The difference between a leaking boat and sinking boat depends on how the people aboard respond. I didn’t say a word even when my shoes were soaked.
• • •
IT WAS AFTER midnight before I found a spot where the bank, instead of being steeply wooded, angled gently onto a patch of sandbar. I used the oars to beach the boat engine first, then got out. Only then did Belton ask, “How’d all this water get in here?”
I said, “I’m sloppy when it comes to rowing, I guess. Help me pull up farther so I don’t have to stand in water to fix the prop.”
It wasn’t easy because of the extra weight. Belton had once been a powerful man. His lack of strength frustrated him. Finally he said, “I’ll see if I can find an old beer can or something to bail with,” then tottered off in a way that told me he was stiff and sore. But he stopped when he got to the top of the bank and cupped his ears to listen. I pretended not to notice yet didn’t move until he spoke. “I think Theo and Carmelo gave up,” he said. “Your hearing’s probably better. What do you think?”
I mimicked his technique. The silence of an autumn night in Florida is a riot of competing sounds, but on this night the silence was reassuring. Frogs, insects, and night birds were all I heard. No distant rumble of an engine, no crash of trees. I said, “They could have made up a lot of distance while I was rowing. And we’ve only come about half a mile. Take the flashlight and see what you can find—a container of some type would be better than a can. Oh, and you’ll need bug spray.”
I ran the light and mosquito repellent up to him, then returned to the boat and opened my bag. I knew what I’d packed, but I also knew we’d have to travel on foot if I couldn’t get the boat fixed. That might mean walking all night over rough country. I didn’t want to carry anything we didn’t need, so I laid it all out in an orderly fashion. Captain Ben Summerlin’s journal, which I knew I couldn’t bear to leave behind, came out first. There was mosquito netting, clean shorts and a blouse, sunscreen, first-aid supplies, Calumet glow sticks, a little orange strobe light, fishing pliers, toilet paper and my personal items in a Ziploc, matches in a waterproof case, a tube of fire starter gel, a spool of thread plus a needle, fishing line, several hooks, and a tiny bottle of iodine tablets.
The iodine tablets reminded me that it had been hours since my last sip of iced tea and I was thirsty. Drop two tablets in a liter of rank water and the water would soon be safe to drink. Trouble was, I hadn’t packed anything to drink from. I hadn’t brought wire or an extra cotter pin either, but my failure to pack a simple drinking cup nearly pushed me over the edge. I drew my foot back as if to kick the boat, then looked at clouds streaming past the moon.
Hannah Smith—can’t you do anything right? No wonder you’re always in trouble and live alone.
I didn’t say those things, but I thought them and came as close to crying as I had since my meltdown after Carmelo’s hands had strayed down my blouse.
Carmelo—just thinking that name hardened my attitude. The man’s face, his leer, his rude fumbling touch. Then Theo, pompous and delusional, came into my mind. I once read in a magazine about something called malignant narcissism. Theo’s indifference about the horrible way Krissie had died proved the term fit. One little mistake, he had said of her murder, as if the girl’s life was no more valuable than the life of an insect.
My self-pity vanished. It was displaced by the same coldness that had enveloped me when facing down the Land Rover.
“Fix the boat or start walking. You’re not going to let them get away with this.” This time I did speak aloud, said it as a vow that refused to tolerate more personal concessions to fear.
I repacked the bag, then turned to look for Belton. No sign of him or my flashlight. I started up the bank, backtracked to get the pistol, then went up the bank again. He appeared from the trees, calling, “You’ve got to see this.”
I replied, “The only thing I want to see is a bailing can. Where’ve you been? I need that light to fix the propeller.” I wasn’t angry but knew I sounded angry. The truth was, I wasn’t in the mood to fret over social niceties.
“Oh . . .” he said. “I got distracted—sorry. But come have a look.”
I accepted the light from him and saw that his hands were empty. “Not even a bottle?” I said, then took a breath to calm myself. “Thing is, Belton, that boat’s going to keep leaking if we don’t find a bailing can. Might even sink. We can’t waste time sightseeing.”
“Sink?”
“If water leaks in faster than it goes out, that’s what a boat does.”
“You didn’t say anything about sinking, dear.” He stopped and faced me. “You’ve had a terrible night, you’re upset, and god only knows what kind of drug that woman stuck in you. But we’re safe now. Look”—he spread his arms to indicate a clearing in the trees—“I think this would be a good place to sleep for an hour or so. At the very least, rest and maybe drink some water.” He motioned for me to follow. “Come see what I found.”
I said, “We can’t drink until we have something to drink from. Which brings us back to finding a container. Along the river is the place to look, not inland—unless there’s been a hurricane I didn’t read about.” A gust of wind rattled trees to the south, another plowed streaks on the water. I reevaluated the clouds. “If that squall hits, we’ll need more than just a bailing can. We should also think about how to hide the boat if I can’t get it going. For all we know, they’ve used the trolling motor to follow us. Or canoes. Lord knows, we’ve given them plenty of time, the way we’re fooling around here.” I used my shoe to kick at a pile of leaves and wood. I walked farther, did it again, and knelt.
“What did you find?”
I tossed a crushed beer can aside, then held up what might have been a plastic milk jug. But the light showed it had contained water. I removed the top and sniffed. “This is exactly what we need. I’ve got iodine tablets on the boat. I doubt if they get rid of fertilizer and stuff like that, but we’ve got to drink something. I feel shaky, dry as sand. What about you?”
Another blast of wind tumbled through the trees. Belton slipped his arm around my shoulder. “That’s what I want to show you. I found an artesian well, I think. Come look.”
“A well?” There was nothing we needed more than drinking water, so I felt badly after accusing the man of wasting time. The urge to cry came over me again.
“You can’t carry all the weight, dear. I want you to sit and rest for a minute. I’ll get the iodine tablets after you’re situated. They’re in your bag?”
In a circle of oak trees, the earth was spongy with leaves too thick for weeds to grow. Where an old-fashioned pump might have once been, water bubbled from a rusty pipe and created a basin of sand. To the east was a silver plain of palmettos and an empty horizon beyond. Swamp possibly, but more likely I had been right about cattle pasture. That meant a ranch house might be within walking distance. But no sparkle of window lights to guarantee it.
There was something else Belton wanted to show me. “I probably wouldn’t have noticed if the sun was up. The flashlight found it, happened to catch the edge of a brick—you’ll see. The difference in color jumps out at you.”
We were approaching a strangler fig, a tree that attaches itself to objects or other trees with a constrictor’s grip and over decades gradually consumes them or appears to. It was a spiraling umbrella of branches that parachuted air roots to the ground. Even when Belton pointed at the trunk and used the light, I didn’t understand until he dug the leaves away. “A gravestone,” he said. “Underneath could be a little crypt made of bricks, although I’m guessing. But the shape—doesn’t it look familiar? These bricks were part of the arch, I think.”
There was no shape, only roots and leaves, but I knew what he wanted me to see. “Similar to the water cistern,” I said. “Could be the same brick mason.”
“Can you read the inscription on
the stone? Even with my glasses, I couldn’t make it out.” He handed me the light.
I knelt by a marker made of rough cement and shells that was no bigger than a writing tablet. It lay half buried, covered with moss and lichens. I cleaned the surface, but only the top line was visible. It had been written in an elegant, feminine hand with a stylus or a stick before the cement had hardened. A name I read aloud:
Irene Jameson Cadence
Surprised, I got down on my knees. “But why . . . why was she buried here?” I began to dig at the base of the stone, eager to see if there was more writing underneath.
“It’s what homesteaders did, buried their family on family land.” Belton sounded puzzled by the question or my sudden interest, then realized there was more to it. “Yeah . . . the name’s familiar. Cadence . . . probably related to the family that built the mansion. I don’t find that unusual.”
“I do, but we’ll figure it out another day,” I said. “We don’t have time now.” Yet I continued digging. “Get the iodine tablets. Oh—and fill the jug with water. Please. It’ll be half an hour before it’s safe to drink and by then I might have the propeller fixed. It’s a small bottle, dark glass, near the top.”
“The top of your backpack?”
“Of course.”
I had snapped at him. “Hannah . . . you definitely need some rest—”
“Not until police know what they did to Krissie.” I motioned him away without looking up. “I’ll meet you at the boat in a minute.” It was true I was determined to get moving, but in a secret part of me I wanted to be alone while I learned more about a woman with whom, in my imagination at least, I shared a family connection.
Belton left muttering about my stubbornness, which to some men is a substitute for the word strength. Seconds later, though, my strength vanished and I had to wipe away a single streaming tear.
The stone when fully exposed read:
Irene Jameson Cadence
Widow & Childless & Homeless
At Peace With the Lord
Born 3 June 1876 Died 19—
The blank date of her death hinted at what I suspected from the elegant penmanship: the woman on the balcony, Irene Cadence, had made her own gravestone and written her own epitaph. Perhaps had even taken her own life. No . . . that was an unfair guess. It was sad enough that she had recorded her loneliness in stone for eternity. A hint of self-pity, too, although I didn’t allow myself to linger on a flaw so painfully familiar.
I got to my feet, switched off the light, and brushed leaves from my jeans while my eyes adjusted. I had just picked up the pistol when I heard a smack-smack sound like a fist hitting flesh. Then a man who wasn’t Belton hollered from the river, “Girl! . . . Hey, girl! I’ll shoot this old bastard. Show yourself.”
Carmelo—he had found our boat.
I started to run away, but caught myself after only a few steps. I couldn’t let him hurt Belton. Nor would I endure a moment as his prisoner. I was faster than Carmelo, I was smarter. But what if Theo had returned, too? He might be circling toward me from another direction. I couldn’t just stand there and let it happen. I had to think.
My mind went to work while Belton yelled I should save myself, then Carmelo added more threats. “The old man says you got a flashlight. What you’re gonna do is put that gun of yours in a place I can see it. Then back away ten or fifteen steps and use the light. When I get to the top of that bank, I’d best see that damn gun. I’m talking first thing. And you nowhere close. And I want your hands in the air.” An impatient silence lapsed before he swore and yelled, “Better answer me, girl!”
Only one flimsy option came to mind. I hollered, “My ankle, I think I broke my ankle. You have to promise not to hurt us.”
Belton, voice muffled, said something that was drowned out by Carmelo’s laughter. “Bullshit. She’s lying.” Then called to me, “You’re the only ones who can prove I never touched that young teenybopper. Or Lucia either—and good riddance, if you’re the one what killed her. You can burn Theo, for all I care. All I want is for you to come back and tell the cops the truth.”
Belton tried to yell He’s lying but was punched or clubbed—something caused him to cry out—before Carmelo continued talking. “Oh, and one other little thing. Part of our deal is, you forget about finding that canoe. Ain’t too much to ask, is it? Do what I say, I’ll take you and the old man to a doctor. Anything you want. Hell”—more laughter—“why would I hurt a girl pretty as you?” Bushes rustled, a spotlight sought the top of the riverbank. “Have you put down that gun?”
I hollered, “No! I can barely crawl.”
Carmelo wasn’t taking chances. He had yet to poke his head above the embankment. “Do it now, damn you. I’ll give you one minute, no more.”
In a rush, I switched on the flashlight and painted a few circles on the sky to confirm my intentions. Then balanced the light atop the gravestone and left it there, beam pointed at a chunk of wood that didn’t resemble a pistol but would have to do. Nearby was an oak grove. I ran to it. Oak limbs were stouter, lower, less chaotic than the strangler fig. As I scouted, I thought about Capt. Ben Summerlin’s ambush plans and recalled a passage from his journal: Lure the enemy so close it’s up to God to decide who lives or dies.
Bait the trap . . . lay in wait . . . shoot to kill.
But did I have the courage? No . . . not courage—something darker was required. An absence of conscience; the unleashing of a quality so foreign I felt hollow. Self-doubt seemed to shut off my air—a haunting return of my old fears—yet I continued to search for a suitable spot.
Think, Hannah. Don’t stand here shaking. Was it smarter to climb a tree and wait? Or surprise him near the river?
While I battled indecision, wind punched through the tree canopy. The gust tumbled limbs from oak to oak in synch with high, churning leaves, their sparks muted by the moon.
I circled downwind to a willow thicket, where I hid myself and watched from one knee. The beam from the flashlight I’d left was a dazzling tube that linked the riverbank with a chunk of wood and Irene Cadence’s grave. I was midway between the grave and the river with a clear view of what lay between.
Carmelo was closer, easier to hear. He continued to call threats, saying I was almost out of time, he’d shoot Belton—just wound him, of course—or we could have some fun together. Nauseating, the oily way he phrased it. The man was drunk and talkative. On and on he went yet was afraid to poke his head above the embankment. Carmelo was, indeed, a coward . . . or buying time until Theo was in position.
Either way, I could do nothing but wait. Mosquitoes tracked my rapid breathing. They began to swarm. I shifted the Devel pistol from one hand to the other, staying loose. In an attempt to still my brain, I focused my senses outward: Carmelo’s voice, Belton’s voice, their words often indecipherable. The scream of insects, bushes alive with foraging rodents, and a squall breeze that went suddenly still, then freshened, puffed and gusted from a northern quarter of the sky.
The wind had shifted. Spend your childhood on the water, you are aware of such things. The gusts fragmented, filtered down through the leaves, and explored my face. It was warm, tropic air befouled by something that fired a chill through the pores of my skin, up my neck.
An odor . . . What was that disgusting odor? It stunk of women’s perfume . . . stale sweat . . . a canine whiff of wet hair and rotten eggs. No . . . I was wrong. My nose had been confused by the heavy perfume. Perfume so cloying, it cloaked a familiar musk—possibly as intended. The fecal stench of a chimpanzee was otherwise unmistakable.
I got to my feet, the pistol ready. The stench laced through willows from the northeast, the same direction as the wind. That suggested the chimp could no longer track my scent.
Oliver’s nose is as good as any bloodhound’s. Once again, Theo’s brag came to mind.
I no longer doubted it was true. I
parted willow branches until I could see the river and there it was only fifteen yards away: an apish creature that had just climbed onto the bank or dropped from a tree. It shook itself, pearls of water flying, then stood upright . . . tilted its jaw skyward and sniffed the darkness.
I thought, He’s confused . . lost track of my scent, the animal so close that its fur, saturated with perfume, stung my eyes. I raised the pistol, tried to frame the chimp’s head with the V-sights while my hands shook. No doubt in my mind I would pull the trigger, but I had to make the first shot count.
Too late. The chimp put its fists on the ground, threw its feet forward, and loped away before I could recover. A moment later Carmelo called, “Who’s there? Don’t be stupid, girl. I got ears.” The spotlight blinked on, illuminating trees above the sandbar where we had beached the boat.
Not thinking, I pushed my way clear of the willows and crept toward the spot where we had climbed the bank. To my left, bushes thrashed. Then I heard the trampoline recoil of tree limbs. Belton, thinking it was me, hollered, “Hannah, don’t do it. Run!”
I wanted to run—sprint toward the open plain that I believed to be cattle pasture. My mind had already concocted enough excuses to satisfy police. Whether or not they were enough to satisfy my conscience was unimportant—not during this moment of indecision anyway.
But only a moment. I am no different than most: a durable thread runs through my weaknesses and doubt and that thread is me, the very core of who I am. It is not steel but might as well be because it will not allow me to stray far from what I believe to be right or wrong. I was armed, fast on my feet, and a strong swimmer. Those details didn’t click in my head as thoughts but one simple truth did: abandoning an old man who had befriended me was wrong.
Haunted Page 24