by Jen Blood
I stayed quiet, staring at my hands in my lap.
“How long did it take Juarez to get out to the island after you called?” I didn’t answer. He forged ahead anyway. “Did you have to give him directions to get to the house? Where did he get the boat to get out there?”
I stood. My hands were cold and I had to clench my teeth to keep them from chattering. My clothes clung to me and my hair was still damp. Diggs watched me with quiet resignation.
“So, you won’t help me?” I asked.
“I won’t send you on a suicide mission, no. I’ll talk to Finnegan if you want, though. He’s got budget cuts and the governor breathing down his neck, so I don’t think we’ll change his mind—not until you have something more solid. If I can do anything else, Sol, you know I’ve got your back.”
“I don’t need anything else,” I said.
I whistled for Einstein, and walked out.
A gale-force winds advisory was issued along the coast at four o’clock that afternoon. Boats were battened down, the harbor deserted. I hadn’t heard from Juarez again since his call that morning, and there was still no word of Kat or her car. I’d called Sheriff Finnegan twice more to try and persuade him to send Marine Patrol out looking for Matt, to no avail, and had driven halfway across the county looking for any sign of Matt Perkins, Joe Ashmont, or my mother.
At four-thirty, Edie called. I was in my car on another flooded back road. Tree limbs were down, and power outages had been reported up and down the Midcoast. Einstein had given up trying to figure out any rhyme or reason to our driving route, and was snoring quietly in the backseat.
“Any word on your mum yet?”
I didn’t bother asking how she’d found out. “None yet. You don’t know anyone who might give me a lift out to the island, do you?”
“Nobody’s going out in this, sweetie. You can’t blame them—you know what it’s like out there in a storm. Nobody in their right mind would be on the water on a day like today.”
Which was exactly what I’d been afraid of.
“Did you think of anything else?”
“Matt’s doctor,” she said. “The psychiatrist who treats Matt at Togus. I thought he might have something he could tell you.”
She gave me the number, and we disconnected.
The answering service for Dr. Neil Perry informed me that he wasn’t available until Tuesday, but I could speak with someone else if it was an emergency. I assured them that it was, in fact, a huge emergency—but that no one but Dr. Perry would do. They agreed to convey the message, but they didn’t sound optimistic. I waited for an hour for a return call, and finally decided to take matters into my own hands.
By six o’clock that night, I was on the road to Augusta. I’d left more messages for Juarez, spoken again with my mother’s…colleague, and had a brief, terse conversation with Diggs that revolved around my lack of objectivity and current level of exhaustion. I hung up on him before the call devolved into a shouting match and one or both of us said something we’d regret.
On a good note, my final call to Sheriff Finnegan that day had infinitely better results.
“I talked to Edie, and she convinced me we should get somebody out to the island,” Finnegan said. “I hope you understand why I had to wait this long, though—if I called out the troops every time there was a family spat and somebody dropped out of sight for a few hours, I’d be fired before the day was out. We just don’t have the resources.”
“But you’ll send someone now?”
“I just put a call in to Marine Patrol. Any idea what we should be looking for?”
I’d been thinking about that. “Look for Joe Ashmont’s boat. I think if you find that, you’ll find Matt Perkins. And my mother.”
Thanks to flash floods around the state, a lot of the smaller roads along the coast were impassable. Halfway down Route 235, forty-five minutes into my drive, I slowed at sight of a tree limb across the left lane. I tapped the brake and realized a split second later that the bridge fifty yards down had been washed out.
Adrenaline and fatigue had my nerves crackling like water on an open circuit board. I pulled myself together with a couple of deep breaths, pulled a u-turn in the middle of the flooded road, and retraced my steps back to the main drag.
I kept going over what I knew—the questions Diggs taught me to ask when I was just a cub reporter with a nose ring and a curfew.
I knew the What, the Where, and the When: 34 dead on Payson Isle, August 22, 1990.
I knew the How, more or less: fire.
That left the Who and the Why. Isaac Payson might not have been with the rest of his congregation when he died, but at this point I sincerely doubted he’d been the one to set the fire. Had Matt Perkins been the one to strike the match all those years ago? And what did Noel Hammond and my mother know about any of it, that made them his targets? And, yet again, what did my father have to do with any of it?
I was back on Route 17, half an hour from Augusta, when my cell phone rang. I glanced at the display and grimaced. Diggs.
“Erin,” he said when I answered. Not Solomon, not Sol. That alone was enough to make my fingers tighten around the steering wheel.
“They found her,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
“They found her car. You should come back.”
Something tightened like wire inside my chest. “Where was it?”
The second Diggs took before he answered lasted at least a decade. “In the quarry,” he said. “They’re sending divers down now to see…”
My vision blurred for a split second before I shook my head. I wouldn’t cry, dammit.
“To see if she’s in the car,” I finished for him.
“Take it slow driving home—the roads are bad. I’ll be there when you get back, Sol.”
I hung up, and turned the car around one more time.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The old Calderwood quarry was at the end of a dirt road that was more mud than dirt by the time I got there. A pickup was stuck about halfway in, half a dozen rain-soaked locals trying to push it out of the way. I pulled off to the side rather than waiting for them, left Stein in the car, and ran the rest of the way to the scene.
I could see the blur of red and blue lights through the trees, the colors bleeding into one another. Three large, free-standing spotlights had been set up at the edge of the quarry. The light illuminated a sheer granite face and a shine of still black water below. I didn’t see any sign of a car in there—my mother’s or anyone else’s.
Everyone was in motion around me. A small boat with three scuba divers inside was motoring to the center of the quarry.
“They can’t bring the car out tonight,” Diggs said from behind me.
I turned. He wore a rain slicker, his boots and jeans caked with mud.
“But they can tell if somebody’s inside,” I said. I was impressed at how cool, how professional and detached, the words sounded.
Diggs nodded. I could tell he was fairly amazed at my demeanor himself. Or maybe disturbed would have been a better word.
“How do they even know it’s down there? I can’t see a thing.”
“I had somebody check it out,” he said. “I figured if something disappears in Littlehope, there’s as good a chance as any that it’s in the quarry. It took some doing to get anybody out here—I had to call in a couple favors.”
I turned back to the ledge to watch the activity below. A good five minutes went by before I had the presence of mind to thank him.
“It’ll probably be a while before they can get in there and tell us anything. Why don’t you let me take you home—just to get warmed up, change into some dry clothes.”
I was wearing the same jeans and turtleneck I’d had on since the day began. I stood shivering with my arms crossed over my chest, and shook my head.
“I’m all right.”
Diggs didn’t say anything to that. It seemed like the rain might be lightening up—or maybe it had just been
like this so long I couldn’t tell the difference anymore. An indeterminate amount of time passed before Diggs took my hand and pulled me away from the ledge.
“I got these from the Jeep.” He produced a sweatshirt and a pair of sweats, with a bright orange poncho on top of the pile. I hadn’t even realized he’d gone.
“I’m not leaving,” I said.
“So don’t.” He pushed me toward the edge of the woods gently, handed me the clothes, and turned his back.
“I know you’ve got an exhibitionist in there somewhere—now’s the time to give her a thrill.”
Since I wasn’t going to win this argument anyway, I found a quiet spot just inside the woods and peeled off my soaking clothes. The sweatpants were too long and the sweatshirt was too big and the poncho came nearly to my knees. Still, they were clean and dry and the fact that they smelled like Diggs didn’t hurt matters. I rolled pant legs and shirt sleeves with fingers that had gone numb with cold long before.
“Okay,” I said when I was finished.
Diggs turned back around. He smiled faintly when he saw me. “Sorry—I didn’t have anything smaller.”
“No, this is good. Thank you.” I couldn’t find the energy to return his smile. With nothing else to say, I returned to the ledge.
Diggs pulled me away from the edge a few inches, which made me think of the afternoon he’d lost his brother here. The day Diggs put away childish things.
There was a crash down below, followed by a flurry of movement and panicked shouts.
“Get clear,” one of the techs nearby yelled down. “Christ—what the hell are we doing out here? Somebody’s gonna get killed.”
I turned in time to see Sheriff Finnegan take the tech aside. The sheriff glanced at me with a quick smile that I imagined was meant to be reassuring.
“Easy does it, boys,” he yelled down below. “We don’t need any heroes. We’re just looking for a clear visual. Take your time.”
“That jolt kicked up too much sediment at the bottom,” the tech told him. “We’ll have to wait ‘til it settles again. It’ll be at least an hour.”
I felt a wave of nausea. Diggs put his arm around my shoulder, but I stepped away from him. Away from the ledge. Away from the sirens and the shouting strangers and the shell of my mother’s car buried deep in the water below.
When I was eleven, I started working at Kat’s clinic after school. My mother was always too busy for family bonding, but some nights we’d order in and sit in the break room eating pizza, talking about the patients she’d seen that day. It was the only time I ever felt close to her—those short hours when we could compare notes on her cases. She would quiz me on what I’d seen, symptoms different patients had presented with, possible diagnoses.
I wanted to be a doctor, back then. Not because of any real interest in medicine, mind you—just because it seemed like ten years of medical school was the simplest way to create any kind of meaningful relationship with my mother.
At the edge of the woods, I took a few breaths and pulled myself back together.
“What’s the word from the island?” I asked Diggs when I rejoined him.
He looked confused.
“Payson Isle?” I elaborated. “Finnegan was sending somebody out.”
“I don’t know if he did, though. I think once we found the car—”
“Matt’s still out there—I know it. Whether Kat’s with him or not, we still need to find them.”
Diggs didn’t say anything. I left him and went to talk to the sheriff. Meanwhile, twenty-five feet below, divers continued to search the murky depths for any trace of my mother.
It was eleven o’clock before they got a visual on the inside of Kat’s car. I heard the crackle of a walkie talkie, and one of the cops on the ledge responded. The words were hard to make out. Diggs tried to take my hand, but I walked away. The divers had climbed back in the boat, and I could hear the motor starting up again as they returned to dry land. I thought I might be sick before someone finally spoke to me.
Sheriff Finnegan took my arm and pulled me aside.
“The car’s empty,” he said. I thought of all the ways other people would handle the news—drop to their knees and thank God; burst into tears; embrace strangers.
I just nodded. My throat felt dry, my eyes drier. “Thank you,” I said. Finnegan started to walk away, but I ran after him.
“This means he still has her,” I said. “You said you sent someone out—you haven’t heard back from them yet? They should have been able to get to the island and back by this time, I don’t care what the weather is. You’re sure they went there?”
“They did—I heard back about half an hour ago. They didn’t find anyone.”
“How hard did they look?” My voice rose until it was loud enough to hear over wind and rain, sirens and strangers. The sheriff moved closer, with that look cops get when they’re trying to placate crazy people.
“They couldn’t do a thorough search at night in this weather—we’ll go out and look closer tomorrow, just like I promised.”
“She’ll be dead tomorrow,” I shouted.
Diggs came over and pulled me aside, a hand on my arm. “They’re doing what they can. You need to stop.” He said it as kindly as anything he’d ever said to me. “We’re gonna go home and have some food, and then you’re going to bed. Just a nap.”
I hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours, but the thought of stopping the search now was unthinkable. I shook my head.
“I need to talk to the Marine Patrol guys,” I said. “Find out where they looked, see if they saw any sign of Ashmont’s boat. If they aren’t back yet, maybe I can get them to check out some of the other islands nearby.” I felt better with some semblance of a plan—like I might actually stand a chance of surviving this night. “Edie said Matt knew all the area islands—he might have taken her somewhere else.”
I knew I didn’t have much time before Diggs just knocked me out and dragged me, bound and gagged, back to the house—judging by the look on his face, he was entertaining the thought at that very moment. I turned my back on him and chased after Finnegan again, who was getting ready to hightail it out of there along with the rest of his crew.
Before I could reach him, a call came in on his radio.
They’d found Kat.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Half an hour later, I stood at the town landing with Diggs. Marine Patrol was on their way in. I didn’t know any details about what had happened—not how they’d found my mother, or where, or in what condition. I just knew they had her.
The boat came in at a little after midnight that night. The winds had died down but the rain hadn’t slowed, flooding the landing’s dirt parking lot. An ambulance was parked at the end of the wharf amid shouting and chaos and lights and an entire world that felt like it was underwater. I couldn’t remember ever being dry.
There were too many people around her for me to see Kat when we first arrived—paramedics and cops and strangers in every direction. Diggs saw her first. I heard him whisper, “Jesus Christ” under his breath, and then when I tried to get to her he grabbed me from behind and wrapped his arms around me—one arm across my chest, one across my stomach—and held me back. He didn’t budge when I fought him.
“Let them work, Sol,” he said, his mouth close to my ear. “They need space if they’re gonna help her.”
When I finally got to her, Kat didn’t look anything like the woman I’d known. She was drenched and unconscious, strapped to a backboard with a head collar and an IV. Her face looked like she’d gone two rounds too many in the UFC. Her left eye was swollen shut, and an ugly purple welt on her forehead still leaked blood that had matted her dark hair.
My stomach lurched and the world tilted. All at once, I remembered nights trailing Kat on cases when I was a kid.
“Keep breathing. It’s just a body, the same as all the ones you’ve seen before. This one’s just a little banged up. Don’t look away. Don’t think about what it sh
ould look like. Just think about how we’ll fix what we’ve got.”
“You okay?” Diggs asked me. He was still behind me, still holding on, though I’d stopped fighting him.
I nodded. He let me go when I told him to, my voice calm and my eyes still dry.
“I should go with her,” I said. “Einstein…”
“I’ll take him back to the house and meet you at the hospital,” he said. His blue eyes had gone dark, his forehead creased in a way that was usually reserved for tight deadlines and difficult ex-wives. “She’ll be okay, Erin.”
It was a silly, hollow lie that sounded worse once it was out in open air. I didn’t dignify it with a response, and Diggs looked embarrassed for having said it at all. I climbed into the ambulance once Kat was loaded inside. The doors closed.
I’d been in ambulances before, but not for years; I used to do ride-alongs with Kat, back when it still mattered to me that I impress her somehow. I didn’t recognize much of the equipment anymore, but I still knew the protocol: stay out of the way.
I sat awkwardly by my mother’s gurney. Sirens started as we pulled away. I took her hand. It was cold and pale. I couldn’t remember ever having held it before. I stared at her face, knowing that underneath the bruises and the blood and the swelling, was the woman I had both worshipped and despised for most of my life. It was the face of a victim, now—stark evidence of the fragility of the human body and, most terrifyingly, of the fury and violence I had brought to Payson Isle.
If she died, it would be because I had come back to Maine—I couldn’t delude myself about that anymore. Noel Hammond might have died as a result of his own investigation into the fire, but I was the one who called Kat. I brought her back here. I was the one who insisted on digging up memories that almost certainly would have been better left buried.
I didn’t say anything on the ride to the hospital. I didn’t cry. I sat with my mother’s hand in mine and listened to the rain and the sirens and the EMTs on the line with dispatch, shouting orders back and forth. I prayed to wake up from a nightmare that seemed to have no end.
