The Girl in the Maze

by R. K. Jackson

  The light skimmed the water once more, then clicked off. Jarrell heard footsteps going into the cabin. He stood and took a peek over the prow. He could see the three men gathered around the table in the galley. One of them he recognized as Wallace Bowden, the chairman of the Amberleen County Commission. Bowden was sliding plats and diagrams out of a cardboard tube and flattening them on the table while Fish-belly and a third man, some tall dude in a plaid shirt, looked on.

  Jarrell gripped the chrome railing of the Moon Mist and pulled his skiff along until it was next to the larger boat. One of the tinted windows of the cabin was open to the night air, and now he could hear the men’s voices clearly.

  “So this here’s where they’re going to put the golf course?” Bowden said.

  “Jack Nicklaus design, the grade—”

  “Look at that.”

  Jarrell hooked a tie line to a cleat on the Moon Mist. He pulled the digital recorder from its waterproof pouch, placed it on the gunwale, and pushed RECORD.

  “And this over here is going to be a water park. Hotels all along through here—”

  The guy in the plaid shirt let out a slow whistle. “They’re really going to go first class with this thing.”

  “That property out there—that’s a gold mine. It’s just sitting there, unutilized. So let’s do this, and let’s do it right.”

  “Let me tell you, we could do a lot worse than Hoshima,” Bowden said.

  Jarrell lifted his head a little higher so he could see them. Fish-belly leaned against the counter, listening.

  “The tax revenue from this project will spread far beyond Shell Heap,” said the tall man. “Hell, this county’s been in decline, what would you say, two decades or more? This is money that will come back into our community as well. It would pay for a new high school, redevelopment of the Bay Street park area. It will attract new business to Main Street.”

  “We can use the revenue to clean up, get rid of the crime problem—”

  “What about the Geechees? You can’t buy ’em out.”

  “It’s not the Geechees I’m worried about, Larry.” It was the first time Fish-belly had spoken.

  “I know. It’s that woman.” Bowden pulled off his glasses, wiped them with his shirttail. “I like Lydia. But she’s tenacious as a bulldog. She’s got connections in the Georgia legislature. She’ll find a way to stop this. You know she will.”

  “How much has Hoshima deposited?”

  “They’ve wired five million.”

  “We better send it back.”

  “Dammit, Wallace, we can’t send any money back. Some of us have already—”

  Jarrell held the rail with one hand, tilted the recorder with the other to make sure the red light was on. His heart was beating so hard he feared they might hear it.

  Fish-belly stepped forward, holding his palm outward. “Look, nobody is going to stop this deal, everything is going to fall into place. The stage is set. People are scared shitless about the drug problem.”

  “He’s right,” Wallace said. “We just push through with eminent domain tomorrow. We’ve made a strong case. If we move fast, we can beat the politicians to the punch.”

  There was another pause. The boat tipped a little, and Jarrell stumbled. His chest slid against the hull, his knife clacked. He cupped his hand over it and waited. The men resumed their discussion with no sign they’d heard him. That was a close one, you dumbass. He carefully removed the knife from the carabiner and put it on the runner of the skiff.

  “I think we’ve heard you, Wallace.”

  “Are we in agreement?”

  “I think we’re all in agreement here.”

  There was another moment of silence. Jarrell imagined they were shaking hands, giving high-fives—whatever white guys do when they decide to turn everything into shit.

  “Let’s don’t dwell on this. How about one of those Coors? Aren’t we supposed to be fishing?” Then, a nervous laugh.

  Jarrell turned the recorder off, pushed it into a waterproof bag, sealed it. He let go of the chrome rail and slid quietly back down to the skiff. He had his prize. He reached up to unloop the tie rope from the cleat, and he heard a splash next to the skiff. Shit—the folding knife—

  “What was that?”

  “Did you hear something?”

  “Probably a fish.”

  Jarrell quickly maneuvered his boat back under the prow. Too quickly. He heard a squeak as the two boats rubbed together. The spotlight came on and swept the water.

  “Hell yeah! I saw something, Aubrey, I think—I saw the edge of—”

  “You mean somebody—”

  Jarrell could hear cursing and the sound of a locker door opening and closing. Fuck.

  He heard the fat-ass’s heavy footsteps on the front of the prow, and the slide-click of a rifle bolt.

  The night was silent for a moment, except for the frogs and crickets. Then the rifle boomed against the night air.

  “All right, you sons of bitches!” Fish-belly yelled. “We’ve seen you! How many of you are under there?”

  Jarrell looked across the water. He needed to get his boat into Asher’s Creek, where the cruiser couldn’t follow. But the creek entrance was two hundred yards away, across open water.

  “I’ve got a loaded rifle with a laser scope,” the man on the prow was saying, “and I know how to use it. Come on out from under there, nice and slow. I need to see all your hands up in the air, squeaky clean.”

  Jarrell scrambled toward his outboard motor. He had cover—at least for a few seconds—under the prow of the cruiser. He gave the gasoline bulb a quick squeeze and yanked the starter pulley. The engine sputtered to life. He adjusted the tiller handle to a slight angle, locked it down. Then he took off his belt and wrapped one end around his wrist and hooked the buckle over the skiff’s oarlock.

  “Wallace!” Fish-belly yelled. “Turn on the ignition, and ease the boat back a little so I can see them.”

  The Moon Mist’s engine rumbled, the transmission engaged

  Jarrell rolled over the side of the skiff and into the dark water. The river felt cooler than the night air, but not by much. He gripped the side of the skiff and kicked, pointing it toward the entrance to Asher’s. Okay, Fat-ass. Get ready for a surprise.

  “There he is. I know that kid. That’s Astrid’s boy. What’s his name—”

  “Jarrell—”

  Jarrell gripped the belt strap with his right hand and ducked his head. He reached up to give the engine’s throttle handle a full twist. The skiff lurched forward and ripped out of the water, dragging him like a rag doll. He turned his face from a blinding wall of spray. Above the roar of the motor and the blast of the water—gunshots.

  The water rushed over his head in a flume. The belt loop felt like it would pull his arm out of its socket. Jarrell reckoned his boat would be veering to the right from the drag of his body. That’s why he’d locked the tiller at an angle.

  He felt his shoulder slam against the muddy river bottom, then his hip hit hard, nearly knocked him loose, but the boat kept going, plowing through rushes—

  The motor made a strangling sound, died. Jarrell lay in the muddy shallows next to the skiff, and he could hear the approaching rumble of the Moon Mist. He rolled over, crawled behind the skiff, and peeked over the edge. He expected to see Fish-belly standing on the bow of the boat, rifle drawn, ready to scatter his brains like chum.

  But Jarrell didn’t see the other boat, nor shoreline, nor river. Just cordgrass. Tall rows of it. He’d made it into the creek and plowed into the bank.

  The gunshots started again and a spume of mud exploded on the bank next to him. Fish-belly was shooting blind through the grass. Jarrell dragged the skiff to the middle of the narrow channel, climbed in, and rowed. Crouched low, he moved slowly, following the sweet spot in the center of the creek. Just enough tide left to make it through, if he was careful. But the Moon Mist couldn’t follow, not in this waterway. Couldn’t even get close.

&
nbsp; After several hundred yards, the channel deepened, and Jarrell cranked the engine. Another quarter mile cruising at low throttle, and he was alone. A vast labyrinth of grass and tides lay before him. His kingdom. Fish-belly and his county cronies couldn’t touch him here. Not ever.

  Jarrell leaned back, let his breathing slow, and smiled. He was covered in mud, his knees ached like a mother, but he was free.

  He straightened his leg, reached into his wet jeans pocket, pulled out the dry bag. His heart jerked when he felt the contents through the plastic. Instead of single object, he could feel separate pieces, like broken glass.

  He slid the recorder out. It was in two halves, connected by tiny wires. A piece of green circuit board lay exposed. He killed the skiff’s motor and turned back to attend to the recorder, cradling it in his hand like a robin’s egg. He pushed the PLAY button. Nothing. He punched the button again and again.

  No voices. Nothing to hear at all, except for the lap of the water against his boat and the ceaseless murmur of the marsh.

  Chapter 4

  Martha dreamed of floating in dark water, brushed by feathery fronds of seaweed. Bang, bang. She rocketed toward the surface.

  Bang, bang, bang. “Miss Covington? Are you in there?”

  Martha opened her eyes, shuddered, and looked at the clock. Seven forty-six. The sun glinted through the gauzy curtains. What happened to the alarm?

  “Miss Covington?” Eileen Pritchett’s voice grated like a hinge on an iron gate.

  “Just a minute.” Martha’s own voice was husky, garbled. The inside of her mouth felt like she had been sucking on a dishrag. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and reached for her kimono, disoriented. She didn’t remember going to sleep last night—the last thing she remembered was the orange light, a terrible feeling of doubt—

  “Miss Covington? Somebody on the phone for you downstairs.”

  She cracked the door. Eileen stood there, winded from the walk upstairs, her chest heaving. “You got a phone call. Lady says it’s somethin’ important.”

  “All right, I’ll be down in just a moment.”

  “You want me to tell her to hold on?”

  “Yes, please. I’ll be right there.”

  Martha put on her slippers, hurried downstairs to the hallway, and picked up the phone.

  “Hello, this is Martha—”

  “It’s Lydia. I was hoping to catch you. Don’t come in to the office today.”

  “What? But why?”

  “Go to the marina on Bay Street.”

  “The marina?”

  “Pier Fifteen. Be there no later than nine o’clock. Bring your notebook.”

  “Why? What’s happening?”

  “We’re going to the island today. I’ll explain when you get there. Wear comfortable shoes.”

  A few minutes later, Martha was at the front door, satchel in hand. She paused, looked at her watch. Fifteen extra minutes. What, exactly, had she seen from her window the previous night?

  She went around to the backyard, crossed the gravel parking area, and stepped onto the dewy grass. She passed under the canopy of the fat oak tree and continued toward a wide, unkempt area. A few more steps, and her foot bumped against something solid. She knelt down to examine a block of crumbled masonry. She set her satchel in the grass and ran her fingers along the pitted surface. She could make out the traces of a low wall, mostly obscured by overgrowth. Across the way, she could see another section, maybe a corner, jutting above the weeds. This was the rectangular shape she’d seen, an outline easier to discern from her upstairs window.

  The wall was made of tabby concrete and embedded with oyster shells, pearl-like fragments. She took hold of one of the shells. It wobbled like a loose tooth. The shell was blackened. She paused, listening to the buzz of insects in the grass. No, not a wall. A foundation.

  Martha looked at her watch again. Eight-forty. She wiped her sooty fingers against the grass, picked up her satchel, and headed for the pier.

  —

  A morning fog shrouded the marina as she crossed a planked dock toward a small group gathered near the end. She spotted Nick first, wearing a photographer’s vest and crouched on bended knee to take a photo of Lydia, who was posing next to a stocky, gray-haired man in a navy blazer. Off to one side was Stacey, in shorts and a summer hat, pulling at a wheeled plastic cooler.

  After the photo was taken, Lydia introduced Martha to the man in the jacket. He had a craggy face and a beaklike nose, but his eyes were sharp and alert. He reminded Martha of a terrapin.

  “Senator Crumbley, I’d like you to meet the newest member of our staff, Martha Covington. She’s helping us with the island history project.”

  Crumbley took Martha’s hand. “Let me extend my sympathies. Do you know you’re working for one of the toughest ladies south of the Mason-Dixon?”

  Lydia gave the senator a playful swat on the shoulder. “Oh, be quiet, Joseph. Let’s get you some coffee before you cause any trouble.”

  Lydia escorted the senator across the gangway and onto the ferry. Martha turned toward Nick, half-whispering. “What’s this about?”

  “Crumbley is chairman of the Natural Resources Committee,” Nick said. “He was in Savannah yesterday for a blue-plate fundraiser. Lydia managed to rope him into this tour. Old friend of the family.” Nick tucked his notepad into a vest pocket. “The Crumbleys and Dussaults go way back. A few favors owed. Know what I mean?” He opened and shut his eyes four times, rapidly. “Dynasties, old money. Lydia thinks he might be able to help us.”

  Stacey stepped forward, rolling the cooler along by its plastic handle.

  “Y’all going to stand around and whisper all day, or is somebody going to help me load this cooler?”

  —

  Martha watched over the starboard railing as the Marsh Belle meandered along a narrow waterway in a cool morning mist. The steady movement of the boat and the light breeze were lulling, and the foreboding that had gripped Martha since the previous night started to melt away. Broad vistas of emerald marshland glided by. The air smelled of brine and mud. She wondered exactly where the island was located. The landscape around them—a confusing patchwork of marsh, forest, and curling tributaries—offered no clue.

  She took a deep breath. The marsh air was fragrant, alive, sensuous.

  —

  She could still see her mother, in the kitchen. Always in her shorts and Tevas, lean and tanned, tomboy haircut, whipping up a mean bowl of brownies.

  “How old were you?”

  “About six, I guess. It was not long after we moved to Decatur.”

  “And what about your father? Where was he?”

  Martha gazed at the folk-art rooster on Vince’s shelf. “He was busy during those years, but later, after he got tenured, things were different.”

  “How so?”

  “He had more time. We used to go on fishing trips together. We read books. We went to plays and art films.”

  “How do you see yourself during those years?”

  “Normal.”

  “What about high school?”

  “I had friends. I was on the swim team. I was a good student.”

  “You scored in the top percentile on the verbal SAT.”

  “Yes, and I got a journalism scholarship. Everything was fine, until—”

  Martha felt her eyes moistening. A lump was forming in her throat. She looked at her lap and Vince handed her a tissue. She took it, wiped her eyes, then put her hand on top of his and locked on his eyes. Warm, dark eyes. He gazed back at her for a few seconds. Scary-wonderful seconds. Then he simply squeezed her hand and took his own hand away.

  “We can’t go there, Martha.” Vince swiveled his desk chair slightly, steepled his fingers. “It would change our relationship, take it into a place we could never come back from. And then I would no longer be able to help you.”

  She sat and cried for several minutes. But she never tried it again.

  In the next session, she began
to tell him about Lenny.

  —

  Crumbley stepped onto the deck, an insulated coffee mug in hand, followed by Lydia. They paused at the railing a few feet away, seemingly unaware of Martha’s presence.

  “No bridges to the mainland, not even an airstrip,” Lydia was saying. “You’ve got to take a boat—or a helicopter, I suppose.”

  “And you say sixty-five people out here?” Crumbley asked. “It’s amazing to find that kind of isolation today. How do they manage it?”

  “Most of them still live off the land and the marsh. The Geechees have had this island to themselves for almost two centuries now. That’s what makes their culture unique.”

  The waterway wound around a curve and widened slightly. Martha felt a tap on her shoulder. Nick pointed toward a low horizon of green hovering just above the water. Not far away, the dark timbers of a wood pier emerged from the mist, like a trackway to the afterlife.

  “There it is,” Nick said. “Get ready to visit paradise.”

  They were greeted at the end of the pier by a contingent of islanders. Lydia introduced Astrid Humphries, a full-figured woman with short, pressed hair. Lydia called her the unofficial “mayor” of Shell Heap Island. They also shook hands with Toby, an older gentleman with a full white beard. He leaned on a twisting lacquered wooden staff.

  They climbed inside a Range Rover, with Toby taking the driver’s seat, and rumbled along a rutted road toward the island’s interior. Wild turkey and piglets scattered. The sandy track was dappled with sunlight filtered through canopies of oak trees.

  After a few minutes, Toby slowed the Rover and made a hard turn through a gap in the woods. Soon the road disappeared entirely and they traveled over soft pine needles along the forest floor.

  “Are you sure we can find our way back?” Crumbley asked. Martha kept a tight grip on the handhold above her door.

  “Don’t worry, Toby has lived here since birth,” Lydia said. “He knows every pine needle and gopher hole on this entire island. And trust me, what you’re about to see is worth the effort.”

  The car rolled to a stop next to a gully deep inside the forest.

  “Here we are,” Lydia announced.