“I don’t know that word.”
“Self-righteous.”
They fell silent again. After a few minutes, Aiden broke the spell of quiet. “I’m sure you have questions about Lemon and me.”
“There is an old Zulu proverb,” Shepherd said, speaking calmly. “‘Love, like rain, does not choose the grass on which it falls.’ I was smitten with her from the very first. Foolish at my age.”
Aiden let the old man speak.
“Imagine my surprise,” Shepherd continued, “when she reciprocated my subtle affections. Not at first, mind you, but once she was settled on the island and could fully recognize my vision at work…I became more attractive as a potential mate, I suppose. Despite that, I never had any delusions about who we were to one another.”
Aiden leaned forward. “Are you suggesting Lemon didn’t love you? That she somehow took advantage of you?”
“You’re protective of her,” Shepherd said, and smiled. “No, that is not what I’m suggesting. Lemon represented a new beginning for me. The beautiful possibilities of a fresh start, which fit perfectly with my hopes for redemption. As for me, I represented something paternal for Lemon’s spirit. She needed that.”
Aiden nodded and relaxed.
A wistful smile flashed across Shepherd’s wrinkled face. “There’s a Swahili wedding tradition that involves bathing the bride in sandalwood oils and tattooing henna designs on her limbs. In a certain part of Kenya the main feature of a wedding is the kupamba. It occurs the night after the wedding. In basic terms, it’s a ceremony where the bride is put on display. Lemon was exquisite for her kupamba. Glowing. I made certain that we incorporated as many African traditions as possible in our nuptials. It was an affair I will not soon forget.”
“But…?” Aiden said, hearing in Shepherd’s tone that there was more.
“Our Lemon is a restless spirit.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’ll learn,” the old man said, and despite his pleasant aspect Aiden immediately hated him.
But rather than focus on that negative energy he returned his attention back to the pancakes. Breaking them in ragged pieces, drizzling the pieces with maple syrup, his fingers sticky as he shoveled the pancake into his mouth.
“I’ve offended you,” Shepherd said.
“You’d have to matter to me,” Aiden said, talking around a mouthful of food, “to offend me.”
“There’s another proverb that—”
“Enough with the wise old sayings. I’m not even certain that you aren’t making this stuff up.”
“Burundi in origin,” the old man went on, ignoring him. “‘Where there is love there is no darkness.’ Lemon has a great deal of darkness in her soul, Aiden. I tried, unsuccessfully, to offer her some light.”
“That before or after you impregnated Deborah?”
Shepherd’s brown eye widened a touch. “It appears as though the island whispered all of its secrets into your ear.”
The barn’s breezeway door opened before Aiden could offer a response. A man stepped inside, closed the door behind him, barked, “Five minutes to clear out,” and then stepped back against the door with his arms folded across his chest, seemingly all in one fluid motion.
“That’s a call for us to head back to wherever they’re housing us,” Shepherd explained.
“I couldn’t have gathered that on my own,” Aiden said. “Thanks for the clarification.”
He took another pancake, stuffed it in his mouth without breaking or drowning it in maple syrup. Then he stood. Shepherd rose at the same time, his movements surprisingly spry. They walked over to the door with the others and were ushered out into the bright sunshine. They headed off together.
“I was an alcoholic,” Shepherd announced as they moved onward. “George Dickel straight, no ice. God-awful stuff now that I look back on it. I say was an alcoholic instead of the more popular am an alcoholic because the part of me that thirsted for Tennessee whisky thirsts no longer. I’m healed of that particular want.”
Aiden kept in step with the older man’s walking pace. He didn’t, however, say a word.
“How was I able to heal?” Shepherd continued. “Not without great pain. Our hearts are deceitful and desperately wicked, I’m afraid. I couldn’t have changed until I hit bottom. And I sure enough touched it. I remember nothing about the night. They told me afterward that the little girl was four. That bothered me greatly because the number four has biblical significance. The Garden of Eden had a river which parted into the headwaters of four other rivers. The Pison, Gihon, Hiddekel, and Euphrates. After Jesus’s crucifixion, the Roman soldiers who’d seen to his death divided up his clothes into four parts, one for each of them. Ezekiel saw four living creatures in his wheel in the middle of a wheel.”
Aiden prodded, “The little girl…”
Shepherd let out a long breath. “Her mother tried to swerve to avoid me—headlights in the wrong lane coming straight at her. Of course she wasn’t able to get out of the way in time. The prosecutors showed pictures of the child’s casket during my trial. It looked like a toy. I’d never wept before that day. When I got out of prison I went directly to their gravesites. Someone had laid plastic flowers. I replaced those with live ones. White roses and Oriental lilies. Did that once a month for more than seventeen years.”
“A lovely tale of redemption,” Aiden said with sarcasm.
“It changed me. And now I’m changed again.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve come to accept that redemption isn’t at all possible,” Shepherd said. “And you simply can’t love the darkness out of someone’s heart, no matter how hard you try.”
“You’re a fool,” Aiden said. “And Lemon and the others on the island were crazy for ever believing in you. Matter of fact, you’re a fool and a fraud.”
The man who called himself Shepherd pursed his lips and nodded. “It has been a distinct pleasure talking with you, Aiden.” Then he turned away and walked on, through a field of high grass that quickly swallowed his stooped form.
Aiden shook his head in disgust. Thankfully, some African bush ceremony didn’t bind Lemon to Shepherd in any way that either Aiden or the law would ever recognize. What could Lemon have possibly seen in such a sad old fool? Aiden sighed and looked off in the distance. Dmitri’s men stood guard near the fence line on all sides. Aiden gave one of the men a salute. The guard didn’t acknowledge the gesture or move in Aiden’s direction. The rifle slung over his shoulder meant he didn’t have to.
Aiden smirked and started walking again, toward the chicken coop. He would have a very brief conversation with Lemon about Shepherd and then that topic would be put to rest, forever. There was no point in dwelling on the choices she’d already made. The only thing that mattered now was the choices to come. Aiden hoped that she would give him a legitimate opportunity to bring some light to her darkness. Unlike Shepherd, he believed he was up to the challenge. He wouldn’t repeat the mistakes he’d made with Saina. He’d respect Lemon and everything that made her unique. He’d make sure his father did the same. Somehow he would help Lemon to settle her waiting legal troubles once they were able to find their way out of this place. And they would get out of here. He was more determined than ever after meeting the man who called himself Shepherd.
Aiden stepped through the open door of the chicken coop with words of love ready on his lips. Unfortunately, Lemon wasn’t inside. “Now where are you?”
He was too tired and emotionally spent to go looking for her. Maybe it was best to give her time to cool off and collect her thoughts. Seeing Shepherd again must’ve been a great shock for her.
He dropped down hard on his wooden bed and closed his eyes. Within minutes, he was asleep.
He woke to a strong, resonant ringing sound traveling from afar. Ting-ta-ting-ting. Ting-ta-ting-ting. The clear rhythm of a farm bell. Blinking to adjust his eyes to the dark, he looked over and saw that Lemon had yet to return. The bell outside cont
inued to ring. Dinner bell, he thought. Surprisingly, he wasn’t hungry. All that mattered now was finding Lemon. He yawned, stretched, and rose to his feet. The wooden pallet left a number of aches in his muscles. He smiled, thinking of the massage he would barter with Lemon for. You do me, I do you.
Walking toward the door, he yawned again. Tired and sore.
Ting-ta-ting-ting. Ting-ta-ting-ting. The bell continued to sound.
Opening the door, he found Shepherd standing just outside, looking ghostly in the moonlight. “They want us all to gather together at the barn,” the old man said.
Aiden shook his head. “No can do. I have to find Lemon.”
The man who called himself Shepherd swallowed. “That’s the thing. It’s about our Lemon, I’m afraid.”
The Slaves of Fools
It was just after nine in the evening and not much cooler than it had been earlier in the day. Merritt worked his hands raw with the rusty switchblade knife that had been, apart from Ruck, his most trusted companion for the better part of a decade. He considered tossing it end over end far off into the trees. But that would take a measure of vigor he simply didn’t have at the moment. Deborah quietly eased up behind him and placed her hands on his bare back. She’d stood by for hours and watched him struggle with the knife, with no discernible expression on her face. “Your muscles are coiled up like the metal springs in a mattress,” she said in a surprisingly soothing voice. “You should give it a rest.”
Merritt frowned and ran his thumb over the smooth handle of his switchblade.
“Come on, James. You gave it a good try.”
But Merritt shook his head. “All I did is ruin my hands.”
A foot-wide tree trunk. Stupid of him to think he could cut through it.
Deborah circled in front of him and gestured at his hands. “Lemme see.”
“They’re cut and bleeding,” he told her, closing his right hand in a fist around the knife, sliding his left hand down in a pocket in his shorts. “Nothing to see here.”
“At least let me clean them up.”
“I’m alright.”
“You’re stubborn as a mule.”
“You want to do something for me?”
“Whatever you ask,” she said, “within reason.”
“Pull your shirt down. It’s distracting.” She had it lifted off her heavy wet breasts and bundled around her neck like a choker.
Deborah smiled. “It’s hot as Hades. I’m just tryna stay cool.”
Tryna. The lilt and a little gleam in her eyes.
Merritt shook his head and dropped the knife, the dull blade still extended from the handle. It landed on the soft ground with a muted thud. “You’re a difficult woman.”
“The look in your eyes tells me otherwise,” she said, tweaking her nipples with her fingers.
“Difficult,” he muttered.
“You know you like the challenge,” she said, a song in her voice.
Usually that was the case. He didn’t just like a challenge—he loved one. Loved being in situations that made others cringe. Loved having his back against the wall. Loved the nagging doubts that cropped up during times of uncertainty and strife. Doubts you had to fight your way through. Usually he loved that.
Deborah clucked her tongue. “There it is.”
Merritt frowned. “What now?”
“I don’t know how to explain it,” Deborah said. “You get this blackness in your eyes. And it spreads like a milk spill.”
“Sounds like you do know how to explain it. A regular callaloo poet.” He bent and picked up the knife. Snapped it shut. Considered again the idea of throwing it off into the distance.
Deborah touched his arm. “You’re upset. But none of this is your fault. You’ve done your best to fix things.”
“I’m gonna go and update the others,” he replied.
“I think you should hold off on dat.”
Merritt nodded but started walking. After a few strides, he heard Deborah fall in behind him, her feet crunching twigs and leaves. Then she was beside him, keeping pace. Her shirt was back on properly, snug against her thick, firm breasts, swollen nipples beading the front of it, a damp blot in the fabric over her cleavage. She moved silently next to him, seeming to respect his need for quiet. That was a plus in her favor. So was her willingness to stand by him today. “Treat me well,” she’d told him earlier. “And I’ll treat you better.” Surprisingly, he didn’t doubt it.
It took them longer than normal to reach camp. Once they did, Deborah grabbed one of his wrists and locked eyes with him. “You could stall them for a few days, James. Who knows what you’d figure out in the meantime?”
“I’ve got nothing,” he said. “Stalling won’t change that. We’re marooned on this island. I have to tell ‘em.”
“Mosley and Haywood will have a fit. They’ll make the others rise up against you.”
Merritt nodded. “Probably.”
“You deserve better than that.”
“Is this real concern? Or are you thinking about your ever diminishing chance at being First Lady?”
“You look defeated,” she said, gazing into his eyes. “I’ve never seen you like this. I don’t like it.”
“Round everyone up. I’m gonna build a fire for light. Bring them out to Shepherd’s.”
“James…”
He turned and walked off into the mouth of a hungry darkness, bending every few steps to gather up fallen branches from the ground. Kindle for his fire, but also monotony to wipe clear his mind. Too many thoughts were raging inside of him. And his pulse…it was galloping too.
When he reached Shepherd’s house he found the repaired front door ajar and a light burning inside. A flickering scented candle, he discovered once he moved indoors. Miss Amelia lay on one of the cots, a thick wool blanket covering her body and most of her face. Still, she shivered as if there was a chill in the air. Noah, Deborah’s boy, stood over the old woman, gently rubbing her sweaty forehead.
“She’s lucky to have you,” Merritt said.
Noah nodded, half smiled.
“I’m gonna close this door. We’re having a meeting outside. Don’t listen in.”
Again, Noah nodded.
Merritt stepped back outside and set about starting a fire. He had it going just as the others approached from the woods. Mosley, bleary-eyed and yawning, was at the head of the pack. Pleasant entered the frame next, followed by Will, then Deborah and the rest. Haywood was two beats behind the second to last person. Deborah settled next to Merritt.
Mosley said, “Any mention of torches, James, and I might have to find a stick to beat you with. Consequences be damned.”
Haywood scoffed from the other side of the small crowd. “He’d wrestle it from you mid-swing.”
“It’s called hyperbole,” Mosley said, glaring Haywood’s way. “I was just trying to make a point. You should keep your mouth shut.”
“Open your mouth. Shut your mouth,” Haywood snapped. “Your conflicting messages have turned my head into a tilt-a-whirl.”
“You don’t mind embarrassing yourself, do you?”
“Actually, I think inauthenticity is more embar—”
“Enough,” Merritt barked, and the two men fell silent. All eyes turned his way. “You’re tired. It has been a long few days. I understand.”
“So why were we summoned here?” Mosley called out.
Merritt cleared his throat and got right to the point. “When Lemon and the white boy left, they unmoored our boats. They must’ve drifted out far into the sound.”
“Meaning what?” Mosley asked.
“We’re marooned here.”
Mosley’s eyes widened. “What about…? Why would they do that?”
“Don’t you get it? So we couldn’t chase after them,” Haywood replied. “Isn’t that right, James?”
“It was a clever move,” Merritt admitted.
Mosley frowned. “And you hadn’t considered the possibility of them doing such a thing?�
�
Merritt shook his head. “I underestimated them.”
“And I’m thinking we’ve overestimated you.”
A chorus of murmurs.
Merritt raised his arms to settle everyone down. “We’ll manage in terms of food for quite some time. As far as other less essential items...”
“My Djarums,” Haywood whispered.
“Nonessential water,” Mosley added.
“It’ll be tough,” Merritt continued. “I’m still thinking on it. Maybe I can—”
“Stop thinking,” Mosley snapped. “You’ve done enough thinking already, James. Really.”
“Pardon?” Merritt said, his eyes narrowing. Then silence. An uncomfortable stretch of it.
Eventually, Haywood said, “I’m afraid Mosley’s right. You’ve set us up for some tough days ahead, James. I’ve been your biggest supporter—I mean, air conditioning—but I think we should take an official vote as to whether we should continue to blindly follow the path you’ve laid out for us. Sorry to say, but at this point my ballot would be marked ‘no confidence.’”
The ensuing murmurs sounded like just distant thunder to Merritt’s ears.
“I second Haywood’s sentiments,” Mosley said. “Absolutely no confidence.”
Haywood nodded. “Thank you, Mosley. Shepherd wouldn’t have had us in this predicament, James. And where is he? Once and for all, I want to know. We all do. Did you do something to him?”
Deborah stepped forward a foot. “You want to know about Shepherd?”
Quiet fell once again, and now all eyes were on her. “I can sum Shepherd up with one quick story,” she said. “Our first time together he had me drink Brazilian huasa tea. Told me the locals called it ‘the vine of the soul’ in Brazil and that it would amplify both my perception of the world and myself. But all it really did was turn me into a zombie. One that wouldn’t recoil when an old man’s hand fell on my inner thigh.”
Mosley gasped. “Are you accusing Shepherd of—”
“I am,” she said, interrupting him. “Shepherd is not without his faults. Nor is James, for that matter. But lashing out at James is not going to change our problem. Look at his hands.”
Scared of the Dark: A Crime Novel Page 27