Poisoned Soil: A Supernatural Thriller Read online

  Surely there was more, so she challenged herself. There was wispy grass growing from gentle sand dunes between the house and water, but her mind had registered those as indistinguishable from the beach itself. But indeed, it was separate from the sand, something different to consider, if she was so inclined. She wasn’t, so she looked to the sky, still dark blue overhead as it had yet to be fully illuminated. That was the event Rose had come out to see, the sunrise that would emerge from her left.

  Pushing out of the chair she walked to the porch railing so that she could look overhead, seeing the darkness of the sky. Her eyes descended slowly to the eastern horizon and she tried to identify horizontal lines that distinguished the decreasing shades of darkness on the way down. The horizon was alive with energy and warmth. Above, the sky was cold and dark, not evil, but evoking no feeling of love. Resembling the coolness of death, not the warmth of life.

  She couldn’t discern where the changes in the sky’s mood appeared. Instead, she could only notice the stark contrast from above to below, and her eyes settled on the horizon where the sun rose from the ocean so gently that it allowed her to stare directly at it. Two fishing boats were silhouetted against the giant orb and they appeared to be chasing it, pursuing it as if they could cast their nets around it and harness its energy. She wondered if John was on one of the boats.

  John was so excited about the fishing excursion they had booked the month before, a private charter that would take him and Rose deep-sea fishing for trophy fish. When they had made their way to the beach house the afternoon before, Rose hadn’t felt so well. She and John sat on the beach in front of the porch and listened to the soft waves, about all Rose felt like doing.

  “I’ll call and cancel the charter,” John had said to Rose as they sat on the beach.

  “There’s no need,” Rose replied. “We can’t get our money back so let’s see how I feel in the morning. There’s no advantage to canceling now.” By bedtime Rose had felt better. John was hopeful that they would be able to go after all and Rose didn’t want to disappoint him. When they awoke this morning at 5:00 a.m. Rose did feel better, but she felt like a day at sea would set her back. Instead, she asked John to go to the Riding Rock Marina alone. John refused, and started to call the marina to cancel the trip, but Rose insisted.

  “John, we’ve already paid for the boat. I’ll be fine and you know as well as I do that we need a Wahoo on our wall,” Rose said with a smile as she visualized the giant trophy fish.

  John smiled and thought about it. Rose seemed fine and what she said made sense. Going to sea might make things worse for her, but why waste the trip?

  “I just want to sit on the porch and read, John, so you go ahead and I’ll see you tonight.”

  As the sun climbed and swallowed the darkness above, Rose walked back, this time choosing a wicker sofa on which to rest. A morning breeze began to blow gently, enough to make it comfortable to snuggle under a light blanket. She positioned two pillows on the armrest and stared into the southerly sky at the high level mass of white cirrus clouds on the horizon. Gazing into the sea, she saw the smiling faces of her beautiful daughters and hugged herself tight, sending them her love. Other than missing them dearly she felt fine, at peace, as she fell asleep.

  ***

  MONDAY NOON: BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

  “This is WBUR, Boston’s NPR News Station. A mysterious illness is being blamed for last night’s death of a local married couple. Monica and Kevin Colbert of Sutton, Massachusetts, were found in their home by their daughter who told doctors they had complained of flu-like symptoms. The Worcester County Health Department entered the couple’s homes wearing HAZMAT suits to remove bedding and take microbe samples. The initial cause of death has been listed as septicemia, but tests are being conducted to rule out whether or not avian or swine flu could be possible causes of death. This is Scott Sheldon for WBUR, Boston University Radio.”

  ***

  MONDAY 2:00 P.M: ATHENS, GEORGIA

  “In local news, a thirty-four-year old New York woman died suddenly this morning at Athens Regional Medical Center from what doctors are calling flu-like symptoms. Officials at the hospital reported an uptick in patients complaining of flu-like symptoms, even though the heart of flu season is still months away. In local weather, expect fair and mild conditions for most of the week. The National Weather Service says that large ridges of high pressure, one over Texas and the other centered close to Bermuda, will remain in place, steering tropical air from the gulf to the southeastern states. For WUGA in Athens, this is Kimberly Blanchard.

  ***

  At 4:00 p.m., John posed for a picture next to the fighting chair at the back of the boat as he held the tail of the sixty eight pound Wahoo he had just landed. The Ilander-skirted ballyhoo lure still hung from the Wahoo’s lip, a rather unsatisfying last supper. Wind-whipped waves that had blown up in the past hour made it difficult for John to stand for the picture, but he was buoyed by his sense of accomplishment and smiled broadly.

  He looked at his phone, hoping that somehow reception would magically appear. No bars. Not that he expected any twenty seven miles east of San Salvador island. “Oh, well,” he said, knowing full well that Rose’s cell phone wouldn’t work at the beach house anyway. He just wanted to send her the picture, to tell her he was thinking of her and that he couldn’t wait to see her that evening.

  The captain turned the fifty-four-foot Bertram over-under around and began following the sun back toward San Salvador as the first mate took John’s fish and put it on ice alongside the grouper he had also caught. Turning the wheel over to his assistant, the captain came back to speak to John. “Hey, that’s a heck of a Wahoo you got there,” the captain said to John, purposefully playing up his Bahamian accent for the tourist. “Especially this early in the season.”

  John smiled. “Yeah. Lucky, I guess.” John knew the Wahoo really only started biting in October and that the winter months are when they were most active. Still, he had what he came for, and with a few hours of fishing left he was optimistic that he had yet to land the really big one. The captain had told him in the morning that he expected the best bite to be near sunset.

  “So you may have noticed I turned the boat back toward the island,” the captain said. “We got word that the hurricane in the Caribbean is turning north and they think it will head for the islands. We have to cut the trip short a few hours and head back. Just to be safe, you know, and to get our boat secured.”

  As he considered the captain’s comments for a moment, John’s initial thought was that the captain was pulling his leg since he definitely looked the part of the sunburned tourist who could be suckered. But the captain looked serious, so John glanced around at the waves and the sky. He had paid little attention to either during the excitement of fishing. The chop had picked up in the past couple of hours, but John thought that must be normal for being so far out at sea.

  “Really? Are you—serious?”

  “Yah man, we don’t joke about hurricanes, not on the outer islands.”

  “What...when? What are they saying?” All of a sudden John needed data, information to help him make strategic choices, as if he was in a Monday morning meeting with his team around the conference table.

  “They saying it’ll take the path Irene took a couple of years ago when it went right through the islands,” the captain said, “except they say it won’t turn northeast. It’s suppose to hit land somewhere between Florida and South Carolina, but that part ain’t what concerns me if you know what I’m sayin’.”

  Suddenly the idea of fishing at all seemed ridiculous. John’s smile faded as he surveyed the overcast skies and felt a light, steady breeze across his cheeks. Moving at twelve knots, he couldn’t tell how much of what he felt was the wind blowing and how much was attributable to relative wind due to the boat’s motion. The sea was littered with whitecaps. They were small and didn’t alarm him so he turned his attention to the dark, small clouds on the southern horizon.
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  “When do you expect us to be back at port?” John asked. The captain sensed his concern.

  “I’ll get us back by 7:30 or so. Where you staying?”

  “We rented a beach house on the southern tip of the island. We chartered a plane down here that’s supposed to pick us up on Sunday, but I’ll need to call them if we need to leave early. If I call tonight they may be able to get here by late tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Won’t be no time for that. If Isabel is a coming this way like they say, it’ll be here tomorrow night. Rain will be coming hard tomorrow morning and we’ll lose power pretty fast. Always do. They’ll seal the island off by morning. Irene knocked out power for a week.” The captain and John stood and looked over the port side of the boat at the southern horizon. The captain smiled and placed his hand on John’s shoulder. “Stay inside and batten down the hatches. Just some wind and rain, man, that’s all.”

  As the captain turned to leave John stared at the sky in troubled thought. Something more than the weather bothered him. He spun around quickly before the captain left. “Captain,” John began and then hesitated. “Is there a hospital on the island, or a clinic?”

  The captain surveyed John for a moment. “Getting sea sick, are you? We might be able to give you a pill for that but closest hospital is in Nassau, 200 miles away. You won’t be getting there anytime soon if Isabel’s coming this way.”

  ***

  By the time the island taxi pulled up to the beach house at 8:30 p.m. the wind had picked up briskly. John estimated that it was steady at thirty miles per hour, probably gusting at forty even though the driver had said the hurricane wouldn’t arrive until the following night. But he had confirmed that it would arrive, at least according to the hurricane prediction models. Same path as Irene, just as the captain had said, taking it squarely over the length of the Bahamas. Even though he was furious at the weather forecasters who had predicted that the hurricane would most likely steer south of Florida and into the gulf, maybe hitting Florida’s panhandle, John was even more furious at himself. He knew that he should have known better than to go to a remote island without a contingency plan. Everything in his business life revolved around contingency plans. Back-ups, redundant servers and facilities, action plans if revenue didn’t materialize, expansion plans if they did. For the past three hours he had labored under dreadful thoughts. Thoughts he didn’t want to acknowledge, but had to. What if the hurricane hits us directly in this little house on the beach. Where do we go? The captain and the taxi driver assured him that they would be fine in their home, which was situated far enough back from the water to avoid any storm surge, but it did little now to assuage his fears.

  “You won’t have any power or telephones,” the driver had said, “but you’ll get by. Everyone made it through all right with Irene and that split down the middle of the islands.”

  But that wasn’t what was bothering John, aching at his insides. What if Rose was ill or took a turn for the worse? That thought gnawed at him so much he was becoming sick himself. Time was moving so slowly for him, minutes dragging and cursing him with dreadful thoughts that could only be relieved once he saw that she was all right and held her in his arms.

  John paid the driver and stepped out of the taxi. Wind from the southeast stung his face with grains of sand as he walked up the front steps. As he reached for the doorknob in the darkness he saw a mass lying on the wicker sofa to his left. His heart sank as he went to Rose, partially covered with a blanket, but lying there in the open as the sand pelted her cheeks. “Rose!” John fell to his knees in front of the sofa and picked up her head. “Rose!”

  With great strain she opened her eyes, barely, groggily, as if she had taken sleep medication, but John knew she wouldn’t have. He stood and slid his arms underneath her and picked her up, holding her close to him. Rose’s body draped over his arms and offered no resistance, no support. Her arms lay limp by her side in his own arms as he walked to the door, using his body to shield Rose from the wind and sand. Turning the doorknob, John twisted his body to allow Rose’s head to carefully enter the opening first. In a panic his eyes darted around the strange home as he walked straight to the bedroom. Again, he turned sideways as he walked down the narrow hall to protect Rose’s head from hitting the wall. After navigating the doorway into the bedroom, John laid Rose onto the bed. A loud banging came from the living room and John raced back to close the door. He flipped on the light switch and silently thanked an unknown benefactor for the magic of electricity as he rushed back to the bedroom and turned on the bedside lamp.

  “Rose!” John said firmly, yet softly. “Rose, can you hear me?”

  Again her eyelids opened a sliver and looked at John. Her eyes had the energy to acknowledge him, but nothing else. She was shaking, shivering, her body trembling as if it had just been pulled out of icy waters. John tucked her into bed and pulled blankets tightly around her, pushing them around and behind her shoulders to warm her. He took the back of his hand and felt her forehead. Oh no! John said to himself as he felt the searing heat from Rose’s head. He looked at Rose in the soft glow of the lamp, her sweat-soaked black hair sucking light out of the room. He looked for a clock to check the time. Seeing none, he took out his iPhone and had to wait for it to turn on since he had no reason to keep it on.

  “C’MON!” John screamed to the inanimate object. Finally it turned on and revealed the time as 8:40 p.m. His mind raced wildly. I need a doctor. That’s all that matters. Find a phone book, the phone.

  John began to rise from the bed, but stopped halfway up in a crouched position. His nostrils had halted his progress as they detected something faint, but a smell that caused him to stop where he was until its source could be identified. He whiffed again, registering the smell and talking himself through the options.

  I know that smell...it reminds me of...the girls...something about the girls....diapers!

  John pulled the covers back from Rose and gently rolled her on her side. The back of her right leg was stained wet and brown. John looked at his left forearm where he had been carrying her and now saw the wetness on his arm. Obviously Rose had had diarrhea during the day and, evidently, was unable to get up to go inside. “Oh Jesus!” John said. “I’ll clean you up in a moment, hon.” Rose lay there, able to hear nothing.

  “First I gotta find the phone!” John began walking to the kitchen with a sinking feeling that no one could help him.

  Chapter 25

  The sun inched over the mountains as Blake drove south on 441 in Mountain City back toward Clayton. He had just dropped off a bed full of pig bones with Gus, who would make a final batch of bone meal for Blake.

  Terry had proven to be a real asset, worth every penny of the five grand that Blake paid him in cash the night before as he thanked him and bid him farewell. Hoping he’d never see him again, Blake had no idea what a kid like that would do with five grand, but he figured it wouldn’t last long. Most importantly to Blake, he paid him in cash and there would be no tracing it to him.

  Blake pulled into the Ingles grocery store just before Warwoman Road. A new Starbucks coffee shop had just opened inside and Blake wondered how “fourbucks,” as the penny pinchers at UGA had called it, would do in this neck of the woods. But Blake had taken a liking to the dark roasted coffee during his Athens time and was glad to see the green logo appear a few weeks back. He walked through the door and marveled at the decor. Starbucks had taken something as simple as a cup of coffee and achieved with it what Blake had tried to accomplish with his own life. Elevate the mundane to the exotic, take a dirty seed and turn it into something the world admired. But underneath it all, once you stripped away the musical coffee house genre that they seemed to have invented, the fancy packaging, the curvaceous coffee mugs, once you stripped all that away you were left with what? A lone coffee bean grown by a lone, unknown, and unimportant farmer.

  The dirty seed, as Blake now thought of himself, stepped forward to order.

  “Welcome to S
tarbucks, what can I get you?”

  “Hey, can I have a grande bold with no room?”

  “Sure thing,” she said. “Getcha anything else? A blueberry scone perhaps?” she asked with a smile.

  “Uh..no ma’am, just the coffee, thanks.”

  “Okay, that’ll be two twenty-three.” The clerk turned to get the coffee and returned to the counter. Blake handed her a five and took change, leaving a buck in the tip jar. She smiled and handed him his coffee.

  “Come back now,” the clerk said before moving on to the next customer behind Blake. “Mornin’ Sheriff!”

  Blake cringed and jerked his head to the right. The sheriff stepped up a foot and stood beside him.

  “Mornin’, Mary Ellen,” the sheriff said as he read the clerk’s name badge. He turned his head to Blake. “Mornin’, Blake.”

  “Sheriff!” Blake said before turning his gaze to Mary Ellen, not sure what else to say. He looked down to his shoes for a moment. “Well, so long, Sheriff.” Blake turned and began toward the door. As he did, the sheriff left the line and followed him through the door.

  “Blake, give me one second if you don’t mind,” the sheriff said as they stood outside. Blake turned to look at the sheriff, but said nothing.

  “You don’t have anything new to report about them boys missing, do you?” the sheriff asked.

  Blake thought about the wording the sheriff chose. Had he asked “have you seen them boys” or “have you heard anything new about them boys” then the answer would have been an easy “no.” But he had phrased the question differently. “You don’t have anything new to report...do you?” He tried to figure out what the sheriff meant. Was the sheriff giving Blake another chance to report something...anything that he may have omitted before? Or was it simply careless phrasing on the sheriff’s part with no specific meaning intended other than the obvious?