Thirty minutes of work revealed a spine and upper pelvic rim.
I sat back, a tingle of dread crawling my scalp.
The bones were connected by muscle and ligament.
As I stared, the first fly buzzed in, sun iridescent on its emerald body.
Sweet Jesus.
Rising, I brushed dirt from my knees. I had to get to a phone.
Dickie Dupree had a lot more to worry about than the ancient Sewee.
2
DEWEES ISLANDERS ARE RIGIDLY SMUG ABOUT THE ECOLOGICAL purity of living "across the way." Sixty-five percent of their little kingdom is given over to a conservation easement. Ninety percent is undeveloped. Residents prefer things, as they say, wild on the vine. No grooming, no pruning.
No bridge. Access to Dewees is by private ferry or boat. Roads are sand-based, and internal combustion transport is tolerated solely for construction service and deliveries. Oh, yeah. The island has an ambulance, a fire engine, and an all-terrain brushfire-fighting vehicle. Though fond of serenity, the homeowners aren't totally naive.
Ask me? Nature's great when on vacation. It's a pain in the ass when trying to report a suspicious death.
Dewees is only twelve hundred acres, and my crew was digging in the far southeastern corner, in a stand of maritime forest between Lake Timicau and the Atlantic Ocean. Not a chance of scoring a cell phone signal.
Leaving Topher in charge of the site, I hiked up the beach to a wooden boardwalk, used it to cross the dunes, and hopped into one of our half dozen golf carts. I was turning the key when a pack hit the seat beside me, followed by Winborne's polyester-clad buttocks. Intent on finding a working phone, I hadn't heard him trailing behind.
OK. Better than leaving the twit to snoop unsupervised.
Wordlessly, I gunned it, or whatever one does with electric carts. Winborne braced one hand on the dash and wrapped the other around an upright roof support.