Secrets of St. Joe, page 14
“Well, somewhere back when, around eighteen seventy-five, they say, a fellow by the name of Cebe Tate had a cattle ranch over ’round Sumatra. A panther was killin’ his cows so he took off with his three hunting dogs to kill the panther. That turned out to be no easy job. When they got deeper and deeper into the woods, they got turned around. Then a panther attacked them and killed the dogs, and Tate lost his rifle. He kept on wandering around, lost, tryin’ to find some way out. When he tried to get some rest at the base of an ol’ cypress tree, he got bit by a snake. So, lost and snake bit and hounded by swarms of hungry mosquitoes, just like these here, he wandered around in the swamps for a week or so. When he finally did straggle out somewhere near Carabelle, some twenty-five miles southeast of Sumatra, he came upon two hunters. They were surprised by what a mess he was and asked him what happened. All he could say was, ‘My name is Tate, and I’ve just been in Hell.’ And then he just upped and fell to the ground and died right there at their feet, as dead as a graveyard corpse.”
“My God,” the doctor exclaimed. “Is that a true story?”
“I don’t know, but maybe I should’ve told you it before we started out on this hunt,” Django said as he bent over into a coughing, laughing fit.
The path was gone now. It appeared to the doctor that they were just wandering around in the mud and ever-thickening woods, not unlike old Cebe Tate. As the ground grew softer, the buzz of the mosquitoes grew louder and more annoying. Both men had buttoned up their shirts tight around their necks, leaving their sweating heads as open targets for the pests to feast upon. The men, miserable by now, flung their arms in self-defense. Why hadn’t the doctor thought to bring beekeeper helmets or at least some DMP oil?
They slogged ahead through cypress stumps, blueberry bushes, and railroad vine. The doctor’s shoes were heavy with mud and probably ruined for good. His shirtsleeves were streaked with spots of blood from the attacking buttonwood branches. The lower half of his pant legs were torn and covered with burrs. He was bent over, huffing for breath, flailing at the mosquitoes, his eyes bleary with sweat and maybe even some tears.
“How much further?” he panted.
“I ain’t sure. I thought we would have been to the creek by now. It’s been a long time since I been out here. I think maybe I disremembered exactly where it was.”
“So what do we do?”
“I don’t know. Let’s keep goin’, I guess.”
So they slogged on. The ground grew muddier and the brambles sharper. The doctor wasn’t sure how much further he could go. His heart was pounding and his face was a bloody mess from all the mosquitoes and errant branches. He hadn’t been out here for more than an hour and he was already feeling like he had been damned forever to the perdition tagged so gruesomely by the wayward hunter Cebe Tate. He was about ready to give up and suggest to Django that they return to the car, if they could find it, when Django suddenly stopped before him and pointed ahead. There, about thirty yards away, between them and what looked maybe like the creek’s bank, sat a mother black bear and her cub feasting on a thick stand of blueberries.
“Oh, no,” the doctor whispered.
“Stay still,” Django ordered.
But the doctor was shaking, uncontrollably. They watched each other for a long time—the two bears and the two men—long enough for the doctor to clearly contemplate his death by an angry mother bear and his stupidity for not bringing along his shotgun. Maybe, he thought, if we just wait quietly, the bears will grow bored and go away.
But then he heard the noise in Django’s throat, that nasty, rasping sound so familiar to tuberculosis patients who are about to commence a coughing fit. And he could tell by the weird guttural noises that Django was making that he was doing his best to contain it, but it was no use. The coughing began as a strained groan, then a stutter of a gasp, and then the explosion that Django could not control.
The startled bears turned, and the mother bear rose from her sitting position into her running position. For a moment, the doctor thought that Django’s coughing might scare the bears so much it would cause them to run away. But he was wrong, because the big bear was now picking up speed through the blueberry thicket and heading directly for them. If the doctor had been a religious man, this would have been the point at which he would have offered up a prayer. But instead he froze in fear and watched in terror as the bear rapidly bore down on them.
Then a loud crack echoed through the woods, and the bear turned and simply fell over on its side to the ground, not more than ten yards from the doctor and his companion. At the blast, the cub scurried away into the woods. The doctor looked around, trying to figure out what miracle had just occurred. And then from behind a thick, tall slash pine tree, Gator Mica, thin and weathered, rifle in hand, appeared as if from nowhere, a wide smile on his red face.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” the doctor said. “I’ll be goddamned.”
“You fellows sure know how to make an entrance,” Gator said. “Follow me before you get yourself into any more trouble.”
“Boy, am I glad to see you,” the doctor said. “This is Django Jackson, Jewel’s daddy.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m Gator Mica.”
“The pleasure is mine, especially after that good bit of shootin’ just now.”
The two shook hands and Gator set out toward the creek bank with the doctor and Django wearily in tow. As they approached the creek, the doctor saw Gator’s glade skiff hidden under a pile of pine boughs. Then they came to a tallgrass clearing; at least the undergrowth was not as high and thick as the surrounding area. At the edges of the clearing were several piles of rotted lumber covered by vines. Gator had set up camp in the only brick structure in the area, a twelve-by-twelve, windowless shed with an opening but no door and no roof. Gator had apparently spread some scavenged lumber across the top of the walls for some cover but hadn’t gotten around to fashioning a door yet. There were, however, the remains of a fire in front of the hut and a cypress log for sitting next to the fire, facing the clearing.
“Have a seat,” Gator said, pointing to the log. “Sorry, I ain’t got nothin’ much to offer you, unless you like bear meat.”
The doctor and Django sat on the log as Gator pulled over a stump that looked like he’d been using as a chopping block. He sat down and asked, “How the hell did y’all find me? I thought I was pretty well hidden out here. Not that I ain’t glad to see you. I’ve been powerful lonely out here with no one to talk to or drink with.”
“You won’t believe this,” the doctor said, “but Django led me pretty much directly to you.”
“I worked a turpentine camp right here where you’re campin’ when I was a kid,” Django explained. “In fact, that little brick building there was where the still was, if I ain’t mistakin’. Looks like that’s about all that’s left. But I figured it might make a pretty good hideout for someone travelin’ by boat from St. Vincent Island. Actually, it was just a lucky guess.”
“Well, I know now,” Gator said, “where Jewel gets her investigatin’ skills from. I’m mighty impressed. But, tell me, why have y’all come all the way out here?”
“Listen, Gator,” the doctor began. “If we could find you, sooner or later someone else is gonna find you and then tell the sheriff where you’re at. And the sheriff, when he finds out, he’s gonna come and get you and either put you in jail or shoot you. Probably shoot you, since I doubt you’ll go without a fight.”
“So what do you want me to do?” Gator asked.
“There’s more, Gator. Listen. Guess who Dr. Price willed the island to.”
“Who?”
“You, you numbskull. You. You own St. Vincent Island.”
“I do? But the sheriff thinks I killed Price.”
“Well, he’s not so sure now. He knows that Lucky Lucilla is on the loose and trying to kill me and God knows who else. Maybe even Dr. Price, though we haven’t figured out why yet. Bob Huggins thinks he can mount a good defense for you, but only if you turn yourself in. If you stay on the run and the sheriff finds you and arrests you, then your chances of getting off are slim, according to Huggins. But one thing’s for sure: You’re not gonna get the island if you’re hiding out here.”
“What a fuckin’ mess,” Gator said.
“Yeah, and this is no way to live, Gator, you know that. Foraging like an animal out here in the woods. You’ve lost a lot of weight and you don’t look healthy. You need to come home and work with Huggins and me to straighten the whole thing out. I’ve already talked to Sally Martin, but she’s not saying anything. She warned me not to say a word about what we know.”
“So what do we do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sally knows from Sheriff Batson that I killed a man in Florida City. She’s gonna tell Lane about that if she’s cornered, not to mention your own little secret, partner.”
“I know,” the doctor admitted. “I didn’t think about that when I confronted her. I was just so pissed that you were taking the rap for Price’s murder instead of Lucilla that I decided to go see her. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, that’s okay, but it sounds like the only chance I have now is if we find Lucky Lucilla and get him to admit he killed Dr. Price, if he in fact did.”
“That’s right. And then we get Huggins on the case about you assaulting Sheriff Duffield and that man in Florida City. He got you off before; maybe he can do it again.”
“I don’t know,” Gator said, shaking his head. “I gotta think on all this. I ain’t so sure we can find Lucky Lucilla, and I ain’t so sure, if we did, he would admit to killing Dr. Price, and I ain’t so sure Bob Huggins can get me off for killing a man and slugging a sheriff. Seems to me there’s a lot goin’ against me.”
“Well,” the doctor said, “look at it this way. You can either continue sufferin’ out here in the woods by yourself, hoping the sheriff doesn’t find you, or you can come back with us, turn yourself in, and face the music. At least then you have a chance of getting off and inheriting the island of your dreams.”
“Hmm,” Gator said. “Mr. Jackson, excuse me for broachin’ the subject, but you’ve got some experience with goin’ to prison. Say it don’t turn out as pretty as my partner here would like to think and I end up in prison. Would that be any better than being out here in the woods free?”
“That’s a mighty good question. And the answer is probably different for every man you ask it to. And if you was out here with somebody else, say a purty woman, then that’s one thing. But to be out here all by your lonesome and always lookin’ over your shoulder, that’s another. I believe I’d rather be in prison. Leastwise, I’d have someone to talk to. But then again maybe there’s another way.”
“Yeah?” Gator asked.
“You could come back with us. Hide out someplace closer. And then in a few days ride back to New York City with Jewel and Gabriel and Marcus. Then disappear in the crowd there. I ain’t never been there, but I hear tell that a man could hide there forever without nobody takin’ a notice of it. Now, I ain’t talked to Jewel or Gabriel about that, but it’s an idea.”
“New York City … I don’t know,” Gator said. “I git to feelin’ too closed in when I’m in Port St. Joe. I think I’ll take my chances out here for the time being.”
“Okay, Gator,” the doctor said. “Let me talk to Judge Denton and Bob Huggins and see what kind of deal we might be able to work out if you were to turn yourself in at this point. Then I’m gonna go to Tampa to see what, if anything, I can find out about Lucky Lucilla. We haven’t heard from him for a few days now, so maybe he went home. Who knows? Then let’s talk again, see where we stand.”
“Okay,” Gator muttered.
“Meanwhile, Django and I’ll drive back to Eastpoint right now and bring you back some gasoline for your hothead, some decent food, some liquor, and whatever else you need. Then I’ll come back in a few days and let you know where we’re at. If you want to get in touch with us before we come back, try to get to a phone and call me or Jewel collect. I’ll write down the numbers for you. Also, there’s a nice little lady named Louisa Randolph who lives in the last house, a gray one, at the north end of Sixth Street in Apalachicola. It’s only a couple of blocks from the fishing docks at Scipio Creek. She’s got a phone and the best kitchen in the Panhandle. We told her a little bit about you, and she said you’d be welcome there anytime.”
“Oh,” Django said, “and one more thing. Thanks for saving our lives today.”
“No problem,” Gator said with a tired smile. “Just bring me back a couple of Partagas cigars and a bottle of Old Crow and we’ll call it even.”
Chapter 22
The doctor and Django drove back into Eastpoint and found a store to buy the cigars, whiskey, and other provisions for Gator. By the time they had delivered them and tried again, unsuccessfully, to talk Gator into returning to Port St. Joe with them, it was dusk. They were tired and hushed as the doctor squinted through the dusty windshield of his old Ford into the setting sun.
When he finally dropped Django off at his house, the sky was gray and the bay was black. With the doctor’s newfound disregard for death, he ignored the enveloping gloom of his old house. He just traipsed through the empty kitchen, ignoring what Vivian had left him on the counter for supper, pulled himself up the dim stairs, undressed, measured out the morphine, drank it, and went to sleep.
He awoke to the welcome sounds of women’s voices downstairs in the kitchen. Vivian and Jewel were laughing about something he could not quite make out. He lay there and listened. All he could do was catch a word here and there, but the pleasant, rhythmic, feminine chatter was reassuring enough.
After the doctor had consumed his morning dose of morphine, showered, and dressed, he joined the two women at the kitchen table.
“Good mornin’, sleepyhead,” Jewel greeted as Vivian got up and moved to the stove.
“Good morning, Jewel, Vivian. What’s for breakfast?”
Vivian answered by placing a plate of crisp bacon, two fried eggs, and a bowl of blackberries in front of him. She filled his cup with black coffee and sat a glass of orange juice next to his plate.
“Utensils?” the doctor said.
“Oh, sorry. Jewel and I just got to talking, and I plum forgot all about them.”
“What were y’all talking about?”
“You, of course,” Jewel replied with a smile as Vivian hurried to the silverware drawer. “’Bout how you and Daddy near got yo’self kilt in Tate’s Hell lookin’ for Gator Mica.”
“So your daddy told you about our little adventure, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess y’all thought I didn’t have enough worriment—what with Gator and Lucky Lucilla and all—so now I gotta worry ’bout you and Daddy wandering off in the woods someplace.”
“Well,” the doctor said, “so far we’re still alive, thanks to Gator.”
“Yeah, but no thanks to yo’selves,” Jewel said, “and now Daddy says you’re gonna go down to Tampa to see if you can find Lucky Lucilla there. Why, I ain’t sure. If he’s down there, which I doubt, why don’t you just leave him be, down there by hisself?”
“Because if we don’t find him, he’s gonna kill me, Gator—if he can find him—and probably you. And because, without him confessing, Gator’s gonna remain the main suspect in Dr. Price’s murder.”
“Well, if he’s gonna kill me, he better hurry ’cause Gabriel, Marcus, and me are headin’ back to New York City the first thing Saturday mornin’.”
“So soon?” the doctor asked.
“Yeah, Gabriel’s got to get back to work next week so we gotta go, as much as I hate not helpin’ y’all out down here.”
“I wish you could stay.”
“Me too,” Vivian said.
“Me too,” Jewel said. “Me too. But I’m a married woman now, and my place is with my husband, and his job is in New York City.”
“I know,” the doctor said, resigned, “but I’ll do my best to be back from Tampa on Friday to say good-bye. If the trains are runnin’ on time, it won’t be a problem. Maybe y’all—you, Vivian, Gabriel, Marcus, and your mama and daddy—could come over here Friday night for a little going-away party.”
“You’re gonna be tired from you trip, Doc. Why don’t y’all come to our place? Mama and me’ll make supper and we’ll have a good ol’ time.”
“Okay,” the doctor said. “But I’m still not happy about seeing you go. I was really hoping that once you got back down here, y’all would decide to stay,” he added, momentarily ignoring Vivian’s paranoia.
Outside it was cooler than usual, with a line of high clouds somewhat tempering the sun’s mounting heat. The doctor walked to work and found the waiting room full. He motioned for Nadyne to follow him to his office.
“How’d everything go yesterday?” he asked her.
“Fine,” she answered. “Nothing unusual, except …”
“Yes?”
“Chief Lane dropped by to see you.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“The truth, of course,” she said, “that you were taking the day off.”
“Thanks.”
“But he seemed skeptical.”
“Okay, I’ll call him. What else?”
“Want to hear what’s going on today?”
“Of course. What do we have?”
“Mrs. Dawson has another migraine. Bill Butler cut his calf some way or another. Mavis Williams is here with her daughter; she won’t say why. Percy Wilkens can’t breathe very well. Lauren Morrison wants you to check a bruise that won’t go away. Max James thinks his arm’s broken; he fell off his roof. Haddie Michaels’ son Junior has a pink eye. Then house calls in the afternoon.”
“Okay, thanks, Nadyne. And before we get going today, can you cover for me again tomorrow and the next day? I gotta go to Tallahassee for a conference,” he lied.
“Sure,” she answered, but the doctor could tell she suspected something other than a conference since the doctor had never been absent more than one day in a single week. The simple fact was he didn’t want to scare Nadyne about Lucky Lucilla. If the doctor told Nadyne he was going to Tampa to find him, then she would want to know why and he would have to go into the entire story. Besides, the whole trip seemed more and more like a wild goose chase. No use sharing his foolhardiness with Nadyne if he could avoid it.
