I huffed, disappointedly. Still crouched, I looked up at the heavy door. An object caught my eye. It was nestled in the thick wood trim surrounding the door. I stood and got closer. A camera, no bigger than my pinky finger.
“Why would anyone need a camera here?”
I rounded the lighthouse for a closer inspection, first staring at the ground. More pellets. A few cigarette butts. A rusty Coke can. The second time around, I kept my eyes level, examining the building, the trees and shrubbery. I stopped when I came to the place where the narrow path around the lighthouse veered off toward the Peacock. Someone had been through there recently. The ground was marred with impressions though none were clear enough to pick out tread patterns or shoe sizes like in TV shows or Bigfoot expeditions. Still, I eyed them more closely. Embedded in the dirt, I thought I spied the tiny corner of a shell, certainly common anywhere in Tipee. I grabbed its exposed edge and picked it up, shaking off the excess dirt. I blew on it, and saw that part of it was hot pink. It wasn’t a shell, but the tip of a fingernail.
Suddenly, I was yanked up by my arm. I lost the fingernail and almost my balance, but the man lifted me to my feet. Pain shot through my elbow, still healing from its break a few weeks ago. Those abated tears resurfaced in a hurry.
“Let me go!” I yelled, and he did. He wore a dirty t-shirt with the Peacock’s logo on the front, and a stern expression that almost dared me to make a run for it.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I insisted. He said nothing, but raised a crooked eyebrow.
“I was just out for a walk,” I argued, “What’s so bad about that? You’ve got hoodlums with air-soft guns having a field day all over your property and you bust me? Come on, mister.”
He was shaggy and formidable, like the Abominable Snowman. Then it hit me that I’d seen him before. He was the Incredible Hulk from the Peacock party, the man who had worn a suit two sizes too small and who seemed to be just as unsociable as I was. Now, I could surely see why. He didn’t talk.
He pointed up the path, and motioned for me to head in that direction. Several feet away where the narrow path grew into a clearing, I spied the hood of a golf cart and realized he was angling me toward it. With an irritated huff, I stepped down the path. As I climbed into the passenger side of the cart, the words, “Curiosity killed the cat” came to mind. In this case, curiosity got Delilah busted. This is why you’re dismally unqualified for this kind of thing, I reminded myself.
The Incredible Hulk was incredibly lacking in the IQ department, evident by the slowness and thoughtfulness he gave each movement, from the driving of the cart to the opening of doors. He expressed constant confusion. Still, he wasn’t as dumb as me.
Chapter Fourteen
Hatchetfish
Hatchetfish are small and ugly, just about four inches and flat as hatchet blades. They have enormous, tubular, upturned eyes that make them look like floating burnt pancakes with two pus sacs affixed to their heads. Their big eyes and flat heads give them a zombie-like expression, like they’re in a constant state of huh? and since their eyes are somewhat fixed, they only look in one direction.
Detective Lewis peered at me through the bars of Tipee Island’s Police Department holding cell, his mustache curved upward in what I could only guess was a smile. I was sitting, knees to chest, on the sorry excuse for a cot, and had been there for two hours already after they booked me. My feet hurt, I’d found two ticks on my legs, and everyone in the building knew that Teague’s girlfriend was sitting in lock-up. It hadn’t been a good day, and now I was being hatcheted into even more pieces by this narrow-minded creep.
“Filing a false report and now trespassing,” Lewis taunted.
“Trespassing? Are you serious? Who doesn’t trespass on that property?” I countered angrily. “My grandma was out there three weeks ago looking for piping plovers, black skimmers and terns. No one sent the cavalry out to arrest her. And while I was there I saw Ricky Wakefield and some guy with J.J. on his arm having an air-soft war. Didn’t see any flashing lights to stop their activities.”
“They weren’t caught,” Lewis reasoned.
“Isn’t that strange?” I retorted. “All I wanted was to take a look-see, perhaps find something that you guys may have missed in the dark.”
“All you want is to cause trouble,” Lewis replied. He chuckled. “You may have gotten yourself out of any wrongdoing in the Chambers case. May have weaseled your way out of false report charges at the Peacock, but I got you this time.”
I huffed. “Just give me my one phone call.” How I would use that call, I had no idea. Crooks on TV always call lawyers.
“Oh, Teague already knows,” Lewis laughed. “Had to step out of his anti-drug training when Kent called to tell ‘em his girlfriend’s gotten herself locked up. I bet the look on his face was priceless.”
My shoulders slumped. Lewis, grinning ear to ear, told me to sit tight and think about what I’d done. Instead, I thought about Ricky Wakefield and his buddy, J.J. While I sat in here, they were free to roam the woods, shoot innocent squirrels, and keep appointments, whatever that meant. They reminded me of former students. The ones who put on the biggest show are the ones with the darkest secrets. Tattoos, piercings, anger, and attitudes were all places to hide, evidence that their lives had been hatchet jobs. Good teachers could pick these rebels out, dust them off, and put them back on track.
But, who was I kidding? I was never a good teacher, evident by the way my teaching career blew up in my face and fizzled into a bad memory. I put my head down against my knees. Jail seemed a fitting place for me.
The main door to the room of bars opened with a loud clank, and in walked Chris Kayne. He looked like a brick of gold sitting atop a trash pile (me being part of the trash). He wore a light blue Polo, khakis, and Converses. The edges of his tattered notebook hung out of his back pocket. He had a handsome face, very Matt Damon, presently smiling at me.
“If you wanted a tour, Ms. Duffy, all you had to do was ask.”
“A guided tour would’ve defeated my purposes,” I countered.
“What exactly were you hoping to find that the police didn’t?” he challenged.
“Based on the expertise of detectives like Harlan Lewis, I considered it very possible to find just about anything,” I returned.
Chris smirked. “I suppose you’ve got a point.”
“Well, thanks for that, but it doesn’t do me much good,” I refuted.
“Course it does,” he argued. “I’m here to get you out.” The officer standing behind him brought out his keys and unlocked my cage.
“Really?”
“I hope you’ll accept our apologies. Our groundsman, Wake, is somewhat overzealous when it comes to strangers, as is my father,” Chris explained as I joined him on the outside. I followed the officer and Chris out of the holding cells and toward the real world again. “When Wake told my father he’d found a trespasser, he told him to let the police handle it. He didn’t want to get involved. Had he known the circumstances, I’m certain he wouldn’t have been so hasty about calling the police.”
“Well, your groundsman didn’t give me a chance to explain,” I said. “In fact, he didn’t talk to me at all.”
“That’s Wake,” Chris shrugged. “He can talk, just chooses not to. Gets him into trouble. Anyway, I hope you’ll accept our sincerest apologies and please, snoop wherever you’d like with our blessings.”
“Well, I’ve learned my lesson about the snooping,” I smiled, “but I do need to go back for my dog. He got away from me in the woods.”
“Ah, don’t worry. He is presently lounging on the deck of the Peacock with plenty of water and a complimentary steak.”
My eyes widened in relief. “Wow, if you pamper him that much, he may not want to leave.”
“We have been known to make people and animals feel that way at the Peacock, but I doubt he’d ever abandon his fearless owner,” Chris returned. I scoffed. Fearless certainly wasn’t a word th
at described me. I signed the clipboard and handed it back to the officer at the desk. My phone. Dora the Explorer. It was all returned to me. “Drive you back to the Peacock?”
“That’d be nice.” We shuffled through the precinct. The stares and snickers I earned from Sam’s co-workers made me keep my head down and my feet moving quickly.
Lewis eyed me disappointedly. His view was just as narrow as the hatchetfish, I thought, content to wrongly assume that I was guilty of anything and everything. But, I relented. I hadn’t found anything that proved the woman was ever in those woods and no one had found her, alive or otherwise. And the reappearance of my shoes triggered a litany of doubts. Perhaps my view was just as narrow, only seeing through my own tainted perspective. And it was tainted. There were voices in my head. Couldn’t there be visions in there, too? Maybe there never was a redheaded woman at all.
Chapter Fifteen
The Lighthouse
With a coast dubbed The Graveyard of the Atlantic, North Carolina lighthouses became a seaside necessity. Dangerous storms, shoals, and currents made for difficult navigating, still do, and lighthouses offered a beacon of life-saving hope. But, their effectiveness was a long time coming. Their lights shone for a distance of about eight miles, perhaps not even that far if hidden by driving rain and heavy clouds. Mariners couldn’t find them. But, all that changed with the invention and installation of Fresnel Lenses in lighthouses across North Carolina by 1859. Eight miles became over twenty, straight to the horizon. The enormous beehive shaped lens was created with a cocoon of perfectly cut glass prisms, moved by a clockwork style mechanism and lead weights – art as much as machine.
That remarkable piece of art/machinery resided in the Tipee Island Lighthouse, right in front of me, unused, and inaccessible.
“The lock is courtesy of the Parks Department,” Chris Kayne explained, just as he had explained all about the lens and its history. “We own the land, but the state owns the lighthouse. A few years ago, there was a campaign to restore it, but the recession hit and we never got the funding. Instead of a restored historical landmark, the recession brought Tipee strip joints, bars, and tattoo parlors.”
“Really?” I questioned. “That’s why they’re here?”
“City didn’t know what else to do to drum up tourism dollars,” Chris went on. “So, they let in businesses previously denied permits and operating licenses. The expectation was that Tipee would become the new spring break location of the East Coast.”
“Surprises me that they’d even want that distinction.”
“Whatever brings in dollars,” he lamented. “Places that made this island special, Laura Duffy’s store, for instance, just couldn’t hang on, especially after she-”
His voice trailed off and he glanced down at his Converses. “Cancer seems to take the best of us, doesn’t it?”
“God only takes us when we’re ready,” I decided. “The good ones, the truly good ones well, they’re ready. Is that why you’re working with cancer treatment medications?”
Chris nodded. “Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it.”
“That sounds so-”
“Frankenstein, of course. Greatest novel ever written,” Chris told me with an excited grin. “It’s a passion of mine, experimentation, research, discovering a better way.” He looked away shyly, as if he sounded ridiculous, even though he didn’t. He cleared his throat, and looking up at the gargantuan structure told me, “Our lighthouse is 152 feet high, and pours a torrent of light into our dark world, when it works. Shame we can’t tour the inside. I’d love to show you.”
“I’d love to see it,” I returned, looking upward. We’d been walking the grounds for over an hour. After checking in on a very happy Willie at the Peacock, Chris offered to take me around himself. I was hesitant at first. The fact that he held several undergraduate degrees, had an IQ rivaling Einstein, and was rich as Midas (especially compared to me), I had felt intimidated. But, Chris wore none of those distinctions; they just were. And quite inexplicably, I felt very comfortable with him.
I pointed to the main door of the lighthouse, and asked, “So, who owns the camera?”
Chris smiled. “You don’t miss much, do you?”
“I try not to,” I smiled.
“The state owns the camera, but it’s a dud,” he said, walking up to it and flicking at it with his finger.
“Then why-?”
“Crime deterrent,” he replied quickly. “Supposed to deter horny teenagers.”
I laughed. “Think it works?”
He shook his head, and his lips curled shyly. “Probably not.”
He headed down one of the two paths, toward the water, and I followed. “Are there other cameras? Real ones?”
“We do have cameras in the common areas of the Peacock,” he informed. “We offered the police the footage, but they weren’t interested-”
“Weren’t interested?” I whined.
Chris shrugged. “Yeah, I was surprised, too, but Kent said he didn’t want to invest the manpower.”
I sighed. I suppose it was illogical to give the redheaded woman even more attention when her very existence was in question, but it bothered me that Kent hadn’t wanted the footage. He seemed to have taken me seriously at the party. What harm would it have done to follow up? “Did you watch the footage?”
Chris shook his head. “It was hard enough getting through that party the first time around. Hate to have to experience it again.”
“Is it typical for an inn like yours to have cameras?”
“Sure,” he returned. “They’re mainly used to insure against employee theft: the bar, the kitchen, the guest safe, register tills. Besides, my father is a lawyer and he protects himself from prosecution with the cameras. You never know when someone might claim damages for a slip and fall or a cockroach in their martini.”
“Sounds paranoid.”
Chris shrugged. “Or smart.”
“What about the exterior?”
“No cameras outside,” he reported. “Nothing to steal out there.”
“Just beautiful mermaid fountains to destroy,” I noted. “Any ideas yet on who did that?”
Chris shook his head. “Haven’t given it much thought, to be honest. Over the years, the Peacock has employed over a thousand people, and not all have left on good terms. Along with disgruntled employees, there are my father’s clients. Defense attorneys don’t have many friends. Admittedly, it was a shock to wake up at the crack of dawn to find our sultry sea goddess alight with flames, but she’s nearly good as new now and such an act is nearly impossible to trace anyway.”
“I guess you’re right.”
The water came into view, just beyond a sea of marshes, cattails, sea oats, and wooden walking bridges to mark the way. He let me go first, and as soon as I stepped up onto the wood planks, the breezes thickened around me, sending my frizzy hair off my shoulders, and my heartbeat double-timed in my chest. I stopped, unable to go any further.
“So, what’s with the notebook?” I questioned turning my back on the pier and the water.
He shook his head. “You really don’t miss much. Um, you’ll probably think it’s lame.”
“As I am the queen of lame, I’ll probably think it’s cool. Tell me.”
“Well, I, um, write down ideas,” he said simply.
“Ideas for what?” I prodded.
“Stories,” he sputtered out. “I like to write stories, sometimes.”
“That’s awesome,” I returned quickly. “Stories are my business.”
“Nothing good, really,” he said. “I just carry the notebook around for when I have ideas.”
“Ever published?”
“Only in science and medical journals,” he grinned.
“Oh, real page turners,” I kidded.
“Speaking of page turners, how’s Beach Read doing? I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’ve reopened.”
I shrug
ged. “It’s hanging in there, for now.”
“Problems?”
“Nothing but,” I admitted.
“I think you’re ringing,” Chris Kayne told me. He was right. I plopped down on the steps leading to the pier, back to the water. Chris edged in beside me. Dora the Explorer was chirping, but by the time I dug out the phone inside, I’d missed the call. Sam. A slight huff puttered from my lips. As much as I loved him, the ringing was a reminder of the day I’d had – until now – and that I’d have to answer for it. I shoved the phone back into the book bag, and pointed down the trail to my left.
“So, what’s further that way?”
“Nothing, but some lovely views of the water stretching into the Cape,” he answered. “The trail wraps around and goes back into the woods.”
“Any other structures?”
“No.”
“I’m sure the police-”
“They went over it well,” he interrupted softly, “for hours. It was fascinating to see how meticulously they worked. They utilized a grid search pattern.”
A grid search pattern, I repeated to myself. A search pattern of any type would have been wise, reminding myself again of how unqualified I was to have set out this morning. I should have talked to Sam.
“I really don’t know what I hoped to accomplish with all this,” I sighed, folding my arms across my chest.
Chris shrugged. “Sometimes the most telling part of an experiment is when there is no result, but that possibility should never deter one from exercising curiosity.”
“You’re a scientist. Do you think it’s possible to see things that aren’t there?”
“Absolutely. Hallucinations are a common symptom in a number of disorders and diseases, and are also an effect of many chemical substances, medications, illegal drugs. Not that you need to be tripping to experience one. Something as simple as grief or exhaustion can cause the mind to perceive images that aren’t real, and it’s very difficult to convince oneself that what one sees isn’t really there, hence the belief in the unproven. Are you on any medications?” His tone wasn’t accusatory, though it could have been. Rather, it was comfortingly robotic.
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