seated on the bar stool next to Gil had nodded his agreement before burying his nose into a half-full beer glass.
“Fuckin’ nut jobs in there. Wouldn’t have gone there if I was dyin’!” a third man interjected, a scrawny guy with gapped teeth in a worn flannel shirt and baggy jeans who slid his glass toward the bartender. “Hey, Hal, I’ll have another.”
Just then the phone rang and the barkeep said, “In a sec, Corky,” then swept the receiver to his ear and propped it there with one shoulder as he drew another Budweiser from the tap.
“I heard the local shrink Dr. McPhee—I think that’s her name—used to work out there.” Dern nodded toward the plate-glass window with its glowing neon sign filling half the space that overlooked the bay and, farther out, the island.
“McPherson.” Gil shook his head of white hair. “Maybe. Don’t know.”
The scrawny guy cackled. “Yeah, McPherson, uh-huh, that’s right. My aunt went to see her there a while back. They had clinics for the public, outside the gates of that damned place.”
“On the island?”
“Yep. But they closed, too. Anyway, Aunt Audrey, she didn’t like anything about Sea Cliff. It bothered her being so close to the hospital. Quit after three sessions.”
“So where’d McPherson go?”
Corky lifted a shoulder. “Got an office somewhere around here.”
“In Anchorville?” Dern asked.
“Near Third Street. But she still ferries herself out to the island.” He was nodding, agreeing with himself. “The woman who owns most of it, she’s a real head case. Went off the rails when her kid drowned.”
The muscles in the back of Dern’s neck tightened a bit.
“Went missing,” Gil corrected. “No body was ever found.”
Corky snorted. “If the kid was alive, he’d have shown up by now.” He snagged the beer that Hal scooted across the scarred bar. “Thanks. Y’know, some folks think Lester Reece came back after he escaped and was behind the kid’s disappearance.”
“The prisoner at Sea Cliff?” Dern asked, trying not to show too much interest, though anything about the island caught his attention.
“Yup.” Corky took a long swallow from his glass.
“Conjecture,” Gil disagreed. “Reece, too, is probably dead.”
“Nah-ah,” Corky disagreed. “People ’round here, they seen him.”
“Recently?” Dern asked.
“No way.” Gil pulled a disbelieving face. “No one saw him since right after his escape.”
Corky complained, “But Old Remus Calhoun—”
“Is a bald-faced liar. Likes to stir things up.” Gil seemed convinced that the rumors were false. “Remus claims he saw Big Foot, too, and swears when he was in Scotland he caught a glimpse of Nessie.” He took a long swallow from his drink, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve and said, “What’re the chances of that?”
“So no one saw Reece again? After his escape?” Dern asked, and the silent guy shook his head and even Corky gave it a rest.
“Most likely drowned tryin’ to get away from the island—y’know like those guys who used to try and break out of Alcatraz,” Gil thought aloud. “One of ’em Churches claims they seen him swimmin’ away that day.”
“Which one?” Dern asked.
“Oh, damn . . .” He paused, thinking. “He was the brother of that invalid girl up at the island. What’s his name? Jim or Jack or . . .”
Corky snorted with an edge of disgust. “Jacob.”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Gil agreed. “The computer geek.”
Silent Guy nodded again.
Gil added, “Old Lester, he’s kinda like our own version of Elvis, though. People keep thinking they see him, just like they did with the King for years, but nah, he ain’t around. No more’n D. B. Cooper is.” He let out a hard laugh that morphed into a coughing fit. As he hacked, his sallow face flushed a sudden deep red.
“You okay, Gil?” the barkeep asked as Gil got control and took a long sip of his drink.
“Yeah.” Gil cleared his throat.
“Maybe ya should switch to menthols,” Corky advised.
“And maybe you should shut up.” Gil sent Corky the evil eye, but the smaller man didn’t seem to notice or care as he burrowed his nose into his drink.
Dern finished his own draft and didn’t ask any more questions about Church Island or its inhabitants. But he thought he’d have a talk with Jacob, who, now pushing thirty, was off and on the island, always “going to school.” He spent a few minutes just listening as the others talked, and the conversation turned naturally to the coming crabbing season, then the latest football news. He drained his drink, set some bills on the bar, and left the three men still arguing about