Sergeant Jeremy made a funny humming sound as he bumped along the uneven field with his grandkids at his farm in Greencastle.
There were six of them altogether stuffed into the tiny cab of the old blue Ford tractor. The two older boys were hanging out the open left side and the two girls out the right. The littlest one, three-year-old George Junior, sat in his lap laughing as Sergeant Jeremy hummed and let him steer.
As usual on his day off, Sergeant Jeremy was “tilling the earth,” as his wife sarcastically called his on-again, off-again interest in working their ramshackle farm. He had exchanged his uniform for a T-shirt and jeans and a Miami Marlins baseball cap, and he and the grandkids were coming back from spreading compost at the top field. Now after helping Pawpy, they were taking the long way back before Granmama’s Bible class.
He saw the man as they arrived at the end of the field. He was standing in a patch of sunlight a hundred feet down the old cow path. The man was white and tall and was wearing a dark polo shirt and business khakis.
“Run along now, children,” Sergeant Jeremy said as he stopped the tractor and ratcheted on the hand brake.
“Hi, there. Are you Officer Jeremy Austin?” the visitor said as the children jumped down and started running past him for the house.
“I’m Sergeant Austin,” Sergeant Jeremy said as he cut the engine altogether and came halfway out of the cab without stepping all the way down. The man was bald and so tall they were still almost eye level. He looked into the man’s pale gray eyes.
Like a wolf’s, he thought.
“I hear you’re the man to talk to in these here parts,” the white man said.
“And you are?”
“Me? Oh, I’m from the FBI.”
“Ah, an American,” Sergeant Jeremy said as if this delighted him.
“Yep. All the way from the US of A,” the large bald man said, grinning. “We’re looking into that plane crash that happened north of Little Abaco a few days back.”
“Oh, I see. We haven’t heard much about it after the initial report. Your navy is handling it, I believe.”
“Yes, my navy is taking care of it, but you see, we’re looking for information, Sergeant. Information about anyone you know who might have been out on the water that evening.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes. I know there are a lot of boats on the island, but everybody down here is pretty cozy, aren’t they? Especially the fishermen and workers on the boats. Everybody has his personal little fishing spots here and there. At least that’s what I hear.”
Sergeant Jeremy kicked free a clod of mud that had gotten caught up in the huge tread of the tractor’s tire.
“What is it you’re trying to find out?”
“You don’t have to worry about that. We’re just looking for the names of anyone you can think of who might have been out on the water when the crash occurred.”
Sergeant Jeremy toed loose some more soil with his boot.
“Which night was this, now? Monday?”
“Yes. Two days ago. Monday night.”
Sergeant Jeremy looked as the bald man pulled free a strand of tall dried grass and spun it in his fingers. He was comfortable, serene. Not a care in the world. Like he was on his own land, Jeremy thought. Like everywhere belonged to him.
“What time did the crash occur?” Jeremy asked.
“This would have been probably, oh, around seven or so,” he said.
Sergeant Jeremy pursed his lips as if deep in thought.
“No one comes to mind right off. Folks around here rarely go up that far. Even charters. Most of the locals around here are pretty stingy with the gas.”
As if I would tell you anything, you arrogant American prick, Sergeant Jeremy thought.
“Well, if you can think of anyone, give me a ring, would you?” the bald man said, smiling as he offered a business card. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but we’re giving out grants now. Expanding our network here in the Caribbean. I would love to get some of those Washington grants out here to you to help you and your station. You could always use new equipment, yes? New vehicles? Perhaps even a boat. We can always use good partners.”
Sergeant Jeremy took the card and beamed down at it exaggeratedly. The fake smile on his face like he’d just won the lottery.
Reyland, the card said under the FBI logo. Deputy Assistant Director Robert Reyland.
“If I hear of anything, Mr. Reyland,” he said, giving the arrogant American official his best vacant welcome to the Bahamas, mon grin, “you’ll be the first to know.”
Reyland stood there for a moment staring at him, staring at the empty field around.
“Can I give you a lift back to the road?” Sergeant Jeremy said, stepping up into the tractor cab.
“No, thanks,” Reyland finally said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You can go ahead now, Sergeant. I’ll find my own way out.”