“Well then,” Merritt said, rubbing his hands together. “We’d better get right to it. I regretfully have to rescind the offer of coffee.”
“We’ll live,” Mosley replied as Haywood Daniels’s hand snaked up and touched his shoulder. Mosley shot the man a look, and the hand quickly dropped away.
“Ask your questions,” Merritt said.
Mosley cleared his throat for the millionth time. “Candace?”
“Miss Hightower is no longer with us.”
“What does that even mean, James?”
“That I cut her up and Will and Ruck helped me bury her parts in several holes spread judiciously throughout the woods over on the mainland.”
“I—I.”
“Don’t go stammering on me now, Mosley. You wanted answers.”
“This is…” For the second time Mosley’s words clotted in his throat. His honey-colored eyes grew confused and threatened to fill with water.
“Candace was a grave threat to this exceptional thing we have here,” Merritt explained. “She ran away, which as you know is a serious breach of both protocol and trust. I couldn’t allow the rest of us to be compromised by the actions of one foolish person. Surely you can understand that. Can’t you, Mosley?”
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
Merritt nodded toward the brush where the three trustees had come from. “Go ahead and excuse yourself to find a good spot to let loose. But not in the cleared path, if you can at all help it. I don’t want whatever’s in your stomach getting on my feet.”
“Oh, God,” Mosley said, and Haywood Daniels gripped his shoulder again. This time Mosley didn’t shrug the hand aside. They huddled together as though bartering for heat.
Merritt’s gaze homed in on Pleasant to make sure the man remained still.
He did.
“Do you have any more questions?” Merritt asked.
“You’re insane,” Mosley spat.
“So much for a civil discussion,” Merritt said, sighing. “You know what they say about people in glass houses, though. This isn’t the Bahamas. Rum cake, palm trees with the bottom half of the trunks painted blue—though judging by your shirt, Wood, you seem to be confused by that reality.”
“What?” Mosley managed.
Merritt exhaled. “None of us are here on vacation. The island is exceptional—I’m in agreement with you on that—but it is highly questionable whether any of us are. Consider why we’re all here.”
“Shepherd wouldn’t like this,” Mosley said.
“A popular refrain,” Merritt acknowledged. “And my response remains the same as the other times I’ve heard that: Shepherd isn’t here.”
“Tell me, when will he return?” Haywood Daniels said.
Merritt smiled, and shrugged. “Who can tell, Wood? Recruiting and fundraising take some time.”
“Have you done something to him?” Mosley asked, his honey-colored eyes no longer threatening to water, moisture actually rimmed around the edges.
Merritt pursed his lips, raised an eyebrow, nodded thoughtfully. “Now that’s a new one I haven’t heard.”
“Have you?”
“Done something to Shepherd?” Merritt touched his chest, smiling behind the gesture. “I’m hurt that you think me capable of that, Mosley.”
The shorter man studied Merritt. Haywood Daniels’s hand remained on Mosley’s shoulder. Pleasant was as still as the night in a song even as his first words floated through the air. “There’s someone locked in one of the storage sheds,” he said, very little to distinguish his voice from the disembodied tone of an automated voice recording.
Merritt frowned, turned to look at Pleasant who stood two big steps away. “Oh, yeah?”
“I’ve personally heard him call out,” Mosley added, buoyed it seemed by Pleasant’s interjection. “Sheldon won’t let me or anyone else within ten feet of the shed. This is all very troubling for us. The man locked inside the shed sounds Caucasian.”
Merritt nodded. “You would know, Mosley.”
“Now what does that mean, James?”
“You ask a lot of questions I don’t think you really want the answers to.”
“Do you want a coup on your hands, James?”
There it was. The moment where this tête-à-tête inched toward chaos.
Merritt felt his heartbeat begin to crawl.
It was time to settle into the Director’s chair. He’d pushed this as far as it needed to go. They knew who was firmly in control now. It was time to massage the moment and make it his.
He sighed once, and then a second time, a play at empathy. “As you know, last night Candace ran off, and we chased after her, Will and Ruck and I. She made it all the way to the mainland. She must have lost her bearings in the woods, because we were able to close the gap on her pretty quickly. We caught up with her and I tried to talk her back. She was hysterical, saying things she shouldn’t have been saying. How she was tired of living on the island. How she couldn’t sleep at night because she was worried about her safety. Apparently, she wasn’t comfortable with us. Any of us. She went on and on about what we were doing here and that it wasn’t right. I begged her to come back with us so that we could discuss everything some more. Begged. But she took off running again. A car hit her when she darted out into the road. Killed her.”
“The white man in the shed?” Pleasant said.
Merritt nodded. “Yeah, he was the driver. Obviously, I was concerned about him calling the police. That would have been devastating for us.”
“Why did you bring the white man here?” Mosley asked. “What are you planning?”
Merritt looked up at the sky. “When was the last time it was this hot?”
“It’s summer. It’s always hot.”
“But this hot?”
“I don’t see how—”
“It’s just a question, Mosley. Humor me.”
Mosley cleared his throat, looked up at Merritt’s sky, the bright sun hanging there like a necklace of fire. “I can’t say that I ever recall it being quite this hot in the years I’ve been on the island.”
“Nor’easters, hurricanes, all manner of ocean-driven storms, those we’ve seen,” Merritt said, still looking skyward. “But heat like this…What do you suppose it means?”
“I couldn’t venture a guess, James.”
“Hmm,” Merritt sounded, and then he turned his attention back to the three Trustees. “I made a mistake keeping you men out of the loop. For that I’m truly sorry. I assure you it won’t happen again.” He looked up at the sky once more. “I have to say though, the white boy worries me. Hotter than it’s ever been here. I think our visitor brought this heat with him. We might’ve stumbled upon Beelzebub. For that I’m sorry, as well.”
“Really? A white devil? That sounds absolutely ridiculous, James.”
“It does,” Merritt acknowledged. “But Shepherd warned us that there would be trials. That evil would infiltrate us.”
“From what I’ve heard,” Mosley said, “the white man yelling from the shed sounds rather harmless. I’d imagine he considers us more on the side of the devil than himself.”
“You’re misinformed,” Merritt said. “The wolves are prone to come in sheep’s clothing. This man is a killer. He has absolutely no regard for life; particularly the lives of a discarded bunch of niggers. Think of what he did to Candace.”
“Sounds like it was an accident.”
“He would have left her to die on the side of that road,” Merritt said.
Mosley frowned and shook his head. “I’m having a difficult time swallowing this, James.”
“Do I need to spell this out for you, Mosley?”
“I suppose so,” Mosley said, “because I can’t picture the man we’ve been hearing begging for the bathroom as evil.”
“I held Candace’s broken body in my arms,” Merritt said, looking off in the distance, letting calm creep into his voice. “Worse thing I’ve ever witnessed. And you know the places I�
�ve been.” He exhaled and shook his head, turned his focus on the men again. “The white boy stood on the side of the road, Will and Ruck closely watching him, as if nothing had happened.”
“He’s shown no remorse for what he did to Candace?”
“None,” Merritt said. “What makes the privileged so dangerous is that they can absolve themselves so easily. Some of the same people turning those water hoses on civil black folk during the 60s were watering their petunias and seeing no difference.”
“Terrible,” Mosley whispered. Haywood Daniels clucked his tongue. Pleasant shook his head.
“But I won’t make the final decision as to how to handle this dangerous white boy,” Merritt said. “Sit. We’ll decide together.”
It took several beats, as Merritt knew it would, but they eventually sat.
✽ ✽ ✽
A mound of hot compost rested near the shed where they were keeping the white prisoner. The pile was four feet tall and constructed like a layer cake. Built upon a foundation of carbon materials—leaves, twigs, woody stems. Those fragments then coated with dark soil. And the soil covered in a third layer of grass clippings, vegetable refuse, green plants—all rich in nitrogen. A final layer of more dark soil served as the icing on the top.
Sheldon stood over the pile. He sopped sweat from his brow and dried his underarms using his usual tattered T-shirt. The sweat burnished a shine from his normally dull, licorice-black skin. He was bare-chested, his lower body covered by a limp pair of blue jean shorts faded a greenish-yellow, his feet sheathed in size thirteen Nikes caked with firm mud. The odor of the compost saturated his perspiration and his shorts. In other words, he reeked. And he knew it. But Sheldon wasn’t bothered by that. He couldn’t allow himself to be. He knew that the quickest means of producing rich garden humus was to blend raw earth with hot compost. Merritt caught plenty of fish and generously shared the wealth. Bass, perch, blue marlin, grouper, tuna, Spanish mackerel. Crabs. But some on the island didn’t appreciate a steady diet of seafood, and had grumbled about mercury and a persistent funny taste in their mouths. So the island had needed other options. A garden, someone suggested. Sheldon stepped forward and planted one himself, a while back, and tended to both the garden and the compost pile that nourished it with matronly care. He had no choice in the matter really, for his daddy had charged him with holding up to a mantra that played between Sheldon’s ears on a daily basis: Whatever the task, great or small, do it right or not at all.
Words to live by.
Sheldon tucked the tattered T-shirt inside the waist of his shorts and hefted a plastic garbage container filled to the brim with muddy water. He turned the can over the pile, holding it there, in midair, until all of the wet sludge had rained down on his compost. The consistency of the decomposing materials needed to always be that of a damp sponge. And the heap needed to breathe, as well. With that last bit in mind, Sheldon dropped the garbage can and picked up a thick tree branch and used it to start punching air holes in the sides of the pile. He kept punching even as a figure moved in his direction.
Her dress was so threadbare you could see the details of her naked form beneath it. Through some stroke of luck or bad fortune, depending on a person’s perspective, the magenta-colored lilacs that were imprinted on the dress weren’t placed to obscure the parts that made her not just a woman but an exceptional one. Sheldon swallowed and forced himself to look away, suddenly aware of his own breathing. Also aware of the spreading warmth just inches below his navel that almost made him run off and hide in the bushes, sit rocking with his knees pressed to his chest. But he couldn’t run off and hide. He couldn’t leave his compost pile.
Or his sentry of the shed.
She settled quietly beside him as his breaths rasped. Sheldon kept poking poking poking at the pile with the thick tree branch, the thrusts a little more forceful since her arrival.
“You’re really good with that thing,” she said, a hint of wonder in her voice. “I don’t know if the woman exists who isn’t moved by a man that knows how to handle a long stick.”
Sheldon swallowed again and dropped the branch. It thudded at his feet and lay dead. “It’s too hot for Shepherd’s wife to be walking around,” he said without looking at her.
“You’re not lying.” Lemon Potter paused to fan herself with beautiful slender fingers. “This poor old dress is sticking to me. It’s as if I have a second skin.”
Shepherd’s wife’s dark triangle of pubic hair was like a stingray floating beneath clear Caribbean waters. To keep from staring at it, Sheldon searched the sky for a cormorant. Finding none, he focused instead on the powdery white clouds scudding across the muted blue canvas.
“Sheldon,” Lemon said softly, “look at me please. I find it terribly rude not to give a person eye contact when you’re talking to them.” A hint of Southern belle in her tone, though this was the farthest south she’d ever been, and though she hadn’t even been here terribly long.
Sheldon stared at the compost pile. Anything to keep his focus from falling on her. “Shepherd’s wife shouldn’t be walking around. It’s too hot. It’s too hot for Shepherd’s wife to be walking around.”
“You’ve said that already,” she replied, moving closer and touching his arm. “I think your concern is so sweet. Now if only I could get you to look at me.”
He did then, as her fingers settled on his arm. She had the kind of gentle touch Sheldon had yearned for since the Beast stole his mama’s hair and turned her voice to tissue paper.
“Much better,” she said, smiling brightly. “Now why don’t you pick up the stick again and really show me what you’ve got?”
He made a move to bend, but she stopped him. “It was a bad joke, honey. I was kidding.”
He nodded. “Of course. Of course. You were kidding.”
“Breaks my heart every time I see you.”
“Breaks your heart?”
“Has anyone ever thanked you for all of your hard work?” she asked.
Her voice, Sheldon realized, was as gentle and soft as her touch. He shook his head, his gaze focused so intently on her he feared going cross-eyed.
“You keep the island looking so nice,” she went on. “Taking care of all of this”—pointing a hand to indicate the compost pile—“so we can eat. You mean to tell me that no one has ever taken the time to thank you for all that you do, Sheldon?”
With his eyes still trained on her, he said, “I think Shepherd’s wife just did. I think Shepherd’s wife just thanked me.”
Lemon chuckled. Soft touch, soft voice, soft chuckle. Sheldon couldn’t help but wonder about the other soft parts of her. The parts not obscured by magenta-colored lilacs. The stingray. “You’re very correct, Sheldon,” she said. “I did just thank you.”
“Shepherd’s wife just thanked me,” Sheldon said. “Shepherd’s wife is welcome.”
“You’re sweet,” she said. “It’s very refreshing to see.”
“You thank Mr. Merritt, too?” he asked.
She frowned. “Whatever for?”
“Bass, perch, blue marlin, grouper,” he said. “Tuna, Spanish mackerel, crabs…mercury.”
“Mercury?” She laughed. “No, I haven’t thanked Mr. Merritt. Only you, Sheldon.”
“Shepherd’s wife only thanked me,” he said.
“That’s right.” She inched even closer, her slender fingers moving from his arm to rise up and touch his chin. Sheldon didn’t resist as she used her hand to reposition his head, forced his gaze to meet her eyes directly. She had brown eyes. Soft brown eyes. He was able to look into them, but was unable to speak, unable to form the words that would express the unfamiliar thing that was happening to him. To tell her that she frightened him and made his heart beat funny at the same time.
“You have kind eyes,” she said. “You should let people see them as often as possible.”
“You…too,” he stammered.
“You like my eyes?”
He swallowed, and nodded. “I do
like your eyes. I do like your eyes.”
“Who’s in the shed, Sheldon?”
The suddenness of the question made him pause and frown. After a moment, he just shook his head and answered, “I can’t say. I was told I can’t say.”
“Who told you not to say? Was it Mr. Merritt?”
He looked away, her fingers falling away from his chin.
“You won’t tell me that either?” Lemon asked. “Who told you not to say?”
Sheldon bit his lip and studied his feet again. After a minute, he heard Shepherd’s wife say, “They treat you as if you don’t have your own thoughts or feelings, Sheldon. As if you don’t have a mind of your own. I think that is terribly sad. I’m sorry you’re treated that way. It’s not right, considering all that you do for us.”
“It’s not right,” he agreed. “It’s not right.”
“So tell me,” she said. “Who’s in the shed?”
“I can’t say,” he replied, shaking his head, eyes trained downward.
“Just tell me, Sheldon.”
“I can’t say,” he whined. “Don’t make me say.”
“Mr. Merritt is controlling you, Sheldon.”
“Controlling me?”
She nodded. “What do you want? I mean really want? Does anyone even care? No. Mr. Merritt just tells you what to do and say and you do and say it. But what do you want?”
That got him to raise his head once more. No one ever thanked him for all of the work he did. No one ever asked him what he wanted. What he really wanted. He looked at Shepherd’s wife and smiled. “A dog,” he said, and then quickly corrected himself. “No, a puppy. Sheldon wants a puppy.”
“A puppy?”
He nodded. “I could raise it up right. Teach it how to heel, sit, down, stay, come.”
“That sounds nice,” she said.
“How to roll, chase Frisbees, kick dirt on its own poop,” he went on.
Scared of the Dark: A Crime Novel Page 5
