Chapter 3

 

James T. “Buck” McDivit had come to Texas for answers. What he found was a giant lake amid a maze of vines, creepers and lily pads; a place that seemed more like Louisiana than Texas. He quickly realized it was different from both states. Cypress trees grew in abundance, both in the water and out, and Spanish moss, wafting in slow-motion waves, hung from their limbs, caressing the lake's coffee-colored surface. Only the head of a slow-swimming snake disrupted the lake's tranquility.

East Texas was a place far different from Buck's own home on the flat plains of central Oklahoma. This was a mysterious locale that seemed like a virtual botanical garden replete with subtropical greenery and a climate to match. Buck felt a thousand miles from home.

Interstate highway, replaced by rural Texas blacktop, had long since disappeared in his rearview mirror. Untended hollyhocks, blooming in lavender flower falls that saturated humid air with their cloying fragrances, grew wild beside the road. Damp pathways, none leading anywhere in particular, pierced the tangle of vegetation as a flock of cattle egrets winged high overhead.

Egrets weren't the only wildlife in abundance, nor were oak, cypress and hollyhock the only plants bordering the road. Cascades of blue impatiens, crimson-blossomed rosebushes and clumps of green willow painted the terrain from a diverse palette of color. When a trucker blew his horn, waving an angry fist as he sped past, Buck realized he had slowed to less than twenty miles an hour. Taking the warning to heart, he pressed the accelerator and followed after him.

Dense vegetation parted as he rounded the next bend. It left him little time to worry about the angry trucker and prevented him from further gawking at the birds and wildflowers. In front of him lay a sleepy Victorian village dwarfed by the mammoth lake. Deception, Texas. Buck quickly realized he was at the literal end of the road.

Deception, once a riverboat stop along the way between New Orleans and Jefferson, was situated many secluded miles from the nearest Interstate highway. The old riverboat port had managed to preserve much of its antebellum flavor. Many buildings, some with ornate decks jutting out over the water, still fronted the lake. Tourists wandered the narrow streets, gazing at storefront displays or licking snow cones purchased from vendors vying for space in the town square. Buck parked his Ramcharger and stepped out for a better look.

Near a little park fronting the lake, Buck discovered everything wasn't old. Bulldozers and heavy equipment were at work clearing trees and leveling dirt. Someone was building something large and incongruous with the sleepy village and they had already cut a large brown swath across the flourishing sea of green. He completed a quick swing through Deception before returning to his truck and driving to the rear of the Pelican Restaurant. An attorney awaited inside the Pelican to discuss his late aunt's estate. Their recent telephone conversation had left Buck leery about their impending meeting and little doubt that the attorney considered him a money-seeking opportunist.

Afternoon shadows had begun draping the village as gray clouds formed out over the lake. The back of the restaurant seemed unexceptional except for the stacks of fish traps and piles of gill netting strewn across the ground. As he scanned the area, someone came crashing through the screen door. The disruption ended his thoughts about his meeting with the attorney.

A man that looked big enough to take care of himself tumbled across the loading dock, slamming headfirst into a packing crate. Lying in a daze, he rubbed his head as two men piled out the door after him.

“Get your black ass out of here,” the first attacker said, delivering a vicious kick to the fallen man's ribs.

The big man managed to roll off the dock and crawl on his hands and knees to shelter behind a broken fish trap.

“Next time use the back door,” the second attacker said. “Our customers don't want no stinking niggah shuffling past their tables while they're trying to eat.”

The two men halted their attack but stood at the door, glaring at the black man on his knees below them. The taller of the two was bone thin with scraggly hair capping his acne-scarred face. His shorter partner, whose diminutive height probably resulted from some congenital deformity, was anything but thin. He stood hunched over in a permanent crouch, a large hump crowning his twisted back. Neither man would have had much luck in a beauty contest. Buck could tell by their attitudes they probably liked it that way. He waited until they'd slammed the door behind them before helping the big man to his feet.

“You okay, Pard?”

“Take more than those two to get the best of ol' Raymond Johnson,” the man said, dusting himself off.

“Looks to me like they did a pretty good job.”

“They got the drop on me when my back was turned,” Raymond Johnson said, rubbing his jaw.

“Take it easy big fellow and next time watch your back,” Buck said.

Buck quickly forgot the incident and strolled to the front of the restaurant. Daylight was waning but the cobbled parking lot continued radiating heat absorbed from late afternoon sun. He found it cooler inside, frigid air chilling the perspiration on his forehead as he opened the restaurant door. Wiping his face with his handkerchief, he greeted the hostess waiting in the entryway.

“I'm meeting a man named Rummels,” Buck said. “Know if he's here yet?”

The young woman was dressed in a colorful period costume. Antebellum, he guessed. She had a friendly smile, a pretty red bow in her hair, and made him feel welcome. The woman's warm smile was no accident. Buck McDivit was young, tall and good looking, with the body of a trained athlete and piercing blue eyes of a movie star. Dressed in jeans, cowboy boots and western-cut shirt, he could have passed as a young John Wayne.

“Mister Rummels just phoned,” she said, quickly flipping through the guest register on the entryway lectern. “I'll seat you and you can wait for him in the dining area.”

She led Buck into the main dining room where potted ferns hung in garlands from rough-hewn rafters. Checkerboard tablecloths draped wooden tables and the restaurant's rustic decor blended perfectly with aroma of frying cornmeal floating in from the kitchen. An outside veranda flanked the room on three sides. A damp breeze, moved along by slow-moving ceiling fans, wafted in through the open door.

“Enjoy your dinner,” she said, seating him at a corner table overlooking the lake.

Buck barely had time to adjust his chair and stare out at the darkening sky before a waitress appeared and asked him what he wanted to drink. Her red bow went well with a thick thatch of black hair and her own colorful period dress. Buck ordered a Coors and had just finished it when Raymond Rummels arrived. Rummels was wearing dark pinstripes, despite the oppressive outside heat, and a constipated smile. He looked about thirty, trying to pass for fifty.

“You James T. McDivit?”

“One in the same,” Buck said, reaching to shake the young lawyer's hand.

Rummels joined him at the table, not bothering to thank their waitress when she brought him a Manhattan, and Buck another Coors.

“Catfish is the specialty of the house,” he said.

Buck gave the young woman thumbs up. “Sounds good to me.”

Rummels dismissed her with a dispassionate nod. “I'll come right to the point, McDivit. I'm unaware of any heirs to the Emma Fitzgerald estate. She had no children, adopted or otherwise. Her only brother died years ago in an oil field accident in Oklahoma. To my knowledge, he had no children.”

“He had one,” Buck said. “Me.”

“Then why is there no record of his marriage, or your birth?”

“Because he never married. He carried on for a while with a teenage girl. My mother. I was the result. The family forced her to give me up.”

“Why didn't you come forward before now?”

“I didn't know I had any relatives until recently. I'm a private investigator in Oklahoma City. While reviewing some public records for a client, I came across a newspaper article that got me thinking about my own roots. Once I decided to track down my parents, the rest was easy. John McDivit was definitely my father.”

“Can you prove it?”

Buck handed Rummels a package of information and waited as he pawed through it.

“Birth certificate, eye witness accounts and a statement from my mother. She had pictures, some belongings, and even John McDivit's medical records. There's no doubt I'm his son and that he was the younger brother of Emma Fitzgerald.”

“These could be forgeries.”

“They're not.”

“How do I know that?”

“You'd believe a Federal judge, wouldn't you?”

The hint of a snicker appeared on Rummels' face but vanished just as quickly. “You bring one with you?”

“No, but I have this affidavit.”

Buck handed Rummels a letter his old friend Judge Beamon Dawkins had written for him before leaving Oklahoma. In it, Judge Beamon attested to Buck’s good word and the authenticity of the documents he’d presented the lawyer. Rummels held the letter long enough to read it three times.

“Excuse me a moment,” he finally said, hurrying away from the table without explanation.

Remnant daylight had all but disappeared, replaced now by intermittent lightning that veined the sky over the lake. Thunder, shaking roof and windows, soon followed, momentarily causing the lights to dim. Rummels rejoined Buck at the table.

“Assuming your papers are in order and you inherit Emma Fitzgerald's estate, what exactly do you intend to do with it?”

“Don't know,” Buck said. “It was never my intention to stake out my aunt's estate. I only wanted to meet the old lady and discuss my father's family with her.”

“Then you're denying your inheritance?”

“Didn't say that. What exactly is my inheritance?”

Rummels cleared his throat, finished his Manhattan and waved for another. “Emma Fitzgerald's estate consists of an island on Caddo Lake and everything on it. She has some money in the bank, but just enough to pay for the probate.”

“What about the island?” Buck asked.

“Emma Fitzgerald operated a lodge and fishing camp, discontinuing lodge service about four years ago. The marina is still operable. But there are a couple of problems, Mr. McDivit.”

“Such as?”

“Emma Fitzgerald borrowed money from the bank last year to remodel the lodge and marina. She put up the island as collateral. Emma failed to make a payment on the note for the last six months and the bank had begun foreclosure proceedings prior to her death. The hearing is in ten days. If you want to prevent the foreclosure, you have ten days to repay the bank loan, along with court costs and accumulated attorney fees.”

“That's not much notice. You mentioned a second problem.”

Rummels rustled his yellow pad, leaning forward in his chair. “They found Emma Fitzgerald floating in the lake. Pearl Johnson, her maid, says she was despondent. The coroner took that into account and ruled her death a suicide. I'm afraid that nullifies Emma's life insurance.”

“No one said anything to me about life insurance, or suicide.”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “When they found her, she had this clasped in her hand,” Rummels dropped a crusted cameo brooch into Buck's open palm. “Depression sometimes takes people to the edge. In Emma's case, over the edge.”

Nearby thunder shook the rafters followed by slow rain drumming the roof and windows. Distress creased Rummels brow when Buck asked, “What if I pay off the note?”

“Well, of course you have that option. Is that your plan?”

Buck had neither assets nor collateral to satisfy Aunt Emma's note. Rummels didn't know that. Tapping his chin as if he were considering it, Buck said, “Don't know yet. Maybe.”

“Pardon me a moment,” Rummels said. He returned shortly with another man. “This is Mr. Hogg Nation. He owns the Pelican.”

The distinguished gentleman with the odd name had green eyes, short hair, and specks of white frosting his head. Despite his hair color, his lineless face proclaimed him no older than forty.

“At your disposal, Mr. McDivit. Hope you're enjoying our hospitality. Your meal and drinks are on the house tonight.”

Buck managed a nod and half smile. Raymond Rummels was wringing his hands, his own expression having turned sour.

“Mr. Nation is also my client. He wishes to purchase Fitzgerald Island from you. $200,000, generous offer, Mr. McDivit. Enough to pay the bank note and leave twenty-five thousand dollars for your troubles.”

Nation's proposal caught Buck by surprise. When he finally managed a reply, he said, “Thanks, but I'd like to visit the island before I decide.”

“Take your time and enjoy the catfish,” Nation said, moving away toward the kitchen.

Randy Rummels remained standing until his client had departed, the waitress arriving with a bell-shaped glass filled with an icy-red concoction.

“Mr. Nation would like you to try a Hurricane. It's the house specialty.” She winked and hurried away.

It was raining harder now, water beading down the picture window in soft sheets. Buck sipped the sugary drink. Rain and alcohol had all but hypnotized him when a familiar high-pitched voice returned his attention to the restaurant. Staring across the crowded room, he spotted the two men involved in the incident behind the restaurant. They were drinking and talking loudly, even above the din of the crowd.

“Who are those two men?”

Rummels was chewing on the straw of his Manhattan. “Humpback and Deacon John,” he said. “They work for Mr. Nation.” Before Buck could inquire further, the lawyer glanced at his watch. “I have another appointment. Raymond Johnson, an employee of the marina on Fitzgerald Island, will pick you up shortly and take you there.” Handing Buck his business card, he said, “You have ten days to make up your mind.”

Thunder shook the roof as Randy Rummels tapped the back of his chair and started away. Buck wondered, as the lawyer departed, why the man's crooked grin gave him an uneasy feeling in the pit of his gut.

The friendly waitress soon appeared with hush puppies, catfish and another hurricane. Buck handed her his empty glass and took a quick gulp from the fresh drink. The spicy catfish tasted wonderful and whetted Buck's growing thirst. He was feeling light-headed when the waitress appeared for the final time.

“Raymond Johnson is waiting for you on the back porch,” she said.

“Thanks,” he said, stumbling when he tried to get out of the chair. “Which way?”

She pointed him to the back door. He was surprised when he realized the person waiting for him was the large black man involved in the scuffle behind the restaurant. Before he could ponder the coincidence, he caught his foot on a net and tumbled into the big man's outstretched arms.

“Little too much of Mr. Nation's hospitality?”

“Afraid so. Was that you that got yourself kicked out the back door a little earlier?”

“Mr. Nation's boys,” he said without explanation. “You probably don't remember but I'm Raymond Johnson. You Mr. McDivit?”

“Buck.”

Johnson stared at Buck McDivit's extended hand and finally shook it, limply for a man so large. “If you ain't through eating yet, I'll wait out here.”

“I'm done,” Buck said, unable to stifle a drunken giggle.

“Good. Don't need no more trouble tonight. Let's get out of here.”

Concurring with Johnson, Buck followed him off the porch. By now his head was swimming, his vision blurry and tongue thick.

“Where's your car?” Raymond asked.

“Truck's in the back.”

The big black man grabbed Buck, supporting his weight and ignoring his helpless giggles. Raymond left him on the steps while he retrieved Buck’s suitcase from the truck. Rain had slackened as he herded Buck and his bag down the slope to the lake where a gentle breeze was blowing across the water. It caused the boat, and Buck's head on the side of the boat, to rock with the waves. Raymond Johnson untied the bowline and pushed away from the dock.

“Couple of miles to the island,” he said, maneuvering through a stand of cypress trees surrounding the shadow-dark shoreline. “You okay?”

Buck answered with a giddy laugh. “I think someone spiked my drink.”

“Sure they did,” Johnson said as the high-pitched outboard motor drowned out Buck's slurred words and any further attempt at conversation.

As the boat glided across rain-dimpled water, Buck closed his eyes, his mind awash with flickering moonbeams splaying the lake's murky surface. Half an hour later they landed on the island. When they reached a large two-storied house, Raymond Johnson dragged Buck upstairs and dumped him on a feather bed. The suitcase made a hollow thump when it hit the floor, the door shutting behind Raymond as he exited with a damp swoosh. Locked in a drunken stupor, Buck didn't really care.

He lay there for what seemed like hours, mesmerized by slow rain drumming the tin roof as he stared at the ceiling’s darkness. He finally stumbled out of bed, hoping to find an aspirin for his throbbing head. Unable to find the lights or an appropriate pill, he embarked instead on a late-night tour of the house.

Moonlight through open windows guided him back down the stairs where he found a liquor cabinet amid stormy shadows and resident gloom. What the hell, he thought. A little hair of the dog couldn't make him feel any worse than he already did. Shattering one of the bottles in an eruption of flying glass, the ensuing explosion failed to deter him. Slugging whiskey straight from an unbroken bottle, he headed down a dark hallway, glassy shards crunching beneath his boots.

Buck stumbled through the house, finally finding a door that led outside. Soft rain continued falling, a few rays of moonlight penetrating the cover of clouds. Reflections off the lake beckoned. Wobbling toward the water’s edge, he dribbled whiskey from his open mouth and down his neck, and then howled at the moon. When he reached the lake, he tripped on a cypress knee, tumbling into the mud. Revived by the dank odor of warm rain and rotting vegetation, he watched dull light radiate from a pinpoint across the lake. This time it wasn't the moon. Even after rubbing his eyes, he couldn't make it disappear. Instead, it grew larger, drawing ever closer.

Sitting in the mud, too stunned to move, he swayed as the vague outline of a veil-shrouded apparition floated toward him. He bit his lip, pain failing to convince him he was coherent. When the apparition stopped directly in front of him, he could see it was a girl.

A translucent shawl clung to her thin frame, icy mist drifting around her, chilling warm night air. Tears flowed down her cheeks. When she reached out to him, his neck grew inexplicably warm. Aunt Emma's brooch in his hand began pulsating with pink light as the translucent body of the ghostly vision gleamed brightly.

He blinked, opening his eyes to see the girl had disappeared, leaving him unsure of what he'd seen. Still very much inebriated, he managed to stumble back to the lodge where he passed out before hitting the sheets.