Catherine's Cross (17 page)

“It's all right. We all have bad moments. If you need some help—I'd like to assist you, and I mean that.”

A slight smile warmed his tear-streaked face, and he replied, “Thank you, Jenks.”

She squeezed his hand, and Seth squatted down on his knees in front of Rory. “Please don't have any more to drink. I'm going to check on someone for you to talk with. It can't hurt to just talk, can it?”

“I guess not,” Rory slowly said.

When the two left his home, Seth was shaken and very quiet. Jenks touched him on the arm. “Sarah is the soldier in the photograph, isn't she?”

“Yes, she was a friend of Rory's who served with him in Afghanistan. She died over there.”

“I didn't realize that.”

“I'm afraid so.”

Seth rubbed his temples with his hand as they drove to Beaufort on Highway 21. As they passed a vegetable stand, Jenks saw that he looked hard at a man who was in front of the tomato baskets. Seth's face darkened. He turned his truck around at the entrance to a sandy lane and quickly returned to the stand.

He jotted down an address on a piece of paper, handed Jenks his cell phone, and said, “Please call 911 and report that an officer needs assistance at this address, and give them my name.”

“What are you doing?”

“You see that man over there by the tomato baskets?”

“Yes.”

“That's Gary Donald. He was the registered operator of the motorboat that killed the couple on the Beaufort River.” He removed a handgun that was strapped to his lower right calf, inside his blue jeans. “I want you to stay in the truck and lock the doors after I go.”

He opened the truck door and placed his left foot on the ground.

“Seth—please wait until other officers arrive.”

“No—he could attempt to leave.”

Without saying another word, Seth got out of the truck and closed the door. Terrified, Jenks watched him cautiously proceed in the man's direction, removing his badge from his back pocket as he went forward. With trembling hands, she dialed 911 and spoke with a police dispatcher.

As he drew closer to the man, Seth pointed his gun and held up his badge. “Gary Donald—Beaufort County Sheriff's Department—you're under arrest for two counts of reckless homicide. Get on the ground and spread your legs!”

As soon as he realized he was about to be apprehended, Donald picked up a basket of tomatoes and hurled them at Seth. The man attempted to run, but Seth tackled him. Donald struggled to get to his feet again, taking a swing at Seth, but with one quick movement, Seth ducked the punch and plowed into the man's torso, knocking him to the ground.

Jenks observed that Gary Donald was a larger man than Seth, but a great deal of excess weight was in an oversized stomach. Seth pounded him with several punches and then forced him facedown into the oyster-shell-and-sand parking lot. He rubbed his face hard into the surface, and the man cried out in pain.

Jenks got out of the truck and ran to where Seth had the man pinned to the ground.

“Let me go, you son of a bitch!” Donald choked.

“There's not a chance of that,” Seth told him as he pushed down hard on Donald's elbow, which was bent behind his back.

“You're hurting my arm!”

“Hold still—or I'll break it,” Seth growled.

Within moments, a patrol car pulled up at the vegetable stand and an officer helped Seth restrain Donald. Handcuffs were placed on his wrists. As the two officers pulled him up from the ground, Seth began to quote him his Miranda rights. “You have the right to remain silent . . .”

After the man was seated in the patrol car, Seth turned to Jenks. He was sweating from the fight, and he wiped his brow with the back of his arm. “Will you follow us to the police station? I'm going to ride with Officer Fisher to take him in.”

She nodded, and then got back in his truck.

He quickly touched her on the cheek and said, “Are you all right?”

“Yes—but remind me to never pick a fight with you.”

Jenks waited for Seth at the sheriff's department until he finished booking Gary Donald. When he climbed into the truck with her he said, “Someone picked up Donald and the other man who was on the boat at Nairne Point after the accident. Donald wouldn't divulge who that was.”

“I was impressed by your bravery.”

“It's what I learned in the Marines.” He smiled at her and squeezed her hand.

“I want to ask you to do something with me.”

“What's that?”

“Can we go see the boat that Gigi was using?”

“Yes, if you want to.”

She drove the truck to the Morgan River Marina, and he opened the driver's side door for her. Together they walked to the pier system, and Seth pointed out a red-and-white motorboat. “That's it,” he said as he led her to the craft.

“Leave it to Gigi to pick out a red boat.”

“Was that her favorite color?”

“Yes. It's often the favorite color of aggressive, daring people with a zest for living.”

“I see—those who want to live life to the fullest. Is that your favorite color as well?”

“No—mine is green. People who have green for their favorite color seek harmony and balance in their lives. They tend to be gentle and sincere. What about you, Seth?”

“I like red and so did Steel. I guess you're the only peaceful one in the crowd.”

Jenks walked down the ramp to the docking system and stood close to the boat. “I wanted to see the boat she was using.”

“Why?”

“I'm trying to understand what she was doing . . . Why the secrecy?”

Seth shook his head, “I don't know.”

“She was certainly daring.”

She took a deep breath and changed the subject. “Would you like to come over for a sandwich?”

“Yes, ma'am—sounds good to me.” He took her hand and led her up the ramp away from the boat.

Over roast-beef sandwiches on the screened porch they discussed Rory.

“Tomorrow, I'm going to make inquiries about a support group for Rory,” Seth said. “There are some organizations like Hidden Wounds and Wounded Warriors that I'd like to see him get involved with.”

“I'd like to help if he needs assistance in getting to meetings.”

“That's very kind of you.”

She rose from her seat and went to the kitchen to retrieve her laptop. She checked her e-mail while they ate. A response from the Naval History and Command Archives Department was in her mailbox.

“I've got an e-mail from the researcher in Washington.”

“What does he say?”

Jenks read the e-mail aloud:

Dear Miss Ellington:

I have searched the archives from the Civil War period, and I have not been able to come up with a record of a USS
Defiance
that would have been attached to the Federal Invasion Force that captured the Hilton Head, Beaufort, and Port Royal areas of South Carolina in 1861. Perhaps during the offensive, this vessel was seized by Federal forces along the eastern coast and not officially recorded as a United States ship. That would explain the lack of documentation.

I am sorry that I was not of more help to you, but I wish you the best in resolving the mystery.

Sincerely,
Robert Vance

“Dead end,” Jenks said.

CHAPTER 7
Amanda

W
hen Jenks entered the downtown library, students in the summer-reading program were already situated at several tables. Jenks joined the group of pupils she had assisted during the last session, and the children all smiled at her, except for one little girl. She wore her hair parted in the middle with pigtails that were braided and tied with pink hair bows on the ends.

Her name was Amanda Stevens, and when Jenks listened to her read, she found Amanda's shyness seemed to interfere with her ability to communicate. Amanda had difficulty making eye contact. When she finished her passage her tiny face showed a hint of relief.

After the session was over, Jenks took her aside and told her how nicely she had done and that she looked forward to reading with her the next time. She looked shyly at Jenks, but did not respond.

As the children were leaving the library, Jenks approached the librarian, “Mrs. Allen, you helped me recently with a log kept during the Civil War that recorded tides, weather, and sunrise and sunset information.”

“Yes, of course, I remember you. How can I help you?”

“I'm looking for documentation on the time that the Federal Army spent in the Beaufort area during the war.”

“Well, let's see—there are several histories written about that time period. The authors often used letters and diaries of individuals who were stationed here during the occupation. I think the foremost local authority on that time period would be Dr. Maxim Ware. I try to always attend his symposiums, and I've gotten to know him a bit. Would you like for me to phone him and see if he is available to speak with you?”

“Yes, ma'am, I would appreciate that.”

“I'll be just a few moments.” The librarian excused herself and went to her office, but returned within a few minutes with a piece of paper. “This is Maxim's—I mean Dr. Ware's—address and phone number. He said that he would be going out of town tomorrow for two weeks, but he has time to see you this afternoon, if that's suitable. He said at two.”

“Yes, ma'am, that would be fine. Should I phone him?”

“No, I'll let him know that you're coming by.”

Jenks thanked Mrs. Allen and departed the library.

Just before two in the afternoon, Jenks arrived at Dr. Ware's residence. His property was located off the Savannah Highway, and when she arrived, the gate at the entranceway was open. She proceeded down a sandy lane lined with live oak trees, and at the end of the drive was a magnificent two-story brick home. Jenks parked her car and went to the front door. A bell chimed inside when she rang the doorbell. Within a few moments, a lady who identified herself as Mabel, Dr. Ware's housekeeper, answered the door.

“Are you Miss Ellington?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Come this way. Dr. Ware is expecting you.”

She led Jenks through a richly decorated foyer to a front room with mahogany double doors. “This is Dr. Ware's library. He does most of his research in here.”

As Mabel opened the doors, Jenks could just see the top of Dr. Ware's head, as he was sitting in a chair facing away from his desk.

“Dr. Ware, Miss Ellington is here.”

He spun the chair around to face them and removed a pair of reading glasses as he stood up. He was perhaps in his mid-sixties, with graying hair, and was impeccably dressed in a dark suit with a red bow tie. He smiled at her warmly, and extended his right hand to shake hers.

“Miss Ellington, how can I be of assistance to you?”

“Dr. Ware—I'm investigating a mystery. My sister passed away recently while diving for artifacts in the Beaufort River.”

“Yes—I'm sorry about that,” he said as a frown crossed his brow.

“Thank you. My sister had been researching a cache of gold and jewelry that she thought had been stolen from the Elliott family during the Civil War. I've been to the Gibbes Museum in Charleston to see the portrait of Miss Iris Elliott.”

“Yes—the Elliott family owned the Petersburg Cross, which was created by one of Empress Catherine the Great's favorite artists, Aleksi Gregori Kartashkin. Some years after her death, the cross and other possessions were sold to European dealers. As you said, one of our local plantation owners, Luke Elliott, purchased the cross in Europe on a grand tour of the continent during the late 1850s.”

Dr. Ware took a book from one of his library shelves and opened it to a page about midway through. “This is a painting of Catherine the Great that hangs in the State Hermitage Museum in Saint Petersburg, Russia.” He pointed to a necklace the empress was wearing. “Does that look familiar?”