I decided to take a day off from fishing, so the next morning I slept in, if six a.m. qualifies for sleeping in. Thanks to the military, I’m an early riser. I got up, put on a pot of coffee, then walked to the campground store and bought a copy of the Parkersville Independent from the rack out front.

Back at the camper I poured myself a mug of strong black coffee, took a seat at the table, and opened the paper. There was nothing on the front page about the incident, so I flipped to the local/state section.

There it was: Body discovered near Five-Mile Island. It was barely a half-column long and provided little more dope than Kate’s rundown of last evening’s newscast. One bit of new information the article mentioned was that the unidentified victim was a female of undetermined age due to the body’s deteriorated condition. The county medical examiner had been called in, and an autopsy was scheduled for some time today. Pending further investigation, the sheriff’s office refused to comment on whether the apparent drowning was accidental or the result of foul play.

My name wasn’t mentioned. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. I wouldn’t have to dodge questions from everybody and their cousin for a while until word got around, which I knew it soon would, but at the same time I wondered why Bo Pickron hadn’t let the media know who discovered the body. After all, I had nothing to hide. Did the sheriff think that if my name went public I’d haul ass before the autopsy results were in? That didn’t make much sense to me, but then again, neither did his theory that I might’ve dumped the body in the grass flats and then called the law to report I’d found it, conveniently leaving my inscribed pocketknife near the corpse as incriminating evidence. Pickron’s attitude toward me didn’t add up. Maybe he was just a natural prick.

I set the paper aside and fixed myself some scrambled eggs and toast. Later, I planned to drive to Gillman’s and see if Kate might be able to wrangle any information from Fish and Wildlife or the sheriff’s office. I’d only known her a little more than a week, but in that brief time I could tell she was one sharp lady and a real go-getter. If anyone could find out what was going on behind the scenes, it was Kate Bell.

Our talk over the beers last evening was the first time we’d exchanged more than just a few casual words, other than yesterday’s phone conversations after I’d made my grisly discovery. Kate let me know that she appreciated the way I respected her opinion. When I first rented the boat and was looking at tackle to gear up for speckled trout fishing, Kate had waited on me. I’d accepted her recommendations with few questions, and that pleased her. She’d been around the fishing and tackle business most of her life. Her father had owned a tackle shop in Destin, some seventy-five miles west of St. George. Kate had worked in the family business since she was a kid, until one night a hurricane came calling and destroyed Bell’s Tackle. Nearing retirement age at the time, her dad had chosen not to rebuild. A few years later Kate moved to St. George, answered a help-wanted ad and was hired on the spot by Gary and Linda Gillman.

Kate’s biggest pet peeve was that when it came to fishing, most males—young, old, and in-between—refused to take her at her word. She’d lost track of the times she offered a customer sound advice, only to watch the guy seek out one of the male employees once her back was turned. Nine times out of ten the customer would receive the same suggestions Kate had offered. She was no closet feminist, but that sort of chauvinist behavior really goaded her. If I had an “in” with Kate, I figured it was because I’d recognized she knew her way around the fishing business.

Kate also let me know that she’d dated Bo Pickron not long after moving to St. George three years ago. Bo pulled her over one night in Parkersville, supposedly because of a burned-out tag light. Kate agreed to meet for a drink the next evening after work, and things had progressed from there. After a few months she’d broken it off, though she didn’t offer any explanation and I didn’t press the matter. I had no idea why she even volunteered that information. Maybe it had something to do with her advice to steer clear of Pickron, or maybe, for whatever reason, she’d taken a liking to me. I’d never given Kate any indication that I was trying to hit on her, at least not consciously.

The truth is, I’d been burned out on women since I returned from my last overseas deployment and my loving wife greeted me with the happy news that she wanted a divorce. Sucker-punched, and just like that, twenty years shot to shit. At least Jill had had the decency to wait until the twins were ready to leave the nest. Mike was on a baseball scholarship at UNC Wilmington, where he was the Seahawks’ starting catcher. Megan was attending NC State with plans to enter their College of Veterinary Medicine once she acquired the necessary credits.

The kids had handled our split as well as could be expected and seemed to have adjusted to the situation. Jill and I pledged to remain on good terms for their sake, though deep down I sometimes felt like wringing her pretty little neck. Semper Fidelis is a trait that rates near the top in my book of mores.

As for my part, Kate got the abbreviated version: divorced, recently retired from the Marines, a couple of kids in college, and taking a few weeks of vacation while I figure out what to do with the rest of my life. Short, if not so sweet.

I pulled into the marina lot and parked in a spot well away from the palm tree a pair of maniacal mockingbirds had chosen to build their nest in and raise their young. On my first visit to Gillman’s, the feathered dive bombers had nearly knocked the cap off my head. Respect earned, lesson learned.

I stepped into the store to the sound of tinkling bells. A couple of women were browsing the clothing racks, the only customers I noticed. Sara, the Gillmans’ pretty teenage daughter, was manning the front counter. She’d been working the day I rented the boat and had handled the transaction like a pro. I returned her smile and wave, and walked over.

“Skipping school, huh?” I said, trying to sound intimidating.

“Noooo, Mr. Mac,” she said in a cute Southern drawl devoid of any trace of her parents’ Minnesotan lineage. “School’s out already. Wednesday was our last day. Can I help you?”

I reached for my wallet, pleased Sara remembered me; a good sign for the upcoming generation that too often takes a bad rap. “I’d like to rent the boat for another week.”

“Yes, sir.” She disappeared a moment as she ducked behind the counter, then popped up like a blonde jack-in-the-box. She flipped through some pages of a ledger, then traced down with an index finger. “Slip 14, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, happy to return the courtesy. Outside the Corps, I’d found it an all too rare commodity these days.

Her cheeks flushed a bit. “Cash or credit?”

I signed the rental extension Sara handed me, then the receipt after she’d run the card. “Is Kate around?”

“No, sir, she’s off today.” She brushed a strand of hair from her pale-blue eyes. “I could take a message if it’s important.”

“No, that’s okay.”

As I climbed back in my Chevy Silverado and started the engine, I wondered if Sara knew about yesterday’s incident. If she did, she hadn’t let it slip, but she might’ve just been being polite. Word always spreads fast in a small town.

I didn’t have Kate’s personal phone number, nor did I know where she lived. She hadn’t offered, I hadn’t asked, and I didn’t want to put Sara in an uncomfortable position by asking her. I slipped the truck into drive and turned onto the highway, deciding it was time to pay a visit to the St. George Police Department.

Police headquarters was located three blocks off the highway in a small brick extension built onto the back of City Hall. A guy could pay his water bill or turn himself in to the law by walking just a few steps in one direction or the other. I stepped through the doorway into a small room painted drab beige. A few empty chairs lined one wall, several “wanted” or “missing persons” posters were tacked to a corkboard mounted on the opposite wall. The floor was covered in worn linoleum tile.

Behind the low counter sat a young lady who couldn’t be a day older than my Megan, if that. She was busy typing into a computer, gum popping as her fingers worked over the keyboard. A radio, scanner, and mike sat near the computer, the radio hissing an occasional word or bit of chatter too indistinct for me to make out. She glanced up as I approached. Beth was monogrammed in cursive above the left-breast pocket of her white blouse.

“Can I help you?” Beth was all business, not offering even a hint of a smile. At first glance she’d seemed a bit on the plain side, but up close I saw potential.

“I’d like to see Chief Merritt, if he’s in.” I’d noticed the chief’s name mentioned several times during my morning coffee/newspaper ritual.

For a few seconds Beth stared as though she hadn’t heard me. “Name?”

“McClellan. Mac McClellan.”

Her eyes lit up, the first show of expression since I’d walked through the door. She picked up the phone and punched a button. “Yes, sir, there’s a Mr. McClellan here to see you.”

Beth placed the phone back in its cradle. “The chief’ll see you now. Through that door yonder,” she said, pointing to the right of the counter.

I thanked her and walked to the door. Chief Benjamin Merritt was spelled out in gold lettering on a black plaque. I grabbed the handle and gave the door a couple of light raps.

“Come on in,” came the gruff reply.

I stepped into his carpeted office and closed the door. A window air conditioner hummed from a side wall where concrete blocks had been cut out to accommodate the unit. The chief stood up behind a stout metal desk and greeted me with a handshake and friendly smile that belied his voice.

“Mr. McClellan. I expected we’d be meeting soon. Heard you had quite a catch yesterday.”

“Yeah, you could say that, but nothing I’d want to keep.” My gaze drifted to the wall behind. Several framed certificates were arranged in neat order, along with photos of the chief hobnobbing with what I supposed were local dignitaries. A certificate of commendation from the United States Air Force stood out from the rest.

“Have a seat,” he said, motioning to a chair in front of the desk as he settled his husky frame back onto a padded swivel chair. There was a hint of gray streaking his short brown hair, and from the lines creasing his face I guessed he was on the back side of fifty.

“Call me Mac,” I said, hoping to break the ice. “I was wondering if you have any information about what happened yesterday.”

“Okay, Mac it is.” A hint of a grin turned up the corners of his mouth. “My friends call me Ben, but you can call me Chief Merritt for now.”

I wasn’t sure if he thought I was patronizing him, or if he was testing me or what. Was this guy feeding from Bo Pickron’s trough? One prick in a town this size was plenty to contend with.

“Do you have any information or leads on the victim, Chief Merritt?” I said, emphasizing his title and name. “Like how she might’ve ended up behind the Trade Winds Lodge?”

Merritt didn’t answer; he just sat there staring at me, like he was trying to size me up.

I’d run up against this same pecking order bull while dealing with desk jockey officers more times than I cared to remember, and it never failed to rankle me. “Have there been any missing person reports lately, or boating accidents?”

The chief leaned forward and rested both arms on the desk. His eyes burned into mine for a moment, than he burst out laughing. “Twenty years in the Marines, right, Mac? Retired as a First Sergeant.”

“Twenty-four.” I knew now he’d done his homework checking up on me, probably at Sheriff Pickron’s request.

“I pulled thirty in the Air Force myself. Chief Master Sergeant. Welcome back to civilian life.”

“Thanks,” I said, wondering where this conversation was heading. “What about the case?”

He leaned back, the chair creaking under the load. “Why all the interest? You found the body and reported it. I’d say you performed your civic duty.”

“I wish you’d tell that to the sheriff. He practically accused me of dumping the body there.”

“I heard they found your pocketknife near the body, but come on.”

“Yeah. He bagged it for evidence. Acted like he thinks it might be the murder weapon.”

Merritt snickered and shook his head. “Bocephus Pickron is a pompous ass.”

It was my turn to laugh. “Bocephus? Are you serious?”

Merritt nodded. “Serious as I’m sitting here. His daddy was a big Hank Williams fan. If Bocephus was good enough for old Hank’s boy, it was certainly good enough for his own.”

“What about his war record? I heard he was some kind of hero chopper pilot in Somalia.”

“Well, don’t go believing everything you hear, especially when it comes to Bo Pickron. Look, this is off the record, okay? It’s just my opinion, but that man would be lucky to be reading meters for the city if it wasn’t for his family connections.”

The laughs and banter had been a nice diversion, but it was time to get back to business. “What do you know about the case, Chief?”

“Not much, since it’s county jurisdiction. They’re performing the autopsy today. It’ll be a while before we know the results. From what I hear, the victim was crab bait; no fingerprints or other identifiable body marks left. They’re sending the dental records over the wire to see if they get lucky and come up with a match. The sheriff might have more, being it’s in his ball park, but that’s all I got. If I hear anything new, I’ll let you know.”

I stood up to leave and we shook hands again. “I appreciate it. Thanks for the info.”

“Say Mac, we got a fine VFW post in town. Let’s grab a beer sometime, vet to vet.”

“Sounds good,” I said, wondering if he was patronizing me.

“And call me Ben.”

Later that afternoon I stopped back by Gillman’s to get the boat prepped for a weekend of fishing. I’d thought over my talk with Ben Merritt and still wasn’t sure how to read him. Which man was the real St. George Chief of Police—the stern, all-business “you can call me Chief Merritt,” or the buddy-buddy “let’s have a beer and call me Ben?”

I decided what he’d said made sense. I had done my civic duty by reporting the body. Beyond that, what business was it of mine? I’d been unlucky enough to stumble across the victim, but other than that the matter was over as far as I was concerned. The autopsy would surely clear up matters and remove any wild hair Bo Pickron had up his ass that I was involved in any way. I had a vacation to enjoy.

Lamar topped off the fuel tanks while I policed up the boat and made sure my tackle was in order. I was restocking my cooler with beer and ice when Lamar walked over with his chart of St. George Bay.

“Where you thinking about fishing tomorrow?” he said, squatting on the dock and looking over the chart with his good eye.

“Anywhere, as long as it’s nowhere near the Trade Winds.”

By now the word was out about my discovery. I’d fielded at least a dozen questions from the staff and customers since arriving at the marina a half hour earlier. I was sick of the whole business.

“Why don’t you try The Stumps? It’s about three miles west of the Lodge, near the park boundary. Usually holds some fine trout and redfish.”

“Yeah? Any dead bodies lurking around?”

Lamar laughed. “Man, I’m sorry about that. That’s the first time I ever put anybody on one of those.”

I agreed to give The Stumps a try in the morning. Lamar marked it on my chart and gave me instructions about where to cast and what lures to try. “If you don’t get any specks to take your topwaters, try a stingray grub. There’s some honker reds that hang around them stumps. Flounder, too.”

I gave Lamar a hard look. “No bodies, though. Your tip’s riding on it.”

I set out the next morning just after daybreak. I cleared the canal, eased over the shallow sandbar, and gunned the motor. It promised to be a beautiful day: few clouds, mild temps, and calm seas. Gulls wheeled high overhead on the rising currents, their raucous laughter welcoming the new day. To the east I saw a pod of dolphin swimming in a hunting circle, rustling up their morning meal.

I made good time, and before long the tall pines of Five-Mile Island State Park came into view. I checked my chart and steered a little to the east, keeping my eyes peeled for the dead tree trunks sticking out of the water that marked The Stumps. Decades ago a violent storm had cut a small spit of land off from the rest of the island. Over time the isolated mini-island had gradually eroded, until a once-vibrant stand of pines was inundated by salt water and died. Voilà, The Stumps.

Another twenty minutes, and I had The Stumps in sight. Slowing to a crawl, I maneuvered the boat to the east side of the dead forest and cut the motor. I dropped anchor, playing out about fifteen feet of line before it hit bottom, then wrapped the line around a bow cleat and got ready for some fishing.

The angling gods were smiling. Using a Rapala broken-back floating minnow, I soon had my limit of five speckled trout in the live well, all within the legal fifteen- to twenty-inch size. I’d also released another five or six that didn’t measure up. I glanced at my watch and saw I’d been fishing a little over an hour. I tried the Rapala for another half hour, hoping to catch the one allowable oversized speck, but by now I’d evidently fallen out of favor with the deities. I was rigging to try for redfish when my cell phone sounded the Marines’ Hymn. Tacky, yeah, but Mike had programmed it in for me when he and Megan gave me the phone as a retirement gift. I leaned the spinning rod against the gunnels and grabbed the phone.

“This is Mac.”

In the background I heard the ominous music from the movie Jaws that signaled the great white’s imminent attack. “Stay out of the water!” a muffled voice said.

“Who is this?”

“Stay out of the water!” I heard again, and then click as the caller hung up.

I punched up the “Recent Calls” function on my phone. It was a local number. I dialed it and got a busy signal. I opened a beer and waited a few minutes, then redialed. Still busy.

Just some kids with nothing better to do on a Saturday morning, I told myself. They’d heard about me discovering the body and decided to have a little fun at my expense. But how the hell did they get my number? I hadn’t given it to anybody but the marina and the campground and the local cops. I couldn’t imagine Sara Gillman masterminding such a prank. No, she wasn’t the type. Neither were Jerry or Donna Meadows, owners of Gulf Pines Campground. Those two were like the favorite aunt and uncle I never knew, not mischievous practical jokesters.

Who, then?

The phone call had squelched my desire to go after redfish or flounder. I burned a lot of time and fuel cruising aimlessly back and forth along the island, soaking up the warm sun while thinking about the body, Sheriff Pickron, and Ben Merritt, and trying to put something together that made sense. Maybe I was just getting paranoid. After a while I decided to call it a day and head back to the marina. The question of who had made the call was still bugging me when I secured my boat in the slip at three that afternoon.

I didn’t feel like cleaning fish, so I carried my catch to the seafood market next door to Gillman’s and left them to be dressed. I walked back to the boat, secured my gear, and washed up at a faucet on the dock.

Inside the store Kate stood behind the counter ringing up a customer’s purchases. Sara waved from a nearby clothing bin where she was straightening and refolding shirts. Her friendly smile reaffirmed my belief that she had nothing to do with the strange phone call. I waited until Kate finished her transaction, and then walked over.

She saw me coming and flashed a smile. “Hey, there. You’re back early. How’d you do?”

“Got my limit of specks,” I said, then before she could offer congratulations, I added, “You busy after work? I’d like to talk.”

Kate tilted her head. “Talk?”

“Yeah. Let me buy you a drink, or supper. I’d appreciate it.”

She hesitated long enough for me to think I was being deep-sixed. A customer walked up holding a couple of lures and a handful of other tackle. Kate looked past me. “Be right with you, sir.”

“Six-thirty, Mac,” she said, adding a quick smile. “Meet me here.”

I headed for my truck feeling like I was walking on clouds. A date with Kate; poetic. Well, it wasn’t really a date, just a spur-of-the-moment request of her time. I’d caught her with her guard down; she’d agreed under pressure because a customer was waiting to be served.

Damn it, sooner or later I was going to have to shake off this negativity my ex had dumped on me. Jill had been dating up a storm for a couple of years, and now, according to the kids, she’d set her sights on some Navy commander. A chopper pilot, no less; an officer and a gentleman. Maybe that’s why Bo Pickron bugged me. As for me, I was an over-the-hill ex-grunt whose post-marital love life consisted of picking up a couple of women in bars after I’d gotten drunk enough to muster the courage. This had to stop sometime.

When I got to the truck I knew something was wrong. It was listing to the left. I checked the tires. Sure enough, the left rear was flat. I muttered a few choice words, then stooped down to drop the spare and jack from under the bed.

The flat had just lifted free of the pavement when I noticed a jagged slash in the sidewall. Somebody had knifed the damned thing. I put the spare on, tightened the lug nuts, and tossed the ruined tire into the bed. I climbed into the cab and started the engine. Slashed tire . . . “Stay out of the water.” What the hell was going on?