enough. But, no, not officially, anyway.” “Part of some kind of Girl Scouts program or something? I don’t understand why you’re here.”
She didn’t catch the mild sarcasm. “I’m the constable of this island. Of this unincorporated village, I mean. The sheriff’s department contacts me when there’s trouble, but this time I was home listening to the scanner. Now, if you’ll—”
I’d vaulted the porch railing, and was walking fast. Now the girl was trotting after me, calling, “Hey, hold it, mister. Mister? You’re not going into that house. I’m warning you right now, I’ll arrest you.”
“Arrest me? On what charges, for Christ’s sake? How long have you been a constable, anyway?”
I was almost to the back of the house; I could see light angling through broken French doors. The light was bluish where it touched shadows, yellow on palms with their pineapple-ribbed trunks.
“Since the election in November.”
I turned and looked at her for a moment before saying patiently, “A month ago? So maybe inexperience explains why you’re acting like a jerk. Look, Dr. Applebee was in bad shape when I left him. He needs medical attention. So go right ahead and arrest me—but later. Not now. For now, just stay out of my way.”
That inane song was still playing, coming from the open room.
“It’s a small world, a small world . . .”
Following me through the broken doorframe, the girl had to speak louder because of the music. “Okay, sir, you give me no choice. You have the right to—”
We stopped. Applebee was no longer in the corner where I’d left him balled up like a child. There was a visible spattering of blood on the floor, more on the overturned chair. My cellular phone was gone.
I leaned over the record player and used the edge of my boat key to lift the tonearm off a revolving 45 rpm record. The record was made of glossy cardboard, like something from inside a cereal box. It had to be old.
In the new silence, I headed for a hallway as she found her voice again. “Damn it, you’ve got to stop or I’ll . . . Oh my God!”
I’d already stopped. Stopped twice. First to pick up my phone, which was lying near the door. Then I halted more abruptly in the hall at a small, walk-in utility closet, louvered doors pushed open wide. From the closet emanated a subtle stink that took me several beats to identify, even though I’ve smelled it too many times.
I knew what was inside the closet without looking.
I stood there feeling a gauzy sense of unreality as, behind me, the girl said it again: “Oh dear God!” Then she made a snorting noise, followed by a low hissing wail that was mostly air. It was the shadow scream we experience in dreams. The dream where we open our mouths to cry out but there’s no sound.
I spun and threw my arms around her, trying to shield her vision by holding her close. Then I steered her away. She was shivering, the earliest stage of shock.
Jobe Applebee, the preeminent field biologist, was in the closet. He was hanging from a galvanized crossbar. There was a section of nylon rope tied to the bar, and also knotted around his neck.
The bar wasn’t high enough to hold him off the floor, so he was squatting, bulging eyes wide, arms dangling. It was as if he’d been in the process of seating himself in a chair only to be pulled up short like a running dog startled by the limits of his leash.
The girl was crying now; crying and babbling: “Oh, this can’t be happening ... he’s dead. Is he really dead? I knew him, since I was a little girl. But that’s not Mr. Applebee. It can’t be him. He doesn’t look anything like him.”
True. I’d seen Jobe only briefly, but the combination of strangulation and gravity had transformed him. His head was now oversized on a shrunken body, his skin the color of potter’s clay, black hands engorged, lips blue, dark eyes protruding.
The most striking change was the facial expression. The man had been much tormented.
She didn’t catch the mild sarcasm. “I’m the constable of this island. Of this unincorporated village, I mean. The sheriff’s department contacts me when there’s trouble, but this time I was home listening to the scanner. Now, if you’ll—”
I’d vaulted the porch railing, and was walking fast. Now the girl was trotting after me, calling, “Hey, hold it, mister. Mister? You’re not going into that house. I’m warning you right now, I’ll arrest you.”
“Arrest me? On what charges, for Christ’s sake? How long have you been a constable, anyway?”
I was almost to the back of the house; I could see light angling through broken French doors. The light was bluish where it touched shadows, yellow on palms with their pineapple-ribbed trunks.
“Since the election in November.”
I turned and looked at her for a moment before saying patiently, “A month ago? So maybe inexperience explains why you’re acting like a jerk. Look, Dr. Applebee was in bad shape when I left him. He needs medical attention. So go right ahead and arrest me—but later. Not now. For now, just stay out of my way.”
That inane song was still playing, coming from the open room.
“It’s a small world, a small world . . .”
Following me through the broken doorframe, the girl had to speak louder because of the music. “Okay, sir, you give me no choice. You have the right to—”
We stopped. Applebee was no longer in the corner where I’d left him balled up like a child. There was a visible spattering of blood on the floor, more on the overturned chair. My cellular phone was gone.
I leaned over the record player and used the edge of my boat key to lift the tonearm off a revolving 45 rpm record. The record was made of glossy cardboard, like something from inside a cereal box. It had to be old.
In the new silence, I headed for a hallway as she found her voice again. “Damn it, you’ve got to stop or I’ll . . . Oh my God!”
I’d already stopped. Stopped twice. First to pick up my phone, which was lying near the door. Then I halted more abruptly in the hall at a small, walk-in utility closet, louvered doors pushed open wide. From the closet emanated a subtle stink that took me several beats to identify, even though I’ve smelled it too many times.
I knew what was inside the closet without looking.
I stood there feeling a gauzy sense of unreality as, behind me, the girl said it again: “Oh dear God!” Then she made a snorting noise, followed by a low hissing wail that was mostly air. It was the shadow scream we experience in dreams. The dream where we open our mouths to cry out but there’s no sound.
I spun and threw my arms around her, trying to shield her vision by holding her close. Then I steered her away. She was shivering, the earliest stage of shock.
Jobe Applebee, the preeminent field biologist, was in the closet. He was hanging from a galvanized crossbar. There was a section of nylon rope tied to the bar, and also knotted around his neck.
The bar wasn’t high enough to hold him off the floor, so he was squatting, bulging eyes wide, arms dangling. It was as if he’d been in the process of seating himself in a chair only to be pulled up short like a running dog startled by the limits of his leash.
The girl was crying now; crying and babbling: “Oh, this can’t be happening ... he’s dead. Is he really dead? I knew him, since I was a little girl. But that’s not Mr. Applebee. It can’t be him. He doesn’t look anything like him.”
True. I’d seen Jobe only briefly, but the combination of strangulation and gravity had transformed him. His head was now oversized on a shrunken body, his skin the color of potter’s clay, black hands engorged, lips blue, dark eyes protruding.
The most striking change was the facial expression. The man had been much tormented.
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