Coastal Disturbance Page 3

  Santou turned in time to catch my lips, and then smiled. “You’re right. That’s not bad for a day when you weren’t supposed to be working at all. In fact, I’m beginning to think you had an ulterior motive for us living together. At least this way, you know one of us will always be employed. I guess I’ll just have to wait until you no longer have a job before you finally learn to cook and clean.”

  “Very funny,” I caustically retorted, all the while knowing he was probably right. Jake put my own halfhearted attempts at cooking to shame.

  I listened to Santou breathe as he slept beside me that night, unable to sleep myself, beleaguered by the thoughts of the day. Jake seemed to sense my unease and slipped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. Before long I began to nod off, knowing that for the first time in years, I finally felt at home.

  Four

  I rolled over in the morning to find that Jake was gone. Then I remembered he’d mentioned an early meeting today. It had taken a good deal of finagling on his part to get transferred to the FBI office in Savannah. What had helped was that the head man also happened to be Cajun.

  “And you know us Cajuns. We like to stick together,” Santou had joked.

  But it had cost Jake plenty. He’d turned down a prestigious job that the FBI had wanted him to take in D.C.

  I pulled myself out of bed, showered, and got dressed. Wouldn’t you know? It was another warm, sunny day. Cold weather and snow were two of the things I didn’t miss about Montana—though I had to admit, there was one thing in particular that I did.

  I headed into the kitchen and opened the pantry door, knowing it was important to get a nutritious start to the day. Mmm, mmm, mmm. A lone Pop-Tart sat waiting in its box alongside the last dregs of Cap’n Crunch cereal. I figured that ought to tide me over for at least an hour.

  It was as though my landlady, Marie, had read my thoughts. Her timing couldn’t have been better as she tottered in the door with a plate of danishes in her hands.

  “Good morning, my dear. Thomas tried to hide these from me, hoping I’d eat a proper breakfast. So, I played along and made a show of having a bite of cereal. That proved enough to throw him off the track.” Her eyes twinkled from within their bed of wrinkles. “You think he’d know me better after all these years. As soon as the pastries reappeared, I ditched the Shredded Wheat, grabbed the plate of goodies, and hotfooted it over here. Now I can enjoy my morning cholesterol in peace with you, while having as much caffeine as I like.”

  Marie was a piece of work, which was exactly what I enjoyed best about her. She knew it as well, and her face puckered up in a mischievous smile. Her appearance was made all the more merry by feathery wisps of red curls arranged as carefully as newborn chicks in a nest on her head.

  Her age was the only thing she was rather touchy about, a subject we never brought up. However, I’d once snuck a peek at her driver’s license. It revealed Marie to be eighty-seven years old, though she only admitted to seventy-one.

  She looked particularly chipper this morning, attired in a jaunty red top and blue-and-white Capri pants. The combination gave the illusion of a ripe strawberry on a Delft china plate. Though she spoke incessantly of Thomas, I’d never yet had the opportunity to meet him. But then again, there was a perfectly good reason. It wasn’t that he was reclusive or unfriendly. Rather, Thomas was her former husband who’d been dead for the past ten years.

  Marie strongly believed there was little distinction between the living and the dead, maintaining it was no more than the finest line which could be easily crossed. Perhaps that thought gave her comfort as she continued to lose loved ones over the years. God knows, it certainly came in handy whenever she misplaced things—an occurrence that happened on a regular basis. Keys disappeared, a week’s worth of bras and panties vanished, her wallet absconded without a trace. Pity the well-meaning soul who dared suggest that Marie might possibly have mislaid them. Her response was always the same icy stare, followed by the curt explanation that it was an impish prank being perpetrated by Thomas.

  Interestingly enough, Thomas hadn’t interfered when Marie officially ended her mourning period by taking up with Alfred—a younger man of seventy-five, whom she referred to as her “boy toy.” But then Thomas had always been very progressive about such matters, Marie had carefully explained. Besides, since she was only “seventy-one” years old, what did he expect? That she wouldn’t have a sex life?

  “Here, take another,” Marie urged, pushing the plate of pastries toward me.

  “But don’t you want to save some for Alfred?” I asked, scarfing down a cheese danish.

  “Heavens, no! He doesn’t need to gain any more weight. Not when I keep him around for his good looks,” she teased.

  However, I knew their relationship was much more than simply skin deep. I could see it in her sprightly walk, the way she smiled, and the attention Marie gave to her makeup and clothes. Alfred was the man who applauded her singing each night, marveled at her youthful, dewy complexion, and brought milk and cookies to her in bed. He made Marie feel vibrant and happy, and she clearly did the same for him.

  Marie once revealed the secret as to how Alfred had finally won her heart. He’d kissed her liver spots one by one and lovingly referred to them as “freckles.”

  That was the kind of relationship I also wanted with a man. It was the way I hoped to grow old with Santou.

  I left Marie to savor the last of the pastry, as I jumped in my Ford and took off for work. An enormous fireball had already risen high in the sky, as if it had vaulted straight out of the earth’s molten core. The deep-dish sun leisurely beat down upon the marsh, which luxuriated in a briny saltwater bath—an event that took place twice daily during high tide.

  Shrimp boats busily worked the channels between the islands, floating silent as water spiders while spreading their gossamer nets. The only noise came from a flock of carpet-bagging pelicans that peeled out of formation and dive-bombed the boats, in hopes of a tasty snack.

  I crossed tidal rivers and creeks radiating in a maze of serpentine fissures, like an immense circulatory system driven by a huge pumping heart. McQueens, Wilmington, Whitemarsh, and Oatland. I held my breath as I drove over flyways connecting each of these small islands, taking note of the marsh to my left and the ocean on my right. My Ford exuberantly barreled down a one-lane road on which there was little traffic, evoking the feeling that this land was all mine.

  Nearly four hundred thousand acres of salt marsh stretch along the Georgia coast to create a watery cradle of life. Fish, reptiles, birds, and mammals all reside in this unbroken forest of tawny green that works like a Band-Aid for my soul.

  Soon I left the coastline behind to travel a very different sort of road—one occupied by an invading army of paper mills and chemical plants in a fast-food strip of industry. Together they produced an odor similar to overcooked cabbage on St. Patrick’s Day. I’d once asked a local if he knew what the scent was, only to be told it was the smell of money.

  I passed in and out of Savannah in no time, skirting the center of the city as I made my way east. Before long, I arrived at Fish and Wildlife’s Refuge Office, where I unlocked the door and entered my own private room. Flipping on the lights, I turned on my computer and took a stab at brewing a decent pot of coffee. No sooner had the java begun to drip than my phone started to ring.

  “Special Agent Porter speaking,” I answered in my best professional tone.

  “Cut the crap, Porter,” barked an irate voice.

  I should have expected the call. It was my boss, Jim Lowell.

  “I’m going to be fair and listen to your side of the story before I pull an Ozzy Osbourne and chew your head off.”

  Lowell tried so hard to be cool that it made him terminally square. I hated that he considered himself to be an aging rocker all because he’d played guitar in high school eons ago. In truth, Lowell was a die-hard company man through and through—a bureaucrat who’d kissed enough high-powered political rear e
nds to be deemed a first-rate groupie.

  Rather than speak, I chose to remain silent until clued in to exactly which incident Lowell was hell-bent on bawling me out about. I didn’t need to give the man any further ammunition.

  “I know perfectly well what happened with Clark Williams, so quit your stalling, Porter. For chrissakes, what in hell did you think you were doing out there yesterday?” he snapped, taking aim at my jugular.

  “My job,” I retorted, giving it right back to him.

  “Let me tell you a little something about your job, Porter. You’re lucky to still have one, considering the number of enemies you’ve made in the Service so far.”

  Wow, this guy really knew how to make a girl feel special. Even Ozzy could have taught him a thing or two when it came to people skills.

  “You know what your trouble is?”

  While I probably could have guessed, I felt certain I was about to find out.

  “You have real difficulty accepting supervision,” Lowell eagerly filled me in. “That’s why you’ve been bounced around the country so much.”

  I had to grit my teeth to keep from telling him what the real crux of the matter was: I hated being controlled by someone who’d never been out in the field. Jim Lowell was of that special breed willing to say or do anything in order to get ahead. As a result, he’d been promoted through politics.

  “But I now realize your resentment goes far beyond those of us within Fish and Wildlife. You can’t get along with anyone in a position of power,” Lowell theorized.

  “Oh, come on. It’s only human nature for someone to complain when they receive a ticket,” I retorted. Hell, it was the standard reaction. Do nothing and people were happy. Enforce the law and they got pissed off.

  “Then maybe you should be more careful with what you perceive to be a violation. It wouldn’t hurt if you stopped and thought twice before handing out a fine to just anyone.”

  For a moment, I couldn’t quite believe what I’d heard. Then it began to sink in.

  “Are you telling me only to ticket those people who don’t have the clout to cause problems?” I challenged. I’d be damned if I’d bend the rules just so my boss didn’t have to deal with any high-level bitching.

  Lowell immediately launched into attack. “Let me tell you what your grandstanding has done. That little stunt you pulled out in the marsh? Well it opened up a whole can of worms for this agency. Clark Williams is now planning to push for a congressional oversight hearing on Division of Law Enforcement excesses based on what happened yesterday.”

  I started to laugh, sure this had to be a practical joke. What did Lowell think? That he was going to scare me into submission?

  “I’m not kidding,” he informed me, cutting my laughter short.

  “But how can Williams claim my actions were excessive when he clearly was in the wrong?” I asked, in amazement.

  “You mean you really don’t know?” Lowell fired back.

  “Then it’s high time you became better acquainted with who’s who in this world. For your information, Clark Williams is on the board of directors for the National Hook and Bullet Association.”

  Oh shit. Talk about having a nail driven into my coffin. I knew NHBA to be a high-powered hunting group that boasted eight hundred wealthy and politically savvy members, none of whom liked to be told what they could or could not shoot. NHBA’s agenda was simple—to relegate all federal wildlife law enforcement agents to nothing more than desk duty. In other words, they were putting the screws to Fish and Wildlife with the intent of shutting us down.

  “I already received an angry call from their lawyer this morning. He insists your behavior proves that NHBA members are being targeted by a bunch of overzealous agents out to hang a fat cat trophy on their wall.”

  “That’s patently untrue!” I argued in my own defense.

  Surely not even Lowell could fall for such blatant intimidation.

  “But wait, you haven’t heard the rest of the news,” Lowell imparted in a lethally sarcastic tone. “Your charges against Clark Williams are being dropped.”

  “That’s impossible!” The words flew out of my mouth before I could stop them. “I caught him on an ironclad violation, the same as I would have anyone else.”

  “That’s real interesting, Porter,” Lowell drawled.

  Call it paranoia on my part, but I could have sworn the man was enjoying this.

  “No, it’s much more than that,” I insisted, refusing to let the matter drop. “It’s totally hypocritical to apply one set of rules to some poor slob, only to let a big shot like Williams wriggle off. If you don’t back me up on this, I swear I’ll take it all the way to the top.”

  My threat hung in the air like a hangman’s noose.

  “Back off, Porter. I’m not the villain here,” Lowell warned in a near hiss. “This wasn’t my decision. Charges are being dropped on the basis of a strategy known as the DeLorean defense.”

  The tactic could have been called the O.J. defense for all I cared. In fact, it would have made more sense, since it felt as though I were getting shafted.

  “What’s that?”

  “Think back. It was a tactic successfully used to free John DeLorean, an exotic car maker. Cocaine conspiracy charges against him were dropped when it was discovered that the FBI had done something not in accordance with their own policy.”

  “Which was?” I asked, having no idea where all this was headed.

  “FBI agents set him up to buy drugs. It was a clear case of entrapment.”

  “I’m sure that’s fascinating. But I still don’t understand what it has to do with me. It’s not as if I threw Williams in a motorboat, raced the engine, and suggested he gun down a bunch of clapper rails.”

  “Maybe not. But what you did was just as illegal,” Lowell maintained, expertly dangling the bait.

  Naturally, I took it. “Oh yeah? And would you like to tell me exactly what that was?”

  “It’s simple. You weren’t authorized to work on Labor Day. By doing so, you operated outside the scope of your job. That’s grounds enough for the case to be thrown out.”

  A dull thud resounded in my brain. It was the sound of my jaw hitting the floor.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Do you hear any laughter?” Lowell shot back.

  “So, that’s it then? Case closed?” I asked, feeling oddly numb.

  “Not quite. There’s still the matter of your insubordination. I believe I’d made it perfectly clear that your request to work the holiday had been turned down. What the hell’s the matter with you anyway, Porter? Is your personal life so lousy that you have to be out in the field all the time?”

  I bit down hard on my lip to try to keep from sniping back. Oh, screw it!

  “No, It’s just that with so much dead wood around, I’m left to pick up a lot of the slack.”

  My response was met by a moment of stony silence.

  “Then let me say this in language that even you can understand. You’re skating on thin ice, Porter. One more screwup and I’ll personally see to it that the Service has to deal with one less loose cannon. You’d be wise to watch your step from now on.”

  His words were followed by a sharp click, after which the sound of a dial tone buzzed in my ear. Damn! Lowell had actually hung up on me.

  I stared at my computer as the screensaver kicked into gear. Dozens of colorful yo-yos sprouted wings and now flew across my monitor like birds in an evening sky. The screensaver had been a present from my former boss, Charlie Hickok, along with a note.

  Never forget how this agency works. When the going gets tough, “you’re on your own.”

  I now realized my mistake. I should have run straight to the nearest U.S. Attorney’s office with the paperwork after ticketing Williams, and gotten the Justice Department involved. That was the surest way for special agents to survive in the political backstabbing world within Fish and Wildlife. Only then could I have safely said to Lowell, William
s, and the entire NHBA, “Thou shalt not mess with me.”

  The phone rang in a series of sharp staccato screams, jerking me out of my reverie.

  “Special Agent Porter,” I growled.

  “Call off the hounds of hell! Whatever I did, I’m sorry.”

  I laughed in spite of myself. It was Gary Fletcher, the Fish and Wildlife contaminant specialist calling from his office in Brunswick, Georgia.

  “Sorry about being mad. Believe me, it’s got nothing to do with you.”

  “Great. Now you sound like my last girlfriend just before she dumped me. Okay, Pepper. Spill the beans. So, what’s wrong?”

  I hated when he called me Pepper. It was the name of Angie Dickinson’s character in her old TV series, Police Woman. No way did I look anything like Angie, with my long frizzy red hair, scuffed-up boots, and kick-around clothes. In addition to which, I was loath to admit I’d been old enough to watch the show.

  “I had a run-in with a former Interior Department bigwig, Clark Williams, and just learned that he won the battle. I got the news from Lowell, who handed me my head for having had the nerve to give him a ticket.”

  “Clark Williams, huh? Yeah, he was always a bureaucratic weenie, the same as your boss. Tell you what. Why don’t you come here to the office, and I’ll fill you in on what Williams is up to these days.”

  “No way. I was just down in your area yesterday. That’s how I got into all this trouble.”

  “Aw come on, Porter. It’s only an hour’s drive,” he wheedled. “Besides, screw that crap. I’ve got something much better for you to lose your job over.”

  The man cleverly knew how to lure me.

  “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

  “You’ve got to see it yourself to believe it,” he continued enticingly. “It won’t be a waste of your time, I promise. In fact, you really need to get your rear end down here pronto. Oh yeah, and you’re gonna want to bring a camera along.”