Coastal Disturbance

  JESSICA SPEART

  COASTAL DISTURBANCE

  A RACHEL PORTER MYSTERY

  Contents

  One

  Someone was crying outside my bedroom window last night. I…

  Two

  The late afternoon sun filtered down through the pine trees,…

  Three

  The sun was already gone by the time I headed north…

  Four

  I rolled over in the morning to find that Jake…

  Five

  I drove along the coastal road that wound in and…

  Six

  We followed Wendell down the steps and across the grounds…

  Seven

  I battled my way through rush hour traffic, finally reaching…

  Eight

  The sun played hide-and-seek, knowing that I wanted to sleep,…

  Nine

  I flew south on I-95, as much to flee unseen…

  Ten

  There was still plenty of time to kill before my…

  Eleven

  I stopped at the first convenience store I passed, and…

  Twelve

  My car phone began to ring early the next morning…

  Thirteen

  Gary went into his office to begin testing as I…

  Fourteen

  I awoke, wondering if last night’s call had been nothing…

  Fifteen

  I played leapfrog all the way south along Highway 17,…

  Sixteen

  I woke up the next morning before daybreak. Actually, I’d…

  Seventeen

  I couldn’t shake the feeling of gloom that had settled…

  Eighteen

  Soon we were underway, winding past expensive new homes, built…

  Nineteen

  A mixture of laughter and tears exploded within me, duking…

  Twenty

  Cool beads of moisture coated my skin from the crown…

  Epilogue

  “Here, dear. Drink this. It will help you feel better,”…

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Praise

  Other Books by Jessica Speart

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  One

  Someone was crying outside my bedroom window last night. I got up and ran out, only to find nobody there. Some say the devil you know is better than the devil you don’t. In which case, I should have been feeling completely at home right about now.

  “Well, hot damn! This here says you’re some kinda special federal law enforcement agent with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Is that so?”

  The local sheriff hypnotically wove my ID card between his fingers with the ease of a professional card shark. “And just what is it that brings you to our peaceful little town today?”

  “I thought I’d do some fishing,” I answered; flashing what I hoped was a seductively beguiling smile.

  “Well, aren’t you the lucky one getting Labor Day off?” He grinned, giving the distinct impression of a cat on the prowl who’d just caught himself a mouse. “So, what are ya’ll fishing for anyway?”

  Naturally, he’d have to ask. It was a pastime that I knew almost nothing about.

  Mayday! Mayday! The distress call shot straight to my brain as the sheriff continued to study me.

  “Catfish,” I responded, in my best imitation of a Southern drawl.

  His meandering gaze vainly searched my vehicle for any sign of a fishing pole. “Too bad you don’t seem to be having much luck,” he shrewdly observed.

  So much for charming the man into submission.

  I’d been following up a hot tip concerning some illicit commercial shrimping in the marsh. So far, everything had gone just as I’d hoped. The suspect had docked his boat, unloaded the illegal haul, thrown it in the trunk of his car, and taken off. His next stop would probably be a shady commercial fishmarket just over the state line in Florida.

  I’d been hot on my perp’s tail, determined to catch him in the act of selling the goods. That is, until a siren began to howl behind me like a surly cat in heat. I’d had no choice but to slam on my brakes and pull off the road. Fisherman Joe slowed down just long enough to flash me a digital good-bye in his rear view mirror. After that, he’d left me behind eating his dust.

  There was no question but that I’d brought this upon myself. I’d been driving with my eye pressed against a video camera that was precariously balanced on my shoulder. As a result, my Ford Explorer had swerved back and forth like a drunk on a roll. This was crack law enforcement at its best.

  The sheriff’s gaze now came to rest on the camera nestled beside me.

  “There’s some great scenery around here,” I lamely offered, hoping to tap dance my way out of this mess.

  This was the one thing my topnotch informant had warned me about. Trust no one in the backwater community of St. Mary’s Bluff, where everyone knows everything about everybody. It was a given that the locals were all involved in a melange of illegal activities. The surprise ingredient was Sheriff Tom “Quick Draw” Magraw, best described as Georgia’s version of the local Godfather. Word had it he received a kickback from everyone, including the local paper boy, who also happened to be his own son.

  He eyeballed me now. “Don’t take this wrong, but I’m gonna have to run your license, just to check and make sure everything’s on the up and up. You know what I mean.”

  Absolutely. He was a master when it came to ensuring that his compadre made a clean getaway.

  I watched Magraw walk back to his vehicle with both feet turned out like a haughty ballerina. The sight was ironic, considering he had the body of a wrestler gone to seed. What wasn’t so amusing was when he picked up the microphone in his patrol car and flipped on the outside speaker.

  “I got a little lady here and darned if she isn’t trying to fish without the use of a pole. I’m still trying to figure that one out. Anyway, she claims to be a special agent with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Says her name is Rachel Porter.”

  Magraw had just cleverly alerted all of St. Mary’s Bluff to my presence.

  “So she is with Fish and Wildlife? Okay then, no problem. I’ll let her get on with her work.”

  Fat chance of that. Sheriff Magraw sauntered back, as if nothing the least bit unusual had taken place. I suppose nothing had, except that any undercover operation I’d hoped to mount was now blown.

  “Sorry for the inconvenience. You enjoy the rest of your day. And don’t hesitate to let me know if I can be of any assistance,” he politely offered, placing my license and ID in the palm of my hand.

  “Thanks, but I think you’ve done more than enough already.”

  That was a mistake. I knew it as soon as the words left my mouth. Magraw’s eyes flashed like detonated gunpowder, even though a smile remained plastered on his face.

  “Are you referring to what happened back there? Sorry about flipping on that outside speaker. These clumsy fingers of mine get in the way and do that every now and then. But don’t worry.”

  Magraw handed me one of his cards. “The fact is, it would make life a whole lot easier if you filled me in on exactly what you’re up to. You may not know it yet, but you need someone like me in the area to keep an eye out for things.”

  The man sounded so sincere, I nearly believed him.

  “Think it over. It could work to both our benefit.” His eyes locked on mine and I suddenly knew exactly what he meant.

  “Thanks, but that won’t be necessary. I’ve already got everything I need,” I bluffed. Hell, why stop there? I patted the camera, purposely yanking his chain.

  Sometimes I’m not as clever as I like to believe. The sheriff’s eyes zeroed in
on their target.

  “That sure is some fancy piece of equipment you got there. Nothing a country sheriff like myself can afford.”

  Who was he kidding? The video camera was a scuffed-up, secondhand bargain basement special. Magraw could have probably bought his own yacht with all the kickbacks he received.

  “Mind if I take a look at it?”

  He left little doubt that this was a demand, rather than a request.

  “It’s not mine, so please be careful,” I responded, and reluctantly handed over the camera.

  Magraw’s agile fingers immediately went to work, deftly hitting the release button, so that the film cassette popped out and fell to the ground.

  Crrrrrunch! echoed the sickening sound.

  I looked down at where his heel expertly ground the cassette into the blacktop.

  “Goddamn, I’m sorry!” he apologized, and bent down to pick it up. “Wouldn’t you know these big ol’ fingers of mine would mess up something again? Tell you what. I’ll scrape five bucks out of petty cash and buy a new cassette for that fancy camera of yours.”

  Magraw couldn’t have made his warning any more clear. This is my banana republic. Now get the hell out of it!

  I took a deep breath, aware that the situation called for something I normally detest—the utmost diplomacy. “That’s all right. No harm done. I’ve got plenty more cassettes back at the office.”

  “Well, that’s mighty nice of you. Why don’t you give me a call next time you’re down this way, and I’ll buy you lunch?” Magraw magnanimously offered, having successfully defended his territory.

  Then he strode back to his patrol car, where he waited until I took off.

  Two

  The late afternoon sun filtered down through the pine trees, as if raining tears of gold. It was time to call it a day and head home. I turned the Ford around and began to drive north. No question about it. I’d have to come up with a different tactic when investigating cases in St. Mary’s Bluff. With that in mind, I punched a number into my car phone. My call was answered on the eighth ring.

  “This Spud’s for youuuu,” drawled a voice that sounded as if it had just woken up.

  It was none other than Spud Bowden, my crack informant. A down-home sleaze, Bowden made his living dealing drugs, illegally fishing, and being paid by various state and federal agencies to turn on his friends. Spud had once shown me a collection of business cards, revealing exactly whom he worked for as a paid informant. I wish I’d had this guy’s connections.

  “I’m calling to thank you, Spud. What did you do? Tip off Magraw that I’d be around today?”

  “That you, Porter?” he asked with a raspy chuckle.

  I listened to what sounded like chicken feet digging through a pile of gravel. It was probably Spud’s fingers scratching at the scrawny excuse for a beard that crawled down his neck.

  “Hell, it ain’t my fault if you have trouble making an easy collar.”

  “Let me give you a piece of advice, Bowden. Playing both sides will only get you burned. I’ll not only put word out that you’re a paid informant, but will also make certain that no other agency ever uses you again,” I threatened.

  “Hey, hey! Chill, will ya?”

  I listened as another body part proceeded to be scratched.

  “Tell you what. I’ll give you a hot tip free of charge. Will that straighten things out between us?”

  What a mensch. “It all depends on what you’re offering.”

  “Okay, how’s this? Some joker out here is whacking clapper rails from his motorboat at this very moment.”

  “How do you know?”

  “How the hell do you think? My place is on the marsh and this numbnut just flew past my damn bedroom window. Can’t you hear?”

  Spud was right. The sound of gunshots exploded in the background.

  A local bird, clapper rails are also called “marsh hens” because of the way they fly low and slow when not hiding behind tall blades of grass while sportsmen are on the prowl. It’s considered a definite no-no for hunters to crank up their engines to flush the birds out. Rather, game law requires that they turn off their motors and pole through the marsh at high tide. But there are always those few who decide, No way in hell. That’s too much work! Instead, they rev their engines and deliberately speed through the water at full throttle, scattering a slew of the birds.

  “Don’t say I never gave you something for nothing,” Bowden muttered and hung up.

  Spud’s location was only a ten-minute drive from here. I threw the Ford into gear and spun out.

  I was once again working at a new station, though this time, the decision to transfer had been my own. Even so, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d made the right choice.

  The problem was that part of my heart had been left behind in Montana, having become involved in a relationship that didn’t pan out. As a result, I was afraid it would affect my work. How could it not? I’d fallen in love with the tribal game officer for the Blackfeet Reservation. I still cared for the man and knew that he loved me, as well. There’d just been one major hitch—I was also deeply involved with somebody else.

  Hearts can be fragile as finely spun sugar; emotions as highly charged as shooting stars. A choice had to be made and I’d followed my head, remaining with the man who’d always stood by me. No doubt about it—love triangles really suck.

  I’d been hoping to get posted somewhere in proper New England, where my morals could be overhauled and firmly set back in place. I should have known that wasn’t to be the case. The head honchos in Washington apparently consider it their patriotic duty to toss me about from state to state.

  It’s common knowledge that I’m viewed as a pain-in-the-ass to be gotten rid of, and that the right transfer just might do the trick. That’s the only reason I could figure as to why I was once again back in the deep South. This time I’d landed below the gnat line, where the crackers aren’t crisp, bread never gets stale, your clothes refuse to dry, and bugs are everywhere. My new posting was southern Georgia, home to good ol’ boys, swamps, gators, and ticks.

  I veered off old Highway 17 and onto a winding dirt road that headed straight for the marsh. Ramshackle shanties, topped with corrugated metal roofs, dotted the land like so many discarded tin cans. A broken-down backhoe, resembling an ancient dinosaur, sat slumped in one family’s front yard, while others boasted rusty swing sets.

  A woman as slight as a passing breeze hung laundry on a worn-out rope lazily drooping between two trees. However, most of her time was spent futilely slapping at a troop of voracious gnats. She’d cleverly freed her hands by sticking clothespins in her mouth, where they dangled like primitive wooden teeth.

  Nearby, a little boy leaned against a wishing well that wearily sagged on a patch of brown lawn. His face was so smudged that it blended perfectly with the dirt. Every now and then, he’d attempt to slide down inside the deathtrap, as if determined to shatter the boredom.

  “Buddy, stop that this instant!” the woman wearily warned, shooting the wooden projectiles from her mouth.

  My guess was that if she could have made a wish, it would have been to get the hell out of this place. It was an area where history perpetuated itself: women got pregnant young, married young, divorced young, and died young. The men didn’t fare all that much better. They lived off the land, like their daddies and granddaddies before them. Only these days, the purchase of a double-wide mobile home was the major goal in life to be aspired to.

  The houses soon gave way to marsh, and the road came to a stop. That was where a shiny silver Lexus SUV sat parked. Attached to its rear was an empty boat trailer. It appeared that Spud’s sacrificial lamb was still around.

  Grabbing my binoculars, I stepped outside, where a pungent smell filled the air, and a slight breeze rippled through a lush ribbon of golden fringe. A flock of pelicans, plump as rich millionaires, blithely wheeled overhead, their brown bodies reflecting in water bright as polished glass.

  I stood
and searched the skyline as the light slowly began to dip. The marsh was soon glowing as if on fire, the maze of channels glistening blood red in the setting sun. I closed my eyes for a moment and listened to the sounds around me. Hundreds of tiny fiddler crabs scurried about, their feet crackling in the mudflats, while the spartina grass gently rustled like a field of prairie wheat. A pulse rhythmically pounded beneath my feet, much like a heartbeat, as the marsh took a deep breath and came to life.

  Maybe meditation isn’t such a bad thing after all, I mused, never having been one for yoga.

  But any delusions I had about breaking into a soulful ohm were interrupted as a hyenalike cackle raucously filled the air. The clamor was picked up and repeated over and over in mocking fashion until I felt like the butt of some great cosmic joke, only to realize the laughter was coming from an unseen flock of clapper rails.

  BOOM!

  The roar raced across the marsh, with the intensity of a cannonball, as a covey of rails exploded out of the grass like feathered firecrackers heading toward the sky. That was followed by a motorboat, which sped into sight bearing two figures. One man stood tall and imperious, maintaining perfect balance, as he chambered and shot another round. He shouldered the rifle’s recoil, absorbing the blast as if it were nothing more than a nudge. However, a number of clapper rails weren’t so lucky. The birds spiraled out of the sky in a dead man’s dive.

  Some people grab your attention because they exude power. Others are noticed due to their looks. Then there are those who ooze charisma. Mr. Sportsman appeared to have it all. Topping it off, he was the perfect fashion plate in his precisely pressed khakis, crisply starched stonewashed shirt, and stylish safari vest.

  I turned my binoculars next to the elderly black man steering the boat. He paid little attention to his companion, but instead focused on the marsh. Only something must have tipped him off that he was being watched, for he now turned and stared in my direction. I responded by waving him in, only to be mistaken for an admiring onlooker. The driver casually returned my wave. It was time to set things straight.