Guardian of the Night

Unfortunately the stifling humidity she’d encountered the moment she stepped off the plane in Atlanta hadn’t abated as Blue made the boat ride to St. Gabriel Island late that evening. The view, even in the coming twilight, she had to admit, was nothing short of spectacular. She’d have been here hours ago had it not been for baggage-check delays in Atlanta.

As they cut through the water’s sleek surface, she inhaled more deeply of the salty wind caressing her face. It was rich with scents, nothing like the kind she was accustomed to in the big city. Admittedly, there was a vague hint of decaying vegetation and fish, but it wasn’t an overpowering smell, more a dash of aroma one would expect in the vicinity of a sea island.

As the boat slowed near the landing, Blue studied the small island. Near the aging dock, which served as a primitive marina, she could see what looked like a small commercial district. Very small, she decided on second look and commercial applied only in the most obscure sense of the word. Towering trees dripping Spanish moss from their arching limbs lined the sandy shore, sentinels guarding the forest beyond, a forest that looked incredibly deep and dark. She resisted the urge to shiver. And yet, it felt oddly familiar. She frowned, wondering at the sensation. She’d certainly never been here before.

It wasn’t what Blue had expected at all. When Lucas had said island, she’d thought of palm trees and other tropical plants, beaches filled with sunbathers and at least a few tourist hangouts. Not for a moment had she expected evergreens, live oaks and other deciduous trees with gnarled branches. And she definitely hadn’t anticipated the apparently sparse population.

In spite of her best efforts that shiver she’d put off tap-danced up her spine. She was being ridiculous, she knew. But all things considered, the whole mission was a little eerie even without the seemingly deserted island setting.

She’d studied the profile on Noah Drake. He was thirty-five, former military and highly decorated. Five years ago he’d field-tested some sort of experimental technology that was not explained since it was highly classified and explanations were doled out on a need-to-know basis only. The brass had apparently decided she didn’t need to know specifically what the technology was or what exactly were the resulting effects as applied to Mr. Drake. Nothing like going in blind.

She did know, however, that Drake had suffered extreme side effects. There was no mention of a physical disability, but that didn’t rule it out. He was confined to his home and had to avoid exposure to bright light, especially sunlight, at all costs. She decided that his eyes were likely the problem. Maybe his skin. Whatever the case, she would soon know.

The bottom line—and her only real concern at this point—was that he needed protection. And she was here to provide it. Noah Drake would be safe on her watch.

The boat sidled up alongside the rustic dock and Blue climbed out. She was glad now she’d dressed in jeans and walking shoes. The jeans were faded and comfortable and the black button-up blouse was her favorite.

The pilot plopped the two duffel bags she’d packed onto the worn planks. Blue thanked him and turned toward the shore. She shaded her eyes from the setting sun with her hand and searched the landing for the transportation Lucas had told her would be waiting.

An ancient pickup truck was parked about fifty feet back from the beach. At one time the vehicle appeared to have been some shade of green, though it was hard to say for sure now. Blue grabbed up her bags and started in that direction.

As she neared him, the thin man standing next to the truck pushed back his cap and scratched his balding head. “Miss Callahan?”

“At your service,” she responded, smiling a greeting in hopes of getting off on the right foot with the locals.

“Chester Parks.” He spat tobacco juice onto the ground, then squinted at her. “I’m s’posed to take you to the old Hatfield place.”

“That would be Mr. Drake’s residence?” she asked for clarification.

Reaching for one of her bags, Chester spat again and said, “Yeah. Long time ago it was a sugar plantation run by the Hatfields. Guess the name just stuck.”

Blue nodded her understanding and handed him the other bag once he’d tossed the first one into the back of his truck. Maybe the islanders weren’t as standoffish as Lucas thought. This guy seemed friendly enough.

“I’m eager to meet Mr. Drake,” she told him.

The second bag plopped down next to the first. Chester eyed her skeptically. “I imagine you’d be the only one eager for his company around here.”

Keeping the frown out of her expression, she prodded, “Why is that?”

“Well, I don’t mean to speak ill of nobody, specially if he’s your kin, but he’s an odd sort.” Chester rounded the tailgate to the driver’s side and opened the door, but hesitated before getting in. “He roams around all hours of the night like some kinda vampire. He don’t have no visitors ’cept that Mr. Kline. And—” Chester looked at her as if this was the gravest part of all “—he goes places God-fearing folks don’t go. Guess you’ll have to see for yourself.”

Blue slid into the passenger seat and wondered if Chester’s sentiments toward Mr. Drake were common among the residents. She supposed they didn’t understand his condition or the reclusiveness it dictated. It wasn’t her place to explain the circumstances. Drake might prefer his privacy.

Now that she’d had a chance to take a closer look, she noted that the “commercial district” offerings were as scarce as the population around here appeared to be. A bar, BullDog’s, and a large metal warehouse that advertised bicycle and what looked like golf cart rentals by the hour or day was just about the extent of it.

“There ain’t that many vehicles on the island,” Chester said when he followed her gaze to the golf carts. “Most folks walk or ride bicycles. Since I’ve got ol’ Bessy here, I run errands for Mr. Kline and a few of the other shut-ins. Been doing it ever since I came back from the navy in ’59.”

Blue acknowledged his chitchat with noncommittal sounds and nods at the appropriate times. She’d learned long ago that one gleaned far more by listening. Chester would know the island gossip, so she allowed him to ramble on without interruption. There was no more talk about vampires, but pirates and smugglers appeared to be a big part of the island lore.

He’d mentioned Mr. Kline. Lowell Kline had been Noah Drake’s sole associate for the past year. That much had been in the report. No one else was allowed in the house. Chester had called him a shut-in. That led Blue to wonder if Mr. Kline ever left the house either. Blue couldn’t bear that kind of lonely existence. She loved feeling the wind in her hair and the sun on her face too well. She was a California girl through and through.

Chester shifted into reverse, the transmission grinding in loud protest, and turned around so that the truck pointed toward the one road.

Blue blinked, thinking she had to be wrong, then looked again. Yep, just one road.

“Most visitors rent a cart,” Chester rattled on. “They’re right handy for getting you where you’re going around here. Not that there’s that much to do or see. Most tourists flock to St. Simons or Tybee Island. We don’t see many of ’em here. Just a few curious Georges now and again wanting to see some of the old caves the smugglers once used.”

Forcing interest into her expression and uneasiness out of it, she nodded. “I guess it’s always this quiet around here then.”

“We like it that way.” He glanced in her direction as he shifted into second. “You’ll get used to it.”

Not wanting to hurt his feelings, she smiled and kept her thoughts on the matter to herself: not in this lifetime.

Jimmy Buffet’s “Cheeseburger in Paradise” emanated from somewhere, the bar maybe. She studied the joint as they chugged past it. To a degree it defied description, the kind term would be quaint. In Blue’s estimation it was a dump. A shack with a rusty corrugated tin roof and a couple of windows that had been boarded shut at one time or another. There was no way to tell if the damage had been caused by a storm or by rowdy patrons. Beer logos and a crude hand-painted sign displaying the hours of business decorated the weathered batten-board siding. One truck, a relative of the one Chester drove no doubt, two bicycles and a moped were parked in front of the establishment. Things were jumping at BullDog’s, she mused.

At the edge of “downtown” was a small general store, its dusty parking area empty. The building wasn’t large, but it was well-maintained, clean even. As they drove by, an elderly man stepped onto the stoop, broom in hand, and vigorously swept off the steps.

“That’s where most folks get the little things they run out of now and again.” Chester nodded toward Weber’s Grocery. “Gotta go to the mainland to get your staples though. O’Mally, the fella who hauled you over, makes two runs a day from the mainland, once in the morning, once in the evening. Otherwise you gotta hire some local to run you back and forth.”

Blue had lived in one major city or the other her whole life. This was definitely a big change. No carry-out pizza, no taco stands, no Chinese takeout, no nothing.

She shook her head and amended her thinking. No, this wasn’t a big change. This was a whole different planet. Lucas had failed to mention that little detail.

The woods bordered the narrow island road for as far as Blue could see in the enveloping gloom. And, as far as she could tell, there really was only the one road, which was as bumpy as all get out. Alongside the cramped road, undergrowth was thick, the massive canopy of the trees stretching over it blocking the sun’s waning light.

She didn’t like the dark. She stiffened her spine and tamped down the budding fear. It wasn’t completely dark, she reminded herself, just gloomy. She’d be at her destination before darkness completely descended.

But one thing was a given, she wouldn’t want to be out in these woods at night. No way. She couldn’t shake the sensation of recognition, though she knew it was not feasible.

Occasionally she noticed what looked like a side road, but the foliage worked as such good camouflage that she couldn’t be sure if she’d seen anything at all. She hadn’t noticed a single house or person except for the handful of patrons at the bar and general store, and, of course, Chester.

“Here we go.”

Chester turned right, bouncing down a lane that was one pothole after the other. The woods closed in on Blue now, dark, silent and subliminally threatening. Her uneasiness escalated in spite of her conscious efforts to keep it in check.

Get a grip, she chastised herself. She might be a fish out of water in these surroundings, but she could adapt. Give her a flashlight and a nine-millimeter and she could kick anybody’s butt, even in the dark.

Finally the near-nonexistent road widened slightly. A tall wrought-iron gate crossed their path. Hinged on brick pillars that stood on either side of the lane, one side of the ornate gate was open, allowing their passage. Beyond the apparently decorative feature the compact undergrowth and the dense forest opened up into a clearing. A lush green lawn stretched for half an acre and stopped abruptly at the foundation of a towering three-story house. Blue wasn’t that up to speed on this particular architecture, but it looked old, as in antique-old—mid-1800s, if she had to guess. And a little like something from an Emily Brontë novel with its perception of beauty marred by a distinct air of evil, especially in the fading light.

Ivy carpeted a great deal of the brick exterior. Here and there resurrection fern sprouted from a crack in the centuries-old mortar. Window after window—long, wide windows—were shut tight with hurricane shutters. A crenelated tower and a parapet along the tin-shingled roofline lent a castle-like feel to the place. Wooden icicles of fretwork and other intricately carved ornamentation softened the hard exterior.

A wide verandah sprawled across the front of the house, twilight casting it in long shadows. A smaller balcony centered on the second floor. The third floor of the structure, the tower, could have been a fairy-tale turret had it been round instead of square. A tower room, she decided, feeling suddenly better. Okay, she could live with that. When she’d been a little girl she’d dreamed of being a princess and living in a castle. Her fantasy chamber had been at the very top of the spiral stairs. The tower room. She smiled faintly at the memory. She wasn’t a little girl anymore and she darned sure wasn’t a princess. Far from it. But this was nice. A little too far away from civilization, but doable on a temporary basis.

The house looked in fairly good condition, maintenancewise. But there was something unsettling about it, she decided the moment Chester turned off the truck’s engine. It was so quiet. The shutters were closed tight over the numerous windows. Another shameful waste of architectural beauty. She supposed it was Drake’s condition that necessitated the closed shutters. She swiped at her damp brow with the back of her hand and hoped there was air-conditioning. It was still hot and sticky and the sun was all but gone from sight.

As she emerged from the truck, bottles hanging from a nearby tree captured her attention. “What’re those?” she asked, closing the door behind her and pointing to the bottles in question.

Chester flicked a glance toward the tree. “Spirit bottles,” he said. “They keep the evil spirits away.”