The Girl in the Maze

by R. K. Jackson

  He stepped over a pile of photo albums on the floor, went around behind the counter, and swung his flashlight toward a sodden pile in the corner. In other circumstances, he wouldn’t have recognized her. She looked like a homeless person, damp and sour, streaked with dirt and blood, a tangle of clotted hair, pale skin dotted with pink welts, head tilted against the wall.

  He slid behind the counter next to her, crouched down, and let the beam fall across her face. Dilated gray eyes. Her lips moved slightly.

  “Martha…Oh thank God, Martha. Martha.” He crouched down closer so she could see his face. “Martha, it’s Vince. Are you all right? Do you hear me?”

  He touched her chin and she drew herself tight. She looked at him in glazed terror.

  He touched the paper bag inside his jacket, contemplating the antipsychotics. Chances were, she was dehydrated; anemic, as well. God knows when she’d had her last meal. He couldn’t give her meds in this condition.

  Vince pulled out his Android and dialed 911. The screen read: “Call Failed. No Service.” He picked up the dangling wall phone, listened. Silence.

  He kneeled in front of her. “Martha, I’m so glad you’re alive. It’s all right now. I’m going to get you out of here. We’re going to get some help.”

  He tried to take her by the arms, but she tensed, held an arm up defensively. She stared at him with wide, confused eyes. She was listening to some inner channel, tuned to something only she could hear. He knew this look well. Deep psychosis.

  “It’s all right, Martha. I’m Vince. I’m your friend, your doctor, remember? I helped you before. Listen to me, don’t listen to the voices. Are you hearing Lenny? He isn’t real, Martha.” Her lips moved wordlessly, like a monk reciting a prayer. “Martha, would you like something to drink? Some water?”

  He saw some hint of recognition flash across her eyes. Her lips stopped moving.

  “I just want to get you someplace warm and dry, so you can feel better. Will you let me help you?” He reached out his hand. She stared at it. “I’ve shaved my beard, Martha. I know I look different—I hardly recognize myself. But I’m Vince, remember?” He took both his hands and cupped them around his mouth and chin. Martha’s eyes darted back and forth across his face.

  “Come on, Martha. Let’s go.” He took her hand. Her fingers were white and limp, unresponsive. But not resisting. “Do you think you can walk, Martha?”

  “He killed her.” Her voice sounded low and airy, supernatural.

  “Come on, Martha. Come with me.”

  “Not me. He killed Lydia.”

  “Who?”

  “Him…that man…the one…” Martha’s eyes widened, her lips working wordlessly.

  Vince put an arm behind her, pulled her toward him. “Listen, you can tell me what happened. You can tell me everything. But not here. Let’s go someplace where we can talk. Is that all right, Martha?”

  Martha pushed back at him, tightened her shoulders. “You don’t believe me.”

  Vince crouched down to her level. “There’s nothing I can do to help you here, Martha. It’s dangerous to stay here; this storm is going to get worse. We have to go.”

  “I have to help the child.” Martha peered at Vince, her eyes like gray ghosts.

  A broken palm frond crashed against the window and was pinned there by the wind, then cartwheeled away. Martha turned toward the sound, then looked back at Vince.

  “Martha, remember what we discovered together, in my office?” He held her limp hand in his. “The voices, Lenny and all the other voices, the voices you hear are really part of you. They seem real, Martha, the way dreams seem real when they’re happening. But it’s just you, talking to yourself. You’re like a playwright or a writer, making up characters. But part of your brain is broken, the part that allows you to know what’s inside of you and what’s outside.”

  Her eyes were fixed on the zipper pull of his jacket. He couldn’t tell if she was hearing him. “Martha…Lenny wants you to not believe in yourself. But I believe in you.”

  Martha lifted her eyes and spoke softly. “You’ll put me back in the hospital.”

  “Yes. You’re sick. You need attention.”

  She put her face in her hands, withdrawing.

  “Martha—stay with me. Listen to me. I—”

  She shook her head. “I don’t care if I go to the hospital. But the child—”

  “Yes? What about a child?”

  “It will die. We have to help it.” Her voice was rasping. She was in the grip of some new delusion, utterly real to her. Vince didn’t want to reinforce her psychosis, but he knew it was futile to argue at this point. It would only undermine her trust.

  “You can’t help anyone until you help yourself first, Martha. Helping yourself means getting out of this storm.”

  Vince glanced toward the shop windows. Outside, a trash barrel rumbled down the sidewalk, then toward the middle of the street, spinning like a top. The Savannah River sloshed against the seawall, shooting tongues of spray into the air. It was time to go. Could he force her?

  “Martha, I won’t take you anywhere you don’t want to go.” Vince felt his ears burning.

  Martha lifted her face out of her hands and looked at him expectantly. “You’ll take me to the boy first? Not the hospital—to the boy? After that, I don’t care.”

  “Just come with me. We’ll look. Maybe we can find him. Together.” Vince winced inside. “Let’s go, let’s see what we can do, Martha. Let’s get in my car, and you can talk to me about this child on the way.”

  He put one hand under her arm and pulled. To his surprise, she cooperated, putting her other arm around his shoulder and holding on.

  Vince eased her off the floor, pulled her damp, filthy body close to his, and felt a surge of emotion. He cared deeply about this young woman, whose future had been foreclosed on by the demons of psychosis. Whose future would be spent within the barriers of a high-security psychiatric hospital, with little chance for full recovery. Such institutions only perpetuated mental illness. But at least she was still alive. That was something. He could write recommendation letters, make sure she was committed to one of the better facilities. At least she would be well cared for, he could see to that. And maybe someday…

  Martha leaned her head against his shoulder, whispered into his ear: “Thank you.”

  Chapter 30

  Martha rested her head against Vince’s folded windbreaker, listening to the metronome sweep of the wipers. She could see his hunched form in the front seat, squinting, concentrated. She tried to rest, stretched out on the leather seats, because he had asked her to. The upholstery felt clean and pristine against her damp skin. She heard a thousand voices muttering outside in the rain but ignored them. She was so grateful now that someone else was here to help her, to make choices, someone to protect her.

  Vince turned the radio on.

  “…approaching Georgia’s Sea Islands and expected to reach hurricane force before hitting land around nine P.M.,” the announcer said. “A mandatory evacuation order is in effect for the areas of Brunswick, Amberleen, Savannah, and—” Lightning flickered outside the car. The radio voice sizzled. Now you have her. Now you have the girl. Bring her to Atlanta.

  Martha felt a jolt of anxiety. She sat up.

  “Are you all right, Martha?” Vince said, clicking the radio off. “We’re headed out of the storm now. Try to rest.”

  Martha stared through the windshield. Nothing but darkness and rain, not even streetlights. “Where are we?”

  “This is the island causeway. We’re headed south, away from the storm.”

  A trickle of water rolled along the black leather seat in front of Martha. A single pallid finger appeared over the top, like the leg of a white spider. It slid forward across the upholstery. Then another finger. A head of slick and matted hair rose from behind the bucket seat.

  You think he’s really taking you to Amberleen? Lenny propped his bony elbows against the top of the seatback. His breath
smelled of tobacco and gum disease. Get real, girl. It’s all jiggery poker. You’ve fallen right into their trap.

  Martha turned her face away from him, looked at the bleared window.

  Take a look at the door locks. Go on, Lovie, have a look.

  Martha focused on the round, edgeless knob, sunken into the door panel.

  See? He’s got ’em hammered down. Why? Just to be sure you don’t try to escape.

  Martha looked at the front windshield, at wipers slinging sheets of water to reveal only darkness. “Where are we going?” Martha asked. She could hear a quiver in her voice.

  “First of all, away from this storm. We can’t do anything if we get trapped in this mess.”

  “Are we going to Amberleen?”

  “Martha—”

  He’s lying to you, Lovie.

  “We aren’t, are we?” Martha reached for the door handle. “We aren’t going to help the child. Stop. Let me out.”

  “Martha—”

  She grabbed the door handle and pulled. The door wouldn’t open. She pinched at the lock knob with her fingers, unable to grasp it.

  “Martha—listen to me.” Vince slowed the car. “You can’t go out there. It’s dangerous.”

  “You lied.” Martha jerked at the door handle. “You lied. Let me out of here.” The tiny interior of the vehicle was closing in on her. She would suffocate if she didn’t get out.

  “I can’t, Martha,” Vince said. “These doors lock automatically. When I put the car into drive, they lock.” Vince eased the car to a standstill, and shifted into neutral. The door locks popped up. “See?” Martha looked at Vince, then at the door.

  Vince twisted around in his seat to face her. “You can leave, if that’s what you want to do. I’m not forcing you to stay here, Martha.”

  Martha opened the door. Rain and wind blasted through the opening. On the ground, she could see a torrent of rushing black water.

  “You’re free. You can leave if you want. But I want you to stay in here, because you might drown out there. I want you to stay with me in here, where it’s safe and warm.”

  Vince flicked on the interior light and held an open map. He pointed to a narrow blue line that paralleled the coastal wetlands. “This is where we are, Martha. We’re going toward Amberleen. Is that where you want to go?”

  Martha nodded. Wind gusted around the door, tossing cold raindrops against her skin.

  “If the child is there, we can find him,” Vince said.

  It’s a trick. Lenny’s voice sounded high-pitched, anxious.

  “But I need to hurry,” Vince continued, “to stay ahead of this storm. Will you please close the door, Martha?”

  Martha nodded, reached over, and pulled the door shut. Vince put the car back into drive. The locks snapped down. The two continued on, rolling through a thousand demon howls. In the rearview mirror, Lenny’s face gazed back at her, ratlike, reproachful.

  You’ll never learn, will you, girl?

  Chapter 31

  The cones of the headlights penetrated just a few yards into the rain, glinting off the orange reflectors attached to short aluminum poles that lined the causeway like matchsticks. Vince kept the car steady at fifteen miles per hour. The road itself was submerged. It was like driving through a shallow lake. Vince wondered how fast the water level was rising.

  A movie flashed across his mind’s eye—TV news footage of helicopters rescuing passengers from the roofs of cars, their vehicles floating away like flotsam in a rising flood. But there would be no rescue helicopters out here, on this remote causeway, this narrow berm dredged up by civil engineers to bisect the marsh.

  By taking the island causeway south, toward Brunswick, Vince had assumed he could outrun the storm. Indeed, the wind had diminished significantly, but this flood tide was something he hadn’t bargained for.

  Lightning flashed. He glimpsed shivering trees, water sloshing around the trunks.

  Vince told himself reassuring thoughts. At least Martha was calmer now, reclined in the backseat, maybe even asleep. Her psychosis had caused her to focus on imaginary problems, had distracted her from the real danger outside. The trust he had established in their therapeutic relationship was intact. For now, it was the best thing he had going. Just seven miles to the causeway exit, and they would be out of this mess.

  Focus, keep going, just make it to the exit. Vince released one hand from the steering wheel and flexed it, then the other. His tendons were numb and sore, some kind of carpal effect from gripping too tightly. He tried to relax, rolled his shoulders. He could hear the water churn against the bottom of the car. Jesus, it was up to the chassis. It’s all right, Vince. Just a few more miles. You can make it.

  The headlights dimmed slightly, the car slowed to a stop, and the maintenance lights on the dashboard illuminated. CHECK ENGINE. A clammy wave of panic washed through his gut. He reached for the ignition with sweaty, trembling fingers, turned the key. The engine made a muted, whirring sound, died again. He paused, pressed the gas pedal once, and turned the key. The engine caught and started, gurgling. He pressed the gas pedal and the car lurched forward. Vince tasted copper in the back of his mouth. He tried to remember if there had ever been another time when he’d been so scared. As a child—he had lain awake listening to scratching in the attic that turned out to be rats. He had awoken from disturbing dreams, the faces in the window. But those terrors could be dispelled, the lights turned on, phantoms banished. Those terrors were nothing like this….

  He locked his eyes on the watery surface ahead, rigid, focusing on the reflectors. Don’t let off the gas. Don’t go too fast. Don’t miss the exit.

  There was something in the darkness ahead, beyond the reach of his headlights. Something that glowed through the visual white noise of the rain. Electricity? The next town? A streetlight? But they couldn’t have reached the exit yet. It was too soon.

  He leaned forward, squinting hard at the vague nimbus of light. The shape resolved into the form of a sideways figure eight, then separated into two disks. It was getting closer, moving faster than the Passat was advancing. Is it moving toward you? How could that be? Unless…

  What other lunatic would be driving along this submerged causeway, into the storm? He pulled back on the transmission stalk, flashing his lights repeatedly, hoping to signal the poor soul, to warn them that they were headed the wrong way.

  But the vehicle kept coming. Vince could see that it was riding higher than his sedan—it was some kind of truck or SUV. Then the headlights of the other vehicle veered to one side and stopped, began to pivot around. Good. They got the message, they’re turning around. Someone has made it this far, so can you.

  But the vehicle, perpendicular to the causeway, moved no farther. It blocked both lanes, headlights illuminating the rain like scratch marks on an old film.

  What the hell? Vince put the Passat in neutral and waited, but the vehicle just sat there. He put his car back into drive and eased forward. When his headlights reached the side of the vehicle, relief and understanding bloomed inside of him like a warm tide. Thank God, thank God, thank God.

  Vince put the Passat into park and released the steering wheel. He relaxed his hands, flexed his sore knuckles. In the ovals of his headlights, he could read the words stenciled along the side of the SUV: AMBERLEEN COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT.

  Chapter 32

  The door on the SUV opened and a rubber boot slid out, followed by a large, pale brown, ponchoed figure in a Smokey Bear hat. The figure trotted toward the Passat, his footsteps launching small geysers of water.

  Vince turned on the interior light and glanced in the rearview mirror. Martha had awakened and was sitting up, her hair a fright wig. “Vince?”

  “Martha…it’s all right. Someone’s here. Someone to help us.”

  The officer tapped on the window and Vince lowered it. The wind rushed into the cab, stinging his face with raindrops. A face, all fleshy cheeks and jowls, filled the window. Rain streamed off the cr
eases of the poncho. In the glow of the interior light, Vince could make out a name tag: MORRIS. The officer pointed a silver flashlight at Vince, then toward the backseat.

  “Thank God you found us—” Vince began.

  Martha shrieked. The sound was terrible, causing Vince to jerk in his seat. “Vince,” she hissed, “we’re in danger. I need you to listen to me….”

  Vince pressed the rear door-lock buttons on his armrest. “It’s okay, Martha,” he said, turning toward her. “It’s all right. This is someone who can help both of us.” The officer shined his light on Martha and paused for a long moment. She drew up in the back corner, knees pulled up to her chin, eyes like gray saucers.

  “Who’s that?” the officer asked.

  “I’m a psychotherapist. That’s my patient. She’s been hurt. I thought we could make it across the causeway and outrun the storm, but I guess I made a mistake.”

  “I’m afraid you did. You sure did,” the officer said. Vince’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. Why wasn’t this man alarmed? Shouldn’t he be telling them to hurry and get into his vehicle and get the hell out of there?

  “I thought I better make one last patrol out here,” Morris said. “This sure ain’t the place to be right now. Biggest tide surge in fifty years, they say. No, sir. I don’t think you can make it through in this here vehicle.”

  “I don’t, either,” Vince said. “Not in this car.”

  “Nice car, though,” Morris said, shining his light around the interior.

  “I don’t care about the car, just our safety,” Vince said.

  Morris shined his light along the chassis of the Passat. “You’d need something with high clearance, four-wheel drive. You folks better come get in the cruiser, and I’ll ride you on down to Exit Three. We need to get somewhere inland.”