by Eddie Jones
“The charter company needs the trawler for another group that’s coming in,” Dad explained. “Something about a catamaran sailboat not being available.”
“But we’re not leaving the island, are we? At least until we find Wendy?” I couldn’t bear the thought of driving off the island and over the bridge knowing Wendy was possibly locked up in some monster’s basement and terrified that she’d never be found.
“No, of course we’re not leaving, but believe you me, there’ll be serious consequences for both of you when your sister does finally come back from wherever it is she’s been.”
“We’ll find a motel,” Dad offered. “Something cheap.” He picked up Mom’s bathroom bag and set it on the dock.
“We should have been gone hours ago,” said Mom, piling on, “but I couldn’t reach you on your phone. Of course, if we knew where your sister was, we wouldn’t even need to get a room. We could pack and leave.”
My parents didn’t get it. Neither did Officer McDonald. They still thought Wendy’s disappearance was my fault. It’s probably best that they think she’s hanging out with friends, I thought. If Mom and Dad knew the real deal, they’d flip for sure.
“So what’s next, officer? Can Nick go with us or are you going to arrest him?”
The way Mom asked the question I almost got the impression she was hoping he would.
“Like I said, ma’am, it’s up to the person renting my townhome. If the individual doesn’t want to press charges, I’ll let your son off with a warning.”
“Great. Nick, grab your bag,” Dad said “I left it in the front bunk of the trawler. You can load that dock cart and roll it up to the parking lot while I drive the car around. I’ll pick up your mom and you there.”
“What if Wendy shows up while we’re checking into a motel? How’s she going to know where to find us?” I didn’t mention that this would be impossible, since Wendy knew nothing about their being at the trawler.
“Your son has a point,” said Officer McDonald. “Someone should probably stick around. You know, in case your daughter comes looking for you.”
I wasn’t sure Officer McDonald meant for me to see him wink at Dad, but I did. I also noticed Dad give Mom a slight nod, as though he anticipated I might ask to hang back. Mom and Dad still did not believe Wendy’s abduction was real; they had made that clear. I guess they figured as soon as the coast was clear I would contact my sister and tell her she could come out of hiding. Regardless, if I was going to find Wendy, I could not be cooped up in a motel room.
“Can I, Dad, please?”
“Sylvia, what do you think?”
“Why are you asking me? It’s not like Nick is going to listen to us, anyway.”
Ouch! I could tell by the tone of her voice she was upset — or was trying to sound upset. But I sensed she and Dad had expected me to ask if I could hang back. I think my parents believed as soon as they drove away I would contact Wendy and make it appear as though she’d escaped from her kidnapper.
Minutes later I stood in the parking lot, waving to my parents as they sped off in the Buick.
“Final time — are you positive you do not know where your sister is?”
I returned Officer McDonald’s sympathetic gaze. I shook my head, “No, sir, I do not.”
“In that case you’d better hope we find her and soon. It’ll be dark before you know it.”
As soon as Officer McDonald left, I hurried over to the fuel docks. Kat was pumping fuel into the tanks of a sport fishing boat.
When she saw me coming, she finished topping off the tank and straightened. “Hey, sorry you got booted off the Ms. Fortune.”
“No worries. Mom looked pretty happy to be moving into a fleabag motel.”
“How’d your visit go with Officer McDonald?”
“Not well.” I explained how I’d quizzed him about my sister’s disappearance and received the third degree from him in return. I told her about touring the fancy beach house with Ms. Bryant, surfing with Dirk, and how I had been caught inside Officer McDonald’s townhome. “I have a pretty good idea of who has my sister, but I’m going to need your help.”
Kat laid the hose on the dock and threaded the cap, closing the fuel tank. “Oh? Doing what?”
“You said earlier you could run me out to Poke Salad Annie’s place. Does that offer still stand?”
“Sure, why?”
“I need to bait a trap.”
“Oh, what sort of trap?”
“One that catches zombies.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SWAMP WATER
While Kat went off to check with her Uncle Phil about borrowing a small runabout, I plopped down on a dock box and laid out the puzzle pieces of my sister’s abduction.
Sneaking into Officer McDonald’s townhouse had been a lucky break. Sure, it got me in hot water, but seeing the portrait of the sailing dory had confirmed my initial suspicions. Someone — maybe Officer McDonald or Matt, but probably the person renting the unit — had taken the picture of Wendy. I pulled Dad’s letter of recommendation out of my back pocket and studied the signature: “K.G.B. Savior.” Savior of what? Is it some kind of code? A clue? The letters of a radio station? I thought about how my editor would sometimes rearrange the letters of his name to create an alias for a story he’d written. The word “Calvin,” for example, became “Anvil C.” “Nick” could be turned into “C. Ink.”
For a few moments I mentally moved around the letters of the name “K.G.B. Savior” but could not create anything close to a word or phrase that made sense.
“All set to go?”
I hurriedly put away Dad’s recommendation letter. “What time is it?”
“Almost three thirty.”
“Better get going. Last night it was pitch dark by seven.”
High tide surged through the marsh, swelling over the creek’s muddy banks. The sun had begun to bank toward the west, turning the water a copper-brown. What little breeze there was came from the south and brought with it the salty smell of the ocean.
I sat on a bench seat directly in front of the center console of the runabout, my bare feet resting on a white cooler. Kat assumed a position behind the center console, one hand on the shiny silver steering wheel, the other resting on the throttle lever. She’d turned a pink ball cap backward on her head. A small square of teal canvas that stretched above the console shaded her sun-browned face.
I squirted a glob of banana-scented sunscreen onto my palm, flipped back the shaggy ends of my hair, and lathered my neck and shoulders. My skin felt like I had a thousand tiny needles stabbing me from where the sun had burned my neck.
“Hey, Kansas, when you’re done with the sunscreen, toss it back.”
I passed the tube around the Plexiglas windshield. “Does the phrase ‘K.G.B. Savior’ mean anything to you?”
“Dudden to me, why?”
“Wasn’t sure if it was a religious term or something.”
“Well, the radio station in Savannah used to be WKGB but that got changed a while back. Now they go by the letters WSAV. How come you’re asking?”
KGB? SAV? Okay, so add another possible scenario to the list: Officer McDonald’s cousin took Wendy, or maybe McDonald himself, and all this really is part of a radio station publicity stunt. Of all the possibilities, that seemed the most likely.
And it gave me hope.
Hope that everything would work out. If it was a prank, as Officer McDonald had suggested at the very beginning, then when we did find Wendy she could be unharmed and maybe even a little excited (later) to know she was part of a radio promotion. I could see her texting her friends and telling them how she’d been kidnapped by a radio show personality as part of a zombie festival.
Without trying to sound too excited, I said to Kat, “I’m just trying to connect the dots; that’s why I asked about the letters KGB.”
Kat slowly spun the steering wheel and we made a lazy one-eighty turn.
I got up and joined her at the c
onsole. “Are we heading back?”
“If you’ll look up yonder to your right, you’ll see that green buoy is our next marker. After that, there’s a red one on our left. And those birds over there? They’re standing in about six inches of water.”
I looked at where she pointed and spied the red cone-shaped float bobbing in the water. “How come they’re shaped differently?”
“So when it’s dark you can see which side of the channel you’re fixing to run aground on. The reds are nuns, greens are cans.”
“Speaking of nuns, earlier today you mentioned something about leading a zombie Bible study. Were you pulling my leg?”
“Ha-ha, good one, Kansas. And no, I was dead serious.” She nudged me in the ribs. “See, I can tell a funny, too. You’re free to join us this weekend. That is, if you’re still around.”
“The guy running the activities center, Dirk, he told me I’m in the Bible belt. What did he mean by that?”
Kat turned the boat to the left after we passed the green marker and we continued zigzagging our way toward the larger body of water.
“If you look at a map of the United States, there’s a clump of states running from Virginia down to Florida and west to Texas. Those used to be the Confederacy. Uncle Phil says when he was coming along, most everyone in his town went to church — even those who did’n believe in God. He said if you wanted to get business done, that’s where you were on Sunday mornings.”
“So around here, churches are like country clubs.”
“Did’n say that. I was only pointing out that’s how it used to be. Our Bible study is different.”
“Because it’s for zombies.”
“Right.”
I gestured toward the next marker. “We’re about to hit that red float.”
“Buoy, it’s called a buoy. Float is something you take to the pool. And I’m all the way over here because I know for a fact there’s a shoal running out into the middle of the channel that’s not marked. Once we clear that we’ll be in the Savannah River and I can let her rip.”
“My dad’s aunt goes to church. She says Christians will rise from the grave someday. Said that’s why she’s not afraid of dying. What do you think?”
“I think you’d better hang on.”
She slammed the throttle forward and the boat shot across the water like a rocket. Wind snapped my hair; spray soaked my face. I stood with my legs spread wide to keep from stumbling backward.
By far the tour of the beach house and surfing lesson from Dirk had been the best part of my trip. I knew Mom hated the idea of living on the coast, but I hoped Dad got the job with Ms. Bryant. Deep down I knew my parents loved each other but the financial stress of the past few months had set them on edge. Moving to Palmetto Island would give all four of us a chance to start over. Assuming, of course, I found my sister alive and safe.
We raced up the river, the motorboat’s loud outboard drowning out all conversation. After probably five minutes, Kat backed off the throttle and aimed us toward a marshy area. We went chugging into a wide creek. Soon the river sounds of boat traffic faded. A couple of minutes into the maze I was completely turned around without any clue as to how to get back to the marina. Kat didn’t seem fazed in the least by the web of intersecting creeks. She worked the throttle and shift lever, easing past submerged logs and over the shallow bottom as if she’d done this hundreds of times, and I supposed she had. This was her backyard, after all. I got to thinking that if someone needed to dump a body where it would never be found, Kat would be the perfect person for the job.
Just when I thought we’d hit a dead end, Kat nosed the front of the boat into a patch of reeds and we coasted into a narrow canal. Razor-sharp fronds grew thick along the shore. A gazillion bugs vectored, forming a dense cloud around my head. Behind the boat, a plume of mud expanded from where the prop dug into the bottom. Kat shut off the outboard and lifted the prop clear of the muck.
She handed me a boat oar. Together we began poling our way up the canal, pushing ourselves off the creek’s banks as we moved toward the low-scrub island looming ahead.
“Here’s the thing about church,” Kat said at last. “Folks can poke fun at Christians and that’s fine. Can’t say as I blame ’em. I hate phonies and hypocrites same as the next person. The ones that really get under my skin are those who say they’re Christians but don’t act it. Either get on the bus or get off, but don’t make the name of Christ a bad word to people that don’t know Him, you know what I mean?”
“Wow, I didn’t mean to start —”
“I ain’t done yet. Thing I can’t stand most of all is folks calling me narrow-minded and stupid just because I happen to believe in the Bible. For crying out loud, there would not be an America if it weren’t for people believing in the Bible.”
“I never said you —”
“Let something really bad happen to somebody and first thing they say is, ‘Oh my God.’ And He is. He’s your God. And my God. And the only God there is.”
“I wasn’t trying to pick a —”
“But things have gotten so messed up that folks will put up with most anybody except a person that believes in Jesus.”
“You done?”
“Mostly, yeah.”
“What I was going to say is, the past couple of months I’ve been reading a little bit of the Bible each day.”
“You have?”
“Dad’s Aunt Vivian gave me a copy. It was sort of like a family heirloom. I promised her it would do more than sit on my bookshelf. I’m still not sure I agree with all the rules and stuff, but some stories are pretty cool. I especially like the one where the bald guy sent a bear chasing after a bunch of punks who were calling him bad names.”
“I’ve never read that.”
“I forget where it was. In the old section, I think.”
The canal widened and we began paddling under a shaded canopy of low trees knitted with Spanish moss. Long-neck egrets loitered on limbs and rotten stumps. Bugs zipped across the tea-colored water. Our boat’s movement sent ripples advancing ahead of us. At last we came to a tilting pier partially buried among cattails and willow reeds. The boat bumped against a piling and we stopped.
“Up yonder is a path,” said Kat. “Keep to it, and I mean right on it, and you’ll do fine. Hundred or so yards in, and you’ll find Poke Salad Annie’s place.” The pier looked unstable, the path, buggy. “If you get into trouble, you know what to do, right?”
“Pray?”
“I was going to say yell like a scalded dog, but praying ain’t a bad idea either. Good luck, Kansas. I reckon you’re going to need a ton of it.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
POKE SALAD ANNIE
I stood on the dock watching the boat back away. After a few minutes, my ride became lost in the maze of trees. I slapped at a mosquito on the back of my neck, heard the outboard fire, then turned and started walking up the dock. By the time I reached the footpath, the drone of the runabout was nothing more than a faint hum.
The sun’s feeble light strained to pierce the canopy of limbs. I thought about the kidnapper’s warning to me: The dead come alive at dusk.
A breeze rattled leaves beside the path, and mosquitoes feasted without mercy. The path was made up of crushed oyster shells strewn over squishy black mud. About twenty yards in, the route veered up and onto a dome of dark sand and hard-packed dirt. Judging from the increased elevation, the island appeared to be the remains of an old spoil area for inlet dredging, or perhaps an ancient burial site. I’d read in a magazine in the condo about how Seminole Indians ventured north from Florida to hunt panther.
The path ended atop the crest and at the edge of a clearing.
A weathered clapboard shack stood about twenty feet off the ground on knobby pilings. Its low-pitched roof channeled rainwater into PVC piping that emptied into a blue plastic barrel. Cords of cut wood stood stacked inside a lean-to shed. Beneath the shack was an assortment of tools: a shovel, a rake, a wooden wheelb
arrow. Animal skins hung from ropes strung between the pilings. Skulls of various sizes lined the steps leading up to the porch railing. I wandered into the backyard and came upon a crude rotisserie built over a fire pit. Slabs of meat sizzled; juice dripped onto hot coals.
The smell of beef grilling reminded me of Dad’s backyard barbeques, the ones we used to have when we had our own home and were (almost) one big happy family. Dad isn’t a bad cook but he always ends up burning dinner, even when Mom warns (yells at him) to be careful. Some years ago Wendy began calling Dad’s outdoor barbeques the “The Caden Sacrifice” and his contribution to global warming.
I was still thinking about all the good times we used to have before Dad lost his job when suddenly I heard movement behind me.
I whirled and found myself looking down the bamboo barrel of something like a blowgun.
The barefoot woman wore a flowery dress reaching to her knees, a necklace of bones, and a seriously wicked scowl. Her skin was the color of motor oil. Glossy black dreadlocks hung over yellow-brown eyes.
“What you be doin’ sneaking ‘round?”
“Kat,” I stammered, “she … dropped me off.”
“Who dis Cat?”
“Works at the marina? She said she knew you.” The old woman grunted but made no effort to lower the blowgun. “Told me you might know what happened to my sister.”
“Hinny know all. Hinny heah tings odduh folks no kin.”
“Hinny? Hinny who?”
“I Hinny!”
“Oh, Annie, got it. So do you know where my sister is and how I can find her?”
“Hinny don’ know dat.”
“But you just said you know all.”
“All dat I know, I know. Dat I don’ know, how can I know?”
“You know, what you just said makes no sense at all.”
“Come. You tell Hinny ‘bout dis bad, bad ting dat happen to you sistuh.”
“You’re not going to shoot me with that thing, are you?”
She cut her gaze toward the barrel of the blowgun. “Depends. You lie to Hinny?”
