Retribution

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  With the dog and cat sniffing a hundred scents in the forest, Sidney pulled the loaded wagon along the trail through the woods until she emerged in bright sunlight at the water’s edge. This was one of her favorite spots. It took only minutes to set up her equipment. Then, after watching a family of ducks splashing near shore, beside a half-submerged wooden rowboat that had stood along the shore for years, she picked up her brush and began to bring them to life on her canvas.

  Adam Morgan sat straight up in bed, ready to bolt, when he came fully awake and realized he’d been in the throes of the recurring nightmare. Rubbing a hand over his face, it took him a moment to gather his thoughts. The doctors had warned him that these terrifying dreams were part of the healing process. Though the wounds to his body were visible, and therefore easier to tend, the ones in his mind were no less serious. There were too many things about the incident that were still lost to his conscious memory. But they were there, locked away in his mind, and when herelaxed in sleep, they rose to the surface, taunting him with bits and pieces of the terror he’d experienced. There was still so much about the accident that he couldn’t remember. But he’d been assured by his doctors that it would all come back to him in time.

  He slid out of bed and moved slowly across the room. Filling a glass with water, he gulped down two capsules, then leaned on the bathroom sink and waited for the dizziness to pass. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and winced. Eyes bloodshot. Cheeks and chin darkened by several days’ growth of beard. It would take too much energy to shave. Besides, why bother? Who would see him here, in the middle of nowhere?

  The doctors had done all they could. Now, they warned him, what he most needed was time. His frown deepened. Time. There would be plenty of that now. He couldn’t return to work until the madman who dogged his trail was captured and put away for good. Twice Adam had managed to elude his stalker, and twice the man had proved just as adept at escaping the authorities, despite their best efforts.

  It had been Phil Larken, Adam’s boss and president of WNN, World News Network, who had arranged for Adam to use this lighthouse as his own private retreat. Though the nearby town of Devil’s Cove was small, there was a modern medical clinic and an excellent physical therapist. Since Adam couldn’t return to work until he had a clean bill of health from the doctors, and since they weren’t about to let him off the hook until he’d completed at least six months of therapy for the shoulder that had been shattered in the blast, this place afforded him the perfect refuge until he could take back his life.

  Odd, he thought as he returned to the bedroom. He’d been working nonstop since his college days. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken time off. As a photojournalist for World News Network, he’d covered every hot spot in the world. Asia, Africa, Europe, the Middle East. How ironic that his injuries had occurred not in some troubled corner of the world, but right here in the United States, in New York City, outside the United Nations Building.

  Now, here he was, feeling as though he’d been caught in a time warp. He looked around as though still doubting he was really here. The last time he’d been in Devil’s Cove, he’d been all of twelve, on a fishing trip with his uncle. He’d taken one look at the lighthouse that sat on a finger of land that jutted into Lake Michigan and fell wildly, madly in love. There was just something about the look of it. That tall spire looking out over miles and miles of nothing but dark water, its beacon the only warning the captain and crew of ships plying this lake had of the dangerous shoals and shallows that lurked beneath the waves.

  And now it was his home. At least until he healed. And all because, in a moment of dark depression, he’d confided in Phil that if he had to do nothing for six months, he’d surely go crazy. When Phil asked if there was any place he might be able to endure the boredom, Adam had blurted out his boyhood fascination with the lighthouse. The next thing he knew, Phil had used his considerable influence to make it happen. Adam had been invited by the historical society to spend the off-season living in the Devil’s Cove lighthouse, in exchange for photographing the various changes of season for their almanac. Simple work. A simple lifestyle. And because it had all been arranged quickly, and in complete privacy, the authorities were hoping that this time, his stalker would be confounded. Not that Adam believed it was over and he was safe. He’d believe that only when the assassin who’d triggered the car bomb that killed the ambassador and his assistant was behind bars, and not a minute sooner.

  Moving like a slug he climbed the dozens of stairs that led to the tower. Though the ships passing through the Great Lakes had long ago switched to the latest in high-tech navigational equipment, and the lighthouse was no longer necessary to the boaters’ safety, the computer-operated light still went on every day at dusk and stayed on until morning. There was something comforting in that. The sameness of it gave him a sense that, in a world gone crazy, some things never changed.

  When he reached the top he looked down at the serene waters, reflecting the forest that ringed its banks, alive with fiery autumn foliage. Smoke drifted from an ore carrier moving slowly upriver. In the distance was a ship bearing a foreign flag. Several sailboats danced across the waves, and Adam wondered at the hardy souls willing to risk the wrath of frigid water and fickle winds. Still, if he had the strength, he knew he’d be out there with them. Hadn’t he always enjoyed a challenge? It was one of the reasons he thrived on the dangers of his job.

  He walked over to the telescope he’d set up, so that he could keep a close eye on his surroundings. He peered through the lens, thinking there couldn’t be a more beautiful place in the world than Michigan in fall. Especially here on the shore of Lake Michigan. As long as he had to spend his sick leave somewhere private, there wasn’t anywhere he could think of that would suit him more, so long as he could see an end to the idyll. He knew himself well enough to be certain that even paradise would seem like a prison to him if it stretched on endlessly. He was determined to get out of here as soon as the doctor’s projected goal of six months of therapy was over. He shook his head, trying to recall the last time he’d spent six months in one place.

  Now that the daylight was fading to dusk, he decided to grab a camera and try for a few shots of the nearby forest at sunset. If nothing else, it would take his mind off his pain and boredom.

  Sidney alternately watched the antics of the duck family and lowered her head to return her attention to her canvas, perfectly capturing the line, the form, the symmetry of each of her models.

  In early spring she’d watched this pair of proud mallards bring their six babies to the water and hover over them as they’d taken their first swim near shore. Now the six were as big as their parents, and ready for the flight south with other migrating flocks. To prepare for the grueling trip, they were driven to search out as much food as their bodies could hold. Tipping upside down to feed on the bottom of the shallows, only their tail feathers were visible. It was a sight she always found endearing. She’d already thought of the title for the painting. Bottom’s Up. That had her grinning.

  Though the earlier afternoon sunshine had caused her to discard her corduroy jacket and roll her sleeves, she now shivered in the gathering shadows as she struggled to put this entire scene on canvas before the duck family decided to depart for warmer climates.

  Picasso lay at her feet, panting from his romp in the woods, his fur matted with burrs that would take most of the evening to remove. Toulouse was nowhere to be seen, but Sidney wasn’t worried. Even if he stayed out all day stalking field mice, that cat was smart enough to show up at her door in time for dinner. Toulouse never missed a meal a chance to curl up before the fire.

  She added a dab of paint to her palette, mixed it and bent to her work.

  Picasso’s ears lifted. He sprang to his feet, a low warning growl issuing from his throat.

  Surprised, Sidney turned in time to see a shadow emerging from the cover of the woods. As the shadow separated itself from the others, she realized it was a
man. At first, judging by his rough beard and even rougher garb, she thought he might be a hunter, until she realized that he was carrying, not a rifle, but a camera. A second camera hung from a strap around his neck.

  He paused, allowing the dog to get close enough to take his scent.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” His voice was deep, the words spoken abruptly, as though he resented having to speak at all.

  Sidney set aside her brush and wiped her hands on a rag before getting to her feet. “We don’t see too many people out here.”

  “I didn’t expect to run into anybody.” He glanced around. “I don’t see a car or a boat. How’d you get here?”

  “I live over there.” She pointed to the forest at his back.

  “In those woods?” He shot her a look of surprise. “I was told this was federally protected land.”

  “It is. Or at least most of it is. My property was grandfathered in before the government bought the surrounding land. It’s been owned by the same family since the turn of the century, so it remained private property. When it went on the market, I liked the idea of a guarantee that there would never be any neighbors.”

  She could feel him studying her a little too intensely. When an uncomfortable silence stretched between them she tried a smile. “How about you? I don’t believe I’ve seen you around Devil’s Cove before.”

  He didn’t return the smile. “Just moved in.” He watched the way the dog moved to stand protectively beside Sidney. “I’m staying in the lighthouse.”

  “Really?” She turned to study the tower that could be seen above the tree line. “How did you manage that? I thought it was an historic building now, and off-limits to the public.”

  “Just lucky, I guess. The historical society asked me to photograph the area for their almanac. In exchange, I get to stay there until next spring.”

  “Then you’re a professional photographer?”

  “Yeah.” He glanced at the canvas. “And from the look of that, I’d guess I’m in the company of a professional artist.”

  When he made no move to introduce himself, Sidney offered her hand. “I’m Sidney Brennan.”

  He seemed to pause a beat before saying gruffly, “I think I’ve seen some of your work. Wildlife?”

  She nodded.

  “Adam Morgan.”

  He had a strong, firm handshake, she noted. And his eyes stayed steady on hers until she withdreher hand and motioned toward the dog at her feet. “This is Picasso.”

  When he looked down, the dog cocked his head to one side and regarded him. “A good watchdog.”

  She laughed. “He knows who feeds him.”

  “Lucky dog. Since I have to feed myself, I’m about to head back and see about dinner.”

  “Dinner?” Sidney glanced up at the sky, noting for the first time that the sun had begun to slip below the horizon. “I had no idea it was so late.”

  “That must mean you were having a good day.”

  She nodded, surprised that he understood. “That’s right. I get so lost in my work, I forget everything. I even forget to eat.”

  “Yeah. I know the feeling.” He turned toward the lighthouse in the distance. “Good night.”

  “Nice to meet you, Adam. Maybe I’ll see you again some time.” Sidney began to pack up her paints.

  Seeing her fold up her easel and camp stool to pack them in the wagon, he paused, taking her measure. She was no bigger than a minnow and couldn’t weigh a hundred pounds. “You sure you can handle all that?”

  “Don’t worry. I haul it all the time.”

  She’d gone only a few paces when he fell into step beside her.

  At her arched eyebrow he merely took the handle from her hands. “Sorry. I’ve forgotten my manners. Living alone does that. I’d feel a lot better if you’d let me pull this.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse. She didn’t know this man, and wasn’t sure she wanted to get to know him. But she was feeling the effects of working all day without eating. Not really weak so much as light-headed. The thought of having help hauling this equipment home was comforting. “Thanks.”

  As they followed the path deeper into the woods, Sidney looked up at the canopy of fiery autumn foliage. “You picked a great time of year to visit.”

  When he didn’t reply, she added, “This is my favorite season.”

  “For the color?”

  “There’s that, of course. But it’s more. The tourists are gone, a lot of the trendy shops are closed until next summer, and there’s this wonderful feeling of anticipation.”

  He turned to her. “What is it you’re anticipating?”

  She shrugged. “Slowing down, I guess. Settling in for the winter. Have you ever spent a winter in Michigan?”

  “No. Tell me what I’m in for.”

  She laughed. “Snow. Mountains of it. I hope you like skiing, sledding and ice fishing.”

  “I’ll let you know after I’ve tried my hand at all of them.”

  “Where are you from?”

  Again that pause, as though reluctant to reve about himself. “Florida, originally. But it’s been years since I’ve been back.”

  “Where do you live when you’re not here photographing nature?”

  “Wherever an assignment takes me.”

  “Assignment?”

  “I’m a photojournalist with WNN.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really? I’ve never met anyone who actually worked for television news before. I suppose you’ve been all over the world.”

  He merely gave a shrug of his shoulders, as though reluctant to talk about his work. And though it was on the tip of her tongue to ask why he was here in Devil’s Cove, instead of some exotic location, there was something about his closed, shuttered look that told her he wouldn’t be comfortable answering any more of her questions.

  They came up over a rise and Adam stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of the cabin. “Talk about isolation.”

  Sidney couldn’t decide if he was impressed or dismayed. “I guess I’m just comfortable with my own company. I knew the minute I saw it that it had to be mine.”

  He shot her a sideways glance as she opened the door and held it while he stepped past her. Once inside he handed her the easel and stool, and she set them in a corner of the room, along with her paints and canvas.

  When she turned, she saw him rubbing his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.” He lowered his hand. “Just nursing an injury.”

  “You should have told me.”

  He shook his head. “Nothing to worry about. I’m fine.”

  Sensing that he was uncomfortable talking about it, she quickly changed the subject. “How about some cider before you go?”

  “Cider?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never tried our Michigan cider?” Sidney opened the refrigerator and removed a jug. “Apple cider. Made just outside of town at the Devil’s Cove Orchard and Old Mill.” She nodded toward the great room. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll bring you a mug. You’re in for a treat.”

  “I’ll stay here.” He remained by the door. “My boots would track dirt on your floor.”

  “You could take them off.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  When he didn’t move, Sidney filled two mugs with cider and handed him one before crossing to the fireplace, where she held a match to kindling. Within minutes a cozy fire was burning on the hearth.

  She looked at the window with a laugh. “I see Toulouse is back.”

  While Adam watched with interest, she walked over, reached around him and opened the door. The black-and-white cat bounded inside and crossed the room to settle on a rug in front of the fire, where he began grooming himself.

  “Another one of yours?” Adam as.

  She nodded. “Toulouse found us about six months ago. Just wandered in and never left.”

  “Smart cat.” Adam sipped his cider and looked around the cozy cabin, letting the warmth of the fire
soothe his aching shoulder. The place smelled of cedar, apples and faintly of linseed oil. A bowl of apples adorned the coffee table set in front of the sofa. He looked up, admiring the rugged cedar beams overhead. Spying the loft he tilted his head for a better look. “Your studio?”

  “Yes. It’s perfect under the skylights. I usually work there only when I can’t paint outside. But I much prefer working in the fresh air, with my models posing in the water close to shore.”

  “Models?”

  She laughed. “Ducks. Geese. All kinds of waterfowl. They’re my specialty.”

  “I see.” He noted the number of canvases, stacked in no apparent order along the wooden railing, and the easel positioned directly under the skylights. “I guess I’ll need some models, too. Deer and foxes, and whatever else I can scare up in these woods.”

  “You’ll be amazed at how much wildlife you’ll see. This forest is alive with some wonderful creatures.”

  He heard the warmth in her tone. “I’m counting on it. I’m hoping to put together a workable darkroom at the lighthouse, so I won’t have to send my work to an outside lab. There’s a fairly good-size utility room on the lower level that I think might work. It has a small sink and several long cabinets connected by a countertop. I think it’ll give me the room I need to develop my prints.”

  It was, Sidney realized, the most he’d said since they’d met. “It’s so nice to be able to work at home. If you’re like me, you’re going to like living and working in the same space.” She settled herself on the raised hearth and absently ran a hand over Toulouse’s back. The cat closed his eyes and purred contentedly.