that even the smallest request turned into a federal case. “Mr. Watts,” he said, “I'm calling to let you know that a big storm may be on the way. I assume you have an evacuation plan?”

Trent sighed. Here it was again, Mitchell's nose butting in where it didn't belong. The Conchs were panicking over a little wind and rain. He'd seen cows and tractors flung fifty feet into the air by a twister before. “Mr. Mitchell, I thank you for the concern, but we'll be fine here.”

“With respect, Mr. Watts, if it does come, you're going to need more protection than you've got. There isn't room for your men in the shelters in town, so—”

“You mean, you're not sure?” Trent gripped the phone between cheek and shoulder while he fished around his desk for a fresh cigar. It would take at least two days to organize a train to evacuate the men, not to mention all the lost work time and resulting delays to the schedule. His superiors in Jacksonville were already on his ass most days, asking how he was going to make up the lost time. He could well imagine their reaction to a request for evacuation ahead of a “possible” storm.

“We're watching it,” said Mitchell, somewhat guardedly, “and talking to the weather center in Key West. These things can blow up fast, and when they do—”

“I think you mean if, Mr. Mitchell. If.” He snipped the end off the cigar and stifled a yawn. These people made him so tired. They hadn't been to war, didn't know what real danger was. “I'll put in a call to Jacksonville. That's all I can do.” A shape filled his doorway. The deputy sheriff. He had been expecting his visit, but even so, he wondered just how much worse his day could get. “Now you'll have to excuse me. I have a visitor. Good day to you.”

The deputy shook the water from his hat. “Morning,” he said. “Nice weather for ducks.” He grimaced at the lame remark. Tiredness seemed to weigh him down like a sodden overcoat.

“Yep,” said Trent. “Take a seat.” Dwayne sat in the folding chair opposite Trent's desk. “Just had your Mr. Mitchell on the phone, telling me it's time to build an ark. That your opinion too?”

Dwayne did not answer for a moment, just stared at the silver waterfall spilling across the doorway. “Jenson is a better storm tracker than any of those fancy scientists down in Key West. He can feel a big one coming, just by the wind and the waves and his barometer. If he's worried, you should be too. For that matter, all of us should.”

“Well, I'll take that under advisement.” He lit the soggy cigar. “I assume you've come about the attack on that woman last night?”

“Yes. We have reason to believe that one of your men might have been involved.” He had to raise his voice over the noise of the rain on canvas.

“Oh, really? And why is that? Aside from the fact that it's always easier to accuse outsiders? That's just lazy, Deputy.” Although he had no love as such for the veterans, who he thought were mainly deranged, work-shy drunks, Trent did not need a scandalous crime attached to his project.

“I'm also pursuing other leads, I can assure you. However, a boot print was left on her nose,” Dwayne said. “Here, I've made a sketch.” He pushed a limp piece of paper across the desk. “I need to see your men's boots.”

Trent took a moment to study the drawing. “You sure this is from a boot? Don't look like nothing we wear here.”

Dwayne shrugged and pocketed the piece of paper. “Well, even so, we've got to check. Your cooperation would be much appreciated.”

Trent could tell that Dwayne was beyond exhaustion, most likely not thinking that straight, although there was no mistaking his determination. He also realized that if Dwayne had any clear leads, he wouldn't need to look at everyone's boots. In Dwayne's position, Trent would take the camp apart, from top to bottom.

He thought it entirely plausible that the attacker was among his men. There had been no witnesses, and it sounded like the lady herself wasn't talking and might never do so again. These men were desperate to keep their jobs, which was the first decent paid work that many had received in years. It would not surprise him at all if whoever had bashed her head in thought he was free and clear.
That
Henry
Roberts
thinks
he's so smart. He could have done it, no question. And he was dancing with her.
He blew a smoke ring. It wobbled upward, then dissolved into the sagging roof. An idea began to form as he studied the deputy's weary face. It might be very much in his interests to help Dwayne's investigation. The image of Henry's boot on Two-Step's neck flashed into his mind. “You'll have it, Deputy. Come back at dawn on Sunday. They won't be expecting anything then. That's the best time to catch them unaware.”

After Dwayne left, Trent stared at the phone, deciding what to say to Norbert Grimes in Jacksonville. The storm, he felt certain, would prove to be a figment of the Conchs' rum-soaked imaginations. There was nothing to link any of his men to the attack on that woman—yet. But that could well change. He could feel his career prospects flowing away like the river of mud that had formed outside his cabin. If he wanted another of these government contracts, he needed to demonstrate his capabilities to handle just such difficult times.

He made some quick calculations. In terms of the press, a story about a veteran attacking a woman in a place most people had never heard of would be unlikely to get much coverage outside of the local area. He could deal with that in his own time. But it would be just his luck for the storm to cause one of his men to get a splinter in his pinkie. Then Trent would carry the can, not the bosses up in Jacksonville. He took a deep drag on his cigar and picked up the phone.

• • •

As the afternoon wore into evening, the rain eased and the sky began to clear, so that by sunset things looked very different.

At the country club, Missy mopped rainwater from the porch. The country club was a handsome, rambling building with white-painted walls and dark green shutters and trim. It had been built by Ronald LeJeune's grandfather and attracted sport fishermen from all over the country, especially moneyed Yankees looking to escape the northern winters. She sometimes helped out at the club when extra hands were needed.

The air had begun to steam once the sun came out. It hummed already with mosquitoes, despite the pot of pyrethrum smoldering beneath the porch steps. Dolores Mason and Cynthia LeJeune rocked slowly in their chairs, glasses sweating in their hands. Missy listened with one ear to the conversation, lulled by the rhythmic, wet slap of the mop and the creak of the chairs. Dinner was under control, unless Missus Mason decided she wanted the okra after all. The men were indoors, absorbed by a new fishing rod that Mr. Mason had purchased in Miami.

The clouds had gone, leaving a blaze of color on the horizon. Lazy, pink-tinged waves brushed the shore. From the beach came the faint scratch-scratch of the staff raking up the storm's debris.

“Looks like it should be a nice day tomorrow,” ventured Cynthia with a swirl of her glass. The ice clinked softly. “Although I hear that Jenson is watching a storm. I sure hope it blows itself out; my nerves can't take much more.” She had acquired a permanently tearful look since the barbecue and constantly twisted a moist handkerchief in her heavily ringed hands. “My poor Ronnie.” She sniffed.

“Yes, terrible,” agreed Dolores, although to Missy's ears, she sounded less than interested. Dolores's face suddenly lit up. She leaned forward. “Have you heard the latest? Turns out one of those…men at the veterans' camp is baby Roy's daddy.” She arranged her toned legs to display the fine bones of her ankles. Missy was suddenly alert.

“Which one?” asked Cynthia. Her heavy-lidded eyes blinked slowly. She always reminded Missy of a sleepy old turtle.

“The one who comes from here, that big buck with the scar on his neck.” Dolores sipped her drink, nibbled some mint between her small, white teeth, and tossed it on the floor. Missy's mop whisked it away. “Henry something.”

“Henry Roberts?” asked Cynthia.

Missy banged the mop into the chair. “Careful, girl,” snapped Dolores. “Yes, indeed,” she continued as she leaned back in her seat. “Henry Roberts.”

“Poor Dwayne,” mused Cynthia with a small shake of her head. “Right under his nose. That's got to hurt, a proud man like that.” She settled herself more comfortably in her chair and swatted a mosquito on her neck. “And Noreen always seemed like such a mouse. Never thought she'd do such a thing.” She drained her glass. “Just goes to show, everyone's got a secret.”

Dolores twined her string of pearls around a lacquered fingernail, eyes out to sea. “So they do, Cynthia,” she said, almost to herself. “So they do.”

Missy averted her gaze from the two women lest they see the shock there. She kept her jaws clamped shut to prevent the words from escaping her mouth.
It
ain't true! You wrong!

She pushed the mop around the chairs in quick, tight circles. There was no way he would do such a thing. Not Henry, not the man she knew. He was a good person, maybe the best she had ever met. But then a droplet of doubt trickled into her mind and turned black and white to muddy gray. The mop's progress slowed. He had been gone a long time, done things she could never imagine. How well did she know him, really? She would have placed any bet on what the old Henry would do, but now…he had changed. A voice in her head said:
It ain't likely, but it ain't impossible neither.

No
, said the other voice in her head.
Some
things
don't change about a person, no matter what happens to them. Who they are, in their heart, stays the same.

She did not know what to believe. The mop smacked again into the chair and Dolores shouted, “Missy! What's wrong with you?”

“Sorry, Missus Mason.”

“Quit that mopping now and get Mrs. LeJeune a drink.”

“Yes, Missus Mason. Right away.”

She went into the clubhouse, struggling to corral her thoughts, which were leaping around her head like a herd of wild ponies. The glassy eye of the giant stuffed sailfish glowered at her from the wall above the drinks cabinet. It always looked as if it was about to swoop down and skewer her with its long, needle-sharp nose.

And then it was like that pointy nose skewered the bubble of panic in her head. It came to her, with calm certainty, what she must do. She would talk to Henry, and they would clear the whole mess up. Yes, that was the answer. She would talk to him, and he would make it all right. Her limbs relaxed as she realized that it was just a rumor, the kind that happened when folks couldn't find the truth. They reached for the next best thing. This was the juiciest scandal that Heron Key had seen for some time, far better than the time when the pastor spent the money from the poor box on bootleg hooch that he kept hidden beneath the altar.

It would be all right. She exhaled. It was going to be all right.
I
just
got
to
believe.

When she returned to the porch, Missus LeJeune was dabbing at her eyes with a hankie. She reached a trembling hand toward the glass on Missy's tray. “How can something so terrible happen here? Of all places? Poor, poor Hilda. Have you been to see her?”

“No,” Dolores said and lit a cigarette. She leaned back and picked a shred of tobacco from her teeth. Smoke veiled her face for a moment, but in that instant, Missy thought she saw a look of pure contempt cross her pretty features. Then it was gone.

Missy took up the mop again and made slow, careful work of the porch steps.

“It's awful,” said Cynthia. “Just awful. It's a miracle she's still breathing. But I tell you one thing: she may come through this, God willing. But she won't be pretty anymore, that's for darn sure.” She sighed and rearranged her bosom. “I took Doc some mullet from the smokehouse. The man looks like he hasn't eaten in a week.”

“What a good idea,” said Dolores, suddenly a lot more cheerful. “Missy,” she called. “Fix one of your pineapple upside-down cakes for me. I'm going to take it to Doc Williams. And I've changed my mind—we will have the okra tonight.”

“Yes, Missus Mason.” Missy ceased her mopping. The rest of the dinner, of fried chicken and mashed potatoes with giblet gravy, was almost ready. She would make the cake after she cleaned up from dinner, which would be sometime after midnight, if the men got drinking.

As she hurried to pick the okra, her thoughts once again began to spin. She turned it over and over in her mind.
It
could
not
be
true…could it?

She went to pull more onions. The okra needed lots and lots of onions.

• • •

At the end of the day, Henry and his men loaded their gear into the back of the truck for the return trip to camp. The engine came to life in a burst of shrieks and splutters. The driver attempted to avoid the worst of the potholes, but it was still an extremely bumpy ride. A plume of choking coral dust rose from the road, blown by a stiff wind.