by Ellen Block
She hunched her shoulders and held her head low, humming in Latin as she went.
“Ambulo, ambulare, ambulavi, ambulatum.
Erro, Errare, erravi, erratum.”
At an intersection, Abigail had to choose which way to go next. She would have to rely on her sense of direction, and that hadn’t proved very reliable of late.
“This is a crapshoot. With the emphasis on crap.”
She had been caught in the rain, literally and figuratively. Yet this rain would stop. If Merle was right, her personal storm would too. She had her shoes on. She just had to walk.
The terms day and night ceased to have meaning. The rain was so hard, the clouds so thick, and the sky so dark, it could have been midnight. Abigail couldn’t see more than a few paces ahead. Her feet ached, her teeth were chattering uncontrollably, and her clothes were soaked through to her skin.
She kept trudging until she recognized the houses in the distance. She was on Timber Lane, the road where the most recent robbery had occurred.
“Thieves are less likely to commit crimes in inclement weather. I think I read that somewhere. Nobody wants to do heavy lifting in the rain.”
Timber Lane crossed a main route that Abigail could take to the lighthouse or straight into town. From where she was, both were equidistant. Finding someone to assist her with her car was a priority if she planned to leave the island. Except she was anxious to go to the caretaker’s cottage and get her books. Need swayed her judgment.
An hour later, she reached the lighthouse. In her front yard, where her Volvo normally would have been, was Sheriff Larner’s police cruiser.
He must have found your car. Maybe he can radio to Denny so you’ll catch the ferry.
The cruiser was empty. The front door to the house was ajar. Because of the boards on the windows, she couldn’t tell if the lights were on.
Oh, God. You were robbed. The sheriff’s come to see what was stolen.
Abigail nudged open the door. The light in the upstairs hall was on, illuminating the staircase. Her CD player was piled on top of the hand-carved end table, which had been inverted and was resting on the mahogany desk chair from the study.
If you were robbed, why is everything still here?
Footsteps sounded from the second floor. She was about to shout to Larner. However, her voice wouldn’t cooperate.
What if that isn’t him?
She had to find somewhere to hide. The living room and kitchen were too open. The basement door would squeak. Abigail made a dash for the lighthouse, slipping inside as footfalls descended the stairs.
The lamp room.
Abigail took a step onto the spiral staircase, bypassing the bottom one because she remembered it creaked. Reason wrenched her body to a stop. The lamp room was the last place she wanted to go, because then she’d be trapped. And if she accidentally stepped on a stair that did creak, the burglar would hear her.
The lamp room or the burglar. The rock or the hard place.
Darkness pooled in the well of the lighthouse. Her eyes were dilating, and so was her fear. Through a crack in the doorjamb, Abigail could see out into the living room. A figure rounded the stairwell. It was Sheriff Larner. He had a stack of Wesley Jasper’s ledgers in his arms. He put them on top of her CD player, readying to move the items to his car.
Ceding logic, Abigail burst through the lighthouse door. “What are you doing?”
Larner’s hand flew to his holster. Abigail froze. The events surrounding the robberies fell together for her. Larner had stopped her the evening of one break-in. He hadn’t been at his office the night of the next.
“Merle was right. He knew it was a native, someone from Chapel Isle.”
Larner bristled at the suggestion that somebody suspected him. He glanced at the telephone. A knot tightened in Abigail’s stomach. He had a gun. She had nothing to protect herself with, no weapon, only words.
“Merle thought whoever was robbing the houses needed money. Did you need the money? Is that why?”
“Does it matter?”
That answer had too many meanings, none of them positive.
“Was it for your daughter?”
Taken aback, Larner didn’t answer.
“Ruth told me she’s sick. That she can’t pay her medical bills.”
He lowered his chin for an instant, yielding a little.
“Rental properties are covered by insurance. The owners wouldn’t lose any money. You knew that. You guessed there’d be expensive antiques here after what Denny said at the Kettle. The furniture might be worth a few hundred bucks, though I doubt you’ll get much for my radio or those ledgers.”
Unflinching, he stared at Abigail, refusing to speak.
“I can’t let you take these things, Caleb. I don’t have a lot left in this world, and even though most of it isn’t mine, I can’t let you have it.”
Larner stiffened.
“So I’m going to make you a deal.”
“You’re going to make me a deal?”
Abigail gulped air to get past the threat in his voice. “I’m not going to turn you in to the authorities on the mainland, and you’re going to let Nat Rhone go.”
He squinted at her in disbelief.
“I don’t care about what you stole or why. I’m not from here, but I want to stay. If that means I keep your secret, then you’ve got to do something for me.”
“I’m listening.”
“Ruth told you about Hank today. Did you believe her?”
Larner shrugged, loath to tip his hand.
“She has no reason to lie.”
“Nat does.”
Abigail looked at the pile Larner had amassed in the middle of the living room and said, “We all have reasons to lie.”
“You want me to trade my career to let a possible killer go free.”
“No, I want you to trade one mistake for one misunderstanding.”
He chewed the inside of his cheek. “If I agree, how’s this going to work?”
“I’m not sure. I haven’t done this before.”
“Do we pretend tonight never happened?”
“That’s a reasonable place to start.”
“You don’t have any proof. You can’t blackmail me later on.”
“I’m not interested in blackmailing you any more than I already am, Sheriff.”
“Shake on it.”
Abigail was reticent. If Larner was going to try anything, it would be when he had her in his grip. Chancing it, she relented and shook his hand. He let go first.
“You in love with him? Is that why you’re doing this?”
“Not in the least.”
“Then why?”
Abigail had spent almost ten years with her husband and only four with her son—not enough, but more than some. She’d lost them sooner rather than later. Nat’s parents had been taken from him too young, far sooner than he deserved. If she could look out for him in a way fate hadn’t, that was what Abigail was going to do. In exchange, fate might return the favor.
“Does it matter?” she replied, echoing what he’d said before.
Abigail trusted that Larner would be true to his word, that he would release Nat. In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter why she’d done it. What mattered was that it was done.
yare (yâr or, esp. for 1, 2, yär), adj., yarer, yarest. 1. quick; agile; lively. 2. (of a ship) quick to the helm; easily handled or maneuvered. 3. Archaic. a. ready; prepared. b. nimble; quick. Also, yar (for defs. 1, 2). [bef. 900; ME; OE gearu, gearo, equiv. to ge– Y– + earu ready; c. D gaar, G gar done, dressed (as meat)] —yare′ly, adv.
The rain had gone from a downpour to a deluge, battering the win- dows and beating on the roof of the caretaker’s house like a drum. The wind was gusting hard enough to make the plywood boards quake in the casements.
“You shouldn’t stay here on your own,” Larner said.
“My car’s stuck in a ditch on the other side of the island. I can’t go anywhere. I ha
ve supplies. I can wait out the storm here.”
The second Abigail finished saying that, the lights snuffed out. The house had lost power. Larner switched on his flashlight.
“How about I take you to stay with Ruth? That way you’re not alone.”
“Sheriff, you were about to rob me. Forgive me if this sudden wave of concern seems a bit phony.”
“It wasn’t personal, Abby.”
“This island is too small for it not to be personal. Isn’t that what you told Merle?”
“You’re one of those people who remembers everything, aren’t you?”
It was true. Abigail’s memory was her finest asset. It was also the source of much of her pain. Regardless, she was thankful for it.
Wind rocked the patrol car as Larner steered a course across the slippery roads. The windshield had become a sheet of gray. The thrumming of the rain was punctuated by the cracking of tree limbs.
“This is dangerous, isn’t it?”
Larner nodded and radioed in to the station. “What’s the latest, Ted?”
“Bad news is we lost power,” the deputy radioed back. “The good news is the state police issued a report that the hurricane is gonna miss us. Radar is saying it’s already turned and heading to sea.”
There would always be good news and bad news. Probability dictated there would be equal parts of both. Of late, the odds had not been in Abigail’s favor. But math didn’t lie. She was due some good news and she’d gotten it. The hurricane would not hit Chapel Isle.
“Can I come with you to the station? I want to be there when you let Nat out.”
“Is that smart? We don’t need him suspecting you had a hand in his release. Him or anybody else.”
Abigail thought it over. “How about I say I flagged you down after my car got stuck?”
Her intentions clear, Larner acquiesced. “I still think you should go to Ruth’s. It’s going to be a rough night.”
“Maybe Nat could give me a ride there.”
“That’d be the least he could do.”
Rainwater overran the cobblestone square, and the boats tied to the pier were sloshing violently in the surf, caterwauling dolefully. A gale blew off the water, nearly knocking Abigail from her feet. Larner caught her by the arm and aided her into the station.
Ted was hunched over the radio as if he could warm himself by it. His wet hair was dripping down his neck and collar. “Happy you’re back, Caleb.”
“Ted, this is Abby Harker. She’s the new caretaker over at the lighthouse.”
“Nice to meet you, ma’am.” He wiped his hand on his trousers. “Sorry. Everything’s wet.”
“I know the feeling.” Abigail shucked off her sopping windbreaker.
“Hadn’t heard there was a new caretaker.”
The fact that her arrival hadn’t reached Ted’s ears convinced Abigail that her pact with Sheriff Larner would remain in confidence. Secrets escaped only when their keepers let them, when they personally had nothing to lose. Neither she nor Larner would allow that to happen.
“Have a seat, Abby,” he said, then Larner took Ted aside and whispered to him. Abigail heard him mention Ruth’s name and something about Hank taking his wife’s death hard.
“Oh,” the deputy responded. “Guess you’ll be wanting me to let him out, huh?”
“Yeah, that’s what I want you to do.”
Ted disappeared into the rear of the station. Soon Nat staggered out with him. He’d been asleep. His hair was mussed, his clothes rumpled. Abigail gave him a wan smile, and Ted handed him his personal belongings, including his hat, which Nat tugged onto his head like a disguise.
“You releasing me?”
Larner nodded, unwilling to admit aloud that he’d been wrong. “You need to sign some papers before you can be on your way.”
Nat scribbled his signature. “That’s it? Can I go?”
“You can go.”
“Mind if I get a ride with you?” Abigail asked. “My car got stuck.”
Nat eyed the other two men.
“I’d ask them, but they’re swamped, what with the power being down on the island.”
Too tired to argue, Nat motioned her along with him. He strode brazenly into the rain while Abigail battled the whipping wind to keep pace.
“Truck’s by the pier.”
Hank’s truck was the lone vehicle in the parking lot. Nat took a deep breath and got inside. Key in the ignition, he hesitated before starting the engine.
“Larner tell you what happened?”
“Yes. I’m sorry about Hank. I know you were close.”
“What’d he say?”
“That Hank went over with the net. Intentionally.”
Hearing it stung Nat. “If Larner believed that, I wouldn’t have been in lockup.”
“You’re free now.”
“Does everyone know?”
She shook her head. “They had the hurricane on their minds.”
Rain was pelting the hood of the truck, and each gale sent tremors through the cab. The vacant parking lot was a dangerous place for them to be. They were sitting targets. Nat couldn’t bring himself to start to the motor.
“Hank tried once before,” he confessed. “He took pills. I found him. He’d thrown them up. Jeez, was Hank pissed about that. He was going on about how his body wouldn’t let him die.” Nat’s jaw clenched, as if he was fighting the words he spoke. “It was his idea to go fishing that morning. Claimed the storm would kick up a stellar take. I told him to forget it, but he wouldn’t drop it. I saw him letting out the nets. He was staring at the water. I turned away for a second. One single second. Happened so fast. I thought he was getting better.” His voice wavered. “I thought he was getting over it.”
There were things people had the right not to get over, but that they had the duty to get past. Not everyone could do it. Abigail had to try.
She put her hand on Nat’s shoulder. She could have told him she understood, that she was in the unfortunate position of knowing exactly how he felt. She didn’t. It wouldn’t have helped. Neither Nat nor her.
“I think you would rather have people believe this was your fault than that Hank did it to himself.”
He blinked, an affirmation.
“Except I don’t think that’s what Hank would have wanted. Do you?”
At last, Nat turned the key, started the truck, and drove into the wind.
Ruth Kepshaw’s house had a wide front porch, and Nat pulled as close to it as he could.
“Are you okay?” Abigail asked. “For the storm, I mean. Do you have candles and food and—”
“I’ll be fine,” he said.
Abigail realized she was treating him the way her parents treated her. She was fully aware that being badgered by other people in the name of sympathy wasn’t fun. Abigail also knew that what awaited Nat made the hurricane pale in significance. With Hank’s death came countless duties, from making funeral arrangements and notifying next of kin to stopping his mail and dealing with his personal effects. There would be much to do. The first travail would be going home to the apartment over Hank’s garage, where everything would remind Nat of his friend.
“Thanks for the ride.”
Nat said nothing. Abigail understood. There was nothing either of them could say.
Hood on, she hurried from his truck to the porch and rang the doorbell. Nat didn’t leave until Ruth came to the door.
“I’m going to have Denny’s head on platter,” Ruth growled, ushering Abigail inside.
Candles were burning in the living room, which made the oak paneling glow. The furniture smacked of a bygone era but was well maintained, giving the house the feel of a seaside rental rather than a permanent home. A can of diet soda and a book of crossword puzzles sat beside a lounge chair.
“Small change in plans,” Abigail explained.
“You don’t say? Give me those wet clothes and I’ll find you something dry to put on. Bathroom’s at the end of the hall.”
Abigail hung her soaking sweater and pants over the shower rod and stood shivering in her underwear in the bathroom until Ruth opened the door a crack and offered her a flannel nightgown.
“Ain’t pretty, but it’ll do.”
She slipped into the extra-large gown, then returned to the living room, where Ruth appraised the outfit.
“Better you look frumpy than continue dripping on my carpet. Take a load off. You look beat.”
Abigail dropped onto the couch. “I feel beat.”
“Saw that was Nat Rhone who dropped you here. He figure out you’re the one who freed him from the slammer?”
“Nope.”
“And that’s how you want it to stay?”
“Yup.”
“Consider my lips sealed,” Ruth said, sipping her soda.
“Thanks for talking to the sheriff.”
“Funny—this morning Caleb didn’t care a lick about what I had to say regarding Hank. He must have had a change of heart.”
“That’s what it must have been.”
If Ruth sensed what Abigail had done, she wasn’t letting on. For that, Abigail respected her even more.
“So, you think you’ll stay here, Abby, after everything Chapel Isle’s put you through? A fight at the Kettle, a suicide, a hurricane, bingo?”
“If you were me, what would you do? Would you stay?”
“Depends.” Ruth put aside her soda and folded her hands in her lap. “Have you heard of the Bishop’s Mistress?”
“Have I? It was the ship that sank when Wesley Jasper was the caretaker.”
Abigail realized belatedly that it was a loaded question. As usual, Ruth already knew the answer.
“That ship was named after a real bishop. He’d been a sailor, an old salt through and through. Gave up sailing to preach the gospel. According to legend, after years of being a priest, he missed the ocean so much that he was going to leave the clergy. Only he couldn’t do it. The Lord was his first love. The sea would have to be his second. Whether you stay here on Chapel Isle or take the next ferry home, it won’t make a bit of difference. It’s like trying to serve two masters. You’ve got the grief and you’ve got your life. The one you choose to serve is up to you.”