The Water Keeper Read online

  “Summer, hang in there. You have some long miles ahead of you. And some of them might be difficult. Okay?”

  She nodded and slung one bag over her shoulder, which must have still felt raw because she winced. I took the bags in one hand, Tabby in the other, and we strolled the sidewalk in search of food. Standing between us and a corner pizza parlor sat a bookstore. She tugged on my shirtsleeve. “You mind one more stop?”

  She entered the bookstore and walked up to the counter. “Do you have book thirteen in the David Bishop series?”

  The attendant walked to a shelf, pulled down the hardcover, and handed it to Summer—who clutched it to her bosom and then did that little unconscious twirl thing she did when she was happy. Her feet were moving like some sort of jitterbug dance move. “I’ve been looking for this, and my library hasn’t had it in months.”

  The attendant spoke excitedly. “We’re scheduled to get a galley copy of book fourteen in about three months. Online preorders have put it at number three on the Times list, and it’s been at number one on our Indie list for seven weeks already. Two women got arrested in New York last week snooping around the editor’s desk trying to find a copy.” She shook her head. “I cannot wait!”

  I paid the lady as the two book lovers yakked about the coming novel. As we walked out, you’d have thought I’d given Summer a golden ticket wrapped in a Wonka bar.

  We stopped next door at a roadside pizza parlor that smelled like Italy. Our table gave us a view of the water and the Jackie Robinson Ballpark, home of the Daytona Tortugas. An easterly breeze pushed against our faces as we ordered a pizza, a couple of Caesar salads, and a bowl of spaghetti and meatballs with extra meatballs.

  While we waited, Summer talked about the book she had yet to set down. “You seriously have not read this?”

  “I don’t read much.”

  “Where have you been living? Under a rock?”

  “Actually, I live on an island.”

  “Okay. Same thing.” She held up the book. “Best one yet. Can’t wait for fourteen.”

  I let her talk. The more she did, the more the defeat disappeared.

  She clutched it to her chest again. “In this story, Bishop is working his way up this line of Mafia henchmen and trying to get to the Godfather ’cause he kidnapped this girl, and Bishop is getting close to finding the girl. Yet despite the fact that they’re all total sickos, all the bad guys are devout churchgoers. And get this, the Godfather makes them all go to confession! Where, unbeknownst to the Godfather, they all spill their secrets. So what does Bishop do? He uses the confessional—again. Problem is, the Godfather is no dummy and he suspects him.”

  “Where’s the woman with the scar?”

  “She’s living in the convent next to the church. They’re walking around each other like they’ve never met. And she thinks he’s just blowing her off, so she’s getting ticked. But he knows he’s being watched twenty-four-seven and if he even acknowledges her, the mafia guys will kidnap her. So to keep her out of danger and get her transferred or kicked out or something, Bishop invents this cockamamie story about how she’s been stealing from the church.” She waved it in front of my face. “I can’t believe you haven’t read this. This one takes place along the East Coast mostly. Although a few of the stories have taken place in Europe, one in Mexico, one in South America, and one in Africa.” She shook her head. “You don’t know what you’re missing. You should get out more.”

  “I have a tough enough time with reality to confuse it with make-believe.”

  Another squeeze of the book. “You should let down your hair and live a little.”

  I laughed. “I agree.” I pointed at the book. “Okay, let’s say you bumped into this guy and had ten seconds, what would you say?”

  She opened the book and brushed her palm over the pages. “There are a bunch of girls like me. Middle-aged dreamers. With baggage and stretch marks and grown kids and bills and bunions and . . . with no chance of ever being rescued by a prince who storms the castle. And yet here’s this guy who nobody knows, who makes us think that no matter how ugly we may be to the world, he might still show up. That’s a gift and it’s . . .” She shook her head. “Priceless.”

  Our food arrived, and we ate while Tabby lay at my feet, tethered to the stool by his leash, which he didn’t like. Also, his attention seemed elsewhere. His bowl of spaghetti sat mostly uneaten, which was strange.

  I knelt. “You okay, boy?”

  Ears forward, he was sniffing the wind. When I lifted the bowl to his mouth, he stood up, stretched his leash taut, and began pulling the stool across the porch of the restaurant, pinballing off other patrons’ chairs. I lifted the stool and attempted to grab the leash at the same time, but he has eyes in the back of his head and I was too slow. Free from his anchor, Tabby shot across the street at somewhere north of thirty miles an hour, dragging his leash behind him. He crossed Orange Avenue, turned due east, and began bounding over the East Orange Avenue Bridge, which spans the Halifax River. Avoiding swerving cars with honking horns, Tabby was running down the center double line. A dog on a mission.

  The last time I saw him, he was running full out, ears flapping behind him, turning north between the ballpark and the courthouse. I dropped money on the table, and we began sprinting after him.

  Chapter 12

  I dodged the traffic, crossed the distance, turned left, and entered a tennis center where mixed couples were playing on six courts. “Anybody seen a dog?”

  Guy closest pointed to a dog-size opening in the gate leading to the bleachers. I scaled the fence and ran around the side of the bleachers. The stands were empty save us, so it wasn’t tough to spot him. Tabby’s tail was wagging rapidly on the first row behind home plate. Down where all the guys with radar guns would sit.

  The closer I got, the clearer it became that he wasn’t alone. Tabby was straddling a dark-skinned man. More Brazilian or Cuban than African. His hair was totally white and combed back over his head. His eyebrows, mustache, and beard were likewise white. He lay on his back on the concrete between the first row of seats and the backdrop behind home plate. His head was propped on a bedroll of some sort, and his legs were crossed while Tabby straddled him and licked his face.

  I walked below him into his field of vision and sat three seats beyond his feet.

  The man’s eyes were closed, hands folded across his chest. “Hello, sir?” No response. “Sir?” I shook his foot. Still nothing. I felt his wrist. His pulse was thin, so I shook him harder. He stirred but didn’t wake. At the least, I’d say he was disoriented. Tabby sat alongside him, staring at me. I knew this guy needed medical help, but given the way he’d lay down here, I wasn’t sure he wanted it.

  The flag of the firehouse flapped behind the bleachers. I told Tabby to stay, which he planned on doing anyway, and ran back the way I’d come. Crossing the street, I passed Summer and asked her to sit with Tabby. I found a fireman waxing No. 29 out next to the street. After a quick explanation, he and two other men followed me carrying large bags over their shoulders and talking on their shoulder-mounted radios.

  We found the old man as I’d left him. By now, Tabby was lying with his head on the man’s chest. The firemen immediately ran an IV of fluids while one of them went back to the firehouse and returned with a gurney. We lifted the large man onto the wheeled stretcher, and they began rolling him toward the firehouse with Tabby jogging alongside.

  Once there, the firemen were making plans to move him via ambulance to Halifax Medical when Tabby jumped up on his bed, straddled him once again, and continued licking his face. Within a few seconds, the old man came to, which I think had more to do with Tabby than the IV, but both helped. Surprisingly, the old man began rubbing Tabby’s ears and talking to him. Tabby rolled onto his side, exposing his underbelly, and the old man rubbed his tummy until Tabby’s rear left leg started jerking in a spastic movement.

  “Sir, are you in pain?” The firemen had a lot of questions. “Do you know y
our name?” “Tell me what’s going on.”

  The old man sat up. Slowly. I noticed he wore a hospital ID bracelet on his left wrist and a bandage on his left elbow—the kind you wear after you’ve given blood or been given an IV.

  The old man answered their questions and sat patting Tabby.

  The firemen scratched their heads for a few moments, then one returned to me. “Pal, he’s not in any pain. According to him, we interrupted his nap. So we’re going to let these fluids finish dripping into him with his permission, because he is a bit dehydrated, and then we’re going to release him into your custody.”

  “My custody?”

  “Yeah, he’s your friend.”

  “I don’t know him. I just found him.”

  “You don’t know him?”

  “My experience with this man is only about fifteen seconds longer than yours.”

  “Oh. Well, okay then.”

  As the fireman moved away, the old man nodded at me and spoke. “Afternoon, sir.”

  I extended my hand, which he shook. His hands were bear paws. Huge. The feel of them told me they were once muscled and calloused. While still muscular, they were more tender, sinewy, and the skin was thin. Tabby sat with his hindquarters perched on the old man’s legs. He was almost sitting in his lap.

  “Sir, this may sound like a dumb question, but do you know this dog?”

  The old man looked at Tabby, who began licking his face. “I do.” He laughed.

  The impossibility of this struck me. “Really?”

  “Raised him from a pup.”

  I scratched my head. “Did you lose him somewhere north of here?”

  The old man nodded. “I was working on a boat, serving drinks, up Jacksonville way. I started to feel sick and checked myself into the hospital there. By the time I got out a week later, the boat had left me, but Gunner here was still waiting on me. I knew he didn’t need to be tied down to a dying old man, so I left a note on his bowl to whoever found him, snuck out the other end, and thumbed a ride on a tugboat.”

  “Did you say his name was Gunner?”

  Tabby looked directly at me.

  “Well, that’s what I’ve always called him.”

  “Gunner?”

  Tabby stood, walked to me, and rested his muzzle on my leg. I looked at him while the letters settled. “Gunner.” Tabby wagged his tail.

  I held his face in my hands. “So, your name is Gunner.” Gunner wagged his tail and licked my face.

  The old man pulled himself into a sitting position, evidently strengthened by the fluids, and crossed his legs. “How’d you two meet?”

  “He was swimming down the middle of the St. Johns River. Chasing somebody. You, I guess.”

  He shook his head. “There were some good people at that hospital. I thought for sure somebody would take him home. I wrote it all in the note.”

  “I don’t think Gunner liked your note.”

  “Evidently.” The old man coughed, exposing lungs full of fluid and the reason for the ID bracelet. He hacked a minute, caught his breath, and sat quietly. Either feeling no need to talk or not wanting to expend the energy to do so.

  I wasn’t quite sure what to do, so I said, “Well . . . you’ve left him once and he’s just navigated about ninety miles of water to find you. You want him back?”

  “Never really wanted to be rid of him. Smartest animal I’ve ever known, but—” He shook his head once. “Not fair to him.” The old man looked up at me. “You need a dog?”

  I shook my head. “No, but I’m not leaving him here.”

  Summer stood off to my side, her shoulder touching mine. The old man returned his attention to me. “Say—” He coughed again, bringing another spasm. This time he took longer to catch his breath. “You say you got here in a boat?”

  I nodded.

  “Where you headed?”

  I pointed south. “Couple hundred miles that way.”

  The old man stood. “Any chance you got room for one more?”

  I glanced at his bracelet and his bandage, along with the now-empty bag of fluids hanging just above his chiseled face. When I spoke, I did so slowly. “They didn’t really check you out of that hospital in Jacksonville, did they?”

  He shook his head slowly side to side, saving his words for when he needed them.

  “You trying to speed things along?”

  He laughed. He had the look of a man who was used to sitting still for long periods of time. “Some things don’t need my help. I’m just trying to get home. Maybe see somebody before I go.”

  I pointed at the field across the street. “What were you doing over there?”

  His laugh was contagious. “Napping ’til you two woke me.”

  “You’ve got to do better than that.”

  He stared across the street, into the ballpark, and back into some memory I couldn’t see. “Played minor league ball for the Yankees ’bout sixty years ago.”

  “What position?”

  “Second. And—” He made a slight swinging motion with his hands and broke into a knowing smile. “I could hit from either side.”

  “What you been doing between then and now?”

  “Wearing stripes of a different color.”

  I thought so. Noticing Summer, he tipped a hat he was not wearing and extended his hand. “Ma’am.”

  Summer shook his hand.

  “Barclay T. Pettybone.”

  He turned to me. “But most folks calls me Clay.”

  “Murphy Shepherd. Most folks call me Murph.” I pointed at him. “Is that really your name?”

  “For the last sixty it’s been I11034969, but now it’s back to being letters. And when you put them in their rightful order, that’s what they say.”

  I sat down. “You’ve really been in prison for sixty years?”

  “Fifty-nine years, eleven months, twenty-nine days, and fourteen hours. But who’s counting?” He smiled.

  “How’d you get out?”

  He made two fists, exposing his bear-like paws. “Broke out.” He laughed again, and I could already tell he did that a lot. He gestured with both hands. “Health reasons.” He weighed his head side to side. “I’m a lifer, but they figured I wasn’t a harm anymore and they needed my bunk, so they flung wide the doors and set me on the street.”

  He pointed at Gunner. “We rode the bus to the coast in Brunswick because I needed to see the ocean. Thought maybe I could thumb a ride south. Find my way home. I got a job serving drinks on a private party boat moving south. Job paid in cash, came with a free bed, they didn’t mind dogs and didn’t ask for references. So I poured drinks, washed dishes, tried not to breathe the air, and fed Gunner scraps off the table. We stayed with them ’til Jacksonville.”

  “You say you got a home somewhere?”

  He nodded. “Key West.”

  “When was the last time you saw it?”

  He nodded and stared beyond me again. When he spoke, his voice had lowered. “Some time ago.”

  “You do realize there have been a few hurricanes in that time.”

  He laughed. “Tell me about it.”

  “You think it’s still there after sixty years?”

  “No, but it makes for a happy fiction.”

  Gunner sat quietly at his side.

  Summer put her hand on my shoulder and whispered, “We can’t leave him.”

  I turned to her. “Do you own cats?”

  She nodded, smiling.

  “How many?”

  She held up both hands, extending six fingers.

  “Strays from the neighborhood?”

  She smiled.

  “Mr. Pettybone,” I asked, “what’s wrong with you?”

  “Clay, please.”

  “Clay—”

  “Which part?”

  “The part that’s sick.”

  “Cancer mixed with pneumonia.”

  “How long do you have?”

  He looked at a watch that wasn’t on his wrist. “Five minutes. F
ive days. Five weeks. Nobody knows, but according to the guys in white coats, it’s not long. I’m seventy-eight with a lot of mileage on my chassis. Prison ain’t easy.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “You mean what’s my crime?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I was a cocky ballplayer. Big. Strong. And—” He paused, shaking his head. “Young and dumb too. Found another man had my wife closed up in a closet. She was screaming. He was trying to do something she didn’t want him doing. I stopped him.” He spoke slowly, enunciating as best as he was able. “New York was not a good place for a black man sixty years ago. Especially when the boy I killed was white.” He spat. “Folks tell me I’m lucky to be alive.” He paused and stared at the sky. Then across the street to the field. “Maybe.”

  Summer whispered, “Murph, we can’t leave him.”

  It was the first time I’d heard her say my name in casual conversation.

  He stared down at Gunner. “Mr. Murphy, you can leave me. I don’t have long now. But I’d be obliged if you’d take my dog. He needs good people, and I reckon if he hung with you this long, then you’re good people. He’d know the difference.”

  “It’s just Murph. When was the last time you ate something?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “When?”

  “Ate a stack of pancakes maybe two hours ago. It’s why I was sleeping so deep. All those carbs. Knocked me out.” He smiled, exposing beautiful white teeth. “But I don’t eat much.”

  “Got any family?”

  “None that I know of. If I did, I doubt they’d claim me.”

  “Can you manage a boat ride?”

  “How many feet is your boat?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  He nodded and smiled. “Mr. Murphy, I can manage.”

  “It’s just Murph.”

  He sucked through his teeth. “It may be to you, but when you’ve been locked up and beat down for six decades, everybody becomes ‘Mister’ whether they like it or not. My mouth doesn’t know how to say anything different. The word is just there. And if your name is in my mouth, then ‘Mister’ is coming before it.”