The Language of Sand

by Ellen Block

  While she circled the cul-de-sac, the name on the building across from the school grabbed her attention. It read: Chapel Isle Library. A slate roof and stained-glass accents in the windows spiffed up the otherwise plain faade.

  “You did say you wanted to act like you lived here.”

  Warm, quiet, and well lit, libraries were a favorite of Abigail’s. She always felt at home in a place where books outnumbered people. A library was like a country club for reading enthusiasts, only everybody was welcome.

  “You must be here about the loggerheads,” a librarian said, greeting Abigail excitedly when she entered. The woman’s gray hair was cropped short, as if having it any longer would have been a hassle.

  “Loggerheads?”

  “We have a microfiche machine,” she said proudly. “It’s in the back.”

  The small library was empty except for an elderly man in a wool jacket, reading the newspaper at a table. The fluorescent lighting made a low buzzing sound and tinged the entire room with a yellow glow. Even the round braided rug in the children’s reading corner took on an amber cast.

  “I think you have me confused with someone else,” Abigail said.

  “My apologies. A gal from the mainland phoned about doing some research on our loggerhead-turtle population. We don’t get a lot of out-of-towners in, so I thought you were she. What can I do for you?”

  The island’s loggerhead turtle population gave Abigail an idea.

  “I’m glad you asked. What can you tell me about the lighthouse here on the island?”

  “What sort of information are you looking for?” Suspicion starched the woman’s reply.

  “General information, historical data, that sort of thing.”

  “Well, we have a book on the lighthouses of the Outer Banks, which has details of each of the lighthouses in the area.”

  “Do you have anything more specific?”

  “No, we don’t. As you can see, we’re a modest library.”

  The woman was giving Abigail the runaround. Saying she was the new caretaker might open a door. Or close it tighter.

  “It’s such an interesting old lighthouse. I’m surprised nobody has written a book about it.”

  “Yes,” the librarian agreed. “It’s a mystery.”

  Unlike at the library, Abigail could get what she was after at the hardware store. She could see Merle through the window in the back door. He had his head buried in the refrigerator.

  “Morning,” she said, entering. Startled, Merle jammed the refrigerator door into a pile of fishing rods, which cascaded to the floor.

  “Morning, Abby,” he said begrudgingly.

  “Sorry. Let me get those. I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.”

  “Where would the fun in that be?”

  “No more umbrella cane, I see.”

  “It was cramping my style.”

  “Perish the thought.” Abigail collected the rods and replaced them in the corner.

  “You just here to make my life flash before my eyes or do you have some other home improvements you’re undertaking? Bear in mind, I don’t carry wrecking balls.”

  “Here.” Abigail handed him the piece of cardboard with her list on it.

  Merle flipped it over, revealing a picture of turkey tetrazzini. “I can already tell you’ve left two integral items off o’ this list. Paper and a cookbook.”

  “And you said you weren’t funny.”

  “Candles, duct tape, water. Take it you heard about the hurricane. Amelia or Amanda or…”

  “Don’t say it. It’s not?”

  “Nope, it’s not Abigail. Dodged a bullet there.”

  “Did I ever.”

  “I have a hunch Lottie didn’t tell you diddly about what to do in case we get hit by this hurricane.”

  “Not a peep.”

  “Then I’ll skip to the important parts. If there’s enough warning, I’ll board up the windows at the lighthouse. That’s what I did in ’96. Wasn’t a scratch on the place. You can ride the storm out as long as you got food and water. Keep your radio close. If the island has to be evacuated, you’ll hear it on there first. Town has an air siren. They tend not to use it. Too apocalyptic. If we do have to evacuate, you get to the dock and take the ferry to the mainland. The police will direct you to a shelter.”

  “What about you? Won’t you be going to the shelter?”

  Merle tapped the cardboard list against his palm, disinclined to respond.

  “What? You’re too macho for a shelter? Or you’re too macho to leave?”

  “Not macho—stubborn. Some might say stupid. State’s tried to evacuate Chapel Isle more than ten times in my life. Haven’t left once. If I’m gonna kick the bucket, it’s going to be right here.”

  Abigail admired his conviction. It made perfect sense.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Fire away.”

  “What happened to the original lighthouse keeper?”

  Merle solemnly took a jug of kerosene off a shelf and brought it to the register. “I only know what I’ve heard since I was a kid.”

  “And I only know what I’ve read.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I found a newspaper clipping about the Bishop’s Mistress under the mattress in the caretaker’s house. The article said there was a storm, that the ship sank because there was no light to guide it in.”

  “That might be the headline. It’s not the whole story.”

  “There’s an unabridged version?”

  Merle rested against the counter, taking weight off his healing ankle. “Everyone said Mr. Jasper was diligent, faithful. The lighthouse was his life. This was back at the turn of the century, when Chapel Isle was a one-horse town, an outpost for sailors, fishermen, and their families. Supposedly, one day Mr. Jasper went to the lamp room to put the oil in for the night. On the way down, he slipped, hit his head, and fell; rolled clear to the bottom. Should have killed him. He must have lain there for hours, nobody to help him. By nightfall, the storm had swept in. When people realized there was no beacon for the sailors, somebody went to the lighthouse and found him. It was too late for the Mistress. But not for Mr. Jasper. He was alive. Barely.”

  “You’re saying he was hurt and couldn’t have operated the beacon. Then what happened to the Bishop’s Mistress wasn’t his fault.”

  “I don’t think that’s how Mr. Jasper saw it.”

  On occasions too numerous to recall, Abigail had wished she’d died along with her husband and son. She was ashamed for being able to breathe and speak and smile when they couldn’t. She wore that shame like tight-fitting clothes she couldn’t remove. The ever-present pinch of grief was taut across the shoulders; bereavement laced around the chest, sorrow cinched at the waist, while her anguish was snug at the neck, despair restricting each movement, regret cramping each memory. There was no unbuttoning her heartache. While the fire wasn’t her fault, that didn’t make her loss any easier to wear.

  “What happened to Mr. Jasper afterward?”

  “Story goes that he healed up, kept tending the lighthouse. Stayed there until he died almost twenty years later.”

  “There were a lot of ledgers, so it makes sense.”

  “Ledgers?”

  “Mr. Jasper wrote a daily record of the goings-on at the lighthouse, like a diary. The ledgers were in the basement.”

  Merle did not look pleased.

  “What? You figured because Lottie doesn’t go down there, I wouldn’t either? I was in the basement moving furniture for hours yesterday.”

  “Abby, who else knows you moved that furniture?”

  “Nat. But he won’t tell Lottie, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Lottie’s not who I’m concerned about.”

  Before she could ask what was upsetting Merle, Bert Van Dorst came pounding on the back door of the hardware store, panting as if he’d run a hundred-yard dash.

  “Good Lord, Bert.” Merle let him inside. “Come in before you fain
t.”

  “I ran here,” he said, gulping air.

  “You ran?” Merle asked skeptically.

  “Do you want some water?” Abigail offered.

  He shook his head no, still catching his breath.

  “Bert, it is a concrete fact that a man of your age and proportions should not be running anywhere,” Merle told him. “Have a seat. Tell us what the fuss is about.”

  “Can’t. No time,” he blurted between breaths. “Hank Scokes is dead. The sheriff’s got Nat Rhone in the lockup for killing him.”

  If there was a storm coming, Abigail couldn’t have predicted it. The sky was cloudless, the sun radiant, as she, Merle, and Bert stood outside the sheriff’s station, rapping repeatedly on the door.

  “Come on, Caleb,” Merle called. “We’re not paparazzi.”

  The door opened a hair and Sheriff Larner let the three of them slip inside. The front office was outfitted with metal desks and linoleum tile. At the far end was an opening, beyond which Abigail spied a set of cells. The thirteen-inch television sitting on a filing cabinet showed a newsman pointing to a colossal swirl of clouds on a weather map. Meanwhile, a radio was relaying news of the storm simultaneously, the reporters’ voices overlapping like those of an arguing couple.

  “You’re the first ones here, and you’ll be the only ones if I can keep a lid on this until the hurricane’s blown over,” Sheriff Larner confided in a hushed tone. “How’d you find out?”

  Merle and Abigail looked to Bert, who turned bashful. “I saw you taking Nat in, then I listened at that open window.”

  “Now you see why I’m being so careful.” He shut the window.

  “What happened?” Merle asked.

  “Best I can tell, Rhone pushed Hank over the side of his rig.”

  “There’s no way he would hurt Hank.” Abigail was adamant. Whatever her feelings about Nat, she knew he revered Hank as if he were his father. “There’s got to be some misunderstanding.”

  “Scokes is gone. There’s no misunderstanding that. That man hasn’t left this island in years except to fish, so if he’s not at home, not on his boat, and I can’t raise him on his phone, something’s wrong.”

  Abigail crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “What if he’s passed out somewhere? Had too much to drink and is sleeping it off?”

  “I checked,” Larner assured her. “He’s not at the Wailin’ Whale either. Nobody’s seen him. Duncan Thadlow stopped by, said he’d been looking for Hank to talk over the repairs on his boat. Couldn’t find him and was worried. Which is why I went looking myself. When I did, all I found was Nat. Then he told me there’d been an accident. But if it was an accident, why didn’t he report it sooner?”

  “You arrested him for not reporting an accident?” Abigail said. “Is that legal?”

  “No Hank. No body. And only Nat’s word. Suspicion is all I need to hold him.”

  Merle released a long breath. “What did Nat say happened?”

  “Rhone claims he went over with the net.”

  The men shuddered at the mere mention. Abigail didn’t understand. “Went over with the net?”

  “The fishing nets on trawlers are massive,” Merle explained. “When you release them, there’s a danger of getting caught and dragged down. With the current and the weight of the net, you’d drown without a doubt. Doesn’t happen much, but it’s happened.”

  Larner sniffed. “That’s a neat alibi, because conveniently there’s no evidence. I don’t buy Rhone’s story. Not for a second.”

  “You think Nat killed Hank on purpose? What reason could he have?” Abigail demanded. The men were silent. “What? What aren’t you telling me?”

  Bert spelled it out for her. “Hank’s sons wouldn’t want the boat, so it would be auctioned here on the island. It’s customary for the crew to have first dibs. His rig was in iffy shape after he hit the dock. Even with repairs, the bids would start low.”

  Merle finished the thought. “Low enough that even somebody without much money, like Nat, would have a shot.”

  Abigail was stunned to see Merle entertaining the idea that Nat was responsible for Hank’s death.

  “Except Nat just paid Duncan Thadlow to have the boat fixed for Hank.”

  That added fuel to Larner’s fire. “Did he, now?”

  She cursed herself for mentioning it. “What if Nat’s telling the truth? What if Hank did get caught in the net?”

  Merle was somber. “Hank’d been sailing his whole life. He wouldn’t have made that mistake.”

  “You said it could happen. What if Hank was drunk? Every time I’ve seen him, he’s been three sheets to the wind. He could have fallen if he’d been under the influence.”

  “Abby,” Merle cautioned.

  “I’m sorry to speak ill of the dead, but I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

  “All we have is Nat’s word,” Bert stressed.

  “Which doesn’t count for much.” Larner waved a sheet of paper. “I looked into Rhone’s priors. He’s got two aggravated assaults. He was also suspected in a couple of breaking and entering charges.”

  “Breaking and entering?” Abigail exclaimed. Merle and Bert were equally surprised. “You’re assuming he killed the closest friend he had and he’s been robbing houses on the island too?”

  “Wouldn’t be a stretch.”

  “No, I have proof it wasn’t Nat who robbed those houses.”

  “Proof?” Larner said.

  “I saw him, the person, the man,” Abigail stammered. “I saw him walking in the dark on Timber Lane the night that house was robbed. Then I saw him again the night after that.”

  “Why didn’t you report it?”

  She glanced at Merle as she crafted an appropriate lie. “I’m new on the island. I wasn’t sure you’d believe me.”

  “Can you describe the man you saw?” Larner pressed. “Did you see his face?”

  “It was dark. I could tell he wasn’t that tall. Not as tall as Nat. And he was heavyset. He moved slowly, how an older man would.”

  Bert cleared his throat over the din of the television and radio.

  “You have something you want to add?” Larner snapped.

  “Um, that was me that night.”

  Merle put his hand on Bert’s arm. “You broke into those houses?”

  “No, no, I meant it was me who Abby saw.”

  “You?” Abigail asked.

  “I don’t live too far from there. Timber Lane’s a shortcut to the laundromat. I’d left a book there and wanted to get it. When I recognized your car, I was going to say hello, only you got so frightened when I said hi at Merle’s store the day before that I didn’t want to scare you again, so I stayed quiet. Then I saw you the next night and did the same.”

  “You were skulking around in the dark when you knew somebody was robbing people’s houses?” Abigail didn’t see the logic. “If I mistook you for the thief, someone else might have too. You could have gotten hurt. Or worse.”

  “Not much choice in the matter,” Bert said. “I don’t have a car.”

  “And whoever’s robbing those houses has gotta have one,” Larner interjected. “Too many heavy high-ticket items. No chance somebody could carry them around and not be seen. They’d need a car. Or, better yet, a truck. Like Nat’s.”

  “This is stupid,” Abigail insisted. “You can’t make me believe he’s a thief and a murderer.”

  “I don’t have to make you do anything, Ms. Harker. In fact, it is by the grace of my kindly nature that I’m allowing you to remain in this office. I’ve got a killer in my cell and a hurricane on my doorstep, so I have neither the time nor the inclination to convince you of a goddamn thing.”

  Larner’s outburst caught Abigail off guard, pitching her backward on her heels to avert the verbal strike.

  “Nothing’s personal here, Caleb,” Merle said, stepping in.

  “This island is too small for it not to be personal,” Larner whispered to him tartly.

  Ber
t motioned at the television. “Wait. Listen.”

  A female news anchor had interrupted the broadcast. “It’s been announced that the space shuttle is being moved into its hangar at Cape Canaveral, and the Kennedy Space Center is being evacuated.”

  “They haven’t done that since Hurricane Andrew,” Larner said.

  Merle’s shoulders sank. “And that was a Category Five.”

  “Officials are reassessing this once-innocent storm system and deeming it ‘unpredictable at best.’”

  The female anchor’s voice was dueling with that of the male reporter on the radio, who was saying, “This hurricane began as a tropical-wave disturbance that produced thunderstorms off the western coast of Africa. The combination of light upper-level winds with warm ocean water allowed the storm to develop. Tropical Storm Amelia officially became a hurricane about 2,500 miles outside of Miami when NOAA’s Hurricane Hunter airplane was deployed and clocked over 75-mile-per-hour winds. Officials are scrambling to chart Amelia’s course. However, they’re quick to remind us that even the best satellites can’t predict a hurricane’s precise path. Please stay tuned to this station for the latest weather and evacuation updates.”

  Bert lowered the volume. “If it’s a Category Three, they’ll let us stay.”

  “If it’s more…” Merle’s voice trailed away.

  “We’ll have to evacuate?” Abigail didn’t think it would come to that.

  Sheriff Larner went for the phone. “I have to get on the horn with the mainland. Before I do, let’s get one thing straight. Right now, it’s only the four of us, plus my deputy, who know what’s happened. It has to stay that way. If word gets around, the hurricane will be the least of my problems.”

  “Why?” Abigail had to ask.

  Merle looked to her, then toward the rear of the station, where Nat Rhone was being held. “People find out what happened to Hank, that boy’s going to be grateful he’s got bars between him and them.”

  tourbillion ( bil′yən), n. 1. a whirlwind or something resembling a whirlwind. 2. a firework that rises spirally. 3. Horol. a frame for the escapement of a timepice, esp. a watch, geared to the going train in such a way as to rotate the escapement about once a minute in order to minimize positional error. Cf. karrusel. [1470–80; earlier turbilloun < MF to(u)rbillon < VL *turbiliōnem, dissimilated var. of *turbiniōnem, acc. of *turbiniō whirlwind. See TURBINE, –ION]