Locked Doors

47

AS Vi approached she heard voices. A Boston Whaler equipped with a small outboard motor had been dragged up onto the beach. Fifty yards offshore, just beyond the breakers, a yacht floated in the calming sea.

She stopped outside the door of the tent and listened. A sleeping bag zipped up.

A man’s voice: “I put the bucket above your head. Why don’t you try and use it again before you-”

“I’m fine. I just needed to get off that boat. Oh God-”

Heaving and liquid splashing into a bucket.

“Jeez, Gloria.”

More retching and splashing. The woman groaned.

“I’ll dump the bucket.”

Vi stepped back as the tent door unzipped.

A plume of white hair emerged from the opening and an older man holding a red bucket backed out of the tent.

“Sir?”

The man spun around, eyes wide.

“Oh, jeez, oh my lord you scared me.”

“It’s okay, sir, I’m a police officer.”

“Sam, who’s out there?”

“Just stay put, Gloria.”

“Who is it?”

“Jeez, Gloria! I said stay there!”

Vi stepped forward. The man girded his robe.

“Sir, my name’s Violet King. I’m a detective from Davidson, North Carolina. Do you have a cell phone I could use?”

“What are you doing here?”

“That is a very long story. I really need to use a phone, it’s-”

“Can’t get a connection here. I’ve been trying all night.”

“Is that your boat?”

“Yes, why?”

Vi glanced at the dark yacht offshore.

“Sir, I need you to take me to Ocracoke.”

“Huh?”

“If this were a road, I’d be appropriating your Lexus. Sorry, it’s an emergency.”

Again from inside the tent: “Sam, what’s going on out there?”

“Just a goddamn minute, Gloria! Jeez!” Sam ran his fingers through his hair. “Ma’am, we just got here. We’re just getting to bed. My wife’s been seasick the last twelve hours from these rough waters. I’m talking green, yacking her guts out every five minutes.”

“I understand that, but-”

“We’re cruising up from Jacksonville to Norfolk. We can drop you off first thing in the morning.”

“I need to be there an hour ago.”

“You have a badge?”

“My badge number is six-zero-nine-two. I don’t have the luxury-”

“You don’t have a badge? How do I know you’re a cop?”

Vi took a step back, sat down in the sand, and put her head between her knees. She could’ve fallen asleep in seconds.

“Sir, you don’t understand the day I’ve had.”

“And you don’t understand what you’re asking. You want me to take you to Ocracoke in the dead of night? Across that shallow inlet? Look, we only came in this close to get Gloria ashore.”

“Your wife can stay, I don’t care, but you are going to take me to Ocracoke right now. I’m not asking.”

“Did something happen on this island?”

“I’m not going into it. You just-”

“Well, you’re going to have to tell me something, sweetheart.”

Vi stood up.

“All right, fine. Andrew Thomas-heard-a-him?-the serial killer?-is on this island as we speak. I need backup. I need-”

“Oh jeez.”

Sam looked down at the bucket. He stepped toward the dunes and chucked the vomit into the sand.

When he came back he said, “You better be who you say you are. I spent a third of my pension on that yacht, and if my mate grounds her on the shoals of Ocracoke Inlet, the state of North Carolina is going to reimburse me. I guarangoddamntee you that.” He turned and poked his head into the tent. “Get dressed, Gloria. We’re going back to the boat.”

“You are shitting me.”