Ariel's Island

by Pat McKee

  Yet there she was. Her entry had caused a stir, and those around her were noticing, watching, pointing, snickering.

  I stumbled, caught myself, began again. Nothing could break the lock her eyes had on me. I tried to look away, though the auditorium was so small that she was always in my line of sight. I finished, cutting my speech paragraphs short—paragraphs I had labored over as though they were sure to impart true wisdom—now realizing something countless valedictorians before me have realized: No one cares what you say so long as it’s over soon. When I finished, I tried to pass through the flow of other students’ friends and families; I sought to leave without being identified with her, being seen with her; I just wanted out. But there she was.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Paul, please, I just want to talk to you, for just a minute.”

  “You forgot me. I forgot you.”

  “Paul, I’m about to be evicted. I need some money.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “They told me you won a five-thousand-dollar scholarship.”

  “But that’s for me to go to college.”

  “I need to borrow it. I promise to pay you back. You’ll get your money before you go to college in the fall. You got to help your Mom.”

  I loaned her the money. She disappeared. All my efforts to find her and get my scholarship money back in time for school were unavailing. She never paid me back. I had to work an extra job my freshman year just to make up for the money she took.

  I didn’t see her again for years. On occasion I’d wonder about her, how she was, whether we could have some kind of relationship, whether I should seek her out. Every time I decided against it, determining it was best not to find her, afraid somehow of what she’d be, perhaps a picture of my own destiny, my future played out for me.

  The next time I heard from her was a call from building security the day I went to work for Strange & Fowler.

  “Mr. McDaniel, we have a . . . a lady down here at the loading dock saying she’s your Mom . . . she’s . . . well, she’s in rough shape, and I don’t know—”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  The security guards were understanding, seeing my embarrassment, and offered that they wouldn’t mention it to anyone.

  Now I had seven days before Mom showed back up at the firm, all her belongings stuffed in a bag, looking for her rich son to take care of her once again. I couldn’t count on her not being discovered a second time. And if she was discovered, she would be the perfect pawn to be used against me, evidence of not only my heartlessness but more importantly, my deception of the firm. Seven days to get absolved of three murders and avert another disaster.

  “Tracey, thanks. Don’t tell anyone we talked.”

  “Anything you say.”

  It appeared that the firm was keeping quiet about me, at least for now, keeping its options open. I needed to get to the lodge and check whatever information was publicly available.

  Back at Grey’s computer, I pulled up the Brunswick Ledger, the local newspaper that covered Frederica Island. Other than a reprint of the Fowler press release, word for word, there was no mention of suicide, murder, or an investigation into the cause of death. Nothing. Nor did the website of the local television channel have anything about a triple murder on Frederica Island. The cause of the judge’s death, which was by now old news, was still listed as “accidental discharge.” The death of Oliver was apparently not worth notice. The firm’s mighty PR arm had flexed its muscle, protecting me for no other reason than any suspicion cast in my direction would look bad for the firm, at least until it could effect a proper separation. The way things looked now, they had their pick of excuses.

  I was considering what all this meant when a message popped up on Grey’s computer addressed to me. So much for Grey’s untraceable Internet connection. I was shocked but curious. It looked like an email, but it didn’t have any indication who sent it. I clicked on it.

  Mr. McDaniel,

  Melissa tells me you can be trusted beyond just being our corporate attorney. Your recent actions, seeking to rescue her from Anthony and warning her of his knowledge—at great physical peril to yourself—confirms her confidence. I too have great confidence in you. I am in communication with Melissa, and she is in significant danger. If you wish to help her, you need only indicate to the affirmative in response to this communication. It cannot be printed or traced, and it will completely erase itself momentarily. If you respond positively, I will be in touch.

  Placido

  Agent Grey had gone outside. This message seemed like such an obvious ruse I almost laughed out loud, but the idea that my pursuers were baiting a trap with Melissa sent a shot of fear through me. They would know about my message to Melissa if they found my phone, something pretty likely by now. But how would they know about Placido? As far as the world knew, Placido might be dead. Agent Grey was confident this computer could not be traced, yet almost as soon as I logged on, a message appeared for me. I took the chance. I typed, “Yes,” and the message disappeared. I got up and turned toward the door, just about to call out to Agent Grey, when I heard a car door slam and the crackle of a two-way radio. There was a Georgia State Patrol cruiser parked in the yard, with a trooper leaning out the driver’s side window, talking to Grey.

  I pulled the door of the computer room toward me and peered around the edge and out the open window. I could hear everything. Agent Grey and the trooper knew each other.

  “Agent Grey, we’re looking for a lawyer in his thirties who might know something about a man they found dead on Frederica Island. Seen anyone come through here, might have been driving a Porsche?”

  “Henry, I spent most of the week on the river, so I wouldn’t have much chance to see anyone even if they’d come through here. But how the hell you think someone could get a Porsche up that road? I’m surprised you could get that cruiser up here.”

  “Chief saw some suspicious tire tracks at the turn off and thought I should investigate.”

  “Bet whoever it was half tore out his engine at the first wash and turned around.”

  “Probably right. Mind if I look around a bit? Need to get the Chief off my back.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  The trooper walked toward the barn. “Can you open the door for me?”

  “You know I keep the barn booby trapped. It’ll take thirty minutes to take it down and thirty to set it back up.”

  “How long’s it been that way?”

  “Since I last went in it two weeks ago.”

  “Well, you mind if I take a look in the house?”

  “Go ahead.”

  The trooper took several steps toward the lodge.

  There was nowhere for me to go. I pulled the doors closed on myself, but if the trooper opened them, he’d be staring me in the face. I heard the trooper’s boots hit the porch and pause as he opened the door. I considered staying put; I considered stepping out and turning myself in; I considered running out the back door and taking my chances with Bubba and the trooper, and there I ran out of options.

  “You got company?” Through the crack between the doors, I eyed the trooper looking at the two plates and cups from our breakfast.

  “Rebecca.”

  The Trooper stopped, backed away from the door as he would have had he spied a rattlesnake coiled on the threshold.

  “Well, I’ll just let her be for now. Thanks for letting me check around. If you see anything suspicious give me a call.”

  “Sure will, Henry. You be careful.” The trooper stopped and shook Agent Grey’s hand, and with that he got into his cruiser, turned it around, and left.

  My heart was pounding in my ears so hard I thought my head would pop off. I needed to sit down. When Agent Grey came in, I was sitting in a chair with my head in my hands, fighting a wave of nausea.

  “He
got here sooner than I thought, but now that he’s been, he won’t be back for a while. They got plenty of other places to check out to keep them busy.”

  “What made him turn around?”

  “Rebecca. A girl from Nahunta. I let her hunt and fish on my land. When she does, she comes by and keeps me company for a few days. Last time she was here, Henry came up to the lodge as he usually does and walked in without knocking. Caught Rebecca in her skivvies. She whupped his ass. From then on he’s knocked, and he’ll never come in the lodge when Rebecca’s here.”

  “Next time you see Rebecca, you thank her for me.”

  “You can thank her yourself. She’s coming tonight.”

  Eleven

  “Don’t you want me to stay out of sight while your company is here?”

  “Hell, no. Rebecca will get a kick out having supper with an outlaw. I already told her about you, and she’s catching a few extra fish for the occasion.” My face must’ve betrayed my thoughts, and Agent Grey read them as if I’d said them aloud. “She’s as trustworthy as they come.”

  “But aren’t I putting her in danger if I’m caught?”

  “Not unless you tell them we holed you up. Far as I’m concerned, we’ve never seen you.”

  “I plan to be out of here soon.” I felt my heartbeat slowing, my blood pressure easing a bit. I told Agent Grey of the results of my search of the firm’s website and the message from Placido.

  “Sure sounds like a trap to me, but there’s no way anyone can trace you to this computer. We still have to be careful and not give them any information. Someone is probably monitoring your email. What he said in the message about your trying to rescue her and warning her could easily have come from other sources. The cops probably picked up your cell phone and found the text message. If he tries to contact you again, we’ll demand some proof from him that he could’ve gotten only from Melissa. In the mean time I want to check out this message and see if I can find out where it came from.”

  But after thirty minutes of searching his computer without results, Agent Grey gave up trying to find it.

  “However he sent the message, it’s something I’ve never seen before. There’s no trace of a message from ‘Placido’ anywhere on the hard drive or on the back up, and I automatically back up the system every few seconds. It’s as though it never happened. Whoever or whatever is responsible for it has some mighty powerful surveillance gear that I’ve never seen before.”

  I spent the rest of the afternoon brainstorming with Agent Grey on how I might escape the swamps of South Georgia, save Placido, rescue Melissa, and prove my innocence—a significant challenge even for an experienced GBI agent. For the moment I was hanging on Placido’s promise of subsequent contact, and though Agent Grey didn’t say it, I knew it needed to come soon or I’d have to leave the relative safety of the lodge without any prospects of making contact again. But Grey was not silent about what he thought I should do with Melissa.

  “You need to get your own situation resolved before you try to rescue some damsel in distress. From what you’ve told me, she has assets you can hardly imagine. She’ll be just fine without your help. And you sure aren’t going to be any help to her from a jail cell. Aside from that, you might be assuming a lot more about this relationship with Melissa than is actually there. After all, you just spent less than 24 hours with her. Melissa may be a perfectly nice lady, but she also could be the kind of woman who has no problem encouraging a man to risk everything to help her out of a fix with no intention of sticking around to say, ‘Thanks.’”

  “I know she—”

  “Look, you don’t know her well enough to say one way or the other. Just make sure you don’t get so committed to one course of action that you don’t have a way out if things don’t go as planned. In the military they call it an ‘exit strategy.’ You need one.”

  But I was already committed. And I couldn’t see any other course open to me. Not that I was thinking of leaving Melissa to fend for herself with her murderous uncle. I listened to Grey’s advice without further comment.

  I didn’t bother to discuss with Grey the complication that Mom presented or what I intended to do about her, either. If she didn’t get her thousand bucks soon, she would show back up at the office, increasing the chance that someone at the firm would figure out who she is and would try to use her against me. Even if I cleared myself of everything else, it would not be out of the question for some cynical partner to contend that I had misrepresented myself to the firm and concealed the existence of my homeless, alcoholic mother to make myself look better, when all the while I was a heartless son who wouldn’t come to her aid.

  The real problem with this picture is it was true.

  When I came down to the loading dock that first day at work, I didn’t recognize her, at least not until I saw her eyes.

  “Look, if I give you some money will you go away?” I grabbed for some cash, realizing as I opened my wallet that I had spent more for it than the poor woman in front of me had spent for every tatter she was wearing. Still, my heart was hard. I had accomplished what I had without her, in spite of what she had done, and I owed her nothing. “Here, I have two hundred in cash. It’s yours. Just don’t come back here.”

  “I need more than that. I’m being evicted. I need six hundred.”

  “You have to go. If you agree not to come back, I’ll call you. Just tell me your number; you must have a phone.”

  “They took my phone.”

  I pulled a card from my wallet.

  “Borrow a phone. My number is on my card. Call me on my cell. Don’t call the office. Don’t come back here.” I folded the money around the card, handed it to her, and walked away.

  But she did come back. And I was relieved when she did. I’d spent the night reliving my relationship with my mother, casting blame on her for what she had done, then wallowing in guilt for what I hadn’t done. Before the sun rose, I had resolved to do what I could to help her.

  When she showed up the next morning, I took her around the corner to a breakfast spot. She was ravenous, smelled bad, and made no attempt to hide the fact that she wanted money for alcohol.

  “There are nice people at churches around town who will give me a place to stay and something to eat. But they won’t give me money, and they won’t buy me booze. You need to help me now that you work for that fancy law firm.”

  This encounter restarted our relationship and revived my mother’s cyclical acquaintance with sobriety. After some cajoling, some threatening, I convinced her to check into a residential addiction facility that I’d pay for in full. It was the nicest place she had ever lived.

  The program was known for its success with the most inveterate drunks. She stayed a couple months, cleaned up, got sober, and appeared to be on the road to recovery until she slipped out one day and didn’t go back. When I next saw her she looked the same as she did the first time she showed up at the firm.

  The most effective weapon I had at my call was the threat to have Mom committed for a psychiatric evaluation, and then while there I could get a court to grant me guardianship powers over her. On several occasions I used that threat to get her back into rehab. But I never really wanted to do it, not to her, not to me. To make my mother my ward would be humiliating to her in the extreme. It would signal that I had lost faith in her recovery. And for the rest of her life her well-being would no longer be her responsibility, but mine. I held out the hope that she’d be able to turn herself around. So I got her into yet another rehab facility. And another, and another. Between them she’d disappear for weeks, months, at a time, always coming back, desperate for money. Each time I weighed whether it was the right thing to give it to her. Most of the time I decided it wasn’t, but I’d give it to her anyway. But this time I couldn’t, at least not now. I was sure that getting her a check would set off alarms with law enforcement; a credit-card number was out of th
e question, and I didn’t see how I could get her cash.

  No one at the firm other than Lillian knew about Mom; Tracey was her secret; Mom, mine. All anyone at the firm knew was that I had grown up in an orphanage. I left them to their own assumptions concerning my parents. No one, it seems, would believe that you could grow up in an orphanage and still have a mother. But it was a long story, too long for anyone in the firm to want to hear. Now having encouraged the belief among the partners at Strange & Fowler that I’m a true orphan—with all the romantic imagery that plight entails and with no alcoholic parents left to embarrass me or the firm—appeared a monumental indiscretion that, even absent any role in the incidents on Frederica Island, could result in my undoing.

  Given everything else I was facing, the problem presented by Mom’s imminent homelessness seemed less significant. Had she not been a threat to unravel my life at the firm, I could more easily dismiss her problems from my mind as she’d done mine from hers. But this time the memory of her eyes haunted me, as did every other wrong turn I’d made in my life, all heaped in my lap as Grey and I tried to figure a way out. The sun was setting. We had yet to land on a plan when Rebecca appeared.

  She pulled up in the yard on what was formerly a camo-green four-wheeler, now half black, covered to the wheel-wells with ooze from running the bottoms near the river. Two coolers shared the rear deck with a tackle box and three rods, each set up with different reels, bait-caster, spinner, fly.

  Neither voluptuous nor skinny, the best way to describe Rebecca is athletic, solid but not heavy, thin but not willowy, feminine and strong. I could see why the trooper backed away from another confrontation with Rebecca, but even though she was in a fish-smeared T-shirt and ragged jeans, I could tell it would be well worth an ass-whipping to see her in her skivvies. She pulled off the full-visor helmet, revealing a pleasant sun-tanned face scattered with freckles, not a hint of makeup covering lines that radiated from the corners of her eyes and mouth. It was the face of someone who smiled easily and often. Her hair was short, ash blond, streaked with gray. She looked only a bit older than me, but years younger than Agent Grey. She lit up as soon as she saw him on the porch.