She pulled the door shut and leaned against it, looking at the compact room. There was a built-in tub unit, a toilet, a sink supported by flaking chrome posts. Above the sink, an aluminum window with two frosted panes and a hand crank. Too small to crawl through. Martha heard Loren’s footsteps moving toward the door. She spun around and secured the door with its hook-and-eye latch.
Loren knocked. “Hey, Angelfish. Angelfish? You in there?” There was a pause, another knock. “Everything all right?” The door shifted inward, pushing against the latch.
Martha moved over to the tub and knelt. She gripped the flaked chrome handles, which were shaped like plus signs, and twisted. The pipes knocked and water gushed from the tub faucet.
“Huh? You okay?” There was a pause. Martha heard the floorboards creak slightly. “You want to take a bath? You can do that, if you want to. I should have know’d that. I’m gonna make breakfast for us, all right?”
Martha crouched next to the tub and listened to Loren’s footsteps move away from the door. She put her hand in the flow of water, yanked it away. Scalding. She adjusted the temperature, leaving it as hot as she could bear, then took a rubber stopper hanging from a chain and plugged the drain.
—
A half hour later, Loren knocked again. The door sounded hollow. “You okay, Angelfish?”
Martha squatted on the floor next to the tub, steam rising from her skin. She could hear the sizzle of frying fish in the next room. The smell seeped under the door and nauseated her. She had turned off the faucet. The tub was full of pink-tinted water. She had stopped bleeding, at least for the moment. Her skin was also pink from the hot water, and stippled with the bumps of mosquito bites.
Another knock. “Everything okay in there?”
Martha realized she had been in the bathroom for a long time—in fact she had lost track of time—but this was where she wanted to stay. Maybe she could protect herself with magic; invoke the secret power of runes and spells. She uncapped the Sharpie and started to write along the base of the toilet.
Don’t use English, Lovie. They can read that. Lenny was crouched in the corner of the room next to the door, knees drawn up to his chin. The smell of his clove cigarettes, combined with the Sharpie and the frying fish, added to her nausea. Martha felt dizzy and her vision went dark.
In the void, it was there again—the white cloth sack, the crying baby.
Martha jolted at the image. She grabbed the edge of the toilet and vomited. A light brown gush, and then another one, clear. She snatched a bunch of toilet paper from the roll, wiped her face, threw the wad in the bowl, closed the lid. Then she gripped the Sharpie between her shaking thumb and forefinger and wrote a large, backward letter C on the base of porcelain. She added two hatch marks through the middle of it.
Loren knocked again. More time, Martha thought. I need more time to finish this. She flushed the toilet.
“Okay,” Loren said. “I’ve got to go check on the fish. I’ll be back to check on you in just a few minutes.”
Martha turned back to the toilet and drew an upside-down letter A, then a tiny, perfect circle below it. She carefully added more characters and embellished them, letting instinct guide her. She hoped the symbols would protect her, seal her from a myriad of dangers, contain her nausea, give her time to formulate a plan.
She drew the next figure along the bathroom’s baseboard. As she worked, a part of her noticed that the sound of the fish frying had died away. She heard the sound of something being dragged across the room, moving toward the door. She picked up her pace, kneeling and drawing a series of characters along the base of the door.
She paused when she heard the dragging come to a stop just outside. Then there was a slow, hissing sound, and Martha realized that Loren had pulled one of the vinyl dinette chairs up to the door and sat down, his butt forcing the air out of the cushion.
Loren began to talk, chatting through the door, some sort of one-way conversation. Martha drew a sideways X, and a double line below it, and turned toward the bathtub.
That’s it, Lenny said. Well done. All the way around. You’ve got to form a complete circle.
Martha worked intently as Loren’s voice rambled on. She didn’t really mind the sound. She didn’t know what he was saying, but there was something almost comforting about it, like a radio droning in the background.
Martha was drawing figures along the base of the tub when she heard the hissing again—Loren standing up. He knocked again, pushed the door against the latch. Martha paused, listening. Then she heard the footsteps move away. She returned to her work.
A few minutes later, the footsteps returned, and this time there was the sound of the chair being dragged aside. Martha paused and looked toward the door. It opened a crack.
“Don’t worry,” Loren said. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
The blade of a flat-head screwdriver poked through the crack, like the tongue of a snake. Martha scrabbled backward along the linoleum and grabbed a towel off the rack next to the tub. She slid into the corner next to the tub, trying to cover her torso.
The screwdriver blade slowly slid upward until it engaged the metal hook-latch and lifted it out of the eyelet. The hook dangled to the side and the door swung inward.
Loren stood and looked at her. His thick eyebrows rose. His lopsided mouth dropped open. His tongue probed the edges of his lips.
“You’re beautiful.” His eyes widened. “You hurt my eyes. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Martha drew her knees in and hugged the towel closer, feeling so vulnerable she wanted to scream. She wanted to beg him to close the door, to go away. Loren scanned the steamy room, took in her handiwork. His eyebrows lowered until he was squinting, his lips working slowly, as though trying to decipher the strange figures. Then his dull eyes fixed on her again and followed along the length of her body, his breathing labored. Martha sensed she was on a dangerous precipice.
He raised his claw-hand, gesturing at the letters. “What did you do?”
His eyes again followed the trail of symbols that marched around the room like a line of ants. “That writing—what?” He worked his mouth like a fish pulled out of water, his face showing something that Martha couldn’t quite read. Anger? Fear? “What are them words?”
Runes, Martha thought, looking at him intently. Runes, to protect me.
Loren worked his lips again. “Poems?”
He scanned the room in awe. His fleshy pincer opened and closed and he tilted his head. “Love poems?”
Martha held her arms across her chest, her knees drawn up under the towel, tightening herself into a ball. She tried to answer him with her eyes. No. Runes.
Loren dragged his pincer across his chin, surveying the room once more, then smacked his lips and looked back at her. “Those must be some beautiful poems, written by something beautiful as you. I wish you could read them to me.”
Martha looked at him, eyes wide. Just leave me alone, please. Go out of the room, and let me finish this.
“Ain’t we the pair, huh?” Loren nodded his head, his mouth forming a crooked grin. “I cain’t read, and you cain’t talk. Ain’t we just the pair?”
Chapter 23
Morris tucked the Remington 700P rifle under one sweat-stained armpit while he unfastened the hasp and raised the rolling metal service door. Ratta-tatta-tatta-tatta. Sunlight swept into the dark cavity behind the door, exposing a bare cement floor and its detritus of cigarette butts.
The boy was gone.
Impossible. The cinder-block room had only one door, no windows. Morris snatched his Maglite out of its nylon pouch, turned it on, and swept the room. The beam fell on blank walls, rust-colored trusses, bare cinder blocks. Then, in one corner, he spotted the backside of a metal folding chair, upside down, its legs poking in the air and swaying slightly. And underneath the chair, there he was, balled up like a hermit crab, face against the concrete.
Morris cautiously approached the
heap in the corner, shining the light on Jarrell’s wrists and ankles, making sure he was securely cuffed.
What was that kid up to? Morris had scoured the floor before he left. Nothing but small trash…nothing that could be used as a weapon, not even so much as a beer bottle. He scanned again.
“I don’t know how you managed to get yourself over there, but you did it once, and now you can get yourself back,” Morris said. “You heard me, boy. Up.”
Jarrell flopped over, crashing the chair against the cement, and mumbled. Morris shined his light on the kid’s face, which now looked like something you’d see on display in the glass case at Elkins’ meat department. One eye was swollen shut, and his cheek was distended like a puffer fish. Flecks of trash adhered to his dreadlocks. All of this damage had been inflicted during Morris’s interview three hours before, which the sheriff had conducted using his special interrogation device, a hard rubber baton. He’d used it to break numerous small facial bones and pulverize cartilage, but he’d taken care to leave Jarrell’s senses intact. He needed the kid able to walk, talk, and listen.
“Get up, now. Show me how you got yourself over there.”
Jarrell rocked up onto the soles of his feet and perched, the chair pinned to his back.
Morris waved the Maglite. “Get back over here. Into the sunlight.”
The kid shuffled forward, sliding his feet as much as the shackles would allow.
Morris slowly walked around the boy, looking for anything awry. Morris was nothing if not thorough. Always attentive to detail. That was part of the secret of his success, and today, of all days, was not going to be an exception.
He shined his light in the corner, at the wet spot where the boy’s face had been down against the floor. What was he up to over there? Finally, he gave the boy another frisk, probed all of his moist, fleshy creases, just to be safe. Nothing.
He took another look at the boy’s face, and finally noticed something different. The gag was loose. So that was it. Morris untied the knot in the bandana and jerked it off.
“All right, kiddo. You had enough? I know I have. We can put an end to this game right now, and I’ll give you a drink of water, we’ll take you over to Amberleen General and they’ll get you fixed up. I just need you to answer one simple question. Where is that girl?”
“She’s dead,” Jarrell mumbled. It’s the same answer he had given all morning, only now he sounded like he had a mouthful of marbles. He tilted his head and his body tensed, in anticipation of another blow from the baton. His lower lip was broken and swollen like a Vienna sausage. Blood had crusted along the edge of it and split into two black forks that extended down into his goatee.
But Morris didn’t hit him this time. Instead he held up a piece of evidence—a certain, distinctive little coil of root. There was no mistake about it. It was the same piece he’d seen the girl wearing, like a brooch, on the day before she disappeared.
“This right here tells me you’re lying,” Morris said. “This belonged to Martha. She was wearing it.” Jarrell looked at the floor, silent.
He tucked the root back into Jarrell’s vest pocket. Always best to leave things the way you found them.
Morris hated this part of his job. Just hated it. His holy mission had started to creep, gone much further than he’d ever wanted. And he hadn’t banked on the boy’s stubbornness. After the three-hour interview came up fruitless, even with the aid of his interrogation device, it had become clear he would have to expand his tactics. In the eyes of the world, the girl was dead, and he needed things to stay that way. If there’s one thing he couldn’t tolerate, it was loose ends.
“I understand you’re an exceptional young fellow,” Morris said, stepping around the side of the chair to speak into Jarrell’s good ear. “The first Shell Heap native to get into medical school. Do you enjoy word games? I know I do. Crossword puzzles, especially. So how about I give you a puzzler? Try to think of a six-letter word, starts with A.”
The boy squatted, motionless, still looking at the floor.
“Here’s the clue: ‘makes award-winning sweetgrass baskets.’ Now, can you fill in the blank?”
Jarrell raised his head and fixed Morris with his good eye, glared at him with bottomless hate. Excellent, Morris thought. That touched a nerve.
“Got it, didn’t you?” Morris said. “Smart fella. Very good. Now, let’s go outside.”
Morris went behind him and unlocked the restraint that linked his handcuffs and leg irons together, and slid the chain out of the chair metal with a heavy rattle.
“Stand up slowly,” Morris said, raising the Remington. “Don’t try anything, or I’ll blow your guts out right through your navel. And then I’ll have to find somebody else to interrogate. Like your Mama. Don’t try to tell me she isn’t in on this.”
Morris pushed Jarrell forward with the barrel of the rifle, pressing it into the boy’s shoulder blades. They stepped out of the A-Alright Self-Storage unit and into the scattered sunlight of Planters Walk. Morris turned and pulled down the rolling metal door, sweating. The humidity was beyond all reason today, even for Amberleen. The air felt like a plastic bag full of too much water, ready to burst.
He instructed Jarrell to turn right. They crossed a few steps down the broken sidewalk to the alley where the Tahoe cruiser was parked. A coffee-colored face in the rear compartment turned toward the window. Astrid Humphries’s bloodshot eyes widened and her mouth moved inaudibly.
“Mama,” Jarrell said, mush-mouthed. He shambled quickly toward the rear of the cruiser, dragging the chain over the pavement.
“Stop there.” Morris opened the front passenger door.
Astrid slammed her fists against the Lucite barrier. “You can’t get away with this,” she screamed, voice muffled. “You got no right—”
Morris reached into the glove compartment, keeping his eye on Jarrell. “You and I both know that girl is hiding out there in Brumby Marsh. Now, I expect, you’ll tell me just where.”
Jarrell turned away from the car so his mother wouldn’t have to keep looking at his wrecked face. “Let muh muvah go. Then I tell you whutevah you wan.”
“Other way around.” Morris unfolded a laminated map of the Intracoastal Waterway. “First, you tell me what you know, and we’ll take your mama home. Then I’ll take you over to the jail, where you belong. And then we can call it a day.”
Chapter 24
Martha grabbed her muddy shorts and T-shirt, crumpled in a heap next to the tub, and tried to cram herself into the small space next to the toilet. Loren stepped through the doorway and paused. He looked at the bathtub, the tepid pink water. His dull eyes tracked across the runes again, then fell back on Martha.
“Your eyes…pretty.”
Martha tightened herself into the corner. She could smell the fish burning on the stove. She wanted Loren to notice that, and tried to gesture with her eyes. Loren took a step toward her, breathing heavily. Oh no. He has broken the rune circle.
She made eye contact with him. She glanced pointedly in the direction of the kitchen. She wrinkled her nose.
Loren’s eyes narrowed, and he imitated her gesture. His eyes darted back and forth. Then his bushy eyebrows lifted, like barn doors opening.
“Uh-oh…that fish.” He took a step toward the door, then turned back to Martha, waving his crab claw. “Wait right there, Angelfish. I’ll be right back.”
Loren left the doorway. Martha stood and re-latched the hook. She wriggled back into the muddy brown shorts that reeked of the marsh and the T-shirt Astrid gave her. She grabbed the edge of the tub, pulled herself to her feet. She was suffocating now. The runes marched around the room. They were no longer protective. They threatened to close in on her like ravenous insects. She unlatched the door and looked out, gauging the number of steps across the living room to the front door.
Loren worked at the stove, his back to her, scraping at a black skillet with a spatula. Martha heard the hum of the range hood and looked across the room
at the front door. How many steps? Can you make it? She took a tentative step forward, holding on to the edge of the desk to steady herself.
“Angelfish.” Loren turned toward her. He wore an oven mitt on his good hand. Another crab claw.
“Now, you’ve put on them muddy things again, didn’t you? You didn’t have to wear that. Let me get you something nice to wear for breakfast.”
Martha stood her ground. Loren put the iron skillet on the counter, took off the oven mitt, and disappeared into the bedroom. She considered the front door again, tried to visualize the yard from memory. How many places to hide? As she took a step toward the sofa, Loren reappeared, holding a massive dress on a coat hanger.
“This may be a little large, but it’s the only girl clothes I got.” Loren held it out to her. “You can change in my bedroom. But don’t take too long—breakfast is almost ready.”
The dress was white with large bows down the front and a cherry-red floral pattern that made it look like a tablecloth. Martha wondered why the man would have it. Does he have a wife? Is he a cross-dresser?
Loren approached her with the dress and Martha took it from him and went into the bedroom, closed the door, and locked it.
The room was dim, with a single, smeared window behind the bed. She crawled onto the bed, causing the springs to creak, and took hold of the sash and yanked. It wouldn’t budge. She looked around, considered breaking the glass.
“You okay in there, Angelfish?”
Martha climbed off the bed, feeling clammy and sick in her dirty clothes. She glanced at the door, then quickly stripped her filthy things off and pulled the dress over her head.
When she emerged, wearing the sacklike dress, Loren was pouring orange juice into plastic tumblers on the Formica dinette. He looked up at her and stopped, his mouth hanging wide.
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