A Charmed Place

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  Hawke wrote down the terminal, the gate, the flight, even the seat assignments. His thought was that the data would be something concrete for Maddie to cling to. It was going to be the toughest day of her life, tougher than anything else she'd known so far. And that was hard, even for him, to believe.

  Minutes later, Hawke got snared in the traffic jam from hell. The traffic report blamed it on an accident in the rotary before the Sagamore Bridge. He was trapped on Route 6 with no way out, and he wouldn't get off if he could. It was the only road to the Cape.

  Chapter 33

  "Hi, come on in," Maddie yelled in answer to the knock on the front screen door. "I'm in the kitchen."

  Joan walked in cradling an armful of daisies, zinnias, and snapdragons, and handed them to Maddie. "I know you miss your garden," she said. "There was a truck in town selling these. I couldn't resist, which is why I'm late. Of all the days to walk. Don't look for rhyme or reason in the color scheme," she added defiantly. "I just bought two of everything."

  Grinning, Maddie said, "They're fabulous!"

  "And, they don't need refrigeration."

  Maddie handed Joan a green hobnail vase and said, "Here, dip this in the water barrel—halfway is enough—and arrange the flowers while I finish making breakfast. A hot brunch. I'm so excited. Praise the lord for Coleman stoves."

  "You didn't have to go to all this trouble, Maddie. We could've just had Danish."

  "It's no trouble, and besides, I really appreciate your agreeing to be here when my mother arrives this afternoon," Maddie said. She added wryly, "There's strength in numbers, you know."

  "Uh-oh. I take it a little tension remains?"

  "Actually, not too bad. Currently I resent her more than she resents me. I like playing the martyr; it frees me of guilt," Maddie quipped.

  Joan pulled an Asian lily out of the bouquet and stuck it like a flagpole in the middle of the vase. "I'm glad to see you're handling this with such aplomb."

  Maddie sighed and said, "You want the truth? I cry myself to sleep every night. I'm afraid of the dark—I feel so alone then—so I leave an oil lamp burning all night. If I had TV, I'd watch the shopping channel till dawn. In short, I have all the symptoms of someone who's grieving. And yet I don't dare let my mother see it. Or Tracey. Or George or even Claire. It's my only hope: that they see me having so much fun without them that they want to be around me again."

  "Wow. Did you get that out of a book?"

  Smiling sadly, Maddie answered, "Yeah. What was the title again? Oh, right: The Book of Life. Have a seat, Joannie. I'll bring in our food."

  Maddie went out into the yard where she'd set up the stove on her beloved HMS Bliss shop shingle—whose name seemed on the ironic side nowadays—and returned with the plate of blueberry pancakes that she had been keeping warm. Bacon, cantaloupe, strawberries, and hot coffee. "Things could be worse," she told Joan as she poured coffee from a thermal carafe. "Don't you feel almost normal right now?"

  "Excuse me—normal?" said Joan, drowning her pancakes in syrup. "We're flushing our toilets with buckets of sea water and reading by candlelight. I'm showering under a black plastic bag that's hanging from a clothesline. Normal? I'm tired of washing my clothes in a bucket with a plunger. I'm thinking of dumping the summer and going back home."

  "Joannie, no, you can't do that!" Maddie said, dismayed. "I really would miss you. You have to stay."

  Joan seemed shyly pleased to be wanted. She smiled and said, "Oh, all right. But you have to promise me brunch now and then, pioneer woman."

  "Deal."

  "How about Tracey? Any chance that she'll be returning soon to paradise?"

  "Not until paradise has running water," Maddie said, trying to deal lightly with the painful question. She added, "Sometimes I think she sounds homesick. But as soon as I say anything at all about Rosedale, she changes the subject."

  "Is she staying out of trouble, do you think?"

  Maddie winced. "I think so, but who knows? Even after a good call, like the last one, I end up being furious at her for what she's putting Dan and me through."

  "Which brings me to my next question," said Joan, biting a strawberry free of its stem.

  "He hasn't left," Maddie said softly. "I have no right to expect him to stay, and yet ... I do. It's not so much that he has to be with me or die, as that he can't be with anyone else anymore. It's the same with me."

  She laughed self-consciously and said, "I know that sounds weird, but I've thought about this so much: either we're going to live the rest of our lives together, or we're going to live them out alone. There's no in between for us; no making do with someone else ever again. Not after this."

  Joan's dark eyes were filled with sympathy. Somehow, more than anyone else, she came closest to understanding. But even she felt bound to say, "It sounds so romantic—and yet you're so miserable."

  Maddie smiled wanly and said, "Just don't tell my mother that."

  They moved on to other subjects. Half an hour later, they were wiping the dishes as clean as they could with paper towels before using precious water on them, when they heard a car pull into the drive. Maddie's ears pricked up. "That sounds like Michael's car."

  Joan ran to the window and said, "It's Michael, all right."

  "Is Tracey with him?" Maddie said instantly.

  "No, he's alone. He's bringing a box of Dunkin' Donuts."

  "Shhh. Move away from the window," Maddie said, waving Joan back. "I don't want him to know I'm home."

  Unequal to the task of facing him, Maddie sat without moving while they waited for him to go away. Instead, they heard Michael let himself in through the front screen door, calling Maddie's name cheerfully as he walked through the house.

  "I'm in the kitchen, Michael," Maddie said, dismayed that he hadn't bothered to knock. Where was Tracey?

  He turned the corner from the hall. "Joannie!" he said, surprised. "Long time no see. How you doin'?"

  "I'm okay, I guess," said Joan, clearly uncomfortable.

  "Where's Tracey, Michael?"

  "I didn't expect to see you here," he said to Joan, ignoring Maddie's question. He set the doughnut box on the counter along with the pink and white bag. "I would've brought three coffees instead of two. Cream and just a touch of sugar for you, Maddie," he said, lifting out a paper cup and then a second one from the bag. "Milk, no sugar for me."

  He slid Maddie's half full mug of coffee to one side, then set the paper Dunkin' Donuts cup in its place, carefully peeling back the sipping tab for her.

  "Michael, will you please answer my question?"

  "Actually, I should've brought three coffees in any case," he said, returning to the counter and the box of doughnuts. "Because the chances were good that I'd find Dan Hawke hanging out here—I'm right, am I not?" he asked with a bright smile.

  His voice didn't match the look in his eyes. Nothing could match the look in his eyes. The lids were too intensely open, as if he were keeping them propped that way with sticks. He frightened Maddie. This was not a Michael she'd ever seen before.

  "What have you done with Tracey?" she said, more desperately now.

  "Didn't she tell you? She's at a sleepover. Oh, I know: adult supervision, yadda, yadda, yadda. Don't worry; the parents were home."

  "She's up there now? But ... couldn't you have brought her with you—at least for the day, since you're down here anyway?"

  He looked delighted to be asked the question. "Funny you should ask. Tracey wanted to come down, sweet wife of mine. For good. Oh, yes; she's ready to come back home. She phoned me at seven this morning—our Tracey, awake at seven!—to inform me of this latest whim."

  "Whim?"

  "What else could it be? I told her that it wasn't convenient; that it absolutely did not fit in with my plans for now."

  "What ... did she say to that?"

  Michael sipped his coffee and smacked his lips. "Ahh-h-h ... good. By the way, did she tell you the latest? She has—she had—the chance to make really big
bucks. Geoff Woodbine wanted her for testing. A brand new project, a brand new grant, a brand new scam: kid psychics. Doncha love it?"

  His revelation, hard on the heels of the news that Tracey was ready to come home, had Maddie reeling. "Michael, what're you talking about? Tracey didn't say a word about that. She talked about ... about walking dogs," Maddie stammered.

  "Dogs! That's rich! But don't worry; something tells me the Woodbine project's not going to fly."

  Even as he said it, Maddie made a connection that had eluded her up until now.

  "Geoffrey Woodbine! He's the one who called Tracey here at the house! He called, and when he heard me pick up another phone, he hung up on her. It wasn't the first time he tried to reach her. I'm sure it wasn't!"

  Michael got an odd look of distaste, as if he'd eaten bad meat. "I'm not surprised. He was a fool. And a con. And, alas for your family, a murderer. Where is he?" he said with sudden violence, and Maddie knew they weren't talking about Geoffrey Woodbine any longer.

  "Dan's not here," Maddie said, her voice gone so faint that it sounded as if she were lying. She tried to put indignation into it. "Why would he be here? You made your terms clear."

  "Yeah, right." He seemed not to hear her; he was looking down into the box, picking over the contents, searching for—what? A jelly doughnut?

  He lifted out a gun.

  And aimed it at her.

  Joan had been backing away from him steadily, drifting toward the hall.

  "Stay right there!" he barked.

  Joan froze, and he turned back to Maddie. "Now. Where were we? Oh, yes. Hawke. Where is he, sweet love of my life?"

  "He's not ... here, Michael," Maddie said, staring at the gun. She had the insane idea that if she kept her eye on the barrel, she could duck when the bullet came out. "You know he's not here."

  "He was here, damn you! He was here during the hurricane. You broke your promise, Maddie. Why did you do that, Maddie?" he asked, cocking his head. "Huh? Why?"

  Unable either to answer his question or deny it, Maddie said instead, "They'll hear the gun, Michael! It's as quiet as a church around here." Even as she said it, the loud racket of someone's generator rang in her ears.

  "Hey, guess what? I don't care!" he answered cheerfully. "If I get away, I get away. But I ... don't ... care. That's the beauty of this plan, Maddie. It's win-win. You see? I've worked it all out. I spent the night working it all out. I admit, I blacked out there for a little while, or I would've been here earlier."

  He swung the gun in Joan's direction. "If I had got here earlier, you wouldn't have been here and Dan Hawke would. It's really too bad. All I can say is—I wish you were Dan Hawke. But you know what they say: 'If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.' Sorry 'bout that, Joannie."

  "Oh, no ... please ... please ...."

  ****

  Dan Hawke was in the hall, hoping to God that Michael wouldn't hear him breathing or smell the sweat running freely from every pore. The sight of the BMW in Maddie's drive had made Hawke's heart go flying out of his chest, and he'd been dizzy with fear for Maddie as he reconnoitered the cottage. This was it, his one best shot, with no time to think of an alternate plan.

  He was about to charge into the kitchen when a car pulled up outside. Hawke glanced out the screen door and saw, improbably, a Yellow Cab in the lane. He was amazed to see Tracey emerge from the back seat and walk slowly toward the front door, staring at her father's car as she passed.

  Jesus Christ! Dan cocked his ear toward the kitchen. Joan was still pleading with Michael. If he hadn't fired the gun yet, then he wasn't necessarily going to. It gave Dan hope.

  Tracey swung the door wide, saw Dan, and opened her mouth to say something. He silenced her with a fierce look and tried to make her stop where she was by holding his hand palm out. Instead, she came toward him as if he were some kind of Pied Piper.

  He frowned and shook his head and tried to shoo her away, but she heard her mother's voice inside the kitchen saying, "Michael, don't do this! Don't, Michael!"

  The girl let out a sound of alarm. Hawke grabbed her and spun her around, intending to hurtle her toward the front door and safety, but he never got the chance. A bullet rang out behind him, shockingly loud, and tore through his flesh, sucking the breath out of him as it went. He heard screaming from the kitchen at the same time that he felt Tracey slump forward in his arms. Dazed and wounded, he was aghast to see that the same bullet that had ripped through his side had gone on to hit Tracey. Unnerved now, he lowered the child to the floor to examine her wound.

  He heard another scream, this one from Maddie, and looked up in time to see her rush toward them and fall to her knees beside her unconscious daughter. Behind her stood Michael, a look of baffled horror on his face. Was he still dangerous? Who knew? Without thinking, Hawke lunged for Michael from his awkward angle, knocking him back but not down. The gun went flying behind them, sliding across the red and white checkerboard floor of the kitchen.

  Michael's grunt of surprise from the body slam turned into a bestial snarl as he rallied his wits and fought back. Hawke himself was furious now: furious from the pain, furious from the scare, furious that Michael had hurt a woman and then a child.

  It became primal between them, ugly and vicious and battering. Strength held its own against street smarts, and a wounded Hawke realized that he could not prevail. They were in the kitchen and he was on his back fighting for his life when he felt the gun underneath his left side. With a last, exhausting effort, he rolled with Michael to the right, then grabbed the gun and aimed for Michael's head, wanting nothing less than to blow out his brains.

  He missed. The bullet carried away Michael's earlobe, but that was all. Still, it had an effect: Michael was stunned into submission at last and lay docile on the floor.

  Faint and losing strength fast, Hawke said to Maddie, "How is she?"

  "Barely conscious ... bleeding," Maddie answered in anguish. "I've called an ambulance and the police."

  "How?"

  "Cell phone. New one. Are you—?"

  "I'm ... okay," he told her, trying to sound okay. "Go. Stay by her." He could see that Maddie was in agony over him as well. "I promise not to take offense this time," he added, smiling through the pain.

  Without even glancing at Michael, Maddie went around the corner to tend to her daughter in the hall. Where were all the neighbors? Hawke wondered. Probably on their boats, where the amenities were. He kept the gun aimed at Michael. He could do that for five lousy minutes. He peeled back his shirt and winced. There was blood, but he could feel it pooling more inside than out. He'd so much rather it were out.

  He heard Joanie somewhere, sobbing uncontrollably.

  Four minutes to go, with any luck. The gun in his hand felt like a cannon. It seemed to him that Michael was looking livelier now. He was sitting up—slowly, to be sure, but definitely the general direction was up. He didn't miss that earlobe of his one damn bit. Hell, why should he? He didn't wear earrings.

  And meanwhile Hawke himself was sloping more and more heavily to the right. The cupboard door handle jabbed him in his back and it was really, really more annoying than the hole in his side. Michael was eyeing the gun now. Was it Hawke's imagination? Or was Michael reaching over for it, the way he might for a salt shaker at a picnic table.

  In slow, slow motion, Hawke watched Michael reach, reach, reach and he thought, I'd better keep track of the time and one elephant two elephants three elephants four elephants and then the red and white squares on the checkerboard floor became very, very bright with white and with blood and a horrendous sound, oh, shit, a bullet; and that was all.

  ****

  He opened his eyes to bright light and flowers in the air. They floated all around him, all the same ones, fat white roses climbing pale green trellises.

  Heaven.

  "I know this wallpaper," he said to the nurse.

  "You ought to; you've been here for three days," the nurse said, grinning.

  "Thi
s room's too ... nice ... for a hospital."

  "That's because it's a cottage hospital. You stay right here," she said after she checked a monitor. She hurried out of the room.

  "No, wait—"

  Gone. He lay there feeling a little like after the tea in Afghanistan, only more anxious. He needed answers, needed faces—one face—and he kept his gaze fastened on the door, waiting for the one face.

  A physician came in, wrong face, and then the nurse again, two wrong faces now.

  And then, after a long time and pointless testing of his vital signs—the right face. She came in with her eyes all red with flowing tears and her mouth all crooked with trying to keep the tears back and he'd never seen such a beautiful, beautiful face in his life.

  He smiled his own version of her crooked smile. "Maddie."

  She seemed to float, like an angel, and drifted down into a chair alongside his bed. He thought that maybe he was in heaven, after all. Whatever. As long as she was there with him.

  She took his hand in hers and he felt her warm flesh under his hand and over it; so they must be in heaven on earth.

  Whatever. As long as she was there with him.

  Maddie said, "It didn't look so good for a while there."

  It was news to him. "It couldn't have been that bad," he murmured, smiling. "I didn't even have a near-death experience this time."

  She smiled, but tears rolled out anyway. "Don't joke, don't joke," she said, and lifted his hand to her lips.

  He realized that she was holding his gunslinging hand, and some of the horror came back. "The last thing I remember ... was a shot," he said.

  Maddie nodded and said, "You shot the clock as you passed out, which brought Sergeant Millhaus and Billy—Officer Smith—storming into the kitchen, guns at the ready. That was all."

  "How's Tracey?" He knew from looking at Maddie that her daughter was all right, but he wanted to hear that out loud.

  "She's fine," Maddie said with a pretty brave smile. "She'll be discharged before you will, in fact; she hasn't lost as much blood."

  "The resilience of youth."