by Sarah Graves
So it had become a favorite with them; besides, they knew Jake and Wade didn’t get a lot of time alone together, either. “We’ll be back home tomorrow afternoon,” her father told Jake reassuringly. “If you still had plans, of course we wouldn’t go, but …”
But now she didn’t. “Of course,” she told them firmly, shooing them out.
Which was when Wade finally came down from his workshop with a look on his face. Not a terrible look, not even a very serious one.
But a look nonetheless. “What?” Jake demanded. “Don’t tell me you have to go somewhere now, too?”
Because one thing about everyone else leaving the house was that it left her and Wade alone. And apparently the same thought had occurred to him; he wrapped his arms around her. What he said next, though, dashed her hopes.
“Listen, is there any chance that you could go and stay with Ellie and George tonight?”
While everyone else had been abandoning ship, she’d heard the phone ring. But he’d answered it from upstairs.
She wiggled from his embrace. “Wade. What’s happened?”
It couldn’t be a ship coming into the terminal, needing a harbor pilot. None were scheduled, not on the Fourth.
Or there hadn’t been until now. “Turns out a crew member on a boat bound for Canada has a diplomatic problem,” he said.
She blinked. “What do you mean? That he can’t get into the country?”
Wade nodded. “So they have to come here. Some immigration problem the guy has. Strictly a paperwork problem, but …”
He shrugged helplessly. “But they’re being hard cases about it at Canadian immigration. They wanted to know could I help out, but I already told them no, I had a situation here of my own. So forget it.”
She let out the breath she’d been holding. Not that she’d have had any problem staying alone; the dogs would be here, and there was no likelihood of anyone getting past Prill.
But her next emotion was guilt, mingled with the knowledge that George and Ellie had a spare room no one was using. And her own plan was postponed, anyway, so …
Her look said as much: that really, there was no reason he couldn’t go.
“Yeah,” he replied, “I figured when I looked out the window that we’re off for tonight. But that doesn’t matter; as long as your pal’s around, I’m a constant presence around here.”
He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “So get used to it.”
No problem, she thought, already planning ahead for dinner; when Bella wasn’t cooking, they often ordered out. Since tonight it was only the two of them, though …
“They’re just going to have to sit there in international water until someone can get out to them,” Wade added, meaning the Canadian boat with a non-entry-eligible crew member on it.
“It does mean I’ll be here for the flyover tomorrow night. Poor guys on the boat, though,” he added. “I bet that’s costing them a hefty bundle.”
For a freight carrier, time spent sitting idle anywhere was cash down the drain; that was why if he took the job, especially on a holiday with so little notice like this, the bonus would be substantial.
A windfall, actually. But with Steven Garner Jr. lurking nearby, she knew better than to urge him; even her staying at George and Ellie’s wouldn’t make him feel any better about going, after he began thinking about it.
She started to ask if he felt like grilling steaks, maybe opening a bottle of wine. But before she could say anything, the phone rang again.
“Jake?” Bob Arnold said as soon as she answered. “Good news, you can relax.”
“Who is it?” Wade wanted to know from over her shoulder.
“We’ve got the little bastard in custody,” Bob told Jake.
CHAPTER
9
YOU’RE SURE?” WADE ASKED AGAIN THREE HOURS LATER.
“Completely,” she replied, thinking ahead to a whole lovely evening of solitude.
That hadn’t been her plan, but time alone was rare enough that she would take it when she could get it. And now with Steven Garner Jr. already on his way to the lockup thirty miles south in the county seat of Machias, she could enjoy it.
Right now it was five in the afternoon, late enough for a wine cooler but still light outside even though the fog loomed ominously, a thick gray curtain halfway out on the bay.
“Really, I’ll be fine.” She sipped a cool mouthful, let it roll luxuriously around before swallowing.
Wade hiked his duffel bag higher up onto his shoulder. The tugboat was scheduled to leave the fish pier in fifteen minutes.
“All right, then.” He said it reluctantly. He wasn’t blind to the possible pleasures of home, either. But duty called, and so did that hefty bonus.
“I’ll be back in two days.” The ship he was assigned to idled hundreds of miles due east, burning up fuel and man-hours in international waters on the far side of Nova Scotia.
Not allowed to enter Canada with the iffy crew member on board, it was also at the moment not welcome stateside. But the paperwork was in process so it would be by the time he got there.
“Great,” she said, still giddy with relief at the news that her stalker had been grabbed. Or rather, had turned himself in, for reasons she couldn’t fathom.
“Bob Arnold says Garner just walked into the cop shop, slapped his ID on the counter, and said he’d been hassling me and did they want to arrest him,” she repeated wonderingly.
So Bob had, mostly to get the guy out of Bob’s hair—and Jake’s, too—for a couple of days. Later, Bob had told her, they could work on proving or disproving Jake’s still-active suspicion that Garner had already committed one murder here in Eastport.
But for now they had trespassing, terrorizing, and telephone harassment: the three T’s, according to Bob’s account of all the paperwork he’d filled out so as to speed the guy on his way.
“We get his prints, a cheek swab, coupla more things, maybe, we’ll know if he had contact with the Sea Street victim,” Bob had said confidently.
Not that he knew for sure Garner would give permission for those. He didn’t know why Garner had surrendered himself, either, and once he’d done so, Garner himself had zipped his lip and was refusing to talk to anyone but a lawyer.
Which, because he had no money and it was a holiday weekend, would take time to arrange. But it would happen, Bob promised.
Jake sighed deeply, feeling the day’s tension lift. “You be careful out there,” she told Wade.
He ruffled her hair, then drew her in and kissed her. “Yeah. You too. See you soon.”
Then he was gone, and the old house felt suddenly huge and empty around her. But none of that, she scolded herself briskly, and turned to the dogs, who cared nothing for who was at home and who wasn’t as long as someone was in charge of kibble.
Prill danced around the kitchen while Monday sat patiently, a doggy smile on her sweet old face. “There,” Jake said, pouring the food out for them, and when they had finished she leashed them up for a walk.
But she’d barely gotten around the block with them when the fog finished descending, turning the night damp and chilly. And Monday didn’t like going too far on those old legs, especially after sundown, when her cataract-clouded eyes couldn’t see far in the darkness. So they turned for home, and once inside, Jake went around switching lights on and making sure doors were locked.
You dope, she scolded herself again as she did so. What, are you going to be afraid of the dark now, too?
But the answer was no, especially once she’d started on a second wine cooler, this one considerably less diluted with fruit juice than the first. Still, even under its influence she didn’t feel nearly as good as she’d hoped, partly because the fog had brought true darkness on so much sooner than she’d expected.
And partly because Steven Garner’s grudge against her still loomed in her thoughts, even though he was safely behind bars. Through the kitchen windows, she watched the lights in the other houses dwindle to tiny sp
arks, then get snuffed out as billows of fog rolled in over the island.
Soon her own house felt like an outpost, nothing visible outside but the drifting mist coalescing now and then to drizzle. On the plus side, by now Bella and her dad would be settling into their room at the hotel in St. Andrews, while Sam was ensconced cozily somewhere with his new girlfriend, too, no doubt.
So no one would be driving. And Wade’s tugboat wasn’t even a minor worry, equipped as it was with the latest in navigation gear and able to find its way through anything short of hardened concrete, especially with Wade himself at the helm.
Which he surely was; it was a harbor-pilotish quirk of his that if he was on a boat, he was steering it. Reassured on the topic of everyone else’s safety and now confident of her own, she pulled the window shades, snapped on another kitchen light, and put on the radio, tuning it to the Eastport high school station.
A reggae tune lilted into the room, not one she knew; it was one of her favorite things about Tiger Radio, as it was called, that she heard things on it that were (a) music she’d never heard before while also being (b) music she wanted to hear again.
Soon her favorite I’m-all-alone meal was ready: deviled ham and hot baked beans on toast, with a whole steamed artichoke for the vegetable. A real glass of wine, no fruit juice included, accompanied it, and by the time she’d finished it she felt much better, indeed.
Just because somebody said you did something, that doesn’t mean you’re guilty, Ellie had insisted to her that afternoon, and now with the food and wine in her the admonition sounded halfway convincing.
But it had never been about what Garner thought, anyway, had it? Instead it was her own memory niggling at her, and always had been. She ran hot water on her plate, rinsed the few pieces of silverware she’d used, and wrung out the dishcloth. When she had finished and hung up the dish towel, in the lamplight the kitchen looked nearly as whistle-clean as Bella would’ve gotten it.
Nearly. She stood indecisively a moment. Then with a sigh she dampened the dishcloth again and began wiping countertops.
• • •
BY SEVEN, SHE’D POLISHED ALL THE APPLIANCES, INCLUDING the metal pans underneath the stove burners, mopped the floor, and cleaned out the refrigerator. The kitchen smelled sweetly of Ajax, fresh coffee, and newly laundered throw rugs.
“You know,” she told the dogs, who sat listening politely as they always did to humans who were in the throes of losing their marbles, “Bella’s right. This cleaning business is very calming.”
Like old house repair. Which reminded her, there was a loose wire in the light switch of the chandelier in the front parlor, and just barely enough evening light still coming in through the hall windows so she could probably fix it.
“Wait here,” she told the canines, and went to the cellar to fetch the stepladder. She’d already been down there once to put the handgun and the ammo back in the lockbox; Ellie could pop in anytime, and she might have Lee with her.
And it was just good practice. After she hauled the ladder upstairs, she remembered that if she was going to work on a light switch, it would be a good idea to turn off the power to it first, so she went back downstairs again and did that. The dogs’ heads were swiveling back and forth as if they were watching a tennis match, and her legs were tired from all the stair climbing.
But never mind; she was on a mission, so from the toolbox she took a pair of screwdrivers—a big one for the switch cover and a tiny one for the set screws holding the wires inside—and got to work, first removing the switch cover, then loosening both strands of the electrical wire itself.
By now it was getting really dark out; she hadn’t banked on those extra trips to the cellar. So it was harder than she’d planned, seeing which wire was which: the copper one versus the silver one. And it made a big difference how you attached them.
Copper wire to copper screw, silver to silver; she wasn’t entirely certain what the problem would be if you did it backwards, only that it was sure to make your house burn down in the middle of the night.
And, of course, with the power to this part of the house off, she couldn’t turn on a light.… With a mild oath, she turned and promptly bumped painfully into the stepladder, which she’d brought not to work on the wires but to replace two burnt-out bulbs in the chandelier.
Rubbing her bruised elbow and uttering another oath, this one much less mild, she proceeded to Wade’s workshop for a small flashlight; this she mounted to one of Sam’s ball caps with duct tape before putting the cap on.
By now the two dogs were practically rolling on their sides with helpless laughter, which they diplomatically disguised as yawning and pacing around the back door impatiently. It was, Jake realized with a prickle of anxiety, already past eight.
The dark gray sky outside the front hall windows would soon be pitch black, and on top of that it was nearly time for the animals’ final evening walk. Also, somehow she’d already lost one of the screws from the switch-cover plate.
There was, she thought—not, alas, for the first time—a fine line between the kind of home repair that tranquilized you and the kind that drove you shrieking out into the night. But she had to go out anyway—the dogs had quit pacing and were leaning against the back door with their legs crossed, pleadingly.
So: Collars. Leashes. “Out,” she told them, and they pranced happily ahead of her, even Monday, who lately had to sometimes be helped down the porch steps, her arthritis had gotten so bad.
Out on the sidewalk, after a disoriented moment of wondering where that bright glow was coming from, she took off the cap and pried the flashlight from the duct tape, then switched it off and stuck it in her pocket. On a night like this, so foggy that the light’s beam just bounced back from the water particles hanging in the air, visibility was actually better without it.
After that, despite the murk, it was lovely outside. Pale yellow coronas radiated from the streetlights, and from windows in the houses all around, white-gold squares fell onto the dark lawns. Turning back, she saw her own big old white house looming in the mist like some huge ship afloat on a sea of night.
“Wuff,” said Prill, stopping short. The dog’s ears pricked alertly and her stubby tail stood up as she stared ahead.
Monday gazed blindly, but there was nothing wrong with her nose. “Umph,” she muttered, not liking whatever it was, either.
Getting a good grip on both leashes, Jake peered into the mist. As usual, Prill made a fine early-warning system, but she was as likely to warn about a bit of litter blowing in the street as she was about a potential assailant.
And Jake could hardly see at all. The fog was now billowing so thickly, it didn’t even look real—more like special effects.
“Prill,” Jake said, “let’s go.”
There were no potential assailants out here. The dog glanced back at her, then returned to staring holes in the mist, and took a stiff-legged step forward. Then she froze once more.
Monday whined as Jake half turned. “Okay, let’s just go—”
Meeyowrowowyowowl! Something small, black, and very fast came out of the dark yard to her right, straight at her. At the very last instant, it changed course, scrambled up Prill’s back, and leapt from her head high into the air.
Prill spun around and snapped where the thing had been, missing it by a hair. A cat hair, Jake realized, but knowing it didn’t help matters as now the feline dashed the other way.
Monday charged, yanking on her leash; Prill hauled in the opposite direction. Then they reversed, and suddenly both leashes were wrapped around Jake’s legs. She sat down hard while the dogs tried pulling her arms out of their sockets; when that failed, they tried crushing her to death by sitting on her.
Sorrysorrysorry, their heaving sides, lapping tongues, and panting breaths seemed to say very urgently in the darkness. But it was a cat! they emphasized. A cat!cat!cat! It was a—
The animal that had caused all the commotion, of course, was long gone. Probably it was
back in the bushes there somewhere, laughing its head off, she thought sourly.
And painfully, Jake moved her arms and legs around, checking for fractures. None were obvious; the palms of her hands and one knee felt hot and sticky, though.
Like the skin had been removed from them, and half of it probably had. Also, her butt felt like somebody had just smacked it with a two-by-four.
“Yes, I know what it was,” she said grouchily, clambering up. And then, “Yowtch.”
Brushing her hands on the sides of her pants made embedded pebbles fall out of the wounded flesh. Also, straightening her right leg out was no barrel of laughs.
“I swear, from now on both you dogs are going to wear—”
Choke collars, she was about to finish, although she would never really have done any such thing to them. Then she noticed Monday hiding behind her leg. Prill stood at military attention.
“Uh, hello?” she said, exasperated, to the animals. “You want to let me in on what it is this time? That you’re going to drag me to my death about? Or should I just lie down and bang my head on the sidewalk here, and save you the trouble of—”
A shape stepped out of the fog. At the sight her voice froze in her throat.
A man, his features blurred by mist and darkness, stood motionless, maybe half a block from her.
The night seemed suddenly very still, the houses so far away she couldn’t have reached any of them in time to—
She opened her mouth to shout. A croak came out. Prill’s low growl was barely audible.
“Hello?” she whispered. Stupid, stupid, why had she not just taken the dogs out to the backyard?
Eastport was so safe at most times of the year, it was a shock when the holiday filled it with strangers. Unpredictable ones, who might …
The shape was gone. She blinked—no one, and both dogs were now sniffing around unconcernedly.
And now that whoever it was had gone, she too felt relief wash over her. And a bit of embarrassment …