Carrion Comfort (93 page)

N
atalie and Saul left Charleston by plane shortly after 7:30
A.M.
It was the first time in four days that Natalie had not worn the EEG telemetry pack and she felt strangely naked— and free— as if truly released from a quarantine.

The little Cessna 180 took off from the airport across the harbor from Charleston, turned toward the morning sun, and then banked right again as they crossed over the green and blue waters where the bay became ocean. Folly Island appeared below their right wing. Natalie could see the Intracoastal Waterway slicing south through a mad web of inlets, bays, estuaries, and coastal marshes.

“How long do you think?” Saul called to the pilot. Saul sat in the right front seat, Natalie behind him. The large, plastic-wrapped bag lay at her feet.

Daryl Meeks glanced at Saul and then looked back over his shoulder at Natalie. “About an hour and a half,” he called. “A little more if the winds kick up out of the southeast.”

The charter pilot looked much as he had seven months earlier when Natalie had met him on Rob Gentry’s front porch; he wore cheap plastic sunglasses, boat shoes, cutoff jeans, and a sweatshirt with faded letters which read WABASH COLLEGE. Natalie still thought that Meeks looked like a somewhat younger, long-haired version of Morris Udall.

Natalie had remembered Meeks’s name and the fact that Rob Gentry’s old friend was a charter pilot, and it had taken only a check through the yellow pages to find his office at a small airport north of Mt. Pleasant, across the river from Charleston. Meeks had remembered her and after a few minutes of chatting, mostly anecdotes of mutual remembrance of Rob, he had agreed to take Saul and her on a fly-by of Dolmann Island. Apparently Meeks had accepted their explanation that Natalie and Saul were doing a story on the reclusive billionaire C. Arnold Barent and Natalie was sure that the pilot was charging them less than his going rate.

The day was warm and cloudless. Natalie could see where the lighter coastal waters bled into the blue-purple depths of the true Atlantic along a hundred miles of serrated coast, the green and brown of South Carolina receding toward the heat-hazed horizon to the southwest. They spoke very little as they flew, Saul and Natalie lost in their own thoughts and Meeks busy with occasional radio calls to controllers and evidently content just to be airborne on such a beautiful day. He did point out two distant smudges to the west as their flight path took them farther out to sea. “The big island’s Hilton Head,” he said laconically. “Favorite hangout for the upper classes. I’ve never been there. The other bump is Parris Island, marine camp. They gave me an all-expense paid vacation there a few police actions ago. They knew then how to turn boys into men and men into robots there in less’n ten weeks. Still do, from what I hear.”

South of Savannah they angled in toward the coast again, gaining sight of long stretches of sand and greenery that Meeks identified as St. Catherines, Blackbeard, and then Sapelo Islands. He banked left, steadied on a heading of 112 degrees, and pointed out another smudge a dozen miles farther out to sea. “Thar be Dolmann Isle,” said Meeks in a mock-pirate growl.

Natalie readied her camera, a new Nikon with a 300mm lens, and braced it against the side window, using a monopod to steady it. She was using very fast film. Saul set his sketchbook and clipboard on his lap and thumbed through maps and diagrams he had taken from Jack Cohen’s dossier.

“We’ll come in north of it,” shouted Meeks. “Come down the seaward side, like I said, then circle around to get a look at the old Manse.”

Saul nodded. “How close in can you get us?”

Meeks grinned. “They’re real picky out here. Technically the north part of the island’s a big wildlife refuge, major coastal flyway and all that, so airspace is restricted. The fact of it is that big Heritage West Foundation owns the whole thing and guards it like it was a Russian missile base. One flyover and when you land anywhere near the coast you get your ass chewed and your license pulled by the CAB as soon as they verify your registration numbers.”

“Did you do what we discussed?” called Saul. “Yep,” said Meeks. “Don’t know if you noticed, but a lot of them numerals is made of red tape. Tape comes off, we have us a different registration. OK, look there.” He pointed to a tall-masted gray boat moving slowly northward a mile east of the island. “That’s one of their picket boats. Radar. They got fast patrol boats scooting up and down and if any poor fool thinks he’s going to put into Dolmann for a picnic and some bird-watching, he’s got a big shock waitin’ for him.”

“What about in June when the camp thing is going on?” asked Saul. Meeks laughed. “Coast Guard and navy gets into the act then,” he said. “
Nothing
gets close to Dolmann by sea, unless it’s got an invite. Rumor has it that the company’s got armed jet turbine he li cop ters flying off the airstrip I’ll show you on the southwest side. Friends tell me they’d force down any light aircraft tryin’ to get within three miles. OK, there’s the north beach. That’s the only stretch of sand except for the swimmin’ beach around by the Manse and the summer camp.” Meeks swiveled to look at Natalie. “Hope you’re ready, ma’am. This is going to be a one-time excursion ’long this side.”

“Ready!” called Natalie. She began snapping pictures as they flew in at four hundred feet, a quarter of a mile off the beach. She was grateful for the autowind and oversize filmpack, although normally she would have had little use for them.

Both she and Saul had studied Cohen’s maps of the island, but the reality was more interesting, even if it did flash by in a blur of palmettos, shoals, and half-glimpsed details.

Dolmann Island was typical of the barrier and sea islands more commonly found closer to the coast; a crudely penned L extending almost perfectly north and south, the island ran 6.8 miles lengthwise and was 2.7 miles wide at its base, narrowing to less than a half mile just above where the land curved northward from the base of the L.

Beyond the long white beach on the north tip of the island, its eastern coast showed glimpses of the sea marshes, swamps, and wild subtropical forests that filled the northern third of it. A frenzied flash of white wings rising from palmetto and cypress confirmed that egrets were bountiful in the ostensible wildlife refuge. Natalie shot film as fast as the autowind would advance it, catching a glimpse of burned stone ruins in the underbrush just south of a rocky point.

“That’s what’s left of the old slave hospital,” shouted Saul, making a mark on his map. “Forest swallowed the Dubose Plantation behind it. There’s a slave cemetery somewhere . . . look there’s the security zone!”

Natalie raised her eye from the viewfinder. The land had risen as they approached the base of the L, the forest still so thick as to look impenetrable but given over now to live oak, cypress, and sea pine as much as palmetto and tropical growth. Ahead there was a glimpse of low, half-buried concrete buildings looking like pillboxes along the Normandy coast, an asphalt road running black and smooth between palm trees, and then an area a hundred yards wide between tall fences, a slash totally devoid of any sort of vegetation, cutting full across the island. It looked as if the ground was paved with sharp-edged shells. Natalie swung the long lens and took photographs.

Meeks pulled off his earphones. “Jeez, you should hear the things that radar picket boat guy is shouting. Too bad my radio’s busted.” He grinned at Saul.

They were approaching the east-west segment of the island and Meeks banked hard to avoid flying directly over it.

“Higher!” called Saul.

As they gained altitude, Natalie had a better view. She switched cameras, lifting the Ricoh fitted with the wide-angle lens and shooting manually, advancing film as quickly as she could, lunging to the left window to get a few shots of the long coast extending back the way they had come.

The north side of the base of the L looked like a different island: oak and pine forests south of the security zone, the land rising gently to wooded hills two hundred feet above sea level on the distant south side, and signs of careful construction. The asphalt road continued along the coast, just back from the beach, a perfectly smooth ribbon of asphalt shaded by palm trees and ancient live oaks. There were glimpses of green rooftops among the trees and a circle of benches in a grassy clearing near the center of the island became visible as they leveled off at five hundred feet.

“Summer camp dorms and the amphitheater,” called Saul. “Hang on,” said Meeks and they banked hard left again, out over what looked like a purple scythe of reef, in order to avoid flying directly over the artificial harbor and long concrete dock at the southeast corner of the island. “I don’t think they’d shoot at us,” said Meeks with a grin, “but what the hell.”

Beyond the harbor they banked steeply to the right, following the high, rocky eastern coast. Meeks nodded toward a rooftop farther south just visible above a canopy of ancient oak and colorful magnolias at the highest point of the island. “That’s the Manse,” he said. “Used to be the Vander-hoof Plantation. Old minister married into money. Built around 1770 outta cypress weatherboarding. There’s twenty-one dormers up there above the third floor . . . suppose ta be more’n a hundred twenty rooms. Thing’s survived four hurricanes, an earthquake, and the Civil War. Heli-port this side of the trees . . . there, in the clearing.”

The Cessna banked right again and lost enough altitude to be roaring along parallel to the tops of white cliffs that fell two hundred feet to a rough surf. Natalie shot five pictures with the long lens and got two with the wide angle. The Manse was visible down a long green corridor of oaks; a huge, weathered building with a quarter mile of manicured lawn leading to the vertical drop of the cliffs.

Saul checked his map and squinted at the rooftops of the Manse as they disappeared behind the tall oaks. “There’s supposed to be a road . . . or avenue coming to the Manse from the north . . .”

“Live Oak Lane,” said Meeks. “Over a mile, straight from the harbor to the base of the hill on the other side of the Manse, where the gardens are. But no road. It’s a grassy lane, thirty yards wide, between live oaks a hundred feet tall and two hundred years old. They got soft lights like Japanese lanterns up in the trees . . . seen ’em at night from ten miles out . . . they drive the VIPs up Live Oak Lane to the Manse at night when they arrive. There’s the airstrip!”

They had flown two miles west along the base of the L and the cliffs had dropped to a low, rocky shoreline and then to a broad white beach when the airstrip came into sight: a long, dark slash heading northeast into the forest.

“They come in by plane, still get the Live Oak Lane tour,” said Meeks. “Just not as much of it. Thing can handle private stuff up to the executive jet level. Probably land a seven-two-seven in a pinch. Hang on.”

They pitched steeply to the right as they came around the southwest corner of the island, the swimming beach disappearing behind them.

Ahead, the straight line of the L was ruined by a jagged inlet with the fenced security zone extending inland across the isthmus. The hundred yards of nothingness looked shocking amid the tropical lushness: the Berlin Wall transposed to paradise. North of the security zone along the west side of the island there was no sign of any man-made objects, not even ruins, and the profusion of palmetto, sea pine, and magnolia ran all the way to the water’s edge.

“How do they explain the security zone?” asked Saul.

Meeks shrugged. “S’posed to separate the wildlife refuge from the private land,” he said. “Truth of it is, it’s all private. During their summer camp— stupid name, isn’t it?— they got prime ministers and ex-presidents up here by the bushel. They keep the important folks south of the line to make their security jobs easier. Not that the whole island isn’t secure. That’s the western picket boat out there.” He nodded to his left. “Three more weeks an’ there’ll be a dozen more ships, coast guard cutters, the whole mess. Even if you got onto the island you wouldn’t get far. There’d be Secret Ser vice an’ private security forces about everywhere. If you’re doin’ a piece on C. Arnold Barent, you must know already that this man likes his privacy.”

They were approaching the northern end of the island. Saul pointed to it and said, “I’d like to land there.”

Meeks turned his sunglasses toward him. “Look, friend,” he said, “we can get around filin’ a false flight plan. We might not even get caught cutting the corners on Barent’s airspace. But if I set a wheel down on that airstrip, I’ll never see my plane again.”

“I’m not talking about the airstrip,” said Saul. “The beach on the north end is straight and hard-packed and looks long enough to land on.”

“You’re crazy,” said Meeks. He frowned and adjusted something on the controls. Ocean was visible beyond the north end of the island.

Saul removed four five-hundred-dollar bills from his shirt pocket and set them on the instrument console.

Meeks shook his head. “That won’t come close to buying a new plane or paying hospital expenses if we hit a rock or some soft sand.”

Natalie leaned forward and grasped the pilot by his shoulder. “Please, Mr. Meeks,” she said over the engine noise, “it’s
very
important to us.”

Meeks shifted so he could look at Natalie. “This isn’t just a magazine article, is it?”

Natalie glanced at Saul and then looked back to Meeks as she shook her head. “No, it’s not.”

“Does it have something to do with Rob’s death?” asked Meeks. “Yes,” said Natalie. “I thought so.” Meeks nodded. “I was never satisfied with any of the goddamned explanations about what Rob was doin’ in Philadelphia and what the hell the FBI had to do with it all. Is this billionaire Barent involved somehow?”

“We think so,” said Natalie. “We need to get more information.” Meeks pointed toward the beach passing under them. “And landing there for a few minutes’ll help you figure somethin’ out?”

“Maybe,” said Saul. “Well, shit,” murmured Meeks. “I suppose you’re both terrorists or something, but terrorists’ve never done me any harm and bastards like Barent’ve been screwin’ me over for years. Hang on.” The Cessna banked hard right until they came around again to pass over the north beach at two hundred feet of altitude. The strip of sand was only ten yards across at its widest and heavy vegetation came right to its edge. Several streams and inlets cut deep swaths through the northwest end of the beach. “Can’t be more than a hundred an’ twenty yards,” called Meeks. “Have to set it down right at the edge of the surf and pray that we don’t find a hole or rock or something.” He checked the instruments and looked down at the white lines of surf and the swaying tops of trees. “Wind’s out of the west,” he said. “Hang on.”