“I didn’t mean to upset you, Miss Amelia.”
“Just watch what you say, chile.”
“About them killing people with the devil in them?”
“About whatever,” she said.
“They have, haven’t they?”
She said nothing.
“You look scared, Miss Amelia. What you scared of?”
She looked up and into his eyes. “Right now?”
He nodded.
She said, “You.”
Sheldon watched her go as she hobbled away.
✽ ✽ ✽
The sun had lifted above the horizon by the time Lemon reached the beach. It painted the sky in the colors of a bloom of purple hibiscus and pink petunias, a flock of hummingbirds flying backward across its canvas. She could hear the chip-chip-chip trill of a Pine Warbler, the crash of the water’s waves against the shore, and the soft slap of flesh and the moans and grunts of sexual congress. She stiffened and blew a breath of air up into her face as she watched shadows dancing across the sand. Touching a shaky hand to her stomach, a stab of pain cramped and folded her over. The pain was sudden, unexpected, and difficult for her to reconcile. She spit out a string of bitter yellow mucus, and wiped at her mouth with the collar of her shirt. Took a deep breath, pushed her shoulders back, and walked ramrod straight from the tree cover toward the moving shadows.
As she drifted across the soft sand, the wind from the ocean rose into her face and made her eyes water. The shadows continued to dance as she inched ever closer. A symphony of sexual sounds providing a soundtrack.
During her third year of college, the last semester she would attend, she’d walked in on her roommate having sex. Greer Henne was a wallflower with a tiny space between her front teeth and blue eyes that sparkled like glass. Damien Barksdale was dark as a tar road, kept his head shaved bald, and grew out an unseemly black Santa Claus beard that was flecked with dandruff and lint. Despite the fact that Greer and Damien and she were always together, Lemon had not suspected anything romantic between them. They never held hands, never whispered when they spoke to one another, and constantly goaded each other with ridiculous political and religious statements. Damien would say that Jesus was black and wore Chuck Taylor Converse sneakers and had a kinky afro. Greer would counter that God wore Roman sandals and long flowing stolas embroidered with colorful flowers and kept Her hair arranged in a perfect ponytail. It was a shock for Lemon to see Greer rocking on Damien’s lap, mouse-brown hair slick with sweat and sticking to the creamy white skin of her back. And Damien’s black-licorice fingers gripping Greer’s ass so hard a rich red glow rose in her skin and haloed the fingers. Damien guiding her up and down, up and down.
Now, as then, Lemon was embarrassed by what she’d walked in on, but unable to turn away for some reason. Deborah was on all fours, her mighty breasts swaying like pendulums, Merritt disappearing into her from behind, the muscles in his butt churning like pistons. Fucking like dogs. Both of their backs to Lemon.
Lemon waited until Merritt growled one final time and fell away, then she cleared her throat. Deborah turned around, hatred immediate in her eyes. She didn’t bother with covering her nakedness. Merritt sat up beside her and frowned.
“Want a tit in your mouth or something?” Deborah asked, cupping her breasts and jiggling them. “You’re staring mighty hard.”
“I think it’s a shame when two women have to be at each other’s throats,” Lemon replied. “What did I ever do to you? I’ve often wondered.”
“You stink,” Deborah said, wrinkling her nose. “You smell like an overused cunt.”
Lemon nodded and pursed her lips. “Considering our respective positions at the moment, that’s laughable.”
“Considering our respective positions,” Deborah mocked. “Fake bitch.”
“Ladies, ladies,” Merritt cut in.
Lemon ignored him, remained focused on Deborah. “Are you aware that your boyfriend here is a voyeur?”
“Speak English, bitch.”
Lemon sighed. “He broke into my house the other day and watched me take a shower. Is that the kind of man you want to be with?”
“Considering our respective positions,” Deborah said, “you sound stupid bringing up someone being a voyeur.”
Lemon colored and couldn’t think of a proper response. Deborah snickered, shook her head, moved to gather her clothes. She dressed quickly, but with a false measure of elegance and grace. Once she’d finished putting on her things, she leaned over and planted a soft kiss on Merritt’s cheek. “Thank you for everything,” she told him. “Be sure to tell me later what this bitch had to say. Okay?”
“You’re not being nice,” he replied.
“My grandfather used to tell me stories about an uncle of his that came to the States. He worked from cain’t see to cain’t see in the fields. He smiled despite the heat and how hard they drove him. Smiled and did the work with pride and no complaining. His wife worked the house, and whenever she had the opportunity she would piss in the white folks’ tea and garnish their sandwiches with snot. I respect my great-uncle’s attitude, but I ain’t one for smiling when I don’t like someone.”
Merritt nodded. “Point made. Say no more.”
Deborah moved from the tent, brushing Lemon aside as she moved past.
“She has a serious problem,” Lemon said, once Deborah was gone.
“She ain’t alone.”
“How long have you two…”
Merritt shook his head. “You’ll have to forgive me, but you and I don’t have that kind of relationship, Mrs. Potter. My personal business is my personal business.”
“I don’t care who you involve yourself with,” Lemon said, noticing the edge in her voice and toning it down. “If she’s what you want, so be it. She’s a terrible mother. I can’t tell you how many times she’s disappeared and left little Noah alone.”
“Doesn’t Miss Amelia usually look after him in those instances? I was under the impression that was the case.”
“I can see you’re strung,” Lemon replied. “I have nothing more to say about Deborah.”
“I did want to talk with you about that number you recited to me, though.”
“Don’t waste your breath.”
“You’re playing with fire. I’m trying to save you some trouble down the road.”
“I’m not talking about it,” she said.
“What do you know about it? How did you get it?”
“You want me to make a big uproar about the damn number? Start yapping to the others about it? Then you can have a whole island of folks playing with fire and sure to have trouble down the road.”
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll leave it alone. For now. You need to do the same.”
“Are you really this stupid? I don’t care about the number. I have no idea what it’s even for. And, newsflash, no way of checking it.”
He studied her face for a beat and then sighed. “What can I do for you then, Mrs. Potter?”
“For me? Nothing at all.”
“You seem disappointed that I got me some. Feeling a little bound up yourself? Need a little maintenance? If you give me a few minutes I bet I can recover and oblige.”
“That’s more like the asshole I’ve come to know. Now you’re enjoying yourself.”
“Not as much as you would think,” he said. “What did you need?”
Lemon cleared her throat. “I saw your prisoner last night.”
Merritt raised an eyebrow. “Where would that have been?”
“He rushed past my house,” she said. “He looked terrified.”
“He’d just scalded Sheldon with boiling hot water. Sheldon had come to help him wash and the prisoner took advantage. A white devil, just as I’ve been saying all along. If I was him I would have looked terrified, too.”
Lemon nodded. “You have the people convinced now. From what I heard you brought the prisoner back—badly beaten I might add—and now you’re our conquering hero.”
“You know how I feel about you.”
“Do I?” Merritt smirked. “I’m not so sure I do. I’m not so sure you do, either. I get conflicting messages.”
“I despise you,” Lemon said.
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re hateful and arrogant.”
“Nothing like Shepherd, right?”
“Shepherd’s…”
“No different than me,” Merritt said, ticking traits off on his fingers. “Narcissistic. Manipulative. Violent even. He’s got blood on his hands, though. And that’s the one area where we differ. Candace died tragically. I didn’t order her killed.”
“I would be careful what you insinuate,” Lemon said. “Shepherd is still the leader of this island.”
“You are absolutely correct.” Merritt released a hateful, crooked smile. “Please don’t tell him that I spoke ill of him.”
“I imagine the day when that smile is wiped off of your face.”
“That the only thing you imagine, Mrs. Potter? I’m betting you have quite the imagination.”
“What are you planning on doing with the prisoner?”
Merritt shrugged. “Still deciding.”
“I want him moved to my house. He needs to be properly cared for. We’re not savages.”
“Okay.”
Lemon frowned. “Okay?”
Merritt nodded. “He needs to remain secured at all times. I’ll have Will and some others stand guard outside your place in shifts. But yeah, we’re not savages. You can take care of the white boy.”
“What is your angle?”
Merritt smiled. “Don’t have one. What’s yours?”
She didn’t answer. Pivoted and walked away, expecting Merritt’s laughter to chase after her. It didn’t come, and she almost turned back to examine the look on his face. It would offer her little comfort later when she considered their exchange, that she’d had the discipline to avoid doing so.
✽ ✽ ✽
Aiden was wondering when they would come for him at the very moment they did. The shed door creaked open and two dark silhouettes filled the space, both figures wide of shoulder and relatively tall, both giving off a primeval heat and the odor of testosterone. Two men. One asked, “How was the grouper?”
Merritt.
Aiden fought to speak through the pain of his cracked lips and the oddity of his voice. “Ask the woman who brought it to me.” He’d lost a tooth and his words seemed to whistle through the open space.
“I asked. She said you spit it in her face.”
“I can’t even describe how good that felt,” Aiden said, unleashing his broken smile.
“You’re digging your grave deeper and deeper. Now you’re spitting on old women? What kind of man are you?”
Aiden’s smile disappeared, the short-lived joy with it.
Merritt inched closer. “Maybe it’s my fault. I told them to suggest either the tuna or the blue marlin next time. They’re much better here.”
One of the other men from that horrible first night had moved inside as well, now clearly in view. Aiden said, “Your name is Will, isn’t it?”
The man named Will nodded.
“I can tell you don’t understand the enormity of the mess you’re involved in, Will. I feel sorry for you.”
The man named Will smirked.
“You’re animals,” Aiden went on. “All of you.”
The kick was swift and direct. A rib shot from Merritt’s steel-toed boot. “I’m trying desperately to be kinder and gentler,” he said as Aiden grimaced. “I’m afraid it’s not sticking. I blame you. You seem to bring out the worst in me.”
Jacob had said something similar in the moments before this nightmare began. That wasn’t lost on Aiden.
“I’d. Like. To. Be. Alone,” he managed.
“Getting comfortable with the solitude, are you?”
Aiden didn’t answer.
“Well, don’t get too comfortable,” Merritt said. “We’re moving you. You’ll have some company from now on.”
“Moving me? Where? With who?”
“You’re excited by that bit of news? Well, good. We aim to please.”
“Where are you moving me?”
Merritt dropped down to Aiden’s level and said, “I’m guessing you’d like this back.” He fitted Saina’s locket around Aiden’s neck and closed the clasp. It proved to be a tight fit, but Aiden welcomed it like water during a drought. It was cool on his skin, familiar. He was actually about to thank them for this small bit of mercy when he noticed a floppy rectangle of dingy white material in Will’s hands. It took a moment to place it: a pillowcase. Thick, judging from the look of it. For some reason, Aiden found himself wondering about its thread count.
Will moved forward and eased it over Aiden’s head. Aiden thrashed but they hustled him to his feet, his ankles bound, his wrists bound, his body aching all over. Every muscle cried out for relief as they dragged him from the shed and out into the sunlight. Stabs of pain shot through his right ankle with every tortured step; he wasn’t certain, but it was likely broken. After several paces he couldn’t put any more weight on it and let it hang useless at the end of his leg. It produced a muted scratching sound as it clawed through the dirt. The urge to vomit was overwhelming.
“Most people’s heart rate ratchets up when they’re afraid or excited,” Merritt announced. “Mine slows down. What’s happening with yours right now, Aiden? What kind of man are you? Does a man who spits on an old woman—does his heart race or slow when the tables are turned on him?”
Aiden grunted and grit his teeth, thinking “It races.”
“Picture yourself over there in the big desert,” Merritt continued. “Riding along the Kunar River in a Humvee with a bunch of white boys that smell like wet dog. None of that matters, though. You have to watch each other’s six to keep from getting your shit completely blown up. Let me tell you, that’s incentive for good race relations right there. What I’m trying to say is, I don’t hate you because you’re white. But I will make you pay for it.”
“I can’t make it much farther,” Aiden said.
“I’m pouring my heart out to you,” Merritt said, “and you’re whining about a little walk?”
“I think my ankle’s broken.”
“Damn, Doc. Is that why it’s all plum-colored and swollen?”
Aiden heard a snicker, knew it was Will behind him.
“Anyway, these white boys are shaking in their skivvies. You’re calm. Checking the boulders, the small caves, the brush—for snipers, you know? You’re the one yelling over the Humvee engine, keeping everybody else calm and focused. Yelling your voice raw. The iron suspension in these things, and the clatter of the gun turret, make it so you can barely hear yourself think. But you’re calm. Heart rate crawling. You know? And that’s the moment you realize what kind of man you are.”
“How much farther?” Aiden moaned.
“You’d be this impatient with Colin Powell? Your kind seemed to like him.”
“I’m hurt.”
“You think I don’t know that? I’m the one pinned the majority of it on your chest.”
A racial epithet—Aiden felt it rising in his stomach like bile. He bit down on it, just as he was biting down on the tremendous rainbow of pain coursing through his body. Despite the logic of it, he hated himself for the restraint. He wanted so desperately to scream that hateful word. A word his father had no such difficulty uttering. He wanted to call Merritt and Will that word even more than he wanted a soft place to land.
“The names you must want to call me,” Merritt said, chuckling, reading his thoughts it seemed.
Charcoal monster.
Big black brownie.
Ni—
“Say it,” Merritt taunted.
Under the pillowcase, Aiden licked his lips. Opened his mouth to say it. They’d broken him. He didn’t care anymore. Ni—
But then he heard a woman’s vo
ice ask, “Is all of this necessary?”
And Merritt’s reply, “You mean the pillowcase? You got me; it’s overkill. Strictly for show.”
“Put him inside. Be easy with him.”
“You’re the boss, Mrs. Potter.”
The last few steps were the hardest. Aiden’s saliva was suffused with a strong taste of salt. His stomach cramped. His eyes watered. The pain was so extraordinary it stopped mattering. One of the men pushed him and he landed on what felt like a cot. “I need a bag,” he called from under the hood, and then spewed vomit right behind the words.
“Jesus,” Merritt said. “This boy’s stomach is constantly on a rollercoaster.”
The woman said, “I’ll clean him up. You two leave. Now.”
Merritt snickered. “Vomit detail? You get no argument from me.”
They shuffled out and then everything went completely still and quiet. The pillowcase was eased off Aiden’s head and used to dab at his mouth and the front of his soiled shirt. Whereas the men had been pure heat and testosterone, his savior was floral warmth. Her scent was in her clothes, her hair, on her skin. It wrapped him in comforting gauze. He scanned the room, found it to be small, neat, totally devoid of any personal imprint. Like a hotel room. Two clothes racks, one for a man, one for a woman, and sparse furniture. The front door hung lopsided on its hinges. “That needs to be fixed,” the woman said, following his gaze. “I hope you won’t cause me any trouble in the meantime. Cause yourself any trouble. They’ll be waiting for you just outside if you make a move to run again.”
Aiden shrugged aside his fog, and looked at her for the first time. The surprise of it practically choked him. “Ghost Woman?”
She frowned, said, “Pardon?” and added a tentative smile.
“I saw you last night,” he said. “You’re real.”
“Thought you were imagining things?”
“I was in a panic.”
“I could tell.”
“Thought my mind was playing tricks on me. You were so…”
“So…?”
He shook his head and looked away from her. “You helped me.”
After a minute, she said, “I understand. And I’m sorry this has all happened to you.”
Scared of the Dark: A Crime Novel Page 11