by Mary Daheim
I didn't hear Jenny's answer, but I could guess what it was.
As I got into the Lexus, I saw a black Taurus parked on the block down the street. It pulled out when I did, following me to the freeway. In the Woodinville suburbs, it finally disappeared. Whoever was driving must have figured that if I was leaving town, I was also leaving my inquisitive nature at the county line.
It was raining again by the time I started up Highway 2. After crossing the bridge over the Skykomish River, I drove straight up Alpine Way. The Advocate office and the rest of the commercial district was on my left; the mall was at my right. Under the darkening gray clouds and the shadow of Mount Baldy, the town looked bleak and insignificant. I couldn't help but kick myself for not staying on in Seattle and indulging in an expensive dinner at one of the city's finer restaurants.
Instead, I took my hunger pangs to my little log house. Usually, it welcomed me, but when I saw the lights in the windows, I knew that Amber Ramsey and Danny had returned.
Sure enough, they'd already managed to litter the living room, mostly with their unpacked luggage. Indeed, Amber had brought more back than she'd taken away. Three large cardboard cartons were stacked near the hearth and several shopping bags stood by the dining-room set.
“What's this?” I inquired, waving a hand.
Amber beamed. “My stuff. My stepmother's been cleaning out the house before they move, and she found a bunch of my old things. I decided I might as well take them now as wait until the movers come this summer.”
My house has no basement. The carport's storage area is limited. There is only a small crawl space in the attic. I worked hard to pare down my possessions so that I could still fit into what is basically a four-room bungalow.
“Adam's room—your room,” I quickly corrected myself, trying not to sound peevish, “is already jammed. Where will we put these bags and boxes, Amber?”
My houseguest stared at her belongings as if she'd never seen them before. “Uh… your closet is pretty big, isn't it?”
“Not big enough for all this,” I said.
Danny was rolling around on the floor, making gurgling noises. It occurred to me that he'd probably be crawling before the Ramseys moved out. The thought added to my frustration.
“I could sort through it and put it away in drawers,” Amber said vaguely. “But I did that pretty much already. It's mostly clothes and CDs and tapes and souvenirs. You know, like from rock concerts.”
“Figure it out,” I said, hauling my own suitcase toward the bedroom. “It can't stay out here.”
The light was flashing on my answering machine as I headed to the hall. I continued into the bedroom, set the luggage on the bed, and returned to the phone.
“Hi, Mom,” said Adam's voice. “Just calling to wish you a blessed Easter. We celebrated a really intense vigil Mass last night. I was one of the acolytes. Have you got your reservations yet to come back here in June? The earlier the better, before it gets too hot and the mosquitoes chew off your fingers and toes. Talk to you soon.”
Burdened with guilt, I sighed at the answering machine. I hadn't thought to call Adam from Seattle. I'd spent the most sacred weekend of the liturgical year stumbling around the city, trying to help a cousin I hadn't seen in almost thirty years. Meanwhile, my son was having deep spiritual experiences in St. Paul. What kind of a mother was I?
There was a second call. I gritted my teeth as I played the message. “Where the hell are you, Emma?” demanded my brother, Ben, in his crackling voice. “I had to hear almost two hundred confessions and say four Masses this weekend, including the big bopper here in Tuba City. Now I'm back at the rectory, drinking cheap beer and wondering if you ran off with the Easter Bunny. Call me—if you ever get home.”
I hadn't thought to call Ben, either. My brother, the person who knew me best, the companion of my youth, and the comfort of my middle years. What kind of a sister was I?
I called Adam first, and as usual, it took ages for whoever answered the phone to find my poor neglected son. While I waited Amber wandered around the living room, digging into the cartons and bags. Danny started to fuss.
“Mom?” Adam's voice sounded anxious. “What happened to you?”
There is some sort of axiom that if a mother is derelict in her duty to her child, the reason must be catastrophic. Nothing short of a paralytic stroke, being held hostage by revolutionary terrorists, or having been killed in a bungee-jumping attempt could possibly deter Mom from her appointed rounds.
“I'm fine,” I asserted. “I've been doing good works.”
“Like?” Adam sounded incredulous.
I explained about Ronnie Mallett. Adam said he'd never heard of him.
“So what's the big deal now?” my son asked. “I mean, it's not like he was real close.”
“You, my child, are studying to be a priest,” I reminded him. “What about the ‘When I was in prison, you visited me’ quote?”
“Well… you're right, okay, that's cool,” Adam agreed. “It just doesn't sound like you.”
Danny began to squall. I caught Amber's eye and motioned for her to shush the baby. She held up a Pearl Jam T-shirt, then wandered over to Danny, who had managed to wedge himself under a chair.
“Guests still there, huh?” Adam remarked dryly. “Man, you are really turning into saintly material. Have I inspired you, Mom?”
“Stick it,” I muttered. “You just never noticed before what a wonderful person I am.”
“In a way,” Adam said, “that's true. It's not just studying for the priesthood, though. I guess I'm getting to be a grownup.”
“About time,” I noted. Then, unable to keep the maternal pride out of my voice, I added, “You're turning into a top-notch person. I'd like to brag, but I don't. Much.”
As Amber removed Danny from the room, Adam and I turned to the subject of my proposed trip to the Twin Cities. I had to admit I hadn't yet contacted Janet Drig-gers at Sky Travel to make the arrangements, but I'd try to see her on my lunch break Monday. Then we got caught up with more mundane matters. Before signing off, Adam mentioned that he'd spoken with his father earlier in the day.
“I called to give him Easter greetings,” Adam said. “He sounded good.” Pause. “Have you talked to him lately?”
“No,” I said. “I owe him a call.” It shouldn't work that way. Tom and I weren't teenagers. “I'll call him sometime this coming week.”
“I think he's going out of town,” Adam said. “Business, as usual.”
“Business, babies, blah-blah,” I said, trying to sound humorous and failing. “That's your dear old dad. Meanwhile, dear old mom waits. And waits.”
“No comment.”
“None needed,” I responded. After more than a quarter of a century, there wasn't much left to say about Tom Cavanaugh.
Ben wasn't in at the rectory on the Navajo reservation, so I left a message. I was unpacking my suitcase when I heard the sirens. As ever, I went on the alert. Anytime an emergency vehicle takes off in Alpine, it's news. An auto accident, a domestic violence call, even a heart attack usually makes it into The Advocate.
I'd just put the suitcase in the closet when I heard more sirens. A decade of experience enabled me to distinguish between the wails of the various emergency vehicles. The first had belonged to one of the sheriff's squad cars. The second had been the medics. Both had headed west.
A third siren sounded, fainter and farther away. It was Milo's personal siren, the one in his Grand Cherokee. He had special-ordered it from Harvey's Hardware, and Harvey Adcock had made a mistake and ended up with a British police siren that sounds to me like a dying duck. Milo, however, professed to like it. Maybe it made him feel as if he were working for Scotland Yard.
The siren grew somewhat louder, apparently coming from the sheriff's house in the Icicle Creek development. He was also heading west. Whatever had happened must be important enough to draw Milo from his Sunday rest.
I put my shoes back on and grabbed my jacket. The
re was no time to phone Scott Chamoud, who might not be back from Oregon anyway. Calling to Amber that I was off on a story, I raced out to the car. Yet another siren sounded as I reached Alpine Way. The fire truck was ahead of me, rushing south, then turning left on Railroad Avenue past Old Mill Park.
It was going on eight o'clock, but not quite dark. It was easy to follow the number one engine past the community college, the ski-lodge turnoff, and onto the Burl Creek Road. A minute later the fire truck stopped, joining the squad car, the medics van, and Milo's Grand Cherokee.
We'd arrived at Cap Harquist's place, with its aging two-story house all but hidden behind a pair of huge cedars that must have prevented the sunlight from getting inside. I'd always wondered why the Harquists had let those trees block not only the sun, but their view of Burl Creek and the mountains beyond. Perhaps the cedars were like the ramparts of a castle: not arboreal decorations, but strategic fortifications.
Cautiously, I approached the tight little knot of emergency personnel. I didn't see Milo, but Deputy Jack Mullins was talking to one of the volunteer firefighters whose face I couldn't recognize under all the official gear.
“Emma,” Jack said, turning to face me. “How'd you hear about the commotion?”
“How could I not?” I replied as the red, blue, and white lights flashed eerily in the dusk. “I followed the sirens’ call. What's going on?”
Jack gestured toward the house. “Milo let Ozzie and Rudy out this morning so they could go to church for Easter. Which they did. Lutheran church, that is.” Jack gave me his roguish grin. He's a fellow Catholic, the type who's not above making cracks about our Protestant brethren. “Then they came home and started drinking. The next thing we know, they're prowling around outside the hospital. Stubby O'Neill is still there, you know.”
I nodded. “Milo kept me informed while I was out of town.”
“Oh. I didn't know you'd left,” Jack said. “Our family went to the vigil Mass last night. I figured you were going this morning. Father Den's sermon sucked scissors, but everything else was great.”
Dennis Kelly, our pastor, isn't famous for his homilies. A serious, middle-aged black man in an almost exclusively white parish, he's an excellent administrator and no one can criticize his handling of the liturgy itself. These days, we're lucky to have a priest at all, and downright blessed that our pastor isn't drinking himself stupid or playing games with little boys. Father Den can be dry as dust from the pulpit and elicit no carping from me.
“So what happened at the hospital?” I inquired, hearing some shouts from closer to the house.
Jack turned somber. “Stubby's daughter, Meara, came to see him this evening. The Harquist boys kidnapped her. They've got her inside and God only knows what's going on. Doc Dewey called us. He was leaving the hospital when he saw Ozzie and Rudy drive off with her about half an hour ago.”
My eyes were riveted on what little I could see of the Harquist house. “That's bad. Who else is in there?”
“Ozzie, Rudy, Cap,” Jack counted. “Old Lady Har-quist's been dead for years. I don't know about Ozzie and Rudy's wives. The last I heard, Rudy's walked out on him and moved to Everett.”
“So no women on hand to provide a softening influence,” I murmured. “Why don't you and Milo and whoever else is here go in?”
“Because they're holding Meara hostage,” Jack replied. “She's only fifteen. The poor kid must be scared out of her wits.”
“Hostage for what? Do they want ransom money?”
Jack shook his head. “Who knows what those dingbats want? They're probably still drunk. Milo's trying to get to Cap. He figures he may have more sense than the sons.” Hearing the screech of tires, Jack whirled around. “Oh, shit! Here come the O'Neills.”
A beat-up SUV revealed Stubby O'Neill's two younger brothers, known as Rusty and Dusty. They flew out of the vehicle and started yelling, mostly obscenities directed at the Harquists.
Jack hurried over in an attempt to get Rusty and Dusty to simmer down. I could see why his manner was urgent. Rusty held a double-barreled shotgun and Dusty had what looked like a Smith & Wesson .38 Special revolver. I backpedaled a few steps, seeking safety behind a Douglas fir.
“Mullins!” Rusty yelled. “Move it! We don't want no trouble with you.”
“Hell, no,” Dusty agreed. “You're a mick, too. We want them Scandahoovians.”
“Sorry, me lads,” Jack responded, his right hand drifting toward his gun. “You're going to have to stay put. The sheriff has this thing under control.”
I glanced toward the house. Even without his regulation Smokey the Bear hat, at six-foot-five, Milo loomed at least a couple of inches above everybody else. He was standing at the foot of the stairs that lead up to the front porch. I could hear him shouting, but couldn't make out the words. Jack's assertion that the sheriff had things under control struck me as fanciful. Especially when I saw flames at the near-side windows on the second floor.
A piercing scream tore across the night air. Everyone seemed to freeze, then Milo took off around the other side of the house. I lost sight of him, but heard him yell something to the firemen, who sprang into action. A moment later they were carrying a round blue safety net in Milo's direction. Two other firefighters were hauling hoses to the part of the house where the fire had broken out. The medics followed the safety net.
I could smell the smoke and hear the crackling as the flames licked at dry old wood. The sky, which had finally grown dark, now took on an ominous ocherous glow. Cursing myself for not remembering to bring a camera, I fumbled for the notebook in my purse and began scribbling furiously. My nerves were becoming unraveled. I doubted that I'd ever be able to decipher my disjointed handwriting.
Nearby, Rusty and Dusty were arguing with Jack, who was trying to keep the two men from charging into the house.
“Meara's in there,” Dusty shouted. “Do something!”
“We're doing it,” Jack replied, giving some sort of signal to Dwight Gould, another deputy, who had assumed Milo's vacated position by the front porch.
Another scream pierced the air. It was female, I was sure of that. Thus it was probably Meara O'Neill. Pray, I commanded myself. Help her, God. Help all these idiots who've made such an ungodly mess.
The medics had rushed back to get their gurney. Jack shouted a warning as Rusty and Dusty hurtled past him. Dwight Gould whirled around, his own weapon raised. A figure came running through the front door, knocking Dwight to the ground. In the light of the fire, I recognized one of the Harquists. I could never tell Ozzie from Rudy, who were both six-footers, well over two hundred pounds, with no necks.
Milo reappeared at a run from around the corner of the house. “Halt!” he ordered, both hands on his King Cobra magnum. “Drop your weapons, everybody!”
Another figure came tearing out of the house. It was the other Harquist son, and he was also armed. As his brother and the two O'Neills hesitated, he turned, stumbled on the top step, and fired.
Milo went down.
The next female scream was mine.
“Jesus, you dumbshit!” the other Harquist shouted. “You shot the freaking sheriff!”
Despite the fact that guns were everywhere, I rushed to Milo. He was writhing on the ground, clutching at his ankle. A flood of relief swept over me. Nobody died from a leg wound.
“Are you okay?” I asked in my stupidest voice.
“No,” Milo replied, exhibiting more brains than I had done. “It hurts like hell. It's my foot.”
I was vaguely aware of the activity swirling around me. All of the weapons had been surrendered when Milo got hit. An argument was raging between the Harquists and the O'Neills. Smoke filled the air and I could feel water spraying out from the fire hoses. The gurney returned from the side of the house with a small, huddled figure who was sobbing softly. I heard someone yell, “Where's Cap?”
From far off came more sirens, at least two separate vehicles. Backup for the sheriff, and an ambulance, I guessed, sm
oothing the graying sandy hair from Milo's forehead and holding his hand. He seemed more angry than pained.
The medic van took off, with the two O'Neills hovering over their niece. Meara was about to join her father in the hospital. Doc Dewey would be called back to tend to her, and then to treat Milo. The new physician hadn't arrived in Alpine, and Doc rarely got a day of rest. Easter Sunday was no different.
Jack and Dwight were in the process of rearresting the Harquist who had shot Milo. It was, I heard someone say, Rudy.
“It was a damned accident,” Rudy shouted as Sam cuffed him. “Why would I shoot Dodge?”
“Because you're an idiot,” Milo yelled from his place on the ground.
Two of the firefighters who had assisted Meara in what I guessed was her jump from a second-story window were going inside, presumably to rescue Cap Harquist. The smoke was turning white, which indicated that the fire was being put out. Deputies Dustin Fong and Bill Blatt, both dressed in their civvies, came bounding out of the squad car that had pulled up across from my Lexus. The ambulance drivers had driven up just in front of them, and were already bringing a gurney for Milo.
Ozzie Harquist was yelling something after the firefighters who had gone inside. I heard several obscenities before he calmed down and walked somewhat unsteadily to the gurney where Milo was now lying under protest.
“Jeez, Sheriff, Rudy didn't mean to wing you. He fell off the porch. This whole thing wouldn't have happened if that little bitch hadn't set fire to the place.”
“Meara?” I said in surprise. “She started the fire?”
With a nervous glance at the house, Rudy nodded. “She had a cigarette lighter, and she threw it into a bunch of old newspapers. It took off like that.” He tried to snap his fingers, but missed. “They better get Pa out of there. He was in the can downstairs when it started.”
Milo was being wheeled away. “I'll see you at the hospital,” I called after him, then turned just as Cap Harquist, struggling mightily with the firefighters, was dragged down from the front porch. His pants were around his ankles and the trapdoor of his union suit was flapping in the evening breeze.