number of beer joints and hidden homes, huddled amongst saw grass and giant palm fronds. Only the reflection from glowing orange vapor lights lining the bridges gave any respite to the bleakness, the building fog and the general feeling that they’d come to the end of the continent.
The watery landscape, dotted by uninhabited keys off in the distance, each with its own strange-sounding name, looked as if it might at any moment erupt and engulf and swallow whole the puny land mass here. The place was not very different in appearance from Islamorada Key at night, although she hadn’t seen very much of Islamorada by night on her earlier visit to the Keys.
Detective Charles Quincey became lost only once in trying to locate Aeriel Marilee Lovette Monroe’s residence, and this with a guide from the local police station. On the trip down, Quincey explained that Aeriel actually went by two names, depending on where she was and with whom she stayed. Aeriel Monroe was her legally changed name, but when she was home with family, she went by her given name, Marilee Lovette. This was one of the many causes for confusion in her case, and one reason why she’d been so hard to relocate.
Side streets here were paved only so far, turning into dirt roads-sand, actually-and pinching down to paths. Sandy, tree-lined, overgrown paths down which men in cars and trucks ventured at their own risk even by day was the rule and not the exception in Matecumbe. Surprisingly, a large population was hidden within the sanctuary of this world, which rejected middle-class America and all her values for life on the edge of poverty and beauty, meanness and abundance existing side by side here. A whole village of boat people-Quincey called them squatters- lived along the interior bays here, most living on their houseboats, some just off the water in the kind of “sugar shack” Linda Ronstadt’s song had glamorized in popular music. But there appeared little or no glamour in the hovel where Marilee lived here in the backcountry of Matecumbe Key. In fact, it looked like a rough, grueling life where existence was eked out with each passing moment.
One major storm-and not necessarily one of a hurricane force-could wipe out the entire island, every house of strav/’ easily coming down and its floating counterpart quickly engulfed by a patient, hungry wolf at each door- the Atlantic on one side, the Gulf of Mexico on the other. Not unlike living near a dormant volcano biding its time, awaiting its moment of supremacy. These were Jessica’s thoughts as they pulled into the dark shadows of this isolated world.
Their car and that of the local deputy did not seem to disturb the solitude here in the least, and no one came out to greet their headlights. They climbed from their vehicle and followed the silent deputy to the door.
No one met them at the door, but on the inside, TV voices fought for preeminence with children in various stages of yelling, laughter and complaining; the household seemed bent on sending its industrious noise out into the world, but when the deputy knocked, the house fell as silent as a tomb, and when the man of the house cracked the door, he did so with a sleek-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun firmly in hand.
“ Whataya want? Oh, it’s you, Carl. What the devil brings you out here after dark?”
“ Got a couple people here from Miami to see Marilee.”
“ Miami?”
“ Detective Quincey’s with the metro police up there, and
Dr. Coran-she’s from the FBI, Mr. Lovette. They want to talk to your niece Marilee ‘bout-”
“ Reckon I know what it’s ‘bout, Carl.”
“ It’s official business, Mr. Lovette. They need to interview her about what she knows… you know, all that business on America’s Most Wanted?’’
A glance around the grounds showed Jessica that these people hadn’t completely ignored the American Dream. They were wired for cable via a satellite dish, and a broken- down, used ‘67 Cadillac sat alongside a pickup under trees beside the house.
“ They got the reward money with them?” he asked.
The deputy dropped his gaze. “It don’t work that way, Carl. They talk to Marilee, and if it leads to this pervert, then you’ll see some reward come of it.”
Jessica and Quincey had been told by Carl the Deputy that Marilee had refused any interview outside her home with anyone but America’s Most Wanted or Unsolved Mysteries, both TV programs having been contacted with her story. Jessica immediately understood the situation. Her uncle, a man in his fifties, was trying to sell her story to the highest bidder, the American path to riches. “You can’t withhold information from these folks, Mr. Lovette. You do and it’s called obstruction of justice, interference with an ongoing investigation, Jake.” The door remained closed, a chain still between them and Marilee. The deputy warned the man, “Jake, you really don’t wanna climb into that hole… Trust me, Jake.”
“ Don’t worry,” added Quincey, “whatever the girl tells us stays confidential.”
“ You can still work out whatever deal you like with any of them TV producers you like, Mr. Lovette,” added Deputy Carl Wotten.
Jake Lovette sized Quincey up, paying no attention to Jessica at the moment. He then unlatched the door, slowly stepped back, and lowered the shotgun to its resting place beside the door, telling them they were welcome to enter. When Jessica stepped into the ramshackle little house, she immediately noticed the number of babies and children littering the floor, which was plenty littered enough already. Marilee was the eldest child and the woman of the house, it appeared. She was shy, hardly capable of looking at the intruders, fearful of them, keeping her eyes pinned on Quincey as if he were the enemy. Jessica only now felt the lascivious leer of Jake Lovette pass over her. She tried to ignore the man, who smelled of stale beer and perspiration. The air inside was thick with smoke and the odors that come with dirty linen and dirty children.
“ You’re Marilee?” Jessica asked the tall, thin and emaciated young woman who was desperately trying to clean up the place and losing the battle.
She turned, faced Jessica and replied, “Yes.” Her voice was raspy.
“ Also known as Aeriel, Aeriel Monroe? You resided for a time in Miami?”
“ When I run off from home, in Screven, Georgia, I did, yes.” She spoke in a thick Georgia accent which was further hindered by her constricted vocal cords, scars left from her encounter with a man bent on her destruction, if her story could be believed. She hoarsely chastised the children to remove themselves to a back room and to play quietly. It appeared she was not so much being taken care of by concerned relatives here as she’d become, by some mutual consent or contract, her uncle Jake’s live-in maidservant, bottle washer and cook. Jessica momentarily wondered where the children’s mother had run off to.
Marilee/Aeriel had been expecting them, for she wore a flower in her hair, and she’d donned her best, perhaps her only dress which wasn’t a uniform from Nomad’s Pillow Motor Inn, where she worked by day. She wore a cloth choker about her neck in an effort to conceal both the visible and the invisible scars left there after so long a time, and her voice was smoker-thick hoarse, hardly above a whisper. Jessica didn’t need to ask why; it was painfully obvious that she’d lost partial use of her vocal cords due to the murder attempt, which had left her partially obstrutted physically and perhaps permanently scarred psychologically. Whether it was due to Patric Allain or some other monster she’d encountered in the world to which she had run away, this much of her story appeared painfully obvious. Marilee was in a hell of a lot worse shape than Judy Templar had been, Jessica told herself as she dug out a tape recorder from her bag and held it up to everyone’s eyes. “I need your permission, Marilee, to tape our session, for the record.” She looked to Uncle Jake before responding. “I ghat no pro-lem wif that.” Her voice was grating to the ear.
Jessica placed the tape recorder on the water-ringed, wobbly wood table between them, introducing herself and Quincey by their titles and for the record. “You are willingly giving your consent to being taped, Ms. Lovette?”
“ I… I do,” she replied like a nervous bride.
Jessica added, “And we would like to thank you for your cooperation.”
Again Marilee glanced up at Uncle Jake, who hovered about like a second conscience. She asked, “There be henny ra-ra-ward money in dis?”
“ Perhaps… if it leads to an arrest,” Jessica assured both Marilee and her uncle, who winked and smiled back when Jessica looked up at him.
“ Lady, we could sure use it,” Uncle Jake replied, his face and arms tanned so darkly that the skin had become a leather sheath with wrinkles and worry lines as deep and long as wagon ruts. Uncle Jake had been chewing on tobacco the entire time, and now he coughed up a wad of disgusting brown bile and spat out a nearby window. Through the window, Jessica could see the requisite row- boat bobbing, tied to the shack. “Guddem Florida Lottery ain’t worth spit,” Jake added.
