by Sarah Graves
Jake shot Sam a warning glance. If Ellie—or, God forbid, Bob Arnold—found out she was planning to let Sam carry a weapon no matter what Bob had said, the resulting sucking noise would be the sound of her plan going down the drain.
Not that there’d be any reason for him to fire it, she told herself. With as many people as were expected in town tonight, to fire a weapon anywhere near them would be a disaster.
But he could aim it, and Steven Garner Jr. would be able to see him aiming it. And that was the important part. Jake put the emptied spray can down on the grass, picked up the full one.
“He’s only doing what I’ve asked him to. He’ll be watching me every minute, from one of the upstairs windows overlooking Water Street,” she finished, aiming the fresh can with a flourish.
She pressed the spray button. Nothing happened. “And if one of you is stationed in each one of those buildings, I don’t see how he can get near me without someone noticing.”
She quit pressing the button, shook the can hard again. “So if you see him, you’ll call all the others’ cellphones.”
Which of course they’d be carrying. “And,” she added, still shaking the can, “I’ll have one, too.”
“Uh-huh.” Ellie still looked doubtful. But she was starting to come around. “And then what?”
“Well, the next part’s a little tricky,” Jake admitted. “You wait until he does something. Grab me, probably. Or try.”
She pressed the button again; nothing. The very idea of Mr. Crazypants getting near her made her cringe. But the only way to catch him was to lure him out into the open, it seemed.
And tonight was the night. “How do you know he’ll do that, though?” Ellie asked. “Try something, I mean. For that matter, how do you know he’ll even be there, or do anything at all?”
“Because this is his last chance. Tomorrow everyone leaves. Eastport won’t be crammed to the gills with strangers anymore; he won’t be able to blend in.”
She scowled at the spray can, which still wasn’t working. “Bob says the guy’s got some prior offenses,” she added. No sense going into more detail. “So once we get hold of him, the cops will take him into custody and that will be that,” she finished.
Ellie looked suspicious. “If Wade were here …” she began. He wouldn’t approve, she’d have finished.
“But he’s not.” Wouldn’t approve was a mild phrase for what Wade’s reaction would be if he heard about this.
Which he wouldn’t, until afterwards. Ellie still didn’t like it, either. She was going for it only because at the end of it Jake’s problem would be over, and that was really all she cared about—Jake’s dad and Bella, too.
Jake gave the spray-paint can a final, ferocious shake. On any other day, she’d have already gone to Wadsworth’s hardware store on Water Street for another.
But the truth was, with Garner still on the loose, she was afraid to. The rest of them didn’t quite get it yet, not even Bob Arnold, and not even after last night.
But she’d seen it in Garner’s eyes, heard it in his voice, and felt it in his murderous grip: that now, he was just toying with her. But what he wanted to do was kill her.
Vengeance: in his own time, and on his own terms. In the place of his choosing, too. She hoped that the next time she saw Garner, she wasn’t in it.
Thinking this, she pressed the button on the paint can once more. To her surprise, it worked perfectly.
Too bad the nozzle had somehow gotten turned around, aimed straight at her. A black splotch bloomed on her sweatshirt front.
Like a bull’s-eye … and that spooked her, somehow. In the next moment, she’d have opened her mouth to tell Sam there’d been a change of plan, that not only was he officially disarmed but he wasn’t going downtown with them tonight, either.
That they’d have to come up with some other way for him to be useful. He’d have raised a fuss, of course. But she could’ve thought of something to placate him.
Perhaps having spied something in her expression that he didn’t like, though, he was already walking away from her across the summer-green grass of the front lawn.
Worse, though, was who else she saw when she looked up from the spray can: her husband, Wade, crossing the lawn toward Sam.
And worst of all was what he saw: that damned pistol, still sticking up out of Sam’s pocket.
“SO YOU WERE GOING TO DO ALL THIS WITHOUT ME.” IN HIS workshop, Wade sat on the antiseptically clean maple stool pulled up to his similarly clean workbench.
A surgeon could’ve transplanted kidneys on that bench, it was so spotless. But even through the fragrance of Bella’s Pine-Sol, the air up here still stank of smoke.
The burnt washtub pretty much gave it away, too, and if she’d gotten rid of it, he’d have asked about it.
He scowled. “You were going to go downtown alone tonight and dangle yourself in front of that lunatic?”
Not were, she thought. I am going to. Just not alone. “Wade, it’ll work. Wherever Garner shows up, there’ll be at least two people to rush down and …”
He shook his head in disgust. “You couldn’t have held off? I said I’d only be gone for—”
“Right, two days.” As it turned out, the ship’s crew member had resolved his security difficulties, so the vessel didn’t need to come into Eastport after all, eliminating the need for a harbor pilot.
“But if our situations had been reversed, would you have held off?” she asked, and when he hesitated, she went on.
“He’s been in our house twice.” Well, the time with the rat, he’d only thrown something in, but that was close enough.
“He’s harassed me, he’s taunted me, he’s terrified me, and he’s attacked me. He’s nearly burned the place down.”
She met his gaze. “He killed a girl on Sea Street, or I’m pretty sure he did. It’s a good bet that he stabbed a kid over on Washington Street, too.”
Swiftly she filled Wade in on the rest of the details, including that the New York cops were on their way here this very minute, and why.
“But they won’t be in time, Wade. He’s planning something. I can feel it, he’s just gearing himself up for …”
Downstairs in the kitchen, Bella was taking all the knobs off the cabinets again, this time scrubbing them with her special toothbrush, the one with the wire bristles.
“You’d have done the same,” Jake repeated. “If you were here and I was away, you’d have tried to do something, too.”
Surprisingly, Wade hadn’t objected at all to seeing Sam with a weapon, which was the part she’d felt most doubtful about. That she’d meant to carry out the plan alone, though …
Exhaustion hit her—that, and her ongoing feeling that this was all her fault. “I should have just given his dad that money.”
Because if she had, who knew what would have happened? But whatever it was, a disgruntled offspring wouldn’t be blaming her now. Blaming her, and trying to get revenge …
But to this Wade reacted sharply. “Oh, come on. Is that how you want to live your life? Doing things a certain way, or not doing them, just because someone else threatens to make you feel bad?”
He had a point. But in the mood she was in now, she couldn’t resist turning it around.
“So when someone else threatens to make me feel bad, I should resist. But not when you do about this, is that it? Now I should be reasonable and let you tell me the right thing to do.”
Wade pursed his lips, narrowed his eyes. “It’s not the same” was all he could think of to say. “It’s not the same thing at all.”
Which was when her temper threatened to get the better of her; she got up from her own stool at the workbench opposite him, averting her eyes from the charred floorboards under the window.
“Listen,” she said, “I can see you feel strongly about this, and I do, too. But I don’t want to argue. We can talk about it again later. Okay?”
“Yeah.” His voice and his face were stony. But Wade was no more
up for an extended argument than she was.
“Yeah, okay,” he repeated, and as she went down the shop stairs she heard him moving around, checking to see that all his tools and so on had been put back where he wanted them. Then:
“Jake. Be careful, all right? For the rest of the day …”
A retort rose to her lips, something along the lines of her not needing a babysitter. But Wade wasn’t like that; he was just worried, and after all that had happened, he had a right to be.
She was worried, too. She reached the downstairs door, put her hand on the knob, and paused.
She was very glad he was home. “I’ll be careful,” she called back upstairs to him on her way out.
But she was still thoroughly annoyed.
IT TOOK A FEW HOURS FOR STEVEN TO GET ALL HIS THINGS rearranged down in the cellar again, the tarp spread, and himself cleaned up again and fed. By then it was a little after two in the afternoon, and he still had the rest of the day to endure.
He couldn’t very well ride the bicycle past her house again; he’d upped the ante too much for that. But he couldn’t just sit down here all day, either.
For one thing, it was filthy. Now that he’d used a whole pack of the antiseptic towelettes just getting to feel halfway normal again, he didn’t want to have to do it a second time.
And for another, he was too excited. Just being alive, his own heartbeat thumping and his breath moving in and out of him, felt thrilling, like a roller-coaster ride that didn’t end.
But mostly he just didn’t like that big broken beam hanging over his head. Sure, there were other beams holding the house up.
It gave him the creeps, though, every time he shone the penlight up there.
All that weight, a whole house sitting on something he could see was cracked through. And not shining the light up there was worse, because then he couldn’t see whether or not the crack had gotten any bigger.
Although it hadn’t. He told himself it certainly hadn’t. Those things took forever to happen, buildings shifting on their foundations and so on. This house must’ve been here a hundred or more years; maybe the beam had been cracked nearly all that time. If old buildings could just collapse, you’d hear about it happening. It would be on TV, in the news. Nevertheless, he felt better when once again he mounted the wooden stepladder he’d positioned below the cellar door’s opening.
There hadn’t been any sound from up there since the cop had gone away. Cautiously, Steven reached the ladder’s top, put his hands up onto the doorframe, and stuck his head through.
A startled rodent squeaked, inches from his face. Rearing back, he nearly toppled off the ladder, but recovered in time to see the animal scuttle to a hole in the baseboard and vanish into it.
Rat. He felt his gorge rise. Bad enough up here, but later he’d be down in the cellar again, and …
But he wouldn’t be alone then, would he? The thought cheered him immensely. Maybe he could even introduce her to the little beasties.… A grin stretched his cheek muscles, so wide it nearly hurt. It just went to show there was always a bright side to even the darkest situations.
Bright for him, anyway … He hauled himself up through the doorway, careful not to kick the ladder over as he went; now that he’d hauled the mattress out of sight, he had no other way to get down.
And that reminded him: the rope. He’d slung what remained of the clothesline around his neck before climbing the ladder; now he cut another, longer length from the coil. In the afternoon light streaming in through the filthy old kitchen windows, he fashioned another noose, larger than the ones he’d made before.
Big enough to go all the way around a person’s waist, with their arms tight at their sides. Because otherwise, that person could untie the knot, couldn’t they?
And that wouldn’t do. But now they—she—couldn’t. He tossed the noose on the counter under the window, beside the old sink that was such a horror, he could barely glance into it.
Never mind, though. The fright of the rat’s appearance had receded, and he felt happy again. He was on the right track, he was heading for his final triumph.…
Soon all this would be nothing more than a bad dream. He crossed the sagging kitchen floor to the broken door, shoved it open, and stepped outside.
Squinting in the bright afternoon light, he touched his ears to make certain the fresh application of glue had worked. Then he popped the baseball cap from his duffel onto his head, and a pair of sunglasses onto his face.
A Red Sox T-shirt, navy shorts, and white sneakers completed his costume. In real life, he would never have worn any of these items, which was, of course, the whole idea.
He looked like … someone else. Anyone else; just not Steven Garner, the guy the cops were looking for. And in Eastport on the Fourth of July, there were about a million guys he did look like.
So he was safe. Casually he strolled down the broken front walk of the old house, to the street. From there he continued on downtown between the food tents and trinket tables. Good smells assailed him: hot dogs, cotton candy, fried dough.
But now he wasn’t even tempted. Partly it was that what he’d already eaten today had been satisfying enough.
Mostly, though, he just felt stronger. Much stronger; able to eat or not eat whatever he liked with no repercussions. The scrubbing thing was easier, too; normal cleanliness didn’t have to involve scraping off skin, apparently.
He supposed it was all on account of the other things he’d been doing. Things he’d only dreamed of … and with his ultimate goal now in view, he was practically invincible, the blood of one enemy on his hands and another soon to come.
Ducking suddenly to his right, up an alley behind the row of old Water Street buildings whose front windows looked down onto the festivities, he located again a low shed he had glimpsed the day before, just a shell of an old hut with no door in its entry opening, and a ragged hole where a window used to be.
From it, he could see all the way down the alley to where it opened onto the street, and all the people passing by. Which they would also be doing tonight, visible through the alley’s opening.
And as he’d hoped, placards in every window downtown said the holiday fireworks had been rescheduled for tonight, so that hours from now—
She would come, he was certain of it. After all he’d done to her in the past forty-eight hours, she would have some plan in mind, maybe even in cooperation with the police, to trap him.
His heart swelled in anticipation. When she came, he would be here, waiting. And then …
Then he would swoop down upon her, snatch her away, and the best part, the very best part, was—
She would never even see him coming.
CHAPTER
12
PULLING INTO THE LONG, CURVING DIRT ROAD TO SHACKFORD Head State Park, Jake saw at once that there were plenty of cars in the parking lot. Probably the trail would be crowded as well with hikers, families, and even a dog or two.
None were in sight now, though, giving her the illusion of solitude without any of the anxiety-provoking reality. Perfect, she thought as she got out of the car; she needed to cool off, get some exercise, take deep breaths of the sweet, fresh air.
For peace of mind, having other people well within shouting distance was a safety requirement at the moment, whether or not she resented it. But luckily, here she could have it both ways.
She slammed the car door, crossed the field overlooking Deep Cove. Out here on the grassy bluff, looking back across the water, things fell into their proper perspective.
She was fine, unharmed, and so was her family. Tonight she would do nothing more daring than she did every Fourth of July: walk downtown, see the fireworks. She wouldn’t even carry a gun.
Having one in the crowd tonight would be even riskier than going unarmed, she’d decided, and anyway, Wade would no doubt be carrying one. All she had to do was be there, then wait for other people to pounce on Steven Garner when he showed himself.
Thinking th
is, she started uphill past the large wooden sign at the trailhead. NO GUNS, NO FIRES, NO UNLEASHED DOGS, the sign instructed in big white letters; few enough restrictions, she thought, in exchange for the illusion of solitude, the unspoiled wilderness available here in the park.
Not that she was really alone. With all those cars in the lot, no doubt the next person or group was no more than a hundred yards off, easily within hearing distance if they made any noise at all.
But at the moment nobody was, the forest more inspiring of whispers than shouts. On either side of the first, sharply uphill part of the trail, young hardwoods sprouted, but after that the park was mostly old spruce and pine, a blanket of tan evergreen needles spread between their massive trunks.
She climbed steadily until the path emerged into a field of tall grass, then crossed the swamp on the narrow boardwalk. At its far end the real forest began, wild and ungroomed.
Black, fallen carcasses of ancient blowdowns angled this way and that, like twisted girders of a fallen skyscraper. Rising up through them, new growth spread an evergreen canopy overhead.
Here too lay silence, other hikers no doubt also hushed by the once-great trees now lying motionless and mute. She went on uphill, stepping over exposed tree roots as big as her forearm; soon the air cooled, only a few flickering slants of sunlight penetrating the green shade.
But the dampness was refreshing, and the smell of pine mixed with salt air felt cleansing on the inside, too. A few hundred yards farther up the trail, she sat down to rest on a bench made of a split tree trunk.
But as soon as she’d stopped moving, the questions she’d been avoiding popped into her head: What if Garner never went downtown tonight at all? What if he didn’t mean to use the fireworks as a diversion, to perpetrate something dastardly?
And even if he did, the whole notion of watchers from the windows above Water Street, strategically stationed so wherever Garner was spotted they could rush down to move in on him like pincers …
Way too optimistic, she concurred with Wade’s opinion now that she didn’t have to admit it to him. Just one small deviation on Garner’s part from anything she expected, and—