The Killing League

14.

Mack

He sat up and watched the thick stand of palmettos sway gently back and forth in the early morning Florida breeze.

The steam from his coffee met the breeze and Mack watched as it caught then swirled upward, like cigarette smoke on a lazy day.

Voices invaded the solitude of the morning and Mack saw a red kayak nose into his view. The Estero River swam to the south and west where it eventually pooled and became Estero Bay. From there, one had several access channels to the Gulf of Mexico.

Mack watched the kayakers, a young man and woman, college age, probably here on break. They’d almost certainly rented the kayaks from Estero River Outfitters, just up the road from Mack’s place. If they’d come to see alligators on the river they’d missed that opportunity by about five years or so.

Mack sipped from his coffee as the sliding glass door behind him opened.

“Good morning, ladies,” he said.

Two women approached the table. One was a tall woman, her skin the color of mocha, with broad shoulders and thick, sturdy legs. As always, Mack was struck by the beauty of her face. Adelia Williams had the kind of stunning, classic features Mack always thought of as regal.

Adelia was a live-in nurse for the other woman now taking a seat next to Mack. Janice Mack was five years younger than him. He always had, and always would, think of her his little sister.

In the morning light, he studied her face. She had his eyes, a blue green that seemed to reflect the waterways around his home. She was tall, like him, with an athletic frame that now carried some extra weight.

She turned and faced her brother.

Wallace looked at her, into her eyes, tried to get a feeling for where she was today. He didn’t like what he saw.

“This is my house,” she said.

Mack drained the rest of his coffee and stifled the sigh that nearly escaped his mouth. Adelia caught his eye and he gave her his cup for a refill.

“Yes, I know,” he said, playing his part in the conversation that he’d played many times before. He knew what was coming before she said it.

Her eyes squinted and Mack met them directly.

“Well why are you here?” she said. “And more importantly, who the heck are you?”

“I’m Wallace, your brother,” he said. “And I live here with you. We share this house.”

There were several variations on the next part of the conversation. Mack hoped it would be one of the less dramatic avenues.

“Okay,” she said, and sat down. Mack felt a small amount of relief. Sometimes she denied she had a brother. Sometimes she accused him of being a spy, impersonating a brother she didn’t have. Or a spy from the doctor’s office where no one liked her.

“Someone was watching me yesterday,” she said.

Mack nodded. One feature of Korsakoff’s Syndrome was confabulation, a function of the brain that compensated for severe memory loss by creating new, totally fabricated events. Mack sometimes compared it to living with an actor who constantly improvised everything in her life.

“That’s interesting,” he said. “Hey, I thought I’d ask Adelia to make waffles this morning, Janice. How does that sound?”

Adelia returned with a fresh cup of coffee and put her hand on Mack’s shoulder.

“I’ve got fresh blueberries, bought ‘em yesterday at the market,” she said.

Janice stared at the river. Mack could see reflections of the water in her eyes.

“I’ll try a waffle,” she said. “It sounds good.”

“They’re very good,” he said. “There’s nothing better than fresh blueberries and I think we’ve got some real maple syrup somewhere.”

He stood and moved toward the kitchen when she spoke again.

“But someone really was watching me,” she said. “A man.”