Thicker Than Blood - The Complete Andrew Z. Thomas Trilogy (49 page)

The dirt road emerged from the thicket and there stood the sound and the gray of the sky and the deeper gray of the crumbling granite that comprised the prodigious home of Rufus and Maxine Kite, a gothic residence that looked as though it belonged on a dreary English moor.

There was no driveway. Wild beach grass had overrun the lawn and two ancient live oaks guarded the house, their gnarled branches nearly touching the disintegrating masonry of the third floor like arthritic fingers.

Remnants of a stone path, broken by roots, meandered between the trees to the front door.

The house was three stories of rock, as if God had cast off a gigantic block of stone, dropped it on the edge of the sound. Great chimneys spiked like horns from each end.

Vi thought the edifice resembled some alien skull, its teeming windows like hollowed eye sockets, portals into darkness.

32

VI parked under one of the oaks beside the only other vehicle on the premises, a rusting Dodge pickup truck that might’ve been sixty years old. As she followed the path toward the front door she gazed up at the tall black windows and the cupola.

The house oozed vacancy.

A twinge of fear and guilt shook her. She’d promised Sgt. Mullins she’d hook up with local law enforcement, get the sheriff, or at least a deputy to escort her on the Kite interview. But the last thing she wanted was some good old boy from down east tagging along, patronizing her.

She stopped at the door, smoothed herself, ran her fingers through her short blond hair, and knocked.

Something scurried through the grass behind her.

Turning, she saw an emaciated gray cat streak up the nearest oak. It settled on a disfigured limb and watched her through large yellow eyes. She’d seen another cat skulking the parking lot of the Harper Castle. According to the concierge, Ocracoke was rampant with feral felines.

When Vi turned back she started.

The door had been opened and in the threshold stood a tall old man, his kind face brimming with years and creases. Slightly hunched, he looked down at her through sunken black eyes, his white hair long but scarce.

"Who are you?" he asked.

Vi reached into her purse, withdrew her badge, and held it close so he could see.
 

"Sir, my name is Violet King. I’m a detective with the Davidson Police Department. May I speak with you?"

Rufus Kite looked up from the badge and beamed a toothless smile.

"Come in, young lady."

As Vi entered the house of Rufus and Maxine Kite she reached into her Barbour coat and unsnapped the latchet on her holster.

After Rufus closed the front door it took a moment for Vi’s eyes to acclimate to the dimness. The effluvium of mildew permeated the home—a bouquet of age, neglect, rotting mahogany, wet stone. Her heels slid on the dusty floor.

Rufus helped her out of the coat and hung it on a tottering
coatrack
beside the door. Then he led her through the dusky foyer into the living room and offered her a seat in an armchair beside a massive dormant fireplace.

Rufus eased himself down onto a crushed velvet couch, once gold, now a badly-faded flaxen. Light trickled through those tall windows, weak and dismal.
    

"Beautiful!" Rufus yelled.

"What?" a voice carried down the staircase.

"We have company!"

"Be right down!"

"Would you care for anything to drink or—"
 

"No, thank you." Vi was sinking into the armchair so she scooted forward onto its ottoman. "I’ll wait for Mrs. Kite," Vi said. "So I don’t have to start over."

"Of course." Rufus smiled, all gums. Vi smiled back. Rufus reached into the patch pocket of his flannel shirt and took out his teeth. He slipped them in and smiled again. "Your first visit to Ocracoke?"

"
Yessir
. Ya’ll have a lovely island."

"Ocracoke is quite a place. Particularly this time of year when the dreadful tourists are gone. How old are you if you don’t mind? I can get away with inappropriate questions at my age."

"Twenty-six."

"My goodness, you’re just a baby."

Footfalls on the steps drew their attention to Maxine Kite, carefully making her way down the creaking staircase. At the bottom of the steps she stopped to catch her breath and straighten the scallop-edged collar of her canary sweatshirt with an appliqué bunny rabbit on the front.

Vi rose and walked back into the foyer, her stomach cramping at the prospect of telling this frail elderly woman what her son was suspected of doing.

At sixty-two inches, Vi rarely had the occasion to tower over anyone, but she found herself looking down into the sweet somewhat startled eyes of Maxine Kite.

When Vi had introduced herself and helped Maxine over to the couch beside her husband, she returned to the ottoman.

"Mr. and Mrs. Kite, would ya’ll mind if I recorded our conversation?" Vi asked, pulling the tape recorder from her purse.

"Actually, I would," Rufus said, "since we don’t know what this is all about."

"Oh. Okay." Vi dropped the tape recorder in her purse and crossed her legs. "When was the last time either of you saw or spoke with your son, Luther?"

Rufus and Maxine glanced at each other. Then Rufus squeezed his wife’s hand and looked back at Vi.

"We haven’t had contact with our son in seven years."

"Do you know where he is?"

"No, ma’am."

"Where did you see him last?"

Rufus leaned back into the couch and put his arm around Maxine. She lay her head on his chest and stared into the hearth as he stroked her bony shoulder with thick liver-spotted fingers.

"I love my boy," Maxine said. "But he isn’t like most people, see. He drifts around. Doesn’t need the same things we need. Like family and—"

"Stability," Rufus cut in. "He never wanted to settle down. Wasn’t for him. And he knew it. He certainly knew it. That’s admirable in a way. To know your mind right off."

"He’s a good, good boy. Happier on his own, I think. A true loner. Did he do something, Miss King?"

Vi sighed. The stench of fish flowed into the living room from the kitchen.

"Thing is, we aren’t sure yet. We lifted Luther’s fingerprints from a crime scene, so we’d just like to talk with him and—"

"What sort of crime scene?" Maxine asked.

"That’s uh…I’m not allowed to divulge that at this point. So where did you see him last?"

"Here," Maxine said. "It was Christmas Eve and we hadn’t heard from him in a while, but that wasn’t so strange. After he quit school, we never saw much of him." The old woman brushed a wisp of white hair from her cheek, which still rested against her husband’s chest. "Rufus and I were in the kitchen peeling shrimp. We always have a special supper on Christmas Eve. I heard logs shifting in the fireplace, rushed out here, and there was my boy, standing by the hearth, poking the fire. He asked me, ‘All right if I spend Christmas with you, Mama?’"

Maxine smiled, her eyes gone heartsick, swallowing as if she had a lump in her throat.

"He left the next morning," Rufus said. "We haven’t heard from him since. Sometimes, I think he’s dead."

"No, he isn’t dead, Sweet-Sweet. Luther just doesn’t reckon time the way we do. I think seven years to him don’t mean a hill of beans. He’ll come home again when it pleases him. That’s just his way."

"Did Luther have any close friends in Ocracoke?"

"Luther was never interested in making friends. Like I said, he’s a loner."

"No, Beautiful, remember Scottie?"

"Manning?"

"No, Claude and Helen’s boy."

"Who’s this?" Vi asked.

"Fellow named Scottie Myers. A real local. Lives over on Back Road. Used to be a fisherman when you could make a living at it. I think he waits tables at Howard’s now. He and Luther are the same age. When they were in high school the two of them used to go crabbing with Claude on the weekends."

"I don’t think they were that good of friends, Rufus."

"Well, I’m just trying to help Miss King. I mean, is that helpful to you?"

"Oh, absolutely. Now you said he worked at Howard’s? What’s that?"

"It’s a pub on Twelve where all the locals go. And a fair number of tourists, too. Bring your appetite." He spread his thumb and index finger an inch apart. "The fried oysters are yea big."

"Sweet-Sweet, I’m tired," Maxine whined.

"Miss, I don’t know if you have more questions but maybe we could finish this—"

"I could come back tomorrow."

"It’d have to be later in the afternoon," Maxine said. "After five o’clock."

"That’s fine." Vi smiled. "Well, look, ya’ll have been so helpful. I know this wasn’t easy."

Rufus said, "Our pleasure."

Vi came to her feet and lifted her purse.

"Ya’ll have one of the most interesting homes I think I’ve ever seen. When was it built?"

"Eighteen-seventeen," Rufus said. "One of the oldest structures on the island. You can see the lighthouse and the sea from the cupola."

Vi slipped her purse over her shoulder.

"Would I be imposing to ask for a tour of this magnificent house?"

"Perhaps another time, Miss King," Maxine said. "I was on my way to a nap when you knocked."

Rufus kissed his wife’s forehead and struggled to his feet.
     

"Let me walk you to your car," he said. "I’d give you the tour myself but I’m breading four flounders in the kitchen, and they’re liable to spoil on me if I keep dillydallying."

As Vi opened the door of the Jeep and tossed her purse into the passenger seat, Rufus said, "Miss King, I just wanted to thank you."

"What for?"

Rufus leaned against the dirty Jeep.

A raindrop splattered on Vi’s cheek.

"Not telling my wife the nature of the crime scene. Maxine isn’t well. She didn’t need to hear about it, and I’m grateful to you. You said you’re from Davidson, North Carolina?"

"
Yessir
."

"I know why you’re here. Did my boy…he kill that family?"

Vi shut the door, reached out, touched Rufus’s arm.
  

"Mr. Kite, we really don’t know at this juncture. That’s the truth." Rufus nodded, patted her hand. "But would it surprise you if he had?"

The old man exhaled a soft whimper.

"Come back tomorrow," he said, then walked away through the weeds toward the water.

As she drove away from that morose eroding home, Vi watched Rufus Kite in the rearview mirror. Through falling mist she could see him standing on the bank, staring out across the leaden sound.

33

MY vision faded in upon the cottage cheese ceiling paint of my little room. It was Thursday, my second morning in Ocracoke, and I’d been roused from sleep by the whine of a vacuum cleaner in the adjacent suite.

This was the sixth morning I’d woken in an unfamiliar place. Back home the first thing my waking eyes beheld were the support beams of my cabin—a recurring comfort that soothed me like the familiar respiration of a sleeping spouse. It pained me not to see those rafters, that instead of my home in the Yukon wilderness I was coming to consciousness in this cheerless overblown room with its sand dollar-patterned wallpaper, mawkish painting of a ship in stormy seas above the headboard, and clear glass lamp on the chest of drawers, its base filled with seashells.
 

Someone knocked on the door and called out in a Spanish accent, "Housekeeping!"

I stumbled out of bed and yelled back through the door, "Not today, thank you!"

From my third floor window I glanced out upon the harbor and the village. The rainfall that had whispered throughout the night had ended and Silver Lake Drive showed patches of dry pavement.