The Girl in the Maze (23 page)

Martha leaned her head against his shoulder, whispered into his ear: “Thank you.”

Martha rested her head against Vince's folded windbreaker, listening to the metronome sweep of the wipers. She could see his hunched form in the front seat, squinting, concentrated. She tried to rest, stretched out on the leather seats, because he had asked her to. The upholstery felt clean and pristine against her damp skin. She heard a thousand voices muttering outside in the rain but ignored them. She was so grateful now that someone else was here to help her, to make choices, someone to protect her.

Vince turned the radio on.

“…approaching Georgia's Sea Islands and expected to reach hurricane force before hitting land around nine
P.M.
,” the announcer said. “A mandatory evacuation order is in effect for the areas of Brunswick, Amberleen, Savannah, and—” Lightning flickered outside the car. The radio voice sizzled.
Now you have her. Now you have the girl. Bring her to Atlanta.

Martha felt a jolt of anxiety. She sat up.

“Are you all right, Martha?” Vince said, clicking the radio off. “We're headed out of the storm now. Try to rest.”

Martha stared through the windshield. Nothing but darkness and rain, not even streetlights. “Where are we?”

“This is the island causeway. We're headed south, away from the storm.”

A trickle of water rolled along the black leather seat in front of Martha. A single pallid finger appeared over the top, like the leg of a white spider. It slid forward across the upholstery. Then another finger. A head of slick and matted hair rose from behind the bucket seat.

You think he's really taking you to Amberleen?
Lenny propped his bony elbows against the top of the seatback. His breath smelled of tobacco and gum disease.
Get real, girl. It's all jiggery poker. You've fallen right into their trap.

Martha turned her face away from him, looked at the bleared window.

Take a look at the door locks. Go on, Lovie, have a look.

Martha focused on the round, edgeless knob, sunken into the door panel.

See? He's got 'em hammered down. Why? Just to be sure you don't try to escape.

Martha looked at the front windshield, at wipers slinging sheets of water to reveal only darkness. “Where are we going?” Martha asked. She could hear a quiver in her voice.

“First of all, away from this storm. We can't do anything if we get trapped in this mess.”

“Are we going to Amberleen?”

“Martha—”

He's lying to you, Lovie.

“We aren't, are we?” Martha reached for the door handle. “We aren't going to help the child. Stop. Let me out.”

“Martha—”

She grabbed the door handle and pulled. The door wouldn't open. She pinched at the lock knob with her fingers, unable to grasp it.

“Martha—listen to me.” Vince slowed the car. “You can't go out there. It's dangerous.”

“You lied.” Martha jerked at the door handle. “You lied. Let me out of here.” The tiny interior of the vehicle was closing in on her. She would suffocate if she didn't get out.

“I can't, Martha,” Vince said. “These doors lock automatically. When I put the car into drive, they lock.” Vince eased the car to a standstill, and shifted into neutral. The door locks popped up. “See?” Martha looked at Vince, then at the door.

Vince twisted around in his seat to face her. “You can leave, if that's what you want to do. I'm not forcing you to stay here, Martha.”

Martha opened the door. Rain and wind blasted through the opening. On the ground, she could see a torrent of rushing black water.

“You're free. You can leave if you want. But I want you to stay in here, because you might drown out there. I want you to stay with me in here, where it's safe and warm.”

Vince flicked on the interior light and held an open map. He pointed to a narrow blue line that paralleled the coastal wetlands. “This is where we are, Martha. We're going toward Amberleen. Is that where you want to go?”

Martha nodded. Wind gusted around the door, tossing cold raindrops against her skin.

“If the child is there, we can find him,” Vince said.

It's a trick.
Lenny's voice sounded high-pitched, anxious.

“But I need to hurry,” Vince continued, “to stay ahead of this storm. Will you please close the door, Martha?”

Martha nodded, reached over, and pulled the door shut. Vince put the car back into drive. The locks snapped down. The two continued on, rolling through a thousand demon howls. In the rearview mirror, Lenny's face gazed back at her, ratlike, reproachful.

You'll never learn, will you, girl?

The cones of the headlights penetrated just a few yards into the rain, glinting off the orange reflectors attached to short aluminum poles that lined the causeway like matchsticks. Vince kept the car steady at fifteen miles per hour. The road itself was submerged. It was like driving through a shallow lake. Vince wondered how fast the water level was rising.

A movie flashed across his mind's eye—TV news footage of helicopters rescuing passengers from the roofs of cars, their vehicles floating away like flotsam in a rising flood. But there would be no rescue helicopters out here, on this remote causeway, this narrow berm dredged up by civil engineers to bisect the marsh.

By taking the island causeway south, toward Brunswick, Vince had assumed he could outrun the storm. Indeed, the wind had diminished significantly, but this flood tide was something he hadn't bargained for.

Lightning flashed. He glimpsed shivering trees, water sloshing around the trunks.

Vince told himself reassuring thoughts. At least Martha was calmer now, reclined in the backseat, maybe even asleep. Her psychosis had caused her to focus on imaginary problems, had distracted her from the real danger outside. The trust he had established in their therapeutic relationship was intact. For now, it was the best thing he had going. Just seven miles to the causeway exit, and they would be out of this mess.

Focus, keep going, just make it to the exit.
Vince released one hand from the steering wheel and flexed it, then the other. His tendons were numb and sore, some kind of carpal effect from gripping too tightly. He tried to relax, rolled his shoulders. He could hear the water churn against the bottom of the car. Jesus, it was up to the chassis.
It's all right, Vince. Just a few more miles. You can make it.

The headlights dimmed slightly, the car slowed to a stop, and the maintenance lights on the dashboard illuminated.
CHECK ENGINE.
A clammy wave of panic washed through his gut. He reached for the ignition with sweaty, trembling fingers, turned the key. The engine made a muted, whirring sound, died again. He paused, pressed the gas pedal once, and turned the key. The engine caught and started, gurgling. He pressed the gas pedal and the car lurched forward. Vince tasted copper in the back of his mouth. He tried to remember if there had ever been another time when he'd been so scared. As a child—he had lain awake listening to scratching in the attic that turned out to be rats. He had awoken from disturbing dreams, the faces in the window. But those terrors could be dispelled, the lights turned on, phantoms banished. Those terrors were nothing like this….

He locked his eyes on the watery surface ahead, rigid, focusing on the reflectors.
Don't let off the gas. Don't go too fast. Don't miss the exit.

There was something in the darkness ahead, beyond the reach of his headlights. Something that glowed through the visual white noise of the rain. Electricity? The next town? A streetlight? But they couldn't have reached the exit yet. It was too soon.

He leaned forward, squinting hard at the vague nimbus of light. The shape resolved into the form of a sideways figure eight, then separated into two disks. It was getting closer, moving faster than the Passat was advancing
. Is it moving toward you? How could that be? Unless…

What other lunatic would be driving along this submerged causeway,
into
the storm? He pulled back on the transmission stalk, flashing his lights repeatedly, hoping to signal the poor soul, to warn them that they were headed the wrong way.

But the vehicle kept coming. Vince could see that it was riding higher than his sedan—it was some kind of truck or SUV. Then the headlights of the other vehicle veered to one side and stopped, began to pivot around.
Good. They got the message, they're turning around. Someone has made it this far,
so can you.

But the vehicle, perpendicular to the causeway, moved no farther. It blocked both lanes, headlights illuminating the rain like scratch marks on an old film.

What the hell? Vince put the Passat in neutral and waited, but the vehicle just sat there. He put his car back into drive and eased forward. When his headlights reached the side of the vehicle, relief and understanding bloomed inside of him like a warm tide.
Thank God, thank God, thank God.

Vince put the Passat into park and released the steering wheel. He relaxed his hands, flexed his sore knuckles. In the ovals of his headlights, he could read the words stenciled along the side of the SUV:
AMBERLEEN COUNTY SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT.

The door on the SUV opened and a rubber boot slid out, followed by a large, pale brown, ponchoed figure in a Smokey Bear hat. The figure trotted toward the Passat, his footsteps launching small geysers of water.

Vince turned on the interior light and glanced in the rearview mirror. Martha had awakened and was sitting up, her hair a fright wig. “Vince?”

“Martha…it's all right. Someone's here. Someone to help us.”

The officer tapped on the window and Vince lowered it. The wind rushed into the cab, stinging his face with raindrops. A face, all fleshy cheeks and jowls, filled the window. Rain streamed off the creases of the poncho. In the glow of the interior light, Vince could make out a name tag:
MORRIS.
The officer pointed a silver flashlight at Vince, then toward the backseat.

“Thank God you found us—” Vince began.

Martha shrieked. The sound was terrible, causing Vince to jerk in his seat. “Vince,” she hissed, “we're in danger. I need you to listen to me….”

Vince pressed the rear door-lock buttons on his armrest. “It's okay, Martha,” he said, turning toward her. “It's all right. This is someone who can help both of us.” The officer shined his light on Martha and paused for a long moment. She drew up in the back corner, knees pulled up to her chin, eyes like gray saucers.

“Who's that?” the officer asked.

“I'm a psychotherapist. That's my patient. She's been hurt. I thought we could make it across the causeway and outrun the storm, but I guess I made a mistake.”

“I'm afraid you did. You sure did,” the officer said. Vince's fingers tightened around the steering wheel. Why wasn't this man alarmed? Shouldn't he be telling them to hurry and get into his vehicle and get the hell out of there?

“I thought I better make one last patrol out here,” Morris said. “This sure ain't the place to be right now. Biggest tide surge in fifty years, they say. No, sir. I don't think you can make it through in this here vehicle.”

“I don't, either,” Vince said. “Not in this car.”

“Nice car, though,” Morris said, shining his light around the interior.

“I don't care about the car, just our safety,” Vince said.

Morris shined his light along the chassis of the Passat. “You'd need something with high clearance, four-wheel drive. You folks better come get in the cruiser, and I'll ride you on down to Exit Three. We need to get somewhere inland.”

The officer looked in the backseat again, and Vince followed his gaze. Martha huddled in the back corner, frozen, silent, her gaze like steel. The large man brought his face closer to Vince, spoke softly. “Is she dangerous?”

“She's just delusional,” Vince said, trying to keep his voice low against the rain. He'd have to tell him who she was, but that could wait. “She might resist getting into your vehicle.”

“All right,” Morris said. “I'll get some restraints out, in case we need them.”

“I'll talk to her—” Vince said, but the officer had already turned away, headed back to the cruiser. Vince closed the window, then turned and looked at Martha.

“Martha—”

She leaned forward, reached over the seat, and put her hand on his shoulder. She pinched his flesh through his shirt, hard enough to draw blood. “Vince—listen to me. That man out there—he's the one.
That's the man
. He's the one. He killed Lydia. He wants to kill me. He'll kill both of us.”

Her face was fierce, determined. Martha had confided in him—the trust was still there. How could he do this, without breaking the one thing they had left? He turned and looked out the windshield. He could see Morris in the headlights, now headed back toward them, carrying the restraints.

“Vince,” Martha continued, “I know I'm sick, I know…but you have to believe me about this. If we get in that car, we will die.”

“Martha, remember what happened at college? There were things you believed then…they weren't true. The same thing is happening again. This man doesn't want to hurt us. He just wants to help us.”

Martha shook her head violently. “He will kill us.”

Vince decided to try another tack. He could leverage his status, remind her of his authority. “Martha, here's what needs to happen,” he began, firmly. “I'm going to come around to your side of the car. Then I'm going to open your car door, and take your hand, and you're going to come with me. Then we'll both get in that other car. You will not resist me. We will do this together.”

Vince pulled the keys out of the ignition, opened his door, and stepped out into the downpour. Water rose up to his ankles, filling his shoes. As he rounded the car, a gust of wind shoved him from behind. He gripped the frame of the car to keep from stumbling and made his way to Martha's side and pressed a button on the key fob to unlock her door and opened it.

“Come on out, Martha!” Vince shouted against the rain, holding his hand out to her. “We'll only be in the rain for a second.”

She nodded slowly, then took hold of his hand and stepped out of the car, her eyes darting. She planted both feet into the stream, looking unsteady. Vince reached behind her to grab his jacket from the rear compartment, and in that instant, Martha jerked her hand out of his.

Vince lunged, hoping to tackle her, and caught nothing but an armful of rain-filled air. He stumbled onto his knees in the streaming water. He stood up, drenched, cursing his own stupidity. He looked up and down the causeway, trying to guess in which direction she had run.

Then, a shriek. He saw an electric spark in the darkness behind the Passat, followed by another scream. He ran toward it, sloshing, and could see the shape of the sheriff in the dim taillights of the Passat. He was shining his flashlight on a shape thrashing in the wash.

Vince reached them and tried to grasp Martha's flailing arms, groping for her in the dark. She was weak and her arms were like tentacles splashing and squirming in the river of the road. How had it come to this? Would she ever trust anyone again?

“Stay back.” Morris blocked Vince with his arm.

“No, not again!” Vince shouted, but too late. Another flicker in the dark from the Taser, a buzzing sound. Martha screamed like a wounded animal, then was quiet. Morris brought Martha's limp wrists together, and then there was the zipping sound of the plastic restraints.

Vince propped Martha up from behind. Her body was subdued, limp. He felt a sickness in his heart.

“All right!” Morris shouted over the rain. “Let's get her inside the cruiser.”

Morris took hold of Martha's shoulders and Vince put his arms under her legs, and they lifted her up out of the water and carried her toward the SUV.