He used a towel to wipe off his clothes, tried to straighten up before he went back to the waiting room. The truck driver who had picked him up was gone but there was a tall, lanky man in his late twenties sitting in the room, nervously smoking a cigarette. He looked up as Keegan came back in the room.
“You okay?” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“Never knew anybody to walk away from an airplane crash.”
“I had a good pilot.”
“That him in there?” he asked, jerking a thumb toward the examining room.
Keegan nodded.
“How’s he doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Old Ben’s a good doctor. He’ll be okay. Name’s Tommy Smoot. Wife just had a little baby boy. I was in with her when you came in.”
“Congratulations,” Keegan said, shaking his hand. “I’m Frank.”
“Where you headed?”
“Brunswick. Actually Jekyll Island. You familiar with it?”
“Sure. I work at the shipyard down there.”
“You know anybody with a boat? I need to get out to that island.”
“What, tonight?”
“As soon as possible.”
“How you gonna get to Brunswick?”
“Be damned if I know. I don’t suppose there’s a taxicab anywhere around here?”
Smoot laughed heartily. “A taxicab? Hell, I don’t think most folks around here ever even heard of a taxicab. Why you goin’ out to Jekyll?”
“I have a very important appointment.”
Smoot thought for a moment, then said, “Well, the rain’s slacked off some, but there’s another storm comin’ in right behind that last one. Look, Doc wants my wife to spend the night here. If it’s real important, I’ll run you down to Brunswick.”
“Mr. Smoot, I guarantee you, it is most important.”
“Well, then, it’s done. Only take us half an hour to get down there. But findin’ a boat, I’ll have to give that some thought.”
Dr. Galloway came out of the office wiping his hands on a striped beach towel. He was a gentle man, gentle in attitude and voice.
“Well, you’re lucky, suh,” he said softly. “The clinic was closed for the holiday but Lucy Ann’s little boy couldn’t wait until tomorrow.”
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
“Why, I’m just glad I was here, Mr. Keegan.”
“We were lucky all the way around,” Keegan said. “Truck happened to see us go down. Dryman in there, got us into a marsh, otherwise we’d have both bought the farm. How is he?”
“Broken ankle. Two broken ribs. Concussion. Ribs didn’t puncture anything. Simple fractures. We got him fixed up just fine. He’ll be a bit sore for a while.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“Yes, suh, but I gave him a sedative. He’ll be passing out soon. Better hurry on in there.”
Keegan entered the small recovery room. Dryman was stretched out under a sheet, his head bound in bandages.
“H.P., can you hear me?” Keegan said, leaning over him. Dryman’s eyes fluttered. “Huh?” he asked dreamily. “It’s me, Keegan. Can you hear me?”
“Why are you in China?”
Keegan laughed. “No,” he said. “We’re in Darien, Georgia.”
“Darien, huh. . . how far?”
“About fifteen miles from Brunswick. I’ve got a ride down there. You’re going to be okay, pal. Just take it easy. I’ll be back when I finish the job.”
Dryman’s eyes roved crazily in their sockets as he tried to focus.
“Feel great, Kee.”
“Yeah, the doctor gave you a little boost.”
“H’bout th’ plane? We lose th’ plane?”
“You did great. The plane didn’t make it.”
He grimaced. “Aw, shit . . . poor ol’ Loop
“Don’t worry about the plane, okay? We’ll get him a new plane. You just take it easy.”
Dryman closed one eye and tried to focus with the other.
“Wha’sa matter w’me?” he asked, his speech getting more slurred with each sentence.
“Broken leg, couple cracked ribs. You’ll be fine, H.P. I’ll be back before you wake up.”
“Won’t groun’ me wi’they?”
“Over my dead body.”
Dryman smiled and focused groggily on Keegan. “Do’n say that . .
They both laughed.
“I gotta go now, pal,” Keegan said. “Take a nap. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“Kee
“Yeah?”
….. careful, ‘kay? Watch y’back door. .
“You bet.”
“Sorry...”
And he dozed off.
Rain began to pelt Smoot’s two-door Chevy as they reached the outskirts of Brunswick. The only light came from the headlights reflecting off the macadam pavement. Keegan checked the time. It was quarter to seven.
“The only man I know crazy enough to go over to Jekyll on a night like this is Tully Moyes,” Smoot said. “He’s a shrimper, lives out on the marsh. But the road may be underwater.”
“Get me as close as you can to his place and point me,” Keegan said. He reached in his pocket and took out a roll of bills, peeled off three hundred-dollar bills and folded them into the palm of his hand. In the blue light of the lightning, Keegan saw a vast marsh spread before them. A two-story house seemed to be brooding at the edge of the bay off to their right. Beyond it, across the sound, Jekyll Island crouched in the dark. The tide was up and the narrow dirt road leading to the house was begin- fling to flood. The Chevy began to fishtail..
“Let me out here, Tommy. I can walk the rest of the way.
You don’t want to be stuck out here in the marsh with a new baby waiting for you. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Southern hospitality, Frank. God was good to me tonight, I’m just passing it on.”
They shook hands and Keegan pressed the bills into Smoot’s fist. The young man looked down at them and began to shake his head.
“Tommy, believe me, you’ve done a lot of people a great service tonight. The baby’s on me. Thanks.”
He slammed the door and sloughed up the muddy road toward Tully Moyes’s house. It was a rambling shed at the edge of the bay with a wooden walkway from the end of the road to a balcony that surrounded the first floor. Crab traps, fishing nets and loops of heavy ropes hung from the banister. Keegan knocked on the door and it was opened almost immediately by a tall, slender, weather-hardened man with a gray beard and thinning hair. He stared out at Keegan, a drowned rat huddled against the rain.
“Mr. Moyes?” Keegan said. “My name’s Frank Keegan. I’m with the U.S. Intelligence Service. Can I talk to you?”
Moyes looked him up and down.
“You’re one hell of a mess, Mr. Keegan,” Moyes said. “Step in. You got some identification?”
“Mr. Moyes, all I’ve got’s the craziest story you ever heard and one hell of a favor to ask.”
Laughing heartily, Moyes brought a bottle of brandy into the living room, put two water tumblers on the table and filled them both.
“So you waded all the way out here in this storm to tell me that cock-and-bull story?” he said, still laughing. He held his glass in a toast. “Here’s to audacity, sir, which you certainly got your share of.”
The living room was a clutter of old photographs, fishing gear, mismatched furniture and bric-a-brac. There were several pictures of a boy in various stages of growing up, the last one showing him in cap and gown at what was obviously a high school graduation. There were also several photos of a hardy- looking woman. But the room gave no indication that either of them occupied the house.
Outside the windows, the bay was churning up as the storm descended on them again. Rain clattered against windows and walls.