Gregory raised up onto his knees and blocked her view of the real world. He looked off to the left and smiled.
“You want some?” he asked.
Maggie turned her head to the right, and there, standing beneath the trees, was Brandon Wilmette, holding his own decayed and swollen foot.
Maggie bolted upright in bed, her chest heaving, her tank top covered in sweat. Coco jumped down as Maggie threw off the covers and put her feet on the floor. She took a few deep breaths, then grabbed her cell phone and her service weapon from the nightstand, and walked out into the living room. Coco’s tags jingled as she followed.
Maggie took a quick look around the living room, checked the locks on the windows and made sure the deadbolt was locked. She did these things, even though she’d done them before she’d gone to bed, because that was what she did when she had the nightmares. Fear didn’t require things to make sense.
She walked into the kitchen, got a glass of water from the tap, and drank it down. Then she got another. She made a point of not catching her reflection in the window over the sink. Then she rinsed out the glass, walked back to the main room, and sat down at the cypress table.
Before the day Gregory Boudreaux’s body had been found on the beach, she hadn’t had a nightmare in two years. She’d never had one in which she saw Brandon Wilmette, and she knew that it was dream, not memory. She had never looked into the trees. In fact, until two weeks ago, she’d never even remembered that Gregory had spoken to someone else that day.
Maggie absently stroked Coco’s neck and looked at her cell phone. Wyatt had called just before she’d gone to bed, and she was tempted to call him back, tempted to tell him she was on her way. She just couldn’t.
She would have no problem going to Wyatt’s or her parents if she’d been worried about Fain or whoever it was that had hurt David. But she would not run one inch for Gregory Boudreaux.
Maggie woke late for her. It was her day off, according to the monthly schedule, though she was still technically on bereavement leave.
She had her first cup of coffee in the shower, willing the steaming water to ease her muscles, cramped from stress and lack of sleep, while the caffeine cleared the dust from her neurons.
After she got dressed, she fed the chickens and let Coco run around to do her business, then she filled Coco’s bowls on the front deck, leaned on the railing, and stared at David’s truck as she drank her second cup of coffee.
She found several things to do instead of the things that she knew needed to be done. She cleaned the chicken coop. She picked cucumbers, beans, and overgrown zucchinis from her raised beds, throwing much of the produce into the chicken yard because it was past its prime. She mopped her floors and did some laundry.
In between all of these chores, she stood at the deck rail, drinking more coffee or a glass of tea, and stared at David’s truck while Coco sat beside her.
Finally, late in the afternoon, she grabbed David’s keys from a hook by the door, left Coco on the deck with an apology, and climbed into David’s truck.
There was still a trace of Jovan Musk in the cab, and the indentation in the worn driver’s seat made Maggie unbearably sad. She shifted herself into it, settled her backside into the dip that David had created over the years, moved her right leg so that her legs fit inside the two slight grooves. Then she took a deep breath and let it go ahead and tear at her. She gave the pain a few moments to roam freely, then adjusted the seat forward with a jerk, started the truck, adjusted the mirror, and headed up her dirt road.
Maggie pulled into Stephenson’s Funeral Home, shut off the truck, and sat there for a moment. Off to the west, the sky looked like someone had decided to put a tin roof over the bay, and Maggie heard a short succession of thunderclaps in the distance. Outside David’s open window, a palmetto’s dry, fan-like fronds rustled in the breeze, sounding like elderly ladies dressed in stiff old crinolines, hurrying away from inclement weather.
She took a deep breath and opened the truck door, cringing just a little at the familiar, metallic whine of rusty hinges. Then she slammed it shut and headed inside.
She was only in the red-carpeted lobby for a few seconds before she was greeted by a tall man with the build of someone who had played football long ago. His graying blond hair was molded into place, his gray pinstripe suit was perfectly pressed, and he wore what could only be described as a smile of perpetual sympathy.
“Good afternoon,” he said smoothly as he walked into the reception area.
“Hello,” Maggie said. “I’m Maggie Redmond. I’m here to, uh…pick up my ex-husband’s remains.”
“Yes, yes,” he said softly, and held out a hand. Maggie took it. It was large, but plump and soft and overly warm. “I’m Benjamin Stephenson. We’ve met a few times over the years. Please accept my condolences on your husband’s passing.”
“Thank you,” she said.
He spread an arm in the direction from which he had come. “Please come this way,” he said, and Maggie followed him down a thickly carpeted hall to an expensively furnished, overly decorated office.
He indicated one of the maroon velvet armchairs that sat in front of a large cherry desk. “If you’ll just have a seat, it won’t take but a moment.”
Maggie sat down, and Stephenson walked around the desk and sat down in the brown leather desk chair. Maggie read a small enamel plaque that promised eventual peace for those in grief while Stephenson opened a file drawer and rifled through a few manila folders.
“Yes, here we are,” he said, pulling out one of the file folders. Maggie saw, as he laid it down, that it was labeled Seward. She thought about slapping the enamel plaque, but inspected a landscape on the wall instead.
Stephenson opened the folder and slipped out a white form with both yellow and pink copies attached in back. “I’ll just need you to sign here, above your name. And also initial here. This is just a form accepting possession of your loved one’s remains.”
He handed Maggie a pen, and she glanced over the form, then signed and initialed as asked. He slid the form back to his side of the desk and slipped another out of the file, a stiff white card. “And here as well. And, although I know who you are, I will need to see your Driver’s License. I apologize.”
Maggie pulled her wallet out of her purse, and struggled to remove her license from the clear plastic window. As she did, she couldn’t help noticing that the issue date was almost exactly five years ago. She had just gotten her divorce decree, and had gotten a new license with her old name. Now she wondered why that had seemed important.
She passed the license over to Stephenson, signed the card, and handed it to him, too. He gave her a warm smile, then copied her license number down on the first form, gently tore off the pink copy, and handed it to her.
“I’ll be just a moment,” he said as he stood. “Would you care for a bottled water or a cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you,” Maggie said, twisting her hands in her lap.
He nodded and headed around his desk. “Please make yourself comfortable and I’ll be right back with you.”
After he’d gone, Maggie looked around the room. She supposed that the oil landscapes, simple floral arrangements, and vanilla oil candle were meant to comfort and calm. All they did was make her feel like she was exactly where she was, and had lost exactly what was gone.
She had just had the slightly panicked thought that, if she ran out to the truck and left, she could somehow postpone reality, when Stephenson came back into the room, cradling a squat, dark blue jar in both hands.
Seeing it, seeing her husband being carried in the palms of another human being, was jarring, and she stood out of reflex, or maybe a desire to flee. She couldn’t take her eyes off of the jar, as Stephenson came to stand in front of her.
“As per your and your husband’s request, it’s completely bio-degradable. It looks like pottery, but it’s actually made of gelatin and sand. It will biodegrade in just a few weeks in soil, or about thr
ee days in water.”
Maggie swallowed and nodded.
“The lid does remove easily, if you wish to scatter your loved one’s ashes. You’ll find, when you remove the lid, that there’s a tab inside that will reveal a perforated cap for that purpose.”
“Thank you,” Maggie said, but barely.
“Is there anything else that I can do for you, Ms. Redmond?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Very well.” He extended his arms a bit, handed the jar out to her. “Again, you have my deepest sympathies, and the prayers of all of us at Stephenson’s Funeral Home.”
Maggie reached out and took the jar in both hands. It was impossible for her to comprehend, that David had been reduced to something that weighed fewer than five pounds, and took up less space than a gallon of milk.
“Thank you,” she said for the third time, resting the jar against her stomach. Then she walked away from Stephenson’s gentle smile without another word.
It took Maggie a few minutes to figure out what to do with the urn once she had gotten into the truck. She’d never even seen a cremation urn before, and it had all seemed so abstract when she and David had paid for the arrangements so long ago. She had thought that she would be elderly when she did see it, and that she would somehow know what to do with it, as though advanced age imparted secrets the young couldn’t know.
Finally, she set it down in the passenger seat, wrapped the seat belt around it and buckled it in, then stuffed her purse up against it as well. Then she started the truck and drove away.
She pulled into the small grassy area that served as parking for Ten Hole Marina, a handful of boat slips near Battery Park that served as mooring for a handful of small houseboats and sailboats. She got out of the truck and shut the door, then opened it again and reached into the space behind the front seats, pulled out a beach towel, and draped it over the urn. Then she locked the truck and headed down the dock.
David’s houseboat, a 38-foot white Burns Craft of 1970s vintage, was in the last slip. Maggie stepped aboard onto the small bow deck, where there was a pair of captain’s chairs and a small plastic table. A coffee mug with a dried brown ring at the bottom sat on the table. Maggie ignored it and sifted through David’s truck keys, found the one that opened the cabin door, and went inside.
The cabin was small and old, but it was neat and somewhat cozy. Maggie had entered into a cramped galley with just enough room for a booth. A few steps down to the left was the living area, with the stateroom and head beyond. Maggie stood there for a moment, gave herself just a few seconds to dwell on the fact that when David had last left, he had expected to come home. Then she stepped down into the living area.
The guitar that she’d bought for David was leaning up against an upholstered chair. Maggie went to it and picked it up gently by the neck. Then she walked over to a small, built in desk. There were two framed pictures on the shelf above the desk. One was of her and David, sitting on the deck in back of Boss Oyster, back when they’d still been married. The other was more recent, a shot of David and the kids from when they’d gone fishing last summer.
Maggie reached out to pick up the picture of her and David, and her hand stopped in mid-air. On the shelf beside it sat David’s silver wedding band. She picked it up and stared at it, felt something pressing on her chest, then took a deep breath and shoved it into the front pocket of her jeans. Then she snatched up both of the pictures and hurried back outside.
Maggie was halfway home when Wyatt called.
“Hey,” she answered.
“Hey, yourself. Where are you?”
“I’m on my way home. Where are you?”
“The office,” he answered. “I have some news that I think you’ll like hearing.”
“What’s going on?”
She heard some paper shuffling at the other end. “I’ve just finished going through David’s bank statements for the last three years,” Wyatt said. “For a little over two years, he’d been making weekly deposits into his savings account.”
Maggie felt a part of her eager to get hopeful and she tried to talk it down. “Okay.”
“No deposit was over a thousand dollars. Most of them were just a few hundred. As of his last deposit, dated June 19, he had $41,290.00. He purchased a cashier’s check on June 27 for $39,500, made out to Gilbert Marine in Mobile, Al.”
Maggie checked behind her for cars, then pulled over onto a small gravel turnaround. “David didn’t steal anything,” she said quietly.
“It doesn’t look like it. Maybe it was for another reason, or maybe it was a mistake,” Wyatt said. “But he saved up for the boat, just like he said.”
Maggie put her head down on the steering wheel. “Thank you,” she said.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. I will be.” She sat up and blew out a breath. “You have no food in your refrigerator.”
There was silence on the other end for a moment, but Maggie thought she could hear Wyatt smiling when he spoke. “That’s not true. I have two weeks’ worth of leftovers in my refrigerator.”
“I thought maybe you’d want to come over and let me cook you dinner.”
“Well, I’d like to come over. I’ll even eat. But you don’t have to cook. I can bring something.”
“From your fridge?”
“That’s not nice.”
“I’ll cook. It relaxes me.”
“Then I’ll eat your real food,” he said. “What time would you like me to present myself to you?”
“When are you leaving the office?”
“In about an hour. I do need to go home and shower, though.”
Maggie looked at her ancient Timex. It was almost six. “Okay, well, just come over whenever you’re ready.”
They hung up, and Maggie looked over at the urn on the passenger seat, the pictures next to it, and the guitar on the floorboards.
He was still gone. But he hadn’t done anything to make that happen. She felt like a piece of him had just been given back to her.
When Maggie parked next to her Jeep in the gravel parking area, Coco had already barreled down the deck stairs and flung herself into the grass in front of the truck. Stoopid ran over her belly, flailed at Maggie with a half-hearted crow, then ran back across the yard, wings akimbo, looking like a failed experimental plane.
Maggie rubbed Coco’s belly, then opened the passenger door and unbuckled the seat belt. Then she grabbed the guitar and the pictures, carefully picked up the urn, and carried everything inside, Coco at her heels.
She slid the urn gently onto the narrow table behind the couch, then set the guitar and pictures down. The thought occurred to her that David had finally come home, and she squashed it quick, lest it ruin her.
After grabbing a drink of water, she pulled some pork chops out of the fridge, seasoned them and set them aside, then went back into the living room. She leaned David’s guitar up against the bookshelves he had built, and stood the pictures on top. Then she remembered David’s wedding band, and pulled it out. She tucked it into her jewelry box in her room, a gift one day for Kyle.
She treated herself to a nice, long shower, put on some clean yoga pants and a tee shirt, and headed out to feed the girls for the night.
“No, Coco, not you,” she said, as she opened the sliding door. “I don’t need you tormenting the girls tonight.”
Coco sat down, and Maggie pulled the door shut, ignoring the look of utter despair thrown her way.
She walked down to the chicken yard, relieved to feel rain in the air at last. It wasn’t there yet, but it would be. She could taste it on her tongue. Chances were good that she and Wyatt would have to eat inside.
She got the cut-down milk jug from the shed, filled it with chicken feed, and walked over to the fence that surrounded the chicken yard. The dozen or so hens, a conglomeration of breeds, all came nattering over to the fence, exclaiming over their neglect and expressing their keen interest in having it rectified.
Stoopid cam
e barreling in from everywhere, flapped a few times, and landed atop the fence next to Maggie.
“Dammit, Stoopid, I hate it when you—”
Something punched her in the front of her shoulder, and she lost her balance. She was halfway to the ground before she heard the shot.
She landed on her back. Oddly, she was still holding the feed jug, which landed upright and mostly full. Stunned, she glanced over at the fence, thinking for just a second that Stoopid was the one in danger. But he was gone and no one had come here to shoot her rooster.
Her brain finally started moving again, and she half sat up. Her shoulder screamed at her as she reached back for her weapon, but she realized that she’d never put her holster back on after her shower. Her .45 was still in her bedroom.
She was starting to get dizzy, and she could hear Coco going completely nuts inside the house. She looked up, and saw Coco jumping at the sliding glass door, saw the short, thin man in jeans and a Florida Marlins jersey walking across the yard to her.
She tried to focus on his face, but she knew she didn’t know him anyway. She blinked a few times, virtually willed the fog away from her vision and her mind, as the man came to stop just a few feet away. He held a .22 down by his side.
“I’m tired of cleaning up Boudreaux’s messes,” he said quietly, and started to raise the gun.
Maggie swung the jug up toward his face and let it go, and she was up off of the ground before the seeds, pellets and a surprising amount of dust flew into his face. He was between her and the house, with nothing but a clear shot at her if she tried to get across the yard. She ran for the woods, just a few feet behind the chicken yard.
She could hear Coco losing her mind, her barking muffled and distant, but sounding so much more vicious than people gave her credit for. She could also hear the man swearing behind her, and another shot rang out. Maggie heard it whistle past to her right, as she veered to the left.
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