Island of Bones(13)

“So you’re over at Edison Community College then,” Woods said, running a finger around the book spines.

“Yup. Maybe I should start with newspapers,” Louis said.

Woods turned. “We have the News-Press in binders going back to 1970. Anything older than that is on microfiche, over there.” He nodded toward the back of the library. “However, I think you would have more luck with books. Local history is in the 917 section.” He started away.

“Maybe you would recommend some books?” Louis asked.

Woods hesitated. “All right. Follow me, please.”

Louis followed him to another shelf and watched as Woods pulled down three books. He held out the first to Louis.

“This is about Captiva Island, its local color, history, and people, from 1900 until about 1976,” Woods said. “This one is a pictorial of Fort Myers, and this last one deals with the 1800s and the settlement of the outlying islands.”

Frank dumped the books in Louis’s arms and started off. Louis glanced at them, then back at Woods. Either he knew or he didn’t. His next question wouldn’t matter.

“What do you have on runaways?”

Woods stopped, took a breath that expanded his round shoulders, and turned. “You’re writing a paper on that, too?”

Louis forced a smile. “Heavy class load.”

Woods’s lips tipped a small smile. “Odd time of year to be writing term papers, August.”

“Summer school. Like I said I got a late start.”

Woods stared at him, his eyes growing distant. Then he turned quickly and moved away. He returned a minute later with two more books on the psychology of teenage girls.

“This should get you started,” he said. He left, without saying another word.

Louis set the books on a table and headed toward the archive department. It was in the back, shielded from the front desk by shelves. With the microfiche reel for 1953, it took Louis a half hour to find another reference to Emma Fielding. It was only one short article, saying Emma Fielding had never been found. He printed out a copy, picked up his books, and started to the front desk.

Woods looked up.

“I’d like to check these out,” Louis said.

“Your card please.”

“Ah...I don’t have one.”

Woods stared at him. “Do you have a driver’s license?”

Louis pulled his wallet from his jeans and slipped out his license. Woods took it and started filling out a form. Halfway through it, the pencil paused.

“Is there something wrong?” Louis asked.

Woods didn’t look up, but shook his head. He finished completing the form and pulled a small blue library card from a drawer. In cramped small handwriting, he filled in Louis’s name and address.

After running the books through the scanner and slipping the cards in the back, Woods stacked them and slid them across the desk to Louis along with his license.

“Thanks,” Louis said. He hefted the books and started away.

“Mr. Kincaid?”

Louis turned.

“Your library card,” Woods said, holding out the blue card.

Louis came back and took the card. “Thanks.” Louis slipped the card inside one of the books and started away.

“Have a nice day, Detective,” Woods said.

Louis hesitated, debating whether to turn back, but decided to keep going.

Detective? How the hell did he know? Did he recognize the name from the newspapers? Or was he expecting someone to come looking for him?

As Louis got to the front glass doors, he paused just long enough to glance back at the desk. Frank Woods had disappeared.





CHAPTER 7




The phone was ringing when Louis got back to the cottage around five. It was Horton’s secretary.

“The chief just wanted to let you know that the baby skull came back from Tallahassee.” She paused and Louis could almost hear her thinking that he was some kind of ghoul or something. He didn’t care.

“Do you want it?” she asked.

“Yes. I’ll come over now.”

Louis hung up and stood there for a moment, listening to the whisper of the surf. The sun was starting its descent into the gulf, filling the cottage with liquid gold light. His eyes wandered to the shelf near the sofa.

A couple of months ago, he had finally unpacked the last of his boxes, conceding he was staying if not really putting down roots. His books now were lined up next to his fast-growing collection of blues and rock CDs and tapes. But the top shelf he had left empty —- except for four items.

He had never thought of himself as a sentimental man. The closest thing to a souvenir he had ever had was the Tiger pennant back on the bedroom wall of his foster parents’ house.

But for some reason, he had felt the need to put these four things out where he could see them.