by Tom Lowe
“I want to find more of what I now have.”
“And that would be what?”
“That would be you. After Sherri’s death, I wasn’t sure that I could ever love again, at least not with the deep connection and passion we had together. You proved that I can because you allowed me, in my own terms, to discover again, a special love in you, which is what I’d lost with Sherri’s passing. Cancer took her life unexpectedly. Years later, a bullet from a psychopath took the life of our unborn child. That hurts. But I didn’t enter this relationship with you to have conditions attached or to think we won’t face our ups and downs. The beauty is the raw—blemishes and all, unconditional love … and I’m a lucky man to have found it twice in my life.”
Wynona’s eyes welled, she looked away, moonlight playing off the dark water in the marina. After a moment, she glanced back at me. “Thank you, Sean. I really needed to hear that tonight.”
We sat there in the semi-darkness, the marina quiet, moths circling one of the dock lamps atop a pole near the middle of L dock. I massaged her shoulder, taking her hand in mine and saying nothing. There was nothing we needed to say at that moment. We simply enjoyed being with each other on a sailboat at the end of L dock on a balmy evening in Florida, the moon rising high in the dark sky.
• • •
Kristen Morgan looked up at the moon after finishing her mermaid shift at the Odyssey Restaurant and stepping out the backdoor to the employee parking lot. She walked with a friend, Diana Harmon, a tall and statuesque blonde. Diana was a former lifeguard who worked part-time as a mermaid in the show. “We can see our shadows in the parking lot,” she said, waving her arms. “And it’s all because the moon is so bright tonight. I don’t see any clouds in the sky.”
Kristen looked up. “There’s a small one. Looks like it’s out over the ocean.”
“I’m starving. Want to go to Stella’s Pizza for something to eat and get a beer?”
“Can’t tonight. My graduate thesis is due in six days. And I’ve started rewriting it three times.” Kristen sighed.
“Are you having a hard time concentrating or what?”
“I know what I want to say. I’m just having a challenge finding a good starting point. I guess I have to sit down, turn my phone off, and make myself do it. My professor is a perfectionist. He’s made me a better student but, at the same time, I’ve become more panicky or anxious about getting it right.”
“I’m thinking about going back to college. After two years at Broward Community College, I burned out. So, I dropped out before I flunked out.” Diana smiled. “I was lucky to get this job. I never thought my lifeguarding experience would prepare me to be a freaking mermaid. I know it’s only temporary. I’d love to find a real job … no, a career, working with animals. I love swimming with the fish in the aquarium here, but I want something more meaningful.”
Kristen stopped walking, the sound of traffic beyond the palm trees bordering the parking lot. “How well can you see people in the restaurant when you’re underwater?”
“I can see shapes, but that’s about all. It’s hard without a facemask, but mermaids can’t wear facemasks, right?”
“Right. But something kind of weird happened tonight and one other night last week.”
“What was it?”
“Some guy came to the window—the window I’m usually swimming in front of, and he put his hand on the glass, like he wanted me to do the same. You know, a palm-to-palm thing.”
“Did you put your hand on the glass?”
“Yes. I felt like I had to because it might be rude not to do it. Sort of like when somebody waves at you. It’s hard for me to just turn away. I have to wave back at them even if I don’t know who’s waving at me.”
“Maybe you’ve got an admirer. I wonder who he is? If he’s that close to the windows, can you see his face? Is he a cute guy?”
“I can’t get a good look at his face through the water and glass, but he seems older … one of those dudes who comes across distinguished, I suppose.”
“I don’t think I’ve had any of the customers put their hands on the glass … at least I can’t remember any.”
“You’d remember this guy.”
“Why? A hand is a hand.”
“It’s missing most of the ring finger. And the first time he did it, I could just barely see in the space where his finger was gone. I couldn’t see his face, but I could see one of his eyes. Like it was an eye of a dead thing. Or something without a soul.”
“That’s weird and creepy. But maybe it looked like that because it’s so hard to see clearly with water in our eyes.” Diana stopped walking. “Here’s my car. Where’d you park?”
Kristen pointed toward a half-dozen cars parked near a large gumbo-limbo tree at the end of the lot. “Over there.”
“If you get hungry and change your mind about pizza and beer at Stella’s, call me.”
“Okay. Good night. See you Friday.” Kristen got the keys from her purse and walked quickly across the lot toward her car. When she got to the driver’s side door, she turned around and waved at Diana who’d backed out of her parking space and waited a few seconds before driving off the lot. She slowly pulled away as Kristen opened her car door.
Behind her, a man stepped from the deep shadows of the gumbo-limbo tree. He wore shoes with soft soles, not making a sound as he approached Kristen. He quickly maneuvered his left arm and hand to her mouth. In his right hand was a pistol, the barrel pressed to her temple. His calm voice whispered, “If you scream, you will die. The gun has a silencer on it. I will walk away, and later they’ll find your body here. Don’t scream. Do you understand.”
Kristen nodded, the man’s hand smelled like glue or rubber. She could feel his thumb against her left cheekbone. Three fingers across her mouth and chin. And she could feel the stub of a fourth finger pressing hard against her lower lip. Her heart pounded. “What do you want?”
“Shut up! I watched you in the tank. I want to see if you can swim that well someplace else.”
Kristen kicked backwards, trying to break free. She used her elbows, attempting to hit her attacker in his ribs. He pressed the barrel of the gun hard against her head, pulling the trigger back. He whispered, “Mermaids only kick with their tails. They don’t have legs. Maybe I’ll surgically remove yours.”
Kristen could barely breathe in his grasp. Her full bladder leaked, a trickle of urine running down her left leg, over the man’s shoe, and onto the parking lot.
THIRTY-FOUR
It was after midnight when we heard the odd sound. The noise from a splash sounded as if someone threw a concrete block into the marina water. “What was that?” Wynona asked, her voice not louder than a whisper. Max lifted her head, a faint growl in the back of her throat.
I stood in Dragonfly’s cockpit and walked to the port side, staying in the shadows, searching. I could see swells moving from the center of the splash. Within seconds, a large fish broke water again, coming high over the surface, thrashing and chasing minnows. Under the moonlight and the harbor lights, I saw the long silvery body and could make out the distinctive shape of the fish’s head, the large eyes. I walked back to Wynona and sat. “It’s a big tarpon in here hunting for pinfish and other easy prey.”
“With Ponce Inlet so close, we’re near to the mouth of the ocean. You never know what species of fish can be swimming right under Dragonfly, Jupiter, and all of the other boats in the marina.”
“I have no doubt there is the occasional shark passing through here.”
Wynona hugged her arms. “In my former line of work, I met my share of predators.” She inhaled the night air, putting Max in her lap and moving closer to me. “In college, in addition to all of the classes I took in criminal justice and forensic science, I always loved my philosophy classes, too. Somehow, perhaps in my youthful naïveté, I thought the study of the criminal mind—someone intent on breaking the laws of a given society, and the study of philosophy, would mash up, or at lea
st one might help explain or reinforce the other. At least in putting some rationale to human thought.”
“What did you discover about the two or maybe about yourself?”
She nodded and smiled. “You’re perceptive, of course. It was more of what I learned about myself rather than what either of the subjects revealed in tandem. But those realizations or self-actualizations, for me, didn’t become real until long after I graduated and went into law enforcement.”
“How so?” I sipped my drink, looked down a Max, now asleep again on Wynona’s lap.
“Perhaps its related to the time I tried to stop that psychopathic father from the so-called honor killing of his daughter. In terms of philosophy … what happens when someone is placed into a situation where they do what’s supposed to be right and, yet, under the rules of some people, still labeled as wrong? What kind of hybrid ethics does that create? What really rings true—at least to me, is what the person does in an impossible situation to right a horrible wrong. Isn’t it at that moment, even if I pumped eight rounds into a sadistic killer … isn’t that my most authentic and justified action ever?”
“If the criminal justice system didn’t have so many manmade variables, maybe that would be a way to keep a moral balance in the universe. But, sometimes, there are too many potholes dug into the system, usually by the ones with money and greed, that there’s no level playing field. Does it justify retribution? Does that validate redemption? Will an eye for an eye eventually cause the whole world to go blind? If two eyes are taken rather than one, that might, in the long run, be the case.”
“I know what I did stepped over the line—at least in hindsight. But, philosophically speaking, didn’t he deserve it?”
“It might have been justifiable, but one thing about the law in a democracy, the court system takes the judgement and punishment out of our hands. And that’s a good thing. But you hope from there that the jury gets it right and doesn’t let a criminal back out on the streets where, most likely, he or she will continue with their offenses.”
Wynona sipped her wine. “You know, Sean … even after working with some of the smartest criminal profilers in the FBI, after working and studying the cases of aberrant criminal behavior, I’m not so sure I understand its source better today than when I first joined the FBI.”
“The source, I believe, comes from some kind of genetic and handed-down defect in humanity. And I’m beginning to think it’s theological as well as societal … as if those who embrace evil choose to do the opposite from the way God instructed us. Evil doesn’t play fair … so how do you play fair with evil? The short answer is you don’t, and you can’t. Ever. No more than you can contain it. We, the human race, are saddled with it. Could be that the original Pandora’s box was the result of man’s weakness in the Garden of Eden. Maybe it’s a bad seed lying somewhat dormant in the loins of mankind until it spawns like a dangerous game of Russian roulette when the firing pin strikes a live round and fires into the heart of the innocent.”
“As it did with Michelle Martin—the victim on the beach.”
“Good example, and sadly, yes.”
“Perhaps it was a bizarre and isolated murder. Hopefully, that’s it. If all goes well, detectives are going to find the perp, and he or she will be removed from society.”
I finished my drink. “According to the news media, police are questioning a person of interest, the dead girl’s former boyfriend. The stories indicated he’s in line to eventually take over his family’s construction business. He’s been working there since college, a couple of years.”
Wynona eyed me and angled her head. “So, are you suggesting the ex-boyfriend doesn’t fit the killer’s profile?”
“Off the top, I don’t know. The posed body of the girl just appears inconsistent with a guy who builds shopping centers.”
“It’s hard to profile a killer based on his public profession, especially one that’s handed-down from one generation to the next. He didn’t have to go out and create his place in the world. That was done for him, assuming he would want to one day run the family business.”
“Maybe he’s a bored rich kid who took a mermaid fantasy too far. If it’s not him, I believe that the same evil character, someone like the fictitious Hannibal Lecter—but this one is very real, will scamper out from beneath his rock and continue the carnage. I think the detectives have a hell of a challenge on their hands.”
Wynona finished her wine, scratching Max on her head. “In your hypothesis of pure evil that you were making, please tell me there is a good and decent moral to the story, because I know there’s not always a happy ending.” She smiled, setting down her wine glass.
“There is no ending, because it continues to reproduce from a malevolent seed. There are no unflawed heroes. Even King Arthur had his moral code compromised. But can we, the audience hearing his tale, suspend our moral judgement until the main character in the story can right a wrong? You mentioned being put in a dire situation to do what’s right and to be found wrong in the aftermath. For the Monday morning quarterbacks, it’s easy to analyze and second guess the battle in the aftermath. What’s difficult is making the split-second decisions trying to save a human life.”
“It’s that moment in time I question. Did I know that girl had died, and my emotions got the best of me? Or was she still alive, and I was trying to save her—she was screaming when I entered the home.”
“So, in your replay of the incident, you’re questioning whether or not there may have been a split second where you went from saving the girl to realizing she was gone to killing the father in retribution? Wynona, how could you have possibly known for sure? There was no time for a medical assessment, let alone take her pulse. The father had a weapon and could have killed you.”
“You’re right. It’s just that I was held accountable by the FBI for knowing, or that I should have known, and that really bothers me. It’s made me question myself. I went into the profession to save lives and to protect people … not to become the judge, jury, and executioner.”
“You know what I love about Dragonfly, among her many amenities?”
“What’s that?”
“Unlike a car, there’s no rearview mirror. So, I don’t have to put the past in the rearview mirror. Because there’s nothing to see in that direction … behind me.”
“I love your analogy about the horizon and the other side of the other side. Since the Earth is round, we might sail on forever looking for the other side.”
“I like that agenda.”
“There is no agenda, and that’s the beauty of us following the wind at sea. I’m so looking forward to our sailing trip. At first I was hesitant, thinking I needed to return to my job with the tribal police department. But now … not so much. Maybe never again. And I’d love to visit that antique store you mentioned to me. I’ve been thinking about that. God only knows what I can do, what I’m qualified to do. The sooner we can get out on the water … the better.”
“I’ll raise a glass to that.”
Wynona glanced up at the moon and back at me. “I look forward to tomorrow and the rest of the week. And, if I can quote Scarlett O’Hara’s last line from the movie, Gone with the Wind … after surviving the Civil War, she said … ‘Afterall, tomorrow is another day.’ For us, Sean, it will be a good day.”
I smiled and hugged Wynona, just as a large cloud covered the moon, the marina growing darker, as if a curtain had been pulled.
THIRTY-FIVE
It’s withstood hurricanes, pirates, and wars between settlers and Seminoles. At a height of 110 feet above the Atlantic Ocean, the Cape Florida Lighthouse, at the southern tip of Key Biscayne, is a survivor. The whitewashed brick tower stands like a sole sentry above the wispy coconut palms, ficus trees, sea grape bushes, and mangroves. It may stand alone today, but there are people who believe the old lighthouse is never truly alone. With a haunted past, they swear it has an ominous presence that’s felt like the South Florida humidity surrounding
it.
The Cape Florida Lighthouse was built in 1825. During the second Seminole War, after broken promises and shattered peace treaties, one of the first lighthouse keepers was killed at the top of the tower when a Seminole war party raided Key Biscayne. In 1975 an electrician working alone refused to return to the job of rewiring the top of the lighthouse when he discovered his tools were being moved during the course of his work. Maintenance workers and groundskeepers have reported hearing the spiral steps creaking as if someone was climbing them when the lighthouse was closed and no one else was in it.
Today, guided tours are conducted by historians who tell visitors about the old lighthouse that’s saved mariners from deadly offshore reefs, guiding them to safe passage with a light that could be seen twenty-five miles out in the dark Atlantic. The irony is that the beacon of safety, leading sailors to sheltered harbor, also attracted Seminole warriors who were intent on pushing back and not be forced deeper into the Everglades, or worse, to walk the Trail of Tears from Florida to Oklahoma.
“When we get to the top, in just a minute,” said a retired historian with a short, white beard and a fedora hat, “you’ll see the very best view of Key Biscayne’s beaches and all the way up to Miami and South Beach.”
A half-dozen people—tourists, people from England, Canada, California and North Carolina, followed the guide up a long spiral staircase to the top of the lighthouse. The interior of the tower had the dank and chalky smell of old stone—like bricks dusted in cobwebs and left behind for years in a dark and damp basement. There were a few lights lit along the passage, their amber glow casting crooked shadows around the twisted staircase.
The guide said, “Here we are everyone. Step through the door, and you can walk around the metal banister that makes a full circle just below the light itself.”
