A Clandestine Affair

“You wouldn’t actually visit Cape Fear, would you?”

“Cape Diablo, Mother, and there’s no reason not to go there. It’s a nice quiet, secluded island amid ten thousand others in the Gulf of Mexico.”

“I don’t like it. In fact, I’m getting a really bad feeling about the place.”

So was Jaci. It was probably the crimson paint splattered like fresh blood. But she was desperate for a project, and the murder case was still as much a mystery as it had been thirty years ago.

Besides, there was nothing to fear on the island—nothing but isolation and an aging mansion that likely held deadly secrets hidden within its crumbling walls. All within an hour of the mainland by a fast boat.

The night hadn’t been a waste, after all.

FOR THE NEXT TEN DAYS, Jaci ate, slept and breathed the Santiago murders. She was so engrossed in the details, she half expected old Andres Santiago to be standing by her bed when she woke up in the morning.

But who knew what might happen when she actually reached Cape Diablo? She was headed there now, booked into one of the small apartments in what had once been a lavish pool house, or so said one of the many articles she’d read on the Santiagos’ disappearance.

She’d tried to reach Wilma St. Clair and had finally tracked her down to a residence in South Dakota, of all places. But the artist was out of town on her honeymoon and there was no way to reach her.

Jaci had also tried to get in contact with Mac Lowell, the cop who’d taken the detailed pictures of the blood splatters on the boathouse wall the night the family had disappeared.

That was a wash, as well. He’d quit the force right after that and moved out of the area. He’d later inherited his mother’s Everglades City beach house and went to visit on rare occasions. Jaci was still hoping to contact him.

She’d left word with the neighbors and also stuck a note beneath the door, asking him to call her—covering all bases in case he made a trip back to the area.

His partner that night was also unavailable. He’d been killed in a car crash about the same time Mac had moved away.

The good news was that once Professor Greeley intervened on her behalf, the Everglades City Police Department had released copies of the blood splatter photos and the pertinent police records.

The bad news was that other than the photos, the police reports left a lot to be desired. Crime scene investigations from thirty years ago, especially when the crime involved a smuggler’s family living on an island that hadn’t fallen under the jurisdiction of a big-city police force, didn’t even approach today’s standards.

Jaci swatted at a mosquito that was circling her in search of a target not coated in insect repellent. “How much farther?”

Bull Gatlin kept his eyes straight ahead. “Another ten minutes or so.”

She hoped the trip wouldn’t take longer than that. It was already dusk, and she didn’t want to be out in these waters with nothing but the moon and stars to light their way.

She didn’t see how the pilot could find Cape Diablo as it was. One island followed another, all looking pretty much the same: swamp grasses, sand, jungles of mangroves that grew along the edge of the water.

Walking trees. That’s what her dad had called the mangroves when he’d taken her fishing out in the gulf. The tangled red roots made the spindly trees look as if they were walking on the incoming surf.

Jaci settled back into the memories. At age thirteen she’d been certain losing him was the end of the world. She still missed him, especially on nights like this when she could all but hear his deep, rumbling laugh and see the sweat trickling down his brow below the grungy old hat he’d worn on their fishing excursions.

He’d considered himself an ordinary cop, but she’d be happy if she could be half as good at locating evidence and solving crimes as he’d been.

“You plan to stay long?”

The boatman’s question yanked her back to the present. “I’m not sure.”

“You brought a lot of luggage.”

“Only four bags and my laptop.”

“That black duffel could hold enough for a year-long stay. Felt like it, too, when I put it in the boat.”

So what was he—the luggage patrol? The duffel contained her research material, and that was none of his business. “I won’t be staying a year.”

“Bet not. Most folks don’t stay more than a few days.”

“Why not?”

“Not much to do there. No TV. No entertainment ’less you like to fish, and you need a large boat to do that right, one you can take out in the open waters of the gulf.”

“No distractions. No demands. That’s the beauty of a secluded island.”

“Cape Diablo’s secluded, that’s for sure. I’m the only one who goes out there regularly, and that’s only ’cause I get paid to do it. Last man who had this job was murdered right there on the island.”

“When did that happen?”

“About three months ago. Pete got mixed up with some crazy broad who went around killing people for the fun of it. That’s the kind of folks you get on Cape Diablo. Woman like you won’t stay long.”

If his plan was to give her the creeps, he was succeeding. She studied him while he steered the boat through one of the narrower channels. He was scrawny with blond scraggly hair that fell a couple of inches past his collar.

Maybe forty. Maybe not. Hard to tell, since his face showed the signs of too much sun and not enough sun block. Looked pretty much like your basic beach bum, but his name had been given to her when she’d made the rental arrangements.

“Do you run a regular shuttle to Cape Diablo?” she asked as he slowed to maneuver through a narrow spit.

He rubbed his fingers through his unkempt beard. “I bring mail and supplies out twice a week. Occasionally I make an extra run to transport a tenant.”

“Only an occasional tenant?”

“Yeah, but then I’ve just been on the job a few months, and we’ve had a run of bad weather this year, tropical storms popping up like mushrooms.”

“Mr. Cochburn said I should call you if I need supplies from town.”

“Mr. Cochburn told you that, did he?”

“Yes, he’s the attorney I talked to when I made the rental arrangements.”

“I know who he is. I just don’t see why he doesn’t level with folks he’s sending out here.”

“Then you don’t deliver supplies?”

“I deliver them, all right—mail and supplies twice a week, like I said—but good luck trying to call, unless you got one of them satellite phones. Other than that, cell service is about as dependable as a FEMA roof in a hurricane.”

Jaci hadn’t considered that possibility. “What do people on the island do in case of an emergency?”

“Tough it out. Guess that’s all part of the beauty of having no distractions,” he said, clearly mocking her earlier optimism. “That’s it up ahead. Not much to see this time of the night, but the house is pretty impressive if you arrive by day, especially while you’re too far away to see its dilapidated condition.”

The narrow dock they were approaching was lighted, but beyond that all she could see was a tangle of tree branches and one light shining from the top of a rambling Spanish villa.