by Sarah Graves
Shaking off the cop’s grip, Steven’s adversaries all nodded sullenly. “Yeah, yeah,” they muttered.
“I mean it,” the cop pressed. “I ain’t a bit scared of any of you. You all know that from our past history together, right?”
The hooligans were too stubborn and dumb to back away, which let the cop make his point from a distance of about three inches.
“Right?” he repeated insistently. He had little red rosebud lips, a fluff of pale blond hair swept over the top of his head, and an air of simple unflappable confidence that said he was way more effective at law enforcement than he looked.
“Or maybe you’d hear me better if you were in the back seat of my squad car? Maybe I’ll find out you’ve got some more of the M-80s you’ve been setting off all over town?”
“No,” the gang’s leader muttered, and seemed ready to say something more. But then he thought better of it.
“Come on, let’s go find candy,” he told his pals, and that puzzled Steven. He’d have expected these guys to be beer hounds, not chocolate fiends.
But he forgot about it as they all skulked off and the cop turned to Steven. “As for you, you look like a nice guy, and this is a nice town. Believe it or not,” he said.
“But stay out of that crew’s way. I might not always be here to pull your butt out of a sling, you get me?”
You don’t understand, Steven wanted to say. From down the street the gang’s leader shot Steven a look so full of threat, it was all Steven could do not to laugh out loud.
That guy, he wanted tell the cop. It’s his butt you saved.
Jerry’s. Because of course Steven couldn’t kill him now. If the red-haired guy turned up dead, the cop would remember Steven.
And as delightful as it would be to watch those mean little gray eyes widen in fear, then bulge with the onset of asphyxia, it just wouldn’t be worth it.
“Yes, sir,” he answered politely. “I appreciate your help.”
In a way, he really was grateful. He wouldn’t have liked taking the beating those guys had been about to deliver, even if it did give him an excuse.
“Thank you.” His voice shook with the adrenaline that had flooded him, facing the four hoodlums. Still, something in it must’ve betrayed the fact that he was not as frightened as he appeared.
The cop narrowed his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, “I’ll bet your gratitude knows no bounds.”
But just then a barrage of firecracker explosions and a loud scream for help from somewhere nearby got Steven off the hook.
“Hang on, I’m coming!” the cop shouted, grabbing the radio on his belt as he ran. Turning, Steven walked toward a lantern-lit beer garden, scanning the throngs for his attackers.
But ginger-haired Jerry was gone, along with his black-clad pals. Too bad, Steven thought. A few inexpert punches, a bruise here and there … he’d have had to absorb that much from them.
But Steven felt sure he could have taken it easily, whatever they’d dished out. And then …
Then he’d have surprised them. Because it was all falling together now. He could feel it: the time, the place, his pent-up fury.
The taste of the too-rich food in his mouth. He let his gaze wander to the shadows past the streetlights, under the trees. At this hour, fatigue and alcohol sent groups and a few solitary revelers staggering unsteadily from the festivities.
Some got into their cars and drove away; he wished them more luck than they deserved. Others with weaving steps traced a zigzag pattern into the darkness alone.
One in particular caught his eye, a blonde girl in a tank top and shorts. Around her neck hung a thin gold chain that gleamed when passing car headlights hit it.
Steven eased alongside her, glanced over at her to see what the chain’s pendant spelled out in gold script.
And couldn’t believe his luck. Candy, it read.
Veering away, the girl stumbled a little; he caught her arm, steadying her. With a curse, she jerked from his grasp.
“Get away from me.” She’d been crying; he could hear it in her voice. And she was drunk.
“Beat it,” she told him angrily.
He stopped, letting her get ahead of him as she moved into the darkness away from the streetlights, until the sound of her uncertain footsteps had faded into the gloom.
When she had gone, he waited a little longer, in case someone else caught up. But no one did, so he followed her.
I WANT TO GO HOME.… SHE DIDN’T THINK IT WAS MURDER, didn’t fear she’d burn in hellfire for what she now had planned.
She didn’t even really believe, yet, that it was real. So why, every time she thought about it, did she feel like her heart was being gouged out of her with a rusty ice cream scoop?
For an unguarded moment she let herself think what it might look like: red hair, for sure. And brown eyes like her own …
But thinking that way would only break her heart even more.
Home … She strode on, weeping again, the gold signature medallion Jerry had given to her back when they’d first started dating bouncing on its gold chain.
Past the Motel East parking lot, she turned down the alley linking Water and Sea streets. It was dark and rutted, but she’d lived in Eastport all her life. She could’ve done this blindfolded.
On Sea Street, she turned unhesitatingly into the darkness. At least here she could cry freely, without anyone coming up to her and asking her what was wrong.
Probably the medallion was stolen. That’d be just like Jerry; why buy what you can get free? And now …
Probably he’d never even loved her. She took a shuddering breath as, to her left, the dark bulk of the old tin can factory loomed. To her right, a patch of waste ground sprouted burdock, Saint-John’s-wort, and a few ragged softwood trees.
And straight ahead stretched Sea Street itself, dark and mysterious-looking. But now her own home was less than a mile distant; minutes from now, she’d be in her own bed.
So she pressed on, past the ruined wharf running alongside Passamaquoddy Bay. It was low tide, pale stones and the stumps of old wooden pilings littering the beach.
Sniffling, she felt the clean, salt air clearing her head. After all, it wasn’t as if Jerry’s meanness was big news. She should’ve known what he would say, and besides, it was crazy, the whole idea of him being a father.
Still, she hadn’t been prepared for his look of scathing hatred, as if he might just reach out with both hands right there and—
“Get rid of it,” he’d snarled. “I ain’t havin’ no damned kid. I mean it, Candy, you’d better do it, or …”
Not I’ll help pay for it or even I’ll go with you. Just Do it or else.
With a sneer of disgust, he’d spun away from her. “C’mon,” he’d told his pals, who had been standing just out of earshot.
Then he’d left her with her mouth hanging open in shock and the first burst of fear invading her heart. Alone …
Now, trying not to cry again, she rushed on; in just a short while she would be in her own room with the door closed, avoiding her mother’s anxiously well-meaning questions. Already in her bag was the clinic number, which she’d saved because in her heart she had known all along that she’d probably have to use it.
Tomorrow she would make the call. After that, it would just be a matter of waiting until it was—
Over. But then … Wait a minute, she thought. I don’t have to do it. Do I?
Experimentally, at first. The sudden lifting of what felt like a heavy stone from her heart, though, couldn’t be ignored.
As if she’d known all along what she really wanted to do. Could do, if only …
If only she just did nothing at all. I don’t want to, she thought again. And I’m not going to.
Without conscious volition, she drew the card with the clinic number on it from her bag, ripped it into pieces. They fluttered from her hand out over the beach to the water, and into it.
Gone … A sound halted her; she turned, puzzled. Silence,
now. But the sound had been there, a noise like maybe a rock falling. Or a stone being pushed aside by a careless foot …
Suddenly the night felt less familiar. But when nothing more happened, she hurried on again.
Silly. Still, it was dark down here, and there were a lot of strangers in town. That guy who’d accidentally-on-purpose bumped into her, for instance; she paused again, recalling him.
But he wouldn’t have followed her this far … would he? She quickened her step. Soon she passed the lobster traps stacked row on row behind the fish mart and reached the part of the street that was only a bare track running along the ledge.
Now she was almost running, but when the sound came again, nearer, it was too late to get off Sea Street: cliffs jutting up on one side, a high, sharp drop to the water on the other.
Without slowing, she glanced over her shoulder. “Hello?”
No answer. The footsteps drew nearer.
“Jerry,” she quavered, “is that you? Come on, now, don’t …”
Scare me. “Who is it?” she demanded, but again there came no reply, and she began running for real.
Run. The lights of Middle Street appeared, mist halos around them. As she reached them a car went by.
Thank God … But when the car’s lights vanished, she was all alone again and the footsteps sounded implacably once more.
Swiftly she turned right, away from the dark road home, up a short hill and back to Water Street. There, houses stood packed close together. Once she’d reached downtown, she might be able to catch a ride home. She quick-stepped another block.…
And her heart sank, for ahead under the next streetlight a man stood. Waiting, hands at his sides.
Watching. Far enough away so she couldn’t tell who it was. And how did he get there? her mind inquired unpleasantly. How’d he get out in front of you like that?
He took a step toward her. Whirling, she ran onto the porch of the nearest house and pounded on the door.
“Hello? Help … help me, someone?”
But no one answered. All downtown at the party—
She tried the door—locked. She didn’t have a cellphone. Scurrying off the porch, dashing across the silent street, she managed to put some distance between herself and the approaching figure. But there was no way to avoid him completely.
Not unless she turned back into the darkness. And she wasn’t going to do that.
Hurrying along, she tried to figure a route that would get her downtown safely, then suddenly recalled she had a half-empty beer bottle in her purse.
From earlier, when she’d thought she wasn’t going to be a mother, so she could drink. Reaching into her bag, she grasped the bottle by its neck, just as a street sign loomed up out of the darkness and her heart leapt with hope. Eagle Street …
It was only a short, dead-end alley leading to the edge of the cliffs overlooking Sea Street and the bay. But there were at least half a dozen houses on it.
Maybe one of them would have someone home. And even if not, there were lots of places to hide in the yards and sheds of the old dwellings.
Gasping with fright, she scanned the street once more. Her unwanted companion was about half a block away now, not moving.
It was the way he stood so patiently that scared her worst of all. As if he knew that, sooner or later, he would get what he wanted. Turning, she dashed into the refuge of Eagle Street.
After a moment, the dark man-shape followed.
JUST BEFORE DAWN, STEVEN SLIPPED THROUGH THE FOG BACK to the old house he was camped in, feeling transformed.
A few hours ago he’d been scared by his own recklessness and furious with himself for giving in to it. But now he was starting to think he might be able to get away with anything.
On the streets nothing moved, not even the squad car he’d spied a few times earlier. Everyone had gone home, the food tents and trinket tables on Water Street zip-fronted and tarp-covered.
He crept into the musty-smelling wreck of the old kitchen and stripped off his clothes. He removed the flakes of dried glue from behind his ears and scrubbed all over with more of the wet towelettes from his pack.
A car went by outside; a foghorn hooted. Someone downtown turned on a boom box tinnily playing “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
Gunshots rang out.
Towelette clutched in hand, he froze in mid-scrub, his heart nearly leaping out of his chest. But then …
More gunshots, a measured barrage of them. Down at the foot of the street near the breakwater, he realized, relieved.
Of course; it was a sunrise Fourth of July ceremony, with an artillery salute. He’d seen notices of it posted on telephone poles. He’d been lucky to get inside before it began.
He spied his laptop on the floor and thought about hunting around the neighborhood for an outdoor electrical outlet, to recharge its batteries. That way, he could save the new ones he’d bought.
But it wasn’t worth the risk. Most of his computer work was done now, his messages and images all uploaded and scheduled for sending. They’d already begun reaching her, and the next one was due to arrive soon.
He did have one last prank to play before the main action of his plan began, but between his own gear and the local library’s facilities, he was already well equipped for it.
Rinsing his mouth with one of the juices from his pack, he spat the liquid into the old sink, then jumped as, behind the wall, something moved with a faint scratching of tiny claws.
Rat, he thought, and glanced around for something to hit it with, should it emerge. There—
On the floor lay a chunk of firewood left over from when there’d been a woodstove in here. He snatched it up and hefted it: just right for clubbing with.
He washed some crackers down with the rest of the juice, noting with surprise that somehow, the last few hours had erased his need to be compulsive about counting the bites.
I’m a new man, he thought with a shock of wonder. Everything is different.
After dressing in fresh clothes from the pack, he put the soiled ones on the floor, well away from his little campsite laid out on the tarp he’d spread.
Not far from the clothes heap, one of the kitchen’s doors led to what had once been a cellar stairway. Now it opened onto a pitch-dark drop, the steps fallen away long ago and the darkness breathing out a rank smell of ancient dampness.
Never mind, though; he wouldn’t have to be here for very much longer. Outside, it was growing lighter. More cars moved in the street, and soon what lay motionless on the path by the cove would be found.
It was a good time, he thought, to try getting some sleep. Glancing around a final time, he saw that all was in readiness for the events to come.
An unbroken chair that he’d found in an upstairs bedroom, check.
Electrical cord, check. Blindfold, handcuffs, duct tape, scissors, check.
And a digital camera with a card reader, double check. With luck he would fill its memory card many times, uploading it to the laptop whenever it reached capacity. Later, the laptop would serve as a scrap-book he could revisit anytime he liked.
Satisfied, he settled to sleep. But soon a sound woke him. The rat from the wall had emerged, creeping boldly onto the tarp.
It was probably smelling the crackers in his pack, Steven thought. Slowly, not taking his gaze off the animal, he let his hand move until his fingers found the thick chunk of firewood.
And closed upon it.
CHAPTER
4
AFTER A NIGHT OF LITTLE SLEEP, JAKE EXPECTED TO FEEL lousy the next morning. But instead she woke bright-eyed, long before anyone else in the house was up and about.
Coffee in hand, she took the dogs out into the backyard. With a hot-pink sun just rising through the fog that still hung on the horizon and the sky deep blue overhead, she breathed in the cool air gratefully.
New day, she thought. Another chance to put the past behind me, try to make up for it.
Or try to do better. Funny how a fain
t reminder of the bad old days could hit her so hard, this long afterward.
Put her in a funk, mess up her sleep, get her seeing threats where there weren’t any. Or maybe there weren’t.… But enough of that; the sky brightened as she finished her coffee and went in.
After feeding the dogs, she took a second cup to the front porch where she’d been scraping so diligently the day before, and where her unsettled mood had begun with the ring of a bike bell.
No unpleasant stranger pedaled ominously on Key Street now, though. Instead she had the town all to herself, or so it seemed from the silent houses and the empty sidewalks.
Maybe, she thought as she got out a can of white primer and a paintbrush, the not-so-merry prankster had departed. Maybe he was just a one-day event.
Gone, she thought hopefully, crossing her mental fingers as she pried the top off the paint can, poured white, soup-thick liquid into a painting tray, and dipped the brush.
Two coats of primer followed by two of paint was the way to be sure an outdoor structure stayed painted here in Maine. On an island, especially, salt air began attacking paint finishes almost before they went on, corroding new ones even as the old ones got covered over.
And—pessimism flooded her suddenly—her old house was enormous. Hundreds of square feet of antique clapboards needed scraping, sanding, setting-in of the old nails so they wouldn’t rust, and even caulking in some of the more disreputable spots.
Just the porch alone, with its elaborately turned wooden rails, posts, and pilasters that all required careful brushing and re-brushing, was a gargantuan project. Abruptly her earlier vision of a pristine white entryway complete with big clay pots of red geraniums seemed overambitious.
To put it mildly. But she did already have the paint can open and the brush wet. Also, it was unlikely that she would be interrupted for at least a couple of hours.
And finally, she’d already bought those big clay geranium pots, each of which cost the earth even though that was pretty much all they were made of. So, starting at the left-hand corner of the deck near the screen door, she began brushing primer into every nook, cranny, nail hole, and crevice, inch by patient inch.