Ocracoke."
Now the road rose and fell as marsh spread to their left. The dunes cut off their view of the sea But herons, stilts, and willets waded in freshwater ponds, and ducks burst into belated flight to clear the road as Keyes bore down on them.
"So tell me who we're going to see."
"Her name's Mercy Baum. She's oh, late eighties. No, she must be ninety by now. Lived on Hatteras all her life. Knows everything. Local history, that kind of thing."
"And you think she could help us."
"If she wants to. And if she's ... still able. Anyway, it's a place to start."
When the car lifted, the bridge lofting them high over Oregon Inlet, they could see for miles. Behind them stretched the island, green of yaupon and bay-berry and myrtle, tan of sand, its seaward coast gnawed by white surf. To their left the Pamlico stretched a sheet of dimpled silver to the horizon; over it, too far to see, lay the mainland. But Galloway was searching to seaward. "Looks like she broke up clear and went out with the tide," he said at last.
"Who?"
"The trawler. I can't see a thing where she used to be."
When they came down off the bridge they were in Nags Head. A few miles later the unpopulated scrub and dunes gave way suddenly to restaurants, hotels, fishing piers, and the ubiquitous cottages. Identical, boxlike, they swarmed along the shore. Above them from time to time loomed larger structures, many still being sheathed with plywood: the time-share resorts. They crawled north on the bypass, mired in moving metal. In the narrow strip between sound and ocean the summer tourists thronged the Deep Africa Mini-Golf, the Surf Slide, the Go-Kart Grand Prix, Dowdy's Amusement Park, Brew-Through, Hardee's, Tastee-
Freeze, McDonald's. A few miles past an immense hill of bare sand Galloway pointed to the left. "Turn in here."
"All right." The BMW's tires hummed on new paving as it wound upward into soundside dunes. At the crests of the road they could look down on the Albemarle, immense, shining, morning-calm.
"This is it. Park here," said Galloway at last.
"You're joking."
"Afraid not."
The building was modern and low, placed not atop but amid the sandhills, as if hidden away. An ambulance stood ready at a side door. Over the entrance stainless steel letters read kitty hawk nursing center.
The late morning sunlight glinted off the dunes outside the window, glinted again off salt-white hair. It was cut short and pinned up with a brown barrette. Tiny hands lay softly together on a colorful afghan. Outside in the corridor came from time to time the hiss of wheelchairs on tile, the chatter of nurses.
"Mrs. Baum, you have a visitor."
Galloway smiled thanks at the attendant, then bent.
"Mercy?"
The bright blue eyes turned instandy toward him, and the old woman smiled.
"Mrs. Baum, it's Tiller. You remember me?"
The smile clouded. "Tiller—? Can't say I do. Things ain't as clear as they used to be. Still, whoever you are, I'm glad to have you to visit."
"I wondered if we could talk a little—about the old days?"
"The old days. There's right many come to ask me about them lately. Well—sure."
The attendant bent over her for a moment, wiped her cheek with a tissue, whispered loudly in her ear; she shook her head. The attendant left. Galloway drew a chair to hers; Keyes found a nearby sofa. "I appreciate it, Mrs. Baum. We'll talk a little, and then I'll ask a question or two, maybe."
The woman sat for a moment, looking out again; her eyes went distant. Then she began, not rapidly but unhesitating, as if reciting a poem memorized years before.
"I remember a lot about it. About the dirt roads and all such as that. About the last one left who does. My father and my mother have been dead for years, and my sisters and brothers too. And all my other kinfolks are dead. I've got children—four, two boys and two girls.
"You'll want to know when I was born. Well, that was in eighteen and ninety-eight. Our closest doctor was at Manns Harbor. Had to go
Now the road rose and fell as marsh spread to their left. The dunes cut off their view of the sea But herons, stilts, and willets waded in freshwater ponds, and ducks burst into belated flight to clear the road as Keyes bore down on them.
"So tell me who we're going to see."
"Her name's Mercy Baum. She's oh, late eighties. No, she must be ninety by now. Lived on Hatteras all her life. Knows everything. Local history, that kind of thing."
"And you think she could help us."
"If she wants to. And if she's ... still able. Anyway, it's a place to start."
When the car lifted, the bridge lofting them high over Oregon Inlet, they could see for miles. Behind them stretched the island, green of yaupon and bay-berry and myrtle, tan of sand, its seaward coast gnawed by white surf. To their left the Pamlico stretched a sheet of dimpled silver to the horizon; over it, too far to see, lay the mainland. But Galloway was searching to seaward. "Looks like she broke up clear and went out with the tide," he said at last.
"Who?"
"The trawler. I can't see a thing where she used to be."
When they came down off the bridge they were in Nags Head. A few miles later the unpopulated scrub and dunes gave way suddenly to restaurants, hotels, fishing piers, and the ubiquitous cottages. Identical, boxlike, they swarmed along the shore. Above them from time to time loomed larger structures, many still being sheathed with plywood: the time-share resorts. They crawled north on the bypass, mired in moving metal. In the narrow strip between sound and ocean the summer tourists thronged the Deep Africa Mini-Golf, the Surf Slide, the Go-Kart Grand Prix, Dowdy's Amusement Park, Brew-Through, Hardee's, Tastee-
Freeze, McDonald's. A few miles past an immense hill of bare sand Galloway pointed to the left. "Turn in here."
"All right." The BMW's tires hummed on new paving as it wound upward into soundside dunes. At the crests of the road they could look down on the Albemarle, immense, shining, morning-calm.
"This is it. Park here," said Galloway at last.
"You're joking."
"Afraid not."
The building was modern and low, placed not atop but amid the sandhills, as if hidden away. An ambulance stood ready at a side door. Over the entrance stainless steel letters read kitty hawk nursing center.
The late morning sunlight glinted off the dunes outside the window, glinted again off salt-white hair. It was cut short and pinned up with a brown barrette. Tiny hands lay softly together on a colorful afghan. Outside in the corridor came from time to time the hiss of wheelchairs on tile, the chatter of nurses.
"Mrs. Baum, you have a visitor."
Galloway smiled thanks at the attendant, then bent.
"Mercy?"
The bright blue eyes turned instandy toward him, and the old woman smiled.
"Mrs. Baum, it's Tiller. You remember me?"
The smile clouded. "Tiller—? Can't say I do. Things ain't as clear as they used to be. Still, whoever you are, I'm glad to have you to visit."
"I wondered if we could talk a little—about the old days?"
"The old days. There's right many come to ask me about them lately. Well—sure."
The attendant bent over her for a moment, wiped her cheek with a tissue, whispered loudly in her ear; she shook her head. The attendant left. Galloway drew a chair to hers; Keyes found a nearby sofa. "I appreciate it, Mrs. Baum. We'll talk a little, and then I'll ask a question or two, maybe."
The woman sat for a moment, looking out again; her eyes went distant. Then she began, not rapidly but unhesitating, as if reciting a poem memorized years before.
"I remember a lot about it. About the dirt roads and all such as that. About the last one left who does. My father and my mother have been dead for years, and my sisters and brothers too. And all my other kinfolks are dead. I've got children—four, two boys and two girls.
"You'll want to know when I was born. Well, that was in eighteen and ninety-eight. Our closest doctor was at Manns Harbor. Had to go
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