Ben powered off the radio with shaking fingers. “Oh my God.”
“Dead?” Shelton’s brows were almost at his hairline. “Dead? As in, the Fletchers died last night?”
“It’s all over the news.” Hi’s breathing was back to normal. “I was tying my shoes when the story flashed on TV.”
“Dead?” Shelton repeated. “For real?”
“They must’ve woke up on the beach, then left Bull Island by boat and reached their car.” Ben stopped, paled. “Driving home, they would’ve been tired, maybe a little woozy …”
“It’s not our fault,” Shelton blurted. “They attacked, and we defended ourselves. I’m sorry they got killed, but we are not responsible.”
I didn’t speak. Didn’t know what to say. I thought of Sallie’s friendly banter at the museum info booth. Chris schmoozing tourists outside the old market. The two of them smiling as they related ghost tales in the soft lamplight of Charleston’s streets. They were so young. Their deaths were horrifying.
Then I remembered Boneyard Beach. Chris’s coldness. Sallie’s gun, aimed at my head. The senselessness of their deaths made me sick, but a part of me couldn’t help but feel … relieved. And for that, I was ashamed.
That wasn’t all. Ben’s theory was plausible, and the timeline certainly worked. But my instincts screamed something else.
Foul play.
Hi had the same notion. “Chris said they drove a Prius, and that’s the type of car they wrecked in. Meaning someone else was following us in the Studebaker.” Pause. “You don’t think that—”
“Hold on!” Shelton was nervously shirt-cleaning his glasses. “The news guy said the crash was an accident. There’s no reason to think it wasn’t.”
Hi shrugged. “It just smells funny to me. Did the Fletchers strike you as the type to drive off a bridge? I can’t see it.”
“Me either.” My hand shot up to forestall Shelton’s reply. “I’m not saying it wasn’t simply an accident. But we need to be careful. Hi’s right about the Studebaker. That had to be someone else, and they might still be trailing us.”
Hi nodded. “We don’t want to have an ‘accident’ ourselves.”
“Are we still going to Dewees?” Ben asked.
“Yes.” I didn’t hesitate. “Shelton’s also right. In all likelihood, the wreck is exactly as reported—a tragic driving mishap. We can’t abandon our search for paranoid reasons. Too much is riding on it.”
Ben nodded. Then Hi. Finally, Shelton too.
“One way or another, we need to finish this,” I said. “Let’s see if Bonny has any tricks left up her sleeve.”
HI AND SHELTON untied the lines. Ben eased Sewee back from the dock and into open water. “Next stop, Dewees Island.”
I tried to shake off the horrid news about the Fletchers. I’d process my feelings later. Right then, we needed to focus more than ever.
“So what do we know?” I asked.
The boys snapped to attention, no doubt sharing the same mixed feelings.
Hi referred to his omnipresent iPhone. “Dewees is north, between Isle of Palms and Bull Island.”
“Former Sewee country,” Ben added. “My ancestors used to visit Dewees as well as Bull. Its real name is Timicau.”
“I remember we passed it last night,” I said. “Not many lights.”
“Dewees is a very eco-conscious community,” Hi said. “Small, and extremely pricey. The island is one unified design, and ninety-five percent of the land will never be developed.”
Shelton chimed in. “Twelve hundred acres, so it’s less than a third the size of Bull. No bridge, and no cars. The only link is the Aggie Gray ferry running from IOP.”
“That’s twice I’ve heard no cars.” Ben steered into Charleston Harbor, heading north for the Intracoastal Waterway. “How do they get around?”
“Golf carts.” Hi answered. “Private gas-powered vehicles are prohibited. It’s a sleepy place. No restaurants. No grocery stores. No gas stations. Dewees is like a wildlife preserve, except rich people have vacation homes there.”
“Great,” Shelton said sarcastically. “Untarnished natural beauty. That means more swamps, bugs, and giant gators. And we’ve got no idea what we’re looking for.”
I ignored him. Mainly because he was right.
Conversation died, and I sensed the boys’ thoughts returning to the Fletchers. I spoke to keep their attention on the task at hand.
“What else is on the island?”
“Besides private homes? Not much.” Hi rattled off a list. “A small lodge, a firehouse, two public-works buildings, a canoe shelter, an old church, scattered fishing docks. Commercial activity is essentially banned.”
Shelton couldn’t sit still. “You really think somebody killed them?”
Ben gave him a “let it go” look. “So where do I tie up?”
“Wherever,” Hi said. “The whole island is private property, so we’re trespassing regardless.”
Ben forced a smile. “One thing we’re good at.”
We circled the southern edge of Sullivan’s Island and entered The Cove, passing the Claybourne cabin for the third time in two days. Dewees lay several miles up the waterway.
“Guys.” Shelton’s voice sounded tight. “Is that boat following us? It pulled out quickly, right after we passed Chance’s place.”
Three heads whipped around. A hundred yards behind us, a second vessel trailed in our wake.
“Looks like two people,” Hi said. “But I can’t be sure.”
“It’s a summer day in Charleston,” Ben replied. “Dozens of boats must be using the waterway.”
Nonetheless, he increased our speed.
“Easy,” Hi cautioned. “We’re in a ‘no wake’ zone.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Ben glanced back over his shoulder. “Tell me if they keep pace.”
Tense minutes passed. The other vessel failed to fall back.
“Crap.” Ben checked Sewee’s dials. “I’m pushing the limit, but they’re keeping pace. That boat sped up when I did.”
“Doesn’t sound like Beau and Buffy out for a pleasure cruise,” Hi said.
Shelton grabbed for an earlobe.
We passed beneath a bridge and the waterway narrowed. Head-high spartina lined both sides of the channel.
“Hang on.” Ben down-throttled and Sewee kicked forward. “There’s less traffic around here, so I’ll risk a fine.”
We surged forward. The trailing boat grew smaller, gradually disappeared.
“Can we can lose them for good?” I asked.
Ben nodded. “If someone’s following us, they probably think we’re headed for Bull Island again, right?”
“Makes sense,” I said. “This is the same route we took last night.”
“There’s an islet south of Dewees called Big Hill Marsh. I’ll cut through Bowers Creek and hide Sewee behind it. If that boat is headed to Bull, they’ll go right by and never see us.”
We tore up the waterway, splashing illegal wake, eyes peeled for signs of pursuit. Minutes later we reached the northern tip of Isle of Palms.
“That’s the islet.” Ben pointed straight ahead to a low green atoll. Steering hard to starboard, he entered a narrow creek, rounded the tiny landmass, and cut the engine. “Keep quiet.”