"Watch my finger. Without trying to turn your head, follow it with your eyes." He followed the finger.
"Good, very good. Lee, you came out of surgery a little over an hour ago, and you're in a pretty elaborate neck brace. You have some broken vertebrae in your neck, but the surgery was successful, and you have no, repeat, no paralysis. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Williams replied. "Ed?"
"I'm right here, Lee," Haynes said.
"Doctor, may I have a moment alone with him, please." It was not a question.
"A moment, no more," the doctor replied, and left.
"Lee, was it Ramsey?"
"Yes."
"I think I know what you were doing there. Don't worry about the gun; it's gone."
"Thanks. Cap, the woman is at a place called…" He tried to remember; it wasn't a familiar name. "An island somewhere."
"In Georgia?"
"I think so."
"Lake Lanier?"
"No, the coast."
"Jekyll? Sea Island? Cumberland?"
"That's it, Cumberland."
"Anything else? Do you know where on the island?"
"No. How long have I been out?"
"Three days. It's Friday evening."
"You better move fast; he's there by now."
"Okay. Anything else to tell me?"
"Just get him." Haynes hit the ground running.
"I want a map of the state," he said to a detective. "See if you can find one in the hospital."
"Right over there, Captain," the cop said, pointing to a wall. A framed map of Georgia hung there.
"Okay," Haynes said, tapping the glass with a finger. "It's right here, just north of Jacksonville. You call headquarters and get hold of a chopper-the big one. I'll get hold of the sheriff down there."
"Right," the detective said, and ran for a pay phone. Haynes commandeered the night nurse's desk. A couple of calls later, he found the sheriff at home. "This is Captain Haynes, Sheriff, chief of the Homicide Bureau, Atlanta PD. There's a murderer loose on your turf, and I'm coming down there just as fast as I can."
"Who and where?" the sheriff asked. "His name is Bake Ramsey."
"Football player?"
"That's the one. He's on Cumberland Island, and he's going to kill a woman named Elizabeth Barwick, unless we can stop him."
"I was on the island yesterday, and I saw Miss Barwick. She's among friends there, and it's just as well, because neither one of us is going to light on that island for a while."
"What do you mean? How far offshore is it?"
"Less than a mile, but that's a mighty long mile tonight. We got ourselves a hurricane that's going to come ashore somewhere around here, maybe tonight, and we've already got fifty knots of wind. That means no chopper can fly, and no man I know is going to try to cross the Inland Waterway in a boat. There's probably a seven-or eight-foot sea running in the waterway, and that's sheltered water."
"Shit," Haynes said. "Excuse my French, Sheriff; are there any phones on the island?"
"One, at Greyfield Inn. Hang on, I'll give you the number." He came back shortly and recited the digits. "It's one of those cellular jobs. There's no phone lines running to the island."
"Thanks for your help, Sheriff." Haynes gave his own phone numbers. "Will you call me the minute the weather lets up?"
"I sure will, and I'll get over there myself just as soon as I can." Haynes hung up and dialed the number the sheriff had given him. It rang a few times, then a recorded message said, "The BellSouth customer whose number you are calling has left the vehicle. Please try later."
He tried half a dozen times more and got the same reply. The detective approached the night nurse's desk. "The flight department tells me nothing is flying tonight, unless it's going north or west. There's a hurricane off the coast, all of southeast Georgia is bad news, and they expect it to be for at least twenty-four hours."
"I heard already," the captain said. "The sheriff down there says no boat could make it, either. We've got to think of something else." The two men stood mute at the desk and thought.
"I can't think of anything," the detective said after a while.
"Neither can I, except to keep trying to telephone the inn down there. There's been no answer."
The detective's face brightened. "Maybe we could…" He frowned again. "No, it's got to be a chopper or a boat, hasn't it?"
"That's right."
"I can't think of anything." The captain picked up the phone and dialed again. "Hello, honey, it's me," he said. "Don't wait up. I may not be back until tomorrow night. Business. You, too." He hung up and turned to the detective. "You got a wife?"
"No, sir."
"Then come on, we've got a long drive ahead of us." They headed south out of Atlanta, on Interstate 75, the red light on the dashboard clearing the way. An hour south of Macon, heavy rain began to hammer against the windshield, and Ed Haynes had to slow to eighty.
CHAPTER 49
James Moses Drummond was wakened by a huge sighing noise, followed by a groaning crash. It took him a moment to figure out what it could be: a tree, and a big one. The wind and the cabin itself were making so much noise, he was surprised he had heard it at all. There was no clock, but it felt like the dead of night. He glanced at his grandfather's bed; it had not been slept in. A glow from the other room of the former slave house told him that the fire had been built up. James got out of bed and, shivering, pulled on his jeans. He went into the other room and found Buck Moses sitting in front of a roaring driftwood fire, rocking in his chair, staring at the flames, and making a tuneless humming noise. "Granddaddy, what you doing up this time of night?" he asked.
Buck Moses noticed his grandson for the first time. "Big wind done come," he said.
"You right about that," James agreed. "I never heard so much wind." A gigantic gust came, and the house seemed to move. The noise from the rafters was frightening. James moved closer to the fire to warm himself.
"You be a good boy," Buck said, looking fondly up at his grandson. "You keep on bein' good."
"I will granddaddy," James replied.
It had been a long time since his grandfather had said anything to him about his behavior. "You got a good life before you," Buck said. "You going' to see places, see the whole world."
"I am?"
Buck nodded. "But you don' forget about this island, you hear? You got some roots here; don' you forget about em."
"I won't, Grandaddy."
"My peoples is calling to me," Buck said, looking into the fire again. "It's 'bout time I be going'." A chill ran through James, in spite of the hot fire. He couldn't think of anything to say. A squall of heavy rain pounded on the tin roof; the noise was terrific.
"Granddaddy," he shouted, to be heard over the din. As he spoke, the wind rose to a howl that drowned out even the rain on the roof. The little house groaned, and James looked up at the rafters. He went to a window to look out, and, as he did, the cabin moved with the wind. This time, it kept moving. There was a loud groaning and the splintering of timber, and, more slowly than James could have believed, the house began to come down. Not knowing which way to run, he stood and looked at his grandfather. As the house came down, the brick chimney came with it, falling like a tree onto the spot where Buck Moses sat rocking.
When James woke, it seemed that only moments had passed. He lay under a pile of boards, and broken glass was all around him. The wind was louder than ever now, and the rain came in torrents. The remains of the driftwood fire sputtered out. James found that he could move, could shove the debris aside and free himself. He struggled to his feet and immediately was blown off them by the wind. No man could stand up to that, he realized. He crawled to where his grandfather lay under a pile of bricks and, keeping low, began tossing them aside. As the last of the fire went, he felt for Buck under the debris. Then, taking a good half hour to do it, he dragged the old man, inch by inch, out of the ruin of the cabin and across the ten yards to the tiny church, which, given some shelter by two old live oaks, still stood up to the hurricane. Finally, when he had managed to shut the door during a momentary lull in the wind, he got a candle and matches from the altar and brought them to where he had dragged his grandfather. The light showed blood on the old man's head.