Read Online Kiss of the Sun by R.K. Jackson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: R.K. Jackson
Ads: Link
lunatic babble she’d become so adept at tuning out. Like a ham radio operator, she scanned for any meaningful signal.
She walked a few steps up a driveway that led to an empty cement foundation and paused. She closed her eyes and rolled the ball from one hand to the other. The noises she heard were like eavesdropping on a party: children’s voices, adult voices, conversations, laughter, shouts, a canvas of sound, eerily distant. She tried to picture the two boys playing here, hiding among the trees and bushes. But no individual utterance jumped out or asserted itself.
“Hey, look down there,” Jarrell said. Martha opened her eyes and turned in the direction he was pointing. There was an overgrown lot down the cracked and weedy lane, where the metal tubes of playground structures rose out of the brush. They walked toward it.
The sky had grown darker, and a low, slow peal of thunder added its bass undertone to the whine of the jets passing overhead. At the end of the playground, the A-frame spires of a swing set stood, chains hanging loose. The seats were gone. Jarrell pushed a steel merry-go-round on its rusted bearings, and it made a tortured, metallic squeal.
Martha clasped the ball between her palms, closed her eyes again. She pictured Peavy as he appeared in the photo and in the dream. The echoes of children playing, but which children? “Where are you?” she whispered. Was Peavy’s voice somewhere inside that din?
Martha turned in a slow circle, scanning the desolate lot. The slide, covered in vines; the stained and graffiti-covered benches; a tree with yellow-brown, autumnal leaves; the swing set. Martha paused, turned back. Something had registered in her vision—a glimpse so fleeting, she’d almost missed it. She repeated her slow half turn, surveying the same area of the playground, and paused when she saw it again—a tiny gleam in the branches of a sweet gum tree at the edge of the playground.
She picked her way toward the trees, stepping over brambles and sticks. She stood under the canopy and looked up.
“Jarrell…”
He came over to where she stood and followed her gaze. It was hanging from the stub of a branch, a few feet above them—a medallion, or a locket perhaps. Jarrell grabbed a low-lying limb, braced one sneakered foot against the trunk, and hoisted himself up. He snatched the medallion and dropped back to the ground.
It hung from a simple black leather thong and was made of silver metal with a series of silver points, each slightly hooked, encircling a disk of shiny black glass or stone. On the face of the disk, inlaid, were a pair of silver triangles, pointing inward.
“That’s it…it’s the symbol from the frottage,” Martha said. “The drawing that Peavy made.”
“I’ll be damned.” Jarrell held the amulet aloft, turning it slowly in the overcast light.
“How could this have never been found? After all these years?”
Jarrell looked around. “I don’t know. I don’t think it’s been there forever. There’s no tarnish. It looks like someone put it there recently.”
Martha met his eyes. “For us to find?”
The sky rumbled and dots of water appeared on the shoulders of Jarrell’s gray tank top.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Jarrell said.
—
As they pulled into the parking lot of the Best Western on Forest Parkway, rain was coming down in sheets. Martha had Peavy’s shoebox in her lap, and to its contents she had added the silver amulet.
“Who else have you told about the Peavy case and your plans to investigate?” Jarrell asked.
Martha traced back through her thoughts of the past few days. There was the old couple, but she hadn’t told them of her plans to visit the site of Peavy’s disappearance. Dr. Goodwin knew about the case, but she had no idea Martha had even left the island. “Just you and me, your roommate, and the people at that table last night.”
Jarrell shook his head. “I think someone knew you were going to be there.
She walked a few steps up a driveway that led to an empty cement foundation and paused. She closed her eyes and rolled the ball from one hand to the other. The noises she heard were like eavesdropping on a party: children’s voices, adult voices, conversations, laughter, shouts, a canvas of sound, eerily distant. She tried to picture the two boys playing here, hiding among the trees and bushes. But no individual utterance jumped out or asserted itself.
“Hey, look down there,” Jarrell said. Martha opened her eyes and turned in the direction he was pointing. There was an overgrown lot down the cracked and weedy lane, where the metal tubes of playground structures rose out of the brush. They walked toward it.
The sky had grown darker, and a low, slow peal of thunder added its bass undertone to the whine of the jets passing overhead. At the end of the playground, the A-frame spires of a swing set stood, chains hanging loose. The seats were gone. Jarrell pushed a steel merry-go-round on its rusted bearings, and it made a tortured, metallic squeal.
Martha clasped the ball between her palms, closed her eyes again. She pictured Peavy as he appeared in the photo and in the dream. The echoes of children playing, but which children? “Where are you?” she whispered. Was Peavy’s voice somewhere inside that din?
Martha turned in a slow circle, scanning the desolate lot. The slide, covered in vines; the stained and graffiti-covered benches; a tree with yellow-brown, autumnal leaves; the swing set. Martha paused, turned back. Something had registered in her vision—a glimpse so fleeting, she’d almost missed it. She repeated her slow half turn, surveying the same area of the playground, and paused when she saw it again—a tiny gleam in the branches of a sweet gum tree at the edge of the playground.
She picked her way toward the trees, stepping over brambles and sticks. She stood under the canopy and looked up.
“Jarrell…”
He came over to where she stood and followed her gaze. It was hanging from the stub of a branch, a few feet above them—a medallion, or a locket perhaps. Jarrell grabbed a low-lying limb, braced one sneakered foot against the trunk, and hoisted himself up. He snatched the medallion and dropped back to the ground.
It hung from a simple black leather thong and was made of silver metal with a series of silver points, each slightly hooked, encircling a disk of shiny black glass or stone. On the face of the disk, inlaid, were a pair of silver triangles, pointing inward.
“That’s it…it’s the symbol from the frottage,” Martha said. “The drawing that Peavy made.”
“I’ll be damned.” Jarrell held the amulet aloft, turning it slowly in the overcast light.
“How could this have never been found? After all these years?”
Jarrell looked around. “I don’t know. I don’t think it’s been there forever. There’s no tarnish. It looks like someone put it there recently.”
Martha met his eyes. “For us to find?”
The sky rumbled and dots of water appeared on the shoulders of Jarrell’s gray tank top.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Jarrell said.
—
As they pulled into the parking lot of the Best Western on Forest Parkway, rain was coming down in sheets. Martha had Peavy’s shoebox in her lap, and to its contents she had added the silver amulet.
“Who else have you told about the Peavy case and your plans to investigate?” Jarrell asked.
Martha traced back through her thoughts of the past few days. There was the old couple, but she hadn’t told them of her plans to visit the site of Peavy’s disappearance. Dr. Goodwin knew about the case, but she had no idea Martha had even left the island. “Just you and me, your roommate, and the people at that table last night.”
Jarrell shook his head. “I think someone knew you were going to be there.
Similar Books
