Randy White - Gone

Martha was right. After discovering the gun, seeing Olivia’s paintings, then fast-forwarding through her DVDs, I was restless. Very restless. And my need to move didn’t improve any after I’d returned the first of four calls.

“Instead of Port Royal tomorrow, my friends are having their party aboard Sybarite ,” Gabby Corrales told me, not actually squealing but close enough, she was so excited. “Just a sunset cruise-not enough time to have any serious fun-and no crew. But a perfect chance to see why you’ll love being first mate!”

In any other mood, job obligation or not, I would have refused to leave the dock on a boat with such a dark reputation.

Instead, I heard myself ask Gabby, “You think a black cocktail dress will be okay?”

EVEN THOUGH I GOT ONLY THREE HOURS’ SLEEP BECAUSE I stayed late on Sanibel-the biologist had invited me into his lab-I awoke at sunrise on Sunday feeling as alive and full of energy as I’d ever felt in my life. At my antique vanity, I smiled into the mirror, then set about rehanging the dresses I’d tried on earlier that morning prior to bed. It wasn’t until Loretta called, though, that I remembered the shoe box. It was under my nightstand instead of in the closet where it was usually stored.

“You sound so light and cheery, honey,” my mother purred through the phone, “like someone lifted an anvil off your shoulders. Or you had yourself a real special time last night. Maybe there’s no need to hide the axe before you pick me up for church this morning-thanks to that snake Lawrence Seasons, I suppose.”

No, Lawrence had nothing to do with my good mood, although it was irksome to be read so easily, but that was nothing new. There were times as a girl I seriously wondered if my mother had X-ray vision. And I still have suspicions that God has gifted her with witch’s powers to compensate for the clot that damaged her brain. My strip mall apartment is separated from her home by condos, billboards, six miles of asphalt, and a Kmart, but after hanging up the phone I used a pillowcase to conceal the shoe box, then hid my private property on a closet shelf safe from Loretta’s prying imagination. As I did it, I imagined an approving smile from Olivia when we finally met, sure that she would have behaved the same.

My mother’s stroke has at least softened her attitude about church, which is odd, but no odder than some of her other behavior. After ending a decade-long affair with a married man, Loretta became a devoted member of Foursquare Pentecostal, where guilt and anger could be purged by “happy rapture,” which is Pentecostal talk for speaking in tongues and Christ dancing. That church did the woman a lot of good, in my opinion, brought a peace to her mind that I envied as a girl but unfortunately didn’t share, although I did think highly of the minister and most of the congregation. Church rules were strict, which probably kept me out of more trouble than I realize even now. And it forced an orderliness into our lives that living around the schedule of a married man had all but destroyed. Loretta has never admitted her affair, of course, and I’ve never mentioned it, although it is a secret comfort to me to have such powerful ammunition in reserve.

Attending church is still an important part of Loretta’s life. Mine, too-a fact I don’t mind sharing when the rare person asks. By college, though, Foursquare Pentecostal’s uninhibited rejoicing made it an awkward place for an introvert. And the surgery to remove Loretta’s aneurism made it impossible for her to tolerate all that rapturous noise. So, during the last two years, we’d attended a smorgasbord of services but had recently settled on a white clapboard church that overlooks a cemetery on the beach, Chapel By The Sea, Captiva Island. Several Smiths are buried there, including Ann Savage Smith, who may or may not be a relation, but just seeing my family name chiseled on a tombstone has created a bond and causes me to leave flowers after every service.

On this Sunday morning, Reverend Nyman read from a Unity Church publication, The Daily Word , a lesson entitled “Empowered.” It was a strong message that promised guidance and protection to those who behaved boldly with faith when challenged by adversity. I liked the quote from the 91st Psalm so much, I found it in Loretta’s Bible, then stored it nearly word for word in my memory.

I will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in darkness… A thousand may fall at my side… but evil will not touch me…

Afterward, in the cemetery, I left gold frangipani blossoms I’d picked from the yard, then returned Loretta home, where Mrs. Terwilliger, her day nurse, and four others were standing at the edge of the property, looking down into a pit the size of a swimming pool. Loretta hadn’t exaggerated about what her new neighbors had done. They’d hired a backhoe to dig up what remained of the Indian mound, hauling tons of shell, earth, and whatever artifacts it contained away in dump trucks. The house they were building had seven bathrooms, I’d heard, and required a septic tank.

As I walked my mother up the mound toward the porch, I saw that it was not a cheery-looking group. There were two local archaeologists, one of them a nice woman, Dr. Caren, who I could see had been crying. There was also an Indian-looking man in a Seminole jacket standing next to a skinny long-haired man I recognized. I’d met him the night before on Sanibel and had enjoyed a long talk-me listening mostly, of course.

“Tomlinson?” I called as if surprised, although I wasn’t. The man had been so upset when I’d told him about the backhoe’s digging, he had vowed to come view the destruction for himself. He had been floaty drunk, true, but I had seldom met a more sweet-natured person, nor a man with bluer eyes, so I was hoping he would remember come morning. Now here he was.

“Miz Smith!” he said to my mother in a comforting way, focusing instantly on Loretta after smiling at me. “No wonder you can’t sleep at night-all these voices calling out for help. Did anyone understand when you tried to explain?”

For an instant, Loretta shared my puzzlement, but then her expression changed as if realizing she’d finally found an ally. “Not my daughter, that’s for damn sure!” she said, giving me a triumphant look. “How’d you know about this god-awful nightmare I’ve been living?”

The skinny, hippie-looking man was tugging at a strand of hair while he frowned at the concrete monstrosity, and the pit the backhoe had dug. “It’s unholy what’s happened here. The sacrilege of too much money in the hands of the unenlightened-that’s a mausoleum they’re building, not a house. Defiled three thousand years of sacred ground, which is why only the purest of souls could help. So they chose you, of course, Miz Smith.”

“My Lord… it’s true!” my mother cried, walking toward Tomlinson with outstretched arms. “No one believed me even when I painted the truth on those cement walls. I hear them. I hear them dead Indians crying all night long!”

The man replied, “They used you as a conduit, dear lady,” lifting Loretta off her feet with a hug. “Now the cavalry has arrived. The Seminole have a purification ceremony-I’ll tell you all about it. The temptation, of course, is to zap these swine with a pestilence curse-but revenge is bad mojo. Soon enough, though, bad karma will infect them and anyone foolish enough to step inside that pre-death chamber, so leave it to the experts. I want you to meet a friend of mine, Billy Egret. He’s a Skin, a native shaman-” Tomlinson motioned to the man wearing the brightly colored Seminole jacket. “Hey, Billie, come meet my new sweetheart!”