In the Shadow of Revenge

by Patricia Hale

“Seriously,” she said. “You need someone who can watch your back. I can sign myself out.”

  “You’re staying right here. I’ll be okay,” I said and thought of Nick.

  A nurse came in to gather the patients for their morning group.

  “I gotta go.” Hilary rolled her eyes. “Group therapy.”

  “I feel like I’m the one that needs it,” I said.

  Hilary grinned. “Ya think?” She hugged me and I watched her fall into the line of patients. Every time Hilary did a stint in rehab she went in as one person and came out another. Over her twenty-eight-day metamorphosis, she transitioned from an angry, childish victim to a tentative and hopeful teen and by her release date she was the insightful, determined young woman she was meant to be. One of these times I prayed that the final phase would stick and she could make headway in her life instead of simply starting the cycle again.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Instead of going directly to work, I called Michael and left a message on his machine that I was heading to the Millers Falls Public Library to do some research. I hung up wondering how much longer I could ignore the briefs on my desk without getting into some serious trouble. I tried to keep my mind on the questions I had regarding Dobbs, but it kept winding its way back to the bigger question of Ben. Was I crazy to think there was a future for us and ignore the fact that I was becoming increasingly disenchanted? There was no way Ben would stay out two nights in a row. He’d be home tonight and I’d have to make a decision.

  In the bowels of the library I reviewed microfilm pertaining to the beating and robbery at The Cave. The newspaper article was almost verbatim the police report. There seemed to be no doubt that Duane Wainwright was guilty of the crime, but what if Dobbs had been with him and covered his own tracks while alcohol made Wainwright sloppy?

  There was only one thing that would make Dobbs risk returning to the scene of a crime and that had to be the money. Wainwright knows where it is and Dobbs is back to collect. But why wouldn’t he have gotten his cut years ago, when they’d taken it? All the whys and what ifs ran together in my head. I called Nick.

  “I’ve got a theory.”

  “It better be a good one. You just woke me up.”

  “At ten o’clock in the morning?”

  “Long night. You’re not my only client.”

  “Do you want to hear it?”

  “Bring it over. And I’ll take a large black, extra sugar. Call it an apology for waking me.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  After a quick detour for coffee, I rang the intercom outside Nick’s apartment building. Without asking, he buzzed me through the glass foyer. When I stepped into the hallway, the second door on the right opened. Nick came halfway out and waved me toward him. He was wearing jeans, just jeans. His shoulders, biceps and abs confirmed my Gold’s Gym assumption. I wondered if his physique signaled a commitment to fitness or a midlife crisis. Either way, I wasn’t complaining. I liked the view.

  “So it’s only a theory, but it makes sense,” I said once we were seated at his kitchen table. “Dobbs and Wainwright do the robbery together. For some reason Dobbs doesn’t get what he’s promised, so he rapes Hilary to get back at Wainwright. Wainwright knows he did it but can’t tell the police because he’ll incriminate himself.”

  “But he got arrested anyway, so why not tell them about Dobbs in exchange for a lighter sentence?”

  “Then he’d have to admit that he did it. He’s always sworn his innocence. He still does.”

  Nick shook his head. “Doesn’t make sense. If he’s doing the time anyway, who cares?”

  “For some reason, he does.”

  “The money?”

  “They never found it, right? And if he’d admitted to the robbery he would have had to turn it over, wouldn’t he?”

  Nick nodded, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. “So, you’re saying that he does his time, which he was most likely gonna do anyway, and he gets the money.”

  “Right, what’s he missing out on, getting drunk in his gas station every night? It was probably worth it to him to give that up for a few years for two hundred thousand dollars.”

  Nick let out a sigh. “It might be the only thing that makes sense. But if Wainwright had the money, why didn’t Dobbs get his share when they robbed the place?” He ran his tongue over his lips, capturing a crystal of sugar.

  “I don’t know, that’s the same question I have, but the rest makes sense. Don’t you think?”

  “It’s the hunch I’ve been working on, but with no money it doesn’t matter how much sense it makes, we can’t prove it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you figured Dobbs was in on the robbery?”

  “I wanted to give you proof, not just an idea.”

  I rested my chin on my hand and looked at Nick. “I have to find a way to get Dobbs. I don’t give a shit about making him pay for the robbery or beating up Big Jim. I wanna nail him for what he did to Hilary and now for roughing up Amelia. If I can find the two hundred grand, even better.”

  “It’s not an easy amount to hide, but Wainwright seems to have found a foolproof place.”

  “So what do we do?”

  Nick crossed the room and took a frying pan from the cupboard in front of him. “We eat.”

  I watched him cook until I had to force myself to look away and remember why I’d come.

  We discussed Dobbs until our stomachs were full and the coffee gone, and we were no further along when I dropped my fork in the sink and said I had to get to work. He joined me at the sink and set his own plate on top of mine.

  “You’ve got a little egg on your face, Counselor,” he said.

  “Literally?”

  He held my chin in one hand and brushed his thumb over my cheek. “Got it,” he said, but he didn’t let go.

  I stepped back and held the counter for support. “I gotta go,” I said, breathing like I’d just come in from a run.

  He smiled and nodded, letting his hand fall from my face, but still holding my gaze.

  He’d offered me a lifeline years ago. Now, eighteen years later, he was back, the same offer on the table. All I had to do was reach for it.

  “I have to get to work,” I said, forcing my legs toward the door. I exhaled when I reached the sidewalk and asked myself what the fuck had just happened. I hadn’t wanted to leave. In fact I’d have given anything to stay and answer the question I’d seen in his eyes.

  At six o’clock I left my office feeling good about the headway I’d made through the stack of work on my desk and like shit for all the breaks I’d taken to fantasize over what might have happened at Nick’s apartment if I hadn’t left. I stopped at the market for prime rib, red potatoes, salad fixings and a Boston cream pie—Ben’s favorites—knowing the food was more to assuage my guilt than to please him.

  When I opened the door, Ben was already home still dressed in the same work attire he’d had on yesterday. He came up behind me and kissed my neck.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” he said.

  Before I said anything, I decided to hear him out. “Where were you?”

  “I went to Gritty’s and drank a lot more than I should have. Kurt Hourihan was there from the firm across the hall. I spent the night at his place.”

  “Did you go to work?”

  He glanced at his clothes a little sheepishly. “I did, and had to take shit about my appearance. Wrinkled is not my usual look.”

  I went into the kitchen and dropped my groceries on the counter, unsure of what to say or if I should say anything at all. I was still too caught up in my own encounter with Nick to know how much I cared about Ben’s and my argument last night. My head was spinning and I’d learned from experience that when in doubt, do nothing. Clarity will come. I made dinner and acce
pted his apology, not at all sure that he was the one who should be apologizing.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I woke up Saturday morning feeling like I was on a carnival tilt-a-whirl with Dobbs, Ben and Nick rushing through my head so fast I could barely focus on one before being swarmed by another. I needed a break. Ben was rustling around in the kitchen and I closed my eyes, relieved that he’d be gone for the day. He was meeting the rest of his foursome at eight-thirty at the Portland Country Club for a round of golf to benefit the Make-A-Wish Foundation. At least I wouldn’t have to make excuses for wanting to spend the day alone.

  He leaned his head into the bedroom. “I’ll be back around four.”

  “I doubt that. At four o’clock you’ll be sipping a martini at the Nineteenth Hole.”

  He laughed. “Probably. I’ll call you.”

  The Nineteenth Hole was the country club’s bar. I’d never known Ben to leave after a round of golf without stopping for at least one drink. I rolled onto my side and pulled the sheet up to my neck. Closing my eyes, I pictured the way Nick had looked yesterday when he’d opened his door and stepped into the hallway of his apartment building. Stop, I said to myself and threw the sheets back, forcing myself out of bed. I needed to get my mind off him, not lie in bed letting my imagination run free. I set the coffee to brew and went for a shower.

  After a leisurely breakfast and perusing the Portland Press Herald, I slipped on my hiking boots and headed for the waterfront. I’d only been to Jewels Island a couple of times in the last year though it’s my favorite refuge when life gets too tough. In high school it was our regular place to party, but as I got older it became more of an escape. I’d given Ben the tour last summer, but mostly I liked making the trip alone. It was calling to me today and I was answering. At Bookends on Middle Street I went inside and purchased the new Ann Rule book I’d been waiting for and a copy of Surya Das’ Awakening the Buddha Within. I wondered what it said about me that I interchangeably read books about serial killers and Buddhism.

  At the pier, ferries were lined up to take summer tourists to their island of choice. Most headed for the hotel on Chebeague or the sandy beaches at Cliff. Not me. I stepped in line for a ticket to Jewels, less traffic, more peace. The beach at Jewels Island was nicknamed the Punchbowl by locals and was completely hidden at high tide, but when the water receded it left behind a tide pool with enough treasures to satisfy any beachcomber. Armed with my new books, I took a seat on the top of the ferry and waited for the whistle to mark the start of the journey. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend the day than alone on an island with two new books and no cell phone reception. The only thing I’d forgotten was a flashlight.

  Jewels Island was used as a military post during WWI and II, its two hundred and twenty-one acres were home to four hundred troops. Two lookout towers still stand along its rocky shore with a main house, a caretaker’s home and a dozen or so barracks. They’re all weathered to the point of being condemned and Enter At Your Own Risk signs are as common on the island as mosquitoes. An underground tunnel runs between gun installation platforms. Inside the tunnel, tiny concrete rooms that once housed ammunition line the narrow hallway. It’s an eerie trek, though I’ve trailed Hilary through it once or twice. But without having brought a flashlight, I was sticking to the Punchbowl today.

  The whistle blew and the engines began moving us away from the pier. I closed my eyes and tipped my face to the sun. Almost immediately I got the uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching me. I opened my eyes and looked around. There were only a few other passengers on the upper deck, two young lovers and an old man with a pipe and a tweed cap. No one I knew and no one that looked the least bit dubious. I closed my eyes again and forced myself to keep them shut. I was allowing myself a day to relax and I wasn’t about to let an unfounded creepy feeling ruin it for me.

  It took an hour to reach Jewels Island and I slept most of the way. The ferry pulled into the inlet and we unloaded. There were only a handful of people on the lower deck and just the four of us on the upper. Exactly why I choose Jewels instead of fighting the crowds at one of the other islands. There are a number of trails to choose from when you first disembark. One goes to the houses, another to the observation towers, another offers a loop around the island itself and is the one most tourists take, and then there’s the one I chose, to the Punchbowl.

  True to Maine’s rocky coastline, its islands are no different at high tide—there’s not a lot of beach for sunbathing. I sat on a fairly level rock and used a boulder as a backrest. Since the point of my trip was de-stressing, I started reading the book on Buddhism first. At the end of Chapter one I set the book beside me and rested my head, thinking that staying in the present moment like Surya Das advised was exactly what Hilary needed to finally get herself out of the railcar. I was just thinking that I’d bring the book to her when I got back to the mainland when a shadow crossed over me and blocked the sun. I shaded my eyes and looked up into the face of J.D. Dobbs.

  “Cecily Minos,” he said. “Hot shot lawyer, what a pleasure.”

  I forgot the books lying beside me, and grateful that I hadn’t taken off my boots, I was on my feet and backing away from him before he got another word out of his mouth. Yet it wasn’t easy with the mismatch of rocks that make up Maine’s coast and my second step planted me right back down on my butt.

  Dobbs laughed. “Where did you think you were going?”

  “What’re you doing here? Why’d you follow me?” I was back on my feet rubbing the palm of my hand where I’d scraped it in my fall.

  “Where is she?” He came a step closer.

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, yes you do. I’m talking about my little squeeze from the railcar.”

  “You son of a bitch. I wouldn’t tell you where she was even if I knew. We haven’t kept in touch.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know where she is.”

  “You’re lying,” he said and came toward me.

  I twisted out of his reach and his fingers caught only the lightweight cardigan I was wearing over my T-shirt. When he pulled, I slipped my arms out of the sleeves leaving it hanging empty in his hand, then bolted up the rocks toward the path. I could hear him stumbling along behind me as I left the beach and ducked into the trail. Branches scraped my face and roots threatened to bring me to my knees, but I kept going until I broke free of the trees. Scanning the overgrowth that stretched before me, there was no one in sight. I headed up an embankment toward the main house. I couldn’t hear Dobbs anymore, but I wasn’t going to take the time to turn and look for him. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and checked for reception. Nothing.

  As soon as I reached the house, I knew it wouldn’t work. Not only was it on the verge of collapse, but it was also the first place Dobbs would look. If I kept going, I could buy some time while he stopped to check for me inside. Ahead of me stood the observation towers and beyond them, the gun installations. Beneath those was the underground tunnel. The tunnel was the best option, but without a flashlight I wasn’t sure I could navigate it. But then neither could Dobbs.

  My lungs were on fire by the time I slipped between the rusted metal doors that led to the tunnel and past the Enter At Your Own Risk sign. In this case, there was no doubt that the risk was on the outside. But as soon as I’d stepped in, the darkness was so complete it was like hitting a wall. Taking a breath I edged forward, my a
rms swimming through thick, wet air. The only sound was a rushing in my ears and my heart exploding against my ribs. I touched concrete and inched along with my fingers pressed to the frigid wall beside me, using it as a guide. Then the wall gave way to empty space and I assumed I’d come to the first of the ammunition storage rooms. I kept moving, counting my steps. After three I felt the wall again. Five steps and the wall disappeared, three steps and it was back. I kept walking, concentrating on the count and then I heard a sound behind me and froze.

  “Lawyer lady.” It was a high-pitched whisper.

  I tried to gauge how far back he was and forced my feet to move, beginning the count again. It was freezing underground. Ice-cold sweat seeped from every pore on my body and my clothes stuck tight. I kept moving through the blackness and counting and then I’d gone three steps, but there was nothing. I stopped. Had I miscounted? I felt again, my arms flailing in the dark. Where was the wall?

  “Lawyer lady,” he called again.

  He was closer, he was moving in. Where was the fucking wall? My hands searched wildly, trying to connect. Nothing, nothing and then metal; my fingers closed around a metal pole. I stepped closer to it and reached with my other hand, more metal, rungs, a ladder. It was the ladder that led up into the bunker. And set into the bunker in the side of the hill was an opening, a tiny window through which soldiers could watch for an approaching ship. I remembered when Ben and I had come out here for a picnic and we’d walked through the tunnel with flashlights and I’d tried to fit through the window. I couldn’t, but only because at that time, I wasn’t willing to scrape the shit out of my arms and legs. I was more than willing to do that now. I started up the ladder. Eight rungs up and his hand grabbed my ankle.

  “Where the fuck you think you’re goin’?”

  I wiggled my leg and shook my foot hard, but his grip tightened.

  “You’re not going anywhere, at least not until I get what I want.”