“Help him!” she shouted, pointing at the car. The man followed her eyes, her shaking finger. “Jes-us and Mary,” he said. He crossed himself as they watched the Volvo drift out into the lake, float there a moment like a giant white buoy, and then slowly sink, until the surface was a mass of bubbles, like the slow descent of a white whale.
She dragged herself forward. She could hardly see the lake for her blurry eyes. When her vision cleared, she’d see Adam, she was sure of it, he would have got out! He was a good swimmer, wasn’t he? But the man was at her back again.
“Too late,” the man said. “She’s gone, that white car. The driver in it. What in hell anybody want to do that for?”
She couldn’t tell him. She only knew it was his brother’s car, he’d told her that. The one the Earthrowl girl had drowned in. Now there were two drownings. She sank down on her knees, and the world reeled.
Chapter Seventy-two
Ruth swooped down on the battered-looking girl they found squatting on the ground by the lakefront, her back against a rock. A man in striped overalls stood nearby, with a thin angular woman. “She been like that a good thirty minutes,” the man said, looking anxious. “Me and the missus tried to get her into the house, she won’t come. She just stares out at the lake like that white car would come up again, drive away over the bridge.”
“In the lake?” Colm asked. “A white car?”
Ruth didn’t hear what the man said because she was kneeling down by Emily, wringing her hands, hugging her. “Thank God you’re safe,” she murmured. “Thank God.” Behind her she heard the men talking, she caught the words “drove her right in... floating . .. sinking ... a young man, she said.”
Ruth caught the drift. “Oh, Emily, oh, Em, love,” she said. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. But he caused a man’s death—maybe two men.”
Emily broke down then; whether it was for Rufus or for Adam, Ruth didn’t know. She just kept hugging Emily while Colm knelt down beside her; she could feel his hand on her right shoulder, stroking.
“But he let me out of the car,” Emily said finally, her first words. “He made me get out. I thought he was going over the bridge, into New York. I thought he’d go to Montreal. But he swerved off, down to that boat landing. He kept... going....” She sobbed into her mother’s shoulder. Ruth rocked and rocked her. She could hear the lake lapping, the gulls crying as they wheeled overhead. The sun was almost down behind the Adiron-dacks; the sky was a brilliant pink.
“I’ll check in with the others. They’ll want to drag the lake, pull up that car,” Colm said, and his hand released her shoulder. She nodded. Of course they’d want to do that. Someone would want a body to bury. The boy had a father, a stepmother, Emily had said.
“Don’t hate him,” Emily pleaded, her face dampening her mother’s shirt. “He had reasons for what he did to the orchard. It was wrong, I know, but he had reasons.”
Ruth supposed he did. She’d hear about them later. Every killer had his reasons, she supposed, his motives: jealousy, envy, an abusive childhood. But so did other people, ordinary people, who wouldn’t go about poisoning apples—just because they wanted to avenge a wrong.
“But he let you go, he let you out of the car,” Ruth said, “and I’ll thank him for that. With all my heart.” It was her turn now to weep into Emily’s tangled hair.
They sat together, not speaking, for a long time, and then, when Colm came back, waving off a police car, they helped Emily up and into the green pickup, where Ruth sat in the back with Emily, and Colm drove, carefully around the curves, as though he had a basket of freshly picked apples in the backseat.
Chapter Seventy-three
Bertha. Colm had almost forgotten in the madness of the day. He was to pick her up at nine at the grange hall. She was going to tell all. Or tell something, he didn’t know what. He could think of a dozen places he’d rather be—most particularly at the Willmarth farm. But Ruth had Emily to comfort. He wasn’t going to intrude on mother and daughter. The girl was back home after a brief visit to Dr. Colwell, who’d found bruises and scratches, a sprained ankle, but nothing broken. “It’s the head and heart that will need watching for a time,” the doctor had told Ruth, looking hard at her. Colwell was a wise old fellow, Colm thought.
Colm himself would like to be part of that head and heart watch, but the time wasn’t ripe yet. At least Ruth didn’t think so. Well, he’d waited a quarter of a century; he could keep waiting.
Bertha was there on the steps. She was dressed in orange: orange hat, orange coat, orange stockings. If it rained, he warned her, they’d be squeezing her for the juice.
“That’s not funny, Colm,” she said. “Besides, the color is tangerine. Not orange. Cassandra and I each bought an outfit. She was wearing hers the night she was killed, poor thing.”
He made a mental note of that fact, ushered her into his car. He’d take her home, stop in for ten minutes, whatever it took to squeeze (he grimaced at the word) a little more information out of her.
“I thought we might have a drink,” she said, “talk a little.”
“You’re drinking now, Bertha? Didn’t I hear that you and your prayer ladies were picketing a liquor store? The night of the, um, accident?”
She leaned close to him, he could smell the perfume, it was nauseating. “I’ve changed, Colm. I’ve left those Messengers. I mean, it was such a lovely idea: Saint Dorothea and the apples and all.”
“I never quite understood why Turnbull—or whatever—chose that name Messengers of Saint Dorothea. Who was she anyway?” They were almost at Bertha’s house. The perfume was getting to him. At least he could sit across from her in the living room.
“Well, you see, they were going to execute her, Colm. She was a Christian—back in the, um, third, fourth century. This pagan Theoph—Theo—well, something like that, was going to cut off her head! Can you imagine how awful? And he asked her to send him back some fruit from the Paradise she believed in—you know, Heaven? There is a Heaven, Colm, there is!” She put a hand on his arm, he almost drove up on a curb. “You must believe it, Colm.”
“Finish the story, please, Bertha.”
“Yes, well, suddenly a boy appeared—no one had ever seen him before! And he carried a basket with three red apples— apples so beautiful they looked like rubies. ‘Give these to Theo— to that man,’ Dorothea said, ‘and tell him there are more in Paradise where I hope to meet him.’ “
“Uh-huh.” They were at her house now. But she wasn’t getting out yet, she wanted to finish the story.
“Well, Colm, they did it. They lopped her head right off. Unh!” She drew a finger across her neck, her head jerked forward. For a minute he thought she’d had a heart attack. Her head swung back up. “And you know what, Colm?”
“What?”
“He turned Christian, that Theo man. He realized that life on earth was only a prelude to eternal life in Paradise. And that Paradise would be reached through the doorway of death.” She grinned at him triumphantly. “That’s what Christ told us, Colm. That’s what we were counting on, that Paradise he was going to lead us to.” She put a hand on his sleeve. “Oh, Colm, what happened? He seemed so sincere. We all believed in him. We prayed with him, we did all those protests with him. And then he ... he took my car! He disappeared without a word! Someone said he’d killed a man. I’m so disillusioned. Profoundly, Colm, profoundly.”
“Why did you pray at the Earthrowls’ orchard? What did that have to do with this Saint Dorothea? Was it the apples?” He sat back in the seat. He’d have all this out now, not go into her house after all. She might lock him in or something, he didn’t want to chance it.
“I think it was that particular orchard,” she said, “because of Cassandra. Oh, that godless man, that Earthrowl—running down Cassandra! Cassandra, in her lovely tangerine coat.”
“You were praying in that orchard before she was killed.”
“Oh, we were? The sequence of events escapes me, Colm. It’s been so traum
atic, everything. And someone stabbing Rufus. Oh, I heard about that, they were all talking about it at grange. Rufus was one of us, Colm, did you know that?”
He didn’t. “He came to your meetings? Your, um, prayer sessions?”
“Oh no, he just belonged, that’s all. He was Cassandra’s relative, you know—some kind of relationship. She got him to join. You see, she and Rufus planned to turn that orchard into a Paradise on earth, the two of them. Cassandra told me that.”
“They wouldn’t sell the apples, pick them? They’d just let them hang on the trees?”
“Oh no, silly.” She punched him on the arm and he cringed. “They’d still sell them and all, but not the way they do now. They wouldn’t have those men there, picking, those Jamaicans. Oh, Rufus liked them all right, they were good pickers, he said. But still, he’d prefer American pickers, the way his granddaddy ran it. And then have it partly a pick-your-own. Like you and me, Colm, and other Vermonters. It would be a kind of church, an outdoor cathedral. An earthly path to the true Paradise.”
She sighed heavily, as though a black cloud were coming over her mind. “But then Cassandra decided she didn’t want the whole orchard for apples. That’s where she and Rufus and Christ all disagreed. She wanted half of it to turn it into houses like the other farms they’d buy up. She needed the money for other things.”
“The daughter?”
“Yes, that daughter of hers, for one. Oh, we were all so upset when Cassandra tried to take away part of our Paradise. Even Rufus was! He’d become Pete’s partner so he’d be sure nothing happened to that orchard. Oh, he loves that orchard. And that’s why we were all so upset when Ruth started to interfere. It’s really awful, Colm, the way she does that. Interferes with other people’s lives.”
Colm cleared his throat, looked at her. The pot calling the kettle black? She smirked, plowed on. “Well, what business did Ruth have anyway, poking around in that orchard, asking questions? Rufus didn’t like it. Christ didn’t like it. So he . . .” She hesitated, coughed.
“So he what, Bertha? He didn’t like it, so he went over and slashed her cows, is that it?”
“Oh no, no—I mean, I don’t know that. He asked me to ... well, I’d told him about Ruth’s planting that hemp. I mean, I saw the tags. Hemp is marijuana, Colm. It’s illegal! Christ said why didn’t I go and pull it up, God would want me to.”
“So you did. You pulled up all that hemp she painstakingly planted. Took a whole day out of her life to put in the ground and help make ends meet for the farm.”
“I did, Colm.” She hesitated, gave a delicate cough. “Wouldn’t you?”
“No, Bertha. I wouldn’t. I definitely would not. And you’re not planning to do anything with that hemp? Show it around a little?”
“Oh no. Would I want to hurt my own sister-in-law?”
Colm could say something, but he held back. “You’re sure it wasn’t, um, your minister who slashed Ruth’s cows, tampered with the tractor? She might have been killed, you know. One of the children. Vic?”
Bertha gasped, pulled out a hankie, noisily blew her nose. “Oh no, I didn’t know about any tractor. I didn’t, Colm! I didn’t have anything to do with that! I couldn’t imagine our Christ doing such a thing. He loves children. Why do you think he’s so against killing babies? I only pulled up the hemp, that’s all I did. I promise, Colm, that’s all.” She was sniveling now. The perfume was making him sick. He ran around and opened her door; he had to get her out of the car.
“You’re coming in,” she said, climbing out, planting a shiny pump firmly on the grass. “I was counting on it, I have wine, Colm. I’ve changed, I told you. I’m going back to my old church. They drink wine there for communion. I have apple wine, Colm. I bought it, ’specially.” She giggled. “For you, Colm.”
He sighed. “Another time. I have to go now, Bertha. It’s been a very, very long day. A lot of things have happened. Things you don’t even know about.”
“What? What things, Colm? Have they found out who hurt Rufus? He was one of us, Colm. We need to know.” She pulled at his arm.
“Listen to the late news,” he said, and ushered her up the walk to her door. Back at the car, he left the windows wide open. He didn’t want to smell of perfume when he got back to the mortuary. Perfume didn’t mix with formaldehyde.
Chapter Seventy-four
Moira carried Opal’s suitcase over to the bus, where the driver swung it down into the bottom. “You’re sure you don’t want to stay for the harvest supper? Your last chance,” she murmured, knowing the girl was set on going home. Opal had hardly said a word to anyone since Adam’s drowning.
They had pulled up the white Volvo—the only living things inside were a thousand hairy webworms, crawling about in a sealed container. Adam’s body was swollen and blue, his hands still clutching the wheel as though he would drive through the water into some other world—to find his brother, perhaps, for Emily had told her mother the whole story now, and Ruth told Moira. “Because you have to know,” Ruth had said. “Whatever you want to tell Stan about the brother’s suicide or not is up to you.”
She didn’t say it accusingly, as if it were Stan’s fault that this terrible sequence of deaths had followed his own harassment—a harassment that Moira, wrapped in her own grief, had been largely unaware of. But the deaths had begun with Adam’s brother, Trevor, hadn’t they, driving too fast, drinking, killing her child? What would a jury, a psychologist, say about cause? It was as though Adam, by drowning, had atoned for Carol’s death—the final irony. How strange life was.
Stan would know about Rufus and Adam. But Adam’s reasons for damaging the orchard? She’d have to think about that. She had time. The harvest supper was tomorrow night. Then she’d decide.
Opal stood behind her, her hair frizzing about her face, her red sweater pulled tight over her breasts, the Guatemalan bag thrown over a shoulder. Should she hug the girl? After all, Opal was a niece. She was such a confused girl! Yet without her mischief they might never have known the cause. Opal had been a catalyst, one of the Fate sisters. Although the girl didn’t look at it quite that way, she supposed.
“Got your ticket?” Moira asked. She’d bought the girl’s ticket with her own money; she hadn’t wanted to ask Annie May. Her sister-in-law had been in a tizzy anyway, when Moira called to say they were shipping Opal back. “Lindley needs the rest. Opal won’t give it him. She’s always after him about what he does.”
About being a doctor? Moira had wondered. But what was wrong with that?
The girl just nodded, and sniffled a little. She stood there a moment and Moira put out a hand, squeezed her arm. “I’m glad to hear your dad’s better. You can go back to a normal life now.”
“Normal?” the girl said. “With my father going back to doing abortions? Oh yes, Mama told me. Already he’s talking about going back. I hate it that he’s doing that! I’ve lost friends over it. I’ve lost a boyfriend. Papa’s on a list. He’ll get us all killed. Maybe even you, you’re his sister-in-law,” she said meaningfully.
Moira was stunned. She hadn’t known that, about the abortions. Did Stan know? Probably. It was one of those things he wouldn’t want to talk about. Annie May was Catholic. Of course there would be dissension in the family. Annie would be worried sick.
“He’s a brave man, your father,” she told Opal. “He’s doing what he thinks is right.” She realized she still had her hand on the girl’s arm, and Opal hadn’t brushed it off. “You take care, now. You come again.”
“Up here?” Opal said. “Never. I never want to set foot in that orchard again. Never. Never!” She wrenched away from Moira’s arm and swung her red-stockinged legs up onto the bus. When it pulled away out into Route 7, Opal’s face was set resolutely forward. For a mad moment, with her red sweater and red bow on the back of her hair, Opal resembled the cardinal that had tormented them for so long. Moira half expected the girl to turn and hurl her thin body at the window.
Back home, Moira found
Stan on his feet, painfully facing a detective. He wouldn’t be caught sitting down, in spite of his condition. She wanted to run and hug him, tell him she was his partner, she was on his side no matter what they said he’d done, no matter what he had done. When she put out a hand to steady him, though, he shook his head. He wanted to face this alone.
For a time she didn’t understand what the officer was saying. Something about the Blazer, about fibers. Tangerine fibers, the color of the coat Cassandra was wearing, a match for it. They were found on the front bumper of the Blazer. Their Blazer, the one Stan was driving the night the woman was killed? What other Blazer could he be talking about? She stood closer to Stan, she could feel his body trembling beside hers. But he stood there resolutely. And on his own. He wasn’t touching the walker.
“Sit down, sit,” the detective said. His name was “Bump, Orrin Bump, ma’am. I’m sorry it’s taken so long. But we have that man in custody. We have his Blazer.”
What Blazer was he talking about, for heaven’s sake? She didn’t understand. Out of politeness, she offered a cup of coffee. Coffee before handcuffs. She shivered. He wouldn’t do that, would he? Take a sick man into custody? Stan was sitting down now—after, that is, the detective was seated. Independent to the last.
“No coffee, ma’am, for me. I’m on my way in five minutes. It was Chief Fallon sent me to tell you the good news. One of those apples, though, I might take that. The wife’s always after me about eating fruit. You know. That food pyramid or something?” He smiled at the absurdity of a food pyramid.
Good news, he’d said? What good news? She passed him the fruit bowl. “These are Red Russets, that’s what they’re picking now. This is the last day of picking. The Jamaicans go home Saturday. Tomorrow night’s the harvest supper. Next week your wife can come and pick drops, though.”
She was talking too much. The officer was smiling. Why was he smiling? Stan’s mouth was hanging open, as if it were a moment of discovery. “Is tha’ tha’ min-ster’s Blazah?” Stan said. “His Blazah ran over tha’ woma?”
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