The Water Keeper(81)

She didn’t look impressed. “They only have a few more departures. If I miss it—”

“I’ll make you a deal.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m waiting.”

“Hang around another couple of days, then I’ll fly you anywhere you want to go inside the continental US on a private plane.”

“You’re full of sh—”

I raised a hand. “I promise.”

Incredulous, she asked, “You really own a plane?”

I nodded.

“I thought you were lying to that girl in the hospital.”

“I don’t lie. And it’s a jet. Flies close to the speed of sound.”

Summer looked at me like I’d lost my mind. The word got out before she could filter it. “Really?”

I spoke to both of them. “In truth, I own two planes.”

Sometimes you have to show people your cards to keep them in the game. I stood and held out my hand for Ellie.

She looked at Summer, then me, then back at the departure signs. Finally, she stood without taking my hand and dusted herself off. “I don’t believe you own a plane. I’m just saying.”





Chapter 36


The Uber wound through the tight streets. Finally, I tapped his shoulder and he pulled over. We stood on the sidewalk, but Ellie did not look impressed. She said, “What now?”

Summer watched as I held out my hand. “Walk with me?”

She dug her hands in her jeans and nodded me forward. I knew Ellie was protecting herself. I would too. I also knew I could not protect her from what might be coming. I could only lead her to it. Her heart had hoped for so long that one more dead end was killing what little hope remained. I held out my hand, reaching for hers, but she didn’t take it. I held it there long enough to make her uncomfortable. Surprisingly, she gave in and took my hand.

The three of us filed out into the street and the growing crowd of people. We walked two blocks, and I bought them both Kino sandals. It’s the Key West version of handmade flip-flops. Leather. Iconic. It’s a thing.

We passed the bars, the smell of sewer and urine, then crossed into the neighborhoods and the smells of roses and mint. We wound through the island—some fifteen blocks. Much of the way I held Ellie’s hand. The better part of forty minutes. Summer was pensive. Ellie distracted. I doubted she’d ever held a man’s hand. Every few seconds I caught her looking at our hands. I bought shaved ice and we walked three more blocks to the water. Effectively crossing the island. To the less crowded side.

The gate was overgrown. Vines. No sign. The brick wall was eight feet and ran an entire block. Then another. Inside, opportunistic orchids clung to giant banyan trees. Some sort of brightly colored bird squawked over my head. In the middle of the yard, two peacocks strutted, fanning their seven-foot tail feathers. I lifted the large iron lock and pushed open the gate. A couple of cats scattered. Eight thick-walled, tabby cottages sat silhouetted against the water. Each needed a fresh coat of paint ten years ago. A coquina chapel lay at the far end. Given its relationship with the weather, nothing in the Keys was very old. Looking around, I saw this compound was older than most.

The cottages were one story and one room. Which probably explained why they were still here. I knocked on the door of the first, but no one answered. Same with the second. And the third. When I knocked on the fourth door, an older woman poked her head around from the back porch overlooking the ocean. She looked surprised to see us. “Hello?”

I walked the gravel path between the cottages toward the ocean. She was eighty if she was a day, and given the leathery condition of her skin, she’d spent her fair share of time in the sun. Her short hair was shiny white and her clothes were more gardener than nun. Tattered jeans tucked into rubber boots. Apron with pruning shears. Stained white shirt. Despite her age, she stepped down off the porch with relative agility.

She laughed. “You lost?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re the first visitors to stumble in here in . . .” She pushed her hat back. “Some time.”

“Looking for the Sisters of Mercy.”

She waved her hands across the world around us. “Found it. Or rather what’s left.”

“What happened?”

She chuckled. “Celibacy.”

I laughed out loud. So did Summer. I spoke loudly enough for her to hear me. “Ma’am, my name is Murphy, and this is Ellie.”

She nodded. Almost bowing. “Sister June.”

“You don’t happen to know a Sister Margaret, do you?”

“Did.” She pointed to a small cemetery. “You can talk to her if you want. Old goat loved to talk when she was here. Never shut up. But might be tough to get much conversation out of her now.”

The cemetery was well kept. Fresh flowers lay at the foot of the headstone. I asked, “How long you been here?”

She considered this. “Sixty-two years.”

Behind me, Ellie muttered, “Holy sh—”

The woman looked at Ellie and smiled. “Tell me about it.”

I figured I’d just ask what I came for. “You ever know of a Sister Florence? Maybe thirteen years or so ago?”

She put her hands on her hips. Thought. Then shook her head. “No. Never knew a Florence . . .” She studied me. Walked around the porch, her white hair flowing. She took off her gloves. Brushed the dirt off her threadbare jeans. She stood close. Studying me. Her eyes were the bluest I’d ever seen and matched the backdrop of water behind her. “What, or who, are you looking for, son?”