The Water Keeper

by Charles Martin

  When he grew tired, Clay stopped and bowed. All of the tables around us clapped for Summer, who was an accomplished dancer. Any idiot could see that. She returned him to his seat, where he sat smiling like he’d just won the lottery. Then she turned her attention to me.

  Which I was afraid of.

  She walked around the table and leaned in close to my face. She was happy, her cheeks flushed. “And you, kind sir?”

  “I don’t dance.”

  She held out her hand. “And I don’t swim. Get your butt out of that chair.”

  She had a point. I stood, and she led me to the dance floor. “I’ve only really danced once in my life, and that was—”

  “Well, before about an hour ago, I’d never been swimming. So you’re in good company.”

  With most every table watching her instruct me, she lifted my arms into the position she wanted. I felt like the straw man in The Wizard of Oz. “You ever see Dirty Dancing?”

  “No.”

  She mouthed the words without vocalizing them. You’ve never seen Dirty Dancing? Sweat beaded on her temple.

  “Nope.”

  She continued to make fine adjustments to my arms, shoulders, and stance, and spoke without looking at me. “What is wrong with the educational institutions of America?”

  “Are we finished yet?”

  She sized me up. “You’re no Patrick Swayze, but you’ll do.” She hung her right hand into my left and placed my right hand around her waist, with her left hand on my right shoulder. Then she began telling me where to put my feet. “Step here.” “Step there.” “Good, now raise your left hand straight up.” “Step backward.” “Now bring your left hand across your face, like you’re looking at your watch.”

  While I followed instructions and she led me in the art of leading her, she said, “Nice watch.”

  “Friend gave it to me.”

  “Nice friend.”

  I focused on everything she was telling me while she moved as easily as someone breathing in their sleep. While she moved around me, making me look like I knew what I was doing, she said, “Did you just say you have only danced once in your life?”

  “This makes twice.”

  “What on earth is wrong with you?”

  “We’re gonna need a bigger dance floor to answer that question.”

  “What’s the short version?”

  “I’ve only been married once.”

  “Certainly you danced with your wife somewhere?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “She left.”

  “What, a year? Two?”

  “No. More like an hour.”

  She stopped spinning and returned to face me. This time she moved closer. “You were married for an hour?”

  “Almost.”

  She looked embarrassed. “Something terrible happened, didn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago. And to be honest, I think this dance was much better. At least one of us knew what we were doing.”

  The music stopped and people actually stood at their tables clapping for Summer, who pointed to me, clapped, and then bowed. She was sweating, breathing slightly heavily. I wondered how someone so beautiful, so talented, so . . . wasn’t married.

  Clay seemed distracted as we idled back to the hotel. After I tied up at the dock, I helped lift him out and said, “Mr. Pettybone, you okay?”

  He coughed and wiped his mouth with a cloth handkerchief. “Yes, sir. Would you mind . . . ?” He eyed his door, so I locked my arm in his and walked him to his room. As he inserted the key, he said, “Mr. Murphy, I don’t want to tell you your business, but you’ve got somebody else on that boat.”

  I glanced back at Gone Fiction. Summer stood on the dock, tying up the stern line. “What do you mean?”

  He threw his head to the side and rear, suggesting something from his past. “In my life, I learned to listen. I’m still pretty good at it. There’s somebody else on that boat.”

  I glanced at Fingers’ orange box tied to the bow. Not sure what to reveal, I shook my head. “Still not following you.”

  He pointed to the small door that led into the even smaller head housed in the center console.

  Chapter 17

  It dawned on me that I had not opened the latch door to the head since I’d finished packing the boat at my island the night before I left. I had thought about it when I almost stowed Fingers’ box in there, but I’d never done it. That meant it had sat untouched since I’d left the island.

  Summer noticed the wrinkle between my eyes. “You okay?”

  I didn’t want to leave the orange box out overnight, plus it gave me the excuse I needed. So I untied it and said, “Yeah . . .” I pointed to the head and placed one single finger to my lips. I spoke to her while looking at the door. “I just need to lock this up for the night.” I didn’t know what or who might be in the head, so if need be I planned to use Fingers’ lunch box as a weapon.

  I pulled on the latch leading into the head and gently swung the door open until it clicked into its magnetic hold. When I did, I found two wide eyes staring at me from the darkness. They darted from me to Summer and back to me. Slowly a shape took place. She was small. Sitting inside the console, surrounded by towels and a cushion. I scratched my head and started thinking back through all the rough water we’d crossed. The idea that someone had been in there for any length of time at all was mind-boggling. A pinball would have had an easier go.

  Seeing another face to lick, Gunner moved in for closer inspection. Finding willing hands, he began licking her face, which brought a giggle. A beautiful laugh. Which explained all the time Gunner had spent sniffing the crack around the door. With Gunner’s tail wagging at full speed, I pulled him out and stuck my head inside the console. Then my hand. A much smaller hand took mine, and she climbed out of the head.

  A girl. Maybe not quite a teenager. Jeans. Backpack. Running shoes. Short, Audrey Hepburn–length hair. She stood studying me and said nothing.

  Summer looked at me, the girl, then me again. She stepper closer. “Honey, are you okay?”

  The girl shrugged.

  “You lost?”

  The girl shook her head but didn’t take her eyes off me. It was as if she was looking at something she’d heard about but never seen. Like something hanging on a wall in a museum.

  Summer kept trying. “You’re not lost?”

  Another shake. Matter-of-fact. She looked around. “No.”

  “Well, baby doll—” Summer tried a laugh to break the ice. “What are you doing?”

  The girl looked at me. “I’m wondering if you can tell me who I am.”

  I pointed to myself. “Why me?”

  She held up a yellowed piece of paper.

  “May I?”

  She passed it through the air that hung between us. It was an older, detailed navigational chart showing the island I call home. The grounds around the chapel had been circled in red pencil. There was no name. No writing. “What’s this?”

  Her voice had an edge. “The girls at school were talking about their homes, parents, what they were doing for fall break, where they were going, and all that. I knew nothing. I’ve never known anything about me. All I knew was that I was going to spend one more sucky holiday alone. With the same old sucky questions. I got tired of them always talking behind my back. So I broke into the room where they keep the files and dug around. Most of the files were an inch thick. Each a pedigree of royalty. So-and-so is related to so-and-so, who did such and such. More money than God. My file had two pieces of paper.”

  “The second?”

  She handed me a smaller sheet the size of an index card. It was a picture.

  Of me.

  She pointed. “That’s you, right?”

  I looked to be about fifteen years younger. I did not know when it was taken or who had taken it. It showed me standing in the water on the south side of my island, shirt
off, a cast net in my arms. Doing what I love. The look on my face was one of peace. Contentment. Whoever had taken it knew enough about me to know when to snap the shutter. They must have been standing in the trees along the bank and snapped it when I turned to throw the net. Taped to the underside of the picture was a newspaper headline from the New York Times dated sixteen years ago. The headline read, “Kidnapped Senator’s Daughter Rescued and Returned Unharmed by Mystery Man. Shot 3 Times He Paddled Seven Miles Navigating by the Stars.”

  The article was not attached to the headline. Which was all right with me. I knew what it said. I held the pieces in my hand. “Anything else?”

  She pulled a shoestring-size piece of leather from around her neck. It held a large brass-looking key.

  She offered the key. “Ever seen this?”

  I studied it, flipping it over and back in my hand. “Not to my knowledge.” One side of the key read “27”; the other side had the address of a bank in Miami.

  I had grown somewhat annoyed. “That’s all you got?”

  Her eyes never flickered when she spoke. “It’s what I’ve got.”

  Summer continued, “Baby, where’s your school?”

  She turned to Summer. “I’m not your baby.”

  Summer put her hands on her hips. “Can you tell me your name?”

  “Ellie, but it’s not my real name.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Seven foster homes. Four boarding schools.”

  Summer stepped closer. “What’s your real name?”

  Ellie spoke without emotion. “You mean like on my birth certificate?”

  Summer nodded.

  “Jane Doe.”

  Summer’s voice softened. “Is somebody looking for you?”

  Expressionless, Ellie shrugged. “No idea.”

  Summer leaned in closer. “Where’s your mom now?”

  Ellie spoke with governed sarcasm. “If I knew that, do you think I’d have stuffed myself in that box?”

  Summer asked again, “Where’s your school?”

  “New York.”

  Ellie stared at me. “Look, I don’t like being here any more than you, but can we just skip all this? Did you have some kid you didn’t want? Maybe dropped her on the curb somewhere? If so, just tell me. It’s no big deal—”

  I interrupted her. “My wife died before we were able to have kids.”

  Summer asked, “How’d you get from New York to Florida?”

  “Train.”

  “And the island?”

  “Uber.”

  “How’d you pay for it?”

  Ellie frowned. “The girls at my school are rich. Daddy’s money and everything. They never miss it.”

  Summer stepped closer. “Honey, how old are you?”

  “I’m not your honey either.”

  “Okay.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “You just look so young.”

  “Just how old should I be? I can actually hold my own sippy cup and change my own diaper.”

  Summer passed her off to me with a look. The lights shone on the girl’s features. Eyes. Chin. Cheekbones. She was beautiful, tough, and her body language suggested she was not afraid of a scrap.

  I took a go. “How long have you been looking for me?”

  “Couple of weeks.”

  Summer spoke up. “You’ve been on your own for three weeks?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve been on my own since I was born.”

  Summer kept at it. “Do I need to call someone and let them know you’re okay?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Who would you call?”

  This girl really was on her own. I could hear her stomach growling. “You hungry?”

  Another shrug. “Not really.”

  Summer took the baton. “Would you like to shower?”

  “No, I don’t want a shower and I don’t want any food. I don’t want anything from you two.” She looked at me. “I just want to know if you have any idea who I am or where I might have come from. If not—” She tapped the key on her chest. “I’m headed to Miami.”

  I didn’t have time for this girl. But that picture kept staring up at me.

  I tried to speak calmly. “The bank won’t let you access that.”

  “Watch me.”

  I stepped closer. It was the first time I intentionally intruded on her personal space. “You have an ID showing that you’re eighteen?”

  She nodded.

  I held out my hand.

  “Why?”

  “I’d like to see it.”

  She flashed it but didn’t let me hold it. “See.”

  She was right. She had learned how to work the system.

  I glanced at Clay, who shrugged and coughed once.

  The ID wasn’t hers. A close likeness, yes, but it’d never pass in the bank.

  I was tired. Thoughts were firing and I had no answers. I also felt like Angel was slipping further from my grasp the more I stood here and talked. But there was that picture. “Listen, I don’t know who you are. I’m sorry. I don’t. But we’ll be in Miami tomorrow, and if you’ll just hang out one more night, we’ll go to the bank.”

  She stiffened. Raised a finger. “On one condition.”

  I didn’t think she was in a position to make demands, but I went along with it. “Okay.”

  “I keep whatever’s in that box.”

  I nodded. “Deal.”

  “Even if it’s a million dollars.”

  “Even if.”

  Her head tilted sideways. “Really? You’re not going to fight me for it?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because I don’t want what’s yours and right now I’m too tired to fight you or anyone else for anything.”

  She folded her arms. “Can I ask you something?”

  I wiped my face with my palm. “Sure.”

  She held up the picture. “This you?”

  “Yes—although I have no idea who took it or when.”

  Next, she waved the news headline. “And this?”

  I nodded.

  She did not seem convinced. “Prove it.”

  “No.”

  She gestured with both hands. “Why not?”

  It was late, and I still had some thinking to do. I spoke to everyone. “We’ll leave early.” Turning to Summer, I said, “Can she stay with you?”

  Summer put her hand on Ellie’s shoulder. “Sure.”

  “I’ll find some takeout and bring it back.” I spoke to Ellie. “Chinese or something?”

  “You didn’t answer me.” A pause. “Why not?”

  “I quit proving myself to people a long time ago. You can stay or go. Up to you. But—” I could hear her stomach growling. “I’m offering dinner.”

  She considered my offer, hesitated, and spoke softly. “All right.”

  Clay walked to his room. Slowly. His cough had worsened and it was producing more. Gunner walked alongside him. The two disappeared into Clay’s room.

  The world just got a lot more complicated.

  Summer kicked into momma-gear and slipped her hand into Ellie’s. “Let’s get you cleaned up and then something hot to eat. Deal?”

  The two disappeared into Summer’s room. I set Fingers’ box inside the head and saw how Ellie had been living the last few days cooped up inside that small area. She’d made a pallet of towels to cushion her ride. Before I locked up the boat, I pulled out my sat phone.

  When I turned it on, the screen immediately read, “You have 0 new voicemails.”

  As I turned the phone in my hand, my cell phone rang. Caller ID put the area code as Colorado. I answered after the second ring.

  He asked, “Late for you, isn’t it?”

  “A little.”

  “What’s going on?”

  I stared at the lights of Summer’s room. “Well—” My eyes wandered to the hotel, then to the water slowl
y flowing south. “I’m traveling with a woman who’s looking for her daughter who doesn’t want to be found. The mom is on the verge of cracking. Fragile. Frayed threads holding it together. Fighting images in both the windshield and the rearview. Next to her sits a dying man who’s trying to get south for the first time in over sixty years. His eyes are tired and tell of a life lived hard, and there is sorrow behind them. I’m not sure where we’re headed, but I think he loved someone many years ago. He’s returning to that memory. Next to him is possibly the smartest dog I’ve ever seen anywhere. And next to him is a teenage girl who’s been hiding in the head since I left the island. She’s friends with no one but trying to dig up her past, which brought her to me—for reasons I can’t quite figure. Discovered her an hour ago. And tied to the bow is a box holding the ashes of my best friend. Before me is a lot of water and possibly a lot of pain. Behind me is an email. And back on the kitchen table is a purple urn. That’s pretty much it for starters.”

  “Who’s the girl?”

  “Thanks for the sympathy.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Were you looking for some of that?”

  I told him Ellie’s story.

  He was silent for several moments. When he spoke I knew he was serious. He said, “I could be there—”

  “If we find Angel, you’ll be needed where you are.” He knew I was right. I was tired. My filter weak. “Did you have a reason for calling me?”

  “Two things. First, Barclay T. Pettybone did in fact do sixty for murder. In Alabama. Which probably wasn’t easy for a man of his color. He is also dying of cancer, but . . .” He cleared his throat. “He doesn’t have to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Surgery and treatment will help him. Extend his life. But it’s expensive. Somewhat experimental. And he would need to travel. Quickly.”

  “How long does he have?”

  “That depends on the infection in his lungs and . . . whether or not he wants to keep living.”

  I stared at Clay’s door. “He’s pretty weak. I have a feeling he’s not going anywhere until he finds what he’s looking for in the Keys.”

  “He may not make it that far. Can you lean on him?”

  “I can lead a horse to water, but I can’t make him drink. I think you were the one who taught me that.”

  I could see him nodding in my mind’s eye. “I might have said something like that over the years . . . a time or two.”