by Ward Parker
DeBerry nodded.
After another long silence, Follett asked if he was free to go.
“Yes, Doc. I’ll be in touch.”
* * *
Follett knew that whiskey was not the best medicine for sorrow, but that night he needed its warm embrace. He mourned losing his connection to Isabel and agonized at the thought of her alone and unhappy in that purgatory-like state. If only his prayers could be enough to help her. If only this whiskey could be enough to help him.
But once again, just as Follett was settling in at the hotel bar, Connelly interrupted him.
“Fancy finding you here, Doctor,” he said.
“I am on holiday you remember? It’s not as if I’m due in surgery in an hour.”
“Of course. I come with an invitation from Master Stockhurst. He would like you to call at the cottage, if you will.”
“Darryl? What does he want?”
“That’s all I was told, Doctor.”
Follett finished his glass, grabbed his hat and followed him out into the night as a string quartet played Mozart somewhere in the hotel.
“Doctor, if you don’t mind going to the cottage on your own,” Connelly said as they exited the hotel. “I have to join Mr. Stockhurst at Mr. Bradley’s establishment. Someone needs to keep an eye on him,” he added with a wink.
Follett waved off the pedicab drivers and walked down the dark path toward the beach, away from the safe glow from hundreds of incandescent lights that illuminated the hotel and grounds, all powered by a private electric plant built by Flagler. The sound of waves breaking was as loud as if he were on the beach itself. A bird he didn’t recognize called from the trees beyond the promenade and unseen things rustled in the darkness. He had no idea that he was about to meet the creatures of the dark face-to-face.
Darryl was waiting for him on the porch.
“You were strolling very slowly,” he said, his eyes shining with reflected light out of the darkness of his fur. He wore dark clothes as well. “Not too eager to get here, were you?”
“I was enjoying the night.”
“But with a little bit of trepidation for the creatures you couldn’t identify, I know. I picked up your thoughts shortly after you left the hotel. Not your scent, though. With the wind out of the east I couldn’t smell you until a moment ago.”
“Why did you want me to come tonight?”
“To thank you for what you did with that bastard in the dining room. You truly wanted to help us.”
“You’re welcome, Darryl, but it was wrong of me. Highly unethical for a physician.”
“I don’t think so. You may have prevented serious injury.”
“What are you saying?”
“You’ve heard stories about my temper. That buffoon, Spence, was acting very dangerously. Who knows what I would have done.”
Follett said nothing.
“In return for your help, I wanted to give you a gift of sorts. Introduce you to my world. Help you see things that ‘normal’ people never do. Follow me—let’s go wandering.”
“You’re not going to wear your mask and gloves?”
“Of course not. Why would I want to stifle my senses? And remember, it’s night. Darkness is the only cloak I need.”
He jumped to his feet and sprang off the porch so quickly Follett barely saw him. He had a childlike excitement and the speed of a cheetah. Follett tried to keep up with him as he plunged through a barely noticeable trail in the sand dunes, past the twisted sea grape trees with their saucer-like leaves, and through the wavy sea oats atop the dunes. Finally, he stopped on the beach.
“Now be quiet and listen,” Darryl said. “I hear people come out here at night sometimes but they’re always talking. They have no idea of all that is happening around them.”
Follett stood still and listened to the deep rumble of the breakers, the soft sifting of wind off the sea. There was only a crescent moon, yet he could see far down the silver-colored beach with its markings of undulating lines from seaweed deposited by the waves.
He thought he heard a faint clicking sound.
“Yes, that’s the ghost crabs,” Darryl said. “You often see their little burrows in the sand and sometimes even their footprints leading into the openings, but they rarely come out until it gets dark. They’re all around us now, searching for food or mates. Look there.”
A crab, its body smaller than a matchbox, scurried by. It was tan and gray like the sand for camouflage, with black eyes on stalks watching him warily. He took a step toward it and it disappeared into a small hole.
“And there’s so much more that’s visible to anyone willing to truly see. Now what do you see there?” he asked, pointing to a clump of vegetal material.
“Why, it’s seaweed.”
“Is that all you see?”
“I suppose the plants might have different names.”
“Look more closely.”
“Those little berries—is that what you mean? It’s quite dark tonight, you know.”
Darryl sighed with exasperation. “This vegetation came from the Sargasso Sea, an immense mat of growth that floats in the middle of the ocean. Part of it touches the Gulfstream current, just a few miles offshore from here. And in the sargassum live many tiny creatures, such as this little crab here, who lives a life so different from our ghost crab friends.”
He picked up something and placed it in Follett’s hand. The crab was smaller than a fingernail.
“You were looking right at it but couldn’t see,” he said. “And what about your ears—do you hear that?”
“What? Oh, that bird calling?”
“A sanderling. We’re probably disturbing its sleep.”
“I’m beginning to understand your point. Most guests at the hotels just see an ocean to swim in and sand to lie upon, but there’s a very diverse community of living creatures here.”
“And those who aren’t living.”
“You mean the seashells washed ashore?”
“In this case I mean the Spaniard washed ashore. He’s standing right over there at the edge of the surf.”
“There is no one on this beach except us.”
“I don’t expect you to be able to see him, Doctor. He is a ghost.”
Follett studied Darryl’s face. It was hard to read the expressions of a face buried in fur, but he seemed earnest.
“A sailor who drowned here in a shipwreck. Early sixteen hundreds, I think. He’s afraid of us, not sure if we’re Spanish or English.”
“But how…”
“I don’t know how I see him or know these things. I have seen many ghosts before. Maybe they can tell that I’m not normal, that I’m apart from human life. That I am an other. Maybe they trust me.”
“I want to be able to see ghosts,” Follett said.
“You’re thinking of your wife. I believe she would have appeared to you if she could. At least she was able to find the little girl as a way to reach you.”
“The little girl has been kidnapped. Like the others.”
Darryl paused. “I sensed a great sadness in you, but I couldn’t tell what it was from. I’m sorry for you. And I’m relieved you’re not thinking of me as the killer.”
“Can you use your abilities to help us find the girl?”
“No. I would have to know her voice. If she were here in my presence, I could hear her thoughts and then, perhaps in the future, I could recognize them at a distance. But otherwise, how could I find her? Would even you recognize her voice?”
“No,” Follett admitted. He had only heard Angelica speak in the voices of the dead.
“And even if I could hear her, I wouldn’t be able to locate her unless she was thinking about her specific location. How likely is that? She is, after all, a small child.”
“If you can read minds,” Follett said, “can’t you identify the killer by his own thoughts?”
“If I were in his presence while he’s thinking about his deeds, perhaps. If he doesn’t suppress his
thoughts.”
“You haven’t heard any random clues at all when you’ve been in a public setting?”
“If I had, don’t you believe I would have told anyone who’d listen? Anything to stop people from believing I’m the villain. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
“Can you help me find a way to communicate with my wife?”
“I don’t know. First, you must teach yourself to see more than other people see and hear more than they hear.”
“I wasn’t born with telepathy or the other abilities you have.”
“Perhaps, but you can learn to sense with more than your senses. There is so much more to the world—it’s all there for you to take in if you know how. That’s why I invited you along tonight.”
Sense with more than your senses. Follett rather liked the notion.
They stood on the beach for a while and Follett tried in vain to see the Spaniard’s ghost. But suddenly a chill was in the air while the hairs on his arms tingled as if combed by a breeze.
“Did the ghost just pass near me?”
“Yes,” Darryl said, “but not the Spaniard.”
“What do you mean?”
“The ghost of an old, colored man.”
A tightness ran through Follett’s chest. “What does he look like?”
“Skinny, frail, could be anywhere from sixty to eighty years old—it’s tough to tell when they’re undernourished. Undernourished when alive, that is. He appeared as if he walked out of the ocean. He was limping, then he stopped. He’s rubbing his lower leg now.”
“It sounds like the corpse we found on the beach.”
“Ah, another of the victims.”
“Can you speak to him?”
“Speak to the ghost?”
“Ask him what his name is.”
Darryl soundlessly mouthed the words. He waited in silence.
“Marcus. I think his name is Marcus.”
“Ask him who killed him.”
Darryl mouthed more words, then shook his head.
“He’s gone now.”
Next, Darryl led Follett westward, across the island to Lake Worth. Naturally, they avoided the Ocean Walk. Instead they followed a well-worn trail through a grassy landscape of scrub pines. As they neared the western shore, they had to cross a sandy lane with a few homes in the distance. The rattling of a wagon came from their right and they crouched in the shadows. It carried a tiny swaying light that grew as it approached.
“I can’t be seen without my hood on,” Darryl whispered, his eyes gleaming in the darkness of his fur. “Pretend you’re walking down the road and I’ll meet you back here after the wagon passes.”
Then he disappeared into the darkness.
Follett stood and walked onto the road, walking toward the wagon, in the direction of the hotels. The rig was a battered old buckboard drawn by a tired white horse. A kerosene lantern hung from the front of the wagon, below the bench where the driver sat. Whatever cargo he carried was hidden by a tarp.
“Evening,” Follett said, tipping his hat as they drew abreast of each other.
The man nodded but did not reply. His face was in shadow beneath the brim of his hat. He stared at Follett intently as he slowly passed and Follett’s skin crawled. The wagon passed and the rattling receded.
“What do you make of him?” a voice whispered in his ear.
He jumped. It was Darryl. Where had he come from?
“You study monsters,” Darryl said. “Do you study those whose minds, rather than their bodies, are deformed?”
“What are you talking about?”
“That man is someone I consider a monster. He’s a poacher. That wagon was filled with feathers taken from slaughtered water birds, such as herons, roseate spoonbills, flamingoes. Many were killed when they had chicks in the nest. And if you’re indifferent to the lives of animals, you might consider the two women, prostitutes, he murdered in the past. Memories he hasn’t suppressed at all but cherishes, in fact. And he has committed other murders, I believe, but his thoughts are conflicted between lust and shame and he tries to blank them out.”
“You were able to read all of this from him just now?”
“There wasn’t much else in his brain. Besides, I have seen him and read his thoughts as he passed by on other occasions.”
“To answer your question, yes, I consider him a monster. I despise that term when used to describe people with congenital or environmental mutations. I consider a monster to be a creature that is evil.”
“But what is evil, exactly?” Darryl said after they resumed their walk toward the lake. “Murder is evil, but if you commit it to save your life, then it is not considered evil. Your motive, your intent, is that all that determines evil?”
Follett had to be careful as he said, “Please tell me about these conversations you have with the person who is unseen.”
Darryl stopped suddenly and glared at him.
“Diana told you this?”
Follett felt badly for betraying her confidence. “Yes.”
They walked on for a while before Darryl said, “He was a monster of sorts himself. When he was alive.”
“Is he a ghost?”
“In a way, I suppose.”
“So then you do talk to ghosts.”
“He talks to me when he wants to. He has more power than a ghost, power to come and go as he pleases. Power to manipulate me.”
“What does he want?”
“He wants me to swear allegiance to his master. Who or what this master is I have no idea. All I know is that it is evil. But I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” He stopped walking. “We’re here. The mangroves.”
The path had sunk to water level and ahead was a thick forest of short trees growing in the shallow water at the edge of the estuary that formed Lake Worth. The trees were supported above the water on a spidery network of roots. They looked like they were trying to walk. Thin strands descended from branches and grew toward the water in order to become new roots.
“The water here is brackish—salt mixed with some fresh—but mangroves can live in even the saltiest of water,” Darryl said. “These are red mangroves.” He pointed at the small, shiny, green leaves. “The mangroves are evergreens but shed leaves throughout the year. Those leaves are the basis of an entire food chain. Tiny creatures feed on them and upon these feed crabs and small fish, which are food for the larger game fish. And the young of those fish grow up here, sheltered in these roots, until they’re big enough to head to open water.”
Follett acknowledged him with a grunt and a nod, but his interest was quickly waning. Mosquitoes were hovering about his face and he felt uneasy here; it seemed so far from civilization even though the hotel was not many miles distant.
“We won’t stay long,” Darryl said. “But I want you to see them. I sense that they’re nearby tonight.”
“See what?” Follett asked with trepidation.
“Just be quiet and wait.”
Follett slapped at a mosquito.
“Quieter than that.”
So they waited, ankle-deep in water and mud, mosquitoes swirling around them like raiding Confederate cavalry. Thanks to his thick fur, Darryl didn’t seem to be bothered by the bloodsuckers.
Clouds drifted away from the moon, freeing its silvery light to reveal the spindly density of the mangrove forest. There were thousands of trees, each a slim trunk that stood atop bowed roots like spider legs descending into the water. They formed a mass of grayish curves below brown vertical lines topped with the dark green of the foliage. Follett touched the smooth bark of the nearest tree. The forest seemed almost impenetrable and clearly inhospitable. A slight breeze rustled the leaves.
But then the rustling noise continued, long after the breeze died down. A rustling and a clicking, too—the clicking sounded like sticks snapped together but had a pattern of sorts. A series of clicks that began and ended, and then from another direction more clicks as if in response. Not at all random. There seemed to b
e an intelligence behind them.
Suddenly Follett had double vision. The dense vertical lines of the forest’s trees became twice as many as if being mirrored. He closed and reopened his eyes and realized that one set of trees remained motionless while the other moved away from those they had mirrored. The rustling and clicking increased, joined by the sucking sounds of objects pulled from the swampy ground.
He was watching trees walking.
Trees, or perhaps creatures that looked like trees. Somehow they had been camouflaged among the normal, stationary trees and now moved about, walking atop the fingerlike root structures, taking slow, ponderous steps, carefully lifting each foot out of the muck. They looked just like the mangroves, but had no leaves. He couldn’t see anything that would serve as a head or mouth. The clicking sounds they made with their appendages were their form of communication.
“What are they?” he whispered.
“The Houtani, a fairy race that has existed long before mankind. Long before mammals, in fact.”
“Fairies? I’m sure they can be classified taxonomically. Perhaps they are an advanced form of insect. Or even an advanced type of plant never before discovered.”
“Whatever you wish, man-of-science. Why don’t you postpone classifying them and enjoy watching them instead? They’re feeding now. They absorb nutrients and plankton through tiny openings in their appendages.”
Individually and in groups they moved through the actual trees toward the water. They would briefly freeze and blend in with the trees before moving to the next. When they reached the edge of the lake they waded in and dipped their branches deep into the water, swirling them slowly.
He sensed the Houtani knew they were being observed and he wondered why they allowed it. He whispered the question to Darryl.
“They aren’t hiding from us because they trust me. I’m an other. And I’ve observed them many times. I first discovered them years ago as a child, when my father and grandfather took me fishing in this area before the hotels were here. We slept on my grandfather’s yacht anchored in bays or in the rivers, and late at night when everyone was asleep I’d come up on deck and stare at the mangroves. I could see them in the dark better than anyone else could. One night, part of a broken mangrove tree floated by in the current—that’s what it would have looked like to anyone else, but I knew that somehow it was not a piece of dead wood but something more precious. I dove into the water and retrieved it. It wasn’t a tree limb, but a young tree, or so I thought. I felt a strong life force within it. I knew I had to swim with it to the shore. And that’s when the Houtani made themselves known to me, grateful that I had rescued one of their young. Somehow, they all seemed to know me after that. Watch this.”