John Locke - Now & Then

Though he was in serious pain, I could see he was going to live. He’d probably have permanent burn marks on his back, and might require skin grafts. His face and hair were caked with blood and sand and something about him seemed familiar. His eyes were wild with pain, and he was grabbing at his sling. I looked around for help and saw that no one seemed to have heard him or noticed me pull him from the pit.

“Don’t move,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

I ran back to the kitchen, grabbed my cell phone and dialed 911 and gave them the details. I grabbed four bottles of water from the refrigerator and a roll of paper towels and ran back to the burn victim, who was trying to roll toward the sand dunes. I stopped him and turned him on his stomach and began pouring water over his back. I decided not to remove his shirt in case the skin might come off with it. I poured a second bottle of water on his back and then turned him on his side and opened a third bottle and poured it on his face and hair. I got him to drink a few swallows from my last bottle of water, and used the remainder to wet some paper towels. I dabbed at his face with the moistened towels, and though his broken nose threw me off a minute, I finally recognized him as the kid Rachel and I had pulled off the sand dune a couple of weeks earlier.

Only this time he had a broken arm and a full leg cast. And he was digging at his arm cast again, and shouting incoherently. Whatever he’d been trying to do to his broken arm, he stopped doing, and grabbed my throat instead.

I could tell the kid was trying to strangle me, but he was so weak he couldn’t have crushed a grape. He seemed happy doing it though, so I let him keep trying. While he did, my thoughts turned to damage control. If he decided to sue Beth, she’d lose everything. But would he sue her? Of course he would—it’s the American way.

Maybe I could buy him off, I thought. Whatever he hoped to gain from suing Beth would be a pittance to me. So we’d be okay from that angle. I’d take care of his doctor bills and give him double whatever he wanted from Beth.

With that concern out of the way, I wondered about the pig roast. I had a hundred paid guests coming for pork in a few hours. Could I salvage the dinner? I looked around and saw a few people here and there, but no one seemed to be paying attention to us, so sure, I could cover the pit up again and no one would need to know about the kid burning in it.

Unless he told someone.

I looked down at him and wondered if I should just kill him. I mean, I’d probably be doing him a favor, since this had to be the most accident-prone kid who ever lived. He’d die on his own if I’d just stop saving him.

But no, it wouldn’t be right to kill someone just to keep from canceling a pig roast. And anyway the kid couldn’t have known there was a pig roasting under his back. Maybe he’d figure it out later, and I could buy his silence before he blabbed it. In that event, maybe I could salvage dinner after all.

Except that the EMS guys would be on the scene within moments, and they’d have questions about the burn marks on his back. Could I set a quick fire and pretend he’d fallen into it? No. A good cover-up requires planning.

I’d just have to cancel the pig roast.

With that decision behind me, I started wondering a few things about the kid. Like why was he trying to strangle me? And why was he here? How did he break his nose and arm and leg? What had he been doing on the fire ant hill with the buck knife?

I thought about the knife a minute, and how it had fallen out of his pants pocket when the EMS came the last time. I reached into his sling and found a similar knife under his broken arm.

I was beginning to think this kid was trying to kill me.

I thought about his broken bones and wondered if they could have been sustained by falling through the plywood attic access door.

Killing this kid might be a good idea after all, I thought.

But then I heard the sirens from the EMS truck heading our way. I ran to the kitchen, hid the knife, and went out the front door to flag them down.

Chapter 20

THE EMS CREW alerted the Health Department about the roast pig pit to make sure we didn’t serve our guests pork that could be tainted—a ridiculous assertion that made me wonder how we ever became such a pansy-ass country. I mean, a guy burns his back on heated sand almost twelve inches above the rocks that are cooking a pig. The guy never touched the pig, so what’s the big deal?

The Health Department contacted the Humane Society, but since they were busy manning a float in the Fernandina Beach Fourth of July Parade we had to wait until after the ribbons had been awarded. They came in third, in case you care.

Eventually they came and confiscated the pig, which meant that I had everything I needed for the pig roast except the pig. After the EMS crew rushed the kid to the hospital I made a run to the closest Winn-Dixie and bought four large, spiral-cut hams and several pounds of bacon. I couldn’t call it a pig roast, but I could fry up the ham in bacon grease and give our customers a meal they’d never forget.

“How many did we end up with after you offered the full refund?” Beth asked.

We were in the kitchen. It was a half hour till midnight on a long, hot day, and I was exhausted. We all were. “Amazingly, we salvaged them all,” I said.

“Knocking ten dollars off the price helped,” Rachel added.

Beth nodded. “Thanks, guys. You were both great today.” She looked at me. “Any word on that kid they took to the hospital?”

Rachel surprised me by saying, “His name is D’Augie.”

“Doggie?”

“Yeah. But it’s not spelled that way. Anyway, I talked to the doctor. He’s going to be okay. He doesn’t need grafts or anything.”

“You ever figure out what he was doing in your fire pit?” Beth asked.

“Not a clue,” I said.

Beth covered her mouth and tried to suppress a yawn, gave up, and let it run its course without apology. “Okay, I’m done,” she said. “Love you guys.”

We said our goodnights and waited a few minutes for Beth to settle into her bedroom and close her bathroom door. When we heard the water running in Beth’s sink I handed Rachel the picnic basket and told her to turn it over.

“You see anything unusual?” I said.

She passed it back to me. “I’m really tired, Kevin.”

She started for the staircase.

“Rachel,” I said. “It’s important.”

She paused and frowned. “Can we do this tomorrow?”

“Ten seconds. I swear.”

“This has been the longest day ever. I hate waiting on people. I’m tired. I want to go to bed.”

I put my finger to my lips, signaling her to quiet her voice. I whispered, “You wanted to know what’s going on with Beth, right? Why she’s acting so weird?”

Her eyes lit up, and she walked over to me. “She’s got a guy? And what, they went on a picnic?” Rachel cocked her head, putting the pieces together. Her face broke into a wide grin. “Oh my God! Little Miss stick-up-her-ass is getting banged by some local yokel outdoors and passing him off as a sick friend! Who is it, someone we know?”

I was amazed how her mind worked. I motioned her to follow me back to the kitchen. I gave her the picnic basket and pointed to what I’d originally thought were random scratch marks.

“Look at these scratches closely,” I said, “and tell me what you see.”

Rachel gave me a skeptical look, but she squinted to bring the marks into focus. “It’s just a bunch of—wait, it looks like Roman numerals. Fifty-five, right?”

“So it would appear.”

“Beth’s boyfriend is fifty-five?”

I smiled. “Maybe she banged him fifty-five times and wanted to mark the milestone.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“I agree.”

Rachel frowned. “You’re an asshole.”

I arched my brows.

She continued. “You’re standing here, letting me go on and on, but telling me nothing. You know I’m tired and you’re deliberately wasting my time.”

I nodded. “Let me get right to it. I don’t think the L and V are Roman numerals.”

“You don’t.”

“Nuh uh.”

“But for some reason I’m supposed to give a shit why.”

“They’re initials.”

She thought about that a moment, then said, “Beth’s boyfriend?”

“If it is, it should be easy to find him,” I said. “Not too many people around here with a last name that starts with a V.”

She eyed me carefully. “But you don’t think it’s her boyfriend.”

“Nope.”

“Because?”

“These initials were scratched by a woman.”

“Uh, don’t freak when I tell you, but Beth’s a woman.” She saw me grinning and added, “Wait. How do you know these marks were made by a woman?”

“They were made by a fingernail.”

“And what, men don’t have fingernails?”

“Let me continue. This is Beth’s picnic basket. If she were labeling it, she’d have used an ink pen, or a knife or other sharp object.”

“And she’d have used her own initials.”

“Exactly.”

“So maybe she’s got a fuck buddy with the initials LV. They go on a picnic, spread out a big blanket, eat some food, and suddenly he’s all over her. She’s all ‘Oh, LV! LV!’ They have wild monkey sex right in the middle of the day in some deserted area tucked behind a sand dune. It’s their special place. They’re lying on the blanket after doing it, thoroughly spent, and our sanctimonious little Beth is all raptured up ‘cause it’s been a long time, and she gathers up her strength and scratches his initials on the basket.”

I looked at her as I often did, with complete amazement. “Why is it that all your scenarios involve sex?”

“Why is it that yours don’t?”

She had me there. I decided to move along. “Let’s frame it a different way.”

She shrugged.

“You still haven’t proven the marks were made by a woman.”

“I’m getting to that.”

“You’re just trying to be dramatic. Like some detective in a stupid movie.”

“It’s my one opportunity.”

“When you fall asleep tonight I might super glue your dick to your stomach.”

I looked at her as I often did, with complete horror. I handed her the little sharp piece I’d put in my pocket earlier, just before the kid burned his back in my fire pit. She looked at it and wrinkled her nose, turned her hand and let it fall to the kitchen counter.

“That’s disgusting,” she said.

“But you’ll concede it’s a woman’s fingernail?”

“Not Beth’s.”

“Right, not Beth’s. But a woman’s. And suppose she was scratching her own initials into the bottom of the basket, and had to use her fingernail because she didn’t have access to an ink pen, a knife, or any other type of sharp object.”

“Like what, a prisoner?”

“Exactly like a prisoner, except that she has a northern accent.”

“A northern accent.”

“Yup.”

“And this you can tell from her fingernail.”

I smiled, enjoying the moment.

Rachel abruptly crossed the floor to the cabinet that housed the odds and ends. She pushed a few objects around with her finger and eventually picked up a small tube and held it between her thumb and forefinger so I could see it clearly.

Super Glue.

She sighed. “I’m tired, Kevin. Just say it. Who do you think made these scratches in Beth’s picnic basket?”

“Libby Vail.”

Chapter 21

A LONG, LOW rumble woke us up an hour before dawn. Remembering what happened the last time I heard that sound, I jumped out of bed and checked the window, wondering if another hail storm was headed our way. Thankfully, all was calm. Patches of heat lightning lit up the distant sky.