Do I Know You?, page 17
Nope. Not old Sheila. She swings into the passing lane and hooks a left, narrowly missing an assault of southbound vehicles. The kids’ NASA-issue safety seats are beginning to make a lot more sense.
Turning into Indigo hits me with a brief flutter of nervous excitement, as if we’ll find Kit sitting in the parking lot waiting for a ride. Though it’s no longer a summer camp, the entrance hasn’t changed that much since I lifeguarded at its bay beach. The silver-sided gate shack may have been painted with purple trim instead of green, but I can still make out the faded CAMP PEQUABUCK on its front.
The last time I was here was the Monday after Kit disappeared, after I owned up to not having taken care of my sister, after Bob asked me to walk him through my steps that night. There is a sudden sour taste in my mouth, remembering, and I fight the urge to spit.
Sheila lowers the window to greet a young man in a deep blue shirt and PHOENIX burned into his bark name tag. “Welcome,” he says dreamily. “Are you here for the Artful Space Creation or Mindfulness Walking retreat?”
She smiles at him. “My friend used to be a lifeguard here, before it was a retreat, and she wants to show me around for old times’ sake. I hope that’s okay. We’ll only be a half an hour at most. We’re just going to walk around.”
I can tell Phoenix is slightly hesitant about this. Kooks come in all forms, even in $50,000 Volvos with precocious children in NASA seats. He makes a phone call and after a lot of head nodding and descriptions of us (“two moms with little kids”) hangs up and says we are “cool to go.” We are to be respectful of meditating guests and also birds, he adds, warning us that it’s the migration season for short-billed dowitchers so best to stay out of the marsh.
Sheila flutters her fingers and the Volvo crunches across the gravel to the parking area, where the counselor and staff cabins used to be, and chooses a spot away from the pines and their damaging dripping sap. We unbuckle the kids, who are placated by wandering about and gathering pine cones, tiny testimonials to their screen time limits. The sun is bright, and judging from the dank air and rank smell, the tide is out. Perfect conditions for collecting shells and reconstructing crime scenes.
“Show me where you left the car that night,” Sheila says, swooping up Caleb and bouncing him on her hip, holding Mabel’s hand on her other side.
I lead them along a narrow path between the pines that opens onto what used to be a sandy lot. It was separated from the bay by a concrete boat landing, which has now been smashed into large concrete blocks. Winter storms must have taken their toll because not only is the dune gone, so is the entire public parking area, leaving a sandy cave dotted by black pieces of old asphalt.
“This is . . . nothing.” Sheila sets Caleb down, and he toddles toward the expansive mud flats.
“This is the future of the Cape. We’re being eaten away. Eleven years ago, you could have put twenty cars here, easily.”
Several Indigo guests sit on the blocks or on the beach, reading and dozing. There are about ten middle-aged adults, only one of whom I vaguely recognize. He’s a little over six feet and broad-shouldered, in green board shorts, lying on his stomach reading on a Kindle. A white smear of sunblock stripes his nose and a wisp of sandy blond hair peeks out from the back of his navy Yankees cap, a perilous style choice in these parts.
“How marvelous!” Sheila beams in maternal approval as she watches her babies run, arms outstretched, to the far-off water, the morning sun lighting up their wispy curls. A couple of seagulls hop out of their way as they dash across the flats.
I have to bite my lip to keep from ordering the kids to halt. “Should we tell them not to go out so far? You know, toddlers can drown in a foot of water.”
“It’s sweet of you to be concerned, but Mabel is very conscientious. She’ll watch her brother. Now, where did you last see Kit?”
We reach the approximate location to the best of my memory, considering the tide was in that night. I note where the boat landing used to be, retreat ten paces, and mark the spot. “Right around here. She was kneeling on all fours and Bella was standing where you are.”
“Was there any light coming from the parking lot?”
“A bit. Enough so I could make out her features.”
“Where did they find the bloodied shirt?” Sheila’s starting to sound more like a cop than a therapist.
“Way down there.” I point to the dense marshland on the other side of the Heron’s Neck bridge, which is cluttered with TV trucks topped with Martian-like satellite dishes. “Unfortunately, you can’t make out the marsh with all that stuff blocking the view.”
“Are they all there for the wedding already?” Sheila squints over my shoulder at the scene.
“No idea.” Though I wouldn’t be surprised, considering Love & Pease’s following. “See that bridge? For a while, there was a theory floating around that Kit was high and jumped off of it, injured herself, and was swept out with the current. But the gatehouse is manned twenty-four seven, and anyway, their security tapes didn’t show anyone in the vicinity.”
“Uh-huh. Interesting.” Sheila puts a fist to her hip. “So, what time was it when you saw her collapse?”
I have one eye on the kids. So far, so good: Mabel is demonstrating her responsible nature by grabbing Caleb’s hand as the harmless waves lap their ankles. But disaster can happen in a flash. “I’m not sure. Midnight? Two maybe? I really didn’t keep track.”
“Uh-huh. Okay. Now take a deep breath and close your eyes,” Sheila instructs, doing it herself too. “Transport yourself to that moment. You catch sight of your sister on the beach and you’re frantic and worried about Kit getting in trouble. You want to get her home. You are desperate.”
I try to follow her directions, but, frankly, I’m too worried about Caleb and Mabel to concentrate. “You sure we shouldn’t go out to the kids?”
“They’re fine. There are plenty of people around them. Now, inhale the smells around us. Take a moment to transport yourself into that place and tell me everything you see and hear.”
This would be easier at night, when I wouldn’t be distracted by the sounds of squawking gulls and laughing children. I inhale and exhale, doing my best to focus on the lapping waves to block out the other noise.
Gradually, details bubble up from my memory, though I can’t tell if they’re legitimate facts or invented images. I’m slipping into a type of trance and I can see Bella Valencia not stepping out of the shadows, but coming through the black water. There’s splashing and when she takes me by the shoulders, her hands are wet and they dampen my shirt. She smells like the sea. Behind her, I make out the vaguest outline of a small motorboat, no bigger than a dinghy. I hear a ding coming from her flip phone. She opens it and holds it up to one ear. She speaks.
“Jane?” Sheila prods. “You’re shaking. Tell me what’s going on.”
I open my eyes, blinking in the overly bright sunshine. “It’s all wrong. I have this vision of Bella answering her phone. I always thought she checked her screen, like she was reading a text, but now I think maybe she was actually talking to somebody on the other end.”
Sheila steps close. “What was she saying?”
I can see her full lips snapping. Just one word. “Help.”
“Like she was calling 9–1–1?”
“No. Because there’s no record of anyone calling 9–1–1 that night. So maybe she was calling a friend?” This is totally freaking me out. “I’d told the cops she’d read something on her phone. I must have blacked out the part of her actually talking on it.”
If this memory is true, that means Bella didn’t act alone; she had an accomplice, and there’s another person who knows what she did. Another person who knows what happened to Kit!
If I’d remembered this crucial fact when it counted, when the investigation was active, Bob could have issued subpoenas for CDRs—call detail records—tracking pings to local cell towers. That could have led to Bella’s phone. Unfortunately, from what I remember from my training at DHS, since those records are kept for no more than five years, they are long gone.
My pulse is pounding. I feel as sick with guilt as when I saw Kolzak Jernov sit next to Lisa Hayes for the second time on the Boston T and I realized their rendezvous weren’t coincidental, that I had messed up huge.
This isn’t as bad, actually. It’s worse.
“Okay, it seems like you might be hyperventilating slightly. Shallow breaths.” Sheila pants and motions for me to follow suit. “You need to reduce the cortisol rushing through your system. What you’re experiencing is repressed memory and it can be a physical shock to your system.”
My tongue is bone dry and my armpits are suddenly damp. “If only I’d remembered earlier, though. It might have made the difference in finding Kit.”
Sheila’s lips form an O as she coaches me to exhale. “As I explained last night, the human brain abhors a vacuum and will color in the lines with the most random of images. Most of what we define as a memory is really a combination of events embellished by our creativity. The Looney Tunes roadrunner isn’t really running. Our brains make his legs move in a whirlwind.”
“That’s a cartoon,” I say, breathing out and in twice until I am light-headed. “This was the last time I ever saw my sister. Aren’t your senses supposed to be sharper when you’re in a crisis?”
Sheila shakes her head. “In the moment, but not afterward. It’s exactly the opposite afterward. Witnesses of traumatic events crumble under cross-examination because what they saw and what they later think they saw can be totally different. That’s why police like to interview them as soon as possible and why lawyers are able to squash their testimonies. Trust me. This issue came up repeatedly when I was interning at victim services.”
I am beset by a million questions. What else did I screw up? Did Bella say my name or not? Did Kit really say sorry or not? When she collapsed, was she passed out—or already dead?
Please, not dead.
If I can’t swear to these essential moments of the most pivotal night of my life, how can I trust myself to identify a disguised terrorist, for chrissakes? My identity as a super recognizer is enmeshed with my ability to remember noses, ears, and head curvatures perfectly. It is my unique superpower and, until this moment, it was never in doubt.
But now it seems I was totally off the mark about what Bella was up to that night. I didn’t even remember her wading through the water or there even being a boat. And if I’m wrong about all of those things, then what if I’m wrong about . . . her?
Oh, god. Oh, god. This is terrible. I’d been so certain and now I’m anything but. The world is upside down. I have a sensation akin to vertigo, simultaneously dizzying and deafening.
Only when Sheila says, “Are you listening?” do I realize she’s been asking me a question.
I shake out of my fog, blinking. “What?”
“I was asking,” she continues, “if you recall who she might have been talking to?”
That’s when the hairs on my arms suddenly go straight up, detecting danger before my ears catch the panicked cry. “She’s yelling for help,” I whisper.
“Who, Bella?”
“No, your daughter.”
Sheila abruptly turns and dashes to the water’s edge, where Mabel is screaming like mad. I do a rapid scan for Caleb on the horizon, past the mud flats and the sun-dappled bay. He is nowhere in sight.
He is gone.
Twenty-Three
JANE
All right, sweetie. It’s okay,” I hear Sheila say as we race to a red-faced and bawling Mabel, an angry blue crab dangling from her tiny thumb.
Without a second thought, her mother inserts a finger between the claws to loosen the nasty creature off her child’s hand. It snaps madly as she holds it correctly, from the rear end, to show Mabel who’s boss.
To my great relief, her little brother is both present and alive, having been hidden from sight by a clump of marsh. He is digging in the sand, oblivious to his sister’s distress and the incoming tide, the hem of his white T-shirt skirting the water as he plays.
Holding out a colorful scallop shell, I entice him to a drier spot while his mother attends to a hysterical Mabel.
“Shall we let him free?” Sheila might be playing cool, but there’s a definite tremble to her voice.
Mabel slits her eyes with murderous intent. “I want to kill it.”
Atta girl, I want to say, taking a seat next to Caleb, surprised to discover that I am still physically shaking from the revelations in Sheila’s recovered memory session.
“I . . . was . . . just . . . following . . . the bubbles!” Mabel explains between sobs. “It came up and bit me.”
I don’t blame her for being upset. Blue crab claws are strong enough to crack open starfish. Having been pinched myself once or twice, I make it a practice to wear water sandals when walking the flats.
“But you invaded his home,” Sheila says, still grasping the mad crab. “What if you were little like him with only one—okay, two—defense mechanisms, and a great big girl dug up your house?”
It isn’t working. Mabel is bent on crabicide. This kid’s really beginning to grow on me.
“If we put him in a tidal pool, he’ll burrow down deep and won’t bother us ever again,” I suggest.
Sheila gives me one of her winks and Mabel, clutching her injured thumb, nods reluctantly. “Bye, bye, Mr. Crab!” she shouts with nervous eagerness as her mother flings it toward the grass. It lands in the pool with a satisfactory plop.
“Everything okay?” a man shouts, jogging toward us.
He’s about my age and wearing a blue Indigo shirt, shorts, and a surfer-grade pukka necklace. His brown hair comes to his shoulders and his skin is bronzed, a far cry from the stringy-haired, disgruntled teenager who used to be permanently attached to his water bong.
Cobb Cooper, pampered son of Pekky’s former owners, the dude who alerted me that Kit was on the beach partying, and, most crucially, her former drug dealer, is currently blocking my sun.
I can’t believe his nerve, the way he squats for a closer look at Mabel’s red thumb and feigns concern.
“Lucky you,” he says, frowning at her injury. “Not every girl gets kissed by a crab, just the pretty ones.”
It is all I can do not to punch him in the gut. Get away from her, I want to growl. Don’t you dare contaminate this innocent child.
“I was looking for a mermaid,” Mabel says, brightening.
“A mermaid, eh?” Cobb scratches the stubble on his chin. “You know, we have one who swims by every now and then. Her name is Anemone.”
“That’s not a mermaid’s name. That’s the name of a sea urchin. We saw one at the aquarium.”
“The big one in Boston?”
Mabel nods vigorously. “They have penguins.”
“And seals. That’s my favorite place!”
“Mine, too!” Mabel says, clapping.
I wave Sheila over to where I’m helping Caleb with a sandcastle. “I need to talk to you.”
“Do you think I handled that okay?” she asks, wiping sweat from her brow. “The crab, I mean. It was all I could do to keep myself from flipping out. She was so brave, my poor baby. I tried to act like it was no big deal, but . . . the size of that thing!”
“You handled it perfectly. Listen, that guy talking to Mabel . . .”
Sheila checks over her shoulder. Cobb has placed a tiny hermit crab on his palm, showing Mabel how it can’t pinch him when his hand is stretched out flat, like he’s Mr. Rogers or something. “Yeah. What about him?”
“His parents owned this place when it was Pekky, and I’m guessing he’s in charge of the retreat now.”
Her eyes go wide. “Is he here to kick us out?”
“Don’t worry about that. I knew him from when I used to lifeguard here. He’s got a history in the area. A bad one.”
She reassesses Cobb as he asks Mabel if she wants to take a selfie with the hermit crab. “He seems rather sweet. What’d he do?”
“Back in the day, he was my sister’s . . .”
Sheila clears her throat and nods to Caleb, a warning to watch my language. Shit. Unable to settle on a vegetable code word, I cut to the basics. “He was my sister’s dealer.”
“Heavens,” she gasps, turning to her daughter in alarm. Sheila hasn’t put the hammer down on Barney and Oreos only to have her precious firstborn be lured into a life of drugs. “Sweetie!” she calls over to her daughter. “Thank the nice man and then come here. It’s snack time.”
“Snack time!” Caleb repeats, tossing his shell.
“Would you mind?” she asks, wrinkling her nose at me. “I’d fetch the apples and peanut butter, but they’re in my pack all the way over there and I don’t want to leave the children, not with the horse dealer so close by.”
Serves me right for telling her. Getting up, I brush off my hands and trudge past a couple of Indigo guests in saffron pantaloons with their legs crossed, meditating, and a fully clothed woman under an umbrella on a chaise lounge, reading a book entitled What Color Is Your Chakra? Quite the difference from my era, when this beach was crawling with screaming kids, Bain de Soleil bottles, and flying Frisbees.
The guy I recognized has picked up his towel and Kindle and left. I must be slipping, since I still can’t pinpoint where I know him from.
Reaching into Sheila’s pack, I keep a vigilant eye on Cobb. He’s brandishing a gleaming-white clown smile as I distribute the snacks and juice bottles while Sheila checks her phone, probably Googling a local therapist to help her process the trials of motherhood.
Just then, my own phone dings and a photo pops up of a tiny black lamb attempting to remain standing on four wobbly legs with the assistance of a small neighbor child who seems to always be underfoot in Stan’s pictures. I think her name is Lily. Apparently, it takes a village to run a sheep farm.
“Awww. How cuuuuute!” Sheila exclaims, boldly reading over my shoulder. “Where is that?”
“New Zealand.” The photo is one in a series, apparently. “It’s from my father. He’s a professional shepherd.”
