As she headed back into the main room, she had an unobstructed view of Bean and Marion. He was cupping her face in his hands, kissing her passionately, then his fingers roamed across her throat and breasts and slid through her hair. Marion responded like a young woman of twenty, head thrown back, exposing her throat, where Bean planted his mouth and sucked at her skin like a mosquito.
As Bean succumbed to whatever urge this was, his stool tipped back and he crashed to the floor and lay there, laughing. Marion got down on her hands and knees and leaned over him, kissing his cheeks, eyelids, nose, his mouth. His arms wrapped around her, their bodies pressed so closely together that his arms looked as if they were growing out of her back. Customers kept glancing at them; some laughed nervously, one of the locals called, “Hey, get a room, dude.”
“Bean,” Kate said, feeling deeply disturbed.
Her boss—her “older brother”—was making a fool of himself. She hurried over to see if she could distract him enough to get him outside and then get him home. He’d feel mortified in the morning, on top of being hungover.
But before she reached them, Bean ripped open Marion’s blouse. The buttons popped off one after another, his hands slipped over her breasts as she reared back, her face seized with ecstasy, her eyes rolling back in their sockets. She unzipped his jeans and fell on him again, both of them now grunting, groping, moaning, rolling. Most of their clothes vanished with their decorum, his butt the color of a full moon, her pendulous breasts bouncing, dancing.
It happened so fast that for an instant, Kate just stood there, gaping along with nearly everybody else in the bar.
It was like watching a porn movie come to life.
Bean thrust himself into Marion and they rolled across the sagging floor, faster and faster, crashing into tables and chairs. People shouted, scrambled out of their way, tried to get past them to the door. They were oblivious. Kate ran toward them, shouting at Bean to knock it off, and someone else hollered to call the cops. Bottles and glasses tumbled off the tables, shattered against the floor. Kate grabbed Bean’s shoulder, he shoved her away, and she stumbled back into the jukebox. The needle tore across the record, the old Wurlitzer went silent.
In desperation, Kate picked up the pitcher of Skip and Go Naked and hurled what remained of it over Bean and Marion. She squealed, he yelped, they fell away from each other. Kate snatched her bag off the counter, ushered the last two customers, inebriated locals, out of the bar. She killed the lights and slammed the door. Let Bean clean up the place. Let him sweep up the glass, clean the grill, restock the shelves, load and run the dishwasher. Let him explain to the cops what the hell happened and what had come over him.
All she wanted to be was out of there.
No one was at the front desk, but some of the customers milled around the small lobby. As soon as they saw her, they crowded around her, demanding refunds for the drinks they hadn’t finished. Some of them twitched and jerked, just as Bean had, and had eyes like Bean’s, dark and shiny. She fled from them.
“Talk to the management!” she yelled.
If you can get him off the customers …
As she burst from the hotel into the open air, she felt tears on her cheeks, tears of anger, confusion, and shock.
What a nightmare …
The chilly night air bit at her. She’d left her jacket in the bar, but wasn’t about to go back inside to get it. She wished she had ridden her bike or driven to work. It was a mile to the houseboat and the prospect of walking through the fog didn’t appeal to her in the least. But she heard the cop siren now and didn’t want to be here when the chief or one of his lackeys arrived. She loved Bean, and was sorry he’d fallen off the wagon, but she refused to run interference for him on this one.
A tendril of fog slipped around her shoulders.
“Leave me alone!” she shouted at it, and then stood in the street, feeling absurd. Yelling at fog? Throwing drinks on her boss? What would she do next, scream at the rain? Kick her lover out of her life?
Maybe she was the crazy one.
The fog seemed to back off from her, like something almost human.
Kate walked briskly, shoulders hunched, past gift shops, a restaurant, the town’s only bookstore, a consignment shop, all closed down for the night. Even on Friday nights, the town turned in early, except at the hotel and over on Dock Street where most of the restaurants and bars were. But tonight the emptiness was eerie, the silence pervasive, the fog snaking across the ground, creeping in between houses and trees, rolling steadily inland from the gulf. She felt as if she moved through a black-and-white photograph, everything frozen in time, even the echo of the siren.
At the intersection, the fog caught the glow of the blinking caution light and turned it a sickly yellow. She headed right onto the shoulder of State Road 24, the only route on and off the island, in the hopes that she would see cars, people. But it was devoid of humanity. Even Island Market was locked up for the night. She felt a sudden, ridiculous urge to just keep walking, to cross the four bridges that connected Cedar Key to the mainland, and to keep right on going all the way to Gainesville.
Is that idea really so ridiculous…?
Sure. Like she would do that and leave Rocky behind. Like she would walk fifty miles through a dense pine forest by herself at night.
Take him with you, go get Rocky, and run …
She texted him that she had closed up early and was on her way home. It was one of their oldest traditions, texting each other when they were en route to and from anywhere. She had bought him his first cell phone six years ago, when he was just nine, so they could always be in touch. For a single mother who worked erratic hours, the arrangement worked well.
Kate felt anxious until he texted a reply moments later: You ok? I heard something went down at the bar.
News on the island grapevine traveled at the speed of light. I’m fine. Ignore whatever u hear.
You sure? Jeff and I can hop in the cart and pick u up. We were listening to the police radio, mom.
Thanks, but stay put. Nearly home. Call me in the morning. Luv u
Ditto ☺
You sweetie, Kate thought. You’re a good son.
No need to worry him. But was it a mistake not to take him up on his offer to come get her, so she wouldn’t have to walk this isolated route by herself? No, she decided, if there was risk, she certainly wasn’t involving Rocky or his friends in it.
Almost there. Almost home.
Kate picked up her pace, anxious to get inside her houseboat, turn on the lights, and lock the doors.
* * *
Just before the first bridge, she turned right off SR 24, the road that shot straight toward Gainesville. Richard’s place stood at the end of the street, with the back bayou stretching out behind it, nearly invisible in the fog. The stuff was thicker and higher here, but thanks to the starlight, she could see the corner of the house. One bedroom, one bath, tiny kitchen. She and Rocky had lived there with Richard for a while, until the cramped quarters had gotten on everyone’s nerves. Their present arrangement worked better, the houseboat tied up at the dock behind Rich’s house. The three of them often had dinner together, but they had their respective privacy; she didn’t have to pay tie-up fees, and she and Richard split utilities.
Kate knew Rich wasn’t the love of her life—or vice versa—but she liked him. Appreciated him. And he got along well with Rocky. Buddies, not father-son.
Her cell vibrated and buzzed. She slipped it from her jacket pocket, glanced at the ID window. Bean. Was he calling to fire her? If she didn’t answer, he couldn’t fire her. She was grateful that Rocky wasn’t home, that she could just crawl into bed and listen to the soft caress of the water against the houseboat.
Images of Bean and Marion replayed in her head. She didn’t understand any of what had happened tonight. But in her gut, she knew something was seriously wrong on the island and had been for weeks. If she were honest with herself—and how could she lie to herself any m
ore after the scene in the bar tonight?—it wasn’t just what happened there.
In late January, two bodies had washed in with the tide and been discovered under a pier on Dock Street. Both victims had died of massive loss of blood. Total loss was more like it. She’d heard it called “bleed-out,” because that was literally what had happened to them—all the blood in their bodies had rushed from every orifice.
Kate shuddered to think of it.
“Murder, right here in River City,” some wag had joked, but it wasn’t funny.
The newspaper barely covered the mysterious deaths; it might be bad for tourism. The police department hadn’t investigated too deeply, either, at least not that she’d heard, and she wasn’t sure what had happened to the bodies. Were they still in the coroner’s office in Gainesville? Had they been identified?
Then there were the rumors whispered in the bar at night, locals remarking on the changes in their partners, neighbors. She hadn’t thought much about that until tonight. Or about how more and more homes were for sale. Even a lot of the weekender places on the salt marsh off Gulf Boulevard were for sale. She’d blamed the economy. Now she wasn’t at all sure.
The familiar cry of the hawk echoed through the air. Liberty swept down until she was just above Kate’s head, her wings flapping softly. Rocky had rescued the hawk last year, when he’d found her on the beach, a hook caught in her wing. Now she practically lived with them, perched either on the roof or the balcony railing. She flew with Rocky to school, to the animal rescue facility where he worked, and rarely strayed too far from them. She knew not to touch down on Kate’s shoulder unless it was padded but stayed close all the way to the houseboat.
As she was unlocking the door, Liberty screeched and shot away from her, flying fast at a tall man hurrying along the side of the house, through the low fog, toward her. Liberty dived at him, the man threw his arms up to cover his head, but she drove him to his knees. He yelled, “Get this goddamn bird away from me.”
Bean, it was Bean. Kate whistled for the hawk to back off and Liberty flew to the edge of the roof and perched there, ready to dive at Bean again. He got to his feet, brushing off his jeans. “You didn’t answer your cell, Kate.”
“It’s not on. I figured you’d be passed out on the floor in the bar, Bean.” The starlight was bright enough for her to see his face, those dark, shiny eyes glaring at her. You’re not Bean. She wanted to say it, but didn’t. To voice such a thing out loud might make it true.
His frown thrust his eyes closer together. “What’re you talking about?”
“Tequila straight up? Marion and her Skip and Go Nakeds?”
“I don’t drink,” he said. “You know that. You left me a big mess to clean up, Kate.”
What the hell. Were they living in different realities? And given all that tequila he’d consumed, how could he even be standing, much less speaking? He appeared to be completely sober. Had she imagined everything? “You made the mess, you clean it up.”
“I pay you to clean up.”
“No, actually you pay me to tend bar and serve the customers, Bean.”
He combed his fingers back through his thick gray hair. “You’re putting me in an untenable position.”
“Me?” Hysterical laughter bubbled up inside her. “You’re the one who screwed the librarian on the barroom floor, in front of several dozen people.”
Now he looked completely confused, like some little kid who had robbed a candy store but didn’t remember doing it. Was that possible? That he didn’t remember? As incredible as that seemed, it was the only explanation. He blinked and his eyes returned to their normal color, a soft blue. The transformation shocked her. Kate stepped back, fear shuddering through her, the skin at the back of her neck tightening. Bean squeezed the bridge of his nose, shoulders twitching.
“I … well, that was a big mistake.”
A mistake. She could think of better words. Gross, disgusting, sordid.
“I suppose I, uh, have some apologies that are forthcoming for my behavior. You don’t know how lonely I’ve been since the divorce.”
Kate didn’t know what to say. But she suddenly wanted to put her arms around him, to console him as she had the night his divorce had become final, when he’d knocked at the door of her houseboat, bereft and inconsolable.
Bean jammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. A muscle ticked under his eye, and his mouth moved out of synch when he spoke again. “I came here to fire you, Kate. But I … can’t do it.” Those words came out as a gasp, almost a plea. “Too much history with our families.”
Now he sounded like the Bean she’d known for years. “I’ll come in early tomorrow and help you clean up. I’m going to bed, Bean. I suggest you do the same.”
It seemed that his face collapsed, caved in, gave way to some sort of excessive gravity that caused the corners of his mouth to plunge, that made his eyes water. His arms jerked upward, as if to embrace her. The hawk didn’t like it and dived at him, shrieking with alarm. But she didn’t attack. She was just warning him. Bean’s eyes held Kate’s, and for the briefest moment, she slipped an arm around his shoulders and in a gentle voice said, “The loneliness gets easier to deal with as time goes on, Bean.”
“I hope so.”
Then he backed away, his head jerking to the right, the left, as though his neck were screwed crookedly on his shoulders and he was struggling to adjust it.
Kate watched him, shaken by the change in him, by what had happened, by what he’d said, the way his eyes changed colors, by all of it. Liberty pursued him back toward the front of the house and didn’t return until he’d driven away. The hawk took up her position on the houseboat roof and Kate unlocked the door and slipped quickly inside.
She locked the door, leaned against it. Then she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes and slid to the floor, a sob rising in her throat as she struggled against a terror she couldn’t define.
March 10–14
Two
HOMESTEAD, FLORIDA
Nick Sanchez had the uneasy feeling that his life was about to take a radical turn into unexplored country. The feeling wasn’t specific, and given the nature of his work, every day was a trek into unexplored country. But it felt personal.
Even as he pounded out the last two miles of four along his jogging route, his golden retriever dashing along ahead of him, an eerie sensation spread across the pit of his stomach, as if he’d eaten something that disagreed with him. The scent of citrus from the grove of orange and grapefruit trees on his right, a fragrance he usually enjoyed, seemed cloying, excessive. He glanced at the canal on his left, the water level low because of the drought, and saw only peril. When Jessie bounded down the banks, he called her back. She gave him one of those dog looks that said, Lighten up, dude, but after that stayed close to his side.
The late afternoon sun spilled across the fields on the other side of the canal—tomatoes, strawberries, papayas, mango trees, everything transformed to a soft, shimmering gold. From here, it didn’t look as if it were all withering in the unseasonal heat. But he could almost smell the parched plants screaming for rain, the dryness rising from the ground itself, almost smell it drifting in the air over Homestead and the surrounding countryside as though it were as permanent as the sky. The dryness reminded Sanchez of his childhood in Miami’s Little Havana, the stink of scorched linen, burned arepas, black beans sucked dry and sticking to the bottom of a pan because his mother was too drunk to tend to anything.
His mother had died last year of liver and heart complications, a sixty-five-year-old gringa from North Carolina who never should have married his Cuban father. She had hated Little Havana, South Florida, and most everything in Cuban culture. Stranger in a strange land, that was his mother. Although she’d been emotionally absent for much of his childhood because of her alcoholism, they had been close.
Sanchez felt her around sometimes, heard her quick, impatient footsteps in his hallway, knew that she had fussed with stu
ff in his house. When he had mentioned this to his father, Emilio had gone ballistic, and accused Sanchez of subscribing to the same superstitious bullshit that afflicted so many Cubans, the belief that the dead could actually communicate with the living. Now he and his father rarely spoke.
His old man, pushing seventy-five, lived alone in the tiny house where Sanchez had been born. Sanchez’s older sister, Nicole, a professor of cultural studies at the University of Miami, and her biologist husband, Carlos, lived eight miles from him and oversaw his care. Sanchez paid for the bulk of Emilio’s expenses—a private nurse who came in three times a week to make sure he was taking his meds; a full-time housekeeper who purchased his groceries, cooked, and kept the house in order; a gardener; and a driver who took him to and from his domino games in a Little Havana park every afternoon. Sanchez’s only condition was that he didn’t have to see his father except for an obligatory weekly visit, when he basically made sure that everyone he paid was doing his or her job.
His old man knew that Sanchez worked for some ultrasecretive government agency that utilized his psychic ability and paid him enough that he could afford these expenses. But he’d never been able to reconcile the fact that Sanchez could see what he could not and had been able to do so since before he learned to walk. The one time Sanchez had tried to explain his job—that his mind reached out to view distant locations and people, usually based on geographic coordinates or random numbers—his father had exploded with laughter. Eres un loco, Nico.
You’re a crazy, Nick.
Yeah. Bad memory, he thought, and stopped to gulp water from his aluminum bottle. He poured some into the plastic cup he carried for Jessie on his daily runs and she lapped it up. It apparently wasn’t enough and she trotted down the bank to drink from the canal. Sanchez, still unable to shake his unease, hurried after her like a fretful parent.
Ghost Key Page 2
