Locked Doors (19 page)

It was near dusk now and when she looked west she could no longer see the mainland.
 
Eastward, the Pamlico Sound stretched on into a horizon of gray chop with no indication of the barrier islands that lay ahead.
 

Again she thought of the woman who’d been hanged at the
Bodie
Island Lighthouse.
 
The image had been with her all day thanks to a tasteless photograph she’d seen on the front page of a tabloid.
 
She wondered if praying for the dead made any difference.
 

Clutching the railing, she stared down at the water racing beneath the boat.
 

The engine clatter, the cry of the gulls, the briny stench of the sound engulfed her.
 
On the assumption that prayer was retroactive, she closed her eyes and prayed for the fifth time that day that the woman hadn’t suffered.
   

The sun sank into the sound.
 

Vi checked her watch, saw that she’d been on the water now for more than two hours.
 
The village couldn’t be far.
 
As the sky and sound turned the same sunless shade of slate, she imagined Max or even Sgt. Mullins standing here beside her in the mild headwind.
 
She wouldn’t mind her sergeant’s patronization right now and she thought,
I was doing fine until the sun went down.
 
Just like staying with
Mamaw
and Papaw when I was ten and the homesickness that set in after dark and the crying on the phone begging Daddy to come get me and him saying no baby you’ll feel better in the morning.
   

A light winked on in the east—the
Ocracoke
Light.
 

Vi turned away and walked back to the Jeep.
 

In her briefcase in the backseat there were photographs to memorize—bearded, bald, fat, skinny, mustached, and
cleanshaven
—the mugs of Luther Kite and Andrew Thomas.

30

ONE of the stewardesses on my flight into Charlotte was a North Carolina native and her southern accent moved me to tears.
 
I hadn’t heard a true southern drawl in years.
 
It isn’t the backwoods sheep-fucking twang Hollywood makes it out to be.
 
A real North Carolina accent is sweet and subtle and when you haven’t heard one in seven years, it sounds like coming home.

My flight landed in Charlotte-Douglas International Airport just before midnight and by 1:00
a.m.
on Tuesday morning I was hurtling north in a 5-speed Audi with I-77 all to myself.
 
I thought being home again would flood me with nostalgia but as I cruised through the piney piedmont darkness my only sensation was the ulcer that had burned in my gut since leaving Haines Junction.

At Exit 28 I left the interstate, and driving the familiar
backroads
toward Lake Norman, started catching glimpses of the water through the trees.
 
When I finally saw my mailbox in the distance and the tall pines that lined my old driveway like sentries, I pulled over onto the side of the road and turned off the engine.

I walked along the shoulder of Loblolly Lane until I reached the mailbox.
 
My gravel road had been paved and two hundred yards away at the end of the drive, cars were parked in front of my house, their chrome reflecting the warm illumination of a
porchlight
.
 
It astounded me that someone had the gall to take up residence in the home of a suspected serial murderer.
 
How did they sleep at night?
 
Did it never occur to them that Andrew Thomas might one day come home?
 
I’ll bet they got my place for a steal.

I jogged a ways down the drive but then thought better of it.
 
Stopping on the smooth blacktop, I inhaled the scent of pines and remembered walking up this drive with Beth and Walter ten Decembers ago, placing
luminarias
in preparation for a Christmas party.

As I stared at my old home, part of me thought,
Fuck this place.
 
I’m not that man anymore
.
 
But the other part of me wanted to stand on the deck and see Lake Norman again and the blue light across the water at the end of Walter
Lancing’s
pier; wanted to pretend he could just stroll into 811 Loblolly Lane and climb the staircase up to his old bedroom.
 
And when he woke in the morning maybe he’d be that writer again.
 
Maybe he’d have his name back.
 
Maybe his mother and Walter would be alive and the events of seven years ago nothing more than the plot of his latest novel.
 

He’d just wanted the sensation, however fleeting, of being Andrew Thomas the Almost Famous Writer, when that name was the best thing he owned.

In the morning I took I-40 through Raleigh, then Highway 64 into eastern North Carolina and the flattening coastal plain, through towns called Tarboro, Plymouth, and Scuppernong.
 
At sunset I crossed the Alligator River, then the sounds of
Croatan
and Roanoke.
 
The eastern fringe of North Carolina had softened into marsh and swamp as it dissolved into the Atlantic.
 

Sixty-four ended at the Outer Banks in the town of Whalebone, and from there I glimpsed the
Bodie
Island Lighthouse to the south poking up out of the pines.
 
Coupled with Orson’s journal entries, the fact that my former fiancée was found hanging from that lighthouse erased any doubt I may have had about whether Luther Kite was currently in operation somewhere on the Outer Banks.
 

I took Highway 12 south for seventy miles through the beach communities of
Rodanthe
, Little
Kinnakeet
, Buxton, and finally Hatteras Village, the end of the line.
 

I caught the 9:00
p.m.
ferry to
Ocracoke
Island and as the noisy engines gurgled through the water I walked up to the starboard.

I’d never been to
Ocracoke
.
 
According to a brochure I’d picked up at a gas station in Buxton, it was a skinny island, sixteen miles long, less than half a mile wide in places.
 
Its seven hundred residents inhabited a village at the south end on a small harbor that faced the sound.
 
The brochure had bragged that it was the quaintest remotest village in all of the Outer Banks.
 

In light of Karen’s very public execution, an unsettling possibility occurred to me as the ferry crossed Hatteras Inlet and the full devastating reality of what I was doing set in:
What if my coming to the Outer Banks isn’t a surprise at all for Luther but precisely what he wants me to do?
 
What if those murders were for me?
 
What if they were bait?

Now the ferry neared the tip of
Ocracoke
, the wind whipping cold and salty in from the sea.
 

I leaned against the railing and stared out into the
soundside
darkness.

O C R A C O K E

31

AT 6:00
a.m.
Wednesday morning on the third floor of the Harper Castle B&B, Violet knelt over the toilet in her suite, waiting for the nausea to pass.
 
After fifteen minutes of dry heaves she went back to bed and slept until ten o’clock.

She felt much better when she woke again.
 
Turning over onto her left side, she stared through the window at the bay around which the village of
Ocracoke
had been built.
 
In the windless cloudy melancholy of the morning, Silver Lake Harbor maintained a veritable supernatural stillness.

As Vi rolled up her sheer black hose she noted the cheerful island décor of the tiny room—the pastel painting of a five-
masted
schooner in rough seas above the headboard, the coral wallpaper patterned with little white sand dollars.
 
Max would love this place
, she thought, placing a small tape recorder into her purse and fastening her shoulder rig: a holstered .45 Smith & Wesson with a twin magazine-carrier.
 
Max had surprised her with the horsehide holster last February on Valentine’s Day.

Vi primped in the bathroom, dusting her cheeks with blush and adjusting a purple suede headband that matched her suit.
 
Then she grabbed her purse and headed downstairs through the sprawling wood “castle,” across oak floors, between walls of cypress, into the dining room, lured by the promise of a complimentary continental breakfast.
 

The buffet had been heavily grazed.
 
She chose one of the three remaining bran muffins and filled a glass with cranberry juice.
 
Except for the snoozing old man (his mouth dropped wide open, an
Ocracoke
Observer
still in his grasp), the dining room was empty.
 

Vi sat down at a table near the window so she could look out across the small harbor, lined with hoary docks.
 
On the opposite shore the Swan Quarter ferry churned through the narrow outlet into the open waters of the Pamlico Sound, bound for the mainland with its cargo of departing tourists.
 

Vi glanced at her watch: 10:50.
 
Max’s planning period.
 
She took out her cell and called him.
 
She got his voicemail, left a brief message: “Hey baby.
 
Just wanted to check in.
 
I’m getting ready to go interview the Kites now.
 
Hope you’re having a good day.
 
I’ll call you tonight.
 
Love you.”

From the outside the Harper Castle B&B looks childish and fanciful with its gabled roofs, asymmetrical right wing, and imposing façade of seven dormers.
 
Vi looked out the window of her Cherokee up to the fourth story cupola, the penthouse of the establishment, and wondered what a night up there might cost.
 
Maybe she could convince Max to bring her back for their anniversary next June.
 
There was so much she wanted to see—the lighthouse, the British Cemetery, the Banker ponies, Portsmouth Island.
 

She turned out onto Silver Lake Drive, the road that circumscribed the harbor.
 
A guidebook to the island had warned of traffic jams in the village during the summer months but this bleak November morning it seemed every bit its reputation as the most sequestered outpost on the North Carolina coast.

At the corner of Silver Lake and Highway 12, a man was selling conch shells out of his
truckbed
for five dollars apiece.
 
Vi would’ve pulled over and bought one but she already felt guilty for sleeping late and Sgt. Mullins would be expecting her full report this evening.

Though the island of
Ocracoke
is less than a mile and a half across at its widest point, it took Vi thirty-five minutes to find the mailbox of Rufus and Maxine Kite.
 
She couldn’t see their house from the dead end of Kill Devil Road, their drive being a private overgrown affair that wound for a hundred yards through a stand of live oaks.

As she proceeded down the narrow drive, Spanish moss draped from the overhanging branches and swept across the windshield, its tuft of
graygreen
filaments a living curtain.
 
Though only ten minutes from the harbor (tourist garrison of the village) it felt much farther, seeming to exist in its own timeless universe.