Breakaway (A Gail McCarthy Mystery)

by Laura Crum

I leveled the gun, sighted down it again. Tightened my finger on the trigger. My heart pounded steadily. Suddenly I didn't know if I could kill him. I waited, trying to find the will.

  If he moves toward me, I told myself, I will shoot.

  He was on his feet now, looking at me.

  "You won't shoot me, Gail," he said, and took a step in my direction.

  I squeezed. Even as Dixie's muzzle bumped my elbow, even as the gun went off with a deep, echoing ka-boom, even as my arm flew back with the recoil, I saw Mike go down on the ground and come back up, start toward me. I pointed the gun at him again.

  And I heard another voice yell, "Freeze!"

  I froze. Mike froze. Jeri Ward said calmly, "Put your hands up in the air, now."

  I could see her in the moonlight, her gun pointed right at Mike. I had mine aimed at him, too.

  For a moment he hesitated, but the balance of the situation had changed. I felt calm and centered, in charge once again. Slowly Mike raised his hands in the air.

  Jeri stepped forward. "Keep him covered, Gail, while I cuff him."

  "Will do," I said, and did.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Ten days later I was recounting my story to Kris, sitting in her living room. Dixie had survived the adventure unscathed; Kris was incredulous to hear that the marauder had been Mike O'Hara.

  "I don't believe it," she said over and over again. "Not Mike."

  I could understand her feeling. Conservative, upright, right-wing Mike O'Hara seemed on the surface an unlikely candidate for such a role. But I'd had over a week to assimilate the knowledge, and it made sense to me now.

  "Well, think about it," I said. "He is obviously a very repressed personality; what's he going to do with all that bottled-up lust? Turns out he's an ex-Marine as well as an ex-cop; there's a lot of potential for violence there. I honestly believe he didn't intend to harm anyone, but things just escalated."

  What I didn't say to Kris was how much I'd wanted to kill Mike. I still didn't know for sure whether I could have or would have if Jeri hadn't managed to stumble up the hill after us, or if Dixie hadn't sent my first shot off track. But I felt in my heart that I could have killed him.

  Oddly enough, this gave me a sense of relief. Somehow I had come full cycle, through depression and grief and fear and anger to action. And action seemed to be the remedy I needed.

  "How are you feeling?" I asked Kris.

  "Better. A lot better. Between my vacation and knowing no one's out there stalking me, I feel okay. How about you?"

  "I'm better," I said. "A lot better. But I went to see Hannah yesterday."

  "Oh my God, Gail. How was she?"

  "Devastated. It was really hard to see. She wasn't even angry at me for my part. Just broken. It made me hate Mike even more. She would have been so much better off if he'd just dealt openly with her, instead of hiding his problem from her. He could have told her how much he wanted and needed sex, given her a chance to be there for him."

  "Do you hate Mike?" Kris asked.

  "Sometimes," I said. "I hate what he did. I hate that particular version of hypocrisy and cowardice, that refusal to deal with what is. Mike didn't want to deal realistically with his sexual desires, which weren't bad in themselves-and all this horror came of his hiding from the truth."

  "It's his church that says 'the truth shall set you free,' " Kris said quietly.

  "I don't think he ever heard," I said. "Like a lot of people, his mind was closed to any ideas other than his preconceived notions. His wife was a 'good' woman; her lack of interest in sex wasn't something he saw as a mutual problem to be solved. It was something he had to deal with himself. He convinced himself his sexual urges were virtually unnatural, and contrived an unnatural way to deal with them. And he was very, very angry about it inside.

  "It was such a weird conversation," I told Kris, thinking about that strange scene. "I think now that he never would have told me what he did except that we were in the dark and he was wearing a mask the whole time. It made him feel hidden and safe."

  "That is weird," she said, and shook her head.

  I said nothing, but I was sure that it was true.

  After a minute I asked her, "Are you going to be around for the next month?"

  "Sure," she said, "as far as I know."

  "Would you want to do me a favor?"

  "Of course."

  "It's a big one."

  "That's okay."

  "I need someone to take care of my animals and my place for the month," I said. "I'm going to go to Europe."

  EPILOGUE

  I write this sitting on a balcony overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. I am in the town of Cadaques, on the Costa Brava, in Spain. The Costa Brava, the brave coast, or so I think of it. Rugged Coast, however, is the way it is usually translated.

  Rugged it is, pure and rocky and vibrant with color. The Mediterranean truly is a different color. Ulysses' "wine dark sea" is full of shades of purple and turquoise, impossibly clear and vivid (and warm)-a complete contrast to the misnamed Pacific of my home. I can see why a painter would choose this spot. And here, where Nico lived for many years, I have come to terms with her death.

  Sitting on this third-floor balcony, I look out over a little fishing harbor called Port Lligat. Next door to me is the whitewashed cottage where Salvador Dali lived and painted. The terra-cotta tiles are warm beneath my feet; the wrought-iron railing and the cobalt blue wicker furniture are all of a piece with the white walls and deep blue water in front of me.

  I have been in Europe almost a month; I will go home next week. My pilgrimage took me to Amsterdam and Brussels, through France to Spain. I visited the places where Nico lived, seeking ... I'm not sure what I was seeking. But somehow, here in Spain, in these bleak hills with their dry stone walls, olive groves, and blue water coves, I have found something. Peace, I guess. I am at peace with Nico's death, with my grief and my guilt, with myself. Depression has lifted; I can feel again.

  I think of my little house with longing and pleasure; I imagine rubbing Roey's red, wedge-shaped head; I plan the roses I will plant on the grape stake fence to remind me of Europe. Enthusiasm leaps in my heart once more. I am ready to go home.

  Home to my life, whatever it will be. I have received three letters since I've been here. One from Kris, one from Clay, and one from Blue. I can't predict what the future will hold. The only thing I know is that I do not know. But I am comfortable with not knowing.

  If I am to be alone, there in my little house with my animals and my garden, so be it. I will be that simple, solitary figure-the Madonna with the dog at her feet, the good witch. Or if my fate is otherwise, if I will be a partner and a lover, I accept that also. For now, I hold an open mind.