And then it hit him like a physical blow, the realization that had been growing since they left Heron Key: the farther north they traveled, the less free he felt. It was like he was attached to the place by a long rubber band that was now stretched to its absolute limit. Missy had reminded him that things would only change when folks decided to change them. She was right. Yes, there were risks for him back in Heron Key, from the storm and the law, but finally he understood. He had left his people behind. Without them, he could never be truly free. Risks didn’t matter at this point. Choices mattered. And there was really only one.
“Is there any chance,” he asked Moses, “you could take a passenger?”
Chapter 18
Down in Heron Key, Dwayne went to his favorite thinking spot at the beach. Eventually he had managed to raise the alarm, and someone got the spare keys from Noreen. He could not meet her eyes when she opened the cell door, nor Ike’s when he released him. Ronald wouldn’t like it, but Dwayne would deal with him after the storm had passed. The beach was the only place where he could avoid the smirks and questions, the only place where he could clear his head. He sat at the same old, scarred picnic table he always used. It didn’t matter about the weather. He needed to calm his thoughts, which were as jumbled as the flotsam washing onto the sand.
There was little time left. Ronald and his cronies would be at the country club by now, organizing their action against Henry. It almost made him smile to imagine their surprise when they found out he was long gone. Dwayne had done his duty and reported the escape to police upstate, but he was under no obligation to inform the likes of Ronald.
There was another, darker reason why he had told no one in town. It was partly that his damaged pride hurt worse than a jellyfish sting—he should have been prepared for Henry to make a move—but there was some part of him that wanted Henry to get away, wanted to deny Ronald his vengeance. Nothing Dwayne had done would change the outcome anyway. It was only a matter of time. A white boy with a middle-aged black man would not be hard to spot.
His mood darkened to match the dirty-looking clouds. Milky gray waves heaved themselves onto the shore. He had wasted precious time chasing a phantom. He had no other leads, and now a damned hurricane was about to destroy any chance he had of finding them. Hilda’s attacker would certainly be gone once the storm was over, if he was even still around. The chaos of the cleanup would be the perfect cover for someone wanting to disappear. And from the look of the sky, they did not have long to wait. The storm had come much quicker than Jenson had predicted.
He had failed, for the first time in his career. It might cost him his job. It would definitely cost him respect in the community. He could easily imagine the Heron Key Bugle’s headline: WORST CRIME IN RECENT MEMORY GOES UNSOLVED. But he did not see what else he could have done. His only choice was to accept it, take the responsibility and the consequences.
But still he sat there as the palm trees started to shake and crackle in the wind and the rain spattered his shoulders. Wind-whipped sand stung his face. Yet still he sat there, pondering. The answer was there in his head, he could feel it, just out of reach. With his pocketknife, he carved the pattern of marks from Hilda’s face into the table’s weathered surface. The scratch of the knife on the wood was like a chick pecking at the inside of an egg. The answer was there, so close; he just needed to focus and think harder.
But his concentration was disrupted by strange sounds from down the beach. It was only Zeke, yelling at the sky as usual. He was always very agitated when a storm was on the way. Dwayne squinted in the strange, hazy yellow twilight. Usually Zeke just shook his fists, but today there was something in his hand. A big stick…no, not a stick. It had a rounded head. Zeke swiped it through the air like he was playing a game against an invisible opponent.
Suddenly Dwayne realized what Zeke held in his hand. He looked again at the marks he had carved into the table, then leaped to his feet and ran toward the figure in the water.
As he approached Zeke’s shack, he slowed. Zeke was easily spooked, especially in this state. The wind whisked most of Zeke’s words away toward the mangrove swamp, but it was clear from the wild swings of the tennis racket that he was very upset. Waves lapped at his scabby knees. He wore only his usual frayed shorts, almost more hole than fabric. Ribs poked through the thin skin of his chest, which was dotted with tufts of white hair that matched his beard. Poncho was perched on a rotten piling nearby, feathers aflutter, eyes narrowed against the wind.
“Zeke,” called Dwayne. “Can I see that?”
“It’s my weapon! I got him on the run!” He flailed the racket at the sky. “Be gone, cocksucker, back to the hell you came from!”
The frame of the racket’s head was broken. A section of it flopped each time Zeke swished it through the air, but there was no mistaking the distinctive crosshatch pattern of the strings.
“It’s broke, Zeke. Give it here. I can fix it, make it work better.”
Zeke paused. His breath came in ragged gasps. “You can…you can do that?”
“Think so. Give it here.”
Zeke handed him the racket with some reluctance. Dwayne fitted the broken edges of the frame together. There were brownish stains in the grain of the wood. And on the base of the grip, the letters DM, written in fuchsia nail polish. “Where did you find this, Zeke?”
Zeke tried to snatch the racket. He was surprisingly quick, but Dwayne was quicker. “Give it back,” Zeke demanded. “Cain’t you see? It’s almost…here.” He rasped this out in a hoarse whisper, which Dwayne could barely hear over the noise of the wind. Zeke’s eyes bulged and spittle whitened the corners of his mouth.
“Tell me where you found it.” Dwayne raised the racket out of Zeke’s reach.
“You said…” He made a grab for it and missed. “You said you’d fix it for me!”
“Where, Zeke, tell me where!” He was yelling now, partly to make himself heard over the wind, partly from frustration.
Zeke ceased his leaping and seemed to deflate. His bloodshot eyes darted fearfully toward the horizon, as if he could see something there, something vast and terrible. “In the storm drain,” he said. “After the big rain.”
It fit. That drain was fed by a ditch that ran alongside the road where Hilda was attacked. It all fit. A woman. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Someone who played as much tennis as Dolores Mason could bring considerable strength to bear on such an object. She also had plenty of reason to want Hilda off the scene. He could have kissed Zeke at that moment. “I need to take this to the workshop, but I’ll bring it back soon.”
“No!” screamed Zeke with such vehemence that Dwayne turned back. “Give it to me,” Zeke begged. “Please. I need it.”
These were the most coherent words he had ever heard from Zeke. For a brief moment, the man’s eyes were lucid and clear. It made Dwayne wonder about the person he used to be.
But the racket’s insistent weight in his hand demanded his full attention. He sloshed back toward the shore. Behind him, he could hear Zeke resume yelling, empty-handed, at the sea.
• • •
On the road to the country club, Dwayne leaned on the accelerator of Doc’s truck and fought for control against the wind. The wipers could not keep up with the sheets of water blown sideways across the windshield. He really should have been home by now, where Noreen waited for him to take her and Roy to the shelter at Jenson’s store. But he was so close, he could not stop now. The detour would not take long. He needed to see Dolores’s face when he confronted her with the evidence. He would have to be satisfied with house arrest until the storm had passed. It would have to be enough. It was enough.
He arrived at the clubhouse, tennis racket stuffed in an old bag he found on the floor of the truck. In the main dining room, he found Ronald with about ten other men. It was dark inside, with shutters fixed over the windows and only lanterns to illuminate the r
oom. The white bandage on Ronald’s cheek glowed in their flickering light. A thick pall of cigarette smoke hung in the air.
Dolores stood next to Cynthia with a drink in her hand. Dolores had an air of annoyed distraction, like her thoughts were somewhere else entirely. Rain clattered incessantly at the windows, as if someone were throwing handfuls of marbles at the glass. The building was solidly constructed and had survived many storms in the past, but there were audible creaks from the timbers. Tentacles of sand crept under the door to be swept away by Violet’s broom.
“Good of you to come, Deputy,” said Ronald, “but we were just on our way to see you. It’s time for Mr. Roberts to face the consequences of his actions.”
There were nods and vague noises of agreement, but Ronald was clearly in charge. Dwayne regarded each of them in turn. All respectable landowners, farmers, businessmen. Churchgoers, every one. He marveled at how easy it was to turn supposedly good people. All it took was a suspicion, steeped in old grievances, ignited by hatred. He sensed they did not all share Ronald’s fervor—especially George Mason, who looked distinctly uncomfortable—but were prepared to go along.
“Get on with it,” said Ed Henderson. “I got to check on Princess.” Everyone knew Ed loved his boat more than pretty much anything, including his wife, Marilee.
“Yeah,” said Warren Hickson. “We ain’t got time for this. Storm’s come in a lot faster than the weather report said.”
“I won’t keep you, gentlemen,” Dwayne said, “and ladies. Henry Roberts is no longer in custody, the main reason being that he did not attack Hilda.” He felt no need to enlighten them about Henry’s escape.
“Is that so?” Ronald folded his arms over his belly. “You must have thought different when you arrested him this morning. What changed your mind?”
Dwayne set the grubby bag on the banquet table. It made a solid thump on the surface, which shone with the soft, mellow luster of decades of beeswax polish. “This is what changed my mind.” He removed the racket from the bag. “Dolores, I believe this is yours?”
Her eyes widened, and her hand reached out. “My racket, you found it!”
George stepped toward her. “Is that the one I got for you in Boca Raton? With the special grip you wanted?”
“Yes, it is.” Her hand dropped to her side. “I left it—I mean, I lost it, a few weeks back.” It was impossible to read her expression in the low light. “Where did you find it?”
Ronald advanced, clearly ready for a fight. “I’ve had enough of this. What does an old racket matter to you?”
Dwayne picked it up. “This is the object used to beat Hilda nearly to death. The pattern of the strings matches marks found on her face.” He studied Dolores. Her eyes were shadowed, but her back was straight. Cynthia, on the other hand, looked in consternation from Dwayne to Dolores and back again, one beringed hand over her mouth. The men crowded around for a better look at the racket. “You say you left it somewhere a few weeks ago?” Dwayne asked.
“Yes, I did…” She stopped, lost in thought. Her whole concentration turned inward, like her mind had traveled somewhere else entirely and left just her body there.
George moved to her side. “Where did you leave it, honey? Just tell him, so we can clear this up and get out of here.”
Wind pounded at the glass. Somewhere at the back of the building, there was a heavy whump and a crash. The lanterns shuddered.
“I don’t remember,” she said. Her eyes remained focused on the mangled, stained lump of wood and catgut on the table.
“Of course you do, honey. This is your favorite,” said George. “Just tell—”
“Dolores Mason,” said Dwayne, “I’m arresting you—”
“Now wait a minute,” said George, with an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “You don’t really think—”
“Get off me!” Her shriek shattered the muggy atmosphere of the clubhouse. She pushed George away and backed toward the windows. “I can’t bear for you to touch me!”
Her voice echoed off the polished wooden floor. No one spoke. The windows rattled in their frames. Cynthia sniffed quietly.
All attention was focused on George. He just let his arms drop. Then he slowly went to the drinks table and refilled his glass, right to the rim.
Dwayne thought he had never seen a more hopeless gesture. “Dolores,” he asked, “do you want to go to jail? Because if not, you got to tell me.” He looked hard into her eyes. “Now, for the last time, where did you leave the racket?”
Her reply was drowned out by the wail of the wind, but Dwayne read the words from her lips. This, he thought, changes everything. “Say it again,” he said.
“In his car,” she spat. “I left it in Nelson’s car.”
The men shuffled their feet. In the sheepish, sideways glances that passed between them, Dwayne saw their collective relief. There but for the grace of God…
George said nothing, just stared into his glass with his back to the room. The others seemed stuck in some kind of trance, mesmerized by the drama unfolding in front of them. Even Ronald was lost for words.
The ferocious wind pounded the clubhouse. Dwayne’s mind was already on how to find Nelson before the storm forced him to give up and find shelter. “We’re done here,” he said, collecting the racket, “but, Dolores, don’t—”
Something smashed into the big window overlooking the beach. The whole building trembled, followed by the crack of splintering wood. A corner of the roof lifted and allowed rain to pour in. Cynthia screeched and clutched at Dolores, who was covered in broken glass. She pushed Cynthia away with a cry and sped out the door, fine trickles of blood running down her arms. Everyone rushed for the exit, except for one person.
“George,” called Dwayne. “Aren’t you coming?”
But George did not answer. He just swirled his glass and stared at the big sailfish on the wall.
Dwayne ran for the truck. Noreen would be frantic by now, but he had one more stop to make.
I must find Nelson.
• • •
At the Kincaid house, Nelson was glad he had thought to raise the convertible roof on the roadster before the storm started because it would be a battle in this wind. The only possessions he cared about were packed in two leather cases in the backseat. He looked up at the big white house, which he had always hated. The windows seemed to glower at him with disapproval, just like Hilda’s daddy. There was nothing here he would miss. Even Nathan had not been hard to give up. He was just another reminder of how Hilda had trapped him.
When Missy had arrived earlier that day, she had obviously been surprised to find him packing. “Mister Kincaid, sir,” she had said. “You going on a trip? In this weather?”
“Yes, Missy,” he had said. “Yes, I am.”
She began to bustle about, opening drawers and cupboards. “Then you’ll be wanting Nathan’s travel cot and his bottle and his—”
“Take him,” Nelson had said.
She had looked at him with a strange, shocked sadness. “Mister Kincaid, I—”
“He’s better off with you,” he had said. “I got to go away.” He handed her a thick wedge of dollars. “Here. This is for you.”
“But when you comin’ back?” She had hefted Nathan onto her shoulder, a small bundle wrapped in a blanket.
Nelson noticed the boy clung to Missy like he never did to his daddy. He felt nothing, absolutely nothing. “I don’t know. It may be…a while.”
They had stood there for a moment as the wind thrashed the trees. He could tell she knew what he was saying and was grateful she did not make a fuss.
Time to go. The wind suddenly strengthened, and with it came the rain. A roof tile sailed past. Water surged over the lawn, frothy waves blown clear up to the porch steps. Sam raced back and forth on the porch in a frenzy of barking. The dog had always hated water. Nelson wanted n
o encumbrances in his new life: no wife, no girlfriend, no baby, no house, no dog.
He ducked inside the car and fired the engine with a sense of pure exhilaration. He was free. Free! At last. For the first time since he had become a man, there was no woman hanging on him, begging him for more, always more. Their bodies, so soft and inviting, inevitably proved to be like quicksand for him. It had always been the same. At first, it had seemed like such a gift. The women could not get enough of Nelson, any of them. Over time, he made a specialty of rich widows. He was their drug, their legal high, and in return for that, they gave him things—money, Cuban cigars, the Cadillac. He didn’t even care much what they looked like. Servicing them became like a vocation. It was his job.
But after a few disastrous breakups, which included one successful suicide and other botched attempts, he had learned to read the signs when they became too possessive and hit the road. Should have done this long ago.
He steered the car in the direction of the coast road and just managed to avoid a fallen tree branch. Hilda had been a mistake. He had known it from the very beginning, but she was just so sweet, so pretty, so naive and fresh. And so responsive, it had electrified him. It was like meeting a female version of himself. And then she had tricked him and he was caught, the noose tight around his neck. After the baby, when she got so fat, he had found distraction with the country club ladies. He allowed himself a bitter chuckle as he moved the car into the middle of the road, where there was less water. But Dolores had turned out to be just the same. She wanted to keep him all to herself too. She would have trapped him, if it had carried on. That’s what they all want.
He recalled the night of the barbecue. It was a rare lapse of self-control, which luckily had turned out all right for him. On his way home, he had found her, waddling down the road in the dark. She had refused to get in the car, just continued to pick her way barefoot over the stones, those ridiculous shoes in her hands. The car’s headlights had illuminated every lump and bump, every sweaty fold of her body in the unfashionable dress. She had reminded him of some kind of farm animal, and then the thought hit him with bone-shaking force: this was his future, he and Hilda yoked together forever, in an unending series of embarrassments and compromises. Meanwhile, his real future, the one he deserved, sailed off without him. He was disgusted, as much with himself as with her, for allowing it to happen.
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