The Girl in the Maze (16 page)

“Why can't I like someone? What's wrong with that?”

You know what will happen if you do,
Lenny said.
You know.

Morris pushed through the glass doors of Vernette's Diner and paused to scan the tables. He spotted the trio sitting in a vinyl booth near the jukebox—the receptionist, the photographer, and the ad rep from the
Gazette
. He took off his hat and walked forward.

The one named Nick elbowed his boothmates. Morris stopped at the edge of the table.

“Good afternoon, Sheriff,” said Gregory, the ad rep.

Stacey looked up from her coffee. “Can we help you?”

“I saw you all sitting over here,” Morris said. “I hope you don't mind, but I just wanted to stop by and talk with you.”

“Is something wrong?” Stacey asked.

“No, I just want to say how sorry I am for your loss.”

“It's kind of you to say that. I think the whole town is in shock.”

Morris nodded. “Lydia was as much a part of Amberleen as seagulls and Spanish moss. What will we ever do without her?”

“Why'd you have to kill that girl, anyway?” Nick asked.

“Nick.” Stacey shot him a look.

“It's all right,” Morris said. “Mind if I sit for a moment?”

“I'll call the waitress,” Stacey said.

“No, thanks, I'll only be a minute.” Morris slid into the vinyl bench and looked at Nick. “I want you to know I was following standard procedure. The standard applies for police to use deadly force to stop a fleeing murder suspect. She could have posed a danger to the community. I had a clear shot at her calf, and that's what I aimed for. It was only meant to stop her.” Morris lowered his head. “I wish it had worked. She might still be alive today.”

“I know all this must haunt you,” Stacey said.

Morris nodded.

“We had no idea about her,” Stacey said. “We didn't get to know her very well, but we all liked her. We never knew she had such severe mental problems.”

“I've been reading up about schizophrenia,” Nick said. “It's pretty unusual for someone with that condition to turn violent, especially without any warning.” Nick turned the pepper shaker in a half circle, turned it back.

“Well, there were signs, you know,” Morris said. “She was just concealing them from you. I'm sure you heard about what was happening out at the Pritchett place.”

Stacey's bright fingernails tapped on her white coffee mug. “I still can't believe it. And to think about poor Lydia. She was so kind. She wanted to give everybody a chance. She would help anybody….” Her voice broke. “I'm sorry.”

Underneath the table, Morris pinched a shank of flesh through his gabardines. He kept squeezing until he felt a warm tear roll out of his left eye. “This is a tragic thing for everybody. It's hard for all of us, but especially for you. I just want to let you know my heart goes out to all of you.”

“Thank you,” Stacey said. “That means a lot.” Nick handed her a paper napkin from the dispenser.

Morris fingered the brim of his hat. “That lady did a lot for this town, not least of which was to create a few jobs.”

“That's true,” Gregory said, stirring his coffee.

“Speaking of which,” Morris said, “do the two of you have any plans about what to do next?”

The three of them looked at one another.

“I might move to Warner Robins,” Nick said. “I hear they have a job out there for a medical photographer at the air force base.”

Morris turned toward Stacey. “How about you?”

“I don't know. This is home. I plan to stick around. I reckon something will turn up, sooner or later.”

Morris folded his arms on the table, leaned in. “Now, listen to me for a minute. I know you folks aren't the biggest fans of the Shell Heap deal.”

Stacey and Nick glanced at each other.

“But what's done is done,” Morris continued. “The deal has gone through. And it's going to bring a lot of new jobs to this county. I'm sure they're going to need some people who do the kind of work you do. Administrative help, things like that.”

“You reckon they might have a job for a secretary?” Stacey asked, wiping her cheek with the napkin.

“I'd say it's a pretty safe bet. Especially if somebody puts in a word for you, or something or other.” Morris winked at her. “Now, I don't know these developers personally. But I do know our commissioners. I know they're working closely with Hoshima. They're working hard to make sure things are done right. Part of the deal is that they have to hire local people.” Morris reached across the table and gave her hand a squeeze. “Just don't worry too much, you hear? We're going to get past this, and it's going to be a new day in Amberleen. I'm not just talking about jobs. There's going to be a lot of new business coming in.” Morris looked at Gregory. “Just wait. You're going to have more advertising inches to fill in the
Gazette
than you know what to do with.” He glanced toward Nick. “And you? I wouldn't pack my bags too soon.”

“No, thanks,” Nick said. “I'm outta here. I'm not going to help some international conglomerate rape our coastline.”

“Well, suit yourself then. You can be part of the future, or you can stay mired in the past.” Morris stood and put his hat on.

“Thank you for stopping by here, Sheriff,” Stacey said. “It means a lot.”

“You folks enjoy your lunch,” Morris said, turning to leave.

The next morning, Martha was awakened by the sound of a baby crying.

The sound was plaintive and distressed, and it touched something primal within her, pierced straight into her soul.

The sound was followed by a singular vision that arrived with the force of revelation—an iron hook, and suspended from it, a cloth sack. The cloth sack was full in the bottom, weighted down by something round and tumescent. The shape within squirmed.

Martha sat bolt upright in the bed and threw the sheet off, listening. There was a soft light in the cabin and the familiar morning sound of the seagulls outside. She stared at the shadowy framework around the door and listened for the child, the vision of the sack hovering in her mind, a persistent afterimage.
What you've seen is real. That baby exists. It is in danger. Where is it?

She listened for long moments, motionless, sitting on the bed, but she could no longer hear the child. “Where are you?” she asked, but there was no reply. Just a lapping of water, the buzzing of insects, and the clamor of the birds. Missing were the clatter and hiss of the camp stove, the now-familiar sounds of Jarrell making coffee.

Martha pulled on her shorts and the worn sneakers, limped to the door, and pushed it open. She squinted into a veil of golden mist. She limped down the three plank steps, then turned to look at the hammock hanging between the sweet gum trees. Empty.

The tide was high. It had slipped in during the night, filling the canal and submerging the marsh grass to the blade tips. The boat was gone. Martha stepped across the damp soil, wondering if the boat could have floated away. Then she remembered watching Jarrell tie it off to a sapling at the shore's edge on the previous day.

“Hello?” She limped toward the camp stove, putting a little weight on her injured leg, and felt a burn inside her calf. She grasped the edge of the picnic table to steady herself. She inhaled deeply, tasting the sulfurous air of the marsh.

“Jarrell?” Nothing but the racket of the seagulls, uninterested in her problems. She worked her way forward, suddenly nervous. The young man, with his goatee and his intense focus, had become her anchor to reality, and she needed to know that he was close by.

She reached the grassy boat landing, then turned and looked back toward the cabin, scanning the weeds, the cabin shadows, the thick clumps of palmetto bushes. Nothing.

“Jarrell?” She could hear the panic in her own voice. She moved closer to the edge of the creek.

He's left you, Martha.

Martha spun toward the sound of the voice, slipping on the wet grass. Lenny sat on the plank steps, picking at frayed strings around the hole in his jeans. Martha's chest tightened.

They always do.

“JARRELL?” Martha looked up and down the stretch of creek. The water had made everything disappear—the mud, the fiddler crabs, the oyster beds.

“He's probably gone on an errand,” she said, voice trembling. “He'll be back.”

An errand?
Lenny ran long, pale fingers through his matted hair.
This early? When will you ever learn, Lovie? Trust no one.

Martha put her hands over her ears so she wouldn't hear Lenny, and then uncovered them, because she wanted to listen for the sound of Jarrell's boat. She sat down in the dewy grass of the landing, her back to Lenny, and waited. The mist over the marsh was breaking up, separating into drifting wraiths.

There was a distant sound of soft buzzing. Martha took hold of the crutch and stood, poking the end of it into the shallows so she could lean out over the creek. The buzz got louder and the prow of a small boat appeared around a bend, moving toward her quickly, plowing the water. She squinted at the dark shape above the hull, and in another second she could make out the familiar knit cap.

As Jarrell approached the landing, he waved her back. He killed the engine, letting momentum carry the prow of the boat onto the grassy slope, and hopped out. His face was damp. Martha couldn't tell if he was wet, or sweaty.

“What happened? Where did you go?” Martha asked.

“Get into the boat, quick.” Jarrell spat the words at her, then turned and jogged toward the cabin.
“Get in the goddamned boat!”
he shouted again.

Martha looked down the creek, stung by Jarrell's sudden ferocity. The morning fog was still rising and somewhere distant, behind the cascading noise of the shorebirds, she could make out another sound. A second engine.

The cabin door snapped shut and Martha turned to see Jarrell bounding down the path from the cabin. He was carrying his rifle in one hand, and the leather satchel swung from his shoulder.
“Get in the fucking boat.”

“What's happening? Where are we going?” Martha asked, stepping over the gunwale and lowering herself onto the bench.

Jarrell threw his gear into the base of the boat, slid it back into the water, and stepped to the rear. He glanced down the river, gave the pull cord on the outboard motor a yank. The motor rumbled to life, and Jarrell throttled it down to a low hum.

“Lie down. Get down in the bottom of the boat,” Jarrell said, working the tiller as they trolled upstream. Martha obliged, sliding off the boat bench and crouching against the ribs in the hull. In a few hundred yards they reached a narrow inlet surrounded by tall grass. He killed the engine and swung the motor on its hinge, lifting the dripping prop out of the water. He then took a pole from the floor of the boat and used it to guide the boat into the shallow inlet. The tall marsh grass swished against the sides and Martha could hear the hull scraping the bottom. Jarrell picked up a bundle of dark green netting and threw an end toward her.

“Cover yourself,” Jarrell whispered. He spread the net over himself and the rest of the boat.

Martha pulled the material over her head. Camouflage netting, the kind of stuff they sold in army-navy stores. Jarrell crouched next to her.

“Who's coming?” Martha lifted her head.

“Shh!” Jarrell pushed her down and took his rifle and aimed it across the prow of the boat. He pressed himself next to her, his body warm and damp. He was breathing hard.

Martha peered through the squares of the netting, between olive-green plastic flaps.

A second boat, much larger than Jarrell's, was advancing down the creek. It seemed in no particular hurry. Martha could make out two men in khaki outfits and sunglasses. They stood beneath a canvas canopy and scanned the shoreline, heads pivoting. Painted on the hull of the boat in black letters—
SHERIFF
. They approached the cabin and the boat slowed to a stop in the center of the canal. Martha heard the radio squawk. The boat sat there, engine gurgling. The taller man stood and talked into a handheld microphone. Martha wondered if it might be Morris. Then he took off his sunglasses and she could see that it was someone darker and more wiry, with a weathered face. The deputy sitting next to him looked younger and fair.

Jarrell held his rifle poised, and the men sat there, talking unintelligibly on their radios, the boat unmoving. Martha realized that if the men decided to continue upstream, Jarrell and Martha's boat would come into clear view.

The taller man sat down, reached for the controls. The patrol boat engine gurgled louder and the craft pivoted, turned perpendicular to the canal. Then it eased toward shore, the prow sliding into the grassy shallows. They killed the engine and the taller man jumped out, his boots splashing in the brackish water. The man was lanky, and he approached Jarrell's cabin with one hand resting on the handle of his gun. He turned back toward the river and looked at the grassy inlet where Martha and Jarrell were hiding.

Martha felt droplets of sweat rolling down her chest. The man looking toward them unholstered his gun. Jarrell pulled back the hammer on his rifle. It made a soft
click
.

Another splash, and the second man, the shorter one, disembarked. The first deputy turned away from them and started toward the cabin, gun drawn, saying something that Martha couldn't make out. He stopped at the picnic table, examined the camp stove.

“Goddammit, goddammit,”
Jarrell whispered.

The second deputy stood at the shoreline, watching the first one walk slowly toward the cabin, then behind it.

Jarrell slid up onto his knees, stealthy as a cat. He picked up the pole and quietly eased the boat back into the channel.

The short deputy stood, maybe a hundred yards away, watching the taller man circle the cabin.
All they need to do is turn around now, and they would see us,
Martha thought.

“Hold on tight,” Jarrell whispered. He slid the netting off the back of the boat, gave the gasoline bulb a single squeeze, and yanked the engine cord.

The outboard motor roared to life and the boat lurched up out of the water. Martha tumbled backward against Jarrell's knees. She heard shouting from the island, caught a glimpse of a brown shape jogging along the shoreline. Then her view was blocked as they passed behind the patrol boat. Gunshots rang through the air.

Martha grabbed the boat bench and scooted back up the tilting hull, tangled in the net. She lifted her head enough to see over the gunwale. The grass boundaries whizzed past them, a green blur, and the outboard engine dug in deep, plowing up rooster tails of water. Behind them the police boat was already getting smaller. As they rounded a bend, she glimpsed the two officers scrambling toward it.

Jarrell followed the swollen creek several hundred yards more and merged into the wide silver crescent of the sound—open water. Jarrell turned left, opposite the direction they had gone to reach Astrid's house. The waterway was clear of other boats and the skiff zipped along, engine whining at a high pitch, moving faster than Martha would have thought possible, passing houses and piers along the shoreline. Martha looked back again, and this time she glimpsed another boat in the distance. It was a long way behind, but above the canopy she could make out the wink of a tiny blue light.

They reached a split in the river, and Jarrell veered sharply. The skiff tilted and banked. They planed out and sped through a narrow canal. Marsh grass rushed past on both sides. In another couple hundred yards, another fork, this one not much more than a creek. Jarrell throttled the boat down to cruising speed.

Martha could no longer see the other boat. “Can they follow us in here?” she asked.

“Not in that boat. But they can wait for us at the other end.”

Jarrell took another fork, then another, each one shallower than the last, slowing speed with each turn until they were barely moving. They reached an area of the marsh crisscrossed by endless shallow tributaries. Jarrell lifted the engine up on its hinge, then stood and poled them along through the marsh grass into another shallow canal. Standing erect and sweating, he dipped the pole over one side and then the other. When he lifted it out of the water, the pole dripped with dark green ooze. They advanced through brackish water toward a small rise with a stand of pine trees.

“Do you know where all these creeks lead?” Martha asked.

Jarrell scanned the landscape. Water and sweat covered him like rain beads. He glanced at his watch, tested the water depth with the pole, then put it down.

“What's wrong?”

“It's too low to keep going.”

“What do we do?”

“Get out.”

Martha looked at him, puzzled. “What, you mean walk? Here?”

“You've got to get out. Now. Quick.”

Martha stood and stepped onto the tiny islet.

Jarrell handed her the crutch. “The boat's too heavy with both of us. But I might be able to get through alone.”

“Wait—you're going to leave me here?”

“They don't know about you. The only way out is through Glenn Creek. It feeds back into the river. I don't think they can get around there before I do.” Jarrell handed her a canteen. “Stay in the shade. I'm going to try to get them to follow me.”

“Follow you?” Martha felt her blood pounding against her temples.

“Up Fowler's Creek, where they'll most likely get stuck. Then I'll come back and get you.”

Martha put the canteen back in the boat. She stumbled briefly, one foot sinking into the mud. “No. I'm not going to stay here alone.” Somewhere, across the marsh, she could hear the sound of the other boat engine.

“I can't get through Glenn Creek with both of us. My prop will hit the mud.” Jarrell stepped out of the boat and grasped both of her shoulders. “You
are
going to stay here. I'll be back. I'll be back in an hour.”

Jarrell's hands were like steel on her. “What if they catch you?” she asked.

“They won't catch me.”

“What if they do?”

Jarrell looked her straight in the eyes. “Then I'll make a phone call to Quincy. He lives out on Shell Heap and knows this marsh as well as I do. He'll come and get you.” Jarrell pushed her back, almost causing her to fall onto the land spit. He tossed a canteen out next to her. Then he dragged the skiff back into the channel and stepped into it.

“Here,” Martha said, reaching into the pocket of her shorts. “Take this.”

“Go on now,” Jarrell told her.

“Take this.” Martha held out the coil of serpent root.

“What for?”

“For protection.”

“All right, whatever.” Jarrell took the root and stuffed it into his jeans. “Just stay under that tree, out of the sun.” He poled the skiff along the shallows, started the engine, and gave the throttle a little gas. The skiff motored along the narrow channel and disappeared around a bend. Martha could hear the puttering sound of the engine grow faint and disappear.

Martha sat for a moment in the squishy soil. The sun felt as if it were pressing against her, burning her skin. She picked up the canteen and the crutch and limped back to the tree. She sat down in the sandy grass, her back propped against the trunk, and waited.