Kiss of the Sun (5 page)

“That sounds like a heavy load.”

“Yeah, but I can manage it now that I've quit my job. I was a night watchman for Pinkerton's Security, but I was able to quit after I got the fellowship.”

“Fellowship?”

“Oh, yeah, you wouldn't know about that. I got my tuition paid for through a program started by Conrad Erringer. You've heard of him?”

“He's the diamond magnate, right?”

“Yeah, the guy who moved from South Africa to Georgia a few years ago. He's something like number three on the Forbes 400. He runs a philanthropic foundation that gives out fellowships to ‘disadvantaged young men of promise.' ”

“And you're one of those young men?”

“Yeah, I'm one of ‘Erringer's Gems,' as he calls us. It's corny, but his heart is in the right place. The fellowship just came out of the blue. I'm not sure how he even found out about me. I suppose it was all the publicity from the Shell Heap Island story in the papers.”

“Congratulations. Your parents would be proud.”

“Yeah, I guess they would be. But the fellowship does come with a few strings attached. I occasionally have to do work for his political causes. Right now he's supporting this independent candidate for congress, Rory Nickerlane. I've had to help out with some fundraisers, things like that. But it's also good prep, since I plan to get into that game myself someday.”

“Politics?”

“Yeah, or public interest law, something like that. I want to go in a direction where I can influence things, make a difference.” Jarrell rolled the soda bottle between his fingers and gazed toward the balcony window. There was something different about him now, a quality Martha hadn't noticed during their time on the island—a smoldering aura of quiet power and purpose. “So anyway, what brings you to Atlanta?”

Martha recounted the events of the past week—the visit from the elderly couple, their story about Peavy, the mementos, and her vision. “I know it sounds a little crazy. And according to the psychological establishment, I am.”

“As we both know, the Geechee community takes a different view,” Jarrell said.

“My psychologist said I should just pack up the mementos with a note saying that I couldn't help them. And that's what I was going to do, at first.”

“What made you change your mind?”

Martha leaned forward. “This is where it gets really strange. I went to see Lady Albertha, in a dream, and she spoke to me.”

“You mean the old root worker from Amberleen? The one who died in the storm?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

Martha squeezed the leather armrest of her chair. “Jarrell, she told me the boy in the vision might still be alive.”

“Maybe he is.”

“But why hasn't he gotten in touch? Why has no one heard from him in all these years?”

“Maybe he ran away or something.” Jarrell set the bottle on the table and rotated it slowly. “Maybe he got sold into slavery. Things like that still happen, you know. What's your plan?”

“Nothing much. I'm just going to go down to Lineville, see if anything else comes to me—any more images or impressions.” She looked at Jarrell. “Do you think I'm nuts?”

Jarrell shrugged. “What's the harm? If I were in your shoes, I'd do the same thing.”

Martha felt a sweep of relief.
Or is he just saying that?

“You're going down there in the morning?”

As Martha started to answer, Jarrell's iPhone vibrated on the coffee table. He flipped it over to check the screen. His eyes narrowed.

“I'm sorry, excuse me for a minute. I've got to take this. It's a call from the political action committee. Erringer's outfit. I'll try to keep it short.”

Jarrell put the phone to his ear and stepped into the kitchen. Martha scanned the magazines on the coffee table:
Road and Track,
Sports Illustrated,
The Atlantic
. Across the way was a flat-screen TV, and on the floor in front, a PlayStation with a jumble of cables.

“Hold on just a second,” Jarrell said into the phone, stepping back into the living room. He lowered the phone. “Martha, what are you doing the rest of today? Do you have any plans?”

Martha looked toward the sliding glass door on the far side of the room, as if the answer might lie somewhere out on the balcony. She looked back at Jarrell. “Not really. Why?”

“This is really last-minute, but there's a fundraiser being held for Nickerlane tonight at the Callanwolde Fine Arts Center. It's targeted toward some of Atlanta's political leaders, and somebody decided it would be a great idea for a few of Erringer's Gems to show up. I know this is short notice, but I would love for you to come with me.”

“Me?” Martha brushed the knees of her jeans.

“Yeah. It would be a chance for you to meet some interesting people.”

“I'm flattered that you ask, but I don't have anything to wear. I didn't bring anything with me but a pair of jeans.”

“Hold on just a second.” Jarrell unmuted the phone and held it up to his ear again. “Hello? Listen, I've got a friend in town I'd like to bring to this shindig, but she didn't bring anything appropriate to wear.” There was a pause, and Jarrell's eyes darted to Martha. Then he rolled his eyes. “Um, yeah.” He lowered the phone and spoke to Martha. “What size do you wear?”

“Size?”

“Yeah, dress size.”

Dress? Martha barely owned one anymore. “Size six,” she said.

Jarrell repeated the size into the phone, paused. “Erringer's people can send over a dress. The event starts at seven-thirty. What do you say?”

Martha looked at her knees, feeling a not-unpleasant brew of sensations—excitement and, strangely, embarrassment.

What would Dr. Goodwin say? Probably “You aren't ready for this.”

Martha shrugged and grinned at him. “Okay. I'd love to go.”

Martha could hear the strains of smooth, southern-flavored jazz as they climbed out of Jarrell's restored Monte Carlo at the roundabout that fronted the grounds of the Callanwolde Fine Arts Center, which was situated in an elegant Tudor mansion located atop a small rise in northeast Atlanta. Jarrell handed his keys to a valet and they followed a flagstone path across the manicured lawn, toward the tinkle and lights of a lawn party. It was early evening, and giant paper lanterns on poles cast a moonlight glow over the tables and guests.

Martha wore a simple, sleeveless black evening dress that fit perfectly. Erringer's people had thought of everything, even throwing in a small, silver-sequined handbag. Inside she carried nothing more than her billfold, her magnetic-strip room key, and the orange vial with her nightly dosage of clozapine. And, as a last-minute thought, her reporter's notebook and a pen. You never knew.

After a few introductions by the event host, they went to the bar and ordered two Perriers, each with a wedge of lime.

“Thanks again for coming,” Jarrell said, clinking his glass against hers.

“My pleasure. It's a lovely event.”

“That's the man of the evening, over there,” Jarrell said, gesturing with his glass toward a stocky man with brown hair in a navy business suit who was surrounded by a circle of elegantly dressed, silver-haired men and their wives. “Rory Nickerlane. I think the guy he's talking to is Jimmy Lawrence, the Atlanta Police Commissioner. And there's another guy over there you might recognize.”

Martha followed his gaze toward another group, standing next to a pole supporting one of the giant paper lanterns. The group was presided over by a tall, courtly gentleman with white hair and sparkling eyes who Martha recognized from media photos she'd seen: Conrad Erringer. He leaned on a black cane with a crystal handle and was talking to a wiry man with a goatee and a woman with a blond pixie haircut.

“Let's go say hello,” Jarrell said.

As Erringer finished his conversation with the couple, he turned and saw Jarrell. His face beamed with immediate recognition and he held out his hand.

“Jarrell Humphries,” Erringer said, speaking with a light South African lilt as he shook Jarrell's hand. “I'm so glad you were able to attend.” His eyes, which were like blue opals, turned toward Martha. “And whom do I have the pleasure…?”

“Martha Covington.” Martha held out her hand, and Erringer took it, turned it flat, and placed his other hand on top. His pale eyes narrowed and he blinked once. His eyelashes were long and curved. “Martha Covington,” he whispered to himself, as if the name held some secret meaning. “Aren't you…”

“She's the author of a book that came out last summer,” Jarrell said, “about the Geechees of Shell Heap Island.”

“Yes, yes, of course!” Erringer said. “It's called
Shadows of the Past,
isn't it?” The billionaire's gaze was electric, and his enthusiasm for meeting her seemed palpable. “Wonderful book. What a marvelous piece of work you've done.”

“I'm so pleased you know about it,” Martha said. Maybe the book's reputation had spread further than she realized.

“I've been interested in the fate of that culture for a long time,” Erringer said. “I would like to thank you for the work you've been doing to preserve it.”

Erringer then proceeded to introduce them to the other couple, proclaiming Jarrell as one of his Gems, a young man with an extraordinary future.

“So you're planning to pursue a career in politics as well?” the goateed man asked, stirring his cocktail with a plastic straw.

Jarrell shrugged. “Maybe, someday. I need to get my law degree first and see where things go.”

Erringer clasped a hand on Jarrell's shoulder. “I know a future leader when I see one, and this young man is a natural.”

“How did you find him?” the woman with the white hair asked.

“I have scouts,” Erringer said. “They watch the Internet, they visit schools and talk to the faculty. In Jarrell's case, one of my men saw a YouTube video of his speech at a political rally. It was something related to human rights, wasn't it?”

“Well, sort of,” Jarrell said. “It was about the abuse of eminent domain laws. Using political power to bully communities out of their land, especially poor neighborhoods.”

“Ah, yes, I remember,” Erringer said. “This young man showed passion and courage, combined with grit. That's what I look for.”

“Congratulations on the fellowship,” the man with the goatee said, raising his glass.

They were seated for dinner and introduced to the other diners at their table: a bank executive named Ted and his wife, Beverly; Bernard Somis, an Atlanta police lieutenant who was attending alone in his navy blue uniform, replete with a collection of medals pinned to the breast pocket; and another one of Erringer's fellowship recipients, a full-figured young Latina named Consuela Rodriguez. Martha noticed that Consuela had a handbag identical to hers, perhaps also supplied by the Erringer Foundation.

The white-jacketed caterers were handing out appetizers of chilled shrimp and baked Brie when the band stopped playing and Erringer stepped up to the podium to welcome his guests. He encouraged everyone to enjoy the evening and, in particular, meet and mingle with his Gems, the future leaders who would someday change the world. Then he handed the podium over to Nickerlane, who promised to keep his talk short. The candidate spoke about leaving behind the debris of political polarization, getting America out of the business of foreign intervention, and attacking the illegal drug trade at its points of entry.

After the speeches, the band began to play a jazz arrangement of the Johnny Mercer song “That Old Black Magic.”

“You must have a lot on your plate this week,” Ted said, turning to the police lieutenant.

Somis shook his head, slicing off a hunk of Cornish game hen. He had a rumpled face that reminded Martha of an old-school country music singer. “Yeah, I'm a little behind on my sleep. I've been pulling some all-nighters with this Lilburn murder. But I wanted to get out here and show that the Atlanta Police Department is behind Rory.”

“Any progress on the case?” asked Ted's wife, Beverly. She had ginger hair and dangling crystal earrings.

“Nothing I can share. We're working closely with the federal authorities on this one, but they are as baffled as we are. It's certainly an unusual case, with the same MO in every city, yet the eyewitness reports are always so different. In Chicago, witnesses said it was an albino. In another city, they thought it was a woman. And here…well, I'm sure you saw the news reports. Witnesses reported seeing a young man, possibly Latino.”

“Do you think this smile-face killer could be some sort of master of disguises?” asked Beverly.

Somis shook his head. “Unfortunately, there's not much more I can say about it openly.”

“Well, how about we change the topic to something more pleasant?” Ted said, sawing at his game hen with a serrated knife. He turned to Martha. “Are you a student as well?”

“Yes, but I'm taking time off to work on a book project.” Martha went on to explain how she was spending a year immersed in the Geechee community to soak up their culture and then write about her experiences. She didn't mention her current bout of writer's block, or how the book was, at the moment at least, theoretical.

“How interesting, you live on the island,” Beverly said. “So you and Mr. Humphries are having what you young people call a long-distance relationship.”

Martha paused and glanced at Jarrell, who was poking at the bed of long-grain rice on his plate. “We're not in a relationship, we're just friends,” she began. “We met on the island.”

“What brings you to Atlanta?” the police lieutenant asked.

Martha dabbed at her chin with her napkin.
Should I tell them?

“You might find this interesting, Lieutenant Somis,” Jarrell started. “A couple came to the island asking if Martha had any impressions about an old missing-person case.”

“Really?” Somis turned toward Martha with red-rimmed eyes. “Which one?”

“A boy named Peavy Turner,” Martha said. “It's a sad story. He was their grandson, and he went missing about six years ago. Do you remember the case?”

Somis looked off in the distance for a moment. “Not really. I've been on the force for twenty years and worked a lot of missing persons, but it must not have been one of my assignments. Why did they come to you?”

“They heard about my work and had the impression that I was some kind of seer. Word of mouth, I guess. They thought I might be able to get some impression of what happened.”

Beverly's eyes shone with curiosity. “You mean, like a psychic detective? How fascinating!”

Ted speared an asparagus tip with his fork. “Beverly's into all that stuff. It's her hobby. Astrology, Bigfoot, ghosts, UFOs. Anything that doesn't exist.”

Beverly swatted at the banker's elbow with the corner of her napkin. “Stop it, Ted. There is plenty of evidence for the existence of psychic phenomena. Even the police sometimes turn to psychics when they're looking for a break in a case. Isn't that right, Lieutenant?”

Somis nodded. “It's not something we like to bring a lot of attention to, but there have been rare cases when we've turned to psychics when all else has failed. Once or twice it's even brought a break in a case.”

Beverly turned back to Martha, her crystal earrings glinting. “Did the couple have any information at all about what may have happened? Any clues?”

“Not really, except for a description of the car and a strange drawing they found in Peavy's notebooks.”

“What kind of drawing?” Somis asked.

“It was a rubbing, really. An impression taken from an engraving of a simple design. They said the police didn't think it was of any particular interest.”

“I'm curious,” Beverly said. “What did it look like?”

“It was a simple drawing. Just a circle with two triangles inside, surrounded by points.”

Beverly rooted in her handbag and pulled out a Montblanc pen. “I'm really interested. Could you draw it for me? You can use this napkin.”

“I suppose so,” Martha said. “Let me see….” She placed her stemmed water goblet on the cocktail napkin and traced the circular base with the pen. Then she lifted the goblet and drew the two triangles inside, meeting at the points. “There were also a lot of points around the outside of the circle.” She passed it over to Beverly.

“Fascinating. What do you think about this, Lieutenant Somis? Have you ever seen it before?” She held the napkin by its corners so that he could see the drawing. Martha watched his reaction. At first his face was blank, then—there was something. Like a shadow crossing his face for a split second.

“Nope,” he said. “But I'll take it back to headquarters and ask around.” He took the napkin, folded it, and put it in his pocket. Then he pulled out a business card and handed it to Martha. “Here's my phone number, in case you happen to come up with anything interesting. You never know—sometimes a break in a case will come right out of the blue.”

The band launched into a new number, a jazz arrangement of the old Ray Charles ballad “Rainy Night in Georgia.”

“Well, this is supposed to be a party, my dear,” Ted said, “and I doubt the lieutenant wants to be thinking about police business right now. Shall we?”

Ted led Beverly to the parquet dance floor, where a number of couples had already migrated, swaying slowly under the soft, dappled lighting effects.

Jarrell rose and held out his hand to Martha. “May I have the honor?”

The request gave Martha a tingling rush. It had been a long time since she'd danced with anyone, and certainly not since her illness.

She smiled and held out her hand, and Jarrell led her between the tables and down into the bluesy wash of soft light and music. Behind them, the band played under a white trellis. Jarrell placed his other hand on her hip and guided her gently. Martha's face hovered at the level of his neckline, and to her his body was like a boat—large and solid yet buoyant. She closed her eyes and inhaled his scent: musk and brine, a hint of aftershave. She closed her eyes for a moment and was back on the island, among the mudflats and marshes, with its warm breezes and sunlight. It was the kind of moment she had dared to fantasize about many times, being this close to him—and now, at least for a moment, it was real.
Just for this moment.
Tomorrow shore leave will end, you will return to the island and your work as a writer, a journalist, a shaman wannabe, a young woman on schizophrenia medication.

She opened her eyes and he was looking down at her, smiling a little.

“Excuse me, ma'am? Martha?”

Martha and Jarrell were heading down the paved path toward the valet circle when they turned toward the voice and saw a young woman hurrying toward her. It was Consuela, the other “Gem” who had been seated at their table. Consuela held out her sparkling, sequined handbag, the one that was identical to Martha's.

“I think you might have my handbag,” Consuela said as she reached them.

“Excuse me?” Martha said.

“This one isn't mine. We must have gotten them mixed up.” Martha could see the girl's large brown eyes as they stood under the security light.

“Really?” Martha looked down at the handbag she held.

“Yes,” Consuela said. “Would you mind looking inside? Because this one isn't mine.”

Martha snapped open the handbag she held and looked inside. Lipstick, a comb, a compact, a packet of tissues. Sure enough, not hers.

“I'm very sorry, you're right,” Martha said, returning the bag.

Strange thing. Martha certainly had her issues, but being flaky wasn't usually one of them. Perhaps being with Jarrell was a bigger distraction than she was willing to admit.