Poisoned Soil: A Supernatural Thriller (29 page)

As he considered the captain’s comments for a moment, John’s initial thought was that the captain was pulling his leg since he definitely looked the part of the sunburned tourist who could be suckered. But the captain looked serious, so John glanced around at the waves and the sky. He had paid little attention to either during the excitement of fishing. The chop had picked up in the past couple of hours, but John thought that must be normal for being so far out at sea.

“Really? Are you—serious?”

“Yah man, we don’t joke about hurricanes, not on the outer islands.”

“What...when? What are they saying?” All of a sudden John needed data, information to help him make strategic choices, as if he was in a Monday morning meeting with his team around the conference table.

“They saying it’ll take the path Irene took a couple of years ago when it went right through the islands,” the captain said, “except they say it won’t turn northeast. It’s suppose to hit land somewhere between Florida and South Carolina, but that part ain’t what concerns me if you know what I’m sayin’.”

Suddenly the idea of fishing at all seemed ridiculous. John’s smile faded as he surveyed the overcast skies and felt a light, steady breeze across his cheeks. Moving at twelve knots, he couldn’t tell how much of what he felt was the wind blowing and how much was attributable to relative wind due to the boat’s motion. The sea was littered with whitecaps. They were small and didn’t alarm him so he turned his attention to the dark, small clouds on the southern horizon.

“When do you expect us to be back at port?” John asked. The captain sensed his concern.

“I’ll get us back by 7:30 or so. Where you staying?”

“We rented a beach house on the southern tip of the island. We chartered a plane down here that’s supposed to pick us up on Sunday, but I’ll need to call them if we need to leave early. If I call tonight they may be able to get here by late tomorrow afternoon.”

“Won’t be no time for that. If Isabel is a coming this way like they say, it’ll be here tomorrow night. Rain will be coming hard tomorrow morning and we’ll lose power pretty fast. Always do. They’ll seal the island off by morning. Irene knocked out power for a week.” The captain and John stood and looked over the port side of the boat at the southern horizon. The captain smiled and placed his hand on John’s shoulder. “Stay inside and batten down the hatches. Just some wind and rain, man, that’s all.”

As the captain turned to leave John stared at the sky in troubled thought. Something more than the weather bothered him. He spun around quickly before the captain left. “Captain,” John began and then hesitated. “Is there a hospital on the island, or a clinic?”

The captain surveyed John for a moment. “Getting sea sick, are you? We might be able to give you a pill for that but closest hospital is in Nassau, 200 miles away. You won’t be getting there anytime soon if Isabel’s coming this way.”

***

By the time the island taxi pulled up to the beach house at 8:30 p.m. the wind had picked up briskly. John estimated that it was steady at thirty miles per hour, probably gusting at forty even though the driver had said the hurricane wouldn’t arrive until the following night. But he had confirmed that it would arrive, at least according to the hurricane prediction models. Same path as Irene, just as the captain had said, taking it squarely over the length of the Bahamas. Even though he was furious at the weather forecasters who had predicted that the hurricane would most likely steer south of Florida and into the gulf, maybe hitting Florida’s panhandle, John was even more furious at himself. He knew that he should have known better than to go to a remote island without a contingency plan. Everything in his business life revolved around contingency plans. Back-ups, redundant servers and facilities, action plans if revenue didn’t materialize, expansion plans if they did. For the past three hours he had labored under dreadful thoughts. Thoughts he didn’t want to acknowledge, but had to.
What if the hurricane hits us directly in this little house on the beach. Where do we go?
The captain and the taxi driver assured him that they would be fine in their home, which was situated far enough back from the water to avoid any storm surge, but it did little now to assuage his fears.

“You won’t have any power or telephones,” the driver had said, “but you’ll get by. Everyone made it through all right with Irene and that split down the middle of the islands.”

But that wasn’t what was bothering John, aching at his insides. What if Rose was ill or took a turn for the worse? That thought gnawed at him so much he was becoming sick himself. Time was moving so slowly for him, minutes dragging and cursing him with dreadful thoughts that could only be relieved once he saw that she was all right and held her in his arms.

John paid the driver and stepped out of the taxi. Wind from the southeast stung his face with grains of sand as he walked up the front steps. As he reached for the doorknob in the darkness he saw a mass lying on the wicker sofa to his left. His heart sank as he went to Rose, partially covered with a blanket, but lying there in the open as the sand pelted her cheeks. “Rose!” John fell to his knees in front of the sofa and picked up her head. “Rose!”

With great strain she opened her eyes, barely, groggily, as if she had taken sleep medication, but John knew she wouldn’t have. He stood and slid his arms underneath her and picked her up, holding her close to him. Rose’s body draped over his arms and offered no resistance, no support. Her arms lay limp by her side in his own arms as he walked to the door, using his body to shield Rose from the wind and sand. Turning the doorknob, John twisted his body to allow Rose’s head to carefully enter the opening first. In a panic his eyes darted around the strange home as he walked straight to the bedroom. Again, he turned sideways as he walked down the narrow hall to protect Rose’s head from hitting the wall. After navigating the doorway into the bedroom, John laid Rose onto the bed. A loud banging came from the living room and John raced back to close the door. He flipped on the light switch and silently thanked an unknown benefactor for the magic of electricity as he rushed back to the bedroom and turned on the bedside lamp.

“Rose!” John said firmly, yet softly. “Rose, can you hear me?”

Again her eyelids opened a sliver and looked at John. Her eyes had the energy to acknowledge him, but nothing else. She was shaking, shivering, her body trembling as if it had just been pulled out of icy waters. John tucked her into bed and pulled blankets tightly around her, pushing them around and behind her shoulders to warm her. He took the back of his hand and felt her forehead.
Oh no!
John said to himself as he felt the searing heat from Rose’s head. He looked at Rose in the soft glow of the lamp, her sweat-soaked black hair sucking light out of the room. He looked for a clock to check the time. Seeing none, he took out his iPhone and had to wait for it to turn on since he had no reason to keep it on.

“C’MON!” John screamed to the inanimate object. Finally it turned on and revealed the time as 8:40 p.m. His mind raced wildly.
I need a doctor. That’s all that matters. Find a phone book, the phone.

John began to rise from the bed, but stopped halfway up in a crouched position. His nostrils had halted his progress as they detected something faint, but a smell that caused him to stop where he was until its source could be identified. He whiffed again, registering the smell and talking himself through the options.

I know that smell...it reminds me of...the girls...something about the girls....diapers!

John pulled the covers back from Rose and gently rolled her on her side. The back of her right leg was stained wet and brown. John looked at his left forearm where he had been carrying her and now saw the wetness on his arm. Obviously Rose had had diarrhea during the day and, evidently, was unable to get up to go inside. “Oh Jesus!” John said. “I’ll clean you up in a moment, hon.” Rose lay there, able to hear nothing.

“First I gotta find the phone!” John began walking to the kitchen with a sinking feeling that no one could help him.

Chapter 25

The sun inched over the mountains as Blake drove south on 441 in Mountain City back toward Clayton. He had just dropped off a bed full of pig bones with Gus, who would make a final batch of bone meal for Blake.

Terry had proven to be a real asset, worth every penny of the five grand that Blake paid him in cash the night before as he thanked him and bid him farewell. Hoping he’d never see him again, Blake had no idea what a kid like that would do with five grand, but he figured it wouldn’t last long. Most importantly to Blake, he paid him in cash and there would be no tracing it to him.

Blake pulled into the Ingles grocery store just before Warwoman Road. A new Starbucks coffee shop had just opened inside and Blake wondered how “fourbucks,” as the penny pinchers at UGA had called it, would do in this neck of the woods. But Blake had taken a liking to the dark roasted coffee during his Athens time and was glad to see the green logo appear a few weeks back. He walked through the door and marveled at the decor. Starbucks had taken something as simple as a cup of coffee and achieved with it what Blake had
tried
to accomplish with his own life. Elevate the mundane to the exotic, take a dirty seed and turn it into something the world admired. But underneath it all, once you stripped away the musical coffee house genre that they seemed to have invented, the fancy packaging, the curvaceous coffee mugs, once you stripped all that away you were left with what? A lone coffee bean grown by a lone, unknown, and unimportant farmer.

The dirty seed, as Blake now thought of himself, stepped forward to order.

“Welcome to Starbucks, what can I get you?”

“Hey, can I have a grande bold with no room?”

“Sure thing,” she said. “Getcha anything else? A blueberry scone perhaps?” she asked with a smile.

“Uh..no ma’am, just the coffee, thanks.”

“Okay, that’ll be two twenty-three.” The clerk turned to get the coffee and returned to the counter. Blake handed her a five and took change, leaving a buck in the tip jar. She smiled and handed him his coffee.

“Come back now,” the clerk said before moving on to the next customer behind Blake. “Mornin’ Sheriff!”

Blake cringed and jerked his head to the right. The sheriff stepped up a foot and stood beside him.

“Mornin’, Mary Ellen,” the sheriff said as he read the clerk’s name badge. He turned his head to Blake. “Mornin’, Blake.”

“Sheriff!” Blake said before turning his gaze to Mary Ellen, not sure what else to say. He looked down to his shoes for a moment. “Well, so long, Sheriff.” Blake turned and began toward the door. As he did, the sheriff left the line and followed him through the door.

“Blake, give me one second if you don’t mind,” the sheriff said as they stood outside. Blake turned to look at the sheriff, but said nothing.

“You don’t have anything new to report about them boys missing, do you?” the sheriff asked.

Blake thought about the wording the sheriff chose. Had he asked “have you seen them boys” or “have you heard anything new about them boys” then the answer would have been an easy “no.” But he had phrased the question differently. “You don’t have anything new to report...do you?” He tried to figure out what the sheriff meant. Was the sheriff giving Blake another chance to report something...anything that he may have omitted before? Or was it simply careless phrasing on the sheriff’s part with no specific meaning intended other than the obvious?

“No sheriff, I haven’t heard anything about them.” Blake’s reply was measured.

“Hmmm,” the sheriff said as he looked around, surveying the parking lot.

Blake stood and waited for the sheriff. The sheriff stood silently and Blake was faced with the option of standing poised or saying something to the sheriff, even if all he said was that he needed to leave. The sheriff succeeded in flushing Blake out of the pocket.

“Is there any news on them?” Blake asked.

“Not much,” the sheriff began, “but we found some interesting pictures on one of the boy’s Facebook page.” The sheriff said no more.

“What kind of pictures...or is that private?” Blake asked.

“Well,” the sheriff said, “a picture of one of the fellas in a wooded area in front of a whole mess of pigs. Then there was another of him standing in front of a shed of some sort. Couldn’t make out the details but looked like some stuff was hanging in there.”

Blake’s pulse quickened. He sipped his coffee, so as to act nonchalant, but the caffeine would do nothing to help slow his heart rate. He said the only thing that he felt he could. “Hmmm.”

“Yeah,” the sheriff continued, “pretty strange. He was working on some kind of farming, ’round here I reckon, but nobody knows nothing about it.” The sheriff looked at Blake, who said nothing. “You don’t know anyone messing with pigs, do you Blake?”

He knows, of course he knows! There’s no way he don’t know,
Blake said to himself. He didn’t know what to say or what to do. He just wanted this to all go away so badly so he could start over
. I repent, I repent,
Blake said, only he said it to himself. Not to the sheriff.

The sheriff didn’t wait for an answer.