The Girl in the Maze (19 page)

Martha made her way down to the street that ran along the riverfront, her senses bombarded by a chaos of voices and impressions, the pain in her leg alone nearly causing her to pass out. Her throat was dry, her mouth like chalk. She realized if she was to keep going, she would have to get a drink of water, and soon. She picked her way along the cobblestones in front of a Coast Guard station, where the boats rocked in the choppy water. A few uniformed men were working there, pulling ropes around, securing hatches.

Careful, Martha. They can hear your every thought.

Restaurants, bars, and shops lined the waterfront—all strangely familiar. Martha took hold of a metal lamppost to steady herself. She read the raised letters in the metal access panel below her feet:
SAVANNAH ELECTRIC.

Yes, yes, that's it.
Her mind flashed back to another time, a happier time. Fourth grade. Georgia history class. Field trip. She remembered touring a museum here with her friend Renée. There was a gift shop…ice-cream cones eaten at a sunny table…

But the street was different then, buzzing with activity. Tourists, shoppers. Today it was deserted, artificial, like a movie set. A gray sky, the stores and restaurants closed, shutters drawn, tables stacked and chained.

It's you, Lovie,
Lenny said.
No one can stand the sight of you.

Martha leaned against the lamppost and tried to think. A paper cup skated down the street on its edge, animated by a gust of shifting wind. The air felt electric, anticipatory.

Farther down the street, a utility truck. A man on a ladder was nailing a sheet of plywood across the plate-glass windows of a storefront. Directly across from her, a man wearing an apron stepped into the courtyard of a restaurant. He was clearing the outdoor tables, collapsing umbrellas, stacking plastic chairs. Near the edge of the patio was a table with uncleared dishes and a goblet of water, nearly full.

Martha smacked her dry lips and watched. The man lifted a stack of chairs, backed through the doorway, and disappeared into the restaurant. She glanced up and down the street, then hobbled quickly across the cobblestones.

Martha reached a low trellis that separated the patio and looked at the breakfast remnants—a wedge of cantaloupe, skillet potatoes, and the water goblet. The liquid looked pristine, refreshing. Martha reached for it.

“HEY.” The man in the apron was there again, rushing across the patio. Martha pulled back.

“Move along, now.” The man stood on the other side of the trellis, holding a cork tray pressed against his chest. “There's nothing for you here. Move along, or I'll have to call the police.”

Martha turned away from him, a flush of shame rising inside her. She limped toward the sidewalk.

“Better get yourself into a shelter before the storm gets here,” the man muttered, gathering the dishes onto his tray.

Martha reached the sidewalk and leaned against the brick wall, her leg throbbing, and looked out toward the street. The sky was darker now, twilight dark. In the distance, the great bridge, with its towering trusses, showed movement. A line of cars, like tiny beetles, inched along its length.

They're running away, Lovie. Running away from you. Why not do them a favor? Look at that river. It's safe there. You could sink into darkness, vanish forever. That's what everyone wants.

Martha considered Lenny's words, their seductive promise, as she scanned the street. She should have noticed it sooner—a black-and-white police cruiser pulling up to a curb. She glanced around for a place to hide, saw an alleyway, and stumbled toward it.

She closed half the distance, but not fast enough, because he was already there, blocking her. Crisp black uniform, brown hair, shoes that gleamed, even in this morning's strange, overcast light.

Martha turned away and looked at the pavement.
If you concentrate very hard, you can be invisible.

“Ma'am?”

Martha wanted to bolt, but found herself frozen to the pavement, as if she were standing in a pool of tar.

“Ma'am, do you have someplace to go?”

Martha looked at his black shoes. They shone unnaturally—too bright, too close.

“Ma'am?”

Martha lifted her head, taking in his creased trousers, his gun, his badge and name tag—
LT. TANNER
—and his face. He was young and handsome, concerned.

“Do you know about the storm, ma'am?” He had warm, caring eyes, like Vince. “This area is under evacuation order. Do you have someplace to go?”

He's lying,
Lenny said.
Just look into his mince pies. You can tell. Don't speak. That's the most important thing
.

“Can you hear me? Do you understand what I'm saying?” Tanner scrutinized her. His eyes were not menacing, only worried. But his eyes were also invading her, reading her mind, learning her secrets.

Martha looked away from him. The sign in the coffee shop window read
CLOSED
.
Walk away. Just walk away, and he'll lose interest.

Martha took a step toward the sidewalk, stumbled. Her vision went dark for an instant and when it cleared, Tanner was holding her by the elbows.

“You're hurt, aren't you? Here, sit down. Nice and easy, that's it, just sit here on the curb.” Martha didn't resist. The curb was hard under her butt, her posture awkward. She held on to her knees to steady herself.

“Just stay right there for a minute,” Tanner said. “I'll be right back.”

Martha heard his shoes clop on the pavement. She turned to watch him as he reached through the window of the squad car and pulled out the radio mic. “Radio ten-fifty.”

“Forty-five, go ahead.”

“Injured person, possibly homeless. Request ambulance.”

“Copy. Forty-five, what's your location?”

“River Street and Fourth, right in front of Ambrosia Coffee…”

You shoulda listened to me, Lovie.
Lenny lowered himself to the curb alongside Martha.

The radio squawked. “Copy. Stand by…there's an ambulance available from St. Joseph's. Should be able to get over there in ten, fifteen minutes. Ten-four.”

“Copy.”

“Forty-five, what's the description?”

Lenny ran a nicotine-stained finger in and out of a hole in the canvas of his sneaker.
The game is up. They've got you by the short and curlies. But we always knew they would win. We knew it all along, didn't we?

Lieutenant Tanner looked toward Martha. “Female, I'd say mid-twenties, about five feet tall, thin, dark hair….Don't know, she won't speak. Possibly deranged. Some kind of rash on her skin, injury on her right leg, gray eyes.”

“Copy. Ambulance en route.”

Tanner put the radio back in the car and walked over to her and crouched down, almost to her eye level, hands on his knees. His eyes were warm, compassionate. Martha allowed herself to look at them and felt herself yielding. She wanted to be taken care of.

“Don't worry. They're sending help. We'll get you to someplace safe.”

Martha buried her face in her knees. His kindness was unbearable; it burned her like a hot wire.

Tanner stood and walked back to the squad car.

Martha looked up, across the choppy highway of the river. She was facing east, toward the ocean, where the sky was darker and more ominous. It looked as if someone had hung a black curtain that extended all the way to the horizon. Silver serpent tongues darted silently within its folds.

Now, see what you've done,
Lenny said.
See what you've stirred up with your churning thoughts. How many more people will have to die because of you, Lovie? How many?

Raindrops gathered on the windshield of Aubrey Morris's Tahoe as it hurtled along the island road, spuming up sand and gravel. Trees leaned in the wind ahead of him and a small leafy branch broke off and landed on the windshield, catching the edge of a wiper.

A familiar sight swung past in the gloom overhead. Blue letters, white disk—
PURE
. Not a real gas station anymore, leastwise not since the late sixties. Now it was just a place where Bo Claret sold boiled peanuts and bait during the peak fishing season. Morris wondered if it would be torn down for the development or made into a coffeehouse or some such, a quaint souvenir amid the golf cart trails, shopping centers, and sleek new homes that would soon line this forsaken track.

Morris glanced in the rearview. Behind the mesh barrier, Astrid wept in silence, her head jiggling with the bumps. Next to her, Jarrell's pulverized face lolled against the seatback, his good eye still open, aware. Good.

He didn't like what he had to do to that boy. Not one bit. But somebody had to have enough guts to seize the day. Those investors were for real. Men so rich they probably wiped their butts with C-notes—or yen. Shots like this didn't come but once in a lifetime. It was time to break this town's habit of losing. A few more loose ends to tie off, and he'd be standing on the threshold where his old life would end and a whole new world would begin.
You can pull this off.

Without slowing, Morris hard-righted the vehicle onto a faint track that led through the woods. The Tahoe bucked and squeaked. Saplings disappeared under the front of the vehicle and made a rasping racket below the floorboard.

After a short distance they emerged from the woods and plowed into a wide expanse of sugary sand. Ahead, rows of whitecaps reached toward the overcast sky, curling and crashing in rapid succession. Morris veered left, crossing over a crackle of shells onto the flatter, more substantial sand that lay below the mean high tide line.

The Tahoe rolled smooth now, and Morris gunned it toward the north end of the island. He knew the SUV was leaving crisp, pristine tracks in the wet sand, but today nature was on his side. Within a few hours the storm surge would have done its magic and erased all traces of his errand.
I swear to God,
he thought,
the harder I work, the luckier I get.

Ahead, he could already see his destination, rising from the bluff like a black-and-white barber's pole. Atop the tower, the lighthouse beam swept across a thick deck of clouds.

Morris parked on the sandy drive next to the oil shed, a structure used only for storage since the lighthouse became fully automated in the mid-seventies. He picked up a pair of bolt cutters from the floorboard, then got out and crossed to the door at the base of the tower. He gripped the handles through rawhide gloves and squeezed. The padlock snapped in two and fell to the ground. He flipped the hasp and swung open the planked door. Overhead, the lighthouse motor hummed and resonated, sending its vibrations down the concrete walls.

He took the Remington out of the liftgate and pressed a button on his key fob to pop the Tahoe's power locks. He opened the door and stepped back a safe distance.

“Come on out, Jarrell.”

Morris waited patiently. A windblown gust of sand sprayed over the roof, but little else happened.
“Out.”

Jarrell climbed out and leaned against the car in his hoodie, head drooping. Astrid worked her way across the seat toward the open door and slid a plump leg onto the running board.

“Not you. Just the boy. Stand over there by the shed, Jarrell.”

But Astrid already had her head and shoulders out of the door, jawing up a blue streak. “Get back in the car, Jarrell!” she said. “Don't do anything he tells you to do. Just sit down. Don't cooperate.”

Morris planted the rifle butt in the center of Astrid's sternum and shoved. She toppled backward, legs flailing. She kicked at the door and screamed. One of her purple shoes dropped to the ground. Morris wrangled her feet through the door and pushed it shut with his belly. He wheeled around just in time to see the boy lunging at him. Morris pointed the barrel of the Remington at Jarrell's forehead and he stopped in his tracks.

“Let my muther go,” Jarrell said, mouthing through marbles. “She don't have anyfing to do wiff thish. I'll do anyfing you want. Jush leaf her alone.”

Morris pressed another button on his key fob and the Tahoe emitted a double electronic ping, indicating that the prisoner compartment was secure. “That's right, your mother doesn't have anything to do with it. Let's keep it that way. Let's just take care of business. Do like I ask. Go over there.”

Morris motioned with the barrel of the Remington toward the lighthouse door. Jarrell shambled partway across the sandy drive and sat down. He plopped into the mud, head lowered.

“Come on, get inside there. Are you going to do like I ask, or do I need to get your mother involved?”

Jarrell stared at the ground, looking dazed. “Whaf are you gonna do?”

“This is where you're going to stay until this storm is over. I need you to get inside that tower.”

Jarrell stood back up and stepped through the doorway, swaying, and looked at the base of the iron-mesh stairway.

Morris pressed the point of the barrel between Jarrell's shoulder blades. “Go on, start climbing. One hundred seventy-eight steps. You're young. You can make it.”

Jarrell shuffled forward and began to climb the winding stairs. Morris followed. “All the way up to the service room.” The steel structure creaked under their combined weight, and their footfalls echoed against the cement walls.

Halfway up, Morris paused to wipe the sweat out of his eyes. The air inside the tower was humid, stifling. Through a small rectangular window, he saw the ocean churning, like a silent movie. Jarrell kept moving.

“Hold it.”

Jarrell slumped against the cement wall, head lolling. Morris wondered if the kid might pass out before they made it to the top. Not good. He sure as hell couldn't carry him. Better to keep moving.

Oooommmm.
Overhead, the motorized light assembly groaned on its steel gears.

“All right, let's move on.”

Jarrell rolled against the wall and mumbled something about his mother. Morris jabbed the rifle barrel into his back, and that got him moving again.

At the top of the stairway they reached a mesh platform, where a short steel ladder led through a hole in the ceiling to the service room. Morris knew he needed to be careful here. This would be the most difficult part of his errand.
Stay with the plan.

“All right, stand up straight. I'm going to open one of your handcuffs now.” Morris shouted over the hum of the lighthouse motor. He could hear himself panting. “Soon as I do, I want you to move your hands directly to the ladder rails. I've got my finger on this trigger. If you so much as flinch in a way I don't expect…I'll blow you in half. Understand?”

Jarrell's head wobbled up and down.

“Now turn around toward the ladder.”

Morris held the butt of the rifle under his slippery armpit. Sweat streamed into his eyes, stinging, as he fumbled with the keys. Everything was covered with sweat. Damn, he couldn't wait to get some fresh air.

He tried to work the key into the handcuff lock with his trembling, gloved hand. Jarrell shifted his weight, and the keys dropped. They caught on the mesh floor, dangling.

“Dammit! I'm warning you, boy.” He jabbed the barrel of the rifle into Jarrell's back. Jarrell's face smashed against the ladder and he groaned. “Hold still.”

Morris held Jarrell pinned against the ladder. The keys dangled from the floor grate, hanging there only because of the width and angle of the key fob. Morris used his teeth to remove the glove from his left hand. Then he reached down gingerly, strained to grasp the keys while keeping pressure on Jarrell's back. His gut blocked the way, but he managed to hook a finger through the key ring and pull it to safety.

That was a close one, Morris
.
Going to be more careful now.

He took off his other glove—fingerprints be damned—and got the left handcuff open. He snapped it onto the ladder rail.

“Okay. Up you go, nice and slow.”

Jarrell climbed through the hatch, sliding the cuff along the rail as he went. When he reached the top, he dropped to a sitting position on the circular platform at the base of the light. The air in the enclosure was suffocating.

Morris climbed up beside him, noticing that Jarrell was semiconscious now. Morris swung open the metal door that led to the balcony. Wind gushed in violently, carrying a refreshing shower of raindrops.

Morris felt a little better now, more in control. Things would work out. They always did. Why did he let himself get nervous?

He got to Jarrell and unlocked the cuff that was latched on to the rail, then snapped it back onto Jarrell's wrist, which hung limp at his side.

“Okay, out you go. Let's get some fresh air.”

Jarrell leaned, swayed, and toppled, his face smashing against the mesh floor.

The light circled slowly, humming, painting him white, then gray again.

“Get up, now. You've made it this far.”

Morris kicked at the boy's leg. Jarrell was inert, unflinching. Heaving the boy over the rail, without help, wasn't exactly what he had planned, but it was doable. Morris took a step toward the balcony door and looked out at the gray cloud deck, calculating how far he would have to drag the kid.

He looked out toward the iron balcony, toward a charcoal canopy of clouds. Something shifted in his gut.
You can do this, Morris. Don't lose your nerve.

The steel-grate flooring bucked and Morris swiveled, but not fast enough—a glint of steel, then sudden impact. A pain in his stomach, and Morris was down with one knee on the mesh, with Jarrell punching at him with his feet.
What the f—

Before Morris could regain his footing, Jarrell was upright, charging into him with his head and knees. Morris stumbled onto his back, and Jarrell threw his full body weight on top of the arm holding the rifle.

Jarrell kicked and thrashed, arms shackled behind, aiming knee kicks into Morris's groin, trying to do damage. Morris knew from training how to deal with a situation like this. He pulled up his knees to protect his vulnerable regions, then lodged his foot against the wall of the lighthouse and pushed hard, rolling them both over. Morris heaved his body weight on top of Jarrell and straddled him, pressing onto his chest like a load of sandbags. He glanced around for the rifle and saw the wooden stock sticking out from under Jarrell's shoulder.

Morris worked the rifle free and placed the barrel across Jarrell's throat. He shifted his body to add weight and control and pressed down.

Jarrell twisted left and right, arms pinned underneath him, slamming his feet against the steel-grate floor. Morris's weight held the top part of his body immobilized. He applied just enough pressure to block the airflow. Morris glanced at his watch, thought back to his training, so many years ago. How long can a brain survive without oxygen? Five minutes? Six?
Don't overdo it.

A full three minutes passed, eternal minutes, before Jarrell's kicks began to slow. He grew still for several long seconds, then slammed his leg forcefully against the grate once again. Then the body began to relax. His eyes started to swim. Morris waited a few more seconds before he eased the barrel off the boy's neck.

Morris lifted the rifle and got up, his legs numb, and looked at the figure lying sprawled on the grate. Jarrell's mouth was open.

Only seconds now—no time to consider options
.
He took Jarrell by the armpits and dragged him through the narrow threshold and out into the cool, misty air of the curved balcony. He unlocked the handcuffs, removed them, and returned them to the leather snap on his duty belt. Then he grabbed hold of Jarrell's belt and muscled the boy, the whole sweaty, slippery bulk of him, up and onto the edge of the railing. The kid hung there for an instant, balanced in space.

One more shove, Morris. One more shove, and you're done. Just do it.

Jarrell groaned, blinked his eyes. He struggled and twisted, his legs kicked wildly. Then gravity took hold and Jarrell toppled over the railing. His hood caught on a rail knob. The fabric ripped for several inches and Jarrell hung below Morris, kicking the air. The material snapped, and he dropped.

Morris leaned over the railing and saw the boy carom once off the tapered cement wall, then hit the ground with a muffled thump.

Morris panted and gripped the railing, his heart jumping like a jackrabbit. He stared down at the figure crumpled like a rag doll in a crater of mud.
You bastard. You really went and did it, didn't you?

Morris unhooked the ripped swatch of the hoodie from the knob, threw it over the edge. Then, rising above the hum of the lighthouse motor, he noticed another sound. Muffled screams, like a cat crying out, an unearthly wail unlike anything he'd ever heard before.

Astrid. She was going wild down there in the SUV. Morris took a deep breath, steadied himself.
At least you won't have to listen to that for long.
He slipped his gloves back on and turned to descend the iron stairway.