Текст книги "In The Blood"

Автор книги: Jack Kerley

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In the Blood

  J.A. Kerley

To Janine and Duane Eby, always beautifully there

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by J.A. Kerley

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

“It’s almost midnight, Anak. Would you stop throwing that goddamn harpoon?” Rebecca Ahn stood on the porch of the tiny, weatherbeaten house, glaring at Anak Jackson.

“I’m bored,” Jackson said. “What else is there to do here?”

Bathed in the thin illumination of a lone light on the side of the house, Jackson crunched across the sand to yank the six-foot lance from the scrubby palmetto doubling as his target.

“Dr Matthias said to keep a low profile, Anak,” Rebecca said. “Not get noticed. Not yet.”

Jackson stared into the surrounding blackness. There wasn’t another dwelling for a half-mile.

“Who’s gonna complain, Bec? The moon?”

Jackson returned to his former position, lifted the spear to his broad shoulder. He had used true harpoons in his youth, for seals mainly, throwing with respectable accuracy according to the Inuit elders on his mother’s side. And wasn’t spear-chucker a derogatory term for blacks? He was doubly blessed. Or cursed.

The spear sliced through thirty feet of sultry night air to thwock into the base of the tree.

Ahn said, “At least throw that thing during the day.”

“It’s too freakin’ hot,” Jackson complained. But he went inside and returned the lance to a corner of the living room, a display of cheap furniture and mildewed walls. He walked a short hall to a bedroom, tiptoed inside. He returned seconds later.

“Is everything OK back there, Rebec? Have you handled the fee—”

Rebecca pointed to a damp spot on her T-shirt. Jackson smiled and pushed his hand into his jeans pocket, pulling out a candy tin. He popped it open and produced a half-smoked joint. He lit, inhaled deeply and let the smoke dribble out through his nose as he spoke.

“This doing-nothing shit is making me stir-crazy, babe. The doc promised he’d find us decent jobs, a place to stay in Mobile, right? Then he runs off to the other side of the world to – what did he say? – ‘descend staircases’. What the hell does descend staircases mean?”

“Dr Matthias will do everything he said when he gets back, Anak, he always has.”

“You’re too trusting, Rebec. We’ve known Matthias for maybe three months. He’s spooky, too freakin’ weird for me. And if he sticks that goddamn needle in my arm one more time, I’ll…”

“I trust him. Be patient. And don’t smoke inside. It’s not good.”

Jackson started to argue; caught himself. “My bad. Sorry.”

He rattled open the screen door and stepped into the night. The air smelled of the estuary behind the house, the Gulf’s falling tide exposing dead fish, broken clams, clots of seaweed. The erstwhile neighborhood had been home to shrimpers, but that was before hurricanes shattered the houses and grounded the boats hundreds of yards inland. The house was the sole dwelling standing on jigsaw-cut channels separated by marsh grass and hummocks. Built in the forties of oak and cypress and hand-hewn joists, it survived the winds and water while the shacks and trailers had been blown as far west as Galveston Bay.

Anak took a final hit off the roach. He scratched at his full-face black beard, what Rebecca laughingly called his Rasputin beard, a reminder his blood had once lived in Russia. When they were stoned, Ahn made up fabulous stories about their distant forebears’ bloodlines traveling the earth to meet, Anak’s originating deep in Russia, taking centuries to cross eastward to China, north to the Bering Strait, into Alaskan Inuit tribes – where it met another traveling strain that had originated in Africa! It was like magic.

Rebecca’s blood, as she told it, her storytelling voice sweet and musical after she’d smoked weed, had its genesis in the Middle East, moving through Europe to the US, pausing in the Swede-land of Minnesota, then pushing into Canada. Rebecca joked that Anak carried half the world in his veins, she carried the other half in hers.

Pretty little fairy tales that disappeared at dawn.

A light drew Anak’s eye toward the distant road. The lane to the shack was a hundred yards distant, the turn-off obscured by scrub trees and kudzu. Two sets of lights, two vehicles. The lights stopped by the gate. Went black.

Anak brushed mosquitoes from his eyes and stepped down to the sand. He was jogging up the drive for a closer look when a spotlight blazed from a vehicle. Anak dropped to the ground and watched the stark white beam of a searchlight sweeping the trees, the kind of high-intensity lamp mounted on cop cars, or used by poachers to jacklight deer, freezing them in light to await the bullet.

The searchlight died. Anak listened into the dark. Someone had passed the gate, someone else was creeping through the trees. Anak realized the road through the gate was the only easy way off the marshland edging the Gulf of Mexico.

A hunter all his life, Anak saw the pattern of a trap. He pushed from the ground and ran to the house. He snapped off the living-room light, the only remaining illumination coming from the bedroom down the hall.

“What is it?” Rebecca said. “What are you doing?”

“Someone’s coming.”

“Jesus! Who?”

“Thieves, maybe.”

Rebecca looked toward the bedroom. “Remember the doctor’s warning? That some people would see us as dangerous? We’ve got to hide the –”

Anak waved her silent. “Get to the rowboat. Cross the channel and hide. There’s a paddle inside. Don’t use the oars, they creak.”

“You’re coming too,” Rebecca said.

Anak looked to the old shark lance in the corner shadows.

“Anak!” Rebecca hissed. “Come on.”

Anak spun to her, blue eyes blazing. “Get out!”

The back door opened and Rebecca slid her slender body through the gap of a broken deck rail and jumped to the sand. She ran toward the water clutching a tight bundle, then crept to the end of the fifty-foot pier where a small green boat rocked.

Voices!

Not from the house or drive. From the water. Rebecca flattened against the pier, watching a searchlight’s beam hit the shack, flick off. Someone had confirmed the shack’s location.

Trapped.

Rebecca held the bundle tight. She heard the electric whine of a trolling motor as the boat moved closer. Heart pounding, she knelt on the salt-crusted pier, seeing a folded tarp in the rowboat. She wrapped the bundle in the tarp, tucking it beneath the middle seat. She loosened the boat’s ropes to swing it beneath the pier. There were a few inches between the boat’s top and the dock’s underside. She’d crouch in the boat and hope the intruders would pass over above her.

A voice from the water said, “Something’s moving over there!”

The light snapped on, trapping Rebecca in white clarity. Behind her, from the house, came the sound of breaking wood, a door kicked in. A few seconds of breathless silence…

Replaced by a scream and the sound of gunfire.

Rebecca spun toward the house and began running. Get away from the dock! her mind screamed. Lead them away from the dock.

She was a dozen feet from the house when the back door exploded open and a hideous image appeared on the deck: a man with eyes impossibly wide, his mouth frozen in a soundless scream…

And a harpoon bobbing from his abdomen.

Rebecca froze. The man’s hands clutched at his gut. He vomited blood down his shirt, staggered through the rotten deck rail, and dropped into the sand in front of Rebecca.

A pop of gunfire. Pain seared Rebecca’s head. She felt sand rush to her face, grit slide into her mouth. Voices screamed all around. More popping sounds. Someone yelled, “I can’t find it…”

The world spun into hazy colors. A thousand miles away, Rebecca heard footsteps on the dock. As the feet approached she turned away, drawn to a strange scene before her eyes, like a movie she could enter at will: a young woman naked on a beach with multi-stranded light arcing from her belly to the sky. The arc glittered like the Northern lights, bands of color pulsing like heartbeats.

The woman on the beach was her.

What Dr Matthias said was true, Rebecca thought as she spun into darkness. I have a rainbow inside me.

Chapter 2

“People should be sleeping at this hour,” Harry Nautilus muttered.

Beside me, I heard the metallic click of his fishing reel. To the east, the horizon held the blue glow of approaching dawn.

“It’s the best time to fish,” I countered, whipping my lure into the low waves of the Gulf of Mexico.

“Fish should be sleeping at this hour.”

Harry’d stayed in my guest room last night, expecting to fish today. I’d not planned to awaken so early, but hadn’t been sleeping much lately, kept awake by the files on my desk at the Mobile Police Department, a dozen mean and horrific homicides in the past two months. When I’d looked at my clock – 4.37 a.m. – I figured we’d catch the early-shift fish.

“Coffee, bro?” I said.

“Don’t ask, just pour.”

I reeled in my line, set the rod in a tubular spike in the sand. I pulled a thermos of homebrew from my tackle bag, half cheap-ass Mexican espresso, half New Orleans-style coffee with chickory. I’d filled the thermos three-quarters full, topped it with scalded milk, added a quarter-cup of demerara sugar and a tot of Kentucky bourbon. Liquid zip-a-dee-do-dah with a jolt of my-oh-my.

“Crap,” I said, rifling through the bag.

“What?”

“I forgot mugs. Be right back.”

I started jogging to my stilt-standing beachfront home a hundred yards away, across dunes bristling with sea oats. I live on Dauphin Island, thirty miles south of Mobile. It’s my second home on the site, the first having been knocked cockeyed by Hurricane Katrina.

“Wait a sec, Carson,” Harry called from behind me. “There’s something out on the water.”

I turned and wandered back to Harry’s side. Squinting into the dark, I saw a small craft out thirty yards or so, an aluminum rowboat rocking in the waves. It was nearly swamped, water licking its gunnels, the side-slipping tide pulling it parallel to the beach. It was a ghostly sight, like a lifeboat from the Flying Dutchman.

“Jeez,” Harry said, frowning at the empty boat. “You think someone got knocked overboard?”

I sighed and pulled off my T-shirt. “More likely it slipped its moorings. I’ll swim out and grab it.”

“It’ll beach soon enough,” Harry grunted. “Get the mugs. I need coffee.”

I glanced east. A half-mile away lay the wide mouth of Mobile Bay. The tide would draw the boat into the path of watercraft soon to pour from the bay into the Gulf.

“The damn thing’s a navigation hazard,” I said, kicking off my moccasins. Harry rolled his eyes as I sloshed waist-deep in my tattered shorts, threw my hands in front of me and dove. I set my bearings on the boat and pulled a lazy freestyle in that direction.

It took a half a minute to reach the craft. I grabbed a trailing painter, the bow rope, which suggested someone’s knot hadn’t held the boat to the dock. The sloshing craft was too unstable to board, so I put my hands on the gunnel and kicked high enough to glance inside, seeing only a cheap plastic tarp floating on trapped air. I pulled it toward me, planning to jam it under a seat so it wouldn’t drift away and foul someone’s propeller.

The tarp began unfolding. I felt something wrapped in the plastic. With my legs kicking in the water and my biceps on the gunnels, I unwrapped the tarp. A second package dropped out and floated in the water. A pink insulated bundle…

Topped with a baby’s face.

A wave crashed over me, not water, but horror.

Chapter 3

The furious downdraft of the approaching medical helicopter created a sandstorm on the beach. I felt its roar against my back as Harry knelt over the baby and performed rescue breathing. He’d grabbed the infant when I was splashing wildly in shoulder-deep water, simultaneously trying to back-swim to the shore and keep the kid high and dry. Harry had 911’d the Dauphin Island paramedics, who’d sent the medivac chopper.

“I’m not feeling any breathing,” Harry yelled. Jimmy Gentry of the Dauphin Island cops had arrived two minutes back and was using a flashlight to wave the ‘copter toward the sea side of the dunes. The flashers on his cruiser strobed blue and white across my partner’s face. Harry looked terrified.

“Keep going, brother,” I said. “The cavalry’s almost here.”

Harry pinched the tiny nose and tried to puff air into the baby’s mouth. I hunched over the pair and held my opened shirt wide to block some of the sand. The helicopter yawed above our heads.

When the chopper’s rails were still wavering above the sand, two people vaulted from its innards. It was bright enough to make out a guy in his twenties and a woman in her mid thirties. She had a medical bag in her hand and a serene expression on her face, like it was the third time she’d done this today. Despite the quiet expression she outsprinted the guy, skidded to her knees beside Harry, took the child. The woman was long-legged, her hair so blonde as to seem white. The blue eyes looked better suited to someone selling saunas in Stockholm than jumping from helicopters in South Alabama.

“The kid was in the boat,” I told her, my words tumbling over one another. “Wrapped in a tarp. The boat was sinking, but the tarp was floating. I don’t know if it’s, if it’s…”

She held the baby close and did a series of palpations and checks. Harry fell back on to the sand, gasping. The woman spoke quickly to her companion in medical jargon. He ran to the chopper, plucked a mic from the wall and began relaying instructions to the crew at the hospital.

“Alive?” Harry asked the woman.

“Barely,” she said. Baby cradled high against her bosom, the doc stood and retreated to the chopper. Her assistant was already in place and reached for the child. The blonde doc pulled herself into the craft. Seconds later it was roaring toward Mobile.

Harry shook his head as the chopper disappeared into the sky. “I don’t know if I ever got a breath from the kid. It was too small for me to feel a pulse. I was afraid I’d break something.”

“You guys did a great job,” Jimmy consoled. “We’ll know more when the kid gets to the ER. How it’s going to play out.”

Jimmy meant brain damage. Out on the water, when I unrolled the tarp, the infant’s eyes – I’m sure it was under six months old – were closed with no sign of life. But its skin had been ruddy, not the blue of oxygen deprivation. Still, any brief stoppage of breath would start cells dying in the developing brain. Plus there was the aspect of exposure. And infection from aspirated sea water.

I doubted the prognosis was good.

Jimmy headed back to his office to set agencies and investigations in motion. I looked at Harry. He had picked up his rod and reel from the sand and was breaking it down.

“You’re done fishing for the day?” I asked.

He stared at me.

“We just landed a baby, Carson. How can we top that?”

We retreated to my place for long-awaited mugs of coffee. When I brought them to the living room, Harry had switched on the local morning news and was frowning at the tube. I saw a semi-familiar face on the idiot box: Jeffords Tutweiler, a tall, lean, middle-aged man with black hair gone gray at the temples, an almost-pretty face that reminded me of Roger Moore. He was at a lectern, thumbs atop, hands down the sides. He looked like he wanted to pick up the lectern and heave it at the reporters sitting in a row of folding chairs. Behind him, I saw a mound of dirt with a dozen shovels buried halfway up the blades.

“I don’t think this is the proper venue for deliberately provocative questions,” Tutweiler was saying through tight-pursed lips. “Today is for celebrating enhanced educational opportunities across the South.”

“What’s going on?” I asked Harry. “Some kind of groundbreaking ceremony?”

“The endless expansion of Kingdom College,” he grunted.

The camera panned to the left of the guy at the lectern, showing a dozen dignitary types, including Senator Hampton Custis and three state representatives. The camera passed Custis to highlight a face familiar to everyone who used the television for devotional purposes, and nearly anyone in America who watched the news: the Reverend Richard Bloessing Scaler. Scaler’s round, plump face was without mirth and, actually, without much activity at all, save for the occasional pursing of lips as if figuring out a puzzle in his head. He was so focused on the solution as to seem oblivious to both the hubbub a few dozen paces away and the political powers attending his ceremony.

“It’s not a provocative question, Dean Tutweiler,” a reporter responded, “but a simple one. Your institute has been called racist because it didn’t accept black students until recently. And grudgingly, it seemed. Was Kingdom College founded on separatist principles?”

The Dean shot a glance at the founder of Kingdom College, Richard Scaler. If Tutweiler was looking for help, he received nothing; Scaler stayed in his own head, miles away.

“Reverend Scaler and I have explained the position of the college to the point of distraction. Students of African-American descent weren’t initially considered for admittance because of the many excellent institutions specifically geared for such students, a helping hand to folks who couldn’t afford college. Our original intent was to provide the same – equal – helping hand to less economically blessed students of Caucasian parentage and meant no insult to those of other –”

His words were cut off by hoots and jeers. The news camera panned to a couple dozen people at the back of the crowd, held in check by steel barriers manned by cops. They were a mix of black and white, many holding signs equating Kingdom College to a racist institution, calling it Jim Crow College or Old South University. Scaler looked up and read the angry statements in turn, his face devoid of emotion. Senator Custis looked irked. The lesser political types noted Custis’s irritation and quickly affected irritated looks of their own. Audience members turned in their seats and jeered back at the demonstrators.

Scaler remained impassive.

“What’s with Rev. Scaler?” I said to Harry. “Normally he’s racing back and forth, pounding his bible, promising hellfire and damnation to anyone who doesn’t agree with him.”

“Maybe Scaler’s starting a new phase,” Harry said, taking a sip of the coffee, eyes widened by the bourbon blast. “He’s been through, what? – maybe a half-dozen phases, starting when he was hardly old enough to tie his shoes.”

I returned my eyes to the television. Richard Bloessing Scaler, though only in his mid fifties, had been a fixture throughout my thirty-six-year life. What the Jackson and Osmond families were to under-age singing talent, the Deep South was to youthful preaching talent. Kids as young as five and six preached at tent revivals, bible in one hand, microphone in the other, exhorting the flock to come to Jesus in sing-songy voices normally associated with whining about being fed vegetables.

Scaler had been a star on the circuit, a chubby little whirlwind who could preen and thump with the best of the bunch. I recall him from taped interviews, staring at the camera with a sincere face, his hair pomaded, dressed in a sky-blue suit, spouting verses of such precision and attribution that interviewers were certain he’d been prompted by his parents. His answer was always the same: “Oh no, sir” – or ma’am, for the young Scaler had the mandatory impeccable Southern manners – “from the first time I opened the Good Book, His words jumped from the pages to my soul.”

Scaler faded from the scene when an adolescent, re-emerging in his mid twenties as the pastor of a rural church in west-central Alabama. Perhaps small congregations weren’t to his liking, for within two years he was building his television empire, his flamboyant style and personality perfect for the camera.

Something in the intervening years had politicized him toward the hectoring style of right-wing politics launched from many Fundamentalist pulpits. The bible was thumped, the finger pointed, the warnings declaimed. Opposing views were mocked. Comedians needed only to crouch and scream to convey Scaler to the audience.

Seeming almost desperate to succeed, he’d created his own religious broadcasting empire – the Kingdom Channel – and within a few years he’d amassed the funds to begin buying up large tracts of land and building Kingdom College.

Alongside hyper-conservative religious views came a bent more toward the Old Testament than the New. Hurricanes, tornadoes and earthquakes were warnings from God, post-industrial plagues of locusts and famine. Though other prominent preachers had jumped on the bandwagon, Scaler had been the first to proclaim Hurricane Katrina’s assault on New Orleans as the retribution of a miffed deity.

“God hath sent his terrible wind and flood to wash away the filthy lifestyle of the Sodomites,” he had intoned to national cameras a day after Katrina had turned the nation’s longest ongoing party into a tragedy. “Praise the name of Jesus who smiteth all his enemies!”

When a bothersome local reporter pointed out that the two major neighborhoods of the city to be mainly spared – the French Quarter and Garden District – were where most gay New Orleanians resided, while the mostly black Ninth Ward was the hardest hit, Scaler seemed lost for a split-second, then suggested God had used the Ninth Ward to demonstrate what might happen if the gays didn’t repent their sinful ways.

“Are you saying, Reverend Scaler,” the reporter had asked, “that God drowned citizens in the Ninth Ward as a warning flare for the gay population?”

Sensing a problem, Scaler had screwed himself to his full five-foot-eight height and launched a bombastic response, his standard solution to rhetorical difficulties. He jabbed a righteous finger at the reporter. “I’m saying God stirred up the sky and the sea and sent a warning. People should have been smart enough to see it as the hand of the Lord coming and moved from the swath of His cleansing.”

Scaler’s clarification sparked howls, but he remained undeterred through the publicity furor, perhaps because applications for Kingdom College went up by forty per cent and donations to his ministry went up fifty. The increased donations added new acreage to the holdings and a new library and dormitory to the campus, creating, as one editorialist put it, “The only structures built by Hurricane Katrina.”

Beside the distracted Scaler was his wife, a plain woman with an awkward nose, her major role in Scaler’s drama restricted to the utterance of amens after his pronouncements and singing hymns in a reedy, nasal voice. There were pronounced spaces between her outsized upper incisors, giving her a rabbity look. With a fluffy paste-on tail and penciled-in whiskers, she would have made a convincing Halloween bunny.

I saw the bunny shoot a couple of side-eyed glances Scaler’s way, as if surprised by his newfound taciturn demeanor. She aimed a perplexed glance at the senator, who looked back and shrugged. Despite the gesture, I thought I saw a split-second of fear cross his face.

“Reverend Scaler,” a reporter asked, turning from Tutweiler, “you built this college and remain chairman of the board of regents and spiritual advisor. Will you not share a few words with us on what has to be one of the major accomplishments of your life?”

Scaler blinked several times, then rubbed at his right eye. He held out his hand, fingers moving in a grabbing motion. An assistant quieted the hand by giving it a microphone. Scaler leaned toward the mic, his eye closed tight. “I have something troubling occurring in my eye,” he said. “An affliction that’s been ongoing. I promise I’ll have an important statement within the week. One that will –”

“What’s wrong with your eyes, sir?” a reporter called. “Will it involve surgery?”

“No, no…nothing so drastic. Thank you all for coming out on this momentous day.”

“But, Reverend, surely you can –”

Scaler held up his hand. Blinked. “I’ll speak soon. In fact, I am already speaking. When my words are in the light, they will ring from earth to sky. This I promise.”

“I don’t understand, Reverend. You’re speaking and yet you’re not speaking? It doesn’t make sen—”

But Scaler had already handed the microphone back to the assistant and resumed his look of distraction. Tutweiler cleared his throat and continued his platitudes. The camera cut to a reporter from a local affiliate, a sturdy young woman with the distinctly un-Southern name of Jonna Arnbjorg.

“And that’s the news from the groundbreaking ceremony for the new library and dormitory at Kingdom College here in West Mobile. Most of today’s events featured Jeffords Tutweiler, Dean of the college, with only a few puzzling remarks from the often-controversial Reverend Richard Scaler, blaming an eye affliction for the uncharacteristic brevity of his input.”

“If Scaler has an eye problem,” Harry groused, thumbing the TV off, “he got it from four decades of wearing blinders.”

But, truth be told, Richard Scaler’s narrow field of vision appealed to a great many people. In a Bible Belt state like Alabama, few in office dared to challenge the uncompromising views of the Reverend Richard Scaler, knowing it could mean fast passage to another line of work.

Outside the sun was rising and would soon transform the air to hot syrup and the sand to a griddle hot enough to sear the soles of your feet. A Dauphin Island copmobile was approaching, Jimmy Gentry’s face behind the wheel. He continued to the end of the street where the asphalt crumbled into the sand, exited and walked to the beach, hands in his pockets. He stood in the wet sand at the water’s edge and looked seaward.

Harry and I wandered out. “S’up, Jimmy?” Harry called before Jimmy saw us approaching. “Expecting twins?”

Jimmy dipped his finger in the foam of a broken wave and held it aloft in the breeze, discovering what my face had noted: a southwest wind, the basic rule this time of year. He plucked a foot-long piece of driftwood from the sand, a spar bleached by salt and sun. He chucked it out a couple dozen yards, watched it bob eastward.

“You know tides better than me, Carson,” he said. “Where you think the boat came from?”

“West somewhere. If the boat was launched on an ebb tide, it would have floated out into the Gulf, reversed on the incoming. There’s a lateral drift because of current and the west wind.”

Jimmy said, “Or the kid could have come from a boat way out on the water. Someone dropped her in the rowboat, kicked it away.”

Jimmy’s words flashed pictures into my head. A blur of faces, one small and utterly helpless. A horizon of gray water in all directions. A tiny boat rocking alone on pitching waves.

Though I’d seen every form of human cruelty and thought myself professionally inured to emotion, the pictures kicked the breath from my lungs. I felt my knees loosen and my eyes dampen at the thought of human hands placing a baby in a boat, human eyes watching it float away. I took a deep breath, blanked my mind of the images, and slipped my shades over wet eyes, as though the sun was bothersome. I turned back to my companions.

“Coast Guard know anything?” Harry was asking Jimmy.

“They’re gonna check suspicious-looking boats out on the water. But they figure anyone doing that kind of thing would be long gone.” Jimmy shook his head. “Of course, you guys would be zeroed-in on that kind of mentality.”

Jimmy was referring to Harry and my participation in a special unit in the Mobile Police Department, the Psychopathological and Socio-pathological Investigate Team, or PSIT. We were the sole members of the unit, laughingly called Piss-it by everyone in the department. If a case showed signs of involving a seriously damaged mind, it landed on our desks, generally superseding our normal caseload of shootings, stabbings, and the like. The PSIT reviewed over a dozen cases a year, with only one or two that truly fit the psychological parameters. I learned something from every case, generally something I didn’t want to know.

“I don’t envy the DI cops,” Harry said as we crunched back across the sand to my home. “How would anyone figure where the kid’s journey started?”

I grunted my sympathy. The Dauphin Island Police Department was made up of ten full-time cops and five volunteers handling a mainly upscale resort community. Petty theft, drunkenness and speeding were the major crimes. However that kid came to be in that boat, it would be sad and strange and probably ugly beyond anything the normal mind could conceive.

Turning back to the sea, I tried to imagine it from jet height, the blue of the water and the green and white of the island and mainland. If I knew enough, I could superimpose arrows over the image: the direction of last night’s currents and wind.

I didn’t have those arrows. But I knew someone who might.