The Girl in the Maze

by R. K. Jackson

  She clicked off the bedside light and turned her head toward the moonlit window, listening to the hum of the night creatures. The Pritchett House, the eviction, her hallucinations—suddenly, all of that seemed far away. She imagined copies of the book on a shelf in the window of a bookshop, with her byline on the cover: By Martha Covington.

  Those three words seemed magical, and she whispered them to herself in the darkness, over and over again.

  Chapter 11

  What the hell? Jarrell asked himself. What in God’s name is Morris up to? Half-past midnight on a Monday, and Fat-ass showed no signs of budging.

  Jarrell had staked him out since five o’clock from his usual spot, crouched in the chokeberry next to the playground one block from the courthouse. The blind was half-lowered on the window to Morris’s office on the second floor, and there was a faint glow, maybe from a desk lamp. Morris had turned off the overhead fluorescents long ago, but Jarrell could see a shadowy shape breaking the light every so often. Was he going to spend the whole night up there, or what?

  Jarrell stood and stretched. If he’d only known Morris was going to pull this stunt, he would have brought along a thermos of coffee. The playground was dark, the street still and deserted. No place open, not even to buy a packet of NoDoz. He put down the binoculars and took a few crouching steps over to the monkey bars. He grabbed one of the rungs, did a quick set of ten chin-ups, then dropped to the ground, no longer bothering to hide.

  He was growing tired of the game. Would any of it ever pay off? Maybe the old saying was true: You can’t fight City Hall. Or in this case, the county government. You sure as hell couldn’t fight it through the established channels. Not without a six-figure income and a high-powered lawyer. Probably not even then.

  Jarrell rubbed his temples and took another look at the window. The desk light was out.

  He took a step back into the bushes and watched. Normally, he would see the sheriff’s cruiser pull out of the garage now and head west, either toward the marina or toward Morris’s place out on Taylor Road. But two minutes passed, and no car. Instead, a glass side door on the courthouse opened, and Morris’s bulky shape emerged. Jarrell couldn’t tell for sure, but in the faint glow of the stairwell light, it looked like he was wearing street clothes.

  Morris locked the door and walked left on Chatham Street, away from the business district, turned a corner, and disappeared. Jarrell pulled his cap low and tight over the tops of his ears and followed.

  Chapter 12

  Be afraid, Martha.

  The voice woke her—or had she heard it when she was waking up, floating somewhere in the gauzy transition between sleep and wakefulness? The important thing was that she heard it. Not a dream, but a clear and distinct auditory sensation.

  And it had been Lenny’s voice.

  Martha lay in the bed, paralyzed, staring up at the plaster ceiling in the gray light of dawn, listening.

  Lydia’s house. Her window was open. A distant peal of seabirds, the rumble of a utility truck somewhere blocks away. The bed linens were damp next to her skin, but she didn’t move, terrified that any action on her part would prompt further comment, confirm that Lenny was there, might be sitting in the chair next to the window.

  It was the first time she had heard Lenny’s voice in months, except in dreams. It frightened her, but there was also something seductive about it, like a boyfriend she knew was no good for her.

  She lay there frozen, not daring to turn her head, watching the room brighten, listening to the chatter of birds multiply outside the window. Finally, she forced her head to turn slightly, just enough to glance at the ceramic clock on the bedside table.

  6:05.

  That simple action began to break the paralysis. She scanned the left wall, then lifted her head to take in the rest of the room. Satin draperies, antique wardrobe, empty chair by the window. All quiet. Nothing. She moved her arms and legs, flexing tentatively, letting the circulation return.

  Martha sat up in the bed, took another look around the room, and began to relax. No Lenny here, just a new day, full of fresh prospects.

  And the names. In all her upheaval last night, she had forgotten to tell Lydia about the commissioners’ middle initials, the funny way they almost spelled out the name of the investment group. She had been feeling a little embarrassed about it, especially after the way Sheriff Morris brushed it off. Have a little confidence. You have to tell her.

  She climbed out of bed and stretched, wide awake, rested, and starting to feel like herself again. She doubted Lydia would be up this early, but it might be a nice gesture to go downstairs and get a pot of tea started.

  —

  At the foot of the stairs, Martha glanced toward the parlor. Clocks ticked their secret language in the dusky room. And sitting in her easy chair, fast asleep—Lydia.

  Martha smiled. How often might this happen—the woman losing herself in her quilting project, letting sleep catch up with her rather than face retiring to her bedroom alone?

  Martha turned and tiptoed through the dining room, passed through the swinging door that led to the kitchen. She eased it closed to avoid making any sound. A teakettle sat on the stove, just where she would expect it to be, already full of water. Martha turned on the gas burner and started looking through cabinets for the tea service.

  She took her time with the preparation. She wanted to give Lydia sufficient time to wake up and go upstairs, and to spare the woman the potential embarrassment of being discovered.

  Martha sat in a chair at the kitchen table and waited, thinking about the book project, until the kettle began to hiss. She turned off the flame and returned to the foyer. She paused and took another look into the sitting room.

  The room was brighter now, the first rays of sunrise penetrating through a window sheer, dust motes dancing. This time, Martha noticed something odd—one of the fuchsia curtains was half-closed, the staying cord undone. And Lydia sat there, motionless.

  Now Martha could see that the woman’s hand was lolling to the side of the chair, and her teacup was on the floor, upside down. She took a few steps into the room. Lydia’s hair was burnished in the morning sun, her head tilted against the backrest. Martha reached the side of the chair and felt the carpet squish underfoot. Spilled tea.

  “Lydia?”

  Martha bent over to pick up the cup, then touched the woman’s hand. It was cold, unresponsive.

  Martha felt a chasm of panic opening inside her. She repeated Lydia’s name, shouted it, groped for the switch on the chair-side lamp. The light came on and glinted off the old woman’s eyes—eyes that were wide open. Blue-gray orbs, glazed. Flecked with blood spots.

  Don’t panic, Martha. A stroke? A seizure? Is it too late?

  Martha yanked the quilt off Lydia, scattering the fabric shapes like confetti. She touched the woman’s neck, feeling for a pulse, any sign of life. Her fingers touched something hard there, something unnatural. She bent down to get a look and saw a deep crease in the flesh, the woman’s throat crimped like the neck of a balloon. Embedded in the crease, the woven fibers of a curtain stay.

  Martha stepped backward, knocking over the lamp, hyperventilating. A wildfire was igniting in her mind, feelings of anger, horror, and sadness leaping up like tongues of flame, interweaving, licking at the base of her skull. Hold it together, Martha. Do something. You’ve got to be able to think, you have to do certain things….

  There was a phone in the room, on the end table next to the couch. Porcelain phone, brass dial. Martha took a step toward the phone, stopped. She knew she couldn’t use the phone, not that one. She couldn’t make the call in the presence of the body, the woman’s dead eyes watching….

  Another phone? Where? Think. In the hall…

  Martha backed out of the room, her limbs working like rubber. She touched the furniture, the walls, feeling her way toward the foyer.

  Blue-gray orbs. Dead. Oh God—how—

  Around the corner, she found the phone. Occasi
onal table. Lace doily. Antique phone, brass and ceramic, rotary dial.

  She willed herself to pick up the receiver, her hand feeling numb, and twirled the dial. Just three digits. Click-click-click-click-click-click-click-click-click. The dial took forever….Click-click.

  “Nine-one-one,” a female dispatcher’s voice answered after the first ring. “What’s your emergency?”

  “I—” Martha’s voice caught in her throat, the words coming out toneless, breath only. Neck creased, like a balloon. “There’s been a—” Spilled tea, eyes open—

  “Could you speak up, please?”

  “There’s been a murder.” Martha blurted the words into the mouthpiece, her chest heaving. “She’s dead—oh my God, she’s dead—”

  “Ma’am, please try to remain calm. You’re at—four-thirty-three Worthington Lane, correct?” Martha nodded her head, then remembered to speak aloud. “Yes—”

  “Ma’am—did you say a murder?”

  “I think—yes—I think—”

  “Are you in any immediate danger?”

  Martha glanced around the hallway. “I don’t think—I don’t know—”

  “Emergency Services is on the way, ma’am. The address has been transmitted and they will be there very shortly. We’ve also got a sheriff’s unit already patrolling in the area. I’m going to patch you directly through, okay?”

  Martha nodded, again forgetting to speak. There was a click, a pause, and then a humming sound. A male voice came in over the rushing sound.

  “Sheriff Morris here.”

  Martha gripped the ceramic handset, head flushing hot. The handset. Brass mouthpiece, glazed flowers. Knotted drapery cord.

  “Hello?” Morris said. “Hello, are you there? I got a message. I’m just about three blocks away. To whom am I speaking?”

  Martha could hear his siren come on through the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  Don’t speak, Lovie. The voice of Lenny hissed in her head like a ruptured radiator hose. No use having kittens, innit? That’s how they’ll catch you. Don’t let him hear your voice.

  “Listen—” Morris continued. “You don’t have to talk, just don’t hang up the phone, just wait where you are. I’m very close, I’m at the corner of Pearl and Worthington.”

  Martha heard another siren, this one outside of the phone, someplace nearby. Two sirens. The same siren.

  “Hello? Are you there? Martha? It’s you, isn’t it, Martha?”

  See, he knows, Lovie, he knows. He knows. Don’t speak, Martha. Don’t speak.

  Martha held the handset away from her ear, staring at it. Oh God…the eyes, cold hands…Think. What was it her father had said? In the dream? The bait, the fish, the barb, what they don’t see…

  Who’s the O in Heron? Lenny said. You already know, don’t you? You’re in denial. Denial ain’t no gully in Egypt.

  The police siren was getting louder, and Martha glanced around the dim foyer, looking for some sign of what to do next. Stairway, sunny patches, morning light, balustrades, antique coatrack—and the shapes were beginning to move. They rotated, darkened and contracted and rotated, and then drew down into a funnel, and other images began to intrude, visions from the past several days in Amberleen—orange lights, the strange creature in the tree, her father in the boat, Lady Albertha, Morris—the images spun around and around her, like scenes glimpsed from the car of a herky-jerky carnival ride.

  Then the car jerked to a stop and she was left with just one image—the sallow, smirking face of Lenny, standing alone at the center of a dark and wasted landscape, a cigarette dangling from his scaly lips.

  We know what to do, Lovie. We’ve always known.

  The siren wailed, getting very close. The sound jolted Martha, brought her back into the foyer. Morris’s voice continued to yammer through the receiver, but distant now, like a broken toy.

  Run, Martha, Lenny whispered in her ear. Run like hellfire.

  Chapter 13

  Jarrell lowered his binoculars, let them dangle from the neck strap, and twisted his spine around, cracking the kinks out. His butt was killing him. Why shouldn’t it be, after four hours crouched next to the steeple of the Pearl Street AME church? He looked down at his palms, where the tar-paper roof shingles had left pebbled impressions.

  Jarrell was well acquainted with the building, and his current location. Two summers ago, Rev. Cleopatrick Sims had paid him fifty dollars a week to keep up the church grounds, clean out the rain gutters, and keep the grave markers clear of pine straw and other debris. Sims was pretty set in his ways, so Jarrell had no problem finding the key to open the padlock on the tool shed next to the cemetery, and he knew where to find the stepladder that gave him access to the church’s low-slung roof.

  He shifted to a sitting position, straightening his legs and letting his back rest against the steeple. A full block away, figures swarmed around Lydia Dussault’s house like fire ants. Daybreak now, and he still couldn’t tell what had gone down at Worthington Lane, but it was something big. At least half the fleet from the Amberleen County Sheriff’s Department was there, as well as a battalion of paramedics and EMTs. A man in a dark suit was taking pictures of the exterior of the house, and a couple of deputies were driving wooden stakes into the ground and stringing yellow police tape between them. Several cops were fanning out, searching the grounds around the house, poking in the shrubs with sticks.

  Jarrell noticed a convergence of movement near the front door of the house. He raised and refocused the binoculars. The door opened, and several paramedics emerged pushing a wheeled gurney. They seemed in no particular hurry. He could discern a human shape under the sheet.

  Jarrell lowered the binoculars and took a picture of the scene with his cellphone camera—the brand-new one he’d been forced to buy after Fish-belly wrecked his Motorola in the river a week ago.

  He raised the glasses and scanned the areas surrounding the house again. The sizable backyard contained a pair of apple trees, a pecan orchard, and a small, unkempt vegetable garden. Beyond the garden, there was a steep ravine filled with kudzu vines. The vines carpeted the sides of the ravine and shrouded a telephone pole at the edge of Garson Road.

  Jarrell backtracked with his binoculars, double-checking for something he thought he’d glimpsed just a moment ago. He saw it again. The kudzu was moving.

  He finessed the focus ring, trying to get a better bead on a dark shape nestled under the canopy of vines and working its way toward Garson. He could hear the sound of deputies’ voices projected through bullhorns, calling out someone’s name. The deputies were moving toward the ravine. Then he sensed a vibration in the roof. Another sound, one that caused him to pull his legs in and scrunch into the narrow shadow of the steeple.

  The air thrummed rhythmically. A dark green chopper glided over the church roof, flying low, beating air, and causing the dead leaves to launch around him. Jarrell shrank his body, willing himself to blend in with the tar shingles and shadow.

  The chopper passed on, moving toward the waterfront. Once it had cleared the church road, Jarrell scrambled across the shingles toward the eave and climbed onto the ladder. Halfway down, he jumped and hit the ground running and headed toward Bay Street.

  Chapter 14

  Martha paused, one foot on black, grassless earth, the other held aloft, entangled in an itchy green spiderweb. Her arms and shoulders were also caught. She looked around, confused, unsure of the direction she was headed. But at least she was hidden.

  Voices, amplified, shouted through bullhorns. They didn’t know where she was, but she didn’t, either.

  Don’t rest now, Lovie. You can’t stay here. They’ll drop napalm on this jungle, or spray gasoline. Burn us out.

  Martha looked around. The vines were brown and ropey below the canopy, twining like dendrites, confusing. Which way to go?

  Away, Martha. Away from them. You’re already convicted, you know. You’ll fry.

  “Be quiet, Lenny—I need to think.” Fibers
from the kudzu leaves stuck to her sweaty skin, making her itch like fire.

  Lenny squatted in a clearing a few feet from her. His knees poked through his torn jeans like white pustules.

  They found you last time. Remember the janitor closet?

  “I hid there for a long time. They only found me because—”

  Because they could see you, Lovie. You didn’t right vanish. You’ll have to do better this time.

  Martha clawed at the itchy fibers on her calf. “You shouldn’t be here—you’ve just come back because of the stress, the panic.”

  But who else is here to help you? We’re mates, you know. Even your Dr. Trauger said that. Mates for life.

  Martha reached down, dug a muddy rock out of the bare earth, and flung it at him. The rock sailed into the center of Lenny’s smirking face. His image fragmented like a broken reflection in a puddle.

  She turned her attention to the task ahead—somehow getting out of this jungle without being seen. She tried to stand up, to walk on the ground, but could only make progress by crawling, picking her way through the mass of winding stalks.

  Not far away, a familiar voice called her name.

  “Martha? Come on out. There’s no use hiding from us. We aren’t going to hurt you.”

  She paused. Morris’s rounded intonation, even amplified through a bullhorn, sounded easy and reassuring, paternal. It carried a promise of protection. It was a voice she had once trusted, but, like so many things in her life, she would never trust it again. She pushed vines out of her face and clawed her way forward, toward a small clearing and a dark, round opening. The clearing was strewn with discarded fast-food containers and beer bottles. Beyond that, more kudzu, then the end of a steel culvert poking out of an embankment. Too small to walk through.