Ellen Block - The Language of Sand

“Three weeks are missing between these entries.”

As she spoke, the flashlight flickered. She rapped it against a crate. “But these are brand-new batteries.”

Exactly. They are brand-new batteries.

Clutching the ledger, Abigail ran to the first floor and flung the basement door shut. She contemplated locking it. That was what Lottie would have done.

“For the record, I’m not going to lock the door the way some people would. Nope. No need to lock the door.”

Lottie was scared of the basement. Abigail didn’t want to be. Still, she tested the handle to make sure the door was closed tight.

The day the Bishop’s Mistress sank was etched into the soul of the ledger. The entry made the perfection of the others pale, and that page felt thinner than the rest. Abigail spent hours poring over every inch of it, mindful not to touch the paper. From her work with antique dictionaries, she knew that the oil from human hands could seep into the paper fibers, causing deterioration. Under normal circumstances, Abigail would have worn cotton conservator’s gloves. Her rubber dish gloves would have to do.

Unable to puzzle out most of the words in the entry, Abigail studied the drastic change in penmanship. The acute slant of the script indicated the speed at which it was written, while the low pitch of letters and the hasty slashes that topped the I ’s and T ’s confirmed her theory. The entry had been dashed off, the author distracted.

From the article, Abigail had gleaned a general sense of what happened. A vicious storm had blown in, assailing the Bishop’s Mistress and sealing her fate. Yet there had to be more. Whatever truly transpired that night had affected the lighthouse keeper to the point of altering his handwriting. Abigail knew that only tragedy was powerful enough to transform a person that thoroughly.

Night had swept in, and she’d been scrutinizing the ledger entry for so long her eyes hurt. Abigail would soon have to leave to do Merle’s rounds.

“Oh, no. The grout!”

Upstairs, the radio was playing and the trowel was lying on the tile where she’d discarded it. The layer of grout had dried into a meringue-y mess. In her fervor over trying to call Dr. Walter, Abigail had completely forgotten to wipe the excess grout with a damp cloth, as the directions dictated. However, her watch said it was time to go.

“I’ll deal with you later,” she told the floor.

That evening’s route began with the modern houses on the southwest end of the island. They were a warm-up, as they were closer to the lighthouse than the others, easier to inspect, and far less foreboding. Because the homes were new, the foliage hadn’t grown in, meaning fewer places for anyone who didn’t belong there to hide. It was the older homes Abigail hated. She imagined they must be lovely during the day, the trees swagged with Spanish moss, flowering shrubs nestled in close. That beauty turned ominous come nightfall.

Abigail sped through her rounds until she got to Timber Lane, the road where the burglary had occurred the night before.

“They wouldn’t come to the same place,” she reasoned.

Would they?

Lottie’s cottage on Timber Lane was the quintessence of charm. Roses dripped from trellises and a hammock swayed from an elm tree in the backyard. Abigail could imagine Lottie describing it to potential renters as an adorable love nest, the perfect setting for a romantic getaway.

“And prime for a thief’s picking.”

After a quick whirl around the cottage, Abigail deemed the property untouched and hurried to the next unit three lanes over. She checked the windows and gave the back door a shake, then her flashlight faltered.

“Not now. Please not now.”

Tapping the head of the flashlight against her palm, she attempted to resuscitate it. The bulb dimmed, leaving Abigail in the dark. The crickets seemed to grow louder in the absence of light.

“Thanks for the faulty merchandise, Merle,” she griped. “Just get to the car and you’ll be okay.”

As Abigail pushed through the shrubs into the front yard, arms held out as antennae, she heard the steady sound of footsteps. Between the shadows of the trees ahead, she glimpsed movement. It was the figure of a man walking in the street.

Abigail accidentally stepped on a branch, and the man stopped.

Did he hear you? Can he see you? Don’t scream. Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

Seconds later, the figure strode onward while Abigail stood, holding her breath, less than twenty feet away. If the flashlight had been working, she would have been seen. Abigail was thankful the batteries had died on her.

Once the footsteps faded, she sprinted to her station wagon, locked the doors, and switched on her high beams. There was no sign of the man. Her whole body was quaking, more with adrenaline than fear.

“Where did he go?”

Since the man could effortlessly have slipped into the woods and been hidden from sight, he might still be in the vicinity, so Abigail took off for town and came to a skidding halt outside the sheriff’s station, which was in a corner of the square. The fluorescent lights were on inside the shingled one-story building, but the glass door was locked. A Post-it on the pane read, Back in five minutes.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Every store in the square was closed except for the bar across the street, the Wailin’ Whale. A far cry from a haunt for Captain Ahab, the exterior looked more like a Wild West saloon. All that was missing were the swinging half doors.

Bars weren’t the sort of places Abigail frequented. The gloomy lighting, sticky tabletops, and cigarette smoke depressed her. However, there was a chance that was where Sheriff Larner would be. If not, maybe someone would know where he was. Abigail was willing to give it a shot.

While she ratcheted up her nerve, the front door to the Wailin’ Whale burst open. Hank Scokes lurched out, with Nat Rhone hard on his heels. Nat caught Hank by the shoulders before he could lose his balance.

“Let’s get you home,” Nat said in a gentle voice.

“I don’t want to,” Hank slurred. “You can’t make me.”

Going home meant having to endure the emptiness of his own house, the void left by his wife’s death. Abigail felt sorry for him. She also envied him. At least Hank had a home to go to. Sure, she had the caretaker’s cottage, but that wasn’t her real home.

“You’re tired, buddy. You’re ready for bed.”

The tenderness in Nat’s tone didn’t jibe with the image Abigail had of him brawling with Denny at the Kozy Kettle.

“I’m not tired. I swear I’m not,” Hank whined.

Nat helped him into the passenger seat of a gray truck, saying, “Upsy-daisy.”

Rounding to the driver’s side, Nat noticed Abigail across the street. Hank spied her too. Abigail stood motionless, ready to make a beeline for her car.

“You,” Hank said, brightening. “You know my boys. You seen ’em. In that picture. Remember? She knows my sons,” he told Nat excitedly. “Tell him what you said.”

After Hank had yelled at her at the bingo game, Abigail was afraid to utter a syllable.

“Tell him. You said they were handsome. She’s a nice lady,” Hank insisted. “Isn’t she a nice lady?”

Nat stared at her without blinking, a wordless warning not to speak of what she’d witnessed, then climbed into the truck’s cab and drove away.

“Wow. After that, I could actually use a drink. Guess I’m going to the right place.”