Writing All Wrongs (5 page)

Jan’s hand flew over her mouth. “We’re cursed,” she whispered, her face taking on the deer’s natural pallor. “Cursed,” she repeated fearfully.

And then, like a spooked animal, she bolted.

A fallen lighthouse is more dangerous than a reef.

—C
HINESE
P
ROVERB

T
he sight of the dead deer paralyzed most of the walkers, including Rawlings. He stood without moving, spellbound by how the deer’s fur shone like moonlight on snow.

Millay snapped her fingers in front of the chief’s face. “Hey! Shouldn’t we call someone? What was that cop’s name? The one who kept things from getting out of control back at the lighthouse.”

“Peterson,” Rawlings said, the glassy look vanishing from his eyes. “He might still be on the island. If not, I assume the police have their own boat, because there isn’t a law enforcement station on this side of the Cape Fear River.” He turned away from the deer. “I saw that animal when I was a boy. No one believed me. But here it is.”

Harris shot Olivia a concerned glance and then held up his phone. “It’s not the same deer, Chief. According to this website, the average life span of a wild deer is ten years. They can live as long as twenty, but that would be pretty unusual for this doe, seeing as she’s a true albino. She even has pink eyes.”

Laurel shuddered. “This moonlit walk has gone from mysterious to downright creepy.”

Harris continued to examine his phone screen. “Only about one in every thirty thousand deer is a true albino.” He looked at Rawlings. “If you saw a similar deer all those years ago, then the gene has been passed down for several generations. Makes sense, considering the insular habitat of these deer. What doesn’t make sense is why anyone would kill such an amazing animal. And who goes around shooting crossbow bolts at night?”

Olivia squeezed Rawlings’s arm. “You need to call Peterson right now. I’m sure he’d prefer to hear about this from another cop.”

Harris pulled up the number for the Riverport Police Department and handed the phone to Rawlings. While the chief spoke to the officer on duty, the rest of the Bayside Book Writers retreated several feet. It was impossible to escape the cries of horror and dismay from the onlookers, however, so they stood in silence, gazing deeper into the woods where a small pool sparkled like sea glass in the pale light.

After what seemed like hours, Officer Peterson and a second officer arrived via golf cart.

“Step aside, folks,” Peterson commanded while taking in the scene.

Peterson stared at the felled animal for several seconds, in which the conservancy supporters breathlessly waited for a reaction, and then turned to the crowd. “It’s time for everyone to go home. We’ll take it from here.”

“Excuse me.” A man worked his way to Peterson’s side. “My name’s Brett Collins, and I’m involved with the Palmetto Island Deer Initiative. We maintain the island’s population.” He pointed at the dead doe. “She can’t be from here. All of our white-tailed deer wear lightweight collars and have ear tags. We can track every one of them.”

Rawlings studied the man with interest. “It’s deer-hunting
season throughout much of the state. Is hunting prohibited on the island?”

“Yes,” Brett said. “We used to allow a certain amount of culling, but now we’re injecting a specific number of does with a contraceptive. There’s no need for hunting with this method of population control.”

“I heard the program was suspended because one of your tagged deer was found off island,” the other Riverport officer said. “A hunter could have read about that in the paper and decided to come over here and perform some old-fashioned population control.”

Brett reddened. “She’s not one of ours, I tell you. We’ve never had albinism in our population.”

“I used to come here every summer when I was a kid,” Rawlings told Brett. “I saw a doe just like her when I was eleven or twelve.”

Brett shook his head in bewilderment. “You couldn’t have. That’s just a legend. A campfire story.”

“Well, this story’s over for tonight,” Peterson said. “You and I can sort out what to do with her, Mr. Collins.”

“What about the hunter?” a woman cried. “Aren’t you going to track him down and arrest him?”

“We’ll drive around the island to make sure no one with a crossbow is still out there,” Peterson replied. “If we find the guy, we’ll take him into custody. As for the rest of you, you don’t need to put yourselves in the hunter’s line of sight. Head straight to the lighthouse, and from there, go home.”

After a brief hesitation, the shocked and angry nature lovers continued up the path toward the old lighthouse.

Rawlings and Peterson exchanged business cards, and then the Bayside Book Writers followed the rest of the walkers.

“Did you tell him about Jan?” Olivia asked Rawlings.

Rawlings nodded. “He promised to check on her before leaving the island.”

More than ready to leave the gnarled trees behind, Olivia
increased her stride. “Jan was scared. She bolted after seeing that deer.” She slowed long enough to glance at Rawlings. “Are you familiar with the legend Brett Collins mentioned?”

“No,” Rawlings said. “But I’d be very interested in hearing it. Maybe it’s in the collection of ghost stories at the rental house. I’ll look when we get back.”

Olivia was relieved to see the lighthouse rising into the sky up ahead. “If we can’t find the legend in one of those books, I’ll ask George Allen in the morning. I have a feeling he knows all about this island. And its ghosts.”

*   *   *

Early the next morning, Olivia stopped by the island’s general store to buy pastries for the Allens. At quarter to seven, the roads were empty and the air was brisk and damp, but the sky was streaked with golden light, signaling the onset of a clear autumn day.

At the Marina Market, Olivia was pleasantly surprised to find freshly baked muffins, bear claws, and butter croissants. After purchasing several of each, she drove to the Allens’ tiny cottage and knocked on the door.

A curtain twitched in the room to the right of the door, and a few seconds later, Boyd was inviting her inside.

“We’ve got a fire going.” He indicated the living room. “Pop gets chilled real easy.”

With the curtains closed, it took a moment for Olivia’s eyes to adjust to the dimness. “I hope these will warm him up,” she said, proffering the bag of pastries.

Boyd peered into the bag and smiled. “Bear claws are his favorite. He hasn’t had a breakfast treat for ages. Make yourself at home. I’ll put these on a plate and get us some coffee. How do you take yours?”

“Just a splash of milk, thank you,” Olivia whispered, for George Allen appeared to be dozing in a tattered recliner near the woodstove.

Olivia took the other chair near the stove and surveyed the room. It was a masculine space with navy walls, dark wood furniture, and shelves crowded with old books, magazines, and newspapers. There was little adornment other than framed photographs of George and a pretty woman Olivia assumed was George’s wife and Boyd’s mother. There were several of Boyd too. The child version of Boyd, whose expression was so carefree and filled with humor that Olivia barely recognized him as the man who’d invited her inside, posed in front of a Christmas tree, unwrapped a birthday gift, and played on the beach.

As she continued to study the photographs, Olivia was drawn to a black-and-white image of George as a young man. He stood on a dune, arms folded across his chest. A tall lighthouse filled the sky behind him. Though George didn’t smile, his face was infused with pride.

“They blew it up,” said a hoarse voice, and Olivia turned to find George Allen watching her. In the gloom, his eyes were the blue of deep water, but his gaze was intelligent and alert. An ugly purple bruise darkened his forehead where he’d been struck by the rock the previous night.

Olivia hated the sight of the old man’s injury. She longed to take his hand, but instead, she leaned forward and said, “Blew what up, sir?”

“That lighthouse. They packed her full of dynamite and made her tumble. I spent so many years in that tower. A lifetime of the same view.” George stared into the middle distance. “I kept that light shining day and night. It never faltered. Not until the day they shut her down.”

Boyd entered the room and set a plate on his father’s lap. “Look what the lady brought you, Pop. Your favorite.” He smiled at Olivia again. “I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”

Olivia told him while accepting a chipped coffee mug from Boyd’s hands. “Your father and I have something in common. We both lived in a lighthouse keeper’s cottage. My father wasn’t a keeper, but a fisherman. Our lighthouse in
Oyster Bay was automated long before we moved into the cottage, but the last keeper made a lasting impression on me. You remind me of him, Mr. Allen,” she added, looking at George. “That man told the most wonderful stories. He lived alone, and he spent his free time reading. Luckily for me, he always had a tale ready to share.”

“By God’s grace, I wasn’t alone. I married a good woman. And before she left this earth, she blessed me with Boyd. He and I have kept each other company for a long time, haven’t we, son?” As he spoke, George broke the bear claw apart with his bony fingers. The knuckles were swollen with arthritis, reminding Olivia of the live oaks in the forest.

Olivia sipped her coffee. It was neither rich nor strong, but it warmed her. “I lost my mother when I was a young girl. My father raised me for a few years, before my grandmother took over.”

“Then you understand the importance of memories,” George said. “What’s your favorite memory of your mama?”

Olivia smiled. “Our bedtime ritual. Every night, she treated me to a story and a song. No matter how tired she was, my mother never rushed this special time with me. I fell asleep with my mind full of words and music, the scent of my mother’s soap clinging to my pillow.”

George nodded, clearly pleased by her answer. “I sent Boyd off to dreamland with stories too. I didn’t sing though. That might have given the boy nightmares.” He cackled softly. “But he now knows this island as well I as do.”

The mention of nightmares reminded Olivia of the dead deer. “I took your advice and hung back from the crowd during last night’s walk,” she said. “I felt like I’d been transported to a primeval forest—to a place that would always strive to return to its natural state. And then, on our way back, we came across the body of a dead deer. An all-white doe.”

George’s frown was so severe that his bushy brows nearly touched. “Dead? How?”

“She was shot in the breast with an arrow,” Olivia said. “Jan Powell was very upset. She muttered something about a curse. Is there a legend about a white doe?”

The room had gone very still. George bowed his head and folded his hands as though in prayer. He expelled a long, raspy breath and then glanced at the fire. His face was etched with grief. “The white deer are the ghosts of the forest. They stand for that which is beyond the power of man. The Indians believed the deer were magical and wouldn’t hunt them. Killing a white deer invites a curse. Not just upon the hunter, but upon everyone.”

“My husband saw a white deer on the island over forty years ago,” Olivia said. “Have they always been here?”

“The legend began up the coast, at Roanoke Island. Long ago, the British tried to make a settlement there. It was rough going. The colonists were plagued by cold, hunger, and sickness. Hope dawned when the first English child was born in the New World. Her name was Virginia Dare. Her skin was white as milk and her eyes were the color of a summer sky. She was a joyful child and loved by all.”

George paused to drink some coffee. “A Croatan Indian chief named Wanchese feared the English. After joining forces with another chief, he attacked the colonists. Men and women were slain without mercy. Their homes were burned. A handful of English escaped, including Virginia Dare. Another Croatan Indian gave them refuge. His name was Manteo.”

Olivia nodded. She’d been taught the story of the Lost Colony in grade school but couldn’t remember all the details.

“Virginia grew in grace and beauty,” George continued. “When she reached womanhood, she won the heart of an Indian warrior named Osisko. But another sought her hand, a magic man named Chico who was known for practicing the dark arts. Virginia was a virtuous woman and did not wish to marry such a man, so she refused him.” George turned
from the fire and looked at Olivia. “Chico vowed that if he could not have Virginia, no man would. He used his powers to change her into a white doe. Osisko could not undo the spell, so he sought out another magic man. This man told him to shoot the deer in the heart with a mother-of-pearl arrow. If his aim was true, Virginia would be a woman once more.”

The sadness in George’s voice was contagious and Olivia was almost reluctant for him to complete his narrative.

“Unfortunately, another man heard of the white doe. Wanchese, the Croatan Indian who’d murdered Virginia’s people, wanted the white deer pelt for himself. He fashioned an arrowhead from a hunk of silver and set out on a moonlit night. Osisko also went out that same night. Each unaware of the other’s presence, they came upon the doe as she drank from a pool of clear water. The moonlight shone down on her and she glowed like a star. Just as she raised her pretty head, Chico released his arrow. It struck its mark and in a blink, the deer became a woman. Virginia had only a moment to see the woods, the moon, and Osisko’s handsome face before Wanchese’s arrow pierced her heart.”