Haunted (15 page)

Finally I narrowed it down to the cupola because its door was ajar. The door was a half-sized access that opened into a room that was circular and barely big enough to fit four people. The previous evening, Birdy and I had explored it. Inside, wooden rungs scaled the wall to where a school bell had once hung. A peaked roof and grates protected the interior from rain but not wind, which spiraled downward into the house. As I approached, a steady breeze streamed through the doorway, cool on my face. The air was cleaner here. It made sense that a girl who was hallucinating might take refuge in a spot where she could breathe.

Yes . . . the girl was inside. Her weeping ceased when the flashlight pierced the entrance. I switched off the light and said, “Krissie, no one is going to hurt you. Can I come in?”

“No! Who are you?”

She was panicky. I feared she’d climb the cupola’s ladder and try to escape by crawling onto the roof, so I took my time. “My name’s Hannah. I don’t know about you, but this smoke is making me sick. Can we go outside to talk?”

“Stay away. Where did Gail and Frieda go? They promised not to leave me.”

Girls—I don’t care the age—are not easily fooled, so I told her
the truth. “You’d be smart to never trust that pair again. They ran off.” Quietly, I moved toward the door.

“Ran where? I don’t believe you. The other party?”

“The river. Or someplace close. Is that where they parked their car?”

“They wouldn’t do that.”

“You heard what that girl called you, Krissie. We both heard the word she used.”

The girl sobbed when I said that. “Gail promised I’d have fun. They never invited me to their parties before. That’s all I wanted—to be with them and have fun. Why would they be so mean?”

“Because that’s the way some girls are,” I said and couldn’t but help sharing her hurt. Without seeing Krissie, I knew what she would look like: gawky or chubby and too plain-faced to be anything but the easy target of jokes and mindless cruelty.

And I was right. Before I ducked through the door, I flicked on the flashlight and took a look. She was a scrawny little thing with mousy hair and earrings she had probably spent an hour fussing with in front of a mirror. Wearing her best clothes, too, pleated skirt and a blouse that was lavender, not lipstick red—and too flat-chested to have been the woman in the photo.

I switched off the light and entered, saying, “No one’s going to hurt you now,” then knelt beside the girl. “Tell me what happened. Or . . . it’s probably better if we go outside first. This smoke will only make you sicker if we stay.” I reached to touch her shoulder but withdrew my hand when she lurched away.

“Don’t touch me. I can only close my eyes if I’m alone. And that’s what I want—just me, alone.” The girl’s muddled
reasoning, as much as her hysteria, gave me a chill. Alcohol—the smell wasn’t strong, but she been drinking, too.

“I think we should get you home. Do you have a cell phone? How about we call your parents.”

That was the wrong thing to say. She shoved me and scrambled to her feet. “Don’t you dare tell my mom. Where did Gail and Frieda go? Gail wouldn’t leave me. You’re lying about that.” She braced herself against the wall and began to slide away as if balanced on a ledge.

It was darker in here. I was a looming gray shadow to the girl. She was a shadowy stick figure. Soon she would feel the ladder rungs against her back and might climb to the roof. So I retreated to the door and ducked outside, hoping she would calm down. Gave it a few seconds, then said, “Kris, I’ll do whatever you want me to do. I can stand here while we talk. Or I’ll sit outside on the porch and wait until you feel better. But I can’t leave you, sweetie. Not until I know you’re safe.”

There was silence, then a shuddering sob. “You mean it?”

“Whatever you tell me to do, yes.”

“My mom can’t know. I think something bad happened inside my head. The things . . . what I see inside my head . . .
they
keep coming back. Snakes . . . Gail wouldn’t stop talking about snakes. Scorpions, too. And another party—she said we’d have so much fun.”

I didn’t want the girl to focus on snakes and scorpions. “There’s nothing wrong with your mind, sweetie. It’s the smoke, some kind of drug they tricked you with. Once we get outside, you’ll feel better. Krissie? I promise you’ll be okay if you trust me.”

I put the camera bag on the floor and continued to talk to her. It took another minute of soothing and cajoling, but the girl finally crawled out and joined me in the hall. Stood there, undecided, looking up, as if trying to determine if I was real or imaginary, a safe companion or a threat. She hadn’t actually seen me. It was darker inside the cupola, but dark out here, too. So I attempted to put her at ease, saying, “My hair’s probably a mess, so don’t be shocked when I turn on this flashlight.”

I pointed the light at the floor . . . then toward the ceiling to illuminate the hall. I was half a foot taller than Krissie. She was reluctant to make eye contact but finally did. She looked up, a girl whose face was as plain as my own. Puffy lips, eyes glassy, she stared at me for a moment with interest. Then her expression changed and she began to back toward the stairs, frightened by what she saw.

It wasn’t easy to force a smile but I did. “What’s wrong? My earrings aren’t nearly as nice as yours. Is that it?”

Krissie appeared to be having trouble breathing. “You’re her,” she whispered. “You tricked me.”

I wondered if the light had sparked another hallucination, but also feared she would fall down the stairs if I switched the light off. She had yet to look behind her and the steps were only a few yards away. “Sweetie, you’re going to be just fine once we get outside.” I held my hand out as an invitation to stop.

“No—Gail told me the stories. You’re her, that woman.” Then she hollered, “I saw you! Stay away from me. You’re dead . . . You’re a witch.”

Did she mean Lucia? I wondered. Krissie was only a few steps from the stairwell. If she didn’t fall, she would soon run—her
wild eyes guaranteed it. So I shined the light on the landing and made sure she saw the steps by asking, “What woman? Is that her on the stairs?”

Thank god, she turned. But it cost me the little bit of trust I had earned. “You lied to me again. You . . . You’re evil.” Then Krissie reached for the missing banister and nearly fell anyway, but recovered, while I stood frozen holding the light so she could see.

“You don’t have to run,” I said gently. “Just get downstairs in one piece, that’s all I ask.”

The girl realized she’d scared me and hesitated. “If you’re not her, why is your shirt soaked with blood?”

Blood?
I looked down at my copper red blouse and finally understood. She was definitely hallucinating. Krissie had convinced herself I was the ghost of Irene Cadence. Terrifying for her, but a possible opening if I used it right. “The woman you saw wasn’t me,” I said. “I have a picture of her, though. If you wait for me outside, I’ll let you see it. Truth is, I’d like your opinion.” I reached for the camera bag. “Do you remember meeting a woman named Lucia?”

“I don’t believe you. Your hair . . . you’ve got black hair, too. And you’re beautiful just like Gail said.”

I had to smile at that. “When I was your age—this is true, I swear—I thought I was the ugliest, clumsiest person on earth. Maybe you can relate.” I left the bag where it was and stood. “How about we go outside? I’ve got a cooler in the car with drinks. Just you and me, we’ll talk about how awful high school can be.”

Krissie jerked away when I offered her my hand. “You’re lying. Stop pretending you’re nice.”

“It’s true I have to pretend sometimes. But, Kris—I’m not the one who ran off and left you.” Once again, I extended my hand.

The girl couldn’t let herself believe the truth. She shook her head, threw her scrawny shoulders back. “Go to hell!” she hollered, “I’m going to the party and find Gail,” then ran down the stairs and out the door.

I followed, but first had to retrieve the camera bag. By the time I got outside, she was almost to the trees, where there were car lights and the rumble of motorcycles, too. To me, though, it looked like Krissie was angling toward the old railroad bridge when she disappeared.

That’s the second thing I told the 911 dispatcher after I had explained the bare basics.

“She might be headed to the RV park,” I said, “looking for her so-called friends.”

The
third
thing I said to the 911 dispatcher was, “I told you there was a girl in trouble. You didn’t believe me. So I expect you to believe this: we need to find that girl before she hurts herself. And send extra deputies because drugs are being sold from this house. A dangerous drug. And I know who’s doing it.”

That wasn’t exactly true—Theo, Lucia, and/or Carmelo could be responsible—but I wanted all the uniformed cops I could summon before I went after Krissie. And that’s what I intended to do instead of standing on the porch, talking on a phone, in the wind and beneath stars and a rising full moon. Which was the
fourth
thing I told the dispatcher.

“Have you been drinking?” she asked when I was done. From the tone of her voice, I could tell I had pushed too hard or was
rambling. And she was right. My anger had caused me to say too much and with too little respect.

“Sorry, I got carried away. But you can’t go inside that house without inhaling smoke.”

“Then you
are
under the influence,” the dispatcher said. “Smoking what? And how do you know it’s dangerous?”

“I’m not sure of the name. It’s from a type of mimosa tree. The dealer burns the seeds in the fireplace but grinds them into a powder first. Maybe to get kids started, but probably because he has a sick sense of humor. Or could be . . .” A more devious reason had popped into my mind and I had to sort it out.

“Could be what?”

“I hope I’m wrong but it might be his way of taking advantage of women. Young girls would be easy targets.”

“The man you buy drugs from,” she said, “can you spell his name for me? I should warn you, everything you say is being recorded.”

I was already impatient but that made me mad. “Buy it? Lady, I don’t even smoke,” then caught myself before saying anything stronger. Instead, I kept it simple. “I’m going to look for Krissie. Have the deputies call when they get here.”

I hung up, fuming, furious because the dispatcher had ordered me to stay put and wait for an officer to arrive, which had given the girl a long head start. Now the question was, should I drive to the campground or save ten minutes by walking?

Because I was anxious and angry, the answer seemed obvious, but I couldn’t decide. Either way, the camera gear needed to be
locked in the trunk, so I hurried to my SUV while I argued back and forth. I hid the bag under a towel but removed the pistol first. It was too big for my purse—a clutch wallet, actually, by Kate Spade—so I zipped the gun into the little backpack I had carried on Carmelo’s boat. The few supplies it contained weren’t heavy. The gun added only a pound.

When I shouldered the bag, I remembered that I was supposed to meet Belton between eight and eight-thirty. It was nearly eight now, which was another reason to take the shortcut across the railroad bridge. With the flashlight, if I jogged most of the way I could be at the campground entrance in a few minutes. Belton, I felt sure, would be willing to help search for Krissie. Then he could drive me back to my car when I was ready.

I wasn’t a coward and I was armed—taking the bridge made perfect sense.

Don’t do it.
Deep, deep in my mind, the persistent voice of reason demanded to be heard.
You’re not thinking straight. You’ve been drugged.

But I had already wasted a lot of time. Krissie was in no shape to be roaming alone. I had to find her before her friends—or an even crueler man—hurt her more.
Take the shortcut,
urged the reckless woman inside me.

That’s what I decided to do.

My SUV is equipped with a keypad on the driver’s-side door and only I know the five-digit code. It’s a nice feature that eliminates the possibility of locking the keys inside and reduces the risk of theft. So I touched the keypad to engage the locks.

Don’t do it.
That voice again. This time, it added a mental image: me standing alone at the entrance to the serpentarium where Theo lived. I would have to pass that driveway to get to the campground.

Suddenly, I was convinced.

Using the keypad, I got into my SUV and did a fast U-turn on the gravel road.

•   •   •

T
HE REASON
it was faster to walk to the RV park was because I had to drive four miles north to a bridge that crossed the Telegraph River, then east for a mile to a macadam road, where I turned right. That road doubled back southwest, four miles again, and wasn’t wide enough to dodge all the potholes. Until then, I hadn’t realized how remote the spot was.

Four miles?
The repetition sparked a detail that didn’t surface immediately. Gradually, it came back: Birdy had said the weather girl’s car, and the car of another missing person, had been found in a woods four miles from the Cadence property. Not the same place but similar.

Four miles on either road, if driving north, would intersect with a spot near the highway bridge. No doubt police had considered the significance, yet that didn’t relieve my anxiety. This was lonely country. Occasionally, an eighteen-wheeler roared past, slapped me with a wall of wind, then left me alone. The moon was up, orange and smoky, its size distorted by an October horizon. It showed cypress trees on both sides of the road and vacant land that had to be swamp or open range for cattle. Mist pooled in my
headlights, the tang of brushfires bespoke a land that might yield to hard work but would never be subdued.

Men like Brit and Joey Egret—and Capt. Ben Summerlin, too—would do fine out here, sleeping rough and traveling by foot or on horseback. The same was true of my distant aunts, Sarah and Hannah Smith. But this was no place for a modern girl. Especially one like Krissie who was lost and alone, her brain hallucinating.

My thoughts shifted to the three missing people, then to the Florida State cheerleader who’d become a TV weather girl. Why had she stopped her car in a place like this? Whatever indignities she had suffered, however feverish her fear, the truth had not vanished with her.
Someone
knew. Someone who had traveled this same narrow road. A man, most likely. A man who was a beast—or whose inner beast lived just beneath the skin and had a taste for the unspeakable.

Both hands on the wheel, I kept the speedometer at seventy-five, hoping a sheriff’s deputy would stop me for speeding. That’s what I was thinking about, what I would say to the officer, when my phone rang. The noise so startled me, I jumped and crossed the center line, then overcorrected and swerved toward a ditch. I got the car under control, slowed to sixty, then engaged cruise control, before I finally answered.

Too late. Belton Matás, according to caller ID, had hung up. But then the phone pinged with his voice message:

“Hannah, dear, I assume you’re on your way. But, the thing is—and there’s no reason to worry, so don’t—but I think a mutual acquaintance of ours
knows
.
I’m talking about what you found
today. And he’s acting very damn strange. So I’m in my RV now and I’ll meet you—”

A sustained metallic screech, possibly static, ended the message. Or maybe that was all Belton had to say. But why guess? I touched
Call Back
. Six rings . . . Seven . . . Then a message said the subscriber was not set up for voice mail.

I tried again. No answer.

Ahead, the road forked. To the left was a tiny concrete church, Calvary Baptist, lights off, parking lot empty. On the right, a sign read
Slew RV Park 1 Mile
. I slowed, followed the arrow to the right, then pulled over into the weeds. I rechecked the door locks and listened to the message again.

. . . a mutual acquaintance of ours knows . . . And he’s acting very damn strange.
Belton surely meant Carmelo and hadn’t said his name in case Carmelo was eavesdropping. That made sense. But why end the message so abruptly?

So I’m in my RV now and I’ll meet you—

Meet me where? If Belton had added a location, his voice had been obliterated by the metallic noise that overpowered the speaker in my phone.

It didn’t matter.

Belton was a smart man. If he wanted to intercept me before I got to the campground, he would know where to park. Probably somewhere on this road—I was only a mile away. If not, he would soon call. When he did, I would explain that Krissie was a priority. And what could it matter if Carmelo knew I’d found a sunken canoe?

That all seemed reasonable, but I double-checked my line of reasoning anyway. Rather than lessening its hold on me, the drug in my system had branched deeper. Headlights of passing cars were painful to my eyes. The Halloween moon, bright as it was, pulled at the darkest fears within. As a defense mechanism, my anger exerted a thrumming pressure on my temples. It made me irritable; even eager for a fight.

You’re not yourself,
the voice of reason warned.
Don’t be reckless. If you lose, the drug wins.

Lose what? A scrawny teenage girl was the person who had something to lose, not me. I was a grown woman, belted safely in the steel confines of her car. I had my cell phone
and
a gun.

Reckless thinking,
the voice countered. Then proved it by stressing an uncomfortable fact:
You don’t know Belton Matás any better than you know Theo . . . or the others you’ve met in the last two days.

My lord . . . that was true. I sat there a moment, wondering if I should return to the Cadence property and wait for police as the dispatcher had ordered.

No . . . I couldn’t do that. If someone organized all the women in the world who had been plain-looking and unpopular as teens, life would offer more hope for girls like Krissie. But here, on this night of wind and moon, I was an organization of one. And, by god, I was not going to leave that girl out there alone.

I wouldn’t search recklessly, though—a concession to the nagging voice inside. First, I sent a text to Birdy that included my location and a few details regarding plans to meet Belton and
search for a runaway girl. Then, because I wanted to hear a voice I trusted, I left the same information on the biologist’s machine. Even though he was out of the country, I knew that Tomlinson, his best friend, checks messages daily after pilfering a few beers.

There! It was eight-fifteen on a Saturday night, a busy, sociable hour even in an isolated spot like the campground. Someone might be hosting a party and there was a chance Krissie would join her “friends” there. If Belton wasn’t waiting for me around the bend, there would be enough activity to shield me from Carmelo or anyone else too smart to risk witnesses.

The backpack containing the Devel pistol was on the floor, passenger side. I hauled it onto the seat beside me, checked my rearview mirror, and drove on.

•   •   •

I
ROUNDED A CURVE
onto a gravel straightaway and, in the distance, my headlights found what I had been hoping to avoid:

SLEW VACCINE AND HERPETILE

TRESPASSERS RISK ENVENOMATION

The warning sign near the gate where Birdy and I had seen a strange muscular little man and heard something stranger escape into the trees.

Still no call from Belton. And no chance he had slipped past me in his rental RV. The road was too narrow. Oaks and mimosas
fenced both sides, their canopy interlaced so only a strip of moonlight glazed the road and a serpentine path along the river.

Serpentine . . .
The word jarred a sensitive nerve in my brain, causing it to twitch, then spark. My full attention was demanded. This was not a normal reaction. I knew it. I braked to a stop and told myself,
Breathe slowly, the feeling will pass.
It had been thirty minutes since I’d exited the smoky confines of the Cadence house. The effects of the drug would gradually wane, not get stronger. That’s what I wanted to believe.

But was it true? Aside from a few puffs on a joint, I didn’t know anything about drugs, especially hallucinogenics—except for what Tomlinson had told me about an uncommon mimosa tree. In South America, native people smoked or inhaled the resin to go on what he called vision quests, a sort of trance that lasted hours, even days. The mimosas of Brazil were massive compared to Florida’s variety. As I could see through the window, the same was true of trees that bordered the road.

The fact was, my symptoms might worsen. Why was I lying to myself?

Serpentine . . .
The word continued to annoy me. It had something to do with Krissie. She had sobbed about
things
in her head, then mentioned snakes—
Gail wouldn’t stop talking about snakes.
Gail had also promised to take Krissie to a party. No . . .
another
party that was nearby.

From a distance, the sign taunted me—
Slew Vaccine and Herpetile
. Then the carnival poster of Chuman, the man-beast, tried to force its way into my mind, fangs bared to frame a lewd
drawing of a snake. Repugnant. I banged at the steering wheel to banish the image. The message was obvious, yet I wouldn’t allow my imagination to wander into a subject so dark.

“Theo, you bastard.”

Aloud, I said those words. Then pulled the backpack onto my lap and opened it. The Devel pistol was there atop mosquito netting and other emergency supplies. I cracked the slide an inch—yes, the chamber was loaded. I laid the pistol on the seat, lowered my window, and drove ahead.