Chapter 6

 

Buck sprang down the stairs feeling rested and alive, his hang-over gone and his appetite aroused by the wonderful aroma wafting up from the kitchen. Pearl had arranged a table in the main dining hall and served a southern meal of beans, ham and cornbread. Simple fare, but totally delicious. Self-generated electricity dimly lighted the interior of the large room and dancing shadows became a time conveyance, casting the island back into a different century. Tiger broke the spell, jumping into his lap. He stared out the window as late afternoon gold, cast by the setting sun, enveloped the clearing. Blue sky was turning crimson and a lone water bird skimmed the lake's quiet surface as Mrs. Johnson appeared on the porch to refill his coffee cup.

“I met your sons today,” Buck said.

“What did you think of my babies?” she said, a smile dominating her expressive face.

“I think your babies have grown into two fine men.”

“That they have,” she said. “Ray Jr. is working on his Doctorate, you know?”

“Raymond told me. You must be very proud.”

“I'm proud of both my sons, but they're so different,” she said wistfully. “If Ray just didn't have that chip on his shoulder. Raymond's a plain working man, and I sometimes wish Ray was more like him.” As if waking from a daydream, she added, “I don't mean to bore you.”

“You're not.”

Pearl stared at him. “You know, Mr. Buck, in this light you look like your Aunt Emma.” Turning away, she hid her face in her hands. “Guess I still haven't got over her not being here. You remind me of her and that comforts me. Will you stay with us awhile?”

Pearl's question sent a melancholy wave cresting across his bow. “At least until I resolve the matter with the island.”

Pearl took his answer as a statement of positive action and hummed softly to herself as she returned to the kitchen. He went out on the porch, basking in darkness awash in moonlight. There he remained until long after she had gone to her own house. When a panther, howling across the lake, aroused him from his musings, a flickering light down by the dock caught his attention. Remembering the apparition, he decided to investigate.

Night sounds and darkness accompanied his stroll to the lake. Leery of lurking cottonmouths, he stepped lightly until he neared the marina and discovered the source of the light. Instead of Bessie McKinney, it was Wiley Johnson, fishing from the dock in the glow of a butane lantern. Disturbed by old wood creaking beneath Buck's feet, Wiley glanced around quickly.

“How you doing?” he said. “Want to wet a hook?”

“Think I'll just watch. Catch many fish this way?”

“No, but it's peaceful when the sun goes down. Night fishing relaxes me.”

“I can see why,” Buck said as a gentle breeze rustled cypress leaves.

“What are you doing up so late?” Wiley asked.

“I fell asleep on the veranda. When I awoke I saw your light and thought it was a ghost.”

Wiley stifled a laugh. “Bessie McKinney?”

“I know it sounds crazy but I really did see something out on the lake last night. A misty cloud floating across the water toward me that seemed like a girl in distress.”

“Like Daddy said, sounds like you had your snout in Mama Toukee's home brew.”

“Maybe, but I know what I saw. At least I think I do.”

Wiley pulled his line from the water and laid the cane pole on the dock. Grabbing the handle of a bright red ice chest beside him, he removed its plastic top, fished through the icy contents and extracted two cold bottles of beer. After popping their tops and handing one to Buck, he tossed his line back in the water. Buck noticed there was no bait on the hook.

“You think you saw Bessie McKinney's ghost?”

“Sounds improbable, doesn't it?” Buck said, sipping the cold beer.

A large catfish broke the surface, its splash disturbing a loggerhead resting on a stump. The huge turtle slid into the dark lake with barely a sound, only a single expanding ripple marking his disappearance.

“Maybe not as strange as you think,” Wiley said.

“You think I really saw a ghost?”

“Sounds like a paranormal occurrence, at the very least. Give you an example. Crossett is a town in southern Arkansas. Local legend says the railroad track outside town is haunted. Supposedly, a conductor met his demise there. Literally lost his head. The ghost of this headless conductor, they say, haunts the tracks near Crossett.”

“And?”

“And I saw it with my own eyes. I worked at a bowling alley part time during college and on a whim I drove to Crossett one night after work with three buddies. We passed through the little town, stopping beside the railroad track. We walked along it, searching for the ghost.”

Buoyed by his own recent ghostly vision, Buck listened with rapt attention.

“A dim light appeared in the distance as we walked the track,” Wiley said. “Floating just above the railing. When we tried to catch up with it, it moved away. It followed us when we walked back to the car. It would run from us like a child playing tag. Still, we really saw it.”

“How much did you have to drink?”

“I won't lie,” Wiley said. “We'd all had a few beers that night. But the man in the car, the manager of the bowling alley, didn't drink. He also saw it.”

Buck crossed his arms as he thought about the story. “Maybe it was swamp gas.”

“Maybe it was a ghost,” Wiley said, laughing in a way that reminded Buck of Wiley's father.

Wiley opened two more beers and Buck took a long pull. “What's the deal with Bones Malone?”

“He's lived around these parts all his life. Guess he caught Miss Emma's attention, even if he was quite a bit younger.”

“Younger?”

“Wiley chuckled again.”At least twenty years, though neither of them minded a lot.”

“What's he do for a living?”

“This and that. Selling fresh-water pearls. Commercial fishing. And he had his hands in other odds and ends.”

“Such as?”

“Indian relics, old coins and the like. Made a little money selling them around.”

“Doesn't sound very lucrative.”

“No, but he's had a steady job for a year or more, working for the State.”

“Doing what?”

“Conducting archeological investigations at proposed building sites. Determining if anything of historic significance is in the ground before allowing construction to begin. Mostly concentrating on Hogg Nation's resort.”

Buck remained silent a moment as he considered Wiley's information. “I'm going to look him up and ask him a few questions. Any idea where I might find him?”

“He has a camp on the lake somewhere.”

A bass, breaking the silence as Wiley's words trailed away, slapped the surface with his tail. Heat lightning flashed across the horizon as they finished their beer.

“What's the story on your brother?” Buck finally asked.

Wiley's grin returned. “Different, isn't he?”

“I don't know about that, but he's not very friendly.”

“More militant, I'd say.”

“You're not that way. Neither is Raymond or Pearl.”

“Ray's six years older than me. He played football in college. I played basketball. He's stocky, I'm tall and lean. His skin is coffee-colored, mine darker. Maybe Daddy knows something he ain't telling us,” he said with a wink.

“You work here full time?”

“Just visiting.”

“From where?”

“Here and there.”

Buck felt a chill in the conversation and changed the subject. “So Ray's working on a doctorate in history?”

“Not just history. Black history,” Wiley said. “And you're a private investigator?” Buck's profession seemed to interest Wiley. Pulling his line from the water, he leaned the pole against the dock. “What exactly does a private investigator do?”

He laughed when Buck said, “This and that.”

Wiley had given him more to think about than he could organize in his mind. Beer, night sounds and a cool breeze blowing up from the south, acted as a potent sedative. Along with everything else that had happened since he'd arrived on the island, it left him tired and drowsy. Saying goodnight, he returned through the darkness to the lodge.”

* * *

Buck awoke to songbirds outside his open bedroom window, a gentle breeze rustling the curtains. Focused light on his face woke him before he was ready. When he rolled out of bed, Tiger moved into the warm spot he'd vacated. After showering, he followed his nose to the aroma of bacon and eggs drifting up the stairs. Tiger, managing to rouse himself from his stupor, followed him. When they reached the kitchen, the kitten found a bowl of milk Pearl had left for him, lapping it as she stirred a pan with a long wooden spoon.

“Morning, Mr. Buck. Sleep well?”

“Like a top,” he said, stroking Tiger's arched back.

“Ready for breakfast?”

“You bet. I'm starved.”

Handing him a cup of coffee, she said, “Find a place on the veranda and I'll bring it out when it's ready.”

Humidity choked the hallway as Buck, Tiger dogging his heels, walked outside to the veranda. Morning heat accosted them as they reached the table. Another scorcher, he thought as he waited for breakfast. Pearl’s breakfast, when it arrived, included her friendly country ambience to enhance the flavor. When he finished eating he asked her if someone could give him a ride to Deception.

“Ray will take you. I'll call him now.”

Grabbing a notebook off the table, he said, “Just how close were Aunt Emma and Bones Malone?”

Pearl would have blushed at his question had her complexion made that particular phenomenon possible. Instead she smiled and said, “Your Aunt Emma would have done anything for that man.”

“But they had a falling out and you don't know why?”

She shook her big head. “They got along just fine. Mr. Bones was always doing for Miss Emma.”

“Like what?”

“Bringing her pretty flowers, Indian pottery and things he found down by the lake. Nothing expensive, but she always seemed to appreciate his thoughtfulness.”

“They ever argue?”

“Only once,” Pearl said. “When she booted him out and told him not to come around again.”

“What did he do?”

“Sorry, Mr. Buck. I've racked my brain trying to decide if Mr. Bones might somehow be responsible. For all his faults, I believe he really loved your Aunt Emma. In all the time I knew him, I never saw him hurt a fly.”

Memories of Aunt Emma quickly depressed Pearl. She drifted back into the kitchen. Buck wouldn't let the matter rest. When she returned he said, “Why did Aunt Emma mortgage the island?”

Again, her smile disappeared. “She didn't, Mr. Buck. Sure, she wanted to put the lodge and marina back like it was in the old days, but she never borrowed a penny her whole life.”

“Then you think Rummels is lying?”

“Like a dog,” she said.

Pearl returned to the kitchen and Buck sipped his coffee until Ray arrived. After kissing his mother, Ray frowned at him and said, “You ready?”

He didn't wait for him to answer before hurrying out the door. When Buck reached the dock the boat's motor was already running, Ray waiting at the tiller. He guided them through the maze of cypress trees surrounding Fitzgerald Island, increasing speed when he reached open water. Ten minutes passed with neither man speaking.

“Beautiful day,” Buck finally said. When Ray refused to even nod, Buck said, “Something about me you don't like?”

“You whites amaze me. You have no regard for anything except your own personal convenience.”

“That's a slightly racist remark,” Buck said, staring hard into Ray's limpid eyes. “Is everyone around here a bigot?”

Ray laughed. “So you noticed. Maybe it's a local perversion.”

“Exactly what is going on here?”

“Why ask me? I think you already know.”

“I don't know anything. Please tell me.”

Muscles in Ray's big arm flexed and he subconsciously clenched his left hand into a fist. “Same thing that's gone on for a hundred and fifty years around here: discrimination, racial hatred, bigotry, fear and intimidation.”

“I saw black and white children playing together down by the lake.”

“Bigotry's taught. You ain't born with it,” he said, suddenly adopting the drawl of a southern field hand.

“Why here?”

Ray slowed the engine and let the boat nose silently through an acre of white-blooming lily pads, their cloying fragrance melding with the sweet fetor of fish and decaying vegetation.

“Mind control,” he said. “A powerful shackle.”

“Who needs this power?”

“Look around Deception. Go to the bank, grocery store or any of the tourist's shops. See how many blacks you find doing anything other than pushing a broom or polishing some white man's shoes.”

Buck hesitated, and then said, “You make it sound like a conspiracy.”

“More than sounds like it.”

“You're joking.”

“Am I? Ever heard of the Invisible Empire?”

“You mean . . .”

“The Klan, man, Knights of the White Camellia, The Ku Klux Klan.”

“The Klan is a force in Deception?”

“Bet your life on it. The Secret Order of Invisible Knights is still viable in east Texas, even after civil war and years of brutal reconstruction. But you knew that already.”

“No I don’t. Why do you keep saying that?”

“I saw you down by the lake with Nation and his two thugs. Think I don't know what you intend to do with the island?”

“Not true. If I can find a way to pay off the bank note, I'll keep the island. And I'll see that your mom and dad receive their inheritance. If I discover someone was responsible for Aunt Emma's death, I'll have them put behind bars. That I promise you.”

Ray didn't bother commenting. They had cleared the pads and Buck grabbed both sides of the boat as Ray gunned the engine and powered ahead. Draping tentacles of Spanish moss clutched at their faces as they passed beneath a thick grove of water-bound cypress trees. Giving up on conversation, Buck turned his attention to the spectacular scenery, and their circuitous path through the hoary water forest.

Off the port bow there were many rotting wood platforms littering the lake, rusted pumping units and oil tanks occupying some of the platforms. Others, abandoned and decaying, had simply become mooring spots for fisherman. Silver fins of a large fish flashed through the lake's coffee-colored surface. Overhead, a pelican floated against green-cast sky. When they reached Deception, Ray guided the boat into shore. Buck climbed out and started up the hill. Before he'd gone ten paces, he turned and asked one last question.

“Is Nation part of the Klan?”

A smirk was the only answer to his question. “Number for the marina is in the phone book,” he said. “When you take care of your business, someone will come for you.”

Turning the boat around, Ray headed back to the island. Caught up in the lake's silence and disappearing drone of the boat's tiny engine, Buck watched him disappear into lush subtropical vegetation. Young, attractive and obviously well educated, Ray had a voice as rich as Sidney Poitier's, although his attitude more closely resembled Louis Farrakhan’s. Buck wondered why a person with so much going for him could have such a giant grudge against the world, at least the white world. Now, Deception beckoned, along with possible answers to questions raised during his first day on the island. Tossing a rock far out into the lake, he watched a circular ripple spread slowly from the point of impact.