Kiss of the Sun (10 page)

Jarrell slung on his backpack and took her hand and they rushed through the door onto the deck of the cruiser. Martha glanced toward the trees in the direction of the thumping sound. There was a brilliant white beam coming from the sky, cutting through a layer of fog and sweeping across the marsh. Slinky and several of his tenants had emerged from their boats to see what was going on.

The dark form of the helicopter passed low, so close the wind from the blades fluttered the mosquito nets and sent paper plates and Styrofoam cups scattering. Then it rose and circled, became invisible in the fog as the beam swept across the dry land of Scrub Island and passed over the treetops.

Jarrell shone the beam of an LED flashlight to light the way as they sprinted down the rickety pier to the place where the skiff was moored.

They climbed down into the boat, and Jarrell unlooped the tie rope and pushed off. He rowed a few feet out, probing the water with his oars to find the main channel. Martha glanced out into the luminescent fog and saw the shape of another vessel, perhaps a cruiser, floating a few hundred yards upriver. It was completely dark except for a faint ruby glow from the cabin.

Martha sat in the prow, crouched down against the hull, as Jarrell gave the gasoline bulb a squeeze and yanked the starter cord. The outboard rumbled to life. As the skiff picked up speed, the dark shape of the helicopter cleared the treetops and followed. Within seconds the dazzling beam of the searchlight caught up with them. There was a crack of gunfire, and the gunwale next to Martha's hand splintered.

“Hang on!” Jarrell yelled. He twisted the throttle and the skiff accelerated and planed out, nose elevated, as it plowed the dark channel. Martha gripped the hull ribs, scarcely breathing as they sped through the night air, dark walls of cordgrass whipping by in the diffuse moonlight.

They came to a fork where a creek met the river and Jarrell released the accelerator. The boat settled down into the water and they looked back. Over the buzz of the outboard motor, Martha could hear the
thwap thwap
of the helicopter approaching as it flattened the tall grass along the water's edge, could see its beam following the channel.

Jarrell angled the tiller and banked sharply into a creek mouth that was shrouded by a copse of trees and scrub. The inlet narrowed. Jarrell killed the engine, then took the oars and sculled the boat farther back into the brush. Martha could hear the hull scraping the creek bottom. A leafy frond brushed the top of her head.

The helicopter flew past them, hewing to the main channel, its spotlight illuminating countless tendrils of mist that rose from the flat water.

Jarrell stood, crouched over, and poled them back out into the channel. He brought the boat around with a sweep of the oar, quickly stayed it, then sat and restarted the engine. They motored back in the direction from which they'd just come, this time taking a wider tributary off the main waterway.

Martha looked back and saw the helicopter bank and circle, already onto their ruse. The channel quickly opened up. Jarrell gave the boat full throttle, hand on the tiller, crouched low. The white disk of the searchlight crossed a prairie of grass, heading straight toward them. Martha's heart hammered in her chest. There was no chance they could outrun it.

She heard another gunshot and yelped involuntarily. “Get down!” Jarrell shouted, and he began to fishtail the boat. Martha heard the ping of metal striking metal and saw an orange spark as a bullet ricocheted off the cowling of the outboard engine.

They sped along for several seconds, zigzagging, dodging half-submerged mudflats, when something else on the shoreline emerged from the fog—a massive framework rising from concrete pilings. Martha looked up to see a skeletal lattice that towered up some twenty feet before it vanished in the fog. On the other side of the river, a similar structure.

Power pylons.

Jarrell straightened the boat and cruised ahead full throttle, flying past the cement pilings. In a few hundred feet more, the boat ran over a mudflat. The engine choked and died.

Jarrell yanked on the starter cord. The engine burbled, did not start. Before he could begin a second pull, Martha could hear the chop of the rotors approaching behind them, followed by a loud series of twangs. Martha looked back and glimpsed the helicopter, illuminated by blue-white flashes of light. It was tilting and gyring amid a tangle of popping power lines.

“Get down!” Jarrell shouted.

There was a high-pitched whine, more twangs, pops, and flashes—then a sudden whoosh. Martha dove for the hull as a shock wave of heat and light blasted her across the head and shoulders. She heard debris raining into the water around them.

When she lifted her head and looked back, her heart was banging against her chest like a jackhammer. There was a cloud of gray smoke, sporadically lit by popping wires that dangled along the riverbanks. In the center of the channel, a pool of burning fuel.

“Son of a bitch,” Jarrell said. He looked toward her, and she could see the reflection of the flames in his eyes. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I think I'm—” She became aware of a sharp, burning sensation in her right shoulder and looked at it.

“Your arm…” He scooted toward her and shone the flashlight on her blouse. There was a dark, wet patch glistening through the sleeve. He lifted the fabric, and in the circle of the flashlight beam she could see a shard of silver metal, no larger than a penny, protruding from her skin at an angle. A dark red trickle of blood ran down her forearm. He gently touched the surrounding skin with his forefinger. “Shrapnel,” Jarrell said.

“I didn't feel it when it hit me.”

“I need to pull that out.”

Martha felt a wave of nausea sweep over her. Jarrell turned and threw out the anchor, then unzipped his backpack and pulled out a pouch marked
FIRST AID.
He found a paper envelope, ripped it open, and took out a gauze pad.

Martha held on to the ribs of the boat as Jarrell leaned forward and gently folded the pad over the shard of metal.

“On the count of three, all right?”

Martha nodded.

“One, two…”

She only felt a sharp twinge as the shard came out in one quick pull. Jarrell dabbed away the excess blood, pulled the pad back, and shined his flashlight to inspect the wound. The cut was a small, blood-filled crevasse, less than an inch long.

“It doesn't look too bad,” Jarrell said. “How do you feel?”

“Okay.”

He opened another pad, put it over the cut, and pressed, then taped it down with surgical tape. “Hold pressure on this. I've dealt with shrapnel wounds before during my internship at Grady. There's a risk of infection. We need to get someplace where I can irrigate and disinfect it.”

“There was another boat….I saw it as we left,” Martha said.

She glanced back upriver. An acrid smell of smoke and fuel lingered in the air, but the fire was gone.

“Yeah, I saw it, too. It was too big to follow us here.” He pulled a folded tarp from under the boat seat and placed it behind her back. “Here, lean back and try to stay still. I'm going to get us the hell out of here,” Jarrell said. He got the engine going after a few yanks of the starter cord, and they continued on, deeper into the shadowy labyrinth of the marsh.

Jarrell piloted the skiff more slowly along the moonlit corridor of water, and after a while the river widened. They emerged from the fog into clear skies and open water. Near the shoreline, Martha could make out the silhouettes of darkened buildings. Then a shadowy conglomeration of masts and booms. A marina.

Jarrell eased up to a pier and tied the skiff off.

“Where are we?” Martha asked.

“The town of St. Marys. There's a hotel near the waterfront. Let's see if we can get a room and get you taken care of.”

Martha scanned the waterfront above the pier. The street was empty, and no light shone from any of the buildings.

“Why is it so dark?” Martha asked.

“Looks like the power's out,” Jarrell said. “The helicopter must have taken out the primary lines.”

Jarrell climbed out of the boat, unloaded the backpack and Martha's suitcase, then reached down to help her climb out. She gripped the ladder rail with one hand while holding the compress against her shoulder with the other.

“Can you make it?” Jarrell asked. “The hotel's just a half block up.”

“Yes, I'm okay,” Martha said.

They crossed the frontage road and followed a sidewalk past darkened storefronts and awnings until they reached a two-story building with a wraparound balcony supported on wooden pillars. Jarrell shone his flashlight on the sign hanging from a pair of chains:
THE RIVERVIEW INN.

“We better get you a clean shirt.” Jarrell put the suitcase on the sidewalk, opened it, and found a clean blouse. Standing there under the overhang, he helped her out of the bloodstained garment and into the new one. He crumpled the old shirt and stuffed it into a trash barrel.

They tried the front door, but it was locked. Jarrell looked at his watch. “Almost midnight.” He rapped on the oval glass window and they waited. Nothing. He rapped again.

It seemed as if five minutes had passed before Martha caught a glimmer of light darting around inside the lobby. A woman with a sallow face emerged from the shadows carrying a battery-powered camping lantern. She came up to the oval of glass wearing a pale green bathrobe and a hair net. She shook her head and made a back-and-forth gesture with her hand, palm toward them. “We're closed,” she said, her voice muffled behind the door.

Jarrell rapped again. “Ma'am, we've had an emergency.”

The woman slid a deadbolt and opened the door until it was stopped by a security chain.

“We're closed,” she repeated. “We don't take any guests after nine
P.M.
Power's out, anyway.”

“I understand,” Jarrell said. “We're sorry to disturb you this way, but we were out fishing and had some engine trouble. We were stranded out there in Brumby Marsh for hours. I tried to call the Coast Guard, but there was no reception.”

“There's a Motel 6 about ten miles out on Highway 40. You can call a cab and have them drive up there and see if they've got a room.”

“I would call a cab, but the cellular towers are out,” Jarrell said.

“Must be because of the power outage,” the woman said. She started to close the door. Jarrell stopped it with his hand.

“Ma'am, you don't understand. Our car is in Amberleen. I had to row us into shore here because the engine's dead. We don't have any way to get out to the highway. We just need a place to stay the night.”

The woman stared at them. Her mouth was a thin, firm line.

“We can pay cash,” Jarrell added.

The woman craned her head to get a better look at Martha. “Where are the two of you from, anyway?”

“Martha here lives in Amberleen, and I'm originally from Shell Heap Island. I'm in college now.”

“What college?” the woman asked.

“Morehouse.”

“You're just out here for the weekend?” she asked.

“Yes, ma'am. Just a fishing trip.”

The woman sighed heavily. “If it ain't one thing, it's another. Let me see what I can do.” She closed the door and disappeared, then returned a moment later with a clipboard and a pen. “Fill this card out and let me see your driver's license.”

The woman took their paperwork and handed them a room key and an extra flashlight. They went up an external stairway and found room 218, on the corner of the second floor. They closed the door, threw the deadbolt. Jarrell scanned the room with his flashlight: four-poster bed, armoire, overstuffed chair. The walls were covered with antique-style leaf-pattern wallpaper. He put their luggage on the bed and took out the first-aid kit. They went down a hallway that led to a shared bathroom. Martha took off her blouse and held the flashlight as Jarrell rinsed her wound with cold water, dabbed it with cotton balls, and applied antibiotic ointment.

“How does it look?” Martha asked.

“Not too bad, really,” Jarrell said, applying a new dressing. “You just need to stay still for a while, let the wound seal. And we need to get you a tetanus shot tomorrow. It would be a good idea for you to sit up and keep it elevated.”

They returned to the room and chained the hall door. Martha sat in an upholstered armchair by the window and wondered if she should warn Jarrell about her precarious mental state.
No. You just need to handle it yourself.

Jarrell sat on the side of the bed. Moonlight streamed through the window and illuminated his dark form. He was leaning forward slightly, hands on knees. Although she couldn't see his face, Martha could imagine his expression, his brow furrowed in thought, like Jamba, the carved two-faced figure in her dream.

“It just doesn't make sense,” Jarrell said. “There was no way someone could find us there. There's just no way. It's almost as if…”

Something pinged in Martha's head. “Jarrell? You remember the fundraiser we went to?”

“Yeah?”

“There was a mix-up with my purse, remember?”

Jarrell was silent for a moment. “You don't think…?”

“I don't know.”

“What was in your purse that night?”

Martha thought back through time. Four nights ago. The sequined handbag. “Not much. I had my meds. My billfold. My notebook. My hotel room key.”

Jarrell stood. “Where's your billfold now?”

“It's in the suitcase.”

Jarrell hoisted the suitcase onto the bed, opened the snaps.

“It's in the side compartment,” Martha said, standing up.

“Keep still for a while. I'm going to take a look, okay?” Jarrell pulled out the leather bifold wallet, opened it, and began to take everything out. He took out her cash, credit cards, a few business cards, and a ferry ticket, and placed the items in a line on the bed. He poured change from the zippered compartment. Then he took the license out, and paused.

“What's this?” he asked, turning the billfold toward her. His flashlight shone on the clear window of the license pocket. Behind it, she could see a flat, black rectangle of plastic, not much larger than a postage stamp.

“I have no idea,” Martha said.

Jarrell pulled out a pocketknife and cut out the clear window. Then he used the blade to pry loose the square thing, which was affixed by a thin adhesive pad. He held it in the palm of his hand. A line of characters was printed on the front:
UBX-G2050.

“What is it?” Martha asked.

“I think it's a GPS device,” he said. “Some type of tracking chip. That's how—” Jarrell paused and cocked his head. Martha could hear a car passing on the street outside.

“Son of a bitch,” Jarrell said, turning off his flashlight. He looked through the curtain onto the street. “Son of a bitch…”

Jarrell watched out the window. Martha heard the sound of the car recede. “So they know we're here already,” Martha said, standing up. “We've got to—”

“Wait a minute,” Jarrell said. He had the chip closed in his fist. His eyes looked fierce in the moonlight. “They might know where we are, but they don't know that
we
know.”

Martha stood. “What are you going to do?”

Jarrell put his hand on her good shoulder. “Let's try to stay calm and think. For one thing, I don't think they want to kill us. They could have done that a long time ago. That helicopter could have caught us, easily, but it didn't.”

“Then what do they want?”

“They want to follow us. They want to follow
you,
for some reason.”

“Why?”

“They think you know something. Or that we might lead them somewhere.” Jarrell put the chip in the pocket of his flannel shirt and buttoned it. “I'm going to lead them somewhere, all right.”

“I'll go with you,” Martha said, standing again.

“No, you're not.” Jarrell put his hand on her shoulder again. “You need to stay still. I've got a plan, but I have to do it alone.”

“Jarrell—”

“Listen,” Jarrell said, his eyes fierce. “I'm going to send them off the trail, that's all. I'll be back in fifteen minutes.”

“I can't—”

Jarrell leaned over her and placed one hand on each wing of the overstuffed chair where she was seated. “You will stay here until I get back, do you understand?” He leaned in and placed a kiss on her lips, gentle and unhurried. His eyes caught flecks of light from the moon, which hung in the sky directly outside the window. She could smell the rich musk of his skin. “Just keep the lantern off, and don't leave this room. I need you to stay still. All right?”

Martha nodded slightly. She knew Jarrell well enough now, knew his determination. Once he'd made up his mind about something, there was no changing course. He put the pack over his shoulder and went to the balcony door. “Lock the door behind me. I'll be back.”

She pulled the door shut and slid the deadbolt. She watched through the window as he went along the ramada, then disappeared down the stairway. The street below was empty. Martha settled back into the chair.

Alone in the dark, Martha could hear them again. The seashell murmur of voices. She thought of Dr. Goodwin's mantra:

When did you last take your medication?

Last night.

When will you take it again?

Tonight.

It was past time. Martha went to her suitcase, found the translucent orange vial, and tipped one of the green tablets into her palm. Placed the vial on the bedside table, next to the Gideon Bible, then swallowed it with a drink of water from a tumbler.

The moon was bright now, streaming through the street-side window with an icy, electric glow. Martha sat in the chair. Voices were floating in the darkness.

Just stay calm. Let the medication work.

She shut her eyes and counted slowly to ten, then opened them again. The moonlight seemed brighter than ever, almost radioactive. It was adding its own sound, like the slow, drawn-out squeal of ice sheets rubbing together. Ice, under pressure. The sound was unnerving.

She stood and went to the window. The moon hung above the horizon like a spotlight. She pulled the curtains closed to mute the noise, then returned to the chair.

The eclipse.
She'd forgotten to tell Jarrell about her dream—the tribe, the ceremony, the disk that passed in front of the sun. That's what the symbol represented, surely. But what did it have to do with Peavy, the lieutenant, the UNICON murders? If only she had access to the Internet, she could start looking up eclipses, perhaps find some sort of correlation, a pattern….

Martha noticed a familiar odor in the air, a woody, acrid scent. It caused her to sit up. Clove cigarettes.

You think his love will cure you, Lovie?

Martha clenched the arms of the chair. The voice was coming from below her. She turned on her flashlight and pointed it toward a heater grate in the floor next to the chair.

That's what you think, innit? Guess again,
the grate said.

“I don't know.”

Don't do this. Don't ruin another life.

Martha dug her fingernails into the upholstery. “Go away. You aren't real.”

You can't have him. You're not lovable. You're rubbish. Look at the trouble you've caused already.

Martha took the Bible from the bedside table and placed it over the grate. Lenny laughed, his cackle echoing through the metal ductwork.

She closed her eyes and concentrated. “One, two, three, four…”

Martha heard the boards creak on the balcony outside. She opened her eyes and turned, listening for any further sound. Could it be Jarrell, back already?

She turned on her flashlight and shone it across the walls. The leaf shapes on the wallpaper were starting to crawl, like spiders.

Martha turned off the flashlight and heard another creak on the balcony…then light taps on the window glass. As if someone were using the tip of a fingernail to signal her.

“Jarrell?” Martha rose, went to the window, and pulled the curtain aside. She shone her flashlight up and saw not Jarrell but a face as pale as marble. The man with the rib-roast face. His eyes were pale and pink, the color of raw meat.

A shriek caught in Martha's throat and she staggered back from the window, tripping over the hooked rug. She caught her balance and stumbled to the hallway door. She stood with her back pressed against it, gripping her flashlight, watching the opposite wall. She heard footsteps on the exterior walkway. The knob on the balcony door turned. The door shifted.

Martha clawed at the chain on the door behind her, sliding it out of its groove. There was a thump at the balcony door, then another thump. She yanked open the door to the hallway just as she heard a loud snap of splintering wood behind her.

Martha ran down the dark hallway to the top of the internal staircase and shone her flashlight downward. The narrow, polished wood steps were moving before her eyes, telescoping and contracting.

She took a nervous step forward, holding on to the banister with one hand, feeling nauseous. She continued on, working to land her feet on each successive, wavering step.