Sanctuary

echo of their voices and would hear them with a man’s ear. He would see their ghosts with a man’s eyes.
    And he would return to Sanctuary with a man’s purpose.
    Would they remember him? The children of Annabelle?
    He would soon find out, he decided, when the ferry bumped up to the dock.
    He waited his turn, watching as the blocks were removed from the tires of the pickup ahead of him. A family of five, he noted, and from the gear he could see that they would be camping at the facility the island provided. Nathan shook his head, wondering why anyone would choose to sleep in a tent on the ground and consider it a vacation.
    The light dimmed as clouds rolled over the sun. Frowning, he noted that they were coming in fast, flying in from the east. Rain could come quickly to barrier islands, he knew. He remembered it falling in torrents for three endless days when he’d been there before. By day two he and Kyle had been at each other’s throats like young wolves.
    It made him smile now and wonder how in God’s name his mother had tolerated it.
    He drove slowly off the ferry, then up the bumpy, pitted road leading away from the dock. With his windows open he could hear the cheerfully blaring rock and roll screaming out of the truck’s radio. Camper Family, he thought, was already having a great time, impending rain or not. He was determined to follow their example and enjoy the morning.
    He would have to face Sanctuary, of course, but he would approach it as an architect. He remembered that its heart was a glorious example of the Colonial style—wide verandas, stately columns, tall, narrow windows. Even as a child he’d been interested enough to note some of the details.
    Gargoyle rainspouts, he recalled, that personalized rather than detracted from the grand style. He’d scared the piss out of Kyle by telling him they came alive at night and prowled.
    There was a turret, with a widow’s walk circling it. Balconies jutting out with ornate railings of stone or iron. The chimneys were softhued stones mined from the mainland, the house itself fashioned of local cypress and oak.
    There was a smokehouse that had still been in use, and slave quarters that had been falling to ruin, where he and Brian and Kyle had found a rattler curled in a dark corner.
    There were deer in the forest and alligators in the marshes. Whispers of pirates and ghosts filled the air. It was a fine place for young boys and grand adventures. And for dark and dangerous secrets.
    He passed the western marshlands with their busy mud and thin islands of trees. The wind had picked up, sending the cordgrass rippling. Along the edge two egrets were on patrol, their long legs like stilts in the shallow water.
    Then the forest took over, lush and exotic. Nathan slowed, letting the truck ahead of him rattle out of sight. Here was stillness, and those dark secrets. His heart began to pound uncomfortably, and his hands tightened on the wheel. This was something he’d come to face, to dissect, and eventually to understand.
    The shadows were thick, and the moss dripped from the trees like webs of monstrous spiders. To test himself he turned off the engine. He could hear nothing but his own heartbeat and the voice of the wind.
    Ghosts, he thought. He would have to look for them there. And when he found them, what then? Would he leave them where they drifted, night after night, or would they continue to haunt him, muttering to him in his sleep?
    Would he see his mother’s face, or Annabelle’s? And which one would cry out the loudest?
    He let out a long breath, caught himself reaching for the cigarettes he’d given up over a year before. Annoyed, he turned the ignition key but got only a straining rumble in return. He pumped the gas, tried it again with the same results.
    “Well, shit,” he muttered. “That’s perfect.”
    Sitting back, he tapped his fingers restlessly on the wheel. The thing to do, of course, was to get out and look under the hood. He knew what he would see. An engine. Wires and tubes and belts. Nathan figured he knew as much about engines and wires and tubes as he did about brain surgery. And being broken down on a deserted road was exactly what he deserved for letting himself be talked into buying a friend’s secondhand Jeep.
    Resigned, he climbed out and popped the hood. Yep, he thought, just as he’d suspected. An engine. He leaned in, poked at it, and felt the first fat drop of rain hit his back.
    “Now it’s even more