“Did you think I’d call the cops?” She put a hand over her mouth, hiding her shattered teeth as she tried not to smile.
“Something like that.”
Then she surprised them both. “Okay. I’m resigning from the NRP.”
Ben was taken aback. LuAnna loved her work.
She went on. “I was thinking about it before all this. I decided for sure while I was laying there wondering if I was fixin’ to die.”
Ben’s spirit bowed again beneath a full load of penitence.
LuAnna explained. “I’m serious. I’ve been looking at this law I swore to uphold. How it’s legal for bigshots to kill the bay with chemicals, bad soil runoff, all those condos they’re building on the main, with all those toilets flushing damn near straight into the water. If you have enough money, you can buy your way out of anything. And here I am running roughshod over the little guys, some them in my own family. Cause they kept an oyster that’s a quarter inch too small? Crazy. I feel like I’m waking up from a dream. Where have I been all this while?”
She fell silent. Ben stroked her hair.
LuAnna was dead serious when she said, “And now this. Well, Ben Blackshaw, I have to resign. The men who did this to me? They said their boss was going to kill us all, or maybe live on our island to see what made us tick. Even if he doesn’t actually stay on, he’ll leave something evil behind. So there it is. After what these jokers have done so far, quite honestly I think we have some additional killing to do.”
Astonished, Ben was convinced LuAnna was gripped by fever, though her forehead did not feel hot. Had her time in Chalk’s hands warped her personality? Then he remembered the burning man twisting through the sky above the blasted lighthouse. Ben had killed a human being well outside the law. LuAnna only suggested it.
She rested, trying to compass the bedlam that had descended on her world. Then, forgetting her own pain, she looked at Ben with genuine sympathy.
She reached up and touched his face. “Poor thing. You’ve had one hell of a day.”
PART III
PICAROONS
CHAPTER 32
There was a reception committee waiting at Ben’s pier. The gathering of men looked more like a quorum of ravens perching there in the gray shadows, their long, black foul weather oilies snapping in the wind and rain like pinion feathers.
Lorton Dyze stood out in front of the group in the midst of Ben’s welded menagerie. As Miss Dotsy approached, Ben recognized more Island Councilmen. Men who worked the Chesapeake for their living. These silvered comrades might not be young, but they had strength in their backs, and a quiet manner when it came to important business after dark.
Wade Joyce was a big man who fussed over the engines of a very quick fiberglass deadrise. He had been known to volunteer the craft for after-hours hauling when needed, and when properly cut in for a share.
Sam Nuttle was a good man with a family to feed, and was not too particular about how food got on the table in tough times.
There was Tom Fox, who could see at night better than a bat. He was a wiry, smaller man as many Smith Islanders are. In a fight Ben knew Fox could eat nails and shit bullets.
Ephraim Teach was ready for rough work whenever it came along. He believed he was linked to the genealogical line of Blackbeard himself. For good or ill, that only encouraged him.
Sonny Wright knew the sunken planks and guts of every island around there better than most. It was rumored he wasn’t above baiting and trapping a duck in winter if the Chesapeake looked likely to freeze, and stores were short.
In a former life Art Bailey was bested by booze. He had since sworn off alcohol completely, and stuck to his promise. Nowadays he still had to blow off a head of steam, but he managed it in more socially acceptable ways. Though he’d never played golf in his life, in times of stress he would go down to the shore with a few rounded-off rocks and an old wooden golf club he found washed up there. Ben swore Bailey could knock those stones all the way to Baltimore when a temper was on him. Not just Ben, but the entire island knew when Bailey was in a mood. He would maniacally shout, “Fore!” in his high lonesome tenor before every swing. A nod to tradition and good golfing manners.
Reverend Avery Mosby was a man who followed the Lord on Sunday, and followed the water the other six days of the week. He never shied from a righteous clash. When all was said and done, most of his flock were desperately poor, and the church needed a new roof. He would help raise money any way he could.
All these good Methodist men, these stalwart brigands, waited stock-still on the shore. Ben looked at Ellis.
Ellis said, “Took them long enough to get onto us.”
Ben said, “Coming from you, that’s pretty interesting. I think they’ve been onto us, and this whole damn business, from the start.”
Ellis considered this. “You reckon?”
“I think Pap always saw this as a large-scale operation. He kept key players in the dark, probably ’til he could come back and marshal everyone up himself.”
Knocker Ellis cast a withering eye over the men on shore. “Don’t fancy getting in with that flock of swans.”
Ben said, “Anything else I should know before we land? Anything that could save our butts in the next ten minutes?”
“Right now, I’m not sure your pappy got all his bases covered.”
“I’d say you’re right, given that he’s dead.”
Ellis tossed mooring lines to the outstretched hands on the pier. Without a word, the lines were made fast. Old tires were hung on the pilings, and shock-absorbing spring lines were added to secure Miss Dotsy in the mounting weather.
Ben and Ellis handed the blanket-clad LuAnna up to three women who threaded out of nowhere between the Councilmen to help. Ben briefed them on her condition.
Mary Joyce, Wade’s wife, was a slip of a woman next to her massive husband. She was sharp, tough, and quick. She peeked under the dressing on LuAnna’s hip. “Oh my blessing! I got a chain stitch that could close the Grand Canyon. This poor girl’s gonna need it.”
Redheaded Kimba Mosby, the Reverend’s bride, feared God as she should, but God stepped gently around her, too. When provoked, everyone knew she caught like gas. Julie Nuttle was soft spoken, and resourceful. It was said she could feed an army out of a bare pantry with loaves, fishes, and hot goose pie. These island mothers gently whisked LuAnna into the saltbox.
Lorton Dyze turned to his tall confrere and said, “Wade. Ben says Miss Dotsy’s gearbox is shot.”
Wade nodded. “Shot? Sounds nuked. Have her straight in no time.”
As many hands helped Ben and Ellis out of Miss Dotsy, Wade jumped down into her cockpit with a big steel toolbox clamped under his arm.
Dyze said, “Let’s get these men indoors, dry, and fed, before we send them back out again.” He chuckled like he’d said something funny.
Inside, Mary Joyce brought Ben a change of clothes. She handed another set of clothes to Knocker Ellis. They were taken from his own home.
Mary said, “We took a liberty going to your place for these. Oh don’t look at me like that. Everybody knows about your spare key under that conch shell in your back garden. I do hope you’ll forgive us.”
Ellis smiled. “It’s all right, thanks. Just so you left my Hi-Fi and color TV.”
Mary did not smile. She returned upstairs to LuAnna.
Ben and Ellis changed into dry clothes. Julie Nuttle already had duck soup warming on the stove. The Councilmen remained standing in their long black oilies as if they wore the robes of an ancient order. Judicial vestments signifying a forgotten code. Dripping water all over the place.