by Blake Crouch
Called on our execution expert in class today. Never do that again. He turned red, wouldn’t answer me, look at me. Stopped him on the way out of class and apologized for embarrassing him. What a peculiar kid. Asked him if he liked beer. He said no. Coffee? No. Finally, just asked what the fuck he did like, and he smiled sheepishly, said pancakes. We’re having pancakes tomorrow.
Woodside, Vermont: November 7, 1992
Met this Luther kid at the Champlain Diner. Had breakfast for dinner. Think he was suspicious of why I wanted to see him outside of class. For the first twenty minutes I bored him to tears with a slew of questions, like where he was from, where he lived in Woodside, if he liked school…he was having a terrible time, so I mentioned how much I’d enjoyed reading his term paper. That brightened him up, started asking all sorts of things about the gladiator fights, Caligula. Told him about my thesis, shared some of my theories. He was very impressed. We were waiting for the waitress to bring the check when this woman passed by our table. Real pretty thing. Watched Luther watch her, and I saw it. Hard to put into words. Let’s just say I sensed something in him, in those three seconds his eyes followed the movements of this Woodside knockout. When he looked back at me, I couldn’t help but smile. His black eyes had become…reptilian. I thought Luther was going to say something, but he just blushed.
He’ll do.
Woodside, Vermont: December 9, 1992
Last day of classes. Haven’t spoken to Mr. Kite in a month. On the way out of class, told him I looked forward to seeing him next semester. Said he wasn’t coming back. Flunked out. That shy, ashamed, little boy again. Made sure to get his home address. Maybe I’ll take him to the desert next summer.
Ocracoke Island, North Carolina: June 11, 1993
Been following LK around this island for two days. What fun! Lives with his parents in an old, stone house on the sound. Last night at 10:30, he went for a walk by himself. If he goes again tonight, I’ll take him.
29
IN Swan Quarter Vi boarded the last ferry of the day. Once the vessel had cleared the pilings, she grabbed the loaf of moldy bread Max had suggested she take and stepped out of the Cherokee.
She strolled back to the stern where a flock of chatty gulls tailed the boat. As the wharf and timber pylons diminished in the wake, Vi untwined the twist tie and pinched off a chunk of bread. The moment she extended her arm a fat gull swooped down and grabbed her offering in its beak.
As she fed the birds and watched the coastal plain of North Carolina shrink into a fiber of green, she thanked God for the people she loved. She prayed for Max, for her parents, for strength, and lastly for her sergeant’s recovery.
Barry Mullins had taken his son, Patrick, out for barbecue after winning the cross-country championship last night. They were both in the hospital this morning with food poisoning so Vi would be interviewing the Kites on her own.
A little boy came and stood beside her. She noticed him watching and asked if he’d like to feed the seagulls. When he nodded she handed him a piece of bread.
“Just lift it up like this. They’ll come right down and steal it.”
The boy lifted the fuzzy-blue bread and gasped when a gull snatched it. He looked up at Vi and grinned. She gave him the rest of the loaf and walked to the bow.
It was near dusk now and when she looked west she could no longer see the mainland. Eastward, the Pamlico Sound stretched on into a horizon of gray chop with no indication of the barrier islands that lay ahead.
Again she thought of the woman who’d been hanged at the Bodie Island Lighthouse. The image had been with her all day thanks to a tasteless photograph she’d seen on the front page of a tabloid. She wondered if praying for the dead made any difference.
Clutching the railing, she stared down at the water racing beneath the boat.
The engine clatter, the cry of the gulls, the briny stench of the sound engulfed her. On the assumption that prayer was retroactive, she closed her eyes and prayed for the fifth time that day that the woman hadn’t suffered.
The sun sank into the sound.
Vi checked her watch, saw that she’d been on the water now for more than two hours. The village couldn’t be far. As the sky and sound turned the same sunless shade of slate, she imagined Max or even Sgt. Mullins standing here beside her in the mild headwind. She wouldn’t mind her sergeant’s patronization right now and she thought, I was doing fine until the sun went down. Just like staying with Mamaw and Papaw when I was ten and the homesickness that set in after dark and the crying on the phone begging Daddy to come get me and him saying no baby you’ll feel better in the morning.
A light winked on in the east—the Ocracoke Light.
Vi turned away and walked back to the Jeep.
In her briefcase in the backseat there were photographs to memorize—bearded, bald, fat, skinny, mustached, and cleanshaven—the mugs of Luther Kite and Andrew Thomas.
30
ONE of the stewardesses on my flight into Charlotte was a North Carolina native and her southern accent moved me to tears. I hadn’t heard a true southern drawl in years. It isn’t the backwoods sheep-fucking twang Hollywood makes it out to be. A real North Carolina accent is sweet and subtle and when you haven’t heard one in seven years, it sounds like coming home.
My flight landed in Charlotte-Douglas International Airport just before midnight and by 1:00 a.m. on Tuesday morning I was hurtling north in a 5-speed Audi with I-77 all to myself. I thought being home again would flood me with nostalgia but as I cruised through the piney piedmont darkness my only sensation was the ulcer that had burned in my gut since leaving Haines Junction.
At Exit 28 I left the interstate, and driving the familiar backroads toward Lake Norman, started catching glimpses of the water through the trees. When I finally saw my mailbox in the distance and the tall pines that lined my old driveway like sentries, I pulled over onto the side of the road and turned off the engine.
I walked along the shoulder of Loblolly Lane until I reached the mailbox. My gravel road had been paved and two hundred yards away at the end of the drive, cars were parked in front of my house, their chrome reflecting the warm illumination of a porchlight. It astounded me that someone had the gall to take up residence in the home of a suspected serial murderer. How did they sleep at night? Did it never occur to them that Andrew Thomas might one day come home? I’ll bet they got my place for a steal.
I jogged a ways down the drive but then thought better of it. Stopping on the smooth blacktop, I inhaled the scent of pines and remembered walking up this drive with Beth and Walter ten Decembers ago, placing luminarias in preparation for a Christmas party.
As I stared at my old home, part of me thought, Fuck this place. I’m not that man anymore. But the other part of me wanted to stand on the deck and see Lake Norman again and the blue light across the water at the end of Walter Lancing’s pier; wanted to pretend he could just stroll into 811 Loblolly Lane and climb the staircase up to his old bedroom. And when he woke in the morning maybe he’d be that writer again. Maybe he’d have his name back. Maybe his mother and Walter would be alive and the events of seven years ago nothing more than the plot of his latest novel.
He’d just wanted the sensation, however fleeting, of being Andrew Thomas the Almost Famous Writer, when that name was the best thing he owned.
In the morning I took I-40 through Raleigh, then Highway 64 into eastern North Carolina and the flattening coastal plain, through towns called Tarboro, Plymouth, and Scuppernong. At sunset I crossed the Alligator River, then the sounds of Croatan and Roanoke. The eastern fringe of North Carolina had softened into marsh and swamp as it dissolved into the Atlantic.
Sixty-four ended at the Outer Banks in the town of Whalebone, and from there I glimpsed the Bodie Island Lighthouse to the south poking up out of the pines. Coupled with Orson’s journal entries, the fact that my former fiancée was found hanging from that lighthouse erased any doubt I may have had about whether Luther Kite was currently in ope
ration somewhere on the Outer Banks.
I took Highway 12 south for seventy miles through the beach communities of Rodanthe, Little Kinnakeet, Buxton, and finally Hatteras Village, the end of the line.
I caught the 9:00 p.m. ferry to Ocracoke Island and as the noisy engines gurgled through the water I walked up to the starboard.
I’d never been to Ocracoke. According to a brochure I’d picked up at a gas station in Buxton, it was a skinny island, sixteen miles long, less than half a mile wide in places. Its seven hundred residents inhabited a village at the south end on a small harbor that faced the sound. The brochure had bragged that it was the quaintest remotest village in all of the Outer Banks.
In light of Karen’s very public execution, an unsettling possibility occurred to me as the ferry crossed Hatteras Inlet and the full devastating reality of what I was doing set in: What if my coming to the Outer Banks isn’t a surprise at all for Luther but precisely what he wants me to do? What if those murders were for me? What if they were bait?
Now the ferry neared the tip of Ocracoke, the wind whipping cold and salty in from the sea.
I leaned against the railing and stared out into the soundside darkness.
O C R A C O K E
31
AT 6:00 a.m. Wednesday morning on the third floor of the Harper Castle B&B, Violet knelt over the toilet in her suite, waiting for the nausea to pass. After fifteen minutes of dry heaves she went back to bed and slept until ten o’clock.
She felt much better when she woke again. Turning over onto her left side, she stared through the window at the bay around which the village of Ocracoke had been built. In the windless cloudy melancholy of the morning, Silver Lake Harbor maintained a veritable supernatural stillness.
As Vi rolled up her sheer black hose she noted the cheerful island décor of the tiny room—the pastel painting of a five-masted schooner in rough seas above the headboard, the coral wallpaper patterned with little white sand dollars. Max would love this place, she thought, placing a small tape recorder into her purse and fastening her shoulder rig: a holstered .45 Smith & Wesson with a twin magazine-carrier. Max had surprised her with the horsehide holster last February on Valentine’s Day.
Vi primped in the bathroom, dusting her cheeks with blush and adjusting a purple suede headband that matched her suit. Then she grabbed her purse and headed downstairs through the sprawling wood “castle,” across oak floors, between walls of cypress, into the dining room, lured by the promise of a complimentary continental breakfast.
The buffet had been heavily grazed. She chose one of the three remaining bran muffins and filled a glass with cranberry juice. Except for the snoozing old man (his mouth dropped wide open, an Ocracoke Observer still in his grasp), the dining room was empty.
Vi sat down at a table near the window so she could look out across the small harbor, lined with hoary docks. On the opposite shore the Swan Quarter ferry churned through the narrow outlet into the open waters of the Pamlico Sound, bound for the mainland with its cargo of departing tourists.
Vi glanced at her watch: 10:50. Max’s planning period. She took out her cell and called him. She got his voicemail, left a brief message: “Hey baby. Just wanted to check in. I’m getting ready to go interview the Kites now. Hope you’re having a good day. I’ll call you tonight. Love you.”
From the outside the Harper Castle B&B looks childish and fanciful with its gabled roofs, asymmetrical right wing, and imposing façade of seven dormers. Vi looked out the window of her Cherokee up to the fourth story cupola, the penthouse of the establishment, and wondered what a night up there might cost. Maybe she could convince Max to bring her back for their anniversary next June. There was so much she wanted to see—the lighthouse, the British Cemetery, the Banker ponies, Portsmouth Island.
She turned out onto Silver Lake Drive, the road that circumscribed the harbor. A guidebook to the island had warned of traffic jams in the village during the summer months but this bleak November morning it seemed every bit its reputation as the most sequestered outpost on the North Carolina coast.
At the corner of Silver Lake and Highway 12, a man was selling conch shells out of his truckbed for five dollars apiece. Vi would’ve pulled over and bought one but she already felt guilty for sleeping late and Sgt. Mullins would be expecting her full report this evening.
Though the island of Ocracoke is less than a mile and a half across at its widest point, it took Vi thirty-five minutes to find the mailbox of Rufus and Maxine Kite. She couldn’t see their house from the dead end of Kill Devil Road, their drive being a private overgrown affair that wound for a hundred yards through a stand of live oaks.
As she proceeded down the narrow drive, Spanish moss draped from the overhanging branches and swept across the windshield, its tuft of graygreen filaments a living curtain. Though only ten minutes from the harbor (tourist garrison of the village) it felt much farther, seeming to exist in its own timeless universe.
Driving through these sad old trees made something sink inside of Vi. This unpillaged tract of land radiated a sleepy southern gloom and it pervaded her soul.
The dirt road emerged from the thicket and there stood the sound and the gray of the sky and the deeper gray of the crumbling granite that comprised the prodigious home of Rufus and Maxine Kite, a gothic residence that looked as though it belonged on a dreary English moor.
There was no driveway. Wild beach grass had overrun the lawn and two ancient live oaks guarded the house, their gnarled branches nearly touching the disintegrating masonry of the third floor like arthritic fingers.
Remnants of a stone path, broken by roots, meandered between the trees to the front door.
The house was three stories of rock, as if God had cast off a gigantic block of stone, dropped it on the edge of the sound. Great chimneys spiked like horns from each end.
Vi thought the edifice resembled some alien skull, its teeming windows like hollowed eye sockets, portals into darkness.
32
VI parked under one of the oaks beside the only other vehicle on the premises, a rusting Dodge pickup truck that might’ve been sixty years old. As she followed the path toward the front door she gazed up at the tall black windows and the cupola.
The house oozed vacancy.
A twinge of fear and guilt shook her. She’d promised Sgt. Mullins she’d hook up with local law enforcement, get the sheriff, or at least a deputy to escort her on the Kite interview. But the last thing she wanted was some good old boy from down east tagging along, patronizing her.
She stopped at the door, smoothed herself, ran her fingers through her short blond hair, and knocked.
Something scurried through the grass behind her.
Turning, she saw an emaciated gray cat streak up the nearest oak. It settled on a disfigured limb and watched her through large yellow eyes. She’d seen another cat skulking the parking lot of the Harper Castle. According to the concierge, Ocracoke was rampant with feral felines.
When Vi turned back she started.
The door had been opened and in the threshold stood a tall old man, his kind face brimming with years and creases. Slightly hunched, he looked down at her through sunken black eyes, his white hair long but scarce.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Vi reached into her purse, withdrew her badge, and held it close so he could see.
“Sir, my name is Violet King. I’m a detective with the Davidson Police Department. May I speak with you?”
Rufus Kite looked up from the badge and beamed a toothless smile.
“Come in, young lady.”
As Vi entered the house of Rufus and Maxine Kite she reached into her Barbour coat and unsnapped the latchet on her holster.
After Rufus closed the front door it took a moment for Vi’s eyes to acclimate to the dimness. The effluvium of mildew permeated the home—a bouquet of age, neglect, rotting mahogany, wet stone. Her heels slid on the dusty floor.
Rufus helped her out of the coat and hung it
on a tottering coatrack beside the door. Then he led her through the dusky foyer into the living room and offered her a seat in an armchair beside a massive dormant fireplace.
Rufus eased himself down onto a crushed velvet couch, once gold, now a badly-faded flaxen. Light trickled through those tall windows, weak and dismal.
“Beautiful!” Rufus yelled.
“What?” a voice carried down the staircase.
“We have company!”
“Be right down!”
“Would you care for anything to drink or—”
“No, thank you.” Vi was sinking into the armchair so she scooted forward onto its ottoman. “I’ll wait for Mrs. Kite,” Vi said. “So I don’t have to start over.”
“Of course.” Rufus smiled, all gums. Vi smiled back. Rufus reached into the patch pocket of his flannel shirt and took out his teeth. He slipped them in and smiled again. “Your first visit to Ocracoke?”
“Yessir. Ya’ll have a lovely island.”
“Ocracoke is quite a place. Particularly this time of year when the dreadful tourists are gone. How old are you if you don’t mind? I can get away with inappropriate questions at my age.”
“Twenty-six.”
“My goodness, you’re just a baby.”
Footfalls on the steps drew their attention to Maxine Kite, carefully making her way down the creaking staircase. At the bottom of the steps she stopped to catch her breath and straighten the scallop-edged collar of her canary sweatshirt with an appliqué bunny rabbit on the front.
Vi rose and walked back into the foyer, her stomach cramping at the prospect of telling this frail elderly woman what her son was suspected of doing.
At sixty-two inches, Vi rarely had the occasion to tower over anyone, but she found herself looking down into the sweet somewhat startled eyes of Maxine Kite.
