Twenty-Nine —
Some Good Advice

Blanche headed back toward the cabin with wings on her sandals. The running cleared Langstrom out of her head. For now. She needed to think.

The beach it is.

She was anxious to see the latest condition of the cabin. If Amos couldn’t fix it before the next wave of goons arrived for the inspection, she’d be sunk.

The hurricane was hardly out of there, but Amos had already applied for permits to rebuild pronto, and that meant dealing with the local and state governments. He planned to use the footprint of the porch, but rebuilding in the beach zone required special permits. Special permits for a special place.

They needed some magic, and if anyone could work it, Amos could. First, local building inspector, Asa Clarkson, had to put his stamp on the cabin project. Blanche wondered which side of the land development battle he was on. He’d been at the second meeting to discuss the Brecksall-Lam development, and he hadn’t said a word about the plans. There were people on the island who approved of the development plan—at the expense of Santa Maria. If he was a Brecksall-Lam supporter, he would give Amos hell about her permit. Another nudge at getting rid of the old, replacing it with the new and awful. This hurricane was especially ill-timed.

Worry rambled through Blanche’s brain as she approached Tuna Street. She wondered about “the girl.” When would she show up again? Blanche had searched the beach but never saw any sign of her. She had spoken presciently. She haunted Blanche. Her knowledge of the island, and of Blanche. That was even more bizarre. Blanche wanted Cappy to meet the girl, if that were possible. But would she go, if and when Blanche found her?

Blanche picked up a couple of boards lying near the foundation and stacked them where the stairs once were. The porch was still in a precarious condition with the second floor cantilevered over the southwest corner. But Amos had done a good job of propping it up with the two-by-fours. Blanche saw some evidence of chalk drawing on the concrete and a pile of empty soda cans in one corner. She’d call Amos tomorrow and find out about his progress.

The afternoon glistened. The sun threw a silver path across the Gulf, and soon it would turn gold. The birds were quiet, the day cooling off. Blanche contemplated taking a walk a little earlier than usual. She kicked off her sandals.

“Hello.”

Blanche jumped. It was a soft sound, the source invisible. She scanned the beach. Of course, it had to be the girl, but she didn’t see her anywhere. Blanche walked quietly toward the dune where they first met.

The girl stepped from behind a pine tree, blending into the sun and shadow. A dappled trick of the eye. Blanche might have missed her if she hadn’t spoken. The dark eyes were striking. Her hair was again swept back from her face, a tight braid resting on her shoulder. She wore a faded outfit, but this time the shorts were yellow, the shirt, a loose, creamy animal skin of some kind. No shoes.

Her face glowed as if she held a secret she couldn’t wait to tell Blanche.

“Hello yourself,” said Blanche. “You scared the bejeezus out of me.”

“What is this? Bejeezus?”

“I don’t know.” Blanche took a step closer. She was drawn to her as if they’d known each other forever, tied together in a love of the beach, the trees, and the birds. Two of a kind, and yet, different as the moon and the sun.

“Want to go down to the water? I was just about to take a walk,” Blanche said.

“Yes, I like that.” The girl extended one hand.

She had an odd way of speaking. There was that lilt of an accent but her phrasing was old-fashioned and direct. And most of what she said was in the present tense.

Blanche liked that. She often got right to the point herself. “Where did you come from?”

“I say it before. I live here.”

“But surely you don’t live on the beach, do you?”

“Sometimes. When it is necessary.”

“What do you mean by that? Necessary?”

The girl laughed. “Again, you ask many, many questions. Right now, I am here, and I have a nice, quiet place. I will show you some time.”

The girl rolled the shirt of skins into a neat bundle at the water’s edge. She walked straight into the Gulf and started swimming into the sun. Blanche watched her as if she were sighting a strange sea creature.

Well, she is strange. But that’s good.

Blanche waded into the surf up to her knees. She shuffled her feet flat against the sand, careful to alert sting rays to swim out of the way. She watched the girl, her golden arms rising with precision in graceful sweeps as she swam farther from shore. Blanche didn’t have any desire to swim to Mexico. She stood and splashed, her fingers skimming the surface of the warm water. The girl’s sleek black hair bobbed out of the Gulf as she came up for air. She turned then and waved at Blanche. Her teeth were startling white. She disappeared into the surf and popped up not two feet from Blanche.

“What’s your name?”

“Haasi.”

“Blanche.”

“I know.”

“You seem to know a lot.”

“Only those who don’t know anything act as if they know a lot,” the girl said, splashing toward Blanche. “I know very little.”

“OK.” Blanche mulled that one over. She wasn’t in the mood for a philosophical discussion, but if that’s where they were going, then she’d be patient. And fascinated.

Haasi sat next to Blanche at the edge of the water. “Haasi,” Blanche said. “That’s unusual. What does it mean?”

“‘Sun’ in Miccosukee. My people also call me Hakla, which means ‘hear’. ”

“You have the perfect name.”

Haasi smiled. “I listen for the bird and the fox, the alligators, and snakes.”

A gull flew off, its call echoing down the beach.

They watched the rolling waves under a setting sun. It was calm today and the rhythm against the shore was easy and musical.

“You talked about listening the first time I met you.”

Haasi turned to her then, her eyes a brilliant darkness. “It is what we must do.”

“We?”

“We.”

Blanche nodded. Listen. “To the sounds.”

“Yes.” The wind and sea grass crackled. Creatures skittered all around them. “Snakes make particular sounds when they hide in the grass. Especially before they attack. Human snakes, too.”

“I think I know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, I think you do. There are snakes. Everywhere.”

Blanche considered this. “Now I’ve got snakes. Great. Developers, murderers, building inspectors with permits. And snakes.”

“Yes,” she said. “Listen, always listen, and it will give you clues. I will help you.”

“To hear what?”

“Two-legged snakes.”

“But where? Out here on the beach? Did you overhear a conversation, or see something in the paper? Haasi, did you go to one of those meetings?”

“All of it.” Haasi smiled.

“Where are you getting this?”

“People don’t notice me. I am small. And dark. That is an advantage. I have heard things that are not good. Some people want the money and the building and changes on the island. They are snakes; they do not care for the people who live here. Bob did not look where he stepped. He was not reckless, but he was a victim.”

She turned to Haasi. “A victim! How do you know that?”

“I hear some things, but it is too early to tell. We will see. Soon.”

“All right, OK. We need to figure out a few things. A murder and this development plan, for starters… I’m really sick of all this.”

“Things will not be fine if you don’t listen.” Haasi sat ramrod straight, her legs in a bow. “And I don’t mean with ears only. With eyes, with all the senses. Be aware.” There was no lack of seriousness and determination about her. She was lean, every muscle taut and agile. She sprang up, and Blanche knew she would disappear. The girl had the movements of a swift bird, busy and focused one minute and gone the next.

“I will see you soon. I am around. And do not worry.”

That was odd.

They really hadn’t settled anything, except for one thing—an agreement that Blanche would “listen.” She thought she was a good listener. But maybe not. She had to listen well as a journalist. When interviewing for a story, she noted what was necessary for the writing, and she needed to remember it. If she stopped to write it all down in the middle of an interview, she usually disrupted the flow of information from a source. She’d nearly perfected the tactic of repeating a key bit of information in her head over and over so that it would stick, even while she thought of a new question. A sort of multi-word tasking.

Blanche was good at it, and she was driven to get it right. She used memory tricks, she carried a notebook and a pen, and she’d developed a passable system of shorthand. And she listened. If she didn’t, she didn’t get the story. Lately, the journalism had come in handy.

The girl should know this. But Blanche knew she was talking about something else, something deeper. Whatever the girl was talking about was something that wasn’t within Blanche’s reach. Not yet anyway.

Blanche closed her eyes and listened to the sound of the waves, the shrieking of the gulls, the crackle of grass and palms as the wind played through them, and the hour got closer to sunset. She could hear the rain even before she felt it as it pattered toward her on the broad leaves of the sea grape. These were the lulling sounds, the music of the island. She sat still in the wet sand, and she listened.