“Daddy?” Joey said, from behind me.
“No, baby,” I said. “Let’s go back.”
My eyes shifted skyward at the sound of a plane. Police, I prayed, focusing on a patch of blue between two trees. It was a sleek military jet, a lawn dart leaving a vapor trail behind.
“It’s what men have been doing to us for years,” Keppie said flatly. “Killin’ us and leavin’ us in places like this. Bones in the wilderness.”
The body had been in this lonely place long before this recent murder spree. How many more were there? I wondered, with growing horror.
Next to her, Charles Manson had to be a ray of sunshine.
“’Bye, Stanley,” she called cheerfully, releasing the branches that snapped back in his direction. “Don’t know what I’m gonna do with you,” she chided, manicured hands on her hips. “First, your balls are gone and your dick; then I come back and it’s your arm; now it’s your legs. Try to pull yourself together and stay put now till I come back, you hear?” She laughed like a giggly teenager.
Joey balked as we left and kept looking back over his shoulder. “I wanna see,” he said.
“There’s nothing to see, sweetheart,” I said.
“I want my daddy. He got shot, got shot in the head,” he piped up. “In the woods. I saw it.”
“Ain’t no big thing, son,” Keppie told him, reaching out to tousle his hair. He pulled away fearfully. “Ya gotta get used to it, boy. People die all the time.”
Joey asked for juice again on the way back to the car. He had missed lunch; now it was time for his supper. “I wish we could’ve stopped for supplies,” I told Keppie. “At least we could have gotten him some food, water, and insect repellent.”
“Sorry ’bout that,” she said.
“Let’s go,” I urged. “I’m worried about the mosquitoes. You saw the warnings in the paper about the encephalitis outbreak up here. There’s a medical alert in twenty-seven counties between here and Miami. Mosquitoes spread it. They’ve even canceled night baseball games.”
“How quick does encephalitis kill you?”
“I don’t know, but it’s pretty fast. You get a headache, pain, then seizures. Your brain swells—”
“Bullets kill you faster,” she said.
“But you’re just as dead,” I said. “The mosquitoes carrying it are like vampires, creatures of the night, the hungriest and most active between dusk and dawn. We still have a few hours of light. We can dump the car someplace close to a town, walk to a motel, or take a bus.”
“I’ll take my chances with the skeeters,” she said. “They ain’t killed me yet.”
I wanted out of these steamy insect-infested woods. No place in Florida is more than sixty miles away from salt water, yet there was no hint, no breeze, no fresh smell of air from the Atlantic or the Gulf of Mexico. The heat dulled me into a near stupor as sweat streamed from every pore.
We plodded to the little stream. Keppie brought a paper cup and drank but I refused to drink or allow Joey to. To get sick would be a disaster. I couldn’t picture Keppie nursing us back to health.
“If you ain’t the goddamnedest worrier!” she said. “You just know too much for your own good.”
“There are phosphate plants and paper mills in this part of the state,” I said, “along with sewage treatment plants and garbage dumps. We don’t know what’s upstream.”
She stood ankle-deep in water, paper cup in her hand, one hip slung over to the side, hair streaming down her back. “The water’s the least of your worries. You graspin’ the big picture here, Britt? Think I’d drink it if it wasn’t safe?”
“You do a lot of things other people wouldn’t do.”
She grinned, raised her cup in a mock toast, then drank.
“She’s drinking it,” Joey protested. “I want some too.”
“No, honey, this water might be dirty,” I said. “Here, sit down.” I helped him take his shoes, socks, and pants off so he could wet his feet, then soaked a T-shirt and dabbed his face and throat to cool him off.
“You see, my folks who raised me did the best they could,” Keppie said, as we resumed our interview back at the SUV, “but they just couldn’t stand havin’ me around. Their kids were scared to death of me. I was outa control.”
“In what way?” I asked. We sat under the open hatch, facing the forest.
“Well, I started smokin’ and drinkin’ at ’bout ten or eleven years old.” She swallowed from the bottle, leaned back, and swung her feet up onto the floorboard. “I’d been shopliftin’ since I was nine. Had tons of stuff under my bed. Boxes and bags full. All kindsa stuff I didn’t even need or want, just took it for the thrill of it. And I’d carry a big ol’ nail around in my pocket. Whenever I seen a nice car, I’d run the nail right down the side. Sometimes I’d write some other kid’s name in the paint with it. Hah!” She gave a little half laugh. “Used to follow the mailman around and steal people’s mail, throw it away, just for the hell of it. All kinds of stuff like that. What really got to ’em was the fires. I liked settin’ fires when I was a kid.”
“You mean playing with matches or cigarette lighters, that sort of thing?”
“Nah, fires. I’d pile a buncha papers or clothes outside their door when they was sleepin’, pour on lighter fluid, and strike a match to it. Shoulda heard ’em scream. It was comical.”
“My God, you could have burned the whole house down,” I said, scratching the mosquito bites on my ankle.
“Oh, I did that once. Red Cross hadda put us up at a motel.”
“What did your folks do?”
“Had me in and outa therapy, hospitals, juvenile court. I told ya, I drove ’em nuts.”
She caught me eyeing her cigarette and smiled.
“Nothin’ to worry ’bout now,” she said. “Grew out of it. Just a stage, I guess. Thought about it when you ragged on me for smokin’ in bed.”
“So your childhood was troubled,” I said, nodding.
“Hell, no. Aside from losin’ my mama, I was happy as peach pie. It was my mama’s sister, my Aunt Mary Alice and her husband, my Uncle Harland, my new parents, that was troubled. I was fine, but she was cryin’ all the time and he was always bent outa shape. Used to stay up nights talkin’ ’bout what to do with me. Didn’t think I heard ’em, but I did. Thinkin’ back, I guess they were too scared to go to sleep.” She chuckled.
“What finally happened? When did you leave home?”
“Last time I ran away I was ’bout sixteen, just never went back. They were probably hopin’ I wouldn’t, though I know they’da took me in if I showed up. You see, they promised my mama they’d look out for me. And you gotta give ’em that, they always kept their word. They’re good Christians. Sometimes I call ’em or drop a line, just to let ’em know I’m alive. Probably scares the shit outa them, thinkin’ I might show up some day.”
“How do you see your future? What do you think is ahead?”
“For me?” She shrugged. “Well, I don’t plan much. Plans never tend to work out. I’m not one-a those people who knows exactly where she’s ’sposed to be and what she’s ’sposed to be doing five-ten years from now. Might say I live for today but I have hope for tomorrow. You know what hope is?” She brightened.
“Tell me your definition.”
“Hope,” she said, swallowing another hit from the bottle, “is a memory of the future. Write that down.” She wiped her lips on her sleeve and gazed skyward. “Every day I wake up with strong feelings of hope. As long as I do, I know there’s a future.”
“I wanna hamburger,” Joey said, interrupting. “Please.”
I gave him an animal cracker. “Mine,” he said, and reached for the box with both hands. He whimpered as I pulled it away.
“We’re playing a game,” I said. “We’re going to see how long these crackers can last. You eat the tiger and we’ll save the elephant for later.”
Dry tiger crumbs caught in his throat and he coughed. “Milk!” he gasped, between sp
asms that reddened his face.
“We don’t have any right now.” I patted his back.
“Let’s go get some.” His little voice was raspy.
“We can’t right now.” I cuddled him and wished for rain.
It elated Keppie to hear on the radio news at six that the search for the Kiss-Me Killer had focused on Atlanta, after a reported sighting there. Georgia police were on alert.
I coaxed Joey, who was hungry and cranky, to settle down in the back of the SUV, while Keppie sat up on the hood reading a tabloid. Though I was as wrung out as a wet dishrag, hair hanging damp and stringy, the heat merely coated her skin with a glossy sheen, curling tiny tendrils of hair around her forehead and neck, adding to her luminous look. Who would believe somebody who looked like her could spread so much misery to so many?
She caught me watching and met my eyes with a heavy-lidded seductive gaze that made me acutely aware of every curve beneath my wet clinging clothes.
Trees obscured the setting sun, and night fell like a rock. No lights, no highway sounds in the distance, only night birds, insects, and small scary creatures rustling in the brush. We left the car windows open so we could breathe, but the mosquitoes were a nightmare. When I draped clothes and a blanket over the windows, the heat was suffocating. We desperately needed air, but when I took the clothes down, the mosquitoes swarmed. Their high-pitched whines filled the car.
“Blow some cigarette smoke back here,” I begged Keppie, who was in the front. “It’ll help keep the mosquitoes off.” I fanned Joey with one of her tabloids.
While he slept fitfully, I entertained visitors. I felt their eyes in the dark. I am young to have so many ghosts. They usually appear in public places and familiar neighborhoods. Sometimes I see the homely profile, familiar bulk, and shambling walk of Dan Flood, the veteran cop with a long memory and a passion for old cases. About to call out his name, I remember he’s gone. As I pass a video arcade or a pickup basketball game on some inner-city court, I glimpse Howie’s awkward and stick-thin shadow. I stopped my car once, happy to see the spunky abandoned teenager again, then painfully remembered that he, too, was gone—his potential and brave heart stilled forever by misguided police bullets. My friend Francie appears at the wheel of a speeding patrol car or in a flash of blue uniform around a comer, though I know a sniper’s bullet found her through the smoke and chaos of the riot. Her dog, Bitsy, is my only inheritance, except perhaps for the one my mother accuses me of, my father’s attraction to lost causes. His presence has always been with me, strong and comforting in times of danger. But not now. Others came and went throughout this endless night, but not him. Had he forgotten me? Had the final resolution to the mystery of his death freed him from earthly bonds? Had he left my life forever?
I listened to Joey’s breathing, fearing it might stop. Beads of sweat sprang to life on my scalp, worming their way toward my forehead like tiny maggots. Staring into the dark, I saw another ghost. The young father on his way to Disney World with his little son. They would be there now, had he not chosen to stop at that time, at that place. Had he not seen Keppie.
His last words echoed. “He’s a good little citizen, and I want him to grow up good and have a good life.” If we survive this, I promised the ghost, I will see to that and make it happen.
Dozing at last before dawn, I dreamed I was having sex on a hot and sultry long-forgotten Fourth of July. The sheets were damp and rumpled against my skin, the darkness smelled like our bodies, and sheer drapes billowed in a breeze bearing the scent of frangipani. I looked eagerly at my partner’s face, hidden in shadow—and awoke with a start, Keppie’s face close to mine.
“You awake?” she whispered, her palms on my knees.
“What do you want?”
“You know.”
Fifteen
I CLOSED MY EYES, HOPING THIS WAS YET ANOTHER nightmare. Her hot breath singed my cheek.
“No way,” I whispered.
“Gimme one good reason.”
“I can give you lots,” I hissed. “Mosquitoes have bitten me half to death, which does nothing for my libido. I’m straight. I’m sleep-deprived. There’s an innocent child in the car. And last but not least, your lovers’ life expectancy is usually about three and a half minutes. Those reasons good enough? If not, I can come up with some more.”
Her laughter caused Joey to turn in his sleep. “You’ll change your mind,” she murmured confidently. “I’ve seen you look at me. I know you want it.”
“I’ll let you know when,” I said, and turned over, knees together, arms across my chest.
I never went back to sleep, exquisitely aware of every movement in the car. Keppie was restless. She got out and I heard her walking around, spotted the glow of her cigarette in the dark, and heard her humming some mournful country-and-western song.
The pale and misty woods echoed with bird calls one minute, sweltered in sudden daylight the next. Life in the woods, with towering trees and dense summer foliage blocking out the rest of the universe, left me claustrophobic.
Dehydrated and speckled with red mosquito bites, Joey cried forlornly. He wanted to watch cartoons.
“Show me a TV set,” Keppie told him, stretching and yawning, “and we’ll turn on the ’toons. Go ahead, boy, just run out there in the woods; you find the set and we all can watch.”
Joey sobbed and clung to me.
“Jesus Christ!” Keppie snapped. “That little bastard’s enough to make a woman swear off motherhood.”
“We’ve got to get him some food and water,” I said. “He’s feverish. He’s too little for this. I feel miserable myself.”
She cut her eyes at me and sneered. “You had your chance last night. I’da made you forget food and water. You’d feel a helluva lot better. What is wrong with you people? I went without eatin’ for seven days once. Didn’t hurt me none.”
“Why?” I reached for the notebook. “What happened? Why did you fast?”
“No reason.” She shrugged and tuned in the radio. “Just wanted to see what it felt like.” No mention of us on the news. There was trouble in Bosnia, a small plane crash near Orlando, and the governor had signed Ira Jonas’s death warrant.
“They’re itchin’ to pull the switch, can’t fry the poor bastard fast enough!” Keppie raged.
“He was convicted nearly fourteen years ago,” I said.
She turned off the radio and stormed out of the car. She checked beneath the hood, then slammed it down with a crash. “Okay! I’m sicka your bitchin’ and moanin’. We’re hitting the road! We’re outa here!” She glared at us and frowned. “But first take him on down to that stream, wash him up, and comb his hair so he looks half decent. You too. I ain’t takin’ either one-a you anywhere lookin’ like that.”
Half an hour later, washed and in fresh clothes, we again lumbered along forest trails in the SUV.
“Shoulda waited till after dark,” Keppie groused. “But I can’t deal with all this whinin’ and complainin’. Rattles my damn nerves.”
Joey looked listless in his car seat.
“We’re going for breakfast,” I told him. “Want some juice and cereal?” He nodded mournfully.
“You know what I’ve been craving?” I told Keppie.
“I know, baby. I know.” She raised a wicked eyebrow.
“No, for Pete’s sake. A big juicy mango.” I leaned back, imagining it. “Skin the color of a sunset, sweeter smelling than flowers. A shame they’re so messy.”
“Easiest way is to git naked and eat it in the bathtub,” Keppie said, steering the SUV around a huge petrified stump, artifact from some ancient hurricane. “My mama won prizes for her mango chutney. Had rows and rows of glass jars lined up, all ruby, green, and gold.”
When she finally stopped and lowered the windows, I nearly wept at the welcome whoosh of passing traffic. Back in the real world at last. She waited for a lull, eased onto the road, and drove toward the outskirts of a small town.
“There’s a place,” I c
ried.
She eyeballed the small convenience store, passed it, and pulled off the road. I carried Joey as we walked back.
“Get some insect repellent and calamine lotion,” I said, as she tossed items into a little basket.
My parched lips tingled at the cooler. Forget flavored iced tea, cappuccino, and diet soda, all that orange-and purple-flavored water. What my body craved, needed to replenish itself, was water, good old aqua—designer label, spring, purified, or, worst-case scenario, just plain tap—straight up and ice cold.
Even Joey lifted his flushed face from my neck, blinked, and began to look around, as though sensing the presence of food and drink.
Hands shaking, I twisted the cap off a cold and sweaty water bottle, fed Joey small sips, and then took a long draft myself. We carried the supplies back to the car and raised the hatch. Keppie had bought white bread, billowy, cloud soft, and full of empty calories. She slathered on mayo with a plastic knife, heaped on the lunch meat manufactured from some mystery animal, and fixed sandwiches that tasted so good I nearly moaned with pleasure. We had milk, water, potato chips, and bread-and-butter pickles. Keppie had also stocked up on the latest tabloids and local newspapers, which she devoured. Our story was on an inside page.
“Looks like I been real busy.” Georgia police were investigating possible links between the Kiss-Me Killer and a homicide outside an Atlanta night club and reports of a sighting farther north, in Marietta.
She removed the license plate from the SUV with a screwdriver and folded both inside a newspaper. We strolled back to the convenience store, to buy a few more things and use the rest room. Then I bent over Joey, brushing off his clothes and helping him with his grape juice as, behind us, Keppie switched tags with a parked Chrysler LeBaron.
Back on the road, a new tag on the SUV, I asked where we were headed as she turned south.
“Sure as hell ain’t Atlanta,” she muttered. “Know where I’d like to go? Ochopee.”
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