by Deb Caletti
“Remy! Can you help me? I need a ride!”
“Isabelle! What a pleasure. Well, sure. Of course, sweetie. As long as you aren’t going to California, heh-heh.”
Before Remy agrees, Isabelle is in that Volkswagen. She slams the door. Her heart pounds like crazy. She looks around, but there is no sign of Henry yet.
“I just had to get my blood-pressure medication,” Remy says. She settles in. She hunts in her purse for her keys. Come on! Remy’s old hand trembles as she gets the key into the ignition. “I’d run out of blue pills and almost didn’t realize. You heading back to the house, sweetie?”
Isabelle frantically plays out the scenarios in her head. She shouldn’t go back to that house. She should forget all about the plan. She should forget anything but her own safety. She should shout and scream, tell Remy what is happening. They should head for the police station. But then she realizes: This is what he’ll expect her to do. This is where he’ll go first. She still has time. There is still a chance to make this come out all right, if she hurries.
She forces her voice to be calm. “Yes. Yes, thank you. The house. My car engine…”
Remy’s Volkswagen chugs down the street. Isabelle cranes her neck as they pass the waterfront. She can see Henry by the Acura, hurrying to unlock the door.
“They don’t make them like they used to, do they?” Remy says, patting her dash. “Good thing I happened along! You look flushed, sweetie, are you all right? What’s that on your arm?” Remy’s right. Henry’s fingers have left long red tracks where he grabbed her. She notices the way they burn now. “You weren’t part of the big chase, were you?”
“Chase?”
Jesus, Remy is going two miles an hour! Isabelle looks in the side mirror as they head toward the loop. It’s so dark out there, she’d see the pair of headlights behind them, but there’s nothing. Just darkness and more darkness.
“That Kale Kramer. Finally caught in the act! I just heard from Betty at the pharmacy. Bud called it in. That creep was hot-wiring in plain sight, right in front of the tavern. He was halfway down the block when little Ricky took chase. My, my, Tiny Asshole has finally had his day.”
Isabelle can imagine it—Ricky Beaker, the law, the copper, The Man, hitting that accelerator, flipping that siren on, screeching in a sweet arc right in front of some rattled tourist’s Ford Focus with Oregon plates. The highlight of Tiny Policeman’s life! Until he hears that he missed the true action. Until what happens to Isabelle hits the news.
“Remy, can we…Um, we’re driving a little slow.”
“My car, my speed. Plus, I can’t see a thing out here. Better safe than sorry.”
Shit, shit, shit!
Think.
Be calm, Isabelle tells herself, but she is anything but calm. She has turned to ice, and her knees tremble. She needs to call…She can’t call anyone. Her phone is in her bag.
They’re at the house. It’s as dark as this night is, so dark. In her haste, she forgot to leave a light on. “Here you are, sweetie. It’s pitch-black! Aren’t you worried about someone jumping out at you when you can’t see? Someone could be hiding right there with a knife, for all you know. Well, good luck with your car. I’d wait to make sure you get in okay, but I’ve got to hurry and let Missy out. She craps all over from nerves if I’m gone too long.”
“I’ll be fine, Remy. Thanks. Thanks so much.”
Now Remy screeches out of there. She reverses the car and is down the street before Isabelle realizes: no keys.
Her keys are in her purse. Shit. Shit! She isn’t thinking clearly. She doesn’t need much from that house, but she does need a few things. And she has to make a call, two calls, on that disposable phone that is thankfully still inside.
The hidden key under the flowerpot, she remembers.
But no. It’s no longer there. She brought it in that night Henry shoved her.
The flowerpot is still there, though.
She saw this in a movie once, right? She carries the flowerpot to the side of the house. She lifts her dress over her head, removes it, wraps it around her hand to protect it against breaking glass. The Isabelle who cowered from her mother, who tiptoed around Evan and then Henry, the pleasing, law-abiding woman, she’s gone. Isabelle stands there in her bra and underwear in the black of night. She listens for Henry driving up the street in her mother’s car, but she hears only the crash of surf. Now another crash, as she bashes that pot through the glass with the force of her fear and fury.
Take that, you asshole.
Her fist is through. She has made a clean break, ha. She reaches in, unlocks the kitchen door.
Think, think, think.
Isabelle tells herself this. She does, not Maggie. Maggie’s voice has vanished. Isabelle is riding that bike by herself now, but she is terrified. She is terrified and flying downhill, and her hair whips in her face. What can Maggie do? What can her mother’s voice—the one she’s been summoning for a year and a half—do now, anyway?
She puts the dress back on. She finds the disposable phone in her dresser drawer. Her fingers shake and it’s all wrong-number dialing and then trying again, just like in those bad dreams. And then, thank God, ring ring ring.
Please answer!
Ring, ring, ring.
“Hello?”
Thank God, thank God, thank God! There are things that need to happen. Things she thought she had time for.
Isabelle’s words come out in a rush. When she hangs up, she puts the phone in her small bag, newly bought. The phone is one of the things she must take with her. So is the small pack of documents and the Travelex cash card sent to her a week ago, and so is her laptop, with all the hunting and searching she’s done on it. There’s not much else she can take, except for the change of clothes she’s also recently purchased.
There are two other things she wants to bring, though. Both are worth the risk. First, she stuffs Jane’s scarf into the bag. And then, the robe with the crane on the back, the one from her mother. With everything she must now leave behind, she needs that robe. It’s the thing she’ll carry forward, satin-soft, the color of fire. The thing that will always remind her of who she is and where she came from.
—
The trail down to the water is steep, and even in these shoes, her feet slip from loose gravel. Her bag bumps against her hip. The wetsuit slaps against her arm. She hurries. She is trying to save the plan, even if it may be impossible now.
Her feet hit sand. The waves glow white in the moonlight. She will not put on that wetsuit and swim out into that water, though. The water has already done its job. It’s made her strong—her muscles, her will. Instead, she sets the wetsuit by a rock for it to be discovered in the morning by her neighbors, John and Rock, and their dog, Cordelia. Overnight, the wind will scatter that rubber suit with a fine layer of sand. She sets it right near the rock where Clyde Belle put the gun to his head, but she is not despairing like Clyde was. No, she is terrified but determined. It smells so good out there, this place, this beautiful, tragic home of hers. She tries to make that smell a memory.
She hears it, then.
“Isabelle? Isabelllle…” Her name rides on a night breeze, winds down to the beach. He’s up there, calling her, searching for her.
And then it comes—something worse. Something awful and bone chilling, but also strangely, deliciously satisfying. He’s seen the broken glass. She is nowhere in sight. He suddenly understands everything, not just the watch and the photo, but who the watch and the photo came from. He knows who sent her those things, and so of course he suddenly sees his own future, he sees what is about to happen, because he shouts again, and his voice crashes and bashes down that cliff, same as Virginia’s body crashed down that mountain.
“You bitches!”
Oh, it would be beautiful, wouldn’t it, to scream back and rage in his face, to be the furious beast with the contorted mouth? But Isabelle understands so much more about anger now, and triumph, too. How quiet it can be. How sure.<
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A person like Henry could make you feel so small, you could practically disappear. It could seem like you had vanished. Yet you aren’t gone. No, you aren’t. You are still here, still vital. You have a secret energy burning inside, and when you unleash it, you are more powerful than you could have ever imagined.
She slips that ring, that big diamond, off her finger. She tosses it into the sea.
Victorious bitches, she thinks.
And then she hurries. She climbs the rocks, hugs the cliff. She darts from shadow to shadow so no one will see her. It’s a difficult hike, but she’s scouted this path. She’s up that trail so fast, she barely feels the burn. Her blood surges. Still, in the deep dark, she almost misses the last, flat rocks up to the street.
At the top, there’s a car waiting. The engine idles, headlights off.
Isabelle gets in. Her heart is beating so hard, she could be sick. Isabelle does something very Isabelle then. “Are you all right?” she asks.
“Fuck no,” Jane says. “We’ve got to get out of here. I saw his car. He’s right here. Are you all right? That’s the real question.”
“Fuck no,” Isabelle says.
Jane drives with the lights off. “I did it. Ten thousand into his account. Jesus, we’re Thelma and Louise here.”
“Better ending, I hope.” Jane’s hair is wild, and she’s wearing pajama bottoms and a Grateful Dead concert T-shirt. Her hands shake, too. “Oh, shit. Stay down,” Jane says. “His car is there. Your mother’s Acura.”
“I heard him. He was calling for me.”
Isabelle feels terror—at least, she feels a cold stone in her chest. Nothing pounds or stirs now; she’s as still as a creature hiding in a jungle shadow. They are silent when they pass that glass house. Isabelle thinks of Sarah, how scared she must have been on that boat, when Henry realized that she knew what happened to Virginia. It’s as terrified as she is now, with Henry hunting for her. How could you possibly swim in that cold and rough water? How could you possibly climb into that boat to save yourself?
At the dock, the Beaver is already there. The engine roars, the propeller spins. Joe has fueled the plane and is untying the ropes. There’s no time for long goodbyes. The flight plan has been filed, and the box Number Aboard has been filled with the numeral One. She has to hurry. No one can see her.
“Be well, Isabelle.”
“Thank you for everything, Jane.”
“Your mother would be oddly proud, I think.”
“I think so, too.”
“Go. Go! We love you. Stay safe.” Isabelle kisses Jane’s old cheek, and they hug hard before Isabelle steps off that dock for the last time.
She takes her seat. Joe pops his head in. “Buckled in? Ready?”
“Ready. Thank you, my friend.”
He takes her hand. Gives it a kiss. “Do it one hundred percent,” he says, before he slams the door shut.
Outside, Joe unties the last lines. Eddie taxis across the water before finally rising. The engine roars, but Isabelle is silent, as Parrish Island grows small below her.
“In Alaska, I once gave the Barefoot Bandit a ride from Ketchikan to Seattle,” Eddie shouts.
“Your secret is safe with me.”
—
Flying low over Lake Washington, just before landing, Isabelle ditches her laptop out the door. It spirals and spins before hitting the choppy waves. She can see it sinking. Fifty minutes have passed since she stepped off that dock. In those fifty minutes, she’s become a new person. They land at Kenmore Air, which is staffed only from dawn to dusk. Night landings are allowed but not recommended due to small watercraft. Usually, a pilot must call two hours ahead to arrange the hundred-and-fifty-dollar docking fee when a landing is unattended. Well, they know Eddie. An hour is no problem at all. He does this all the time.
What’s going to happen? Isabelle had asked Ricky Beaker.
He’ll get away with it.
That’s all you have to say?
He’ll get away with it, unless he does it again.
He’s done it again, because Isabelle is gone.
Chapter 36
Professor M. Weary showers and dresses. He can barely contain his excitement, but he must try. He knows it will take some time for Isabelle to adjust, and so he must give her adequate space and calm. That first night in her hotel room, Isabelle will fear every rumble from the ice machine and bolt upright at the footsteps of traveling salesmen. In the morning, the shock will hit. The disbelief will. She will question her own sanity. She’ll circle her reasoning again and again. She will marvel at how little she has with her. She’ll cry with regret and grow giddy with possibility.
He knows this.
He knows that she will look at herself in the mirror, at any alterations she makes in her appearance, and she’ll feel a jolt, and a sense of marvel. But she’ll look over her shoulder and weigh every word from every stranger. She will read every expression and gesture as she has done since she was small, but even more so, for a long while. It takes a long while to stop being afraid after you’ve been that afraid. It takes a long while to trust your own self when you’ve been so questioned.
Another thing she’ll do? Replay that night again and again, same as Professor Weary did. Does. He remembers it all. It will never leave him. How, on the boat trip, Henry had caught Sarah writing that email to Virginia’s sister, Mary. How Henry’s face twisted in rage. How the hatred burned in his eyes. She’d been so careful, to hide the watch and the photo and her journal in Gavin Gray’s safety deposit box, but she’d gotten nervous, cooped up with Henry like that on the boat. Scared, as his paranoia about Gavin Gray got crazy. Someone else needed to know what was going on, in case something bad happened to her.
And then it did. The worst possible thing happened. Henry flung open the cabin door, because he always, always knew when you were betraying him. He caught her with the laptop, wrested it away. He saw the name Mary. He saw the words If any harm should come to me. It was as far in the email as she’d gotten, but it was far enough. The professor still has nightmares about that argument, about pushing past Henry in that cabin, running across the deck, and realizing there was no escape. There was only dark water, and more dark water. Rough, cold water, slapping the sides of the boat.
In his dreams, the professor can hear Henry’s screaming voice. You know nothing! And he can feel Sarah’s voice rising in her chest, unleashing, because what did it matter now, now that this was the end of her? I know everything. I know what you did. In his dreams and even in his waking moments, the professor feels Henry’s hands shoving, feels the shock and cold of being suddenly submerged. He feels himself kick toward the surface, gasping for air. Again and again, he tries and tries to untie that dinghy. He feels the thick wet rope, the fist of a knot, and then, dear God, the miracle of loosening. It loosens, the dinghy is free, and he grips its edge as waves smack his face, as he swallows water, and chokes and holds on. Sometimes, when night falls on Mount Khogi, when the jungle is all around him, pulsing and dangerous, he sees Henry standing on the deck of that boat, looming above with his arms folded calmly, because Sarah’s fate was certain.
And sometimes in his dreams, he cannot untie that dinghy. He cannot keep his head above the waves as the dinghy bucks and drifts, as he thrashes and fights to stay alive. He does not finally summon the impossible strength to pull himself over the side. He does not make it to shore by his own will, letting go of that boat so that it will look like Sarah has drowned. He does not watch that boat disappear over the horizon, knowing he must disappear now, too, for his own safety. And he does not stumble to an old phone booth to make the call to Gavin Gray that will save him. He thrashes, he goes under. He wakes up, trembling and panic-stricken, just as the sea wins and swallows him.
He wakes up, and his heart pounds in fear, and he must assure himself that he is alive. That she is. Sarah, even if the old Sarah is gone forever.
Isabelle, too, will quiz herself on her new identity, as she hides for a s
hort time in the busy anonymity of the city. She will say her name again and again until she believes it. Weary remembers Gavin Gray’s eyes showing a mix of worry and glee when Sarah told him the name she chose.
M. Weary? Are you sure? Gavin Gray said.
Am weary? Am exhausted, Sarah said. M. Fed Up.
And Isabelle will be glad to be alive. So glad, because she has been so frightened, and now she is not. She’s free. This feeling will never leave her. She may forget it momentarily in the busyness of the day, in the heat or the demands of the jungle, but then it will come again: the rush of relief, the gratitude for her life and its splendor, and the sheer fact that it is. She is not Virginia. She’s not one of the many, many Virginias.
Some things will be easier for her, thanks to Weary. The same way it’s always easier for the younger sister, because the older one leads the way. There will be no need for chopped hair and bound breasts, something Isabelle, with her fine features and lilting voice and small hands, couldn’t have convincingly pulled off, regardless. There won’t be the scrutiny, either. She won’t need to stay here, as Sarah has; after a while, she can go wherever she wishes. There won’t be agents making a visit, trying to locate a maybe-missing person. She will not need Gavin Gray to hide her, bless his sweet soul. Gavin Gray, who loved Sarah beyond measure, who loved her better than anyone ever had, who rescued her and kept her safe, even if her own love remained only devoted and platonic. None of this will be necessary for Isabelle. Not when she is number three. Not with the work already done.
Such a shame number two was not enough. But, look! An arrest, in twenty-four hours! The wetsuit was found right away, and so much more, too. What a field day for the media! Isabelle has done an astounding job, and so has he. Weary couldn’t have hoped for better. Isabelle is a champion. Isabelle has done an amazing job, plus.
“She only swims in the morning, never at night,” said neighbor John Cardinali, 42, who found her abandoned wetsuit at the scene. “No one would swim in that cove after dark.” Remy Wilson, the last to see Austen alive, said, “She was nervous. She practically jumped in my car. She was in a big hurry, all right. Terrified. And marks! She had marks on her arm.” Officer Ricky Beaker, of the Parrish Island Police Department, said there were signs of forced entry, and that North had Austen’s purse in his possession.