Haunted (22 page)

“A well?” There was nothing we needed more than drinking water, so I felt badly after accusing the man of wasting time. The urge to cry came over me again.

“You can’t carry all the weight, dear. I want you to sit and rest for a minute. I’ll get the iodine tablets after you’re situated. They’re in your bag?”

In a circle of oak trees, the earth was spongy with leaves too thick for weeds to grow. Where an old-fashioned pump might have once been, water bubbled from a rusty pipe and created a basin of sand. To the east was a silver plain of palmettos and an empty horizon beyond. Swamp possibly, but more likely I had been right about cattle pasture. That meant a ranch house
might
be within walking distance. But no sparkle of window lights to guarantee it.

There was something else Belton wanted to show me. “I probably wouldn’t have noticed if the sun was up. The flashlight found it, happened to catch the edge of a brick—you’ll see. The difference in color jumps out at you.”

We were approaching a strangler fig, a tree that attaches itself to objects or other trees with a constrictor’s grip and over decades gradually consumes them or appears to. It was a spiraling umbrella of branches that parachuted air roots to the ground. Even when Belton pointed at the trunk and used the light, I didn’t understand until he dug the leaves away. “A gravestone,” he said. “Underneath could be a little crypt made of bricks, although I’m
guessing. But the shape—doesn’t it look familiar? These bricks were part of the arch, I think.”

There was no shape, only roots and leaves, but I knew what he wanted me to see. “Similar to the water cistern,” I said. “Could be the same brick mason.”

“Can you read the inscription on the stone? Even with my glasses, I couldn’t make it out.” He handed me the light.

I knelt by a marker made of rough cement and shells that was no bigger than a writing tablet. It lay half buried, covered with moss and lichens. I cleaned the surface, but only the top line was visible. It had been written in an elegant, feminine hand with a stylus or a stick before the cement had hardened. A name I read aloud:

Irene Jameson Cadence

Surprised, I got down on my knees. “But
why . . .
why was she buried here?” I began to dig at the base of the stone, eager to see if there was more writing underneath.

“It’s what homesteaders did, buried their family on family land.” Belton sounded puzzled by the question or my sudden interest, then realized there was more to it. “Yeah . . . the name’s familiar.
Cadence
 . . . probably related to the family that built the mansion. I don’t find that unusual.”

“I do, but we’ll figure it out another day,” I said. “We don’t have time now.” Yet I continued digging. “Get the iodine tablets. Oh—and fill the jug with water.
Please.
It’ll be half an hour before it’s
safe to drink and by then I might have the propeller fixed. It’s a small bottle, dark glass, near the top.”

“The top of your backpack?”

“Of course.”

I had snapped at him. “Hannah . . . you definitely need some rest—”

“Not until police know what they did to Krissie.” I motioned him away without looking up. “I’ll meet you at the boat in a minute.” It was true I was determined to get moving, but in a secret part of me I wanted to be alone while I learned more about a woman with whom, in my imagination at least, I shared a family connection.

Belton left muttering about my stubbornness, which to some men is a substitute for the word
strength
. Seconds later, though, my strength vanished and I had to wipe away a single streaming tear.

The stone when fully exposed read:

Irene Jameson Cadence

Widow & Childless & Homeless

At Peace With the Lord

Born 3 June 1876     Died         19—

The blank date of her death hinted at what I suspected from the elegant penmanship: the woman on the balcony, Irene Cadence, had made her own gravestone and written her own epitaph. Perhaps had even taken her own life. No . . . that was an unfair guess. It was sad enough that she had recorded her loneliness in
stone for eternity. A hint of self-pity, too, although I didn’t allow myself to linger on a flaw so painfully familiar.

I got to my feet, switched off the light, and brushed leaves from my jeans while my eyes adjusted. I had just picked up the pistol when I heard a
smack-smack
sound like a fist hitting flesh. Then a man who wasn’t Belton hollered from the river, “Girl! . . . Hey,
girl
!
I’ll shoot this old bastard. Show yourself.”

Carmelo—
he had found our boat.

I started to run away, but caught myself after only a few steps. I couldn’t let him hurt Belton. Nor would I endure a moment as his prisoner. I was faster than Carmelo, I was smarter. But what if Theo had returned, too? He might be circling toward me from another direction. I couldn’t just stand there and let it happen. I had to
think
.

My mind went to work while Belton yelled I should save myself, then Carmelo added more threats. “The old man says you got a flashlight. What you’re gonna do is put that gun of yours in a place I can see it. Then back away ten or fifteen steps and use the light. When I get to the top of that bank, I’d best see that damn gun. I’m talking
first thing
. And you nowhere close. And I want your hands in the air.” An impatient silence lapsed before he swore and yelled, “Better answer me, girl!”

Only one flimsy option came to mind. I hollered, “My ankle, I think I broke my ankle. You have to promise not to hurt us.”

Belton, voice muffled, said something that was drowned out by Carmelo’s laughter. “Bullshit. She’s lying.” Then called to me, “You’re the only ones who can prove I never touched that young
teenybopper. Or Lucia either—and good riddance, if you’re the one what killed her. You can burn Theo, for all I care. All I want is for you to come back and tell the cops the truth.”

Belton tried to yell
He’s lying
but was punched or clubbed—something caused him to cry out—before Carmelo continued talking. “Oh, and one other little thing. Part of our deal is, you forget about finding that canoe. Ain’t too much to ask, is it? Do what I say, I’ll take you and the old man to a doctor. Anything you want. Hell”—more laughter—“why would I hurt a girl pretty as you?” Bushes rustled, a spotlight sought the top of the riverbank. “Have you put down that gun?”

I hollered, “No! I can barely crawl.”

Carmelo wasn’t taking chances. He had yet to poke his head above the embankment. “Do it now, damn you. I’ll give you one minute, no more.”

In a rush, I switched on the flashlight and painted a few circles on the sky to confirm my intentions. Then balanced the light atop the gravestone and left it there, beam pointed at a chunk of wood that didn’t resemble a pistol but would have to do. Nearby was an oak grove. I ran to it. Oak limbs were stouter, lower, less chaotic than the strangler fig. As I scouted, I thought about Capt. Ben Summerlin’s ambush plans and recalled a passage from his journal:
Lure the enemy so close it’s up to God to decide who lives or dies.

Bait the trap . . . lay in wait . . . shoot to kill.

But did I have the courage? No . . . not courage—something darker was required. An absence of conscience; the unleashing of a quality so foreign I felt hollow. Self-doubt seemed to shut off my
air—a haunting return of my old fears—yet I continued to search for a suitable spot.

Think, Hannah. Don’t stand here shaking.
Was it smarter to climb a tree and wait? Or surprise him near the river?

While I battled indecision, wind punched through the tree canopy. The gust tumbled limbs from oak to oak in synch with high, churning leaves, their sparks muted by the moon.

I circled downwind to a willow thicket, where I hid myself and watched from one knee. The beam from the flashlight I’d left was a dazzling tube that linked the riverbank with a chunk of wood and Irene Cadence’s grave. I was midway between the grave and the river with a clear view of what lay between.

Carmelo was closer, easier to hear. He continued to call threats, saying I was almost out of time, he’d shoot Belton—just wound him, of course—or we could have some
fun
together. Nauseating, the oily way he phrased it. The man was drunk and talkative. On and on he went yet was afraid to poke his head above the embankment. Carmelo was, indeed, a coward . . . or buying time until Theo was in position.

Either way, I could do nothing but wait. Mosquitoes tracked my rapid breathing. They began to swarm. I shifted the Devel
pistol from one hand to the other, staying loose. In an attempt to still my brain, I focused my senses outward: Carmelo’s voice, Belton’s voice, their words often indecipherable. The scream of insects, bushes alive with foraging rodents, and a squall breeze that went suddenly still, then freshened, puffed and gusted from a northern quarter of the sky.

The wind had shifted. Spend your childhood on the water, you are aware of such things. The gusts fragmented, filtered down through the leaves, and explored my face. It was warm, tropic air befouled by something that fired a chill through the pores of my skin, up my neck.

An odor . . . What was that disgusting odor? It stunk of women’s perfume . . . stale sweat . . . a canine whiff of wet hair and rotten eggs. No . . . I was wrong. My nose had been confused by the heavy perfume. Perfume so cloying, it cloaked a familiar musk—possibly as intended. The fecal stench of a chimpanzee was otherwise unmistakable.

I got to my feet, the pistol ready. The stench laced through willows from the northeast, the same direction as the wind. That suggested the chimp could no longer track my scent.

Oliver’s nose is as good as any bloodhound’s.
Once again, Theo’s brag came to mind.

I no longer doubted it was true. I parted willow branches until I could see the river and there it was only fifteen yards away: an apish creature that had just climbed onto the bank or dropped from a tree. It shook itself, pearls of water flying, then stood upright . . . tilted its jaw skyward and sniffed the darkness.

I thought,
He’s confused . . lost track of my scent,
the animal so
close that its fur, saturated with perfume, stung my eyes. I raised the pistol, tried to frame the chimp’s head with the V-sights while my hands shook. No doubt in my mind I would pull the trigger, but I had to make the first shot count.

Too late. The chimp put its fists on the ground, threw its feet forward, and loped away before I could recover. A moment later Carmelo called, “Who’s there? Don’t be stupid, girl. I got ears.” The spotlight blinked on, illuminating trees above the sandbar where we had beached the boat.

Not thinking, I pushed my way clear of the willows and crept toward the spot where we had climbed the bank. To my left, bushes thrashed. Then I heard the trampoline recoil of tree limbs. Belton, thinking it was me, hollered, “Hannah, don’t do it. Run!”

I wanted to run—sprint toward the open plain that I believed to be cattle pasture. My mind had already concocted enough excuses to satisfy police. Whether or not they were enough to satisfy my conscience was unimportant—not during this moment of indecision anyway.

But only a moment. I am no different than most: a durable thread runs through my weaknesses and doubt and that thread is me, the very core of who I am. It is not steel but might as well be because it will not allow me to stray far from what I believe to be right or wrong. I was armed, fast on my feet, and a strong swimmer. Those details didn’t click in my head as thoughts but one simple truth did: abandoning an old man who had befriended me was wrong.

I walked faster, regretting the flashlight I’d left blazing on the gravestone. When I reached the riverbank, I would be silhouetted,
easily seen by Carmelo or the animal that had been stalking me. I considered the merits of running to retrieve it, and might have, but I had lost track of the chimp. If he had circled downwind, his odor would not warn me before an attack.

The pistol barrel became my eyes. It steered my vision from left to right, to the trees that lined the river. The bright corridor created by my own flashlight lay just ahead. Rather than show myself, I turned early and started down the embankment in an eerie half-light of gray and green. Took my time, ears alert. Carmelo had been barking threats and orders all along, but there was something new in his tone when he said, “Hey . . you smell something weird?”

Belton, through foliage and shadows, replied, “When I knocked you on your ass, I didn’t think you’d get up. Ten years ago you wouldn’t’ve. This is pointless. Let the girl go and I’ll tell you everything. Plus, you’ve got her journal. Don’t believe me? Look in that bag.”

When Carmelo snapped, “Shut up . . .
Perfume . . .
You don’t smell that?” I stopped to listen. But also prepared to run by bracing a foot against an oak that was wider than my body, used it like a starting block. “Perfume,” he repeated. “That sonuvabitch Theo. You got no idea what I mean, do you?” There was a silence. I pictured him looking at Belton. “A snake bit him when we went back for the Gheenoe. Got him bad. I
saw
it. But it had a weird name, this snake. He went to get antivenom, must’a freaked out and turned his goddamn monkey loose. You don’t smell that French whore perfume?”

Belton said, “What’s perfume have to do with—”

“
Quiet—
I’m trying to think. That strung-out fool doesn’t give a damn about anyone. I told him I was done if he pulled this crap. Yeah . . . up in those trees, maybe. You don’t smell that? Or the other side of the river. Those monkeys are meat-eaters, man. Screw it . . . Yeah, screw it. I’m out of here.”

“But . . . then cut me loose first. And if Hannah’s ankle is broken—”

“Tell the monkeys when they show up,
Mr.
Matás. Shit . . now what’s wrong with this damn thing? Probably the battery.”

I heard him bang at something. The spotlight came on again, a flooding beam. It moved among the treetops and swung toward me. I crouched low, didn’t look up until Carmelo yelled, “Look . . . look’a there. That’s her, the bitch!” A shotgun fired and the sky absorbed a furious inhuman shriek.

The shriek took form when I lifted my head. High above me was the chimp, mouth open wide, close enough it might have crushed me had it fallen, but the animal leaped toward the river instead. No . . . leaped toward Carmelo, who fired again—
BOOM
—then the howls of man and chimpanzee were indistinguishable from the searing thump of flesh on flesh.

Belton raised his voice above it all: “Damn animal . . .
Stay away!
”

I went down the embankment faster than was prudent. Made too much noise. Didn’t slow until the spotlight showed familiar landmarks: the sandbar angling into the river, our aluminum boat and the Gheenoe with a trolling motor beached alongside.
Carmelo’s wailing and desperate profanities caused me to hesitate before exiting the bushes, but I finally did. The scene that awaited was nightmarish.

Belton was on his side, trying to worm his way up the embankment, his nose bloody. Closer to me, the chimpanzee’s shoulders appeared to be melded into Carmelo’s chest, Carmelo, on the ground, his clothes ripped, mouth open wide in a airless scream, while his body spasmed in surrender. The chimp had used its feet to pin the man’s arms. Its hands cupped Carmelo’s head like a chalice, tilting his neck to expose the throat, the chimp’s face nestled close as if suckling but in fact had buried its teeth near the jugular. The animal was so focused on killing—or feeding—it did not react when Belton saw me and hollered, “Hannah . . . for god’s sake, run.” His voice broke like an adolescent.

My eyes followed the pistol into the clearing, at first seeing only the chimp’s broad back but then realized that Belton was just beyond directly in the line of fire. The angle was all wrong, too risky to pull the trigger at a distance of thirty yards. I scuttled sideways without looking, unaware of the river until I was knee-deep in water and a slow current tugged at my jeans.

The sound of my clumsy splashing was too loud to ignore. The chimp sat straight, pivoted its head from side to side. Around its neck was a heavy pink collar with an electronic device. A remnant of pink ribbon, too, behind one ear, which meshed with the perfume.

Pink . . .
Carmelo and Lucia had used the word like a profanity when describing the female chimp. So this was Savvy, not Oliver, the big male. She turned, searching, until her caramel eyes found
me. She sniffed, tasted the air through lips glossy with blood—or lipstick—and chirped a soprano note of interest that transitioned into a growl. Eyes of caramel studied me . . . and blazed with recognition. Her fists became hammers. She pounded her chest—a hollow-coconut sound—then demonstrated her strength by grabbing Carmelo’s arm and slinging his body several feet toward me. He landed as limp and boneless as a sack.

I fought the urge to flee, took a step back, and found firmer footing, then leveled the pistol and spoke. “Get the hell out of here or I’ll shoot you.” I was so scared, the words came automatically—a last warning to myself more than to an animal who could not understand.

Carmelo’s spotlight lay in the sand, projecting monstrous shadows. Savvy made a chattering sound of indignation . . . flapped her outstretched arms like a child learning to walk, then started toward me.

I said it again: “I
will
shoot you.”

The chimp kept coming, loping faster, then hunkered low and sprinted, fingers and feet kicking sand as she closed the distance.

Belton yelled something, yelled something else—a warning, no doubt—yet his words vaporized before they reached my ears. I heard only the metallic click of the pistol’s hammer when I thumbed it back. I squared my shoulders and waited. Through a tunnel of light and consciousness, I saw only the chimpanzee’s face. . . a glossy square of leather and teeth that radiated hatred and rage and mindless intent. The coldness that enveloped me was equally dispassionate, equally focused.

When the animal was fifteen yards away, still a long shot for a
pistol, I pulled the trigger. Rather than an explosion, I heard a click. Stunned, I yanked the trigger again.
Click.

A misfire, a bad cartridge. In my head, a teenage girl listened patiently while my Uncle Jake explained that misfires are not rare and easily cleared if you know what to do and stay calm.

Impossible to remain calm, but I managed not to freeze. I looked up while I shucked the cartridge free and slammed a fresh round in the chamber. Savvy was almost to the water, close enough that the stink of her body pushed wet air into my face.

Belton’s voice broke through: “Shoot the damn thing!”

I raised the pistol and did exactly that a microsecond before the chimp vaulted toward the river. The gun bucked twice in my hands while Savvy was airborne, then her weight slammed into me. I fell backward and went under . . . and I stayed under, unsure if my shots had hit flesh. Using one hand, I crabbed along the bottom toward shore. Then got my feet under me and stood with my arms already outstretched, the pistol ready to aim and fire if needed while water poured down my face.

Belton’s voice again: “Behind you. Shoot him!”

I spun, expecting to see the chimp. Instead, a boat was coasting silently toward me, a man on the bow who made a moaning noise and cried, “Oh my god . . . oh my god, where is she? I heard shots.”

It was Theo. His lanky shape was unmistakable—steering a trolling motor with his feet, a flashlight in his hand. He switched on the light, blinded me for a second, then began to search the water’s surface. “You tramp, you redneck tramp. You shot her
, didn’t you
?”

I was furious. “You raise a hand to us, I’ll shoot you, too. Don’t think I won’t.”

“I knew it!” Theo, several boat lengths away, stomped his foot on the deck. “Oliver will eat you alive for this—I mean,
eat you alive
. Where is she?” Theo ranted on as the trolling motor spun him closer, then tilted his face toward the treetops and screamed, “OLI-VEEEEER! HERE SHE IS! COME TO DADDY!”

My finger was still on the trigger. If Theo had had a gun, I would have done it, would have shot him. I came close to squeezing the trigger anyway. Tell the police,
My life was in danger.
Tell police,
A teenage girl was butchered and this man laughed.
No . . . tell them,
I know what happened to those three missing people,
then read about Theo’s arrest on the Internet.

A coldness still possessed me, but the steel cable within held fast. I didn’t shoot. I lowered the pistol, turned and sloshed to our boat and grabbed my bag. Theo, vicious by nature, had slipped over the edge of his own canted world. He sounded feverish. Perhaps it was true he’d been bitten by a snake and given himself a shot of antivenom. I’d thought it was another of Carmelo’s lies. No telling what the man would do if he had a gun aboard. And if we tried to escape in the rental Gheenoe, he would try to crush us with the Bass Cat. No doubt in my mind.