by Kate Wilhelm
Before Abby could position the gun against her shoulder, the ramp light went out, the light at the back of the cabin went out, and there was only the black night.
Spook made a low growly sound, a deep rumble in her throat. "Be quiet," Abby whispered. "Spook, watch."
What was he doing? What had he planned? Maybe he had a light of some sort in the canoe. She shook her head. A flashlight wouldn't be of any use to him, not unless he followed the black shore all the way around the finger to the ledge. That would take a long time. But if he didn't have a light, or if he had a night-light of some kind, she wouldn't be able to see him when he came ashore; she would have to rely on Spook to warn her, rely on her own ears to warn her. She didn't move, listening, watching for the beam of a flashlight to come on, go off. It was so dark, nothing was visible—no sky, no water, nothing.
She had begun to feel drowsy, but adrenaline and the cold air had roused her, and now fear raised her to an even higher level; she could hear her own heart, Spook's every breath, the whisper of water on basalt. ...
Then she heard the sound of a paddle slapping water, and again.... It got louder, nearer; he was beating the water, not sliding the paddles in. The sound began to fade again. Drawing away? Or had he begun to master the technique? She leaned against the counter to get closer to the window, and she heard it again, the splash of a paddle hitting water, but it was faint, farther away.
He was lost, she thought then. Out there in the dark, lost. She didn't move, listening.
After a long silence, during which she hardly breathed, straining to hear, she lowered the shotgun to the counter and rested her hand on Spook's head; the dog's ears were stiff, her hair bristled, her whole body was rigid, listening, on watch. If Brice came this way again, Spook would know, and through her Abby would know. She didn't move again for a long time.
Then she heard a faint cry from far away; it sounded like the scream of an owl. Slowly Abby reached out and closed the window. If it had been closed before, she wouldn't have heard the cry, she thought distantly. She sat in the rattan chair and started to shiver.
Across the finger Felicia was standing at the back of the boat shed, also listening, and she too heard the cry that could have been an owl. Slowly she began to make her way back to the house, using the guideline rope as before, blind in the pitch-black night. She reentered the house without a sound and returned to the dining room, the comfortable chair by the window, where she sat down and pulled the cover about herself without removing her heavy jacket, her gloves, or the stocking cap. She was aching from the cold and she knew that without electricity, the house would only get colder.
24
"It's time," Felicia said, touching Willa's shoulder. The young woman was sleeping, huddled in a tight mass, with a blanket up to her nose; the house had become refrigerator-cold overnight. Felicia was still dressed in her heavy outdoor clothes, her face flushed with cold. "If we're going to get to the cottage before the park ranger drives through, we'd better be on our way," she said.
Willa yawned and sat up.
"Let's put that chair back where it belongs, and while you straighten up things in here, I'll collect that rope, and we'll be off," Felicia said. Together they moved the easy chair back to the living room, and afterward Felicia went outside quickly. The sky was lightening, but the woods were still very dark, with shadows dense and impenetrable. She needed her penlight to see the circuit breakers, restore them to their proper places. Then she followed the guideline to the end of the boat shed and gazed at the cabin across the finger; the pale light looked warm, soft yellow against black. At this side, the ramp light was enough so that it was a matter of seconds to undo the rope and start back to the house, coiling the rope as she went.
They finished up in the Halburtson house quickly, went out and got into Felicia's car, and she backed out from between the two pine trees, turned, and headed toward the road. At the spot where the driveway branched, she caught a glimpse of Abby's little black car down near the carport. Willa's eyes were closed, and Felicia didn't say a word. She drove to the cottage.
"It was a bust," Willa said tiredly when they got out of the car. "But I'm glad we did it. Are you okay?"
"Fine," Felicia said. "I'm fine." She opened the cottage door, where they were greeted by the two excited poodles. "As far as the rest of the world is concerned, last night we drove home, talked awhile, then went to bed. Not a word about anything else. Agreed?"
"Of course," Willa said.
"You should go on to bed now, get in a few hours of real sleep at least. I'll let these idiot dogs out and as soon as they come back in, I'll go to bed."
Willa was already peeling off layers of clothes as she headed toward the bedroom they had been sharing. There was a sofa made up for a bed in the room, and Felicia's twin bed, one easy chair with a lamp nearby on an end table, and a chest of drawers. Enough.
While she waited for the dogs, Felicia stood at the kitchen window gazing out over the lake that was slowly defining itself, re-creating itself from darkness, form out of chaos. Presently the poodles wanted back in; she opened the door for them, undressed, put on a warm flannel gown, and went to bed.
In the cabin, when the light came back on and she could see what she was doing, Abby put things back in their place, then huddled on the couch, shivering hard. She should go to bed, get some sleep, she knew, but she leaned back, pulled one of the gaudy throws around herself, and after a long time fell asleep.
At nine Felicia woke up; then, putting on her robe, she went to the kitchen to look at the lake, at what was happening out there. On shore were two sheriff's cars, a truck, and a rescue-team ambulance. A few people were being kept back by a deputy—curious campers, she guessed. In the water she saw a six-man rowboat, with men grappling for something. She was glad they hadn't sent a diver down; the water was too cold to put anyone through that. She went to rouse Willa.
They stood side by side watching for a moment, then Willa said faintly, "We have to call Abby. He must have gotten to the lake somehow." She looked and sounded terrified.
"Did you see any car lights?"
"No! But he must have gotten in!" She ran to the phone and punched in numbers, and after a few seconds, her face ashen, she said, "The phone's disconnected or something. I'm getting a recording."
"I have her cell phone number," Felicia said, and hurried to find it in her address book. Her hands were shaking.
Willa placed the call, and on the fifth ring Abby answered groggily. Willa slumped down into a chair. "Listen," she said, "something happened out on the lake last night. The sheriff is here and a lot of men are looking for something in the water. I think you should come over. Drive. Don't come by boat." She listened a moment, then said, "We didn't, either. No one." When she hung up, she looked old and tired. "She didn't hear or see a thing during the night."
Felicia nodded. "Thank God!" She was putting on her heavy jacket and stocking cap. "I'm going to talk to the sheriff," she said. "Ed Grayson. I've known him all his life. Why don't you make coffee?"
She wanted to intercept Abby before the sheriff got to her, or one of his deputies turned her away. Abby would see the little black car; she might not be able to get around it without scraping it, in fact, and she would know what they were looking for out there. Felicia let herself out and walked toward the ramp area and the sheriff.
"What's going on, Ed?" she asked when she drew near him. He was a slightly built man with a mustache far too big for his face. He was very proud of that mustache; he seemed to think it made up for a fast-receding hairline.
"Morning, Mrs. Shaeffer," he said. "Reckon there's been some kind of accident out there. The park ranger spotted a little boat hung up on the rocks and called us, and here we are. I put in a call to the state troopers, 'cause that lieutenant—Caldwell?—he said if anything unusual happened out here, he should be called. And that's all I know."
She nodded. It probably was all he knew. She pointed to a small blue canoe on the shore, par
tly deflated. "That was out there?"
"Yep. Damnedest thing I ever saw. Rubber canoe, who would have thought of such a thing?" He shook his head in wonder.
They stood gazing at the canoe for a time. Out on the lake the men continued to drop the grapple over the side of the boat, and pull it up. Then Felicia saw the van appear on the park road that edged the parking area, and she waved to Abby to stop. "It's Abby," she said to the sheriff. "Jud's daughter. I thought since she was at the cabin alone, maybe she should come on over and stay with us for a time, until we know what's going on out there." She went to meet Abby, who was still in her clothes from the day before and who looked as if she had been up all night. She was pale down to her lips. She drew even with Felicia, stopped, and rolled down her window.
"My car is in the driveway over there," Abby said in a low voice. "My car, the Supra, it's in the driveway."
"Maybe you'd better tell the sheriff that," Felicia said. "It looks like someone had an accident last night, maybe fell out of a boat, something like that. Let's tell him about the car, and then we'll go on to the cottage and get warm."
Abby stared at her, a long, searching look; she started to say something, but abruptly turned away and swallowed hard. Then, not looking at Felicia, she nodded. "Yes, I should tell the sheriff," she said.
Sheriff Grayson nodded politely when Felicia and Abby drew near. "Why don't you ladies go on to your place," he said, not unkindly but clearly wanting them not to linger.
"She saw her car in Halburtson's driveway," Felicia said. "Her own car. She drove Jud's van over from Eugene."
He looked past them at the van, then at Abby. "Anyone in it?" His voice was different, harder now.
She shook her head, her gaze fixed on the big rowboat on the lake. She was as pale as death.
"Take her back to your place," the sheriff said to Felicia; it was no longer just a suggestion. I’ll send one of the boys over to see about the car, keep an eye on it until Lieutenant Caldwell gets here."
They sat at the table by the back window. Felicia made toast and spread butter and jam on a piece and put it in Abby's hand; she took a bite, then put it down. Willa put coffee in her hand; she sipped it, and put it down.
They saw Caldwell arrive, followed by another state police car, and soon after that a man drove stakes into the ground and strung a crime-scene tape. Caldwell and the sheriff stood together, watching the rowboat; the onlookers stayed behind the tape. Two more state cars arrived, and Detective Varney appeared, talked with Caldwell, then left again with several men.
The men in the rowboat dropped the grapple into the water, rowed the boat a foot or two, drew the grapple up, dropped it again. Now and then the grapple appeared to be snagged on a rock or something, and the men had to reverse their direction, maneuver to free it again, then they resumed their search.
At twelve-thirty they stopped moving forward, and began to pull up the grapple line slowly, three men struggling with it, until they got it out of the water. The mass they pulled into the boat was shapeless, black, big, and dripping water.
Felicia took Abby's arm and drew her away from the window as the men began to row toward the boat ramp.
Half an hour later Caldwell came to the cottage. Felicia met him outside on the front stoop. Caldwell looked tired, and he looked very angry.
"It's Brice, isn't it?" Felicia said. He nodded. "She knows, Lieutenant. She saw her car, and she has been putting things together for herself. She knows."
"You told her your suspicions about him," he said harshly.
She shook her head. "Yesterday we buried her father; Willa, Abby, and I buried him up in the forest. We had dinner in the cabin, the three of us, then she rowed us across the finger and we came home. Brice's name was never mentioned all day. I haven't said a word to her about him. But she saw her car over there. It certainly wasn't there when Willa and I left. She knows."
He started to move past her, toward the door; she caught his arm. "Was he carrying the gun?"
"There was a forty-five in his pocket," he said, still harsh, still angry. He pushed the door open and entered the cottage.
Abby, seated at the table, watched silently as he strode across the studio with Felicia at his side. Felicia pulled a chair close to Abby's and took her hand.
Caldwell drew in a breath, then said, "Mrs. Connors, there's no easy way to tell you this. We've just recovered your husband's body from the lake. Fm sorry." He sat down across from her. Abby bowed her head and didn't move again, or make a sound. "Can you answer a few questions?" Caldwell asked after a few moments. She nodded.
He asked questions, and Felicia held Abby's hand as she answered. She might have been holding an ice sculpture, but Abby's voice was steady, if faint. She told Caldwell about the shotgun that Coop had insisted she take and about the call from Brice, then, startled, remembered that she had not reconnected the phone. Willa looked at Felicia, agonized, and Felicia knew what she had to be thinking: even if they had seen the car lights, they wouldn't have been able to call Abby in time. They would have had to come back to the cottage to look up the cell phone number.
"So his message is on the tape?" Caldwell asked.
"Yes. I thought he was at Eddie's house, passed out. He couldn't drink really."
Finally Lieutenant Caldwell stood up. "I'll have to have that tape with his message," he said. "And the shotgun. Are you going to stay at the cabin now?"
"No," Willa said quickly. "I'll go with her to get her things and then take her home with me. She can't stay up here, or at her house."
Abby didn't protest. Instead, in a voice that had become even fainter, she said, "Lieutenant, if I give you permission to search my house, the computers, whatever you want, do you still need a search warrant?"
He regarded her steadily for a long time, then shook his head. "No. Let's go to the cabin now," he said. While Willa and Abby were getting their jackets on, and Willa collected the few things she had brought to the cottage, he stood looking down at the small fantastic models on the worktable; then he asked Felicia, "You going to be here later on?"
"Yes. I'll be here."
Dusk was gathering before he came back, no longer angry looking, but tired. Without waiting to be asked, he took off his jacket and sat at the kitchen table. "She went back to Eugene with Ms. Ashford," he said. "She said she'll be back and forth a lot in the months ahead."
Felicia nodded and poured coffee for them both and sat opposite him, also looking out. No one was on the lake now: no boats, no onlookers on shore. A fine rain had started to fall.
Without glancing her way, the lieutenant said, "We were checking out everyone who drove a Buick to that Portland motel the night Connors stayed there. A tourist was willing to swear he saw him leave before seven that morning. What he saw was a silver Buick and a man in a dark suit, but he would have been hard to shake unless we found another Buick, another driver. And we were running down everyone who bought a collapsible canoe or boat of any sort west of the Rockies during the past few months. We had that narrowed down to two possible customers, one's off to Alaska or someplace, the other used a pseudonym: Robert Langdon. We were doing that before you called me with your theory about Brice Connors. Plodding, laborious work." He sighed heavily.
"But you let him come out here with a gun," she said bitterly.
"I had people keeping an eye on him," he said. "What they saw was Connors drive to the Blankenship house, park at the curb, and go in. Later a car came from the garage with two people, neither one was Connors; it left and then come back with just the driver, Blankenship. Connors had been in the backseat, lying down, according to Blankenship. He and a friend took him home and dumped him on the couch, and he was out cold, they thought. Blankenship took the other guy home, and went back to his own house. Our guy was still watching the Buick."
"And Brice slipped away in Abby's car," Felicia murmured. "With a gun in his pocket and a canoe in the trunk."
He nodded, almost absently, it seemed. Still not lookin
g at her, he said, "The sheriff thinks he had a few drinks, came out with the gun, maybe to harm her, and then was overcome by remorse, and turned away from the cabin, maybe headed for the break and miscalculated. The little island is just about all under water, invisible, and he rammed into it. He couldn't free the canoe from inside, so he climbed out and slipped into the deep water. The shock of ice water, the heavy clothes he was wearing, they kept him from climbing back out. That's how your sheriff has it figured out." He glanced at her. "I keep thinking of what you said early on, that you'd like to see the murderer with an anchor tied to his feet and dumped into the deepest water."
She had to think back a moment, then she shook her head. "I said something like that to the young lady detective, not to you."
"Like I said, Varney's young and pretty, and a good detective. After a couple of days she'll drive the little sports car back to Eugene. She'll like that." He finished his coffee, then eyed her speculatively. "You believe he suffered remorse?"
