The Girl in the Maze (18 page)

Loren knocked again.
More time,
Martha thought.
I need more time to finish this
. She flushed the toilet.

“Okay,” Loren said. “I've got to go check on the fish. I'll be back to check on you in just a few minutes.”

Martha turned back to the toilet and drew an upside-down letter
A,
then a tiny, perfect circle below it. She carefully added more characters and embellished them, letting instinct guide her. She hoped the symbols would protect her, seal her from a myriad of dangers, contain her nausea, give her time to formulate a plan.

She drew the next figure along the bathroom's baseboard. As she worked, a part of her noticed that the sound of the fish frying had died away. She heard the sound of something being dragged across the room, moving toward the door. She picked up her pace, kneeling and drawing a series of characters along the base of the door.

She paused when she heard the dragging come to a stop just outside. Then there was a slow, hissing sound, and Martha realized that Loren had pulled one of the vinyl dinette chairs up to the door and sat down, his butt forcing the air out of the cushion.

Loren began to talk, chatting through the door, some sort of one-way conversation. Martha drew a sideways
X,
and a double line below it, and turned toward the bathtub.

That's it,
Lenny said.
Well done. All the way around. You've got to form a complete circle.

Martha worked intently as Loren's voice rambled on. She didn't really mind the sound. She didn't know what he was saying, but there was something almost comforting about it, like a radio droning in the background.

Martha was drawing figures along the base of the tub when she heard the hissing again—Loren standing up. He knocked again, pushed the door against the latch. Martha paused, listening. Then she heard the footsteps move away. She returned to her work.

A few minutes later, the footsteps returned, and this time there was the sound of the chair being dragged aside. Martha paused and looked toward the door. It opened a crack.

“Don't worry,” Loren said. “I just want to make sure you're okay.”

The blade of a flat-head screwdriver poked through the crack, like the tongue of a snake. Martha scrabbled backward along the linoleum and grabbed a towel off the rack next to the tub. She slid into the corner next to the tub, trying to cover her torso.

The screwdriver blade slowly slid upward until it engaged the metal hook-latch and lifted it out of the eyelet. The hook dangled to the side and the door swung inward.

Loren stood and looked at her. His thick eyebrows rose. His lopsided mouth dropped open. His tongue probed the edges of his lips.

“You're beautiful.” His eyes widened. “You hurt my eyes. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”

Martha drew her knees in and hugged the towel closer, feeling so vulnerable she wanted to scream. She wanted to beg him to close the door, to go away. Loren scanned the steamy room, took in her handiwork. His eyebrows lowered until he was squinting, his lips working slowly, as though trying to decipher the strange figures. Then his dull eyes fixed on her again and followed along the length of her body, his breathing labored. Martha sensed she was on a dangerous precipice.

He raised his claw-hand, gesturing at the letters. “What did you do?”

His eyes again followed the trail of symbols that marched around the room like a line of ants. “That writing—what?” He worked his mouth like a fish pulled out of water, his face showing something that Martha couldn't quite read. Anger? Fear? “What are them words?”

Runes,
Martha thought, looking at him intently.
Runes, to protect me.

Loren worked his lips again.
“Poems?”

He scanned the room in awe. His fleshy pincer opened and closed and he tilted his head. “Love poems?”

Martha held her arms across her chest, her knees drawn up under the towel, tightening herself into a ball. She tried to answer him with her eyes.
No. Runes.

Loren dragged his pincer across his chin, surveying the room once more, then smacked his lips and looked back at her. “Those must be some beautiful poems, written by something beautiful as you. I wish you could read them to me.”

Martha looked at him, eyes wide.
Just leave me alone, please. Go out of the room, and let me finish this.

“Ain't we the pair, huh?” Loren nodded his head, his mouth forming a crooked grin. “I cain't read, and you cain't talk. Ain't we just the pair?”

Morris tucked the Remington 700P rifle under one sweat-stained armpit while he unfastened the hasp and raised the rolling metal service door.
Ratta-tatta-tatta-tatta.
Sunlight swept into the dark cavity behind the door, exposing a bare cement floor and its detritus of cigarette butts.

The boy was gone.

Impossible. The cinder-block room had only one door, no windows. Morris snatched his Maglite out of its nylon pouch, turned it on, and swept the room. The beam fell on blank walls, rust-colored trusses, bare cinder blocks. Then, in one corner, he spotted the backside of a metal folding chair, upside down, its legs poking in the air and swaying slightly. And underneath the chair, there he was, balled up like a hermit crab, face against the concrete.

Morris cautiously approached the heap in the corner, shining the light on Jarrell's wrists and ankles, making sure he was securely cuffed.

What was that kid up to? Morris had scoured the floor before he left. Nothing but small trash…nothing that could be used as a weapon, not even so much as a beer bottle. He scanned again.

“I don't know how you managed to get yourself over there, but you did it once, and now you can get yourself back,” Morris said. “You heard me, boy. Up.”

Jarrell flopped over, crashing the chair against the cement, and mumbled. Morris shined his light on the kid's face, which now looked like something you'd see on display in the glass case at Elkins' meat department. One eye was swollen shut, and his cheek was distended like a puffer fish. Flecks of trash adhered to his dreadlocks. All of this damage had been inflicted during Morris's interview three hours before, which the sheriff had conducted using his special interrogation device, a hard rubber baton. He'd used it to break numerous small facial bones and pulverize cartilage, but he'd taken care to leave Jarrell's senses intact. He needed the kid able to walk, talk, and listen.

“Get up, now. Show me how you got yourself over there.”

Jarrell rocked up onto the soles of his feet and perched, the chair pinned to his back.

Morris waved the Maglite. “Get back over here. Into the sunlight.”

The kid shuffled forward, sliding his feet as much as the shackles would allow.

Morris slowly walked around the boy, looking for anything awry. Morris was nothing if not thorough. Always attentive to detail. That was part of the secret of his success, and today, of all days, was not going to be an exception.

He shined his light in the corner, at the wet spot where the boy's face had been down against the floor.
What was he up to over there?
Finally, he gave the boy another frisk, probed all of his moist, fleshy creases, just to be safe. Nothing.

He took another look at the boy's face, and finally noticed something different. The gag was loose.
So that was it.
Morris untied the knot in the bandana and jerked it off.

“All right, kiddo. You had enough? I know I have. We can put an end to this game right now, and I'll give you a drink of water, we'll take you over to Amberleen General and they'll get you fixed up. I just need you to answer one simple question. Where is that girl?”

“She's dead,” Jarrell mumbled. It's the same answer he had given all morning, only now he sounded like he had a mouthful of marbles. He tilted his head and his body tensed, in anticipation of another blow from the baton. His lower lip was broken and swollen like a Vienna sausage. Blood had crusted along the edge of it and split into two black forks that extended down into his goatee.

But Morris didn't hit him this time. Instead he held up a piece of evidence—a certain, distinctive little coil of root. There was no mistake about it. It was the same piece he'd seen the girl wearing, like a brooch, on the day before she disappeared.

“This right here tells me you're lying,” Morris said. “This belonged to Martha. She was wearing it.” Jarrell looked at the floor, silent.

He tucked the root back into Jarrell's vest pocket.
Always best to leave things the way you found them.

Morris hated this part of his job. Just hated it. His holy mission had started to creep, gone much further than he'd ever wanted. And he hadn't banked on the boy's stubbornness. After the three-hour interview came up fruitless, even with the aid of his interrogation device, it had become clear he would have to expand his tactics. In the eyes of the world, the girl was dead, and he needed things to stay that way. If there's one thing he couldn't tolerate, it was loose ends.

“I understand you're an exceptional young fellow,” Morris said, stepping around the side of the chair to speak into Jarrell's good ear. “The first Shell Heap native to get into medical school. Do you enjoy word games? I know I do. Crossword puzzles, especially. So how about I give you a puzzler? Try to think of a six-letter word, starts with
A
.”

The boy squatted, motionless, still looking at the floor.

“Here's the clue: ‘makes award-winning sweetgrass baskets.' Now, can you fill in the blank?”

Jarrell raised his head and fixed Morris with his good eye, glared at him with bottomless hate. Excellent, Morris thought. That touched a nerve.

“Got it, didn't you?” Morris said. “Smart fella. Very good. Now, let's go outside.”

Morris went behind him and unlocked the restraint that linked his handcuffs and leg irons together, and slid the chain out of the chair metal with a heavy rattle.

“Stand up slowly,” Morris said, raising the Remington. “Don't try anything, or I'll blow your guts out right through your navel. And then I'll have to find somebody else to interrogate. Like your Mama. Don't try to tell me she isn't in on this.”

Morris pushed Jarrell forward with the barrel of the rifle, pressing it into the boy's shoulder blades. They stepped out of the A-Alright Self-Storage unit and into the scattered sunlight of Planters Walk. Morris turned and pulled down the rolling metal door, sweating. The humidity was beyond all reason today, even for Amberleen. The air felt like a plastic bag full of too much water, ready to burst.

He instructed Jarrell to turn right. They crossed a few steps down the broken sidewalk to the alley where the Tahoe cruiser was parked. A coffee-colored face in the rear compartment turned toward the window. Astrid Humphries's bloodshot eyes widened and her mouth moved inaudibly.

“Mama,”
Jarrell said, mush-mouthed. He shambled quickly toward the rear of the cruiser, dragging the chain over the pavement.

“Stop there.” Morris opened the front passenger door.

Astrid slammed her fists against the Lucite barrier. “You can't get away with this,” she screamed, voice muffled. “You got no right—”

Morris reached into the glove compartment, keeping his eye on Jarrell. “You and I both know that girl is hiding out there in Brumby Marsh. Now, I expect, you'll tell me just where.”

Jarrell turned away from the car so his mother wouldn't have to keep looking at his wrecked face. “Let muh muvah go. Then I tell you whutevah you wan.”

“Other way around.” Morris unfolded a laminated map of the Intracoastal Waterway. “First, you tell me what you know, and we'll take your mama home. Then I'll take you over to the jail, where you belong. And then we can call it a day.”

Martha grabbed her muddy shorts and T-shirt, crumpled in a heap next to the tub, and tried to cram herself into the small space next to the toilet. Loren stepped through the doorway and paused. He looked at the bathtub, the tepid pink water. His dull eyes tracked across the runes again, then fell back on Martha.

“Your eyes…pretty.”

Martha tightened herself into the corner. She could smell the fish burning on the stove. She wanted Loren to notice that, and tried to gesture with her eyes. Loren took a step toward her, breathing heavily.
Oh no. He has broken the rune circle.

She made eye contact with him. She glanced pointedly in the direction of the kitchen. She wrinkled her nose.

Loren's eyes narrowed, and he imitated her gesture. His eyes darted back and forth. Then his bushy eyebrows lifted, like barn doors opening.

“Uh-oh…that fish.” He took a step toward the door, then turned back to Martha, waving his crab claw. “Wait right there, Angelfish. I'll be right back.”

Loren left the doorway. Martha stood and re-latched the hook. She wriggled back into the muddy brown shorts that reeked of the marsh and the T-shirt Astrid gave her. She grabbed the edge of the tub, pulled herself to her feet. She was suffocating now. The runes marched around the room. They were no longer protective. They threatened to close in on her like ravenous insects. She unlatched the door and looked out, gauging the number of steps across the living room to the front door.

Loren worked at the stove, his back to her, scraping at a black skillet with a spatula. Martha heard the hum of the range hood and looked across the room at the front door.
How many steps? Can you make it?
She took a tentative step forward, holding on to the edge of the desk to steady herself.

“Angelfish.” Loren turned toward her. He wore an oven mitt on his good hand. Another crab claw.

“Now, you've put on them muddy things again, didn't you? You didn't have to wear that. Let me get you something nice to wear for breakfast.”

Martha stood her ground. Loren put the iron skillet on the counter, took off the oven mitt, and disappeared into the bedroom. She considered the front door again, tried to visualize the yard from memory.
How many places to hide?
As she took a step toward the sofa, Loren reappeared, holding a massive dress on a coat hanger.

“This may be a little large, but it's the only girl clothes I got.” Loren held it out to her. “You can change in my bedroom. But don't take too long—breakfast is almost ready.”

The dress was white with large bows down the front and a cherry-red floral pattern that made it look like a tablecloth. Martha wondered why the man would have it.
Does he have a wife? Is he a cross-dresser?

Loren approached her with the dress and Martha took it from him and went into the bedroom, closed the door, and locked it.

The room was dim, with a single, smeared window behind the bed. She crawled onto the bed, causing the springs to creak, and took hold of the sash and yanked. It wouldn't budge. She looked around, considered breaking the glass.

“You okay in there, Angelfish?”

Martha climbed off the bed, feeling clammy and sick in her dirty clothes. She glanced at the door, then quickly stripped her filthy things off and pulled the dress over her head.

When she emerged, wearing the sacklike dress, Loren was pouring orange juice into plastic tumblers on the Formica dinette. He looked up at her and stopped, his mouth hanging wide.

“You look beautiful, Angelfish. I bought that dress for Joleen a long time ago, but she never wore it. Not even once, before she left.”

Loren put down the orange juice and slid out a vinyl chair for her. “This is your place. I gave you the channel cat that wasn't burnt too awful bad.”

Martha sat, and the vinyl cushion exhaled. The battered fish on her plate was headless, its blackened tail twisted upward as though in a death throe. Next to the fish, a pile of emerald peas with a square of margarine on top, melting viscously. Martha choked back a fresh wave of nausea.

Loren started eating and smiled at her, his mouth moving in slow, pleased circles. She took the paper napkin, which was folded in a triangle, and placed it in her lap. She picked up the wood-handled fork and rolled one of the peas around, trying to buy time, to think of something to do, something to avoid offending the crab-man, who, after all, had shown her kindness. She stabbed a few of the peas onto the tines of the fork and raised them toward her mouth. She felt faint and her vision wavered
. Don't black out.

There was a
thunk
and Martha's face was against the plate. She could see peas rolling away from her, across the Formica.

“Angelfish. Are you all right?” Loren was standing, moving toward her. Martha righted herself, breathing heavily, shaking her head. She wiped margarine off her nose with the napkin.

“Is it too warm in here for you?” Loren said. “Getting kind of hot. I'd better turn on the AC.”

Loren waddled to the window unit on the paneled wall and turned a plastic knob. The air conditioner shuddered to life. He went to an adjacent window and turned a hand crank to shut a pair of aluminum windows. The windows stopped a few inches before closing fully.

“Just one minute, Angelfish,” Loren said. “I always have to push these closed from the outside.”

Loren opened the front door and shambled out. Martha heard him thrashing in the hedges outside the aluminum window. She looked around, wondering where the back door to the house might be.
Now's the time, Martha. You need to vanish.

She went into the kitchen, past the sink and the greasy stove, and located the back door. She turned the knob and it opened onto a screened-in porch.

A white freezer unit hummed against one wall, alongside a bank of aluminum cabinets. She limped across the porch, pushed open the torn screen door, and went through, then down a set of concrete steps and onto the unkempt grass, rough against her bare feet. She scanned the small yard—overgrown garden, clothesline strung between galvanized posts, cinder blocks. One side of the yard was lined with dense hedges. Martha heard Loren's voice calling out from inside the house and she gimped toward the hedges. She got down on her hands and knees and burrowed between the branches, pulling the voluminous dress in behind her. She heard the screen door open and swing shut. She waited.

“ANGELFISH?” Loren stood on the concrete steps, gazed back and forth across the lawn.

Martha forced her way farther into the branches, which scraped painfully against her skin. She forced herself through to the other side and tumbled onto softer grass. Her leg twisted and she winced, clutching handfuls of crabgrass. It felt as if someone had jammed a hot poker into her calf.

She forced herself onto her feet and hurried across the yard, passing a plastic play fort and a sandbox, and reached a chain-link fence with a gate at the far end. She lifted the latch on the gate and entered an alleyway.

The alley was enclosed by garage stalls, cinder-block walls, Dumpsters, trash barrels. She wanted to hurry, to put space between herself and Loren, but now each step shot missiles of agony into her leg.
Keep moving, Martha. You've got to go somewhere. They want to kill you.
She looked into a Dumpster and noticed an assortment of discarded objects next to it—a box of dog-eared paperbacks, some badminton rackets, an old toaster oven. A broom handle stuck out of the Dumpster. Attached to the other end of the handle was a paint roller, caked with dried paint. She pulled it out and slid the roller under her armpit and put the end of the pole against the pavement, testing it. Better than nothing. She hobbled on.

Martha emerged from the alley with no thought in her mind but to get somewhere, someplace to hide. It was still morning, but the sun had disappeared behind clumps of gray clouds, making the residential landscape look like the inside of a fish tank. Not a soul in sight, yet Martha knew they were there, concealed, waiting—evil faces lurking behind each window and door, watching her pass like some reanimated corpse. Watching with disdain and terror.

She passed a cigarette and magazine store, its door closed, plastered with advertising stickers, shielded by burglar bars. She paused, holding onto the bars, mesmerized by the words.
CASH 3. FANTASY 5. RED BULL
.
They might contain a vital message.
Martha's head began to spin. She pulled herself away and continued.

In the next block the residential area gave way to an industrial landscape. Neat rows of brick buildings, with small signs naming the businesses within. Through one of the alleys, Martha could see the flaking hull of a massive tanker ship docked in the distance. Steel cranes rose against an overcast sky. Deserted. The whole world, horrified at the sight of her. Watching, hiding.

Martha stopped at one of the wider alleys and rested against a brick wall, her leg throbbing. The humidity pressed down on her, like a fat child on her shoulders. At the same time she felt light, floating, and she knew this was from the winged hunger that descended on her in the marsh, stealing her life-force through a million pinpricks. Her skin itched like fire, but she lacked the energy to scratch.

To the west, tall radio towers. The red lights on top winked malevolently against the darkening sky.

She gave in to her exhaustion, sat on a low concrete wall, and shut her eyes. Paisley shapes floated in lazy circles.

I've missed you, Martha.

Martha opened her eyes. Lenny leaned against the bricks, one knee drawn up, his mottled gray tennis shoe resting on the sidewalk. His white knee poked through a hole in his jeans like a bleached bone.
Have you missed me?

Martha closed her eyes again. She inhaled the familiar scent of Lenny's clove cigarette, and found herself grateful for the company. “In a way.”

Then why'd you try to get rid of me, Lovie?

“Because Vince told me you weren't good. He said—”

It hurts, you know.

Martha looked down at her knees. “I'm sorry.”

Lenny took a puff of the cigarette and bent back the toe of his canvas sneaker, exposing jagged cracks in the rubber sole.
Well, let's let bygones be bygones, shall we?

Martha nodded.

I'm the one who really cares about you. I'm the only one who ever did.

“My father loved me.”

He's gone.

“It was an accident. Things weren't supposed to happen that way. It was just bad luck.”

Now, Lovie, rationalize all you want. I'm just here to talk some sense. You don't really know where you're goin', do you?

Martha shook her head.

But no matter where you go, they're going to find you, right? It's just a matter o' time.

Martha nodded again.

So, Lovie, ain't it about time you took charge of the situation? Ain't it about time
we
started callin' the shots?

“How can I?”

There's a way. There's always a way.

“I have to think about that child,” Martha said. “He needs my help.”

You're in no shape to help anyone. Just look at yourself. You never have been. The sooner you face up to that, the better for everyone concerned.

Martha held on to the concrete wall, thinking about that. A trail of ants marched along near her bare foot. “I just wanted to do that job. I wanted to write that book. I wanted to
be
something.”

Lenny took a long draw on the bent cigarette, his face scrunching in concentration. He released the white smoke in a long, slow jet, like a teakettle.
Let me lay down some facts for you, Lovie. I'm the only one who tells you the truth. It so happens that you were dealt out the worst poker hand in life. A deuce-to-seven low. You were a mistake. A cock-up. A blight on the face of the Earth. There's nothin', no amount of good work, can ever undo that. That's why they want to destroy you. But why let
them
do the job? At least take charge of your own destiny, Lovie.

Lenny snuffed the remains of his butt on the sole of his shoe, twisting it back and forth. Martha considered his words. It was a familiar refrain.

“Okay, maybe I don't matter,” Martha said. “I don't even care about myself, anyway. But I have to help that child. He needs my help, he's reaching out to me. I'm the only one who's receiving his messages. I may be the only one who knows about him.”

Lenny put his feet on the pavement, kicked the dead cigarette butt into the gutter, folded his hands across his bony knees, and leaned toward her.
Sorry to break it to you, Lovie, but you're already too late. You've failed again.
He leaned closer, his stained teeth showing. His breath smelled of stale vomit.
That wee pup is dead.

“No.” A frustrated rage was boiling up inside her. She scooped up a handful of gravel from the ground and flung it. The pebbles flew through Lenny's skin, ripped it like wet tissue.

“He isn't dead! He isn't!”

Martha pushed against the wall, forced herself to stand. Her vision went black for an instant. She tottered on her makeshift crutch.

You'll never learn, will you, Lovie?
The gashes in his face knit together, resealing.

Martha turned and wobbled on. She heard a rheumy cackle from behind.

The sky got darker as she followed the narrow blacktop past monotonous rows of warehouse buildings and they gave way to a stretch bordered by scrubby trees and swirls of white sand. And beyond that, finally—
something.

Clusters of brick buildings perched atop a bluff that overlooked the wide green river. On one side a shipyard, on the other, trees and steeples, and farther down the waterway, the angular trusses of a high bridge, like sails on a vast ship. It was a city, much larger than Amberleen.
This place is familiar,
Martha thought.
You've been here before. Once, long ago. Where? When?