Time of Departure (34 page)

I parked a few hundred yards short of my destination and walked the rest of the way. The playground was empty. I sat on a swing and watched the green clapboard house across the road.

After a while, my mother appeared. She came around the corner of the house, carrying a short rake and a five-gallon bucket. She was wearing the old pair of Helly Hansen waterproof pants she had always used for gardening.

I watched as she began working her way along the hibiscus hedge, clearing detritus from under the bushes. The bushes were in bloom, alternating in white, red, and yellow, which was how my parents had planted them when they first bought the house.

It was surreal.

I was watching my mother working in her garden a year and a half before I was born. She didn't know I existed. She didn't know I would ever exist. She didn't know she would get pregnant just when she was thinking about divorcing my father. She didn't know she'd stay with him for my sake. She didn't know he would eventually leave us and never return.

She didn't know anything.

I almost wept.

I felt conspicuous where I was sitting, so I moved into a nearby grove of trees. Settling on the cool grass, I was about to resume my surveillance of my mother when I saw it.

It wasn't the car itself that first caught my attention; it was the way it was being driven. It was creeping along the shoulder of 174th Street toward the corner where the road bends and becomes Mcdowell. Its wheels moved soundlessly on the grass. It stopped a hundred feet or so to my left. I squinted at it through the afternoon glare. The driver was definitely male, but he was slouched low and I couldn't make out facial features.

The car was a gray four-door Plymouth.

I felt a prickling sensation on the back of my neck.

With rising horror, I leapt to my feet and ran.

I made it back to Nonie's car in less than a minute. Praying I wouldn't be too late, I started the engine, peeled out, and drove straight toward my mother's house. I slowed, peering for my father's car. It was nowhere to be seen. I swung the wheel hard, drove into the driveway, and stopped.

As I stepped out of the car, my mother rose to her feet. I swallowed hard and strolled toward her.

“Hi, there!”

“Hello. Can I help you?”

“Yes, I—” My voice stopped in my throat. I coughed nervously and then blurted the first thing I could think of. “I … I'm sorry to bother you. I think I'm lost. I'm trying to get to … Newberry.”

“Oh! You've taken a few wrong turns, I'm afraid. You'll need Route 45. If you drive down this way”—she pointed down 173rd—“that will take you back to Route 24. Turn right and look for the sign for Route 45. Turn left there and it will take you right into Newberry.”

I was enthralled to hear my mother's voice, still young and textured with hope. At the same time, I was afraid. I peered past her shoulder. From where I was standing, the house blocked the gray car from my view. I needed the driver to see me. I needed him to know my mother wasn't alone, so I kept moving closer to her as she spoke.

When she finished, I thanked her. “Could you tell me how far it is? To Newberry.”

“Oh, I'd say about ten miles. It shouldn't take long once you're on Route 45.”

Now I could see the gray car. I needed to stretch out our conversation. “This is an amazing hedge!” I gushed. “What are these bushes? They're gorgeous!”

My mother flushed with pride, and I wanted to hug her.

“They're hibiscus.”

“Of course! I always get them mixed up with … what are those other flowers?”

“Bougainvillea?”

“That's it! These are beautiful! I just love the way you've alternated the colors!”

My mother's answering smile was the one I had always loved. It was a rare smile, reserved for almost no one. It washed over me like a warm evening breeze, and I nearly broke down. Desperate to distract myself, I singled out a prominent red bloom on the bush next to me and stooped to smell it. I knew hibiscus had no discernible scent, but I needed the misdirection so she wouldn't see the tears in my eyes.

When I touched the blossom, it broke off and dropped to the ground.

I straightened. My mother was staring. Her face wore a strange expression.

“I'm sorry. It just fell when I touched it.”

“It's okay.” She hesitated. “It's odd, but you seem familiar.”

I am, Mom. I am.
Then a memory from our last Christmas together came back with a shock.

She will always remember this moment.

At last, I understood.

Behind her, I saw the gray Plymouth speed past. I began to back away. “Good-bye, Margaret.”

Her eyes widened. “You know my name?”

“Yes. And I want you to remember something.”

“What?”

“This moment.”

I got into the Chevelle and started the engine. I reversed into the street. My mother and I exchanged one long look.

She gave me a puzzled little wave as I drove away.

Ahead, the Plymouth sped toward Route 24. Struggling to catch my breath after the flood of emotions, I followed. I had almost caught up to it when it reached the main highway.

It turned left.

So did I.

At last, I understood why I was here.

I was here to protect my own mother.

*   *   *

The highway was almost die-straight. Traffic was light, and for long stretches there were no vehicles between us. I hung back, but never let the Plymouth out of my sight. I still had no wristwatch, but according to the clock on the dash, it took us fifty minutes to reach Cedar Key.

Fifty minutes to plan my next moves.

Despite my efforts, by the time I crossed the bridges over the marshlands separating Cedar Key from the mainland, the Plymouth had vanished. I found myself facing a looping wood-decked pier and, beyond, the waters of the Gulf of Mexico. I knew the central part of the town was fairly small—and I could see it was much less built-up than I remembered—so I backtracked and drove a grid, working my way back to the shoreline.

I didn't expect to find the Plymouth. I was just eliminating possibilities.

I parked and walked onto the pier. I thought of it as a pier, but in reality it was a raised roadway sweeping out over the shore of the Gulf. In years to come, it would undergo a series of kitsch renovations and transform itself into a tourist attraction, but today it supported perhaps a dozen weatherworn structures and had the ramshackle atmosphere of a fishing village that had seen better days.

I picked my way down a bouncing ramp to a floating wharf. An old man was perched on the stern deck of a battered Hatteras, cleaning fish. An attentive audience of gulls and pelicans had gathered around, patiently eyeballing his every move. As I approached, a pair of pelicans moved politely aside so I could join the crowd. I tried to engage the fisherman in idle conversation. His initial responses were laconic and uninterested, but he became slightly more voluble when he raised his head and saw he was speaking with a young woman.

I got to the point. “I'm looking for a man named Harlan Tribe.”

The old man scowled. “Ever heard of The Crab's Eye, young lady?”

His question caught me off guard. I answered cautiously. “I think so.”

“Well, that's where you'll find the bastard!” He jabbed a gloved finger toward a point in space over my shoulder.

I turned. Behind me, a row of weathered buildings squatted on a forest of creosoted pilings. A sign on the structure at the far left read:

THE CRAB'S EYE
SEAFOOD SPECIALS DAILY

I entered through a set of double doors. The interior was an incongruous aggregation of driftwood paneling, red linoleum flooring, and black Formica-topped tables. Dim overhead fixtures combined with the spill of dirty gray light from salt-rimed windows to provide marginal illumination. The restaurant section was empty, but there were a few customers in the bar area. They were all male, and every one of them gave me his full attention when I entered.

I was carrying a newspaper that I'd fished out of a trash bin. I walked up to the bar.

A gum-chewing, overweight barman looked me up and down as I approached. “Ma'am?”

“I'll have whatever's on tap.”

“Don't get many single women in here,” he stated pointedly.

“Oh, haven't you heard?” I asked.

“Heard what?”

“About women's lib. It's all the rage up north.”

He snapped his gum. “You mean them hippie women, burning their bras 'n' shit?”

“You're very astute.”

“‘A-stoot'?”

“Yes. It means ‘smart.'”

“Guess I can hold my own.”

I leaned forward conspiratorially. “You know what those women are saying?”

“What?”

“They're saying they want to be equal to men. But you know what
I
say?”

“What?”

“I say they lack ambition.”

He gave me a blank look. I decided I'd rather have my drink than spar with an unarmed man, so I offered a suggestion. “Why don't we just say I'm meeting a guy here, and I'll have that beer while I wait?”

He chewed on that for a second. “Pabst okay?”

“Sure.”

He drew a glass for me. “Buck 'n' a half.”

I dropped two dollars on the bar. “Keep it.”

He looked confounded, as if tip-leaving women were an unsettling novelty in his microscopic world. I picked up the glass and moved to a booth in the back. I sat down, ignoring the stares, and opened my newspaper. I pretended to read while I waited.

Forty minutes later, the door behind the bar swung open and Harlan Tribe walked in.

He was unmistakable. He was even dressed the same, in stovepipe slacks and a white dress shirt, as the man in Anna Fenwick's photo album. The only thing missing was the thin tie. He muttered something to the barman, and I heard the guy reply, “Yessir. He'll be in at six.”

Tribe nodded and slid into the booth closest to the bar. Earlier I had noticed an old crank-style adding machine sitting on the table, along with a scattering of papers.

Tribe was positioned facing me, so I slipped lower in my seat. After a few minutes, I heard him cranking the adding machine.

By now, some of the earlier drinkers had decamped and the stragglers had lost interest in ogling me. I took advantage of their inattention, slid out of the booth, and left.

I walked back to my car and retraced my route across the marshes to the mainland. Nothing looked the same as I remembered, but I found the turnoff on the second try. After that, I had no trouble. The driveway's white marker stakes were in exactly the same place, but now they were freshly painted. I kept going and parked in a cleared area around the next blind curve.

I set out on foot through the pines.

I reached the clearing and stood stock-still, staring numbly. Tribe's cottage was brightly painted in white and sea green. The corrugated iron roof glinted in the sun, revealing not a hint of rust. The surrounding lawn was trimmed and neatly bordered. Flowers bloomed from beds set around the base of every tree within fifty feet of the residence. The overall effect was nothing like the one that had met my eyes on that fateful future day when Marc and I emerged from the rutted driveway into this same clearing. On that day, the dilapidated shell had hidden a barbarous secret. I knew it held the same secret today, but in this pristine condition, it no longer looked the part.

I stepped out of the woods and walked directly to the veranda. I checked the front door. It was locked. I walked around to the back door.

Locked.

I returned to the front. The crab's eye vines were in bloom, a riot of red and purple flowers. I knelt down and searched the ground below, but it had been swept clean. I craned, scanning the sterile area under the raised porch.

There!

Straining to reach, my fingers closed on a dried seedpod. I stood up, took one last shuddering look at the cottage, and retraced my steps back to the car.

There was one piece missing, but I had an ominous feeling it would find me.

 

49

It was nearly dark when Nonie dropped me at the cabin. I had kept her waiting two hours beyond the end of her shift, but she forgave me. “Count yourself lucky!” she replied after I handed over her keys and apologized.

“Why?”

“'Cause while I was waitin', I picked up twenty bucks in tips.”

Marc was sitting on the veranda. He came down the steps to meet me, waved to Nonie, and gave me a hug. “I was a bit worried. Where were you?”

“Just went for a drive.”

“With Nonie?”

“No. I borrowed her car. I wanted to visit a few places.” I grinned at him, trying to give some propulsion to the lie. “I wanted to see how they looked thirty years ago.”

“Very funny. What places?”

I rattled off a list of the places I had quickly driven by on my way back from Cedar Key, including my high school (it looked the same), my town house development (a plant nursery, just as Marc had said), the State Attorney's Offices (I found them in an old bank building), and the Criminal Justice Center (restaurants and a bicycle repair shop).

We made drinks and sat on the veranda.

“I need to be sure of something, Claire.”

I sensed what was coming.

“I need to be absolutely sure that Amanda was the last one.”

I took his hand and said, “I'm certain she was. There were no other missing girls in your files.”

He let out a long, pent-up sigh.

Technically, I had spoken the truth … but I was lying. I was lying to the man whose devotion to me had spanned decades. I was lying to the man who waited thirty years just to spend a few final months with me before I was torn from his arms forever.

I was lying to him because I loved him, but the sickness I felt inside threatened to drive me insane.