The Girl in the Maze (11 page)

“Then I'd like to work for a daily newspaper, or maybe for a book publisher. I guess it all depends on whether…it depends.”

“You've shared a lot with me tonight, Martha, and there's something that I need to share with you. It's a secret about the history of this community, and my family, that few people around here know about. I'm the last living Dussault who knows about it, so I've written it all out. The paper's tucked in the big old Bible in the glass bookcase over there. That Bible came over when my ancestors emigrated from France in 1773.”

“What kind of secret?”

“It goes back to the origins of this town. If we're going to do a true history of the island, I suppose it all needs to come out.” Lydia paused in her sewing and gazed toward the window. “It's not very pretty, I'm afraid. It doesn't reflect well on my ancestors. But if it's true…that could change everything.”

“Maybe it should be made public, then.”

“The problem is, it's just one old letter. Before I bring it out into the open, we need more proof. I'm hoping that's exactly what we'll find, by the time we finish interviewing every living resident of Shell Heap Island.”

“I'd like to read that letter, someday.”

“You will. You, of all people, need to know about it.”

“Me? Why?”

“Because you need to know everything. After all, you're the one who will be writing the book.”

“Writing the book? I don't understand.”

“We've got tons of material, hours of interviews…now we need someone to pull it all together. Someone to write introductions and transitions, to make it flow. Now we need someone who can do it fast. That someone is you.”

“You mean—you want me to—”

“I know that's more than you bargained for when you took on this job, but I have a feeling about you, Martha. Anyway, I'm offering you the job. Consider it a promotion. I hope you'll agree to do it.”

“I've never written a book. I don't know what it takes, and I don't know what makes you think I—”

“Why don't you sleep on it? Something else for you to think about.”

Lydia stitched in silence for a moment, a trace of a smile on her face. Martha's mind whirled with excitement. A real book, with chapters, and funding, this early in her career. She wondered if she could live up to the challenge. The clock on the mantel chimed nine times.

“I want you to know I'm very flattered by the opportunity you've offered,” Martha said.

“I'm going to stay up and stitch on this for a while. See you in the morning. Good night, Martha.”

In the room upstairs, Martha pulled the serpent root out of her pocket and placed it on the bedside table. Then she pulled back the satin comforter, climbed into the queen-size bed, and thought about how strange it was that things could change so suddenly. From a dingy little room with faded wallpaper, to this luxurious place, sharing crab cakes and shrimp cocktails with a member of the town's aristocracy.

She clicked off the bedside light and turned her head toward the moonlit window, listening to the hum of the night creatures. The Pritchett House, the eviction, her hallucinations—suddenly, all of that seemed far away. She imagined copies of the book on a shelf in the window of a bookshop, with her byline on the cover:
By Martha Covington.

Those three words seemed magical, and she whispered them to herself in the darkness, over and over again.

What the hell?
Jarrell asked himself.
What in God's name is Morris up to?
Half-past midnight on a Monday, and Fat-ass showed no signs of budging.

Jarrell had staked him out since five o'clock from his usual spot, crouched in the chokeberry next to the playground one block from the courthouse. The blind was half-lowered on the window to Morris's office on the second floor, and there was a faint glow, maybe from a desk lamp. Morris had turned off the overhead fluorescents long ago, but Jarrell could see a shadowy shape breaking the light every so often. Was he going to spend the whole night up there, or what?

Jarrell stood and stretched. If he'd only known Morris was going to pull this stunt, he would have brought along a thermos of coffee. The playground was dark, the street still and deserted. No place open, not even to buy a packet of NoDoz. He put down the binoculars and took a few crouching steps over to the monkey bars. He grabbed one of the rungs, did a quick set of ten chin-ups, then dropped to the ground, no longer bothering to hide.

He was growing tired of the game. Would any of it ever pay off? Maybe the old saying was true: You can't fight City Hall. Or in this case, the county government. You sure as hell couldn't fight it through the established channels. Not without a six-figure income and a high-powered lawyer. Probably not even then.

Jarrell rubbed his temples and took another look at the window. The desk light was out.

He took a step back into the bushes and watched. Normally, he would see the sheriff's cruiser pull out of the garage now and head west, either toward the marina or toward Morris's place out on Taylor Road. But two minutes passed, and no car. Instead, a glass side door on the courthouse opened, and Morris's bulky shape emerged. Jarrell couldn't tell for sure, but in the faint glow of the stairwell light, it looked like he was wearing street clothes.

Morris locked the door and walked left on Chatham Street, away from the business district, turned a corner, and disappeared. Jarrell pulled his cap low and tight over the tops of his ears and followed.

Be afraid, Martha.

The voice woke her—or had she heard it when she was waking up, floating somewhere in the gauzy transition between sleep and wakefulness? The important thing was that she
heard
it. Not a dream, but a clear and distinct auditory sensation.

And it had been Lenny's voice.

Martha lay in the bed, paralyzed, staring up at the plaster ceiling in the gray light of dawn, listening.

Lydia's house. Her window was open. A distant peal of seabirds, the rumble of a utility truck somewhere blocks away. The bed linens were damp next to her skin, but she didn't move, terrified that any action on her part would prompt further comment, confirm that Lenny was there, might be sitting in the chair next to the window.

It was the first time she had heard Lenny's voice in months, except in dreams. It frightened her, but there was also something seductive about it, like a boyfriend she knew was no good for her.

She lay there frozen, not daring to turn her head, watching the room brighten, listening to the chatter of birds multiply outside the window. Finally, she forced her head to turn slightly, just enough to glance at the ceramic clock on the bedside table.

6:05.

That simple action began to break the paralysis. She scanned the left wall, then lifted her head to take in the rest of the room. Satin draperies, antique wardrobe, empty chair by the window. All quiet. Nothing. She moved her arms and legs, flexing tentatively, letting the circulation return.

Martha sat up in the bed, took another look around the room, and began to relax. No Lenny here, just a new day, full of fresh prospects.

And the names.
In all her upheaval last night, she had forgotten to tell Lydia about the commissioners' middle initials, the funny way they almost spelled out the name of the investment group. She had been feeling a little embarrassed about it, especially after the way Sheriff Morris brushed it off.
Have a little confidence. You have to tell her.

She climbed out of bed and stretched, wide awake, rested, and starting to feel like herself again. She doubted Lydia would be up this early, but it might be a nice gesture to go downstairs and get a pot of tea started.

At the foot of the stairs, Martha glanced toward the parlor. Clocks ticked their secret language in the dusky room. And sitting in her easy chair, fast asleep—Lydia.

Martha smiled. How often might this happen—the woman losing herself in her quilting project, letting sleep catch up with her rather than face retiring to her bedroom alone?

Martha turned and tiptoed through the dining room, passed through the swinging door that led to the kitchen. She eased it closed to avoid making any sound. A teakettle sat on the stove, just where she would expect it to be, already full of water. Martha turned on the gas burner and started looking through cabinets for the tea service.

She took her time with the preparation. She wanted to give Lydia sufficient time to wake up and go upstairs, and to spare the woman the potential embarrassment of being discovered.

Martha sat in a chair at the kitchen table and waited, thinking about the book project, until the kettle began to hiss. She turned off the flame and returned to the foyer. She paused and took another look into the sitting room.

The room was brighter now, the first rays of sunrise penetrating through a window sheer, dust motes dancing. This time, Martha noticed something odd—one of the fuchsia curtains was half-closed, the staying cord undone. And Lydia sat there, motionless.

Now Martha could see that the woman's hand was lolling to the side of the chair, and her teacup was on the floor, upside down. She took a few steps into the room. Lydia's hair was burnished in the morning sun, her head tilted against the backrest. Martha reached the side of the chair and felt the carpet squish underfoot. Spilled tea.

“Lydia?”

Martha bent over to pick up the cup, then touched the woman's hand. It was cold, unresponsive.

Martha felt a chasm of panic opening inside her. She repeated Lydia's name, shouted it, groped for the switch on the chair-side lamp. The light came on and glinted off the old woman's eyes—eyes that were wide open. Blue-gray orbs, glazed. Flecked with blood spots.

Don't panic, Martha. A stroke? A seizure? Is it too late?

Martha yanked the quilt off Lydia, scattering the fabric shapes like confetti. She touched the woman's neck, feeling for a pulse, any sign of life. Her fingers touched something hard there, something unnatural. She bent down to get a look and saw a deep crease in the flesh, the woman's throat crimped like the neck of a balloon. Embedded in the crease, the woven fibers of a curtain stay.

Martha stepped backward, knocking over the lamp, hyperventilating. A wildfire was igniting in her mind, feelings of anger, horror, and sadness leaping up like tongues of flame, interweaving, licking at the base of her skull.
Hold it together, Martha. Do something. You've got to be able to think, you have to do certain things….

There was a phone in the room, on the end table next to the couch. Porcelain phone, brass dial. Martha took a step toward the phone, stopped. She knew she couldn't use the phone, not
that
one. She couldn't make the call in the presence of the body, the woman's dead eyes watching….

Another phone? Where? Think. In the hall…

Martha backed out of the room, her limbs working like rubber. She touched the furniture, the walls, feeling her way toward the foyer.

Blue-gray orbs. Dead. Oh God—how—

Around the corner, she found the phone. Occasional table. Lace doily. Antique phone, brass and ceramic, rotary dial.

She willed herself to pick up the receiver, her hand feeling numb, and twirled the dial. Just three digits.
Click-click-click-click-click-click-click-click-click.
The dial took forever….
Click-click.

“Nine-one-one,” a female dispatcher's voice answered after the first ring. “What's your emergency?”

“I—” Martha's voice caught in her throat, the words coming out toneless, breath only.
Neck creased, like a balloon.
“There's been a—”
Spilled tea, eyes open—

“Could you speak up, please?”

“There's been a murder.” Martha blurted the words into the mouthpiece, her chest heaving. “She's dead—oh my God, she's dead—”

“Ma'am, please try to remain calm. You're at—four-thirty-three Worthington Lane, correct?” Martha nodded her head, then remembered to speak aloud. “Yes—”

“Ma'am—did you say a murder?”

“I think—yes—I think—”

“Are you in any immediate danger?”

Martha glanced around the hallway. “I don't think—I don't know—”

“Emergency Services is on the way, ma'am. The address has been transmitted and they will be there very shortly. We've also got a sheriff's unit already patrolling in the area. I'm going to patch you directly through, okay?”

Martha nodded, again forgetting to speak. There was a click, a pause, and then a humming sound. A male voice came in over the rushing sound.

“Sheriff Morris here.”

Martha gripped the ceramic handset, head flushing hot. The handset. Brass mouthpiece, glazed flowers.
Knotted drapery cord.

“Hello?” Morris said. “Hello, are you there? I got a message. I'm just about three blocks away. To whom am I speaking?”

Martha could hear his siren come on through the receiver.

“Hello?”

Don't speak, Lovie.
The voice of Lenny hissed in her head like a ruptured radiator hose.
No use having kittens, innit? That's how they'll catch you. Don't let him hear your voice.

“Listen—” Morris continued. “You don't have to talk, just don't hang up the phone, just wait where you are. I'm very close, I'm at the corner of Pearl and Worthington.”

Martha heard another siren, this one outside of the phone, someplace nearby. Two sirens.
The same siren.

“Hello? Are you there? Martha? It's you, isn't it, Martha?”

See, he knows, Lovie, he knows. He knows. Don't speak, Martha. Don't speak.

Martha held the handset away from her ear, staring at it. Oh God…
the eyes, cold hands…Think.
What was it her father had said? In the dream? The bait, the fish, the barb, what they don't see…

Who's the
O
in
Heron
?
Lenny said.
You already know, don't you? You're in denial. Denial ain't no gully in Egypt.

The police siren was getting louder, and Martha glanced around the dim foyer, looking for some sign of what to do next. Stairway, sunny patches, morning light, balustrades, antique coatrack—and the shapes were beginning to move. They rotated, darkened and contracted and rotated, and then drew down into a funnel, and other images began to intrude, visions from the past several days in Amberleen—orange lights, the strange creature in the tree, her father in the boat, Lady Albertha, Morris—the images spun around and around her, like scenes glimpsed from the car of a herky-jerky carnival ride.

Then the car jerked to a stop and she was left with just one image—the sallow, smirking face of Lenny, standing alone at the center of a dark and wasted landscape, a cigarette dangling from his scaly lips.

We know what to do, Lovie. We've always known.

The siren wailed, getting very close. The sound jolted Martha, brought her back into the foyer. Morris's voice continued to yammer through the receiver, but distant now, like a broken toy.

Run, Martha,
Lenny whispered in her ear.
Run like hellfire.