FORTY-NINE

HOBBLE AND LIMP

The world seems askew, unfixed, like a paper boat tossed about in a river. This feeling is magnified upon getting into Jerry’s rowboat—with Corie the cormorant sitting proudly at the bow, the ugliest mermaid you ever did see— as the water shoves and slaps the little boat along.

Her legs and feet are still numb. Her skull feels like aquarium glass tapped on by an unruly child: thoom thoom thoom, hello little fish.

Jerry doesn’t say much. He mostly just stares at her, face a pair of masks fused together: not comedy and tragedy, but confusion and horror.

Miriam looks back at the shore. Sees the little island with the two reaching, beseeching hands disappearing slowly. The boat motor growls.

“I need to—” It feels like she’s trying to talk past a wad of bristly hay in her throat. She coughs, and Jerry quickly grabs for a small thermos behind him and hands it over. She opens it, takes a long swig—coffee. Cold. Doesn’t matter. It’s perfect. “I need to get to Key West. A friend is in . . .” A body bag. “Danger.”

“Sure, sure, but maybe you oughta get to a hospital first.”

“No time.” She levels her gaze at him. “How’d you find me?”

“You really wanna know?”

“I hate that question because, yes, I—” She breaks into a hard, raspy cough. “I really obviously want to know.”

“The bird led me here.”

The cormorant grunts.

Miriam says nothing but raises an eyebrow.

“I was getting ready to do some morning fishing. I drove the truck and the boat down to the bay. But then Corie here started . . . you know, freaking out. Flapping her wings, beating them against the side of the boat. Squawking. Then she flew away and landed on the hood of my truck and I kept trying to wrangle her away, but she kept flying back.”

“And you were okay with that.”

“No, I wasn’t. I wanted to get out in the water while the fish were still jumping. Then like that, she flew away. And not toward the water but toward the road. No way was I gonna keep up with her on foot so I got in the truck. She’d fly. I’d follow. I’d lose her—but the highway’s a straight shot so I kept driving and looking and then I’d see her sitting there on top of a Don’t Drink and Drive sign or on somebody’s mailbox. Then, soon as I got close again—” He claps his hands. “She’d take off again.”

“She led you here.”

“She led me here. You got it.”

Holy shit.

She turns toward the bird. “You’re a good bird.”

Corie oinks at her. The bird’s beak opens and closes with a clack.

Jerry says, “I gotta tell you, the last thing I expected to see was you hanging from that tree.”

“Things didn’t work out.”

“With your perp?”

“Yeah. With my perp.”

“So now what happens?”

Now he hurts those people who fell in with me. Including you, Jerry. All because I fucked up. All because I took my shot and I missed it.