They heard a siren approaching, and both men turned to see a rusting white ambulance turning into the marina parking lot.
The driver pulled the vehicle up to the police barricade and rolled to a stop. The driver and another man got out. They were both dressed casually, in shorts and T-shirts, which Nate found strange, until he remembered that the Belle Isle Volunteer Fire Department also ran the only ambulance on the island. The two men opened the ambulance-bay doors and pulled out a collapsible rolling gurney. One paused, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, and lit up before continuing on.
“Everybody back,” the female deputy bellowed. The crowd parted, and the volunteers began pushing the gurney toward the end of the dock.
“Not in any big rush, are they?” Nate murmured.
Marty cracked a wide grin. “Hell, what’s the hurry? That dude ain’t getting any deader.”
The morning sun beat down on the bystanders’ heads. A mosquito buzzed around Nate’s face, and he slapped at it until it left a black smear on the palm of his hand. Nate’s shirt stuck to his back, and he began to wish he’d grabbed a hat, or at least his sunglasses, before leaving the office. After more than a dozen years in California, he still couldn’t get used to the brutal humidity of the coastal South. Still, he lingered on, accusing himself of the same morbid curiosity that kept everybody else standing around on the first Saturday morning of summer.
He tried to think of something to talk about with Marty Connor. “Fishing good this year?”
“Nah. Sucks so far. My wife wants me to get a real job on the mainland, and I might have to if things don’t pick up.” Marty turned to study his old classmate.
“Hey. I hear you went out to California and invented some kinda Web site. Kinda like Bill Gates, or that Facebook dude, Mark Wahlberg.”
Nate didn’t bat an eye. “You mean Mark Zuckerberg?”
“Wahlberg, Zuckerberg, same difference. So you hit it big out there, right?”
“I did okay.” Nate tried to change the subject. He stared up at the Carolina blue sky, shading his eyes from the glare. “Think it’ll rain?”
“Nah. Hey, uh, word around town is you might be looking to do some hiring for the ferry, what with your dad being dead and stuff. You know, I got my commercial captain’s license awhile ago.”
“Good for you,” Nate said, already dreading what would come next.
“What’s the pay for a ferry captain these days? Pretty sweet, I bet.”
“I think the pay’s decent, but I wouldn’t really know, because my mom handles all that stuff. But if you want to put in an application, I’m sure she’d consider you.”
“Oh.” Marty’s shoulders drooped. “Yeah, okay. Maybe I’ll do that.”
They both contemplated the probability of that happening for a moment.
“Here comes the corpse,” Marty said, pointing toward the bulkhead. The ambulance attendants walked the gurney with the corpse, zippered into a gray vinyl bag, toward the barricade, and the crowd silently parted to let them through. Just before the attendants passed, Marty whipped his phone from his pocket and clicked off a series of photos.
“I gotta go,” Nate said suddenly. The heat was too much. It was all too much. What a depressing start to the long weekend.
“Yeah, see ya,” Marty said.
10
“Riley!” For the second time in a few short hours, somebody was shaking her awake. She opened one eye. It was daylight, but just barely.
“Not again,” Riley groaned. She opened the other eye. Billy stood beside her bed. His face gleamed with perspiration, his thinning dark hair was pasted to his scalp, and his white T-shirt clung to his chest.
“Wake up, Riley. The sheriff is here,” Billy said.
“Thank God.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and ran a hand through her own tangled hair.
“Good old Ed,” Riley said, yawning. “He must have gotten hold of the sheriff last night. Now maybe we can get to the bottom of this foreclosure bullshit.”
She opened her suitcase, found a pair of shorts, and pulled them on under her nightgown. “Tell him I’ll be down as soon as I’m dressed, okay?”
“Riles? I don’t think this is about the house.”
She stood and studied her little brother’s face. It was pale and drawn.
“Then, what’s the sheriff want with me?”
“Sit down, okay?”
She sank down onto her unmade bed and pulled one of the feather pillows onto her lap.
Billy sat down beside her.
“Bebo, you’re scaring me now. Tell me what’s going on. Please?”
He took a deep breath, and then another. The room was cool, but he was sweating profusely now.
“It’s Wendell. There’s been some kind of accident.”
Riley gripped the pillow with both hands. “Where is he? Is he all right?”
“No.” Billy shook his head. “No, honey. Wendell is dead.”
She hugged the pillow to her belly like a life raft. “That can’t be right.”
He put his arms around her, and she tried to pull away, but he hugged tighter. “It’s true. I’m so, so, so sorry. That’s why the sheriff is downstairs. He won’t tell Mama why he wants to see you, but I know it’s because … of Wendell. They found his body this morning. In the water, at the marina.”
“That’s not right,” Riley repeated. “It can’t be Wendell. He wasn’t even on the island. It’s a mistake.”
“I wish,” Billy said. “I was coming back from my run about an hour ago, it was still dark, and a sheriff’s car went zooming past me on the loop road.” He ran a hand through his damp hair, leaving it standing up in little tufts. “You never see cops here, right? So I just, kinda followed the road until I saw where they were going. And it was the marina.”
“A fisherman found him. He was … I mean, his body was … tangled in some lines. I saw his face, honey. It was Wendell.”
“No.” She felt like screaming, but it came out as a whisper. “It’s somebody else.”
“It was Wendell, Riles. It was. But the sheriff, he’s downstairs in the kitchen with Mama. He wants to see you. I told her I’d come get you.”
Riley searched her brother’s face for some tip-off, a tell. He was a notorious practical joker.
“It’s true, Riley,” he said softly. “You know I wouldn’t kid about something like this.”
“Swear it,” she said fiercely, hugging the pillow so tightly she could feel sharp feather quills stabbing the tender skin of her inner arms.
“I swear. To God. Remember Ray Warren? We played T-ball together as kids. He’s a member of the volunteer fire department. He was driving the ambulance, and he saw me standing there, and he told me, because he knows you’re my sister. It’s Wendell. They found his wallet in his pants pocket. And then they brought me over, and I identified him.”
“No. No. No.” She buried her face in her hands. Her eyes burned, but the tears didn’t come.
Her heart was beating a mile a minute, and her chest—it felt like a lead weight was perched there.