The Water Keeper

by Charles Martin

  “You said ‘two things.’”

  He cleared his throat. His tone changed. “There’s a body in the morgue at Jupiter Medical. Fits the description of your girl. Runway-model looks. Recent tattoo that reads ‘Angel.’ Toxicology suggests opioid overdose. Body showed up last night. Nobody’s been to see her and nobody’s claimed her.”

  I rubbed my face and cussed beneath my breath.

  He continued, “And because you’re not family, they’re not going to let you in to see her unless you use that ID you keep hidden behind your driver’s license.”

  Seconds passed. “Do me a favor?”

  “Anything.”

  “Have them ready to look at Clay when we get there.”

  “Done.” His voice softened. “You got any sleep in your future?”

  I stared at my boat, then the lights of the street and a twenty-four-hour Chinese takeout. “Doubtful.”

  I was about to hang up when he said, “Murph?”

  The tone of his voice changed again. The first time I’d heard that tone, I was facedown in the sand and had been drunk for the better part of a year. “Yeah?”

  “You all right?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “The hair’s standing up on the back of my neck.”

  I rubbed my face. “Mine too.”

  Chapter 18

  Clay’s feet shuffled as he walked to the boat. Between his door and Gone Fiction, he stopped twice to cough. Both times left him doubled over. The wind had picked up so I offered him my windbreaker and brought him a cup of coffee and a blanket. All of which he accepted. He’d aged overnight. He collapsed into his beanbag, Summer joined me in the eye of the hurricane, and Ellie moved aft. Sitting on the back bench, pulling her knees into her chest, and not taking her eyes off me. Gunner floated around the boat, licking each of us good morning.

  We pulled out of the marina and the sky shone crimson red as the sun broke the skyline. I whispered to myself, “Red sky at night . . .”

  Summer leaned inside the eye of the hurricane. “What’s that?”

  “Sailor lore. ‘Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky at morning, sailor’s warning.’”

  “What’s it mean?”

  “It’s a warning about the day’s weather.”

  “Where’s it come from?”

  “Its roots go back about two thousand years when it was a warning about the days ahead. Has something to do with the life of a shepherd. Over the years it’s been shortened but it goes something like, ‘Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight. Red sky at morning, shepherd’s warning.’”

  “Who said it?”

  “Jesus.”

  She slipped her hand inside my arm. “The farther we get down this river, the more interesting you become.”

  And the farther we traveled down this river, the tighter her grip became on my arm, which spoke volumes about the condition of her heart and the fear she was fighting.

  I looked at her hand, interwoven with mine. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a touchy-feely kind of person?”

  “As a dancer, your hands tell your feet where they’re going. Good dancers learn to close their eyes and follow the lead. It’s like braille.”

  “Does following get old?”

  “Two can’t lead, and no matter what these young kids think today, one can’t dance alone. By definition, the leader is only leading when someone is following. If no follower, then no leader. And if you’re leading, then you’re judged by how well another follows. They need each other.”

  “Is the same true for the heart?”

  She tugged slightly on her hand, attempting to withdraw it, but then thought better of it, sinking it farther. “Sometimes my hands tell my heart how to feel, and . . .” She turned toward the back bench where Ellie sat staring at the shoreline. “In my experience, that’s another dance that very few men know how to lead.”

  Summer and Ellie sat on the back bench as we motored out of Stuart. Getting to Jupiter would take a while as one no-wake zone led into another. Up front, Clay coughed. One spasm leading into another. To say he was worsening would be an understatement. One episode lasted twenty minutes and left him sweating, pale, and struggling to catch his breath.

  The Indian River took us south out of Stuart to the beginning of Florida’s ultrawealthy who live along Jupiter Island. Little more than a spit of land, Jupiter Island is an elevated sandbank that separates and buffers the Atlantic from the IC. Those who live there look out their front doors onto the Atlantic and out their back doors onto the IC. It’s home to actors, TV moguls, entertainers, and professional athletes.

  We idled south under the shadow of the huge banyan trees that sprouted along the waterline—each carrying countless HD security cameras. The water brought us into Jupiter proper where I rented a slip at the Jupiter Yacht Club. With Ellie’s help, we Ubered to the Jupiter Medical Center.

  When I told him where we were going, Clay didn’t give me much argument. His breathing was shallow and his face ashen. Without medical intervention, he didn’t have long. The Uber driver wasn’t crazy about Gunner getting in his car, but Ellie saved the day. “He’s a service dog.” The driver relented.

  We walked in the doors of Jupiter Medical as Clay doubled over, coughing. I spoke to the receptionist. “Ma’am, this is Mr. Barclay T. Pettybone.” A question in my voice.

  She typed some letters into her keyboard and stared down her nose at a monitor. A few seconds later, she spoke into a radio and then stood and rolled a wheelchair from a corner. Clay didn’t need an invitation. She pointed at Gunner. “Service dog?”

  I spoke before anyone could mess it up. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She pursed her lips. “Thought so.”

  Catching his breath, Clay waved his hand across the hospital. “You do this?”

  “Not directly.”

  “Who did?” he asked between coughs.

  I held up my phone.

  He nodded. “I like them.” He placed his hand on mine. “Promise me something?”

  “Okay.”

  “You won’t leave me.” He made sure I was focused on him. “Alive or dead.”

  When I hesitated, he squeezed my hand. Not harsh. Just firm. “Mr. Murphy?” His grip softened. “Please, sir.”

  “One condition.”

  He raised both eyebrows while trying not to cough.

  “You quit calling me Mister.”

  The nurse began pushing his chair down the hall where Gunner followed at his hip. Clay put his hand on the wheel, stopping her, then pulled backward, turning to face me. “Taking a man out of prison is one thing.” He coughed. “Taking prison out of the man . . . is another thing entirely.”

  I turned to Summer and took her by the hand. Ellie stood listening. “I need to tell you something.”

  Summer waited expectantly. Eyes wide. Hopeful. Hand warm and trembling.

  There was no easy way to say this. So I just said it. “There’s a body in the morgue here.”

  The words rattled around her mind. When they settled, her bottom lip started to quiver and her spine straightened.

  I spoke slowly. “She fits the description of Angel. I need to—”

  She grabbed my arm. “Not without me.”

  I whispered, “This is never fun.”

  “If she’s mine . . .” She trailed off.

  If the body was Angel, then Summer would need the closure. But it’d be hell. “This . . . can change you forever.”

  She shook her head once, bit her lip, and collapsed onto a bench behind her.

  Gathering herself, she took several breaths, wiped her face, and then stood and nodded. I held her hand as we walked through two buildings and rode the elevator down to the basement. Ellie followed silently behind. Her defiant posture had weakened slightly, and her face showed she understood what was really going on here and what might be about to happen.

  The temperature in the basement was icebox cold. Summer wrapped her arms around herself. I spoke
to the guy sitting at the desk.

  He interrupted abruptly. “You family?”

  I didn’t want to give away too much. “I won’t know until I see her.”

  “Cops call you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then you can’t—”

  I didn’t have time to argue. I pulled out my wallet, flipped it open, and laid my credentials on the countertop.

  He nodded, raised both eyebrows, and wrapped a bracelet around my wrist. I pointed to Summer. “She’s with me.”

  The guy wrapped a bracelet around Summer’s wrist. I turned to Ellie and pointed to the waiting area. “You mind?”

  She sat without protest.

  The attendant pushed open the door and led us down a hall to a room where the temperature was colder still and the smell reminded me of dissection lab in high school. He opened the door, and we walked in to find six bodies covered in blue sheets on tables. Summer sucked in a deep breath and covered her heart with one hand. The bumps beneath the sheets suggested three men and three women. He pointed to the far left.

  Summer walked to the table slowly. Unsteady. Her hands shaking. Torment rippled across her face. As we stood over the body, Summer began making a low, almost inaudible moan. The man placed his hand on the sheet and slowly pulled it back, revealing the face.

  Summer crumpled, tried to suck in a breath of air but sat, unable to finish it. For over a minute, no air and no sound emitted from her lungs. As veins bulged on both temples and tears and snot poured from her eyes and nose, Summer let out some fraction of the pain buried in her womb. The cry lasted a long time. It echoed off the walls, the stainless steel tables, the tile floor, and the ceramic sinks.

  I looked at the man and shook my head.

  The body on the table was not Angel.

  He returned the sheet over the woman’s face. I lifted Summer off the floor and carried her to the elevator, where we rode to the surface.

  The human body does not like pain. Either physical or emotional. In order to protect ourselves, our bodies do stuff that sometimes we can’t control. Especially when that pain is intense. Somewhere en route to the elevator, Summer’s body had had enough. She passed out, falling limp in my arms and becoming deadweight.

  Ellie followed as I carried Summer to a bench beside a fountain. Ellie asked one of the nurses for a bag of ice, which we placed on the back of Summer’s neck. Minutes later, her eyes opened.

  She sat for a long moment, shaking her head. Finally, she lay back down and curled into a ball. She spoke to whoever would listen. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything I’ve ever done wrong in my life. I’m sorry for every—”

  Words wouldn’t help this. I wrapped an arm around her and held her while she tried to make sense of the nonsensical. Finally, the emotion overwhelmed the words and she just wept.

  Chapter 19

  Ellie sat and I held Summer while she emptied herself. It wasn’t pretty. An hour passed. Toward lunch, my phone rang. Colorado again. Soon as I answered, he launched in. “Fire and Rain is docked in West Palm. Taking on crew and fueling as we speak.”

  “Where?”

  “Just sent you the location.”

  The world was spinning pretty fast. I needed to focus. To think beyond today. “You got any room out there?”

  “What?” He chuckled. “You mean like available rooms?”

  He knew what I was asking. “If I find Angel—”

  “What about her mom?”

  I studied Summer. “Yeah, probably her too.”

  He continued, “You know I do.”

  “Can you send the—”

  He interrupted me. “Already there. West Palm Executive. Parked in hangar number two.”

  I studied the world around me. “Thanks. I’m not sure how long any of this will take.”

  “We never do.”

  I hung up and spoke to Summer. “I think we found the boat.”

  She stood, wobbled, and caught her balance. “I’m going with you.”

  “I think—”

  She cut me off and something chiseled her face. As if it were cut from stone. She spoke through gritted teeth. “I’m going with you.” I tried to object, but she was having none of it. “Murph, or whatever your name is—” She gripped my bicep like a vise. “I’m with you.” While I heard her voice, my mind was focused on her hand squeezing my arm and the absence of fingernails.

  She’d bitten them to the quick.

  I turned to Ellie. “What about you?”

  She pointed over her shoulder. “I’ll stay here.”

  “You got any money for food?”

  “Maybe.”

  I handed her several twenty-dollar bills. “If you think of it, you might take Clay something as well. He looks like he could eat.”

  Ellie pocketed the money, suggesting she had agreed to stay with Clay and Gunner. As Summer and I walked out of the hospital, footsteps sounded behind us. I turned to find Ellie staring up at me. A question in her eyes. It was the first sign of weakness I’d detected.

  In my line of work, I’d encountered my fair share of the abandoned. The forgotten. I’d done my time on the island of misfit toys. And in my time on that beach, I’d learned something. Rejection is the deepest wound of the human soul. Bar none. And only one thing can heal it.

  When Ellie opened her mouth, she exposed that wound. Her voice was weak. Unsure. “You coming back?”

  I stepped toward her. “Yes.”

  She half turned but then turned back. “You lying?”

  “No.”

  “Prove it.”

  I took off Fingers’ Rolex and held it up. “You know what this is?”

  She eyed it and nodded.

  I clasped it about her wrist. “I want it back.”

  I turned to go but then thought better of it. I held up a single finger and motioned for her to do the same.

  She protested. “What?”

  “I’m wanting you to touch my fingertip with the tip of yours.”

  “I’m not a real touchy-feely kind of person.”

  I knew this. I waited. Both my silence and my waiting were purposeful.

  Finally, she held up her finger and touched the tip of mine. With my index finger extended, I uncurled the other four fingers, leaving my palm facing outward toward her and all five fingers extended. At my prodding, she mirrored my hand, allowing our five fingertips to touch. Finally, I pressed my palm and fingers flat against hers, then slowly curled our fingers together. Locking hands.

  She looked at our two hands the way people inspect their cars after a hit-and-run.

  “Is this supposed to mean something to me?”

  “Years ago, I was trying to find a little girl. When I did, she was scared and it was dark. There were some bad men trying to find us, so I had to leave her and find them before they found us. There was the chance that I might not make it back.” I motioned to our hands. “When I returned in the dark, I stretched out my hand. Speaking without opening my mouth. Over the years, it’s become a thing.”

  She let go and wiped her hand on her jeans. “Now that we’ve had our little moment, if you don’t come back, I’m keeping the watch.” Admiring my several-thousand-dollar dive watch, she walked through the automatic doors and disappeared inside the hospital.

  I deliberated taking a car to get there faster, but that brought about two problems. First, I didn’t have one. Second, if Fire and Rain cast off from her mooring, I’d need Gone Fiction to follow.

  We returned to the dock where Gone Fiction floated expectantly. Feeling somewhat guilty for how I’d neglected him, I lashed Fingers’ orange lunch box to the underside of the T-top so he could look down on the world. Given that you couldn’t really see him unless you were looking for him, I thought maybe I’d just leave him there for the duration. Directly above my head. Three minutes later, we idled out of the yacht club and into the no-wake zone.

  Summer stood close, biting what remained of her fingernails. She’d start to say someth
ing, then swallow it. She did this several times before I looked at her, inviting the question.

  She whispered, “Priest?”

  Her face betrayed both disappointment and curiosity. I wasn’t sure where she was going with this, so I dodged it. “I don’t follow you.”

  “The morgue. Your wallet. That guy took one look and—”

  “Oh.” I couldn’t tell if she was irritated or amused, so I downplayed it. “Short question. Long answer.”

  She waited.

  “It was a long time ago.”

  She thumbed over her shoulder toward the morgue. “Evidently not.”

  She wrapped an arm around my waist. I answered while not answering. “I’m also a priest. Or . . . I was.”

  “I thought once a priest always a priest.”

  I shrugged. “I’m in a bit of a gray area.”

  “Why?”

  “Priests don’t do what I’ve done.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “Not really.”

  “Why?”

  This conversation was moving fast. “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “Well . . . ?”

  “You won’t like the answer or me.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s painful.”

  She stared out across the water. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re swimming in pain right now.”

  She was right, and maybe none more so than herself. “Maybe some other time.”

  She smiled. “There it is again.”

  “What?”

  “That thing you do where you avoid the tough questions I’m asking you.”

  She leaned against me, pressing her heart to my shoulder. Not speaking as the keel sliced the water. Still not satisfied, she turned to me and held up her hand, a single finger extended—just like I’d done with Ellie. Then, with her palm facing outward, she extended all five fingers, eventually resting them on my chest. Having mimicked the hand motion, she stood with her index finger extended like E.T. Waiting. “There’s more to this, isn’t there?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s it mean?”

  I spoke as our fingertips touched. “The needs of the one . . .” When all five fingertips touched, I pressed my palm to hers and our fingers interlocked. Her hand felt strong. “Outweigh the needs of the many.”