The Girl in the Maze (9 page)

Martha waited, clutching the handle of the bag. She felt her skin dampening with clammy sweat. The object on the paper didn't look like much of anything now. Maybe a piece of bark, or a dried-out lump of mud.

Martha watched nervously as Morris removed an unsharpened pencil from a mug on his desk and used the eraser end to flip the thing over. Then he opened a drawer in his desk, pulled out a magnifying glass, and peered at the object, rotating it with the pencil.

“Mummified,” he said at last.

“What?”

“What you've got here is remains. Very old remains, I'd say.”

“You mean it's—is it—”

“Human? Well, it could be from an ape, I suppose. But I don't think so. It's real, that much I can tell you. Look closely at the edge, where it was cut off. You can see the cellular structure of the bone.”

Morris pivoted the object toward Martha and handed her the magnifying glass. Martha leaned in to look at the flat edge. She eyed a pale, oval patch with a honeycomb pattern of filaments.

“Where'd you find this, Martha?”

“In the house where I'm staying, the Pritchett House. It was last Wednesday morning. A cat was playing with it. At first, I thought it was just a dead mouse or something.”

“You tell anybody out there about it?”

“No, I haven't yet. I suppose I should have.”

Morris rotated the object again with the pencil and scratched the back of his neck. “Damnedest thing I ever saw. No wonder you hesitated.”

Martha felt relief blooming inside, calming her.
See? You made a good decision.

“The skin is pretty well preserved. We might be able to get a print,” Morris said. “But I don't think it would do us much good. Our crime records go back to 1905. I'd say this is a bit older than that.”

“How can you tell?”

“Look at the condition of the flesh. It's like leather. There's different ways that can happen. You can have an extremely dry, arid situation, which you don't see around here. Another way is when remains get submerged into a bog. Some of the marsh soil in this area is highly acidic. That inhibits the microorganisms that normally cause flesh to decay. Instead, the flesh gets leatherized, like what you see here.”

Morris lifted the edges of the paper to funnel the thing back into the jar, then screwed the lid back down.

“Tell you what. I'll send it to the state crime lab, see what they can tell us about it. Could be interesting.” He sat back, shaking his head. “Hell of a thing. Anything else to report today, Martha?”

Martha hesitated, her fingers fiddling with the bag's leather shoulder strap. “Well, there's one other thing. It's probably just a coincidence.”

Morris peered at her satchel. “I'm all ears.”

Martha reached into the bag and pulled out her notepad. She opened it to the page where she had written out the names of the commissioners.

“Lydia asked me to do some investigation on the side about the development project out on Shell Heap.”

“The Tidewater deal?”

“For some reason, she thought there might be some connection between the planning commission members—you know, the ones who voted to condemn the land on Wednesday—she thought there might be some connection with this investment firm that's backing the project.”

“That would be a serious allegation,” Morris said.

“I know.” Martha fought an impulse to squirm.

“Well, the decision was motivated because of the crime problems we've been having. You were there, you heard the report.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Call me Aubrey.”

Martha nodded. Suddenly, Morris grinned at her. “That Lydia…she's quite a character. She can get carried away sometimes. Now, let me understand this. She asked you to
investigate
?”

“Well, nothing sophisticated. Just library and Internet research, public records, that kind of thing.”

“What qualifies you for investigative work?

“I studied investigative journalism in college. I also had an internship at
The Marietta Tribune
. It was on my résumé, and she just thought—”

“Where'd you go to school?”

“Ponce de Leon College. Atlanta.”

“Graduate?”

“No, sir—I mean, Aubrey—I'm still two years away.”

“Oh. So you're going back this fall?”

“I hope so. That's my plan.”

“Junior?”

“No. I still have to finish my sophomore year.”

Morris cocked his head expectantly.

“I had to take a break. There was an interruption.”

“How come?”

Martha shifted in her chair. “It was a medical problem. But I'm hoping to go back this fall.”

“Okay. 'Nuff said. I don't mean to pry. Well, I guess you're getting some good experience out here, aren't you?” Morris glanced at his watch. “So, what have you got for me?”

Martha, feeling relieved to change the subject, placed the notepad on the desk.

“Like I said, this is probably just an odd coincidence. I just thought I'd get your opinion on it, that's all.”

Morris leaned forward and looked at the notepad for a moment. “I see you've got the commissioners' names written down here. So?”

Martha took a pencil from Morris's mug and underlined four of the middle initials:

James Harold Oglesby

Wallace Elliot Bowden

Virgil Roland Culpepper

Larry Nathan Birch

Eunice C. Shelby (maiden name: Wilson)

Then she rotated the pad back toward Morris. “Look at the first names, except for Eunice Shelby. She's the only one who voted against the development.”

“HERN?” Morris cocked his head, massaged the back of his neck.

Martha showed him the stationery. “Well, there's this investment group in Fort Lauderdale that's involved with the project called ‘Heron.' I just thought that was an interesting coincidence.”

Morris looked at the pad again for a moment.

“Martha…you're a bright girl, aren't you?”

Martha felt herself starting to blush.
You're making a fool out of yourself.
Why didn't you quit when you were ahead?
“I was an honors student.”

Morris looked at her, his face inscrutable. “This is interesting. I'll agree with that. But this is a stretch.”

“I know.”

“Never mind that you're missing a letter. Let's say the commissioners were connected to the project. They would want that to be a secret, right? So why would they leave a clue like this for someone to come along and find? Some clever young person, like yourself?”

“I don't know why.”

“I don't know, either.” Morris held his chin in his hand and tapped the pencil eraser on the desk. “Have you shown this to Lydia?”

“Not yet. I was going to today, but she had to leave the office.”

“Martha, could I give you some personal advice? Be careful.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That Lydia—she's a great lady, I've known her a long time. But she's getting up there in years. She can be a loose cannon sometimes. You show this to her, she'll have it in the
Amberleen Gazette
come Wednesday morning. That could end up being a real embarrassment for the Historical Society.” Morris paused, hand cupped on his chin. “I'd hate to see the fine work you folks are doing out there get smeared.”

“I understand.”

“Don't get me wrong, you did the right thing showing this to me. Just be careful and don't get carried away. This isn't Journalism 101. This is the real world. Be careful what you sling around. People's reputations take a long time to build, a short time to wreck.”

Martha nodded, feeling herself tremble inside. Morris looked at her, relaxed his demeanor a bit.

“Been to a root worker?”

“I'm sorry?”

Morris pointed toward her chest, and Martha remembered the serpent root pinned to her blouse.

“Oh, this. It's just kind of a good luck charm.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Morris said. “A lot of people around these parts still swear by that stuff. May I see it?”

Martha unpinned the coil of root and handed it to him.

“That's a nice specimen. Very unusual shape. Lady Albertha, I presume?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, that's a bona fide magic talisman you've got there,” Morris said, handing the root back to her. He rose and grabbed his brimmed hat from the sideboard. “If you'll excuse me, I've got to get over to the courthouse. I'm glad you stopped by, Martha. Come on over anytime, all right?”

Martha followed Morris down the corridor and back into the reception area.

“Jean—this young lady needs to fill out an incident report form.” Morris glanced at Martha and winked. “Just a formality.”

Morris put on his hat and left.

Martha walked home along Pearl Street in the late afternoon light, her mind twirling around the day's events. She was nervous, and more than a little excited. She thought about Morris's demeanor, his reaction to her diagram. Something strange in that. What if Lydia published the names in the paper, as Morris predicted? And what if it was all wrong, a meaningless coincidence? And what if the newspaper reporters started digging around? They might find out about her background. What could be made of that? Was she pushing things too far?

You're like a dog with a bone,
her father used to tell her. And there was something about his words in the dream, too, something she should pay attention to. A lesson.
The fish don't see the hook.

Martha turned the corner onto the gravel driveway of the Pritchett House. She was halfway up the drive before she noticed the powder-blue pickup truck parked next to the porch. A man with a baseball cap was seated in it. Something about the man and the truck was familiar, and Martha felt a vague tremor of alarm.

She quickened her pace. On the porch, her suitcases and belongings were stacked near the door.

“Are you Martha?” the man asked, getting out of the truck.

She recognized him now. It was James, a lanky fellow with a bent nose who had given her a ride from the bus stop the night she'd arrived in Amberleen. Martha heard her voice rising, alarm escalating into panic. “Why are my suitcases out here?”

James took a step toward Martha, standing between her and the pickup truck, the driver's-side door open. “Mrs. Pritchett asked me to give you a ride to the Econo Lodge on Lilburn Street, if you need it.”

“A ride? Why would I need—?”

She didn't need to finish the sentence; the reality of what was happening ignited in her mind like a pile of gasoline-soaked rags. She grabbed the screen-door handle and pulled. The door jerked against its metal hook, latched from inside.

“Mrs. Pritchett said she don't want you goin' back inside,” James said. “I've got your refund for the rest of the month's rent in this here envelope. She said you can have this, but first you need to give me the room key.”

Martha rattled the screen door. “How dare she just—they can't—” She banged her fist on the wall shingles.

James took another step toward her. “She said she was going to call the sheriff if you tried to make a scene. She asked me to tell you that.”

“Then let her call the sheriff. I
know
the sheriff.” Martha rattled the door, her outrage spilling over. “Mrs. Pritchett! Open this door!”

Martha paused and listened. She knew Eileen was in there. Why else would the screen be latched from inside?

“Mrs. Pritchett!” She paused and listened. After a moment, she heard a squeak of floorboards on the other side. The front door opened a crack.

“Now, you need to stop all that racket and carrying on, or I'm going to have to call the police.” Behind the door, Eileen's eyes were magnified by her glasses. “This ain't no hospital. This is a
quiet
place. We specifically advertised for a
quiet
resident. It said so in the ad.”

“But these are my personal things—you can't just—”

“I saw all them medications in your room. Just because we take Section Eight, that don't mean we got to take a case like yours. This ain't no mental hospital. I got to think about the safety of our guests. You ought to go and try to get some help. That's all I've got to say about it.”

Eileen closed the door and Martha heard the dead bolt turning. Martha rattled the screen again, banged her fist against the wall. But she didn't know what she would do if Eileen answered again.

She leaned down, turned one of her hard-shell suitcases onto its side. She popped the latches and opened it. Her clothes were on top—the cream-color wool jacket she and Aunt Lucia had found at the thrift store, her jeans, her underwear. All haphazard, with no effort made to fold or organize. She lifted up the clothing and saw her prescription vials strewn to one side. In the bottom, the photo of Martha and her father at the lake, separating from its frame. The Chinese lantern, folded flat. The Devil's shoelace next it, broken into two pieces.

The box.
Martha rooted around through the bottom frantically, feeling for its shape. She couldn't find it.

She opened the second suitcase, fighting off an urge to shriek, exploring with her fingers, reaching through her garments. Her fingers touched the silken surface underneath a pair of underwear and she pulled it out.

She sank down on her haunches, clutching the box to her stomach. Warm tears dripped onto her clenched hands. She heard James's voice from behind.

“Are you going to be all right?”

Martha wanted to be alone.

“Here's something for your face.” The cloth James held in front of Martha smelled of motor oil, but she took it anyway. She put the box back in the suitcase, used the cloth to wipe the tears from her face and hands.

Then she put down the cloth and began to reorganize her suitcases. She folded the clothes and reassembled the photo in its frame, thinking about her options. James sat on the porch swing, waiting patiently, arms folded. Martha noticed her cellphone lying in the pile, picked it up, opened and closed it. Useless.