Soundkeeper (7 page)

Her boat had been found adrift at sea, and the search had been called off. No one was looking for her anymore.

The topless bar opened at noon, and Blondie was the first customer. Like most patrons of the White Pony he mistakenly believed that one of the dancers fancied him, believing her feelings had nothing to do with the fact that he stuffed a twenty in her g-string each time she danced for him. Blondie knew it made the man he was doing business with nervous to meet him here—another reason he liked the place.

Thirty minutes and three drinks later his other partner arrived. Just as he had done every time before, he sat at the bar and looked all around the dimly lit room. When he seemed satisfied, he joined Blondie at his table.

“Buy me a drink.” Blondie ordered.

The man hailed a waitress and gave her a twenty for the ten dollar drink. Then he looked all around the bar again.

“Relax,” Blondie said. “It’s not like you’ve got a truckload of coke sitting outside.”

This off-hand remark only made the real estate developer more nervous, regretting the day he’d ever met his accomplice.

Mark Lancaster had bought a fifteen parcel lot outside of Beaufort with plans to cram three hundred condominiums on it and run with the profits to Florida, Mecca of shady land deals. Two days after he closed on the land his dream ended abruptly. The land, for which he had mortgaged everything he owned, failed to pass environmental standards for development. The soil was contaminated and possibly the groundwater.

After a day of research at the Registrar of Deeds, which should have been done before the purchase, Lancaster learned a sawmill had occupied the land thirty years ago. It supplied wooden ties for the railroad and had huge tanks of creosote that the railroad ties were dipped in. After that process the railroad ties cured and aged in the sun. Just like a telephone pole sweating in the summer sun, the railroad ties bled chemicals into the earth for decades. The warehouse that replaced the sawmill when it closed wasn’t required to submit to the stricter residential environmental standards since it was zoned as an industrial site. When Mark Lancaster petitioned for a zoning variance, the soil and water had to be tested and his world came crashing down around him.

Sitting in his construction trailer one night, crying in his wine over an artist’s renditions of his condos, he heard a noise outside. Peering into the darkness he saw two men wrestle a heavy box out of the trunk of a car and begin to beat on it with something. Emboldened by more than a few glasses of Chardonnay, he grabbed his pistol and a flashlight and met Arnold and Blondie who were trying to break into a safe. As drunk and despondent people often do, Mark Lancaster soon poured out his troubles to the two strangers. Soon a proposal was offered and accepted.

The State of South Carolina was responsible for testing the soil, and Beaufort County was responsible for certifying that the groundwater was free from contamination. Mark Lancaster had bribed the county inspector during the development of two other properties. One phone call and a twenty-thousand dollar payment cleared that hurdle once again.

But the state inspector was a prick with principles and couldn’t be bribed. A company approved by the EPA wanted over two-hundred thousand dollars to remove and properly dispose of the tainted earth, more than Mark Lancaster could afford. Arnold and Blondie promised to get rid of the dirt for fifty grand, and the deal was struck.

The envelope Mark Lancaster handed to Blondie contained ten-thousand dollars and the key to a dump truck that was sitting outside. Mark Lancaster would drive Blondie’s car back to his hotel while Blondie did whatever he did with the load of bad dirt. Mark Lancaster didn’t care.

“It’s going to cost a little more than I figured,” Blondie said as he took the money.

“What do you mean?” he whispered. “We had a deal.”

“Maybe you want to get an estimate from someone else to finish the job? I’ve removed ten truck loads so far and it looks like it will take ten more to get it all out of there.”

Blondie gave Mark a look that chilled him to the bone. Mark had seen his violent streak once before when he pulled a switchblade on Arnold and threatened to cut his balls off for flirting with his favorite dancer. Ever since then Blondie came to their meetings alone.

“Day after tomorrow, same time. Bring another ten grand.”

Mark Lancaster started to protest but realized it wouldn’t do him much good. A girl with big boobs and lots of curly blonde hair climbed on top of their table and started grinding her hips to the heavy metal music blaring from the speakers. Blondie took a hundred dollar bill from the envelope and stuffed it into her g-string until it disappeared. Mark Lancaster left the bar, drove Blondie’s old Trans Am to the motel, and caught a taxi home.

Chapter Thirteen

He was suffocating. Each breath became harder and harder until the struggle to breathe woke him fully. Through half opened eyes Hall realized Belker was sitting on his chest and staring at him. He hoped the puppy could control his bladder for a few more seconds.

The pup scampered outside and disappeared behind a tangle of marsh elders. Hall walked out on the weathered wooden dock and checked the lines that secured his boat. The tide could rise and fall over ten feet in a thirteen hour period, and it took a good deal of thought to secure a boat properly. The challenge was to tie the boat loosely enough that the rising water didn’t swamp the boat and the falling water didn’t leave it suspended above the water.

The boat was fine, and when he gazed out over the water he thought about Gale Pickens. He knew she was an outstanding sailor and these were her waters. The small thunderstorm the previous night shouldn’t have challenged her or her boat, but Hall knew the sea could be unforgiving. All it took was a misplaced step on a slippery deck or a rogue wave. A distracted moment could spell disaster.

Hall tried to reach a suitable conclusion and remembered something from his training, a phrase he believed in the first time he heard it.

“If something doesn’t look right, find out why.”

Criminal Investigation, to his surprise, was his favorite course in the law enforcement training. The instructor was a retired sheriff from Georgia who thrilled them with stories about moonshiners and bloody family squabbles. Renowned for his interrogation techniques, he was also a frequent guest lecturer at the FBI training academy in Quantico. The old sheriff was Columbo and Andy Griffith woven together with peach flavored chewing tobacco. Hall found the procedures used to solve a crime weren’t all that different from the scientific process he used in the laboratory.

What didn’t look right about Gale’s disappearance? He needed more information before he could answer that question. He needed to talk to Silas Pickens and his father and find out who had seen Gale last, and where. Hall wrote down a few questions in the notebook he kept in his boat and called for Belker before going inside.

Just before he fell asleep again Hall remembered he hadn’t closed and locked the gate to the parking area on the other end of the island. The gate was supposed to be locked at sundown, and the refuge maintenance staff was off for the Memorial Day weekend. Hall had agreed to lock the gate to the parking lot while they were gone. He went outside and started his other government issued vehicle, a navy-blue pick up truck.

Belker was too small to see over the dashboard, so he rode on Hall’s lap to get a better view. The driveway that led from the highway to the caretaker’s cottage was the main road on the island and was only a sand track covered with pine needles. Only official vehicles were allowed past the parking lot. Hall’s truck, tractors, and the biologists SUV’s were the only motorized vehicles that ever used the roads, but they were popular with visitors who used them for hiking or bicycle riding.

Hall drove through the tunnel of spooky Spanish moss hanging from low tree limbs. Soon the forest surrendered to open marsh, and the road was only a few inches above sea level. Hall could see for miles in every direction.

When he pulled into the parking lot his headlights played across a small sports car parked in the far end of the gravel lot, next to the trash dumpster. The windows were fogged over, and he waited a moment for the occupants to realize that they were no longer alone. When no one stirred he pulled closer and got out with his flashlight.

As soon as he climbed out of his truck Hall heard a girl’s voice coming from the car. It was apparent from the pitch of her voice that her “no” wasn’t being heeded. Hall snatched open the driver’s door and shined his flashlight inside.

The girl screamed and the young man cursed when the beam from the flashlight blinded him. He was on top of her in the passenger seat, and she had tears streaming down her face. Hall grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and yanked him out of the car. Stinking of liquor, the young man bowed up and tried to pull away.

“Knock it off. I’m a police officer,” Hall said. “Refuge Enforcement Officer” took too long to get out. “What’s going on here?” Belker was at their feet, barking and snapping at the boy’s ankles.

The young man, whose driver’s license showed him to be nineteen years old, did all of the talking. He and his date were just trying to talk, he insisted. The girl stayed quiet until Hall talked to her away from her companion. Hall learned the boy who had been assaulting her was only an acquaintance who had offered her a ride home. She was only fifteen. Hall frisked him for weapons and turned his attention back to the girl.

When he glanced back at the boy he had returned to his car and was rummaging underneath his seat probably trying to ditch the alcohol since he shouldn’t have had it in the car. He grabbed the boy’s wrist and pulled him back out of the car. Then he radioed for someone to transport the kid to jail. It was against the law to possess alcohol in the wildlife refuge, and he committed an assault in Hall’s presence. He needed to experience being locked up.

A young deputy sheriff arrived, and Hall gave him the details of what had occurred. While Hall filled out the arrest paperwork for illegal possession of alcohol the deputy searched the sports car. What he found under the driver’s seat gave Hall a chill in spite of the muggy weather.

“Looks like you can add carrying a concealed weapon to that ticket, Warden.”

Hall didn’t bother to tell the deputy that he wasn’t a game warden. It was a common error. Most law enforcement officers did not know that there were over 300 federal refuge enforcement officers across the country. He looked up from the paperwork, and saw the pistol that had been concealed under the driver’s seat of the sports car. Hall realized for the first time that his duty pistol and other equipment were back at the cottage. He had only intended to lock up the parking lot and didn’t think he would need it.

Now he had a decision to make. Carrying a concealed weapon on the refuge was a violation of federal law as well as the South Carolina Criminal Code. Through a formal Memorandum of Understanding between the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service and the State of South Carolina, Hall had concurrent jurisdiction. In his position as a federal refuge enforcement officer he had the authority to enforce federal laws on or off of property owned by the U.S. Government. The MOU authorized Hall to act upon any violation of state law he encountered in the course of his official duties.

He had two citation books, one for violations of federal misdemeanors, which required the offender to appear before the federal magistrate in Beaufort. The other was a state ticket book, the same one used by deputies, police officers, and highway patrolmen throughout South Carolina. The young man was going to jail for carrying a concealed weapon, that much was certain. If Hall decided to charge him in the federal system he would have to go to the county jail with the deputy, wake up the on-duty U.S. Marshal in Columbia and submit a Statement of Probable Cause to the Assistant U.S. Attorney within twenty-four hours. In all the weeks that he had trained with Jimmy they’d never charged anyone with a federal crime, preferring instead the ease of the state system of criminal justice. Hall stuck with what he knew.

While the deputy began his paperwork Hall had a chance to think about what had happened. It scared him to think that the boy could have been reaching for a gun instead of a liquor bottle, as he had supposed. He didn’t want to think about what could have happened to the girl if he had forgotten to lock the gate. He didn’t want to think about what would have happened if the kid would have shot him, either. Life was safer in a lab. Tomorrow he would lock up the gate earlier and he wouldn’t forget his gun and equipment. He had been taught to handcuff first and search later. He vowed not to make that mistake again. His frustration grew again when the deputy returned.

“No assault case. She won’t press charges,” he told Hall.

The prisoner in the back of the deputy’s car smiled when he heard this, and Hall knew everything was screwed up. Why did the guy going to jail have a smile on his face, and the cop who’d arrested him feel like he’d already lost the case?

Chapter Fourteen

No matter how bad the previous day had been a new dawn usually helped Hall put things in perspective. But the horizon dawned gray and overcast, and the death of a friend was not forgotten overnight. He already wore the heavy and cumbersome gunbelt when he walked with Belker down the sandy driveway.

Before he had walked a quarter of a mile he could see Mackay Creek where it met the Chechessee River. The water in Mackay Creek flowed both ways; Northeast with the rising tide and Southwest when the water drained back toward the Atlantic. The wind blew in Hall’s face, and he saw whitecaps on the water. His home was sheltered from this wind by the island itself, and he decided to use the weather as an excuse to stay off of the water for a day. He had plenty of work to do on dry ground, he reasoned, and the rough water would make it too dangerous to make any boardings or stop any boaters.