Writing All Wrongs (4 page)

Harris Williams, part-time software designer and the newest member of the Oyster Bay Police Department, looked at her. “Are you a fan of
No Quarter
?”

Millay used the end of her scarf to buff the steel studs on her leather bracelet. “Not really, but I feel like people take cheap shots at Black just because he’s successful. Not many writers manage to turn their own books into popular TV shows. The curator is probably jealous. He mentioned that he’d self-pubbed a local history book like ten times.”

“People are going to envy you too, Millay,” said Laurel Hobbs, assistant editor of the
Gazette
and mother to twin boys. “I can’t believe that your first book is being released on Thursday. Are you ready?”

Millay shrugged. “At this point, I don’t know what else to do. Harris created a killer website and book trailer for
me, I’ve built a decent following on Facebook, and the early reviews are good, so I guess I’m ready. Still, I’m attending Silas Black’s Q&A session to see if he has any pointers.”

Rawlings, who had a copy of Black’s latest novel on his lap, tapped the cover. “His books didn’t become widely popular until after the TV show became a hit. I hope your book takes wing right away, Millay.”

“Whatever happens, you’ve done something very few people can do. You took an idea, molded it into a well-written story, landed an agent, and signed a three-book deal with a major publishing house.” Olivia raised her glass in salute. “You’re my hero.”

Embarrassed by the attention, Millay fidgeted with her bracelet again. “The rest of you aren’t far behind. Chief, adding a crime element to your book is going to make it more saleable. And if you ever finished your women’s fiction, Laurel, you could probably sell it based on your success as a journalist. And Harris? If you’d stop playing video games, your sci-fi novel would be done by now.” She glanced at Olivia. “You have an excuse because you started a whole new project last summer. It was the right call too.”

“Following your lead won’t be easy,” Harris said. “Ever since I started working as a research consultant for the chief, I’ve been toying with the idea of making some alterations to my main character. Instead of his walking loudly and carrying a big photon stick, I’m starting to envision him as a futuristic geek who solves problems using his amazing brain.”

“Your leading lady could use some more gray cells,” Millay said. “And less latex. Besides, I doubt latex suits make the best choice for interstellar exploration missions.”

Harris shot Millay a lecherous grin. “I love it when you talk sci-fi.”

Millay pressed her spiky boot heel into the top of Harris’s
foot. “Watch it, or I’ll narc on you to Emily. With her being in Texas, it’s up to me to keep you in line.”

“How’s the long-distance thing going?” Laurel asked Harris.

“I miss her like crazy,” Harris replied. “And I’m not sure what our next move is. She has a job and family there, but you guys, my jobs, and my house are in Oyster Bay. And I love hanging with the cops by day and being a kick-ass game designer by night. The problem is that neither Emily nor I want to give up the lives we’re leading.”

Rawlings gave Harris a paternal slap on the back. “You’ll figure it out.”

Harris stared at his hands. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because Emily makes you happy,” Rawlings said. “You’re smart enough to know what your future would be like without her in it, so you’ll figure it out.”

“Speaking of smart, who was that handsome man you were talking to at the end of this evening’s panel?” Laurel asked Olivia. “I heard someone call him ‘professor.’”

“That’s Emmett Billinger,” Olivia said. “You’ve all heard his name before. He’s helped us numerous times over the years. I’ll make sure to introduce everyone at some point this weekend.”

Laurel finished her wine, set her glass on the coffee table, and then wagged a finger at Rawlings. “Look out, Chief. That professor likes your wife. He lit up like a lamp when she got close.”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “All right, people. Lace up your shoes. It’s time for us to raise money for turtles and learn what Emmett meant when he said that the island is a different place by night.”

*   *   *

Several hundred people had congregated around the base of the state’s oldest lighthouse waiting for Jan Powell, the head of
the Palmetto Island Conservancy, to lead them in the moonlit tour through parts of the maritime forest. No one seemed to mind that the walk took place at nine instead of midnight or that the coy moon kept hiding behind a patch of watery-looking clouds. The night air smelled fresh and clean, and an ocean breeze rippled the oak tree canopy at the edge of the forest.

Jan, a formidable-looking woman with a bullhorn in one hand and a clipboard in the other, kicked off the event with a speech about the value of the island’s undeveloped areas.

“The only way we can maintain the delicate balance created by nature is to
defend
nature!” Jan bellowed into the bullhorn. “The only way to protect the land between Allen’s Creek and the Cape Fear River is to buy it! If Silas Black and his team of developers outbid us, they’ll fill in the marshes, cut down the trees, build houses, and forever alter the ecosystem. Do we want more cookie-cutter mansions, or do we want to protect endangered animals?”

“Animals!” the majority of the crowd shouted in reply.

“Animals won’t feed our families!” a man called from the periphery of the group. “I’ve been laid off for two years! If someone will pay me to fill in that marsh, I’ll fill it in. Show me the damn bulldozer!”

This was followed by both cries of agreement and screams of indignation from the conservancy supporters.

“Things might get ugly,” Rawlings said, adopting his cop stance. He spread his feet, hip width apart, and scanned the area from left to right. Olivia saw his hand reach for his gun holster, and there was a moment’s confusion when he realized that he wasn’t wearing his utility belt.

Suddenly, there was a surge at the front of the throng. People began shoving one another until a woman shrieked, “Look what you’ve done!”

The crowd parted and an old man, supported by another man, who had to be his son, wobbled toward a bench near the fence.

“Someone threw a rock at George Allen!” a woman yelled. “I think it was the guy in the flannel shirt!”

The shrill sound of a whistle cut through the angry din, which had doubled in volume following the accusation, and half a dozen policemen fanned out along the crowd’s perimeter.

One of the cops took the bullhorn from Jan. “That’s enough, folks.” His voice floated over their heads. “If you’re going on the walk, start walking. Follow Mike; he’s wearing the reflective vest. Go on. Get moving.” The officer waited a heartbeat before continuing. “If you’re not walking, you should leave. Now.”

“We have the right to free speech!” someone shouted.

“That you do,” the officer agreed. “And you had a chance to exercise that right at last night’s town hall meeting. The land sale won’t be decided here. So unless anyone
else
would like to throw rocks at the island’s oldest resident, you should go on home.”

A group consisting mostly of men peeled off from the crowd. Olivia watched them move away, adjusting their baseball caps or spitting tobacco juice into the grass. Their jeans, canvas jackets, and leather boots were worn and frayed at the edges. They were working-class men without work.

“Those men need a purpose,” she said to Rawlings. “Being unemployed hurts their pride.”

Rawlings followed her gaze. “I heard quite a bit about this conflict between conservation and development while I was sketching today. The two sides have clashed before. The last time, the land in question was purchased by the state and donated to the conservancy, but the land currently for sale is privately owned. I sure hope the owner is keeping a low profile. This is an extremely volatile situation.”

Olivia looked to where George Allen sat on the bench. She didn’t want to join the walkers until she’d asked after his welfare, so she told Rawlings and the rest of the Bayside Book Writers to go ahead without her.

She approached the man who had to be George’s son, who was dabbing his father’s forehead with a wad of napkins. “Excuse me,” Olivia said softly. “Can I offer any assistance? Get you some water, maybe?”

George managed a slight shake of the head. “I’m all right, Miss. I’ve got a hard noggin.”

“You ready to go home, Pop?” George’s son was paler than his father. The hand holding the napkins trembled.

Olivia turned to him. “May I take your father’s other arm?”

“Thank you, but Boyd can manage,” George answered in a whisper-thin voice. “I’m nothing but a bag of bones. You go on your walk. But keep your distance from the others if you want to learn about this place. If you listen to the island, you might hear something they don’t. If you really look at her, she might show you things you won’t forget.”

“I’d like that,” Olivia said. “I’d also like to listen to your stories, Mr. Allen. Emmett Billinger told me that you’re the best storyteller he’s ever met.”

George smiled wearily, deepening the lines and wrinkles etched into every inch of his skin. “Emmett’s a good boy. He teaches our history so it will never be lost. That’s what matters, Miss. To never lose our stories.”

“Come on, Pop. Let’s get you to bed.” Boyd flicked his gaze at Olivia. “The professor told us about you, and you’re welcome to stop by tomorrow morning. Pop doesn’t sleep much at night, so he tends to nap in the afternoon. We live behind the gift shop.” He pointed at the renovated lighthouse keeper’s cottage.

Olivia thanked both men, wished them a good night, and hurried to catch up to her friends.

She could see the slowest walkers ahead on the road, the beams of their flashlights throwing shadows across the ground. In the distance, Olivia was able to pick out Laurel’s white sweater. She also saw Rawlings, Harris, and Millay, but decided to heed George Allen’s advice and linger behind.

It didn’t take long before the live oaks sprang up on either side of the road and the canopy of leaves obscured the moonlight. In the night, their twisted limbs and gnarled joints looked like rheumatoid fingers. The vines curling up their trunks resembled swollen veins.

As the copse of oaks grew thicker, Olivia switched on her own flashlight and kept her free hand in her coat pocket. The air, which was cool and salty, whispered through the tree leaves. Over the subtle sawing of insects, Olivia heard the sound of something moving through the undergrowth deeper in the woods. She listened as the snapping of twigs grew louder, followed by the crash of a creature racing through the trees.

Olivia froze. The animal was too big to be a raccoon or an opossum.

“A fox,” she told herself. “It’s probably a fox.”

She increased her pace, remembering how George Allen had told her to look and to listen. She was hearing the island. She was seeing the crooked oak limbs, the jagged leaves of holly bushes, and the wisps of Spanish moss hanging from the trees like the brittle hair of a witch. If the island meant to show her its true nature, as George suggested, then its true self was wild. Untamable.

Rounding a bend, Olivia discovered that she’d caught up to the other walkers.

“There you are!” Laurel exclaimed in a dramatic whisper. “We thought you might have been captured by a pirate reenactor.”

“She should be so lucky,” Millay said dourly. “Who goes on a nature walk at night? I can’t see squat. Trees, bushes, and more trees. I keep waiting for an alligator to pop out and scare the crap out of someone, but the most excitement we’ve had was when a lizard darted over some woman’s shoe and she nearly jumped in the creek.”

Rawlings glanced upward. “This walk has taught me plenty about the importance of setting. This place has a
tangible atmosphere. The second you leave the beach and enter the forest, the island turns primeval.”

“It feels haunted. It’s like a cemetery without the headstones,” Harris said. “You heard what Mr. Sherrill said about the thousand watery graves surrounding the island. Well, some of those people must have washed ashore. Maybe they never left. Maybe they’re still here, in these woods, right over—umph!”

Millay had shoved him off the path. “You’re going to be haunted by a killer case of poison ivy if you don’t zip it. I want to hear how the old man is doing.”

“He seems to be okay. His son took him home to bed. I’m going to . . .” She stopped as more crashing noises came from the woods.

“It’s just me!” Jan announced officiously. “I circled around by another path so I could lead us back to the lighthouse.” She scrutinized the five friends. “You’re visitors to our island paradise, aren’t you?”

They all nodded.

Jan held out her clipboard. “Have you had a chance to sign our petition yet? Or make a donation? We can use all the help we can get. We’re running out of time.”

“We all donated when we first arrived at the lighthouse,” Olivia answered for the group. “But we don’t feel comfortable signing a petition until we’ve reviewed the facts.”

“Then allow me to tell you the conservancy’s side of the argument as we walk. Is that okay?”

Olivia agreed, and Jan began a passionate recitation detailing how the sale and development of the tract of land known as Allen’s Creek would forever alter the natural habitat. She’d just begun to list the animals whose territory would be transformed when she suddenly trailed off. She opened her mouth wide, but no sound came out.

“What is it?” Olivia asked and then followed Jan’s horrified stare.

Behind them, Laurel made the noise Jan couldn’t produce. She screamed in surprise and revulsion and clung to the sleeve of Harris’s jacket.

Olivia came to an abrupt halt next to Jan, gaping at what she saw in the small clearing directly in front of them. Here, the moonlight spilled on a carpet of ferns. A ring of oaks stood like crooked sentinels around the body of a deer.

A white deer.

Its fur gleamed in the pale light like a patch of winter snow. Other than its pink ears and nose, it was completely white. Olivia had never seen anything like it.

When she got closer, however, she saw that she’d been mistaken. Another color marred the pure white. There was a bright red trail of blood running from a wound in the deer’s breast. And there was red staining the white arrow shaft protruding from the wound.