Now he lay where he’d taken so many of them – in hospital.
Annabelle and Ben stayed in town with Annabelle’s sister, Ruth, but spent as much time as they were allowed at Nathan’s bedside. Their daughter Rowan, the Celtic singer, had come over from Halifax to be with her parents. Together with Lili, they formed a tight circle of love and desperate wishes around Nathan, who did not stir.
What running was to Hy in the spring, summer, and fall, skiing was to her in the winter – a reason to go outdoors, healthy physical exercise, and a way to clear her head and release stress. It was not something she shared with Annabelle. Annabelle fished with her husband Ben from May to September – and that was enough physical activity for her.
“Running? I run this big house and that damn lobster business,” she’d said, when Hy had asked Annabelle to join her. “That’s enough running for me.” Flopping back into her oversized armchair, she stuck a well-manicured foot on the footstool.
It would be good for her, Hy thought, take her mind off what was happening with Nathan. Hy had gone out early, striking off straight into the sun rising over the cape. She propelled across the long field next to her house.
Hy was headed for the high ground above the shore. Chunks of white ice floated on the navy blue water.
The icebergs looked like a flotilla of ships.
Jagged icicles sliced down the sides of the sea rock. The rock was a distinctive part of the shorescape, a chunk of land that had been carved away by the action of the wind and the waves.
The waves were splashing up against it and against the cape, forming a frosty icing all down its red banks, right to the shore.
Winter sand. Pale pink with the snow mixed in, looking like a marble cake.
Between Hy and that sand was a long hill, perfect to ski down with the fresh snow slowing what otherwise would be a reckless stunt.
She shoved off from the top to gain speed, and took the hill, exhilarated by the cool air on her cheeks, the speed, the sense of control she felt going down a hill of just the right pitch, in just the right conditions.
She came up from the beach, half-tempted to take the run again. Instead, she sped along the top of the cape and performed her annual mid-winter check of the cottages on The Shore. It was a new tradition for her, because most of the cottages were new. They’d been popping up in spite of the notoriety the Shores had gained for all the deaths and murders in the past couple of years. Or maybe it was because of the notoriety – and the difficulty of getting into The Shores when the weather closed the causeway.
“Yes, we have to fly in by helicopter,” the drawling voices of the well-heeled would one-up their friends’ tales of how remote their vacation hideaways were. And the murders? Just the shock to their sensibilities that their jaded emotions required. Or maybe it just made them feel at home. They could leave the streets of New York, but still take murder on holiday. And be closer to it. There had been some disappointment that the summer had passed without incident.
Hy looked down on the village. All the houses had been built facing inward, away from the sea and into the community. The village was situated in a depression in the landscape, a bowl. The houses circled around the bowl, a cluster of a community, tied together physically as well as mentally, and genetically. In the end, everyone was related.
Except, of course, come-from-aways like Hy, Ian, and Jamieson. It tugged at Hy, who felt so at home here. Sometimes she thought resentfully, we’re all come-from-aways. The only difference is how and when we got here.
Behind her, the cottages of the other people from away, the summer residents, had their backs to the village, looking out to sea.
That said something.
Later in the day, Hy skied over to Wild Rose cottage with some supplies.
Jamie’s eyes popped open as she poled down their lane. He came dashing out of the house without a jacket.
“Can I do that?” he yelled.
Hy came to a stop, almost losing her balance when she did, looking like an awkward stork rather than an accomplished skier. She coloured, her cheeks already flushed from the wind and the exercise.
Jamie laughed, and tugged at her sleeve, making her more uncertain on her skis.
“Can I?”
Hy stuck a pole on the boot fastener to release one foot, then another. Jamie was ready to jump into them right away.
“Whoa,” she said. “You have to have boots on.”
“I do.” Jamie looked down at his feet.
“Not billy boots. Boots like mine.” Hy had the old-fashioned kind – squared off at the toe. Jamie screwed up his face, then looked disappointed.
“You have big feet.”
“Aren’t you the gentleman?”
Jamie shrugged. Stuck out a foot.
“My feet are big, too.”
Hy smiled. “Yes, just about as big as mine. A six or more, maybe, and she just barely an eight. “I think I have a pair at home that will fit you.”
“I can wear big socks.”
“We’ll see what we can do.”
“And the skis?” Jamie looked down at Hy’s long, long skis.
“If the boots fit, the skis will, too.”
Hy left Jamie playing with the skis, trying to use them in spite of his boots.
Rose was inside. There was no sign of the baby or the basket. Of course there wouldn’t be. Hy would have stayed with Rose when Duncan Dunn came, but Rose had said she’d rather be alone.
“It’s done” was all she said when Hy came in.
“Yes, I assumed so.”
There was a silence. A silence that went on too long. Hy didn’t know what to say.
“How are you feeling?”
“Physically? Fine.”
“Don’t you think you should see a doctor?”
“I’d rather not, just now. I think everything’s normal. Bleeding a bit, that’s all.”
Her tone ended the discussion. She took the kettle off the stove and poured a pot of tea. She handed Hy two mugs and gestured her into the tent, where they sat down.
“And Fitz?”
“Dead for all I care.”
“Do you really mean that?”
Rose didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. It was clear from the hard cast of her eyes, the grim line of her mouth, that she meant it. Why is she with him?
“How did you – ?”
“Ever get mixed up with him?” She looked down, unable to look Hy straight in the eye. “He was charming. I knew he was no good, but that’s the attraction, isn’t it, when you’re young?”
Hy thought of her own past. It was true. “Sometimes, yes it is.” She grinned at Rose, who gave her a half-smile, and poured them each a mug of steaming hot tea.
“But Fitz was more than just bad, he was wicked. Evil.”
“Was?”
“Well, back then – and now.” Rose looked away from Hy. Hy did what she’d seen Jamieson do when she wanted to get information from someone. She said nothing.
It didn’t take long for Rose to break that silence.
“Our – his – daughters. The twins.”
More silence. Rose took a gulp of tea, as if swallowing courage to speak.
To speak the unspeakable? Hot fear, along with a terrible knowledge pierced through Hy.
“You mean…?” She couldn’t speak it either.
Rose flushed, fast and deep. She shook her head, horror on her face.
“Oh, no, not that.” Shook her head again. Looked down. “Almost as bad.”
She murmured the last so low that Hy had to strain to hear it.
“Rose, if not that, how bad could it be?”
Rose lifted her head, her embarrassment shifted to anger. She glared at Hy.
“They were sixteen when I met him. I was already pregnant with Jamie when I foun
d him with them, drunk out of his mind, thirsty for more, selling their…favours…to his friends for booze.”
“Favours? Not – ?”
“No, he wasn’t pimping, at least not quite. Ten bucks for a feel, more for some parts of the body. He traded on the fact that they were virgins.”
“Just as bad,” Hy murmured in much the same way Rose had, her voice robbed of its strength.
“I helped them get away from him. I put the fear of God in him. Except he was godless.” She shuddered, in spite of the warmth of the tea. She brought it to her lips again, and felt the heat through her body, but it didn’t stop her shaking and shivering. It wasn’t the cold that was chilling her blood.
He was godless. There was that word “was” again.
“And Jamie?”
“Let’s not talk about Jamie.”
Well, he’s a boy.”
“Yes,” Rose nodded. “Still, I don’t know what to think. Fitz might be capable of anything.”
But she knew that Fitz wasn’t capable at all anymore.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“No news?” Gus was sitting at the quilt frame in the large room behind the kitchen that was only used for family gatherings and quilting.
“Of Nathan – or Fitz?” Hy guessed that Gus was about two-thirds finished the stitching.
“Nathan, of course. Almost gave this up when I heard about what happened.” The news about Fitz and Nathan had spread quickly down the Women’s Institute phone chain – aided by the fact that a few were still on a party line in The Shores. Many of those who now had private lines were resentful. Some, including Estelle Joudry, had bought police scanners, and found they picked up cell phone transmissions. Just like the old days, they could listen in.
“Yes, I almost stopped.” Gus continued pushing the tiny needle through the fabric, picking up four or five tiny stitches at a time. “Then I thought about her, poor soul. She needs every kindness she can get.”
“No, I don’t know anything.” Hy pulled up a chair, threaded a needle, and began to stitch along with Gus, not as expertly, not as tidily or with stitches anywhere near as tiny, but she was no longer shy to join Gus. It was expected.
“I haven’t heard from Annabelle since yesterday. If there were good – or bad – news, I’d have heard something by now.”
“And Fitzpatrick? Is he back home?”
Hy shrugged. “Don’t think so. Went over to see Rose this morning. He still hadn’t showed up.”
“He’ll be on a binge, a bender with that Jared MacPherson.” Gus snipped off the thread with her teeth. “Up to no good, that’s what they’ll be. Has she checked MacPherson’s?” It was the first place Gus thought of when anything bad happened in the village. “His truck’s down there, you know. In the driveway.”
“It is?” Trust Gus to know without going out. Probably got it from Ben. He’d plowed Jared out, too, though everyone wondered why.
“Spect he’s lyin’ passed out in it, freezin’ to death.”
“I don’t know if Rose cares,” said Hy, remembering the matter-of-fact way Rose had greeted her that morning. But then she remembered the trembling hands, the concern with which she seemed to be watching Jamie, wanting to know every minute where he was going, what he was doing.
Jamieson felt a rush of guilt when she spied it. Here she was, escaping onto the capes and the thrill of the snowmobile, and there it was – Fitzpatrick’s truck, beside MacPherson’s own, in his driveway, an accusation of her delay in taking up the investigation of Nathan’s accident. She sped down, came to an abrupt stop, jumped off her vehicle and knocked on the door, but there was no answer. Could the two of them be dead drunk inside? Though she knew the door would be unlocked, she didn’t try it. She couldn’t just walk into a home uninvited, and she didn’t have a search warrant. She had no reason to believe a search warrant was necessary.
Neither was a knock on the door. It burst open and almost swung into her. She leapt back, just missing Jared MacPherson’s vomit. It splayed out across the white snow, smelling of sick and of rum, all brown liquid, not a bit of undigested food in it. Drink was food to people like MacPherson, Jamieson thought.
Jared was bent over, clasping his stomach, waiting to see if more would come. It did, but only a few spurts. Then it was over. He’d felt like dying. Now he felt just fine. Until he saw Jamieson. A scowl darkened his face. He swept a filthy sleeve across his mouth, sopping up the moisture.
“Whaddaya want?” His voice trembled a bit. He knew what she wanted. He wished he didn’t know. He wished he didn’t feel like shit right now, but was on his game, because he was sure she was here to play.
Cat and mouse. The thought flitted through her mind, as if Jared had placed it there. In a way, he had. It was always cat and mouse with people like Jared. Even if they hadn’t done anything. And there was nothing to say he had.
Except for that truck in his driveway.
“Looking for Fitz Fitzpatrick.” She stared at the truck, more to avert her eyes from the disgusting sight of Jared than for any other reason. “He here?”
Jared looked at the truck, too. Jeez, why’d he have to go and leave it here?
“Nope.”
“But that’s his truck.”
“Yup.”
“Why’s it here?”
“Left it here. Too drunk to drive when he went.”
“I’m surprised that would stop him.”
“Too drunk not to know better.” Jared grinned.
“Do you mind if I look inside?”
Jared shrugged.
“What do I care?”
He was right. In the end, it wasn’t he who cared. It was Jamieson, as she walked into the filthiest house she’d ever been in – and there had been a few of them.
Her feet crushed pizza boxes strewn across the floor. Milk cartons. Rum bottles. Years back, most of it would have been cleaned off by Jared’s dog Newt, but Newt had deserted his owner to become a village dog – welcome and fed in every other house. Even a dog couldn’t stand the mess.
Neither could Jamieson. In the end, she took only a cursory look around. Every surface was covered in garbage. Cupboard doors were hanging on one hinge.
She couldn’t help curling her lips in disgust. Jared couldn’t help noticing.
“Needs a bit of work.”
You’re a piece of work.
“Let me know if Fitzpatrick shows up.” She let herself out.
Hy had rooted out an old pair of skis and boots from the shed. Before she’d found them, she had fished almost everything else out – tires, gasoline tanks, whipper snipper, lawn mower, lawn chairs, nothing in order by season, all entangled in one another.
She skied back to Wild Rose Cottage. It was awkward with the spare set of skis, poles, and boots constantly slipping off her shoulder.
Jamie was thrilled. The boots fit him, with the help of the thick wool socks Gus had knitted him. Hy wondered when she’d found the time to do it. Must knit in her sleep.
Jamie was soon sliding over the snow, making rapid turns, falling into deep drifts, and laughing at himself.
Rose, watching from the door, smiled, then realized she hadn’t seen him laugh or smile since Fitz had disappeared. Jamie, whose features formed a natural smile, her happy child. Her own smile turned to a frown.
“Now you’ve got your legs, let’s go for a proper ski,” Hy said.
Rose’s frown tightened. Tightened in something like fear, it seemed to Hy. She and Jamie began to ski away from the house, Freddy charging after them. With Lili and Nathan in town, Jamie had brought her back to the house.
“Don’t be going down that gully,” Rose called.
“No,” they both yelled back.
Hy was lying. She very much wanted to go down the gully. With this fresh snow, it would be a gentle downhill run, thr
illing and beautiful with the spruce on either side clotted with fresh white snow, like a Christmas card. A Christmas card that had been a long time in coming to The Shores this year.
When they reached the trail through the woods, Hy turned onto it.
“No!” Jamie yelled. He sounded panicky. “Mum said not to.”
Hy grinned at him.
“Don’t tell me you do everything your mother says?” She shouldn’t be leading him astray, but she was dying to take the run.
“Ommmmmmmmmmm.”
Lili had been drifting in and out of consciousness with the mesmerizing sound. Floating in another world, then back to this world, the pings and taps and beeps of the hospital equipment performing the background soundscape, in which the doctor and the nurse, too, had become captive.
Then she would sink deep into that other place, where the roar of the ocean, the cascading of rivers and streams, the sound of the wind circling the earth took her away with them.
Suddenly, she came alert.
There was a new sound in the hum that could change the world. There was hers. There was Dr. Diamante’s. There was Ed’s. And there was…
Nathan!
Lili’s eyes shot open.
Nathan lay on the bed, his lips pursed and the sound of a very faint “om” coming out of them. Holding onto the sound, she crept forward, afraid that the moment might be illusory. Behind her, the doctor and Ed crept forward, too. The director of the hospital was walking down the hall and the sound attracted him to the room. He was so puzzled by the sight that confronted him that he couldn’t be outraged.
His best nurse, Ed, and his best doctor, although foreign, engaging in some heathen practice with an intensive care patient not expected to live.
But the patient was involved in the ritual, too. Like the others, he was humming that strange…strange what?...incantation, and his right arm was rising slowly, hypnotically. The arm with the feeding tube in it. It popped out. No one budged.
Nathan pulled off the respirator.
He sat up.
He stopped chanting and the others did, too.
He beamed at Lili, and she rushed into his arms.
“Not so fast,” said Dr. Diamante. “We must examine him. This is a miracle.”
All is Clam Page 19