Death of the Innocent

by Karl Tutt

  “ It’s like a bad movie, T.K. I want to get up and walk out into the cool darkness. But I can’t move. I sit here and wait to go to trial for something I didn’t do. They don’t believe me. I could never hurt that child. They’re going to find me guilty no matter what the damned attorney says. What the hell is going on?”

  I had no answer. He was still worried about Billy and Monique. He wondered what they were thinking. So did I. I had expected to see Billy anytime, but he hadn’t showed. I talked to Sal.

  “He hasn’t said anything about it, T.K., and he clams up whenever I bring it up. He still believes you’re the Ghostcatcher. You’ll find the killer.”

  I couldn’t put off seeing them any longer. Frank quit taking my calls. I’d talked to Whip, Miss Julianne, Fritz, and anyone else who would listen. I wanted a different way to think, a filter to separate the hard information from the gut reactions. It didn’t come and time was running out.

  The case had become a cause celebre. People wanted to crucify Chris just to get it off of their minds. The grisly murder of a beautiful child, a life snuffed out before it had begun. It was all too brutal, too maudlin, but it was the stuff to build a career on. Any prosecutor would give his license for a case like that. CNN, Fox, all of the networks were glued to it. Rumors had Nancy Grace at Turtle Kraals the night before.

  It had been long enough. I called the house. Monique answered the phone. Her voice was distant and detached. Still the sedation, I wondered? Billy would be home around six. Anytime after that was fine.

  I gave them an hour to settle in. I needed a bit of settling, myself. This was something I didn’t want to do. I remembered Lady MacBeth’s line to her reluctant husband. Maybe some bourbon would “screw my courage to the sticking place”.

  Billy answered my knock and led me into the living room. It looked much the same, but it was dusty and the cloying smell of mildew hung in the air. The crucifix reminded me that this family honored, and most likely feared, an omnipotent Catholic God.

  As soon as I sat, Monique spoke. Her eyes were glazed, the patch beneath them dark and swollen. I knew she was barely thirty, but the lines in her face were carved deeper. She was a tortured old woman residing in her own private hell.

  She struggled to get the words out.

  “I tol’ you before. Chris don’t hurt Alexis. I know. I read paper. They say he guilty. What you think happen to him?”

  “I think he’s going to trial. There’s a good chance he’ll be convicted. If he is, he will spend the rest of his life in prison. Maybe even be executed.”

  “No,” she said, “I go to Detective Beamon. Tell him Chris is innocent. No trial. They let him go.”

  “It doesn’t work that way, Monique. Beamon has built a case. He has evidence he believes in. He is certain Chris is guilty. He’s doing everything he can to prove it. He won’t give up unless someone comes forward with new evidence. It probably would have happened by now. It’s pretty much over.”

  She was quiet. Her hands twisted in her lap like writhing snakes. Her haunted eyes hung on Billy for several seconds. I thought she whispered, “I love you. Forgive me.”

  “Is not time to go on. You listen, Mister T.K. You go to station with Billy and me. Help them understand.”

  “Of course,” I nodded.

  “I am the one. I kill Alexis.”

  “No,” Billy shouted, “no one believe you killed your own beloved child. This is not truth.”

  She shut her eyes and hardened herself against the coming sobs.

  “Her father was Malachi Strait. He was worst kind of evil. I was young. I was pretty. I need money to start the shop. He come to me late at night. He tell me he like to help. He say he loan me some cash, but he need collateral. I have none. He put one hundred dollar bill on table and ask if I sit in his lap. I think this is no problem, but he kiss my neck. He rub my thigh. Put his hand under my skirt. I look at the money on the table. He not force me. I did what he want. He left, but he come again in two weeks. This time five hundred dollar. It happen again. He did not stop until I tell him I carry his child. Then I no see him. Now my shop is doing well. I don’t need his money. Then I meet Billy, I don’t need nothing ever again.”

  He knelt before her and placed his hands on her knees. She pushed them away gently. He looked into her eyes and shook his head. “I don’t believe you. You want to save Chris, but it won’t work.”

  “No, Billy. I did it. She was my baby, but she carried the curse of her father. It was his blood that ran in her. You did not see picture. I find it in her drawer. She was naked, holding that man’s thing in her hand. It was her body, her face, her smile, but the eyes were those of a demon. They were mine. The eyes of the mother. The invisibles, the loas, they got her, make her do this thing. Mauvais Sang. It was not her fault, but the evil was there. It would not go. I create it. I destroy it. It was written.”

  She stopped. Billy was still and silent. She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand and went on.

  “I pray to the Blessed Virgin. She don’t answer. It is not a thing for my God. I cannot leave my Alexis to wander. The demons must be released. Her soul must be free. So I follow the voodoo ritual. I give her some sleep medicine to slow her. Then I take her to that house. I have the knife from the boat. I put it to her throat, cover her with the powder and the sheet. She does not see. She does not cry. At last moment she open her eyes. I think she smiled at her Mama. She jerk a little, but finally she bleed out. I cut the head off of the chicken and mingle the blood in the bowl. I see her spirit rise from the body and drift from the house on the wind. She gone to Baron Samedi. She seek peace, but still not have it. I am cursed. I must make the peace. I tell the police. I free Chris. Then she will rest.”

  She began to heave and a long wail escaped her lips. It was the cry of a wounded animal. Billy remained on his knees. He stared at the floor, then put his arms around her shoulders and rocked her like a baby while she sobbed.

  I lifted myself from the chair. Billy went to the door with me. Tears ran down his cheeks.

  “I’ll wait outside until she is ready to go.”

  “You don’t want it to be, Mister Fleming, but you the Ghostcatcher no matter what you say. I call Detective.”

  Chapter 40

  They released Chris the next morning. I didn’t see him. He settled his bill at Land’s End, slipped the lines and was gone without a word to anyone.

  Frank called to apologize. I told him it was okay. Like he said, he’s a cop. There was still no trace of Cy Watts. Frank was sure he was dead. I told him about the new plantings at Marcuse Durant’s and the cryptic comment he’d made about the right kind of fertilizer turning an ugly thing into something beautiful.

  “It’s not enough without more to go on,” he said, but I think we both hoped Watts was rotting under that flower bed.

  “I think any good attorney can get her off on a temporary insanity plea. It’s the only thing that makes any sense in this case. Felice wants you and Sunny to come over for dinner when everything is settled, but no cop talk. Actually I think she’s ready to start her master’s degree online.”

  “That’s great. We’d love to, but it will have to wait. Sunny’s got two weeks off from the Parrot. We’re headed for Marathon in the morning. If it’s decent, we’ll skip No Name, go offshore near Rodriquez Key at Molasses Reef. Then we’ll do an overnighter in the stream.

  “Lucky bastard,” he said and rung off. I promised to call when we got back.

  I ran through the check list I always use before a Gulf Stream crossing. I always kept my Coast Guard equipment up to date. Extra oil change, transmission fluid, first aid kit, impeller, miscellaneous spare parts, trying to cover the multitude of things that might need a fix offshore. NOAA’s weather forecast was as good as it gets, 10-12 from the southeast for the next few days, 2-4 foot seas and no rain.

  By nine we’d cleared the main ship’s channel. I hoisted and released the genny. I hit the fuel cut-off and lock
ed the prop. KAMALA shuddered a bit like a fine thoroughbred. She knew she was in control. The bow lifted and we surged through the rolling swells in Hawk Channel. The weather was perfect. We left Marathon to port and picked up the stream. When the water turned indigo blue and the depth sounder stopped reading, I knew the extra three-knot current was driving us. The GPS showed a steady 8-9 knots made good.

  The sun baked us from directly overhead. Sunny went below and came back up in my favorite bikini without the top. She had a cold Kalik in either hand. I liked the combination and I decided staring might be tolerated, maybe even welcomed. I set the auto-pilot and let the warmth bathe me.

  My mind was still a jumble of thoughts. I was sorry about Harry, but as he said, “we choose our own poison.” What would happen to the Strip Search when Tracy got back? Where was Chris? Would I see him again? Maybe Buffett’s Roundtable was a thing of the past. I hoped not. And what about Monique? And Billy? Sunny’s face said she had questions, too. But neither of us had answers.

  Watts was probably dead. I wasn’t sorry. Marcuse and Joseph. I owed the dark Reverend for sending his man to save me from Watts’ blade. I wished him healthy and beautiful flowers. For hours there was no sound but the rustling of wind in the sails and the rush of the deep blue parting before the bow.

  I logged a minor course change and trimmed the sails. My hand still hurt, but the flesh had closed and the scar tissue was filling in nicely. The sun was setting in a huge orange ball behind the Keys. The day had cooled and the wind was a baptismal that promised to wash clean the sins of the past few weeks.

  After we’d eaten, I asked Sunny if she could stand watch while I got a couple of hours sleep.

  “You need it,” she said.

  I lay down on the port settee. KAMALA was heeled at about ten degrees and I was wedged comfortably between the cushions. I listened as Mother Ocean spoke and felt her caress in the quiet rocking of the boat. I slept.

  The child came for the last time. But there was no crying or wailing. She wore a bright blue t-shirt I knew had come from Monique’s shop. It had a giant sunflower emblazoned on the front. Her black curls were tamed by a pair of gold barrettes. She was smiling. She held the book in her right hand.

  There was a taller figure behind her, graceful hands kneading her shoulders. The face wasn’t clear, but the love was. It lasted only a moment. Then they were gone.

  Maybe Monique was right. Alexis was finally at peace. I wanted it for her, but also for myself. I woke and a sound lilted through the cabin. “Ghostcatcher” it whispered. I didn’t ever want to hear that word again, but maybe Billy was right. I had helped. It seemed more luck than anything else. I didn’t like the way it ended, but I had done it.

  Now the sound had faded. I looked up into the cockpit to check on Sunny. She was humming to herself. The breeze blew the silky hair away from her face. She smiled at me and gave me a thumbs up. I reached to the shelf for the book of poems. One last look at ‘Annabel Lee.’ It was gone. I went back to sleep.

  We got back two weeks later, relaxed and brown and maybe a couple of pounds heavier. KAMALA had been true to her pedigree. Quick, ladylike, and comfortable. I talked to Frank. Monique had already agreed to a plea deal. No incarceration, but some undetermined time at a quiet place north of Palm Beach. Laverne, Durant’s ‘placee’, had made a miraculous recovery and his followers were convinced his magic was as strong as ever. There was whispering about some kind of sacrifice, but there were no missing persons reported. I still don’t know about Chris, but I figure we’ll see each other again if it’s in the cards.

  Buffett’s Roundtable still meets at the Green Parrot. Sunny, Fritz, Whip, Miss Julianne, and some new additions, aka reprobates and boat bums. If you’re looking for us, we’ll be the ones laughing.

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  About the author:

  Karl Tutt is a licensed captain, veteran cruiser, former sailing instructor, and author of sailing articles for several national publications. He lives in Florida and teaches English in a dropout prevention program. He is currently working on a sequel to DEATH OF THE INNOCENT.