Scared of the Dark: A Crime Novel

by Easton Vaughn

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The ground was waterlogged, corroded with plant roots, and soft as a sponge. Aiden scampered on, though, through peat and mud that rose to well above his ankles. Under different circumstances, the rotten-egg effluvia might’ve made him gag, made his mouth fill with the taste of salt and his stomach clench, but his focus now was so singular, so concentrated on making it unmolested to the beach, he hardly noticed the stench that seemed to paint the thick, muggy air.

  As he ran he considered the salt marsh, fully aware that marshes like this protected shorelines from erosion by buffering wave action and trapping sediments. That they reduced flooding by slowing and absorbing rainwater, and that they protected the water quality by filtering runoff and metabolizing excess nutrients. Knowledge he’d gleaned from hours watching the Discovery channel and an undergrad elective course he’d enjoyed as much as any of the courses he’d taken in anatomy and physiology. What he didn’t know was why he was running through this particular salt marsh for the second time since Sheldon had liberated him. If memory served him correctly, he should’ve come upon the island’s barrier flat by now. Or was it the dune ridge? Sheldon had been remarkably clear with his directions, and Aiden had listened to them with a determined purpose. So why was he running through the salt marsh again?

  The answer came sudden, an unexpected blow that punched the air right out of him.

  He was lost.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  “Behind each of you is a torch. Go ahead and grab one. Then approach the fire I’ve already started and dip your torch in to light it. Fire represents your life. As long as you have a fire…”

  Merritt let his voice trail off and looked from one face to the next. He silently gauged what state his people appeared to be in emotionally after such a difficult evening. And they were his people now, no question about that. Most of them were frowning, their mouths partway open, with expressions on their faces that seemed to say, Exactly what torch are you talking about? Pleasant was one of those not frowning. He stood as still as a breezeless night, ten feet or so away from the others, waiting. Deborah smothered a yawn with a fist and used it to grind the tiredness from her eyes. Several others were stupidly looking over their shoulders, continuing to search for the nonexistent torches. Haywood smiled and shook his head and clucked his tongue. In the light of the moon Merritt could see a touch of amusement in Haywood’s eyes. Merritt snickered and smiled to join in with him.

  “It’s late,” someone complained. “And we’re all tired. I don’t see any torches.”

  “Please stop looking, children,” Haywood called to those who continued to cast furtive glances all around the area. “You’re embarrassing yourselves. Have none of you ever watched television?”

  “What are you talking about?” Mosley snapped.

  Haywood gave Merritt a look. “May I enlighten the unwashed masses?”

  Merritt’s smile held; he nodded.

  “Survivor,” Haywood announced to the group, and getting nothing but blank stares, he added, “The Tribal Council. It’s how Jeff Probst begins the elimination round. Fire represents your life. As long as you have fire blah, blah, blah. Come on, children.”

  Mosley turned to face Merritt, his frown deepening. “This is some game?”

  “I believe James is lightening the dismal mood that has beset you all,” Haywood offered. “Us all. It’s been a horrific evening. I’m not ashamed to say I’m frazzled.”

  “You have a funny way of showing it.”

  “Don’t hold back,” Haywood said. “Speak your mind.”

  Mosley opened his mouth to respond, but Merritt’s voice, deep and resonant and serious, halted him. “You have a point, Mose,” he said. “I was just having a bit of fun, trying to, as Wood pointed out, lighten the mood.”

  “You don’t realize the shit-show this night has been?” Mosley said. “You really think the right move is to make fools out of all of us who haven’t wasted our brain cells glued to the idiot box?”

  “I resent that,” Haywood said.

  “My effort was misguided,” Merritt said. “All I can do is apologize and move forward with our meeting.”

  Mosley appeared satiated by Merritt’s humility. The others, too.

  “Miss Amelia is back with us, safe and resting,” Merritt continued, gesturing toward Shepherd’s one-room house behind him. “We’re all in agreement, finally, that the island offers much promise, and that we should do our able best to exploit that promise. I’d say, all things considered, it has been a rather good evening.”

  “Sheldon is dead,” Mosley reminded him.

  Merritt nodded, several times and slowly, so as to appear thoughtful and a bit somber. “I’d be lying if I said his death hasn’t affected me. But as you know, Sheldon wasn’t who he purported to be. He had an axe to grind and would’ve gladly taken all of us down with him.”

  “Speaking of taking all of us down,” Mosley said, “how could you allow the prisoner and Lemon Potter to get away? All of a sudden you aren’t concerned about anyone leaving the island and compromising those of us left behind?”

  “Of course that concerns me.”

  “But…”

  “But I don’t believe Lemon or the white boy will be a threat to us,” he said.

  Mosley shook his head. “I’m skeptical by nature. It’s a flaw, I know, but I hope you can pardon me for it.”

  Merritt nodded.

  Mosley continued. “I don’t see how you can believe that Lemon and…”

  “Aiden Dunleavy,” Merritt offered.

  “…Aiden Dunleavy will never utter a word to anyone about the island?”

  “They may talk,” Merritt admitted, half smiling, lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes.

  “And that doesn’t worry you?”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “I’m confounded by that, James.”

  “You’ll just have to trust me, Mose.”

  “That’s all I have,” Mosley said softly. “Trust. I hope it isn’t misplaced like your attempt to ‘lighten the mood.’ And my skepticism? Makes it difficult for me to jump two feet in without looking…and yet I have. I hope you can appreciate how difficult that has been to do.”

  “I do appreciate the faith you’ve placed in me,” Merritt said, meaning it. He surveyed the others. “The faith that all of you have placed in me. And I assure you, I have all of your best interests in mind. Shepherd was correct about one thing: this is a place of calm and tranquility. I won’t allow anything—or anyone—to disturb our peace.”

  “Will we bury Sheldon properly?” Haywood asked.

  Merritt turned and faced him, as polished as a politician now. “I’d given that some thought, Wood. In spite of Sheldon’s deplorable actions here tonight, I think it would be the right thing for us to do. He contributed a great deal to our quality of life, our survival, as false as his intentions may have been. We’ll give him a proper send-off because of that. We’re not savages, after all.”

  Haywood nodded. Mosley shook his head and said, “That’s honorable. But I still can’t believe you’re this calm about Lemon and…”

  “Aiden Dunleavy,” Merritt offered once more.

  “…Aiden Dunleavy’s defections.”

  “They won’t be a problem,” Merritt insisted.

  “You’re not really letting them get away,” Deborah called out, a rise in her voice, a mixture of both admiration and surprise. “Off of the island, maybe, but not away.”

  Merritt smiled but said nothing.

  “You have someone waiting for them on the mainland,” she went on. “Don’t you?”

  “We’ve all seen enough bloodshed here for one night,” Merritt replied. “I’m serious when I say I have all of your best interests at heart. I saw some things during my tours that…changed me. I wouldn’t wish that burden on any of you. Sheldon was a shock, for all of us. His horrible death needed to be the last any of us experienced. To that end, I thought it best that Lemon and Aiden were
dealt with elsewhere.”

  They all stood there in silence after those sobering words, under the glow of a fat moon, in the land area between Shepherd’s house and the stand of oaks that Sheldon had planned on using to turn the island into kindling. A bird of some kind chittered from a high branch in one of the trees. Wood smoke from the fire Merritt had started for extra light sweetened the air. Quiet, unspoken thoughts hung in the air as well. Many of the islanders no doubt imagining the ugly end that Lemon and Aiden would come to. The horrible pain both of them would, in their final gasps, be ultimately thankful to be free from. Dark, horrible thoughts lived in each of their minds.

  Except for one man. His mind was solidly on the future Merritt had sold them all on.

  Haywood cleared his throat with a flourish and all eyes turned to focus on him. “Probably not the best time to ask,” he said, smiling a toothy grin, “but when do you think we’ll be getting the air conditioning?”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  “Left foot, peg foot, traveling on,” the night breeze sang out. “Follow the Drinking Gourd. The river ends between two hills. Follow the Drinking Gourd.”

  Lemon had been running and whispering her dead father’s name. Inexplicably, he’d spoken back, his rich baritone floating on the breeze like dandelion seeds. She suspected it was the stress of the moment, her mind playing some sort of cruel trick, but she was transported nonetheless, a young girl once again, no more than seven or eight, sitting on her father’s knee, drinking up his cologne, rapt with attention as he regaled her with stories of the runaway slaves’ efforts to escape their masters and gain freedom.

  “Harriet Tubman, James Pennington, Josiah Henson,” the fatherly breeze continued. “Countless others. The goal was simply to carve a way north.”

  New York and Massachusetts in particular, as those were two states with the strongest abolitionist movements, black and whites alike who were sympathetic to the slave and wholly against oppression of any type. Better still was to make it all the way to Canada where slavery wasn’t permitted at all.

  “One of the greater challenges for the slaves,” the breeze reminded her, “was finding and staying on the proper course.”

  “North?” she found herself calling out.

  “Of course.”

  She paused to catch her breath, brushed a lick of damp hair from covering her eyes and then resumed running. She was determined and resolute even though thin tree limbs slapped at her face and arms, and a throng of night insects hummed in her ears, and the fetid stink of the approaching marsh was strong in her nostrils. She gave full credit—silly, she knew, but there was no other alternative—to the breeze with the voice of her father.

  Huffing, she asked, “How’d they find and stay the course?”

  “They discovered that moss usually grew on the north side of trees,” the breeze explained. “And that birds migrated north in the summer. They used that knowledge as a compass of sorts.”

  “And the North Star, too?”

  “Mmm,” the baritone breeze murmured. “Polaris. Unlike other stars it has a fixed position.”

  “And it always points north,” she noted.

  “Indeed.”

  From there the discussion eased into a group of stars the slaves used to help them identify the mighty North Star. Some called the grouping “Big Bear,” Ursa Major in Latin. Others believed the stars resembled a cup with a long handle—a dipper. Still others felt as though they looked like the gourds they hollowed out and used to drink water. The two stars on the gourd’s edge pointed directly to the North Star. Find the “drinking gourd” in the sky, and they could easily find their way north.

  Lemon gasped for a breath, her heart pounding, and managed to say, “That song you were singing?”

  “Coded directions,” the breeze explained. “Talk of a carpenter named Peg Leg Joe who traveled throughout the Deep South liberating black slaves along his route.”

  “The river makes a mighty good road,” Lemon sputtered. “The dead trees show you the way.”

  The river being the Tombigbee in Mississippi, marks carved into dead trees along its bank. When the Tombigbee ended, the slaves were to continue trudging north until they came to yet another large body of water, the Tennessee River. Eventually that fed into the Ohio, and once they’d crossed that they were in free territory, where someone from the Underground Railroad would meet them.

  Lemon’s stomach lurched as she ran full on into the marsh, the swollen silver moon providing her with just enough light to see her way. It was probably premature, but she couldn’t stop herself from imagining a new life. She’d shear off her hair, style it close to the scalp like Halle Berry. Change her eye color with contact lenses and settle on a different name. Maybe Candace…just because. She’d need forged documents to support the new identity, which would take money, which she didn’t have, but Lemon refused to dwell on that at the moment. If she ended up having to debase herself to fund a new life, then so be it. After all she’d done, all she’d been through, it made no sense to continue holding onto some high notion of herself.

  “Left foot, peg foot,” she sang as she clopped through soft wet ground. “Follow the Drinking Gourd.”

  And as she ran, and as she sang, she could hear her father’s rich baritone floating on the breeze and singing in tandem with her. “There’s another river on the other side. Follow the Drinking Gourd.”

  She swung her arms for momentum, sweat popping on her forehead and pooling at her armpits. The sloppy marshland was some of the roughest terrain for her. As her feet sank into the soft earth, she grew concerned about losing her balance, perhaps twisting an ankle or tumbling and hitting her head. In her worst nightmare, she envisioned herself waking to a bright sun-filled sky, and blinking only to discover Merritt smiling down at her.

  “Follow the Drinking Gourd,” she whispered. “Follow the Drinking Gourd.”

  She heard him before she actually came upon him. Strangely enough, she didn’t startle or hesitate, didn’t even consider stopping to listen more closely for what awaited her up ahead. In her bones, Lemon knew who was making the noise, who she would find. He’d called her Ghost Woman. It wasn’t as ridiculous as it sounded. In fact, it might be true. Perhaps she shared some kind of supernatural connection with him.

  He was down in the mud, slumped over, weeping loudly enough to drown out all the insects and birds that gave the night its sounds. Lemon could tell that he was very disoriented.

  “Aiden.” He didn’t even acknowledge her as she softly touched and jostled his shoulder. “Aiden. How’d you get out here? Is someone with you?”

  He looked up slowly, took a moment to recognize her, and even then didn’t appear to believe his eyes. “Lemon?”

  “In the flesh,” she said, smiling. She should’ve been concerned about someone being with him, someone jumping out of the shadows and taking her back. But she wasn’t.

  “It’s you,” he said. “I’ve found you.”

  “Technically it’s the other way around, but I understand. I’ve been talking to my dead father for the last twenty minutes or so. And he’s been answering back through the breeze.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry about what to believe right now,” she said.

  Aiden stammered, “Sheldon…set me free. I can leave the island.”

  “Me, too,” she said softly.

  “This is unbelievable,” he said, his voice raw and raspy.

  “We’d better hurry,” Lemon said, offering a hand for Aiden to take and use to stand. “Let’s go.”

  But he was still disoriented, she could tell. Still very much bewildered, overwhelmed. He frowned, looked closely at the hand but did not immediately take it. “Go where?” he managed to ask.

  She smiled. “I don’t know about you, but I’m aiming for Canada.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Aiden wondered whether someone had dropped him inside of some sort of vacuum, where it was difficult to hear or feel or smell, where everythi
ng was out of focus, where the world seemed to tilt and his heartbeat wasn’t a beat at all but rather a slow drip. Lemon stood over him, her hand outstretched. He reached up and grasped it, at the same time recalling something she’d said to him just a moment before. At least he thought she had. It was hard to know what was real and what wasn’t with his mind so dazed. “Did you say you were headed to Canada?”

  “That’s a long story,” she replied, her smile vivid in the moonlight. “I’ll try to explain later. Right now, we really need to go. Come.”

  His knees popped as he stood. He shook out his legs like a runner, working some feeling back into his joints. The marsh air was nasty, dank and thick as soup, but he took in a long pull of it nevertheless, in an effort to clear the cobwebs from his head. It seemed to work, for he was no longer seeing two Lemons, pity that.

  “Ready?” she said, still smiling.

  “You lead,” he replied, “and I’ll follow.”

  As they moved off, silent and focused, he took in the island. It was both idyllic and menacing at the same time. They trampled through a cluster of dense forest, then clopped through a brackish stand of pond water, followed a trail that led to a sand dune. “Were those white-tailed deer back there?” he asked, stumbling and looking back toward the trees they’d just emerged from.

  Lemon nodded. “The island’s exotic, mysterious, fascinating really. We have box turtles, all sorts of migratory birds, a few threatened species. Shepherd mentioned one called a Piping Plover. I haven’t seen it for myself. Personally, I love the ghost crabs. They burrow holes in the sand and peek out of them.”

  “Amazing,” Aiden whispered.

  “It can be,” Lemon said, and he could hear a touch of affection in her voice.

  They lapsed into more silence, the both of them lost in their thoughts. Aiden imagined that Lemon was consumed with the question of what her life would be like away from the island. If Deborah was being truthful, then Lemon’s future would be spent on the run or in prison. Neither seemed like a particularly good option. Aiden’s thoughts, meanwhile, were much simpler, though still pressing in his mind. How could he best explain the condition he’d been in when Lemon discovered him back at the marsh? Crying like a baby.