The Sight

by Judy Blundell

  She pushes back her hair. “Well, we didn’t really accomplish anything. We did a few protests that made the papers. But mostly we sat around talking about the best way to shut down Monvor, then went hiking and swimming. Some of us were more committed than others. I’d say that Nate was our unofficial leader. He was so charismatic. We all looked up to him. He had these great ideas—but in the end, we all just drifted apart.”

  “What about the house?”

  “I fell in love with Beewick Island that summer,” Shay says. “I saw myself here. And real estate was really cheap. I had saved some money, and I thought if some of us chipped in and bought a house, we could all share it on weekends. Dumb idea, by the way. Two others in the group were interested. One dropped out, and that left me and Nate. We found this house, and we bought it. Carrie came out to help me with the sale—she had just graduated from law school. That’s when she met Nate. I saw it happen the moment they met—they fell in love instantly. They were married six months later. So half of the house really belonged to your mother, too. She had a good career, and she didn’t need the money, so even though I offered to buy her out a couple of times, she refused. She knew it was hard for me to come up with the money. And I wouldn’t let her just give me half the house, either. It was just something between us, and we never thought…we never thought it would matter one way or another.”

  I absorb this. It makes sense. I knew my mother had met Nate out here. I’d never wanted the details.

  This is what happens when you don’t want details. They pile up and pile up, and then you get them all at once, and they knock you right over.

  But I get the feeling that there are holes in this story. Things Shay isn’t telling me. Usually, I can’t read Shay. But somehow I’m picking up flashes.

  “Apples,” I say. “What is it about apples?”

  “Apples?”

  “And a…a gate?”

  Shay goes pale.

  The door has opened, but we haven’t heard it. Joe is standing in the kitchen doorway.

  “Yes, Shay,” he says. “Tell us about William Applegate.”

  EIGHT

  Shay looks up at Joe. Then she glances at me. I can tell this is something she doesn’t want to talk about in front of me. Or maybe, I suddenly realize, she doesn’t want to talk about it with Joe.

  “Billy,” she says, her voice faint. “We called him Billy. He was one of us. When we decided to disband the group, he disappeared. I don’t know what happened to him. Neither did his family. They never discovered what happened.”

  “Imagine my surprise,” Joe says, “when I ran Hank Hobbs through our computers and discovered that you tried to bring charges against him for the murder of William Applegate.”

  “It was a long time ago,” Shay says.

  “And six weeks ago, Hank Hobbs tried to get you fired from the wetlands project. Said he wouldn’t give a contribution unless they fired you. There is a million dollars at stake.”

  Shay smiles faintly. “I guess he held a grudge.”

  “You never told me about it.”

  “It was a work problem.”

  I am watching both of them carefully. They are speaking in low voices, but I can feel Joe’s anger and Shay’s fear.

  “Why don’t you tell me about it now,” Joe says, and I realize with a chill that he has his professional voice on. Shay is no dummy; she feels it, too.

  “Billy was always so intense,” she says. “We all took our environmental work seriously, but for Billy, it was like life and death. He used to get so angry when anybody would goof off, when we’d go swimming or have a softball game. He used to browbeat us about our lack of commitment. So he wasn’t exactly popular with the group.”

  Joe sits down at the table. “Go on.”

  “Then we had this breakthrough. Billy somehow got his hands on a secret file that showed that Monvor had falsified data regarding outflow pollutants. There was going to be an inquiry, and they decided to stonewall it by producing a false set of data. Billy had the file in his duffel. But then our campsite was burgled, and the evidence was stolen along with some personal items. We all had a huge argument. Billy basically accused someone—he didn’t know who—in the group of betraying us and stealing the file. Everyone was furious, and that was the beginning of the end. The group just fell apart. We had no evidence to expose Monvor, and we weren’t even friends anymore. Billy just…he went ballistic. This was the end of everything he’d worked for. That night, he took me aside. He told me he was going to Monvor’s headquarters to confront Hank Hobbs. He believed that Hobbs had bribed one of us to destroy the file. He left. I never saw him again.”

  “And when the police investigated, you pointed them to Hobbs.”

  “Of course,” Shay says. “That’s where he was headed. But I don’t know…it was soon after that I put everything together. I think Billy might have committed suicide. Or else he just took off. He was truly troubled, and his relations with his family…they weren’t the greatest. I really don’t think he was murdered. I don’t think I believed it at the time. I was caught up in it all, and I don’t think I was thinking straight. Now, I’m embarrassed at accusing Hank Hobbs. I think that’s one reason I never told you about this, Joe.”

  The light has been growing for some time now, and sunshine is beginning to streak through the windows into the kitchen.

  “Why did you come here, Joe?” Shay asks. “Why are you interested in Billy Applegate now?”

  “Because the drowned body has been identified,” Joe says. “It’s Hank Hobbs.”

  NINE

  Shay goes white. “Was he murdered?”

  “We don’t know,” Joe says. “We know he couldn’t swim. The Coast Guard found the boat out in the Sound.”

  “He has a boat, and he can’t swim?” I ask.

  “It happens,” Joe says, in that way he has of showing that there isn’t anything on earth he hasn’t seen or heard about. “It looks like he slipped and fell, possibly sustaining a head injury. Or that could have happened after he’d been knocking around the rocks in the harbor.”

  Shay and I both wince.

  “Anyway,” Joe says briskly, “we’ll know more after the autopsy.”

  “Was the dinghy missing?”

  Joe turns to me. “No.” He looks surprised that I would think of that, but it was the first question that popped into my head.

  “But if he was murdered, how did the killer get away?”

  “There could have been two boats,” Joe says. “Or the killer could have swum to shore. It’s possible. The tides are tricky, but you can do it.”

  Shay has gone very still. “Am I a suspect, Joe?” she asks.

  “Nobody’s a suspect,” he says. “I don’t know if he was murdered. I’m just looking for background.”

  “Oh. Because you’re acting like I’m a suspect.”

  “I’m just gathering information.”

  “You could be nicer about it.”

  Joe looks annoyed. “I’m on a case, Shay. I don’t have time to hold your hand.”

  She’s furious. He catches her anger, and chooses to ignore it. I’m watching them like a tennis match.

  He turns to me. “Speaking of the case, I hear your father is in town. Why did he come?”

  “He heard that my mother died,” I say.

  “That was two years ago.”

  “He was out of touch.”

  He turns to Shay. “Nathaniel Millard was one of the group that summer.”

  “He was a friend before he became my brother-in-law,” Shay says in a small, tight voice that isn’t like hers. “I haven’t seen him since Gracie was a baby.”

  “Do you know where he’s staying?”

  “The inn in Greystone Harbor,” I say. “Why?”

  Joe stands. “Just gathering information,” he says.

  I know why Joe is going to talk to Nate. Is it just a coincidence that he’s shown up, and Joe has a murdered guy on his hands?

  Is this
a reunion or a crime scene?

  Shay drives me to school. She’s gripping the steering wheel and grinding her teeth. Once, she pops out with, “‘I don’t have time to hold your hand,’ he says!” Detective that I am, I get that she’s thinking about Joe.

  She stops in the parking lot and turns to me.

  “Look,” she says, “I know you feel I should have told you all this. You have to believe I was going to. I wanted to find your father first. I hired a private detective to find him.”

  “Why?” I couldn’t believe that it was Shay who’d started all this.

  “Because he was always out there!” Shay bursts out. “I don’t know what he’d want. And the fact that this man owns half my house and could take you away from me—I couldn’t sleep at night, thinking of that. I had to do something. I offered to buy him out, and he said yes. But he had to see you first.”

  “Buy him out?”

  “Of the house,” she says. “I don’t want his name on the deed.”

  I’m just sitting there, clutching the door handle, trying to make sense of all this.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”

  “I didn’t know if I’d find him.”

  “Well, you found him.” I can’t even look at her. I’m too confused and angry. “Happy now?”

  “You have every reason in the world to hate him,” Shay says. “Of course. But he’s just a man, Gracie. A screw-up, sure. But someone who wants to know you. Do you know, the private detective told me that when he told Nate that Carrie was dead, he broke down. He really didn’t know, Gracie. Nate called me soon after. I told him not to come up, that I wanted to talk to you first, but he couldn’t wait. I was shocked when he drove by. I thought I’d have time to prepare you.”

  “Did he know Hank Hobbs?” I ask.

  “What?” Shay is startled.

  “You were all there that summer. Did he know him?”

  “You think he could have killed Hank Hobbs?”

  “I’m just asking.”

  “I don’t think he ever met him,” Shay says. “I know I didn’t. We were protesting against a company; we didn’t target any individuals. Nate isn’t a murderer, Gracie. I know he isn’t.”

  “You haven’t seen him in twenty years.”

  “I don’t care. I knew him pretty well back then. He was irresponsible, obviously. Maybe not the most truthful person I ever met. But he wouldn’t commit cold-blooded murder. He couldn’t.”

  How can she be so sure? I’m not.

  “I wish I hadn’t started this.” She blows out a breath and rests her forehead on the steering wheel for a moment. “I know I just made a mess of everything. But I was thinking of you the whole time.”

  “Maybe…maybe you should have thought a little harder,” I say.

  I see Shay’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Good point,” she says.

  TEN

  After school, I head into town. I don’t want to go home yet. It has nothing to do with the fact that I happen to know that Zed works the lunch shift on Tuesdays and then has the rest of the day off. It has nothing to do with the fact that I know his shift is over right about now.

  I walk slowly past the Harborside, and I hear him call my name.

  He’s sitting outside, one leg over his bike. He leans the bike against the railing and comes over. I wish, I wish, I wouldn’t immediately go blank when I see him. I wish I could manage a witty hello. Something more interesting than “hi.”

  “Hi,” I say.

  “I’m glad I ran into you,” Zed says. “That was one weird afternoon. I was wondering if you were okay.”

  “I’m okay,” I say. “Did you hear that they identified the…the guy?”

  “Hank Hobbs, yeah,” Zed says. “It’s funny, because he just had lunch at the restaurant last week. I waited on him. Creepy. Not him, but knowing that he died, like, maybe later that day.”

  “Who was he having lunch with?”

  “Jeff Ferris. They were talking about some house he’s buying in that new development over by Hassam’s Farm.”

  “Hobbs was buying a house there?”

  Zed nods. “He was buying Jeff’s house. He has one on Larch Lane—prime spot, right on the water. He bought right at the beginning, before they were even built, and now he’ll make a killing. Smart.”

  “I guess. Did Hobbs seem upset or anything?”

  “No. I already talked to the police. So did Jeff. Neither of us picked up anything from Mr. Hobbs. It was a beautiful day, though. You know how the weather was so nice last week. I guess he decided to take a boat ride after lunch.”

  This is the most Zed has ever said to me, and I want to savor the moment, but I have an idea. The new development isn’t too far; I can make it on my bike in twenty minutes. I could go out to the house on Larch Lane and poke around.

  Something is pulling at me. An image of a body falling through water, sinking, spiraling down from sunlit green water into the black depths of the bay. I know now that the body I saw is Hank Hobbs.

  I try to get a picture of my dad on that boat, but I can’t. It’s a blank.

  Zed is looking at me curiously. He looks a bit spooked, as a matter of fact. Of course, like all the kids I know, he’s a little freaked out because he knows I see things.

  Suddenly, I’m tired of it all. I’m tired of trying to appear normal. Tired of striving not to freak people out.

  Especially to Zed. I didn’t want to have to do that with him.

  I want to say “boo!” But instead I just say “see ya,” and take off.

  It’s an easy ride past Hassam’s to the development. The farm stand is open, and Mr. Hassam waves as I spin by. I turn the corner and ride toward the new road into the development, cruising past the evergreens and the fields.

  The new development is a shock. It hasn’t been landscaped yet, and the empty houses look naked on their dirt lots. Most of the houses on Beewick were built in the early part of the last century, and they’ve tried to follow that model, but they’ve blown up the farmhouses into huge monsters with oversize windows and double doors. Their garages are thrust forward. I imagine all those garage doors open, and it would be like gaping mouths facing the streets, ready to chomp on anyone strolling by.

  I can see signs of vandalism. One garage is splattered with red paint. Another one’s yard is littered with refuse.

  It’s easy to find the house that Zed was talking about. It’s at the end of Larch Lane, and it’s the only one on that road with full access to the bay. I bump my bike over the dirt and walk it, avoiding the trash in the front yard. I park it behind the house.

  This house has a private dock at the bottom of a hill that leads down from the back deck. One day, this will be a lawn. One day, I guess, it will be beautiful, but I just don’t have the imagination to see it.

  I prowl around the house, peeking in the windows. Everything is shut tight. One window is boarded up, so I guess it had been smashed in the break-in. The house is totally empty inside. There’s nothing to see. I start to wonder why I came. There are no clues here. There is nothing to pick up on.

  I sit down on the steps of the back deck. There’s a bag crumpled up underneath, shoved down behind the stairs. I reach down and pick it up. Just garbage, a bag from Starbucks with two empty coffee cups inside. I look at the sides of the cups, where they mark them. One was a cappuccino. The other was a tall nonfat latte, double shot. The bag feels heavy, which is weird, because the cups are empty. I feel a wave of sadness that makes no sense.

  And then I feel it. A shudder inside me. The bag feels warm and heavy, as if the coffee cups are full.

  Surprise floods me. But it isn’t my surprise. I am feeling someone else’s surprise. I hear a different heartbeat thud in my ears, hammering in panic.

  The shock of the cold water takes my breath away. My head, my head…

  I flail, while fireworks explode behind my eyes.

  My heart is going to burst inside my chest. It is going to bloom li
ke a rose.

  It’s him. It’s Hank Hobbs. I can feel him, see him.

  And someone is watching him drown.

  And that someone feels nothing but impatience. No panic. No sorrow.

  I hear footsteps against gravel.

  Gravel?

  I open my eyes. I am on the deck again. I am covered in sweat.

  And the footsteps are real.

  ELEVEN

  I must be truly spooked in general, because I’m ready to pick up a stray beam and swing it at whoever appears. So it’s kind of good that I don’t, considering that Jeff Ferris appears with his father. They’re both wearing suits, but they’ve tucked their pants into knee-high rubber boots. The sight of that is so silly that my fear drains away immediately. Anyway, since Jeff still owns the house, it makes perfect sense that he would be visiting it.

  The reason for my presence, on the other hand, is not so clear.

  “Gracie Kenzie,” Jeff says. “What are you doing out here?”

  “I hear so much about these houses,” I say. “I just wanted to see for myself how great they are.”

  “Yeah. Look at that view.” Jeff turns toward the cove and clicks into realtor mode. “It’s one of the prime spots on the island.”

  His dad’s gaze roams over the back of the house. “Looks all right. We’d better check the inside, though. Kids. That Fusilli should throw them in jail.”

  “He doesn’t know who they are, Dad.”

  “Are you going to move in here?” I ask.

  Jeff shakes his head. “I bought it for an investment, but man, it hurts to let it go.”

  “They vandalized our office,” Franklin Ferris says. “They turned off the refrigerator so everything would spoil. Somebody smeared peanut butter all over my desk. I’m allergic to peanut butter! What kind of a person would do something like that?”