Ben nodded.
Ben's mother, Myra Blue, lives in a condo near the Mount Pleasant marina. Ben and his dad share a unit on Morris Island. Though the marital status of the senior Blues is unclear, taking our cues from Ben, the rest of us honor a "don't ask, don't tell" policy.
My guess? Ben bought the runabout because it's easier to zip across the harbor to Mount Pleasant than to drive all the way around.
"I've got my phone," I said. "I'll text Shelton."
"Good luck scoring a signal," Hi offered as I headed for the door. Ben remained silent, but I felt dark eyes on my back.
Hi was right. Cell reception is sketchy on Morris, practically nonexistent at the bunker. After zigzagging the dune-top for a good ten minutes, my message to Shelton finally went through. Descending, I was pleased to hear my phone beep an incoming text. Shelton was on his way.
Worming through the entryway, I thought about Ben. He was cute enough, but Lord was he moody. I'd moved to Morris six months earlier. Since then we'd had almost daily contact, but still I couldn't say I understood him.
Did I like Ben? Did that explain all the verbal sparring? Closet flirting? Or was Ben simply the only option in a very, very small pond?
Or was I just nuts?
On that happy note, I popped back inside.
Hi had dozed off. Ben was still slumped on his bench. Crossing to the window, I hopped onto the ledge and nestled into one of the old cannon grooves.
Out in the harbor, Fort Sumter looked like a miniature Camelot. Well, a gray and crappy Camelot. My mind wandered. I thought about Arthur and his knights. About Kit. About poor Guinevere.
About my mother. The accident.
Deep breath. The memory was still a raw wound I tried not to poke.
Mom was killed last fall by a drunk driver. A mechanic named Alvie Turnbauer ran a stoplight and T-boned her Corolla. She was driving home from picking up a pizza. Turnbauer was leaving Sully's Bar and Grill where he'd been downing Coronas all afternoon.
Turnbauer went to jail. Mom went to Resthaven Memorial Garden. I went to South Carolina.
Nope. Still too soon.
I turned my thoughts to other things. Sandals I'd seen at the open market. Paint colors I might like for my bedroom. A rough spot on a molar I feared was a cavity.
Eventually, a voice boomed from outside the crawl. "Someone call for a mechanic?"
In popped Shelton, holding a manual and a paper-stuffed folder. Ben perked up immediately.
Shelton Devers is short and skinny and wears thick, round glasses. His chocolate skin favors his African-American father, but his eyelids and cheekbones hint of his Japanese mother. Shelton's parents both work on Loggerhead Island, Nelson as the IT specialist, Lorelei as a veterinary technician.
"So wise to consult an expert." Shelton raised both arms. "Be at peace, brother Ben. I can save your boat."
A beat, then Shelton's mock-solemn expression morphed into a grin. Snorting laughter, Ben shoved to his feet, anxious to get to work.
No surprise that Ben wanted Shelton's help most. He's a whiz at anything with pieces, parts, or pixels. Shelton loves puzzles, ciphers, and anything with numbers. Computers, too. I guess you could call him our techno guru. It's what he calls himself.
Shelton's weakness? A fear of all things crawly. At his insistence, bug spray is kept in the bunker at all times. He won't win any athletic awards, either.
Ben and Shelton spread the manual and papers across the table. Soon they were bickering about the nature of the malfunction and how to fix it.
Who knows? If they hadn't repaired the boat, we wouldn't have gone to Loggerhead that afternoon. Perhaps none of this would have happened.
But we did.
And it did.
CHAPTER 4
"If you can't find the problem, just admit it." Ben's voice carried a sharp edge. "I don't want more damage."
I could tell Shelton was irked by Ben's lack of confidence. His body tensed. At least, the south half of it did. His head and shoulders were hidden inside the boat.
"I'm just running the possibilities, one at a time." Shelton's head re-appeared. "Relax, man. I'll figure it out." Clutching a schematic, Shelton dove back into the wires of the boat's electrical system. Ben loomed over him, arms crossed.
"Anything I can do to help?" I asked.
"No." Two voices, one reply.
Well then.
While Hi lounged in the bunker and Ben and Shelton argued over the boat, I sat on the beach. Out of the way.
In front of the clubhouse, a stone outcrop curves into the ocean, creating a small, hidden cove. The rocky spur protects the shoreline, conceals the boat and its tie-up from passing crafts, and, my favorite, isolates a cool little beach just five yards long.
I glanced at the narrow path ascending to our sanctuary. Even this close, the window was impossible to see. Uncanny.
Shelton says our bunker was part of a Civil War trench network known as Battery Gregg. Built to guard Charleston Harbor, much of the maze remains uncharted.
This place is ours. We must keep it secret.