Locked Doors (Andrew Z. Thomas/Luther Kite Series 2)
Page 37“What do you mean ‘here’? In this church?”
“No, Ocracoke. God help us if he knows we’re on this island.”
“Andrew, why are we on this island?”
“Well now that you’re in my life, that’s an interesting question. You feel any better?”
“I’m warm now.”
“And your poncho’s dry. I’ve got spare fleece pants and long underwear in my pack.” I looked at my watch. “It’s a quarter past seven. Rain’s let up. Yeah, we should get on with it.”
“With what?”
“I’m fairly confident Beth Lancing is somewhere on this island. Luther, too.”
“Oh, no, Andrew, let law enforcement handle this. We could call them in—”
“What about me? I’m wanted.”
“Of course I’d—”
“Of course what? You’d tell them how I’m really innocent and—”
“No, I wouldn’t do that. It wouldn’t matter what I—”
“Then what?”
“You’d have a day in court.”
“A day in court. Think that’s what I need?”
“You need something. Don’t you want to settle all this crap you’ve been through? Put it to rest, one way or another? Find some peace?”
“Sounds a little escapist to me, Andrew.”
“Well, the world, human nature as I understand it, based on what I’ve seen, is well worth escaping. But I don’t expect you to understand that.” I came to my feet. Shadows and candlelight waltzed across Violet’s face, the only warmth in the church. “And besides, what if settling ‘all this crap’ means I go to prison?”
“Are you guiltless?”
“I don’t deserve prison.”
“How do you know what you deserve?”
“You’re a naïve little girl,” I said. “You think if you always try to do the right thing, it’ll all work out in the end. You think that don’t you?”
“It’s called hope. What if I do?”
“I hope you’re never faced with some of the decisions I’ve had to make. Where you lose everything no matter what.”
I grabbed her .45 from the pew and shoved it into my waistband. We’d be leaving just as soon as I repacked the Osprey.
“You need that optimism,” I said. “It protects you from the horror you see. Was what Luther did to the Worthingtons anything less than pure brutality?”
“No. It was awful.”
“Did you fabricate a silver lining there?”
“If they had their faith, I believe they’re in heaven.”
“I’m sure that’s just what Mr. Worthington was thinking as Luther Kite butchered him. ‘Boy, I’m glad I have this faith.’” I glanced up at the wooden cross mounted to the wall behind the altar. “You’re a Christian?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Tell me. Where is God now? Where was He when Luther savaged that family?”
“I don’t know.”
44
MOONLESS and windless, the island brooded: cold, dark, silent. Having left the backpack in the church, we followed the path back to the old general store and turned at the junction onto a southbound trail that would lead us to the middle village ruins in the island’s interior.
We traversed Doctors Creek, passed an abandoned schoolhouse, and entered a thicket of live oaks.
Violet walked ahead of me.
The only sound came from the swish of wet Gortex, the splat of our boots in mud.
The trail narrowed.
We didn’t talk.
All around us the undergrowth rioted, impenetrable, in a state of unkempt anarchy, live oaks dripping, wet branches clawing at our arms and legs. I could hardly see Violet and she could hardly see the path before her. Occasionally she’d veer from the trail into a shrub, sigh, and right herself. I debated going back for the headlamp but decided against it. We’d already hiked at least a quarter of a mile and according to the map the ruins weren’t far ahead.
As we pushed on into the interior, I realized that I was trusting Violet to guide us, my eyes fixed on the back of her boots.
I couldn’t decide if I were more afraid of finding or not finding Luther.
At last we emerged from the thicket and arrived at the edge of a vast marsh.
I whispered for Violet to stop.
We’d reached the ruins.
Just off the trail I noticed what was left of a house—a crumbling stone chimney surrounded by a pile of rotten boards. Other remnants of the village were scattered throughout the neighboring wood. A brick chimney sprouted up from the middle of the marsh, no trace of the house it had warmed more than a century ago.
I told Violet to keep walking.
Well there’s some old hunting lodges down past the middle village ruins.
I kept hearing Charlie Tatum’s voice and thinking of that passage from Orson’s journal:
Said they have this lodge on a remote island that would be perfect for the administration of painings.
We reentered the thicket on the other side. Scrub pine instead of live oak. A roomier wood.
The trail split and Violet stopped.
“Which way?” she whispered.
“I’m not sure. Let’s keep walking south.”
“What are we looking for exactly?”
“A lodge of some sort.”
“I don’t think anyone else is on this island, Andrew.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to wonder that myself.”
We continued southward, the air now perfumed with wet pine and cold enough to cloud our breath.
It was just after nine o’clock when the trail ended, having deposited us on the bank of a wide slough that separated Portsmouth from Evergreen Island. I remembered this feature from the map and my heart sank. If the Kite’s lodge stood on Evergreen we’d have to bushwhack east for half a mile and bypass the slough via the tidal flats that connected these barrier islands. It would take all night.
Eastward, I could see where the backwater eventually emptied after several hundred yards into the flats. The sea lay hidden behind distant dunes.