Camino Ghosts

“Here’s the plot. Florida being Florida, the real estate swingers have scoured every square inch of the state looking for an undeveloped beach. They found Dark Isle years ago, but there was a big problem. The island is too small to justify the cost of a bridge. The developers could never configure enough condos, hotels, water parks and T-shirt shops, et cetera, to convince the state to build a bridge. So Dark Isle was off-limits. But Hurricane Leo changed all that. Its eye went directly over the island, split off the north end, and shoved tons of sand into a massive reef that links the southern tip to a spot near Dick’s Harbor on the mainland. The engineers now say that a bridge would be much cheaper to build. Like vultures, the developers are all over it and they’re leaning on their pals in Tallahassee.”

Thomas said, “So, Lovely Jackson is the plot.”

“You got it. She claims to be the sole owner.”

Mercer said, “If she doesn’t live there, why not just sell to the developers?”

Bruce tossed the book into a pile and drank his coffee. He smiled and said, “Because it’s hallowed ground. Her people are buried there. One of her great-grandmothers, a woman named Nalla, was on the Venus. Lovely is not selling. Period.”

Thomas asked, “What’s the position of the developers?”

“They have lawyers and they’re a tough bunch. They say there’s no record Lovely was even born on the island. Keep in mind, she’s the only living witness. All other relatives have been dead for decades.”

“And the bad guys have big plans?” Mercer asked.

“Are you kidding? Wall-to-wall condos, resorts, golf courses. There’s even a rumor that they’ve cut a deal with the Seminoles for a casino. The nearest fancy one is two hours away. The entire island will be paved in three years’ time.”

“And Lovely can’t afford lawyers?”

“Of course not. She’s in her eighties and gets a small Social Security check each month.”

“In her eighties?” Mercer repeated. “Do you know for sure?”

“No. There’s no birth certificate, no record anywhere. If you read her book, and I suggest you do so immediately, you’ll realize how isolated these people were for centuries.”

Mercer said, “I’ve already packed books for the trip.”

“Okay, your business, not mine. But allow me to offer a teaser. One reason they were so isolated was because Nalla was an African witch doctor, some sort of voodoo priestess. In a scene you’ll remember for a long time, she put a curse on the island to protect it from outsiders.”

Thomas shook his head and said, “Now I smell a plot.”

“You like it?”

“I do.”

Mercer said, “I’ll start reading on the plane.”

Bruce said, “Send me a note from Scotland when you finish.”

3

As soon as the plane leveled off, somewhere over South Carolina, Mercer pulled the book from her tote bag and studied the cover. The artwork wasn’t bad and depicted a narrow dirt road lined with huge oaks and drifts of Spanish moss hanging almost to the ground. The trees grew darker and faded into the title: The Dark History of Dark Isle. Across the bottom was the author’s name: Lovely Jackson. Inside there was a half-title page, then the credits. The publisher was a small vanity house in Orlando. No dedication, no author photo, no blurbs splashed across the back cover. And no editing at all.

Mercer was expecting a simple writing style. Easy words of no more than three syllables. Short, direct sentences, only a few commas. Certainly no literary flourishes. However, the writing was easy to read, and the story so compelling that Mercer quickly set aside her rather snotty editorial and professorial thoughts and got lost in it. When she finished the first chapter without a break, she realized that the writing was far more effective and engrossing than most of the stuff she was forced to read from her students. Indeed, the writing and storytelling were more interesting than most of the hyped debut novels she’d read in the past year.

She realized Thomas was watching her. “Yes?”

“You’re really zipping right along,” he said. “How is it?”

“Quite good.”

“When can I read it?”

“How about when I get finished?”

“How about we tag-team and alternate chapters? Back and forth?”

“I’ve never read a book like that and I’m not inclined to start now.”

“It’ll be easy since I read twice as fast as you.”

“Are you trying to provoke me?” she asked.

“Always. We’ve been married for about twenty hours. It’s time for our first spat.”

“I’m not taking the bait, dear. Now stick your nose in your own book and leave me alone.”

“Okay, but hurry up.”

She looked at him, smiled, shook her head, and said, “We forgot to consummate our marriage last night.”

Thomas looked around to see if other passengers might hear them. “We’ve been consummating for three years.”

“No, Romeo, a marriage can’t be official, at least in the biblical sense, until the vows are said, we’re pronounced wife and husband, and we do the deed.”

“So you’re still a virgin, in the biblical sense?”

“I’m not going that far.”