I think then and only then the people of this country will wake up to the realization of what’s been done to them; all in the name of greed; all to benefit a very few. And perhaps then, the people of this country may not be as supine as they have always been in the past. I fear that day will soon be upon us. I wish I had an answer to it all—but sadly, I do not.

Turning my view back to the channel before me, I pushed the transmission lever into the Forward position and got under way once again. To my left was the low causeway of Highway 80, running on to its eastern terminus on Tybee Island. It seemed odd to watch cars running along as though cruising through the marsh. But odder still was the sight of a huge container ship coming up the unseen Savannah River, only a half mile away, on the other side of the highway. Then, a sharp northward turn of the channel brought sight of the wooden docks and the few scattered buildings of Lazaretto Island.

I throttled back, just making headway, and looked for a place to get to the dock. There, on the far end, I saw a spot where I could tie up. Then, as I glanced to the land above the docks, I saw Patricia Latham toss me a wave of recognition. I returned her wave and motioned her to the end of the dock. She nodded her understanding, shouldered a small bag, and hurried down the ramp.

I brought Miss Rosalie gently near the side of the wharf, and Patricia, without hesitation, nimbly leaped aboard. I touched the controls lightly, and with the help of the incoming tide we pulled away from the dock pilings with room to spare. Patricia stood and watched the landing as it slid past and then behind us, and then, glancing about the deck as though she were making a mental note of where everything was, she made her way aft to the pilothouse.

“Welcome aboard the Miss Rosalie,” I said as Patricia stepped inside.

“Thanks for the invitation,” she returned as she came near and gave me a smile.

I was struck once again at how tall she was; at least six feet, and maybe even an inch or two more. She was dressed in old faded jeans and a man’s cotton shirt, but the garments did little to conceal either the strength of her frame or her marvelous figure. With thick auburn hair, eyes the color of light jade, and a face that seemed carved in alabaster, Detective Patricia Latham was a decidedly striking woman.

“Just back in town?” she asked.

“Got in last evening,” I replied. I gave her a glance that met her eye and then returned my gaze back to the channel ahead. “And you were the first person I called.”