She brushed aside those thoughts and stepped out into the night.
No breeze.
No comfort.
A part of her wanted to head right back inside, plop down on the carpet (she couldn’t stomach the thought of the cot Merritt had sat on), close her eyes and let her sleeping nightmares remove her from her living one. Should she attempt to run as Candace had? Organize the others on the island to stand against Merritt? He’d said that they all supported him, but could that possibly be true? Everyone on the island was a devotee of Shepherd. Had Shepherd lost their reverence during his absence? Had Merritt gained it in the meantime? It was too much to consider, so she turned to walk back inside.
Then, just as quickly, she turned back.
She heard him before she actually saw him. The slapping rhythm of his feet, his deep animal breaths. In the gloom she wasn’t able to make out much. He was white. A shirtless blur. Clearly panicked in his stride.
Candace’s killer, if Merritt was to be believed.
But mistrust ran deeper than blind faith, and so Lemon opened her mouth to call out for the white man to stop running and speak with her for a moment. In the end, though, she let him rush past without uttering a word to halt him.
Not sure why she hadn’t.
Not sure of anything anymore.
✽ ✽ ✽
The terrain was sloshy and peculiar. Aiden could see a grove of trees in the distance ahead, mostly plump Wax Myrtle shrubs and Southern Live oak strangled with Spanish moss. Though slightly disoriented, he roared toward the cover, clopping through brownish-green water that licked at his ankles. The water gave off a fetid odor that nearly made him gag. But that was the least of his worries. He wished there was a switch that could be flipped to make the fading light fade even faster. He felt naked out here in the open, and not just because he hadn’t had the calm to slip into the T-shirt that Sheldon had brought him. But because this was the land of charcoal monsters. The farther he got away from them, the better. He’d never wanted more distance between himself and anything as he wanted now.
But he was forced to acknowledge what else this land offered besides charcoal monsters. His mind flashed on the beautiful Ghost Woman he’d seen standing near the singular stone monolith. She’d been the color of untreated wood, shapely, with large, dark eyes. Surprise had shown on her face as he’d blurred past her. Surprise and something else. What had it been? Kindness? Benevolence? Compassion? He was certain she’d wanted to call out for him to stop. He’d almost done so, even though, in the end, she’d remained silent.
He risked a glance over his shoulder now, secretly hoping for another glimpse of the Ghost Woman, but just as hopeful the charcoal monsters weren’t yipping at his heels. The Ghost Woman was lost to the ether apparently, and the men hadn’t given chase. One circumstance disappointed him deep inside his bones, where the other thrilled him to no end.
Stop thinking about her, he cautioned himself. The memory of that vision can weaken your legs, slow you down. Imagine what they’ll do to you if they catch you. Black Paul Bunyan will tear your limbs from their roots like a plant from soft earth. Aiden shuddered at the thought as he darted through a curtain of hungry mosquitoes.
He came to a slight dip in the topography, a short reprieve before the Wax Myrtle and oak, and paused to catch his breath and risk another glance over his shoulder. Still nobody gave chase. He wiped sweat from his eyes, and took in a large gulp of air.
It was surprising that they hadn’t come for him yet. Perhaps the Ghost Woman had gaped open a path, let Aiden easily pass through, and then closed the portal to render it impenetrable to his pursuers.
Stop thinking about her.
He looked up at the sky. Darkening. Good. If he wasn’t able to find his way to safety he would simply hunker in some nook and stay there until another plan took shape. “Okay, okay,” he said out loud, fortifying himself, and then he disappeared into the dark mouth of the woods.
He blurred through the trees, hard and unforgiving branches lashing out at him as he moved. Within minutes his upper body was coated with dirt, sweat, and blood. His bare feet were just as badly damaged, though comforted by the occasional carpet of soft ground. In the end, he knew, his body and its limits would not matter. This was mental calisthenics more than anything else. Either he would get away, or they’d catch him and…
The possibilities were too troubling to explore. He trudged on, fueled by adrenaline, doing his best to keep his mind clear and free. Thought would only slow him. Especially any thought of the Ghost Woman. He needed to be a completely blank slate, moved by instinct and instinct alone.
He came to another break—a path cleared completely of trees. Something about the narrow passage felt like the gold of fools. But no, that was thought, and Aiden refused to wallow in it. He hustled down the path, his pulse thundering and creating a heady rush of bass rhythm that throbbed in his ears.
In no more than fifteen minutes, he estimated, it would be full dark. That meant…
But no, stop thinking, stop analyzing, assessing, considering, planning.
Just keep moving.
His breaths tumbled out in a deep rasp, but he ignored the burn each exhale caused in his lungs and kept churning his legs. Churning, churning, churning. Pushing himself physically harder than he had ever pushed before. This was FEAT all over again, hiking in the woods with Saina and his Harvard classmates. Oh, what he would give to have Saina with him now. She’d fortified him during the FEAT challenge, and he needed strength and support from her at this moment. There was great irony in that need—longing for Saina after he’d done her so wrongly. But no, that was thought. Shut it out. Keep moving.
“Help me,” he softly called out to the night. “Saina? Ghost Woman? Help me.”
Astonishingly, something in the night chirped back a response that relaxed him. He remained in this state of newfound calm until his path was blocked by a smallish tree with a pile of something in front of it. Moving closer, he discovered that the pile was wilderness refuse—perhaps compost—and totally innocuous. He took a step and immediately regretted it. What felt like rope bit into his ankles and then in the next horrible moment his view of the world was turned upside down.
A beat later, the near silence of the night was broken as a chatter of footfalls ambled toward him. Slow and deliberate steps. Aiden closed his eyes and leaked tears. There was no use in trying to free himself from the trap they’d set for him. He was the tree’s strange fruit, dangling helplessly, ripe to be plucked and devoured.
After another moment the footfalls stopped. Warmth of some kind touched Aiden’s skin. Slowly opening his eyes, he found the man named James Merritt standing there with his mouth close enough to kiss.
“I had people check into Saina,” Merritt said, blowing hot breath into Aiden’s face. “We could take her at any moment.”
“You’re full of shit. I don’t believe you.”
“She’s one of those high-maintenance bitches, isn’t she?” Merritt asked. “Paying unspeakable amounts of money for dinner at that place, Journeyman, just because they cook their food over wood.”
Aiden closed his eyes again and began to sob loudly. How could this be happening? Would this monster actually harm Saina? Aiden couldn’t live with himself if—
“Open your eyes, boy,” Merritt said, clucking a finger against Aiden’s forehead.
Aiden did, biting his lip, quivering all over.
“I’ve told my people about you hitting our beloved Candace,” Merritt said. “How you mowed her down with your BMW and planned to leave her on the side of the road to die.”
“Wait. The woman in the road was with you?”
Merritt nodded, said, “A favorite daughter.”
“I wouldn’t have left her to die. I was trying to save her when you walked up.”
“I know.”
“I don’t understand. Why would you say I planned to leave her?”
There was a smile in Merritt’s voice. “I enc
ountered quite a bit of doubt when I told my people that you were dangerous. A white devil. But you’ve settled that matter once and for all. Scalding a retard with hot water when he was just trying to help you. Catching you and bringing you back now only strengthens me. I can’t thank you enough for this.”
“Please,” Aiden begged. “You can’t do this. I wasn’t leaving Candace. I was trying to help her.”
“Sheldon’s got himself a terrible burn,” Merritt continued, shaking his head, clucking his tongue. “It takes a depraved soul to exploit a dimwit like him. One of our favorite sons. First Candace, now Sheldon. My people won’t be happy with you.”
Aiden’s sobs intensified as Merritt, the scariest of the charcoal monsters, rummaged through a bag of some sort. It looked like a military rucksack. When his hand emerged from the bag the fingers were wrapped around a ball-peen hammer. “I knew Sheldon would let you free,” he said. “Even better…I knew you’d somehow exploit him when he did, tough young SoBo thug that you are. The water actually crossed my mind. I boiled it as hot as I could. Thanks for being so predictable, Doctor Dunleavy.”
“Please,” Aiden begged.
“You know that old Marvin Gaye song…Trouble Man?”
“Don’t do this.”
Merritt laughed without mirth and continued talking the Gaye song, something about connections and taking directions. Aiden felt a rush of warm, thick vomit snaking down from his stomach. Before he could worry himself about choking on it he spewed it all over the compost pile below.
“Yuck,” Merritt said, laughing. “Does that mean you’re not a fan of rhythm and blues?”
Aiden tuned him out and spewed some more.
“Let’s work out a little narrative,” Merritt said. “My ex-wife? She was into thriller novels. Tom Clancy. James Patterson. Lee Child. I prefer nonfiction myself. Life is about learning. But my ex, she liked the action stuff. I used to tell her I could probably weave a pretty good story, some of the shit I’ve seen.”
“Don’t do this,” Aiden said again.
Merritt turned away, resumed talking. “We have this young doctor-to-be. He finds himself trapped on an island.”
“An island?”
Merritt turned back. Smiled. “The hits keep coming, don’t they?”
“I’ll pay.”
“Back to that again?” Merritt sighed and shook his head. “So this doctor-to-be tries to escape. Stupid move. He’s on an island, for Chrissakes. Unless he has a boat, or he knows where the island folk keep theirs, or he’s motherfucking Michael Phelps, he isn’t going anywhere.”
Aiden spewed some more vomit.
“My ex-wife schooled me,” Merritt continued. “She avoided the authors that spent too much time weaving in backstory. Building character with long, dry introspective scenes and no dialogue. Readers want to get to the action. I took what she had to say about that to heart.”
Spew.
“So, here’s the thing. This doctor-to-be, this white devil, he represents evil. And to the people on the island, the man that captures him represents good conquering evil. This man—our hero—plans to milk that for a long while. It’s a pretty simple story, Trouble Man. You and I need one another. There is no evil without good.”
“You’re evil,” Aiden managed.
Merritt smiled once more. “Without question. Heck of a twist, ain’t it?”
He moved closer and Aiden came to a certain knowledge that he welcomed. When the pain started, when Merritt’s mighty ball-peen hammer began to tear into Aiden, when Aiden’s bones began to cry out like pencils snapping, Aiden accepted that he would probably live but he’d never be the same.
Nothing existed in him now but a deep dark hatred. The charcoal monsters had won. Aiden hated them and everyone that looked like them. Smelled like them. Talked and walked like them. He’d never look at anyone with brown skin in quite the same way ever again.
Merritt took another swing at him with the ball-peen hammer.
And Aiden lost consciousness loathing Saina.
And her mother’s locket.
And the Ghost Woman.
And...
Sunday, June 24
The spreading sunrise along the beach was orange and yellow and purple. Yesterday’s intense heat had vanished. Merritt watched a bird with a rich dark plumage perched on a crop of rocks in the water, its wings fanned out to dry in the rising sun. He inhaled and smelled the salt of the waves as they crashed onto the shore and rolled away.
“Amazing,” a soft voice called from over his shoulder.
Merritt turned slowly and took her in. Her feet were bare. She wore loose shorts and a tight halter top, the spaghetti strap falling off her left shoulder. Her skin was the color of oxblood leather—imbued with hints of both red and brown. A shiny black mop of hair trailed down all the way to her waist. Her dark eyes were framed by impossibly long lashes.
“Did I startle you?” Deborah asked.
Merritt shook his head and wiped his wet hands on his shorts. He’d washed the white boy’s blood off of himself under the silver moon last night. Woke up and washed again. Twice so far this morning. “Lost in my thoughts,” he said.
Deborah smiled without showing her teeth. “Good thoughts, I hope.”
“Neutral,” Merritt admitted, bending and dunking his arms all the way to the elbow bends in the water. Wash number four.
“You’ve been inviting me out here to watch the sunrise with you,” Deborah said, nodding and looking at the sky again. “I can see why.”
“I’d given up on you. You never said no, but you never showed up, either.”
“I had to work myself up to this,” she said, hugging herself. “Please don’t make me regret finally summoning the courage.”
“Courage?”
She shifted her weight and looked down at him, still crouched with his arms in the water. “I started thinking this morning, and it hit me that we’re on an island.”
“What gave it away? The fact we’re surrounded by water?”
“Amazon’s shoddy service,” she answered, smiling bravely. “Been waiting on a Blu-ray copy of The Town for months. I have a feeling it’s not coming. Which is a shame because that Ben Affleck does it for me.”
Despite himself, Merritt matched her smile. “Never figured you for having a sense of humor.”
“I’m hard to figure,” she replied. “Which is just the way I like it.”
Merritt stood and wiped his hands on his shorts again. “I can relate.”
“I know. I suppose that’s why I finally took you up on your offer. Thought it was possible we’re a couple kindred souls or something.”
Merritt nodded. “Glad you came to your senses.”
They stood there together in silence for a bit, watching the dawning sky, the touch of gentle waves crashing around their ankles along the shore. When the sun finally broke the horizon, Merritt turned without a word and moved back toward his tent. Deborah lingered for a moment, and then followed him. He was rummaging through a duffel bag when she reached him. He pulled out a green bottle with a yellow label, held it up for her to see. “I do believe that this calls for a celebration.”
“Don’t bother,” she said, hugging herself again.
Merritt had produced two smudged drinking glasses. He turned to her, a frown creasing his forehead. “Don’t bother? I’ll have you know that this is Cutty Sark, the finest of the bottom shelf whiskeys, in my humble opinion.”
“One glass and I’m likely to lose all of my inhibitions,” she told him.
“Is that supposed to dissuade me?”
“Can we just sit and talk?”
“I’d been hoping you would take me up on my offer,” he said, rubbing his hand along the bottle’s smooth edge. “I risked a trip back to the mainland just for this. So we could celebrate, when you came.”
“Risked a trip back just for that?” she said, skeptical.
Merritt smiled. “Well, cases of bottled water, too. And Sheldon needed his gas
cans filled. My coffee grounds. Wood begged me to get some of those awful Djarums…”
“Is this supposed to persuade me?” she asked.
He let the bottle fall from his grasp, where it thudded in the sand. “I can’t imagine anyone ever getting one over on you.”
“Doesn’t stop men from trying.”
He looked at her. “When it hit you that we’re on an island, did it also dawn on you that the men and women on this island needed to coexist?”
“I watched the sunrise with you, didn’t I?”
“Why I suggested we celebrate,” he said. “But you want to turn this into some kind of social commentary. Deep rumination about the faults of men.”
“I’m tired, James. I just want peace. Happiness. Some love.”
“Women treat love as if it’s a noun,” Merritt said. “Something they can hold. Bathe in. That’s a lot of pressure.”
“And men treat love as if it’s a dangling participle,” Deborah replied. “Or dangling, at the very least.”
Merritt chuckled and shook his head. “You’ve worn me down, Deborah. Debate over. I had a rough night and trying to outtalk you is a losing proposition.”
She nodded. “Heard you were out playing Buffy the vampire slayer.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Buffy?”
“Is that a blow to your male ego?” she asked, smiling.
“A little,” he said. “But I’ll make sure you make it up to me. Wipe the gender confusion right from your mind.”
“That so? I like your confidence.”
He shook his head. “Not confidence. It’s the odds, is all. I’m the answer to a parlor game question. If you were trapped on an island with only blah-blah men, would you…”
“Probably choose the wrong one,” she finished.
“Choose,” Merritt said. “That word implies that you can change that, Debbie.”
“Deborah,” she corrected.
“What’s wrong? He call you that…Debbie?”
“Can I ask you a personal question, James?”
“No.”
“No?”
Scared of the Dark Page 9
