by Blake Crouch
I led Violet to the front pew and helped her out of the dripping poncho. I told her to sit down. She was in shock, no question, her black skirt and blouse soaking wet.
I unsnapped the hip belt of my Osprey backpack and leaned the pack against the pew. Unzipping the bottom compartment, I pulled out the compressed sleeping bag. Then I unrolled the air mattress across the floor and laid the sleeping bag on top of it.
I knelt down before Violet.
"Hey." I patted her knee. She looked at me, eyes glazed. "Violet, we need to take off your wet clothes." She shook her head, teeth chattering. "Can I help you take them off? Here, let me—"
"No!"
She tried to jerk away.
I grabbed her arms.
"Stop it!" I said. "I’m not going to hurt you! I am not. Now I know you have no reason to believe that, but you also have no choice."
She just stared at me.
I let go of her arms, untied her boots, and helped her stand. She undid the clasp on her skirt and it dropped. I peeled off her wet hose, then unbuttoned her blouse and tossed it to the end of the pew. I removed my raingear and fleece jacket. I offered her my fleece and she took it, motioning for me to turn away while she put on the soft jacket.
I guided her over to the sleeping bag. I don’t know why she trusted me. The shock, probably, her thinking fuzzy. I closed the air nozzle on the Therm-a-Rest and unzipped the mummy bag. She climbed inside and I zipped her up.
She still shivered. I lay down beside her on the cold boards.
We were quiet for awhile.
I listened to the storm raging and watched the sky entering twilight through those arched windows. I stared up into the airy ceiling of the eighty-nine-year-old church. Simple lovely architecture. Sitting up on one elbow, I gazed down into Violet’s blanched face.
"Getting warm?" I asked.
"Not yet."
My gun…her gun lay on the nearby pew. It was getting dark fast.
"Don’t be scared," I said. She watched me. I couldn’t determine the color of her eyes in the fading light. Green perhaps. Emerald.
The wind shrieking now.
"Violet, I’m not going to hurt you. I swear I won’t. You know I’m Andrew Thomas, don’t you?"
God, it felt strange to say that name aloud. It had been years.
She nodded that she knew. Her shivering had abated.
"I would never have hurt anyone in Howard’s Pub. I have to tell you that. You have to believe me. I wouldn’t have hurt Charlie either. Or you. But I had to say those things, because you put me in a difficult position.
"I don’t know what you think of me. What you’ve read or seen on the news. But I’m going to tell you this, and I’m only going to say it once. I am not what you think I am. I did not do those murders seven years ago. I did not kill my mother. You and I came to the Outer Banks for the same reason."
"Is Luther Kite the murderer?" she asked, her voice still enervated and slurring.
"He was involved with some of the murders, but I don’t know to what extent. My brother, Orson Thomas, was the real killer."
I closed my eyes. Tears welling. Rain sheeting down the glass. Dusk outside. Dusk in the chapel. This thing gnawing my guts out for seven years and now I’m on the verge of telling a petrified twenty-six-year-old cop who I’ve essentially kidnapped.
I got up and walked between pews to a window. Nothing human moving through the village, among the house skeletons, the trees still manic, the grasses waving, pools forming on the lawn, creeks flooding, the Ocracoke Light winking on across the inlet, and a knot in my stomach that waxed with the darkness.
"Andrew?" she called out. I looked back—she was just a shadow on the floor now, the chapel draped in gloaming. "Please talk to me."
I returned to Violet and sat down on the front pew.
"You afraid of me?" I asked.
"Yes."
"I want to tell you what happened to me."
"I want to know."
I suspected she was just trying to pacify me but I told her anyway. All of it. Even what had happened in the desert. I don’t know if she believed me but she listened, and by the end of my narrative my voice could scarcely sustain a whisper. When your sole verbal communication is infrequent chitchat with strangers, your voice atrophies from disuse.
But she listened. I didn’t ask if she believed me. I’m tempted to say it didn’t matter but that isn’t accurate. Rather, what mattered most was that the truth had been told by me to someone.
You cannot imagine the release.
43
VIOLET sat up now in my sleeping bag, propped against the railing that separated the pews from the altar. I’d managed to fire up the camping stove, a propane-fueled Whisper-Lite. It stood in the aisle, a pot of water coming to a boil over its hissing blue flame.
I ripped the tops off two pouches of Mountain Pantry lasagna and set the freeze-dried dinners beside the stove. Then I took the potgrab and lifted the lid. A billow of steam moistened my face. I set the lid down, lifted the pot, and poured the boiling water into each pouch.
After the lasagnas had stewed for ten minutes we dined. The church completely dark now, I found a candle in my first-aid kit, lit it, and placed it on the floor between us.
"Not bad, huh?" I said.
"It’s good."
The rain had let up. The wind was easing. A cloudy night on an island without electricity is pure darkness.
"How long you been a cop?" I asked.
"Year and a half."
I put the hot pouch down and took a drink of water from the Nalgene bottle.
"Back in the car you said you were pregnant."
A quick intake of breath. Stifling of tears. Violet looked at the floor while she spoke, her voice newly wrecked.
"Look, I can’t do the personal thing right now, okay? Unless you want me to just fall completely apart, please…"
I looked at her in the candlelight. Beautiful. Still a kid. Could’ve been a grad student somewhere. She wiped her cheeks on the sleeves of the fleece jacket. I wondered if she had any idea of how far over her head she was.
She finished off the lasagna, and reassuming that budding official tone, became the cop again: "You said we came to Ocracoke for the same reason. You mean Mr. Kite?"
"Yes. I came here to find him. That woman they found hanging from the Bodie Island Lighthouse—I knew her. And Beth Lancing, the Worthingtons’ neighbor who was kidnapped—she’s the wife of that very dear friend I was telling you about—Walter. I believe Luther murdered that family just to bring attention to Beth Lancing’s abduction. And he hanged Karen Prescott from the lighthouse for the same reason. Those murders were so public. He wanted me to find out. He knew I’d know it was him. That wasn’t a mindless killing spree. I think those murders were executed in such a way as to lead me to him, or his general vicinity. And that’s what’s scaring me right now. You see, my biggest fear is what if Luther knows I’m here?"
"What do you mean ‘here’? In this church?"
"No, Ocracoke. God help us if he knows we’re on this island."
"Andrew, why are we on this island?"
"Well now that you’re in my life, that’s an interesting question. You feel any better?"
"I’m warm now."
"And your poncho’s dry. I’ve got spare fleece pants and long underwear in my pack." I looked at my watch. "It’s a quarter past seven. Rain’s let up. Yeah, we should get on with it."
"With what?"
"I’m fairly confident Beth Lancing is somewhere on this island. Luther, too."
"Oh, no, Andrew, let law enforcement handle this. We could call them in—"
"What about me? I’m wanted."
"Of course I’d—"
"Of course what? You’d tell them how I’m really innocent and—"
"No, I wouldn’t do that. It wouldn’t matter what I—"
"Then what?"
"You’d have a day in court."
"A day in court. Think that’s
what I need?"
"You need something. Don’t you want to settle all this crap you’ve been through? Put it to rest, one way or another? Find some peace?"
"I’ve already found my peace, Violet. My home is far out in a beautiful wilderness. And I’m as happy there as I have any right to be. It’s paradise—"
"Sounds a little escapist to me, Andrew."
"Well, the world, human nature as I understand it, based on what I’ve seen, is well worth escaping. But I don’t expect you to understand that." I came to my feet. Shadows and candlelight waltzed across Violet’s face, the only warmth in the church. "And besides, what if settling ‘all this crap’ means I go to prison?"
"Are you guiltless?"
"I don’t deserve prison."
"How do you know what you deserve?"
"You’re a naïve little girl," I said. "You think if you always try to do the right thing, it’ll all work out in the end. You think that don’t you?"
"It’s called hope. What if I do?"
"I hope you’re never faced with some of the decisions I’ve had to make. Where you lose everything no matter what."
I grabbed her .45 from the pew and shoved it into my waistband. We’d be leaving just as soon as I repacked the Osprey.
"You need that optimism," I said. "It protects you from the horror you see. Was what Luther did to the Worthingtons anything less than pure brutality?"
"No. It was awful."
"Did you fabricate a silver lining there?"
"If they had their faith, I believe they’re in heaven."
"I’m sure that’s just what Mr. Worthington was thinking as Luther Kite butchered him. ‘Boy, I’m glad I have this faith.’" I glanced up at the wooden cross mounted to the wall behind the altar. "You’re a Christian?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Tell me. Where is God now? Where was He when Luther savaged that family?"
She glared at me, her wet eyes shining in the firelight.
"I don’t know."
44
MOONLESS and windless, the island brooded: cold, dark, silent. Having left the backpack in the church, we followed the path back to the old general store and turned at the junction onto a southbound trail that would lead us to the middle village ruins in the island’s interior.
We traversed Doctors Creek, passed an abandoned schoolhouse, and entered a thicket of live oaks.
Violet walked ahead of me.
The only sound came from the swish of wet Gortex, the splat of our boots in mud.
The trail narrowed.
We didn’t talk.
All around us the undergrowth rioted, impenetrable, in a state of unkempt anarchy, live oaks dripping, wet branches clawing at our arms and legs. I could hardly see Violet and she could hardly see the path before her. Occasionally she’d veer from the trail into a shrub, sigh, and right herself. I debated going back for the headlamp but decided against it. We’d already hiked at least a quarter of a mile and according to the map the ruins weren’t far ahead.
As we pushed on into the interior, I realized that I was trusting Violet to guide us, my eyes fixed on the back of her boots.
I couldn’t decide if I were more afraid of finding or not finding Luther.
At last we emerged from the thicket and arrived at the edge of a vast marsh.
I whispered for Violet to stop.
We’d reached the ruins.
Just off the trail I noticed what was left of a house—a crumbling stone chimney surrounded by a pile of rotten boards. Other remnants of the village were scattered throughout the neighboring wood. A brick chimney sprouted up from the middle of the marsh, no trace of the house it had warmed more than a century ago.
I told Violet to keep walking.
The trail followed a slim land bridge across the wetland. As we walked, distant splashes and squawks rang out across the water.
Well there’s some old hunting lodges down past the middle village ruins.
I kept hearing Charlie Tatum’s voice and thinking of that passage from Orson’s journal:
Said they have this lodge on a remote island that would be perfect for the administration of painings.
We reentered the thicket on the other side. Scrub pine instead of live oak. A roomier wood.
The trail split and Violet stopped.
"Which way?" she whispered.
"I’m not sure. Let’s keep walking south."
"What are we looking for exactly?"
"A lodge of some sort."
"I don’t think anyone else is on this island, Andrew."
"Yeah, I’m starting to wonder that myself."
We continued southward, the air now perfumed with wet pine and cold enough to cloud our breath.
It was just after nine o’clock when the trail ended, having deposited us on the bank of a wide slough that separated Portsmouth from Evergreen Island. I remembered this feature from the map and my heart sank. If the Kite’s lodge stood on Evergreen we’d have to bushwhack east for half a mile and bypass the slough via the tidal flats that connected these barrier islands. It would take all night.
Eastward, I could see where the backwater eventually emptied after several hundred yards into the flats. The sea lay hidden behind distant dunes.
"Look," Violet whispered.
I turned, gazed back into the wood.
"Do you see it?"
A speck of orange light twinkled somewhere in the pines. It could’ve been a ship on the sound. It could’ve been ball lightning.
"Let’s go," I said. "Pull your hood down so you can listen."
Violet rolled her hood back and pushed her hair behind her ears.
Leaving the path, we struck out into the pines in search of the light. The suction of our boots in the mud seemed positively deafening and the light grew no closer. I had an awful premonition that it would suddenly wink out, stranding us in the pathless dark.
We walked on, faster now between the pines, and for the first time that orange luminescence seemed closer.
I took the .45 from the inner pocket of my rain jacket.
"I see it," Violet said.
We crouched down in a coppice of oleander.
Tucked away in some live oaks at the terminus of a black creek stood a little wood lodge. A lantern or candle (some source of natural firelight) glowed through the only window. A boat was moored to the small dock.
"Is that it?" she asked.
"I have no idea."
We walked on. I was soaked with sweat underneath my raingear.
Within twenty yards of the lodge, I pulled Violet behind a tree and whispered in her ear: "Wait here and don’t move."
I drew back the slide on the .45 and moved quietly toward the structure.
Halfway there I stopped to listen.
The wind had died, the silence absolute save the knocking in my chest.
I crept to the window but because the lodge had been raised several feet off the ground on four-by-fours I couldn’t see inside.
Three deliberate breaths and I walked around to the steps leading up to the front and only door.
At the top I glanced over my shoulder, saw Violet still hunched near the tree.
I put my ear to the door, listened.
Not a sound.
I grasped the doorknob and turned it as slowly as I could, a line of icy sweat trilling down my left side.
With the tip of my boot I nudged the door and let go.
It swayed partly open.
Hinges squeaking.
The only movement inside came from fireshadows on the walls and ceiling.
The furnishings were scanty—a ratty futon, card table bearing dirty plates, a bowl of pistachio shells, a jug of water. The place stunk of scorched eggs and spoiled fish. A candle, almost burned down to the brass, had been set on the windowsill, the sole source of light.
I steadied my hands, knelt briefly on the stoop to rest my trembling knees.
Then I stood, stepped through the threshold, kicked the door all t
he way open.
Sweet Jesus.
Movement in the right corner.
I swung around, nearly shot Beth Lancing, duct-taped to a folding chair, eyes gone wide with horror, head shaking, hair in shambles, cheeks marbled with bruises and mud.
Lowering the gun, I stepped toward her, reached to pull off the tape covering her mouth, but stopped.
"Beth," I whispered, "J.D. and Jenna are safe. I’m here to take you home to them. Don’t scream when I take the tape off."
Frantic nodding.
I ripped off the tape.
"Andy, he’s waiting for you."
"What?"
"A man with long black—"
From the woods, Violet screamed my name.
Footfalls pounded up the steps to the lodge.
Before I could move, the door slammed shut.
45
I called out to Violet as I jerked on the door.
It wouldn’t open.
Outside Violet screamed.
I ran to the window, glimpsed a long-haired shadow sprinting into the woods. Taking the candle from the sill, I set it on the floor and busted the glass out with the handgun.
The window was too small for me to crawl through. Violet could’ve done it.
I charged the door, rammed it with my shoulder. It barely moved, the wood an inch thick, probably padlocked from the outside.
I lifted the candle and put it on the card table. There was a boning knife on a dirty plate and I took it, walked around to the back of Beth’s chair.
"I’m gonna cut you loose," I whispered.
"Where’d he go?"
"I had a detective with me. A young woman. I think he went after her."
"She have a gun?"
I pointed to the table. "That’s it."
I sliced through the duct tape, freed her wrists, then her ankles.
Beth stood and faced me, haggard, half-naked, clothed only in a torn teddy.
I took off my rain jacket and fleece and wrapped her in them.
"I didn’t murder Walter," I said.
"Just get me out of here."
"I’m not sure how."
"Shoot the door."