The Sense of Reckoning

by Matty Dalrymple

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Afterword

  Acknowledgements

  Bibliography

  About the Author

  The Ann Kinnear Suspense Novels

  Copyright © 2015 Matty Dalrymple

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations in reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the author at the website below.

  www.mattydalrymple.com

  Cover design: Rob Frankel

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Locales, events, and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, or institutions is completely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  In memory of my mother, Mary Ellen Dalrymple, who introduced me to Nero and Archie.

  “O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts;

  Possess them not with fear; take from them now

  The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers

  Pluck their hearts from them.”

  Henry V

  William Shakespeare

  Chapter 1

  1947

  The seven blasts of the fire horn that signaled the evacuation of Bar Harbor rang in Chip Lynam’s ears. He turned from the Express Office where he had been headed toward Great Hill, which was framed by the buildings along Cottage Street, and gasped.

  Flames licked at the trees at the top of Great Hill, jerking and cracking in the wind that suddenly careened into town. For a moment the sky above the flames was clear, and then black smoke billowed over the crest of the hill. The wind-whipped October leaves were now mixed with black ash, spinning up into funnels where the air rushed around the buildings.

  As Chip gaped at the sight, the town, which just moments before had been muffled by a tense quiet, sprang to frantic life. A woman who had stopped on the sidewalk to tie her little boy’s shoe snatched up his hand and dragged him in the direction of the athletic field, the town’s evacuation rally point, the boy stumbling and tripping over the loose lace. A teenage girl just stepping out of one of the stores raised an arm to her face to ward off the swirl of smoke and grit, not noticing when the wind snatched her straw hat from her head and sent it tumbling down the street. An old man carrying a battered leather suitcase picked up his pace, hobbling to his car where he tossed the case into the backseat, jumped in, and sped down the street to disappear around the corner.

  Chip wondered how far the old man would get. If the fire closed the roads, they might be forced to evacuate by water from the town wharf. He didn’t envy anyone who had to leave Bar Harbor by boat—the gale-force winds that had blown the flames toward the town had also whipped the water around Mount Desert Island into a white-capped frenzy.

  But his mind wasn’t on the residents of Bar Harbor—they had town officials and the soldiers from Dow Field to take care of them. His thoughts were with the captive at the grand house on the hill.

  Chip scrambled to his truck, slammed it through a three-point turn, and headed back toward the flames, Great Hill, and The Lady.

  Chapter 2

  Ann Kinnear watched her dead dog disappear into the woods outside her cabin, following his dead master.

  She used to catch glimpses of them fairly regularly, when she was chopping wood or sipping a glass of wine on the dock on Loon Pond, but it had been several days since she had last seen them. It had been even longer since Beau had come to the cabin, and Ann had never seen the old woman come that close. But Ann could hear her clearly—hear the occasional whistled commands coming from the woods, commands Ann had taught Beau.

  Part of Ann was glad that her abilities allowed her to see her dog’s spirit, but part of her wished their relationship had ended as such relationships usually do: the dog dies, the person mourns and then moves on. But in this case, it was Beau who was moving on—bonding with the spirit of the ancient woman who had been instrumental in Ann’s survival.

  She should be happy. Her role in exposing Philadelphia society scion Biden Firth as a murderer had boosted the demand for her particular kind of consulting services. The fact that she had been able to receive messages from Biden’s murder victim had marked a leap forward in her ability. And the assurance of her fellow senser, Garrick Masser, that Biden’s spirit did not haunt Ann’s Adirondack cabin should have enabled her to slip comfortably back into the peaceful existence she had enjoyed before the spirit of Biden’s victim had grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the one piece of evidence that would implicate Biden Firth in the crime.

  But Ann was not happy. She found excuses to turn down the consulting engagements that her brother Mike, as her business manager, proposed. She avoided places and situations that might call upon her to apply her newly expanded sensing skills. And the cabin she had loved before Biden tried to kill her in the kitchen, gunning down Beau instead, was no longer a refuge. It was a lonely place, becoming more lonely as her dead dog withdrew from her and turned instead toward his new, ghostly master.

  With a sigh, Ann turned from the porch where she had been standing. She hitched up her jeans—she had lost weight over the last months, her usually slender frame now running toward gaunt. She pulled her mobile phone out of her pocket, checking for an email or a missed message from Mike, although he had called only the day before. There was nothing. Cradling her mug of coffee against the chill of the October morning, she re-entered the cabin’s kitchen.

  The floorboards had been replaced where the bloodstains—hers, Beau’s, and Firth’s—had proven impossible to scrub clean, even for her friend Helen Federman. Now the new boards stood out in raw contrast to the rest of the scuffed floor. The cheerful striped curtains that Helen had hung to replace the burned remnants of their predecessors distracted the casual observer from the charring still visible on the ceiling above the window.

  Ann contemplated her options for passing the day: explore the Adirondack Park for flora she could photograph as subjects for the paintings she sold in the local a
rt galleries; go to her studio a few minutes away to work on one of the paintings she lately had a tendency to start but not finish. She could go down the hill to the small dock on the pond ... and do what? She should get a boat. She briefly thought about pouring herself a glass of wine but decided it was a bit early even for her, although she had begun to pay less attention to such social niceties lately.

  She resigned herself to the less enjoyable but more necessary option of unloading the dishwasher.

  She was removing glasses from the top rack, questioning the wisdom of having gotten a dishwasher—she used so few dishes that it sometimes took her a week to fill it—when she noticed a red smear on the wine glass she held. Putting the glass down, she opened her hands and saw a slice across one of the fingers on her left hand, oozing blood. She had a queasy and disorienting moment while she tried to make sense of blood in the midst of such a banal activity, but then she noticed the crescent of glass missing from the rim of glass she had been holding, the edge so sharp she had not even felt it when it cut her.

  “Damn!”

  Now the cut was starting to sting. She grabbed a paper towel and wrapped it around her finger then, going to the bathroom, rummaged through a shoebox of first aid supplies. There weren’t any Band-Aids, so she cobbled together an awkward bandage from gauze and tape, managing to stain a white hand towel with blood in the process.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me ...”

  She ran cold water in the bathroom sink and sloshed the towel around in the water, realizing too late that the result would be to impart a pinkish hue to the entire towel.

  “Oh, come on!”

  She took the sodden towel out of the sink, dropped it in the small washing machine across the hallway from the bathroom, dumped in some detergent, and clanged the washer door shut on its tiny load. She had to get out of the house, just as soon as she finished unloading the stupid dishwasher. She returned to the kitchen.

  She plunged her right hand into the utensil basket and a dagger of the most exquisite pain she had ever experienced shot up her arm.

  “Goddamn it!”

  She jerked her hand back. Dangling from under her middle fingernail was a stainless steel paring knife. She jerked it out, bringing a strangled cry to her lips and a gout of blood to the floor. She staggered back to the bathroom and, pulling the mate of the delicately stained towel out of the cupboard, wrapped it around her hand where a bloom of blood immediately appeared.

  She collapsed onto the toilet seat and bent over, squeezing her newly wounded hand between her torso and her thighs. It hurt so much she wanted to cry, but it hurt too much to cry. Her stomach roiled.

  Gradually, the jagged daggers of pain were replaced by a violent throbbing and the red stain on the towel halted its advance. Trembling, she unwrapped her hand to examine the damage, then quickly rewrapped it when she saw. She stumbled into the dining area off the kitchen and, locating an almost-full bottle of Macallan, poured herself two fingers of Scotch, the neck of the bottle chattering on the rim of the glass.

  Holding the glass in her less-injured hand and the bottle under her arm, she went back to the bathroom and found a bottle of aspirin which she wrestled open, taking two, then two more. Aspirin seemed laughably inadequate but it was the best she had. Aspirin and Scotch.

  She made her way a bit unsteadily to the sitting room and lowered herself onto the scuffed leather couch. She ran a finger along a scratch that Beau had left when he had been awoken from a nap by the sound of Walt Federman’s pickup and had rocketed out the door to greet his friend. Her throat tightened and she took a sip of Scotch, surprised when it emptied the glass. She poured herself a refill.

  She needed to rest, then she’d feel better. She carefully placed the bottle and glass on the floor next to her and checked to make sure the towel had staunched the bleeding, then lay down. She pulled a mohair blanket from the back of the couch, suddenly cold, and as she drifted off to sleep she thought she heard a ripple of cruelly amused laughter.

  Chapter 3

  “Honey?” Ann felt a gentle shake. “Ann, honey?”

  Ann opened her eyes to a dusky light and Helen Federman’s hand on her shoulder. She tried to sit up but fell back at the pounding in her head. She covered her eyes with a groan, then winced as her hand put up a vague protest. “What time is it?”

  Helen looked at her watch. “Almost five.”

  Ann sat up in alarm, her head clanging. “Five? Are you kidding?”

  Helen glanced at her watch again. “Uh, no. What happened?” She gestured toward Ann’s towel-wrapped hand.

  “I skewered myself on a knife.” Ann held her hand out and Helen began carefully unwrapping it.

  “What were you trying to do, juggle them?” Helen asked, nodding toward the makeshift bandage on Ann’s other hand.

  “Unrelated incidents,” Ann grumbled.

  “Holy cow!” exclaimed Helen as she drew away the towel. “Practically took the nail right off!”

  Nausea swept over Ann and she lay down again.

  “We should get you to the hospital. Or at least a doctor’s office.”

  “It doesn’t really seem like an emergency room situation. And it stopped bleeding.”

  “True, but you can’t function with the nail like that, and I’m sure not going to take it off for you.”

  “Helen, stop, you’re going to make me throw up,” said Ann plaintively. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Brought you some strawberry jam,” said Helen, gesturing toward the kitchen. “Good thing too, I think.” She reached down and picked up a half-empty bottle of Macallan.

  Ann took the bottle and examined the contents. “Some must have spilled out. It was practically full, and I didn’t drink that much.”

  Helen raised her eyebrows. “If you say so. Let’s see if we can’t get you to Dr. Phipps’s office before he closes.”

  Helen called Dr. Phipps to tell him they were coming. She must have snuck in a call to her husband Walt as well, because he was standing outside the door to the doctor’s office as they pulled up in Helen’s car. Walt was a pilot and, with Mike booking Ann into engagements up and down the East Coast and sometimes beyond, Ann often made use of Walt’s charter services in his four-seat Piper Arrow. Walt and Helen were also the closest thing Ann had to parents, her own mother and father having been killed in a car accident when she was in college.

  “He won’t go in,” Helen whispered to Ann, even though they were still in the car and Walt couldn’t possibly hear them. “Not crazy about doctors.”

  Walt opened the passenger door to let Ann out, carefully averting his eyes from the bloodstained towel that Helen had rewrapped around Ann’s hand.

  “I’ll just wait here,” he said, hurrying ahead of them to open the office door.

  Helen shepherded Ann through the empty waiting room and called to Dr. Phipps, who emerged from his office and waved them into an exam room.

  Dr. Phipps earned Ann’s eternal gratitude by not only giving her a shot of something that numbed her finger but also by rigging up a little screen to keep her from seeing what he was doing.

  “I could just look away,” said Ann, embarrassed at the trouble he was taking.

  “Patients say they’ll look away but at some point curiosity always gets the better of them and they take a look,” he said, working busily behind the screen. “My nurse left for the day so I can’t take a risk of you fainting.” He covered the wound with a tidy bandage and replaced the gauze and tape on Ann’s other hand with a Band-Aid.

  Walt greeted them when they emerged from the building. “That wasn’t too bad, was it?”

  “Walt, you have no idea whether it was bad or not,” Helen scolded.

  Walt shrugged good-naturedly. “Want to go get ice cream?”

  “She’s a grown woman, she doesn’t want ice cream for being a good sport for the doctor.”

  “Actually I’d trade ice cream for a burger, my treat. I’m starving,” said Ann.

>   They compromised by having dinner at the Federmans’ where, Helen promised, she could provide a burger that would be much better than anything they could get in a restaurant—and ice cream, too, if Ann liked.

  *****

  Walt and Helen dropped Ann off at the cabin after dinner. The call from her brother came so quickly after their departure that Helen must have been dialing his number before Walt even had his truck turned around in the gravel driveway.

  “Hey, I heard you hurt your hand,” said Mike.

  “Jeez, can’t a person get any privacy around here?” said Ann, getting a bottle of Viognier out of the refrigerator.

  “Helen said you were passed out on the couch.”

  “I wasn’t ‘passed out,’ I lay down because my hand hurt and I fell asleep.”

  “For the whole day? With a half-empty bottle of Scotch next to you?”

  Ann returned the bottle of Viognier, unopened, to the refrigerator. “Mike, I only had two glasses, my hand was killing me. You should take anything Helen says with a grain of salt, she’s a worrier.”

  Mike sighed. “Well, she said the bandage was pretty big—sorry, bandages, I understand you injured both hands—so you should come down to West Chester a little early and let me and Scott take care of you.”

  “Damn, I forgot that was this weekend.” Ann had been working on a painting for Joe Booth, the Philadelphia detective who had investigated the Biden Firth case: a portrait of his niece and nephew based on a photograph he had given her. “I won’t be able to finish the painting in time—the big bandage is on my painting hand.”

  “I thought you were done with it?”

  “I need to fix some things. There’s a reason I’ve never done people before, they look more creepy than cute at the moment.”

  “I’m sure he’ll understand about the delay, it was a wound suffered in the line of housekeeping duty. You come down here tomorrow and we’ll still have dinner with him on Friday like we planned. I’ll make him something nice as a consolation prize.”

  Ann thought back to that morning—that unpleasant feeling of being at loose ends, the absent dog whose presence would have made being alone enjoyable, the general sense of unease she had felt since returning to her cabin after Biden’s attack.