by Erin Hart
“You all right there, ma’am?” He rested his right hand on the car roof, and the fingers of his left played against the handle of the bat, which was now balanced on the ground.
“Yes, I’m okay—thanks for your help.”
“You’re better off not spending too much time in this neighborhood.”
“I’m on my way.” The security guard stepped aside. As she pulled away from the curb, Nora glanced up to see the fisherman silhouetted in an upstairs window, and wondered whether she would actually see him down by the river at dawn.
10
Time seemed to have ground to a halt as Frank sat with his sister and brother-in-law in the waiting area outside the ER. He hadn’t even seen his brother; the doctors had said they would do everything they could, but they didn’t want to sugarcoat things. Chago was in serious trouble. There was a dangerous buildup of fluid in his tissues, not uncommon in cases of advanced heart failure.
Just after eight, one of the doctors came out and led them back into the ER, to a curtained alcove where Chago lay on a gurney. “We did all we could,” she said softly. “His lungs were just too full of fluid—I’m very sorry. The priest is with him now.”
Veronica began to sob, and Luis had to help her to a chair.
Inside the alcove, Frank watched a black-clad figure whispering over Chago, anointing his forehead with oil in the sign of the cross. Then the priest drew the sheet up over Chago’s face, and Frank felt the world tilt. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen. He had driven as fast as he could. Chago had seemed fine only a couple of days ago, joking about getting together for a cookout, to play a little baseball.
“Soon,” he had promised. “I’m on a big case right now, but just as soon as I get a break—”
Frank left Veronica’s side and walked over to the gurney. He drew back the sheet, taking in his brother’s broad brown face, the slack mouth, and closed eyes. His other half. The good half, pure of heart and mind.
Images began to fly past at alarming speed: the old man in white, waving a fan of feathers, whispering, “Susto, susto.” The sound of a rattle, and smoke stinging his eyes. He and Chago, cramped together under the bed, afraid to come out, afraid the dusty cowboy boots might come and find them. The sound of voices and blows, and stars bursting in a black sky like fireworks.
Frank stood at his brother’s side, clutching the edge of the sheet. A dark wave seemed to stretch a great distance above him, trembling with a dreadful anticipation, until it finally came crashing down upon him with a deafening roar.
11
At eight-twenty, Nora pulled up in front of Peter Hallett’s house for the second time in two days. This time, the house was lit up by the sunset, a blaze of light that punched through the trees. She reached for her camera and focused in on the living room. She could see Peter surveying the space. He shoved the sofa two inches closer to the fireplace, and turned to shift an antique Asian shield five degrees toward the center of the room. He has to have everything a certain way, Tríona once said.
Nora adjusted the camera lens, studying the perfect musculature of his face, the slightly cleft chin, the broad shoulders and graceful hands. What strange power had this man held over Tríona, and perhaps others as well? What happened when he focused his charms on someone? Peter lifted his head and gazed in her direction. It wasn’t possible that he knew she was out here, but the expression on his face nearly made her drop the camera.
A red Volvo sedan passed by on the river road and turned in at the driveway. Nora focused on the bright windows, and once again, the glass house afforded a view of the story being played out, as if on a stage. She watched her mother embrace Peter at the front door. A convincing performance. After a minute or so, Elizabeth appeared, and Peter stood behind her, his right hand on the back of her neck. When it was time to go, and her father bent down to kiss her good-bye, the child twisted away, shrugging off his touch. Why was she was so anxious to get away? When her mother got Elizabeth settled in the car and drove away at last, Nora felt an enormous weight lift from her. One major worry out of the way.
She set the camera down and glanced through the windshield, startled to see Miranda Staunton standing not twenty yards in front of the car, apparently loosening up for a run. This might be her only chance to speak to Miranda. It was now or never.
After jogging in place for a few seconds, Miranda checked her watch and took off. Nora got out of the car and followed on foot, staying about fifty yards behind, and relieved that she happened to be wearing decent shoes. They traveled through the light and shadow of the streetlamps, under the graffiti-covered bridge at Ford Parkway. Miranda’s pace wasn’t killer, but it never slowed. She finally turned in at the north entrance to Hidden Falls. At the bottom of the ravine, she cut across the parking areas, headed toward the path that traced the river’s edge south of the boat landing. It was time to seize the moment.
Nora put on a spurt and called out: “Miranda—wait!”
Miranda stopped and whirled around. There was a brief pause as she put together the voice, the face of the person who issued the hail. “Nora? What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you.”
Miranda eyed her suspiciously. “What about?”
“Just to say—” Nora was out of breath, panting. She watched Miranda’s expression harden. “To tell you it’s not too late. You can still back out—”
Miranda cut her off. “You know, Peter warned me. He said you’d come around one day, making crazy accusations—”
“They’re not crazy, Miranda. Look at what happened to Tríona when she tried to leave. When she found out what he was. Please, listen—”
Miranda was trembling. “How dare you? Flinging around those sorry old lies. Peter had nothing to do with your sister’s death. Why can’t you get that through your head?”
Nora lowered her voice, hoping to find another way in. “Maybe you don’t know yet what I’m talking about. Maybe he’s been good to you. He was that way with Tríona as well, at first. I can’t just stand by and let you—”
Miranda’s voice turned cold. “You can’t let me? Just who the hell do you think you are?” She held up her left hand, flashing a large diamond and thick gold band. “And just for the record—we’re already married. We went to the courthouse before we left Seattle.”
“Miranda, you don’t know what he’s done—”
“I know exactly what he’s done. Nothing. You know, Nora, I pity you. You’re a bitter, mixed-up person who can’t stand anybody else getting something you can’t have. I don’t blame my brother for walking away. Your whole family is so screwed up. You know nothing about Peter. You have no right coming here, twisting the facts, trying to ruin everything. You need to stay away from us.”
Nora swallowed hard. “Please, Miranda—please think about what I’ve said.” She fumbled in her pocket for a card. “Here’s my number—”
Miranda batted the card away and it fluttered to the ground. She stamped on it, grinding it into the blacktop with the heel of her running shoe. “Now get the hell away from me—before I call the police.”
Nora held up both hands and backed away slowly. But the confrontation had evidently put Miranda off her evening run; she turned and headed back up to the river road.
Nora had plenty of time to berate herself as she walked back to where she’d left the car. What a disaster. A whole-scale, head-on debacle. Why had she imagined that Miranda would listen to her? Everything she said and did managed to make her look completely off balance. If Miranda had been experiencing any second thoughts, she had managed to quash them completely, coming on like some addled, street-corner prophet. Stop it, said the voice in her head. Stop it. You had to take the chance. Two days gone now. Miranda and Peter would soon be on the plane to Dublin. The one consolation was that Elizabeth was safely away from her father.
Nora opened her car door, realizing with a flash of annoyance that she’d left it unlocked. Fortunately, nothing seemed disturbed
—not even the camera she’d inadvertently left on the passenger seat. She headed south along the river road, ticking through the day’s events. No word from Frank on the results from Tríona’s bloodstained clothing. Maybe she ought to try finding Harry Shaughnessy. She hoped the fisherman would have something useful for her in the morning. If he had recognized Peter from the picture, and could say that he’d spotted him at the river—
Caught up in her thoughts, Nora sailed along the river road. She tapped on the brake as she approached a curve, and wondered why it was so slow to respond—the bloody car was brand new, for God’s sake. And in a flash, she knew. It wasn’t a slow response; the pedal was stuck. She had no brakes at all.
Time seemed to slow as the car rocketed forward and left the road. The last thing Nora perceived was leafy branches whipping against the windshield as the car plummeted through underbrush, and finally came to rest, battered and steaming, against two trees at the bottom of the ravine.
BOOK FOUR
He wooed her so earnestly and lovingly, that she put on some woman’s clothing which he brought her from his cottage, followed him home, and became his wife. Some years later, when their home was enlivened by the presence of two children, the husband awaking one night, heard voices in conversation from the kitchen. Stealing softly to the room door, he heard his wife talking in a low tone with someone outside the window. The interview was just at an end, and he had only time to ensconce himself in bed, when his wife was stealing across the room. He was greatly disturbed, but determined to do or say nothing till he should acquire further knowledge.
Next evening, as he was returning home by the strand, he spied a male and female phoca sprawling on a rock a few yards out at sea. The rougher animal, raising himself on his tail and fins, thus addressed the astonished man in the dialect spoken in these islands:—“You deprived me of her whom I was to make my companion; and it was only yesternight that I discovered her outer garment, the loss of which obliged her to be your wife. I bear no malice, as you were kind to her in your own fashion; besides, my heart is too full of joy to hold any malice. Look on your wife for the last time.”
The other seal glanced at him with all the shyness and sorrow she could force into her now uncouth features; but when the bereaved husband rushed toward the rock to secure his lost treasure, she and her companion were in the water on the other side of it in a moment, and the poor fisherman was obliged to return sadly to his motherless children and desolate home.
—Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts, by Patrick Kennedy, 1891
1
Karin Bledsoe pulled a cigarette from the crumpled pack she kept stashed in her purse and lit it, taking a long drag. She never smoked in bed when Rolf was home, but he was out at a trade show in Las Vegas. Or so he said. She took another drag. To hell with him. Bastard.
The phone on the bedside table began to vibrate, and the glowing number on the screen registered as somebody on the exchange at headquarters. It was the patrol supervisor from Central Division. Don Padgett’s voice sounded apologetic. “Sorry to call you at home, Karin. We’ve got a disturbance in the ER at Regions—”
“That’s your patch, Don. Since when doesn’t patrol handle a riot in the ER?”
“Since the person causing it is a detective. Your partner.”
“Frank?”
“His brother came in on a 911. I guess they did what they could, but—”
“Are you telling me Frank’s brother is dead?”
“That’s what I was told. That’s when he lost it.”
“I didn’t even know he had a brother.”
“Me neither. Anyway, I thought you might want to get down there. Things are up in the air—and he’s still got his weapon on him. Maybe you could talk to him.”
Karin Bledsoe flashed her badge at the ER desk, and followed the noise to the last curtained bay. Frank’s sister stood outside, weeping, comforted by her husband. Four uniformed cops were crouched close to the floor, trying to talk Frank out of the corner where he’d retreated. He sat on the floor, holding his brother’s body close, keeping one hand clamped tightly over the slack mouth. One of the uniforms, a sergeant, spoke into his radio: “Yeah, we’ve got a situation here. We’re going to need additional backup.” He saw Karin and came over to her side, never turning his back on Frank. “You’re his partner? Thanks for coming. I’m assuming Don filled you in—we need that weapon.”
She glanced in and saw the waffled grip of Frank’s service piece peeping from the fold in his jacket. It didn’t seem like he was going to use the gun, but it was an obstacle. Nobody could think straight with a loaded Glock as part of this equation. It could take them all down a road nobody wanted to travel.
Karin said: “Let me talk to him.” She edged into the curtained space, aware of anxious faces all around her. “Hey, Frank? It’s Karin.”
His eyes were open but he didn’t seem to see anything. He was somewhere else. So she hadn’t just been imagining things—he had been acting strange these past few days. She’d put that down to the return of Nora Gavin, but maybe there was more to it. “Frank, we need you to hand over your piece. I know you don’t want to put anybody in danger. As soon as you hand me the gun, we can talk this over, all right?”
He was like a frightened animal, kept trying to cover his brother’s mouth, turning his head as if he could hear things no one else around him could hear. His lips moved, repeating the same words over and over, in what seemed like a prayer. She edged closer, thinking she might be able to reach for the gun and slip it from the holster. Take it slow, she told herself. Tell him what you’re doing every step of the way.
“I’m going to come closer, and then I’m going to reach into your jacket for the gun. Is that all right, Frank?” All she could think was: This whole thing is seriously, seriously messed up.
“Santa María, Madre de Díos…” he droned in a dull whisper.
When she was within inches, he suddenly lashed out with both legs, knocking her over, and bringing all four uniforms down upon himself in the process. There was a wild scramble as they struggled to restrain him, one limb at a time. Karin had seen plenty of suspects fight, but Frank—even in this diminished state—was strong and difficult to subdue.
“I have it—I have the weapon,” the patrol sergeant said.
Karin scrambled to her feet as a couple of the uniforms sat on Frank and applied the cuffs. The other two lifted his brother’s crumpled body and gently set it on the gurney. Frank’s face was pressed hard into the floor. His tears streamed onto the shiny linoleum.
2
Nora awakened to a throbbing pain in her head. She lay back for a moment, and then began checking her limbs—everything moved, nothing broken, but she could feel nascent bruises on her chest and arms and knees. All her joints felt as if someone had tried to jolt them loose. She searched for the bump of a cell phone in her left pocket, then managed to work the thing out and flipped it open. No service—must be a dead spot, down here below the bluffs. Her head hurt like hell, but as long as nothing was fractured, it was time to make a move.
She released her seat belt and cracked open the car door, setting one foot tentatively on the steep ground outside. Moving slowly, she managed to slide from the car and stand, holding onto saplings and the rough ledges that protruded from the limestone. The noise of birdsong seemed to come from a great distance, and her head felt like a chiming clock tower.
The car was wedged between the trunks of two stout trees, evidently slowed in its wild ride by the undergrowth. She was lucky to have gone over at the point where she did, and not at some sheer drop-off over the water. Lucky as well, to have plowed between two trees, and not head on into one of them.
She dug into her right pocket, feeling for Cormac’s love knot—it was gone. Her memory flashed on the moment last night, as she scrabbled for the card to give Miranda. It must have fallen to the ground then. A cold panic clutched at her. She had to find the spot where she’d spoken to Miranda, and get it b
ack. Then she remembered having to do something, to be somewhere, first thing in the morning. To meet the fisherman at the big tree that leaned out over the water, early. What time was it, anyway? How long had she been out? She looked toward the river, where a thick haze hung over the water’s surface. She couldn’t see more than ten feet in either direction through the mist. Was that the edge of a path up ahead?
A hand suddenly clamped across her mouth from behind. She could hear rustling deeper in the woods, and heard strange voices arguing in the woods above her.
“Skeeter, what the fuck, man—”
“I just went for a piss. I had to go.”
“I told you to stay there and not touch anything. Now she’s gone. Grab the stuff, and let’s get out of here.”
The person who held her was not large, but strong and wiry. At last the voices receded and the hand slid from her mouth. She turned to face the Cambodian fisherman. He spoke in a whisper. “You okay? Need doctor?” He pointed to her head.
“I have to find my love knot. I can’t lose it.” Feeling as though she was going to pass out again, Nora reached for the fisherman’s sleeve. “Please help me.”
3
At the Emergency Room, Nora opened her eyes to find an unfamiliar figure sitting in the chair beside her. She must be dreaming—this couldn’t be real. Hanging above her, she saw an IV dripping clear liquid. All right, so maybe it wasn’t a dream.
Fragments of the previous night started coming back to her. Talking to Miranda at the river, the crash. After that, everything was a little hazy. They must have given her something. She struggled to prop herself up.