Page 14 of Camino Ghosts

Swaney’s doctors were the first to diagnose his condition—Vibrio vulnificus. Flesh-eating bacteria. It had apparently entered his body through one or more of the many nicks, scratches, and cuts he had incurred but largely ignored. Now they were so swollen and painful he had to be sedated. From there he went into a coma and never came out.

Vince died in the Santa Rosa hospital while his doctors were still scratching their heads. Roy lingered for a week in Ponte Vedra as his wife watched in horror as his skin rotted and turned black. When the doctor said it was time to turn off the machines, she did not object.

It took Harmon a couple of weeks to piece together the puzzle. All four men died of Vibrio vulnificus, which led to a condition called necrotizing fasciitis, type 3. It was a rare flesh-eating bacteria but not unheard of. In the United States there are about thirty such deaths each year, almost all in warm, tropical climates. Since the four deaths occurred in separate places, there was no way to link them to the job at Dark Isle. Indeed, that little project had been secretive, and Harmon wasn’t about to divulge anything that was not required. The company had done nothing wrong, nor had anyone else. It would be difficult if not impossible to prove where and when the bacteria was encountered.

The report to Tidal Breeze did not mention the four deaths. It said nothing about the mysterious, temporary blackout of all communications. It certainly didn’t mention the threat of wild animals—panthers and diamondbacks. It assured the client that there were no signs of ancient life on the island. No roads, trails, abandoned dwellings, fences, settlements, cemeteries. Nothing. Nothing but piles and mounds of fallen trees, broken limbs, and dead vegetation. Clearing the island for development would be a “substantial challenge,” since so much would have to be hauled away, but it was possible.

The report was exactly what Tidal Breeze had in mind, and with it in hand the company pushed on with its aggressive plans to develop Panther Cay.

CHAPTER THREE

THE CURSE

1.

After two weeks of sightseeing, hiking, camping, pub-crawling, and loafing in the chilly air of the Highlands, Mercer and Thomas had returned to the heat and humidity of summertime Florida. It was a rude reentry. The first morning back, they tried to enjoy coffee on the veranda but quickly surrendered to the heat and bugs. Their previous coffee had been on the terrace of a Scottish castle, wrapped in quilts.

But life goes on. It was now already July, and classes started at Ole Miss in late August. The summer was half over.

They were consumed with Lovely’s history of Dark Isle. Mercer wanted it to be her next book but could not decide if it should be fiction or nonfiction. She could easily take the story, otherwise known as “stealing” in the trade and perfectly acceptable, and change the names and as many of the facts as she wanted. She would have complete literary license to create and fabricate. Thomas preferred nonfiction and wanted her to stick to the truth. He had sort of agreed to work as her researcher, though they had a long way to go. Being married would be enough of a challenge. They weren’t sure if they could survive working together.

They went together to the Santa Rosa library and got lost in old newspapers, but didn’t find much about Dark Isle. Lovely’s story spanned over 250 years and had plenty of gaps. They didn’t expect to verify any of it, but they had to dig anyway. Her story also stretched the imagination at times, almost to the point of disbelief.

Since Bruce Cable was the only person they knew who’d ever met Lovely, they were eager to talk to him. Mercer called and suggested lunch, always the best entrée with Bruce, and he responded predictably: Lunch tomorrow! And at his house, which, of course, meant a longer meal with a longer nap to follow, preferably in his hammock. He had someone they needed to meet.

Noelle was in France buying antiques, so Bruce, no slouch in the kitchen, cooked a tomato pie and served it with an arugula salad. They ate on the terrace with ancient ceiling fans swaying and creaking above. Bruce poured ice-cold Chablis and wanted to know all about Scotland.

Steven Mahon arrived fifteen minutes late, with apologies. He had met Mercer at the bookstore but she did not remember him. He had also just reread Lovely’s book and was up to speed. “Bruce says you may want to write the story,” he said.

Mercer frowned at Bruce and wanted to say, Well, Bruce, as always, has a big mouth. But she demurred with “We’ll see. It’s interesting.”

“It’s fascinating,” Steven agreed. “And now the plot is getting really thick.”

Mercer asked Bruce, “Do you think Lovely will talk to me? I’ll have to tell her up front that I’m a writer and I’m thinking of borrowing her story.”

“I have no idea. She’s a pleasant person but very guarded. I always get the impression she distrusts everyone and for that reason doesn’t say much. I can call and find out. As I said, she refuses to talk on the phone.”

“And she’s here, on the island?” Steven asked.

“Yes, lives in The Docks, on the south end, outside the limits of Santa Rosa, an old neighborhood on the bay side where the oyster houses and canneries once operated. Many of the workers were black and they settled around the canneries. A hundred years ago The Docks was a bustling community with its own economy and churches. Even had an elementary school. It’s still there, still busy. A lot of the blacks have scattered and a lot of hippies and artists have moved in. The housing is cheaper.”

“Also known as Voodoo Village,” Mercer said.

“That too. Years ago, when it was all black, white folks knew better than to go there after dark. There were stories about witch doctors and ghosts and such. African curses, rituals, and so on. But it’s different now.”

“So Lovely lives in Voodoo Village?” Steven asked, amused.

“The Docks. I haven’t heard it called Voodoo Village in years. But, yes, she lives there as far as I know. I’ve never seen her house, never been invited. She told me at the bookstore one time that she lives in a small house with her neighbors just down the street. I got the impression they look after her.”

“She has a friend, right?” Mercer asked.

“Yes, Miss Naomi, who is sort of her caretaker. When she visits the store, Miss Naomi is always driving.”

“When did you move here, Bruce?” Thomas asked.

“Over twenty years ago.”

“And you, Steven?”

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