Chapter 53

Joshua pulled into the asphalt parking lot of the Hyde Island Visitor Center, in Darien. It was ten minutes past eleven. The next ferry departed at noon, which gave him ample time to book passage to the island.

On the way there, he’d made a quick stop at Wal-Mart, to purchase a few items that he anticipated he might need later. He wanted to be prepared for anything that might happen.

As he got out of the Explorer, slinging his overnight bag over his shoulder, he surveyed the parking lot. It was less than half full; winter was probably a slow season for island visitors. But he saw a vehicle in the far corner, under the long, limp leaves of a palmetto tree, that made his breath snag in his throat.

Rachel’s silver Acura.

At first, he thought he was mistaken. He’d seen plenty of similar Acuras the past few days, and every time, his heart jack-hammered and he looked to see if his wife was driving, and he was always wrong.

But this one had to be hers. He walked closer, rocks crunching under his boots.

A seagull wheeled overhead, screeching, and in a fluttering of wings landed atop the car’s roof.

He was right. The Acura had Rachel’s rear license plate. The other giveaway was the red-and-white bumper sticker. It gave her salon’s name, and included the shop’s phone number and Web site address. In a city like Atlanta, where everyone had a hustle, you had to promote yourself constantly to stay competitive.

Joshua walked around the Acura, peering inside. The seagull, perched like a weathervane on the roof, didn’t flee at Joshua’s approach. The bird followed his movements with a penetrating, almost challenging look. It must have been accustomed to close contact with humans.

Streaks of salt, from the ocean breezes, filmed the windows, but he could see that she hadn’t left any belongings inside. It was typical of her. She always kept the car showroom-clean.

Joshua placed his hand on the car’s flank, needing to make sure it was solid and wouldn’t evaporate like a figment of his imagination. His fingers tingled on the cool metal, as if the car were a live wire running directly to Rachel.

For a minute, he considered getting in his SUV, and driving away. He’d finally assembled the great puzzle and learned where Rachel had taken refuge. He could leave her alone on the island, let her stay until she decided to return home. She would be safe. There was no way Bates would find her there.

Yes. He could just go home. Leave her be. Hadn’t she advised him not to track her down?

As thoughts of withdrawal circled his mind, Joshua recognized them for what they were: traces of the old, non-confrontational Joshua. The truth was, when he found Rachel on the island, they were going to have a difficult conversation, a talk that would determine the future of their marriage. The old Joshua rebelled at such discussions, would rather bury his head in the sand, ostrich like, and naively hope for the best.

He’d come too far to turn back. Had endured too much anguish to run away from what needed to be done.

He also realized the foolishness in assuming that Bates could not track her there. The psycho had already tracked her from Chicago, all the way to her house in Atlanta. He seemed to possess an innate, almost supernatural sense of how to find her. He would not give up until he had his prize.

For all Joshua knew, Bates might already be on the island.

Joshua curled his good hand into a fist.

The seagull shrieked, and took flight off the car. It glided toward the ocean, as if daring Joshua to follow.

Joshua gave the Acura another glance, and then he went to the visitor center.

* * *

The visitor center was a small, red-shingled building standing atop a four-foot high slab of wind-sculpted stone. Winter-sapped palmetto trees dotted the property. A set of wooden steps led to the front door.

According to one of the island tourism web sites he’d studied, visitors needed to request a reservation with the state parks department to visit the island, be personally invited by a resident, or have booked a tour with one of the handful of tour companies that operated on the island. Joshua planned to request a reservation for the noon ferry. Judging from the dearth of cars in the parking lot, a spot shouldn’t be difficult to secure.

Inside, the center was brightly lit, the walls lined with photos of Hyde Island and maps. Informational booklets about the island were stacked on a table.

A middle-aged black woman with a walnut-brown complexion sat behind a front desk, talking on the phone. She had a wild, frizzy hairstyle that reminded him of Chaka Kahn in her heyday. Her name tag read Cornelia.

When he approached, she concluded her call and hung up.

“I’d like to book a reservation for the noon ferry, if I can,” he said.

“You must be Joshua,” she said. She had an accent that brought to mind the Creoles of Louisiana, but hers was different somehow. Geechee, perhaps?

“Uhh, yes, that’s me,” he said. “How did you know?”

Cornelia smiled. “Your wife called this morning and said you might be coming. She described you—very tall man, handsome, broad shoulders.”

Joshua couldn’t suppress a blush—or his surprise that Rachel had told them to expect his visit.

I shouldn’t be surprised. Remember her sixth sense for things.

“So I don’t need a reservation?”

“Of course not, dear. You have an invite. Show this to Jimmy when you board the ferry.” She slid a beige card across the desk that had the words “Guest of Resident” printed on it in black ink. She also gave him one of the informational booklets; it featured colorful photos of the island, a brief history, and the daily ferry schedule.

She took a log sheet out of a drawer, uncapped a pen. “How long will you be staying?”

“A couple of days, I guess.”

“I hope you enjoy your time here.” She read a clock on the wall. “The ferry leaves at noon, but you can start boarding in about twenty minutes.”

“Thanks.”

She glanced at his bandaged finger. “That looks very painful.”

“It is—I broke it.” He wondered how much Rachel had told this woman about him, and their situation. “What time did my wife call you?”

“She called soon after we opened, at seven o’clock.”

“She sounded okay?”

Cornelia frowned. “Yes, of course.”

Joshua skimmed the ferry departure times printed on the back of the booklet. “Did any unfamiliar black men board the seven-thirty ferry this morning?”

“No.” The furrows in her face deepened. “Why?”

The pressure in Joshua’s chest drained out of him. Bates hadn’t beaten him there. Not unless he had managed to pull off that weird, walking-around-invisible crap. That was a possibility, as much as Joshua wanted to ascribe the phenomenon to his own distorted perceptions yesterday.

He also realized that Rachel hadn’t told this woman anything about their circumstances. He wasn’t surprised. Rachel always kept her personal life, personal.

Oddly, he felt the need to be secretive, too. He didn’t know this woman. Although she seemed genuinely friendly and helpful, she was a stranger to him, and in his edgy state, he was unable to lower his guard enough to tell her why he was making these unusual queries.

Cornelia watched him expectantly.

“One more question,” he said.

“One more, dear. Ask another, and then you have to tell me what this is all about. You have my imagination working hard here.”

“How hard would it be for someone who isn’t registered to board the ferry?”

“Oh, that’s an easy one. It would be impossible. We have state regs to follow, so we run a tight operation. No one gets on without a boarding pass, and to get a boarding pass, you have to see me, first.”

“Thanks for the info.”

“I wouldn’t let just anyone on the ferry, dear, if that’s what you are worried about.” Curiosity glittered in her eyes; she was fishing for more information.

“That’s good to know,” he said, and meant it. The appearance of Bates, suffering from multiple gunshot wounds, would certainly set alarm bells ringing in this woman’s inquisitive mind. Thanks also to his memorable line of questioning, she would be especially wary of visitors that day, which was all he could hope for without giving her the full story.

He thanked her again and left through the visitor center’s back door. A long dock stretched ahead. Shrimp boats and other sea-faring vessels bobbed gently in the water. The ferry was directly ahead; Joshua noted with satisfaction that it was the same boat he’d seen cresting the waves in the photographs that Rachel kept in the house. The vessel was the red of autumn leaves, and “Hyde Island Queen” was scrawled across the hull in eggshell white.

He had a little while before boarding began. He leaned against the dock’s wooden railing and watched the seagulls soaring through the cerulean sky.

The conversation with the woman had given him confidence. He dared to hope that he and Rachel would be safe on the island.

Nevertheless, he adjusted the overnight bag on his shoulder, so he could feel the reassuring lump of the gun against his side.