Dare to Die (14 page)

Quick, wary stares accounted them strangers from a world many had never known or long ago left behind.

Doyle welcomed them to a small, cluttered office. An electric fan perched on a wooden stool stirred the air in the windowless office but did nothing to dispel a muggy undertone of mold, damp, motor oil, and rotting wood. As he closed the door, Annie tried to put away the awareness of broken lives.

The empty right sleeve of Doyle's worn black suit was pinned up. He used his left hand to swipe at the seats of two straight chairs, perhaps noting Annie's tropical green yarn sweater and long matching skirt with a profusion of jungle flowers and Max's crisp white shirt and navy worsted slacks.

Doyle waited until they were seated, then turned another straight chair around and straddled it to face them instead of sitting behind the desk. The casual posture made his stiff gray hair,
weathered face, and hulking presence less intimidating. “How can I help you?” His voice was gruff but sincere.

Annie saw sadness and patience in his dark eyes. She scooted to the edge of her chair. Could she make him understand? “Mr. Doyle—”

He brushed away the title. “Kirk will do.”

She told him about Iris, their afternoon in the sun, the fateful invitation to their party, and how she wanted to honor Iris.

“A spirit poster?” A smile softened his somber face. “I like that very much. I can tell you some things about Iris. I've known her since December.”

Annie was surprised at the sharpness of her disappointment. What could he have learned about Iris in that short time?

“The nights were cold. December's hard for folks like Iris. Christmas is coming, but they don't think it's for them. Have you ever heard church bells ring on a Sunday morning when your head hurts and your guts want to spill out? You're outside, without anybody to love you and nobody to love, not knowing that Jesus is holding out his arms for you with the greatest love on earth. Folks like Iris have lost their way. Some of them never knew the way. She came in the middle of the night. I heard a knock at the alley door. Her face was bruised and swollen. She was limping from where she'd been kicked. She had no coat. She was drunk. She said two men at the bar next door hurt her, but she got away from them. She asked if she could hide. I didn't want to disturb the women's section. We've got four bays left from the days when this was a garage. I scrounged from demolition sites and put up beaverboard so we have the men's area and the women and children's area. I got some blankets from the storeroom, made a pallet for her in here.” He pointed at the floor near their feet. “The next morning I brought her
breakfast. She hadn't eaten in three days. We talked. She'd come to the end of everything. She wanted to die. I told her God wanted her to live. She started to cry.” Kirk massaged a hump in his nose.

Annie wondered what long-ago bash had broken it, knew the bone hadn't been set, wondered if cool damp weather made it ache.

“She wanted to get well. I helped her get into treatment.” He looked at them sharply. “Do you know what kind of courage it takes to fight addiction? There's pain and sickness and panic and always the darkness inside that drove a soul to drugs and drink in the first place. Iris had that courage. She had seventy-four days when she left to go back to her island. You can put those days on your poster, proud days, hard days, but the best days she'd ever known.”

Hot tears slipped down Annie's cheeks.

“Tears are balm to hurting hearts.” His smile was sweet. “Don't grieve. Iris is in a better place now. ‘And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things have passed away.'”

Annie heard the familiar words from Revelation. But…“I'm crying because she had such a sad life and then when her life was better, someone killed her.”

“She lives in the hearts of those who knew her. You can put your poster where others will see it—”

Annie nodded.

“—and they can admire courage and be better for knowing Iris.”

“I'll make a place in my bookstore, a table near the fireplace. I'll make up a lending library and ask readers to bring books
that have touched their hearts. Anyone can borrow them, return them, or keep them.”

Kirk reached to his desk, picked up a stack of cards. “And these.”

Annie took the cards containing Al-Anon's heart-touching, life-changing Twelve Steps. “And these,” she affirmed.

Max smiled at her. He turned to Kirk. “You saved Iris's life.”

Warmth seeped from Kirk's craggy face. His face looked bleak. “And lost it for her. I told the police officer from Broward's Rock, Sergeant Harrison. I encouraged Iris to go back to the island, make amends.” He picked up one of the cards, read Step Seven aloud: “‘Made a list of all persons we had harmed and became willing to make amends to all of them.'”

Annie reached out, held Max's hand.

“Iris got into drugs through a friend. The friend had access to them, but didn't use them.” Kirk looked past Annie and Max, as if seeing faces they would never know. “That's how kids get hooked. A friend has drugs, shares them. Every so often there's a particularly vulnerable person like Iris. Once started, she couldn't stop. She'd do anything for the drugs. She agreed to deliver drugs to other kids in school. Everyone thought she was the supplier, but there was someone behind her who didn't use drugs. Iris took the money but it all went to her friend. She got drugs free. Then a boy died. His sister came to Iris, accused her of killing him. Iris said it wasn't her fault, she was only the go-between. She told the sister the whole story. Iris said she was high, not thinking straight, but when she realized her own supply would be cut off, she told her friend what she'd done. She saw the sister walk with her friend and later she didn't see them anywhere. When the girl drowned, Iris was afraid. I asked her what she thought had happened. That upset her. She'd pull away
from talking about it, saying maybe she was all mixed up about that night.”

Annie's throat felt tight. “Who had the drugs?”

He shook his head. “Iris didn't say. She always said ‘my friend.' She said it worried her that no one came forward later and admitted being with the sister and yet she was almost sure the sister walked away with her friend. Iris also thought she remembered someone else going into the fog with Jocelyn. She knew there could be an innocent explanation. Still, she felt haunted by Jocelyn's death. Iris wasn't sure how much was a dream and how much was her own guilt and how much was actual. She thought she would know if she went back to the island.”

 

S
UNSET BATHED THE MARSH AND
N
IGHTINGALE
C
OURTS
in crimson. An egret stepping daintily in shallow water looked touched by flame. A great blue heron might have been a statue. Frogs in the lagoon croaked and bellowed. Chuck-will's-widows gave their haunting call as they skimmed, seeking moths. On the deck behind Cabin Seven, Annie sipped cream sherry and Max lifted a frosty bottle of Beck's as they watched night fall.

Max looked toward her. “Give it a rest.” But his voice was understanding. There was no hint of criticism.

Annie buttoned her cardigan against the chilling night, but her heart felt warm. She took comfort from the empathy in Max's dark blue eyes, the compassion in his face. He wanted her to be freed from distress at Iris's struggles, but he knew she had to work her way to peace. “I keep thinking about Iris, coming back to the island, trying to lay ghosts to rest. She looked almost stricken when I invited her to come to the pavilion, but she came. That was brave. I wish she hadn't.” Annie clenched her
hands. “Friday night Iris must have realized who walked into the woods with Jocelyn.” Had memory come clear through the haze of time and drugs?

“Billy will find out.” Max's tone was final.

Brother Doyle had told Sgt. Harrison of Iris's intentions. Billy now knew why Iris had returned to the island. His instinct that Iris died because of Jocelyn had proved to be true.

Annie's cell phone pealed. She put down her glass, retrieved the phone from the patio table, glancing at caller ID. “Hey, Henny…. I'll be back in the store tomorrow…. Sure. That will be great…. I love the new display in the front window…. Henny, were you teaching when Iris Tilford was in school?”

Max turned to listen. Dorothy L. stirred in his lap, gave a sleepy mew.

“Let's talk tomorrow. I'm trying to find out more about her for a tribute. See you then.” Annie closed the phone, smiled contentedly. “Henny is a great friend. And your mom can always be counted on.” Annie completed the sentence in her own mind:…
despite a world view that borders on the unhinged
. As soon as the thought came, Annie scolded herself. For all her wacky ways, Laurel was good-hearted and well-meaning. “Anyway,” Annie added hurriedly to mask a twinge of guilt, “Laurel and Henny did a wonderful job at the store. Though I'm afraid,” her tone was rueful, “they see this as the start of a continuing involvement. Henny said she had some more ideas to brighten things up. But I'll be glad to see her tomorrow. She remembers Iris.”

 

A
NNIE STRUGGLED UP FROM THE DEEP SLEEP THAT IS NEAR
oblivion with jumbled thoughts of a jellyfish sting and a diesel truck belching smoke and screeching brakes. Hot pricks came
again and with them a muzzy awareness of her surroundings. A strange room. No, not strange. Their cabin at Nightingale Courts. The broken ceiling at the Franklin house had put them here so the door to the bathroom wasn't where it should be and the blackness that loomed like the mouth of a cavern was only the plate glass doors overlooking the marsh.

Dorothy L. seized Annie's foot through the thin sheet. She wailed, high and demanding. “Stop it,” Annie hissed, trying not to wake Max. She moved her foot. Dorothy L. leaped with a piercing cry.

Max slept with his face in the crook of an elbow, his breathing slow and even.

Annie grabbed at the chubby cat. They hadn't dared let her go out at night in a strange place. A marsh hawk or alligator or gray fox could spell quick death. Once they were safely ensconced at the Franklin house, Dorothy L. would learn her new territory. Until tonight, she'd cuddled quiescently between them. Annie clutched Dorothy L. and struggled to move her sluggish, sleep-drenched body, still cumbered by a dream of foul-smelling trucks. She slid her feet into cold Crocs, shivered. “Sorry,” she whispered, “you're going to have to sleep in your carrier.” Annie stumbled toward the corner where they kept the carrier. She was on her knees, pushing a reluctant Dorothy L. inside, when she heard an odd, metallic sound.

As she slid home the latch and came to her feet, she turned toward the door. She hadn't heard a car. Her nose wrinkled. Something smelled gassy. Odd in the middle of the night. Had a car pulled in and someone knocked at the office? The sound didn't come again.

Likely some noise had roused Dorothy L. A raccoon might be at work.

Dorothy L.'s shrill meow pierced the silence.

Annie turned back toward the carrier. What in the world was wrong with Dorothy L.? She must sense a predator, some kind of danger. The insistent meow continued, loud and frantic. In a minute Max would be awake. Well, she was his cat, he could deal with her. Annie picked up the carrier. Maybe she should put the carrier on the front porch. Actually, the car might be the best place.

As Annie reached for the doorknob, a whoosh sounded behind her. The noise was ominous, totally out of context. Something was terribly wrong. Something alien and inexplicable was happening. She whirled around. Orange light glowed beyond the sliding glass doors. With horrifying quickness, flames danced against the plate glass. Fire blazed, orange and yellow and red.

“Max!” Annie's scream rose above a crackling roar. Still clutching the handle of the carrier, she flung herself toward the bed, pulled at his arm. She pulled and tugged and called.

Max flailed awake and struggled from the bed, unsteady and confused, his voice groggy. “What's wrong?”

“Fire!” She screamed to be heard above crackles, hisses, and pops. Hot smoke assailed her. “We've got to get out.” Dorothy L. meowed, high and strident, without stopping. The carrier wobbled in her hand as the cat lunged.

Max was a dark shadow in the hellish orange glow from the sliding glass doors. She pulled at his arm and they turned toward the door. Annie shouted, “I've got Dorothy L.” She came close behind, a hand on his back.

Max stopped at the door, fumbled to find the knob. His muscles bunched. He grunted with effort. “The door's jammed. I can't budge it. We've got to go out the window.” He turned and grabbed her arm.

Annie gasped for air against thickening smoke, the smell acrid and harsh. Dorothy L. scrambled back and forth in the carrier, meowing frantically.

Heavy smoke obscured the glow from the deck. They moved blindly in a thick haze faintly tinged by orange. They could no longer see. They might be moving in any direction.

Horror pulled at Annie. They didn't know the way to the window. They couldn't get out.

Max crashed into an obstacle. “This way.”

Annie barely heard his shout. She felt caught in a maelstrom, flames licking near, choked by oily smoke. Sirens shrilled above the cacophony of the fire.

Max's grip on her arm was hard, imperative. He steered her forward. The carrier bumped against her leg.

Suddenly, above the fire's roar, glass crashed, air poured inside, burning embers and sparks spattered them, hot and hurtful.

“Get to the goddam window.” Duane's shout was hoarse, desperate.

Annie was never certain whether they homed to his shouts or whether they moved instinctively into the life-giving swirl of air. Max pushed her ahead of him. Flames flickered against darkness. Water sizzled as it met fire. Wetness splashed inside, cascaded over her. At the gaping hole that had been a window, Annie froze. Flames flickered everywhere, reaching inside.