At Risk

by Judith E. French

  She didn’t have as much faith in the authorities as he did. She massaged her wrist and stared down at the boat. It could be Buck’s. Stranger things had happened. She supposed that the craft could have lain on a bank or been mired in mud . . . For a quarter of a century? She was kidding herself, letting her imagination run away with her. Either it was a coincidence or Cameron was cleverer than she imagined.

  Reluctantly she entered the house, checked all the windows and doors, and went up to listen to her voice mail. There were three messages: one from Katie, one from Sydney, and a third from Al, the manager at Atlantic Book Warehouse, telling her that the book she’d ordered was in.

  Liz was on her way back down to throw a load of towels in the washer when the phone rang again. She waited to let voice mail pick up, and then grabbed the receiver when the caller identified himself as a representative of the Delaware State Police.

  “Yes, this is Dr. Clarke.” Michael must have pulled some strings, she thought. But instead of questioning her about the boat, the man was seeking donations for a summer camp the force ran for disadvantaged children. Liz rejected the sales pitch and hung up. So much for the strong arm of the law.

  She tried to think of what she normally would be doing on a weekend. Usually, the days flew past, without her finishing half the chores she’d laid out for herself. Now the hours stretched ahead of her, and she didn’t have the slightest inclination to tackle any of the tasks on her waiting list. As much as she loved teaching, she couldn’t force herself to go over her coming week’s lesson plans or to make last-minute changes in her finals.

  She settled on mowing the lawn, a no-brainer. All she had to do was stay on the John Deere and steer in circles. She had approximately two acres to cut around the house and barn. The rest of the farmland she either let lie fallow or rented by the acre to farmers. She did like to mow a strip on either side of the long lane to keep the weeds and saplings from swallowing her driveway. The problem was that she didn’t have to think, and her mind kept wandering back to Tracy’s death and—when she could evade that nightmare—to Jack.

  She had to be out of her mind. Certifiable. Had she really let him make love to her in her back yard in broad daylight? And on the deck outside the Crab Shack? Let him, hell—it had been an equal-opportunity seduction. Jack had been hot. Better than good. She’d come more times than . . . She smiled in spite of herself. Jack could certainly give her ex-husband a few lessons.

  She’d never adopted celibacy by choice. She’d been a virgin when she married Russell, and despite his cheating, she’d never broken her marriage vow. Her other two relationships had been satisfying, warm and comfortable, but nothing like what she’d experienced in the last week. Nothing like Jack.

  She wanted a repeat performance. Like an alcoholic in pursuit of a drink, she longed to feel the way she had in his arms. And that was what terrified her.

  Once burned . . .

  But, oh, how the fire beckoned.

  “Face it, Lizzy, your choice in men sucks,” she shouted above the hum of the lawn tractor.

  Not that she’d had any examples to follow. Her parents’ relationship had hardly been noteworthy. What had the two of them ever seen in each other? Her mother had been nineteen when she’d married her dad. And from all accounts, Donald Clarke had been a piece of work in his younger days.

  “All his life,” she murmured. She glanced toward the dock, half expecting to see her father’s boat snubbed to the Sampson post. Or to hear him cursing as he fought with the chronically ailing water pump. Ball cap on backward, face and hands stained with grease, her father had pitted his considerable mechanical skills against aging motors and twisted props.

  What in the name of all that was holy had prompted her to come back here? She and Katie had been doing fine in California. No one she knew had come to a violent death there. Russell and his notions about Katie studying in Dublin had been three thousand miles away, and so had Jack Rafferty.

  She’d call Jack tonight.

  At ten o’clock that evening, Liz gave up on Jack. Either he was night fishing or he had other fish to fry. Probably the latter. She wished she’d called Sydney or Amelia and asked if they wanted to see a movie. A romantic comedy would be good, something to make her laugh, but anything would beat sitting here alone with only Heidi and her cat to keep her company.

  At ten-thirty, she cut an inch off her hair and colored what remained. It was hard to find an auburn that wasn’t brassy, but she hated the occasional gray strand that sprouted around her face, making her look like an aging schoolteacher. “It’s what you are,” she told her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

  “You’re never going to be thirty again, girl.”

  Not that thirty had been great. She’d always kept herself reasonably fit, more out of necessity than concern for her looks. She’d been blessed with good teeth, a normal nose, and nice hair. At least, people told her it was attractive. When she was young, her sister had teased her about the color, calling her carrot-top, but the red had darkened from a shocking strawberry blonde to a presentable auburn.

  She snipped another lock. Pam, her hairdresser, would pitch a fit. “Who’s been hacking at this?” she’d ask and follow with a derogatory remark.

  Maybe she was paranoid. She always cut her hair when she was stressed. Pam had warned her never to use color immediately after a trim because the ends would self-destruct—turn fuchsia or something—but they didn’t. Liz could see little difference in the shade as she towel dried. She didn’t like to use her dryer unless time was critical. Her hair had a little natural curl, and blasting her head with hot air tended to make it frizzy. She trimmed a few stray hairs on top and decided that it was time to make an appointment with Pam.

  Liz was cleaning up the sink when Heidi began to bark. Wrapping a towel around her wet head, Liz hurried down the stairs. The dog scratched at the back door and whined.

  Liz’s heart rose in her throat as she switched on the porch light. No one was visible, but there was something furry lying on the floor just beyond the mat. She was tempted to open the door, but she didn’t. Whatever it was could stay there until morning. No way in hell was she opening this door tonight.

  Leaving the light on, she went to the other kitchen windows and looked out. Nothing. Heidi paced and whined. Liz reached for the phone. She’d give Jack another ring. He might be—

  The telephone rang, and she jerked her hand back. Liz swore and picked up the receiver.

  “Professor Clarke.”

  Liz’s mouth went dry. It sounded like Tracy’s voice. She stepped away, still clutching the receiver in her hand.

  “Please . . .” the caller said. “Don’t hurt me. Don’t—” There was a terrified shriek, and the phone went dead.

  Liz dropped the phone and raced up the steps, two at a time. She caught a quick glimpse of a message on her bedroom phone. Insufficient data. She snatched up the receiver. “Who are you, damn it?” she shouted.

  The only response was a persistent beep, reminding her that she’d left the kitchen phone off the hook, followed by the mechanical recording: “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and dial again.”

  A scrape on the sill caught Liz’s attention, and she whirled around to see Heidi standing in her bedroom doorway, head cocked, eyes wide and curious. Muffin hissed and flew up to the top of the maple dresser.

  “Enough already,” Liz said. Heart thumping, she sank on the bed and tried calling Jack’s boat again with the same results.

  The night seemed long with creaks, groans, and rustling coming from various corners of the house. Once, Liz drifted off to sleep only to awake certain that she had heard someone whispering. She tossed and turned, and then turned on the light and read a book until after two. She was about to try sleep again when the phone rang. This time, she had sense enough to wait for the caller ID to identify the caller.

  It was Jack.

  She answered, trying to sound as though she’d been asleep. “It’s you,
” she said.

  “You rang.”

  “Hot date?”

  “What’s up, Lizzy?”

  She swore. “You don’t make this any easier, do you?”

  “You’re the one who wanted space.”

  “What am I supposed to think? For two decades I don’t see you, don’t hear a word, and then you just happen to call on the night I find a dead girl in my office?”

  “Did you call to fight, or do you want something?”

  “I’m scared, Jack,” she admitted.

  “Something wrong? More problems at the house?”

  She slid back and propped her head on the pillow. “More problems than I know how to handle. And you’re right in the middle of them.”

  “How’s that?”

  “We had sex, twice.”

  “You could say that.”

  She could almost see his slow grin. “Do I have anything to worry about?”

  “We used protection.”

  “I want more than that. I want some reassurance.” She paused and started again. This was harder than she imagined. “I think it’s time we had ‘the talk.’ Intimacy carries risks these days.”

  “Why didn’t you bring that up when we went for crabs?”

  She sighed. “Embarrassed, maybe. I’m not exactly experienced at this.”

  “That’s my Lizzy, pure as the driven snow.”

  “If you feel that way, why are we having this conversation?”

  “All right. Let’s clear up your worries on that count. One, I used a condom both times. Two, I’ve been lucky. No H.I.V., no STDs. I was tested nine months ago in prison, and I haven’t been with any woman but you since I got out.”

  Relief made her giddy. “You swear?”

  “Oh, it gets better. You don’t even have to worry about me getting you pregnant.”

  “I’m on the pill.”

  “No, you’ve got to hear this. Here’s irony for you. You turned me down that summer you were seventeen because you were afraid of getting pregnant.”

  “Daddy would have killed you.”

  “It was more than that. You didn’t think I cared enough about you to do the right thing if we got caught.”

  “I didn’t want a baby, Jack. I was seventeen.”

  “And you had big plans for getting away from your father’s farm.”

  “I won’t apologize for that.”

  “No, you shouldn’t.”

  “I loved you as much as any seventeen-year-old can, and you broke my heart.”

  “I know.”

  “Would you have wanted to be a father then?”

  “No worry on that score,” he answered. Some of the sarcasm drained out of his voice. “I shoot blanks, Lizzy. My inability to father a child is one of the reasons my marriage failed. Some guy from the air base gave my ex what she wanted. I offered to accept the baby as my own, but she said it was too late. She divorced me and married him. The last time I saw her brother Steve, he told me that they’d had two more kids, and were living in Oregon.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “I’m not. Noble offers aside, neither of us was mature enough to be married. It wouldn’t have lasted six months. I won’t pretend I’ve been an angel since, but I can tell you that you don’t need to worry about getting pregnant or STDs.”

  She hesitated. “I haven’t been tested, but I haven’t had sex in four years. Until . . . until you.”

  “So much for the sexual revolution.”

  “Exactly.” She chuckled.

  “Want me to come over?”

  “No, it’s all right. I just wanted to hear a friendly voice.”

  “That’s me. A friendly voice in the night.”

  “Jack . . . I’m overwhelmed. I’m not ready to . . .”

  “No strings. Wasn’t that your idea?”

  “Could we talk about something else?”

  “Don’t jerk me around here, Lizzy. Either we’re friends or we’re not.”

  “I believe the kids have another term for it. Boinking buddies.”

  “That’s what you think?”

  “You told me that you and Tracy were friends. Did you have the same kind of relationship with her?”

  “I told you what was between Tracy and me. If you don’t believe me, then there’s nothing I can say to convince you.”

  “Can you blame me? You just got out of jail. Is it any wonder I don’t accept everything you say hook, line, and sinker?”

  “What kind of talk is that for a professor? Still got a little of that bay water in your veins, don’t you?”

  “Did you do it?”

  “Cut her throat?”

  “Were you part of George’s drug running?”

  “That’s a no-win conversation.” He made a sound of impatience. “If I claim innocence, you’ll assume I’m lying.”

  “I want to hear you say it. I understand about the Hurd brothers. If you tried to kill them, you probably had good reason. But drugs . . . If you—”

  “We’re done talking about that. If I’m guilty, it’s of not stopping George before it got out of hand.”

  “Now who’s playing games?” she said. “Were you innocent of the drug charges?”

  “Dad asked me the same thing. I can tell you what I told him. What’s innocent?”

  “Why can’t you just give me a straight answer?”

  “Why can’t you trust me? You’ve always known me.”

  “But I don’t know you now.”

  “Can I come over anyway?”

  “No.”

  “I can be there in—”

  “Good night, Jack.”

  At six a.m., Liz discovered the water-soaked body of a red fox on her porch, one paw cruelly sawed or bitten off. The sight made her gag. She would have thrown up if she’d had anything in her stomach.

  She was tempted to call the police, but knew that if she did, she’d appear a kook. She’d already made a complaint about the crank call and the boat. Michael had insisted she do so yesterday from his house. The desk sergeant had seemed amused, had said that it was a busy day, but he’d promised to send an officer to investigate, if she insisted. To her knowledge, no one had come. She’d tried Detective Tarkington’s number and left a message on his voice mail, but he hadn’t returned her call.

  Now she had a dead fox to add to the puzzle. Was she overreacting? There were foxes in the fields and woods around Clarke’s Purchase. Any stray dog could have dragged the carcass there. But she knew in her heart that it hadn’t been a dog. Not a dog, and not the ghost of a dead man. Somebody was still playing sick games with her. She didn’t know who or why, but she’d find out. And she’d raise the stakes.

  More resolute than angry, Liz went to the barn, got a shovel, and buried the animal at the edge of the field. Before the day was out, she’d return to Michael’s and put in more target practice. She didn’t want to harm anyone, but she was tired of being a victim, and she was tired of being afraid in her own home.

  After showering and washing her hair, she phoned Amelia, apologized for calling so early, and asked her if she wanted to meet for breakfast.

  “Actually, I wanted to talk to you.”

  Liz noticed that Amelia’s voice sounded strained. “Did you want me to give Sydney a ring and see if she’s free to join us?”

  “No. Just us,” her friend replied. “I don’t know about you, but I had a rotten night’s sleep.”

  “Missing Thomas?”

  “Yes. After a fashion.”

  The tightness in Amelia’s tone remained. Something was wrong. “Are you all right?”

  “No, I’m not. My alarm system went off in the middle of the night. The company called me and then alerted the police. I had two officers here about two o’clock. My trashcan was turned over, and the door to the screened porch was open. The police thought maybe a stray cat or a raccoon—”

  “A raccoon?” Liz said. “I could understand it if you kept cat food out there, but you don’t. Why would a raccoo
n wander onto your porch?”

  “You know how paranoid Thomas is about doors and windows being locked. I think I might have had a prowler. He triggered the motion detector, and the alarm scared him off.”

  “And you want me to spend the night there? In town, where it’s safe?” Liz chuckled, trying to hold back a sense of growing concern.

  “I know. It gives me the creeps. We’ve never had any trouble here. The Rehnards, over on the next street, had a coin collection stolen last year, but it was while they were on vacation.”

  “Maybe the wind blew the door open.”

  “I’ve never left the porch door unlocked. If it was wind, it was gone by the time the patrol car got here. I was outside in my robe answering questions, and not a breeze was stirring.” Amelia paused. “There’s something else, Liz, something I didn’t mention. I received a very nasty e-mail Friday. I printed it off and saved it.”

  “Worse than the ads for larger sexual organs?”

  “A lot worse.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It read, ‘You’re next.’ And then a racial epithet, one no one has ever directed at me.”

  “That’s terrible. Do you know who sent it?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Did you show it to the police? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because it came from the college. With your screen name.”

  “Me?” The stiffness in Amelia’s tone became immediately understandable. “You don’t think I—”

  “Of course I don’t. Give me some credit. But I’m scared. I keep thinking about Tracy.”

  “Me too.”

  “And this isn’t 1960. I won’t be threatened, and I won’t stand for being racially harassed.”

  “No, I wouldn’t expect you to.”

  “It makes me so damned angry. I know these things still go on every day, but not at Somerville, and not to me.”

  “Is it still on your computer? Did you save it?”

  “Just the copy. I was so furious that I didn’t think.”

  “You should have told me.”

  “I was embarrassed. Afraid that you’d be offended.”

  “Me?”

  “It’s complicated, Liz. Not being black—”