Death in a Cold Hard Light

by Francine Mathews

  “You’ve seen those files?” A flush spread over his cheeks; of anger, or shame, Merry couldn’t say.

  “Charles Moore will get off scot-free. He should have been rolled up long ago. And would have been, if I’d read Bailey’s reports Friday night.”

  The flush deepened. “It’s always about you, isn’t it, Meredith?”

  “No, Dad,” she said with a ragged laugh. “This time, I’m afraid, it’s entirely about you”

  Chapter Thirty

  As he swung into the semi-circular drive before his old saltbox, Peter’s headlights arced over Rafe’s pickup, sitting silent and empty in the early December darkness. The truck’s presence puzzled him. He had called Rafe that morning, to tell him that he was back from the mainland and no longer needed a twice-daily attendance on the dog and sheep. Rafe had welcomed him without much comment, and then mentioned casually that he had just seen Merry. At the thought of her now, Peter frowned involuntarily.

  He had wanted to hurt her, and he had succeeded. The question was whether he could repair the damage.

  If he left her alone, it would seem as though he didn’t care how callously he tore in half the fabric of their lives. If he called her tonight, he gave her the infinitely enjoyable opportunity to hang up on him. Neither option was particularly attractive. He had the choice of being a jerk, or a weenie.

  Peter sighed in frustration and parked the Range Rover in front of his door.

  “Rafe! Rafe, buddy!”

  No answer. Peter looked toward the darkened windows of the barn, and then, after the barest hesitation, began to walk toward its’ broad double doors, calling as he went.

  “What do we do now?” Jorie asked Will desperately as they stared at the master of the house from Peter’s guest-room window. “You said he was away for the week!”

  “He was!”

  “Oh, right! You want Paul to end up with the cops!”

  The sound of breaking glass brought both their heads around. Paul, shuddering beneath a mound of blankets, was tossing and turning feverishly. One outflung arm had overturned his water glass, resting on the nightstand by the twin bed.

  “Margot! Margot! Wake up, baby, please! Jesus, the blood!”

  Jorie stared at Will. Her eyes were wide and very dark, as if the pupils had drunk in every scrap of available light. Will gripped her arm just below the shoulder, as though his touch might comfort them both. “Who’s Margot?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Paul lurched over the pillows again. “Got to get outta here … police! Police!”

  His lips looked blue, and as they watched, his teeth began to chatter. And yet beads of sweat stood out on his forehead like sap running from a wounded tree.

  Released from the spell of Paul’s words, Jorie darted to his side and began to gather up the bits of broken glass, heedless of her fingers. “Get a towel,” she said to Will tersely. “It’s run into the rug.”

  Will darted toward the bathroom in the hall, grabbed something terry—a washcloth, as it happened—and raced back. He knew what Peter’s housekeeper, the absent Rebecca, would say about the mess, and the liberties he was taking with Peter’s things. For an instant he wished profoundly for her stern presence, the bright blue eyes snapping beneath short-cropped, iron-gray hair; Rebecca of the capable hands and economical speech. Then he simply wished he had never known Paul Winslow, or cared enough to help him.

  “Here.” He thrust the cloth at Jorie. She pressed it hard against the plum-colored rag rug that Peter had probably bought, at breathless expense, from Nantucket Looms.

  “What are we going to do?”

  Paul’s mutterings had declined to incomprehensibility, but his thrashing was wilder than ever.

  “We can’t take him out of here now,” Will said. “Peter’s seen the car. He probably thinks it’s my dad, come to feed the sheep.”

  “So will he look for him before he thinks of the house?”

  “Maybe. Ney’s out there, and that might make him think Rafe is, too.” Will had sent the dog careening joyously in pursuit of a ball before he allowed strangers to invade Peter’s domain.

  “One of us should watch at the window. See where he’s going. Then we could smuggle Paul down the stairs and get away before Peter finds out.” Jorie’s whisper had all the urgency of trench warfare. She was remarkably adept at plotting deception, Will observed; why had he never noticed it before? Probably part of her impulse to protect Paul. Something feminine and desperate.

  As if he understood Will’s thoughts, the raging form on the bed rose up suddenly like a force of nature and hurled himself toward the door, dragging bedclothes and Jorie after him. The girl was clinging to Paul’s legs, crying out. She might have been a fly.

  “Let me go, dammit! I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!”

  Raw, unearthly screaming, as though he were some great beast mortally wounded. Will seized Paul’s arm, and was flung violently away. He crashed against the bed frame, and felt pain stab upward from his hip. He was cursing suddenly, too, with a grave fluency, too aware that Paul’s noise must be audible at some distance.

  And then, like approaching doom, Will heard footsteps clattering heavily on the old wooden stairs.

  • • •

  “I think he should go to the hospital,” Peter said firmly, “and then we should call his parents.”

  He had dealt with Paul in an efficient, if slightly brutal fashion, by dragging the young man bodily to the barn and lashing him with a rope to one of the central support pillars. There Paul was allowed to rave to his heart’s content, while the blankets Jorie had wrapped around him slipped inevitably to the floor. The other three had stepped outside the barn door to discuss his fate, and the slight distance between themselves and their delirious charge came as a considerable relief.

  “We can’t tell his parents,” Jorie said miserably. She was close to tears, from exhaustion and fear. “His parents don’t want to know anything about Paul.”

  “They should.” Peter spoke gently, but Will knew from long experience that he was not to be trifled with. “They’ve unleashed him on the world. They’ve got to pick up the pieces when he crashes.”

  “His dad’s already thrown him out,” Jorie argued.

  “I don’t know,” Will broke in. “I think his dad is real worried. He asked about Paul last night, at my mom’s party. I think we should call him, too.”

  Jorie threw up her hands. “But they’ll go to the police!”

  “The police?” Peter looked to Will for explanation.

  “Paul’s scared of being turned in to the cops.”

  “For possession of heroin? I’d say his problem at the moment is non-possession. What he needs is a detox center, and fast. There are ways to make this process a lot more manageable.”

  “He’s really scared,” Jorie insisted.

  “He’s a lot more than that. He’s a raving lunatic. I don’t think Paul’s choices count for very much, at the moment. I’m sorry, Will, but you brought this problem to my house, and I have to do what I think best.” Peter’s expression was uncompromising.

  “I know, Pete. I tried to tell Jorie—” Will stopped in the midst of what felt like a shifting of blame, and stood straighter. “Paul’s dad is in the book. His name’s Jack Winslow.”

  “Thanks.” Peter held his gaze for an instant, but Will read in the hard gray look nothing like forgiveness. As always when he was very angry, Peter had retreated behind a barrier of calm. “Speaking of parents, you two ought to call your own. But let me get an ambulance first. There’s no way that guy is going anywhere in either of our cars.”

  As Peter walked across the yard toward the house, the dim outline of his figure swiftly swallowed in darkness, Jorie took a tentative step after him. Then she turned and looked at Will.

  “I’m so sorry….”

  He nodded once. “Pete’ll get over it. The important thing is to take care of Paul.”

  At his words, a strangled cry came from inside
the barn, and the sound of booted feet pounding on the straw-strewn floor.

  Jorie shivered, her face turned toward the sound. “I’ve never seen anybody this way. It’s so horrible. Like watching torture.”

  Will took her hand, so lightly that he might have been Ney, nosing her palm for a forgotten treat.

  “I’m sick to my stomach, Will. I can’t stand this anymore.”

  He heard the break in her voice, and knew that she had begun to cry. He could have let her weep in peace, her face averted, with only the empty moors surrounding them for witness; but instead, his breath suspended, Will took her in his arms.

  She shuddered once and then began to sob in earnest. They were still standing like that, an island in the midst of Paul Winslow’s ruin, when the ambulance arrived.

  Peter Mason stopped pacing the length of the hospital corridor when Jack Winslow walked in. Although they had never met, Peter knew immediately what the man was there for. His florid face was awash with anguish and disgruntlement. A small woman with weary eyes followed him like a shadow. As almost an afterthought, Peter noticed that she was pregnant.

  “Mr. Winslow.” Will Starbuck rose slowly from the bank of seats outside Paul’s door.

  “Hi there, Will. Jorie.” Jack came toward them uncertainly, as though it hurt to see them. “And you must be Peter Mason.”

  “Yes. We talked on the phone.” Peter held out his hand, and Winslow took it.

  “This is my wife, Nicole.”

  The second wife, according to what Will had told him in the car ride over to the hospital; the stepmother Paul could not accept. This woman was probably twenty years younger than Jack Winslow, her hair a faded blond the color of pickled pine. She looked as though she felt as much beyond the situation as Paul’s dislike had forcibly placed her.

  “Where’s Paul?” Winslow asked.

  Peter gestured toward the closed door behind him. “They’ve given him something to quiet him.”

  The something was methadone, but Peter saw no reason to play the role of doctor. Winslow nodded, and stared vaguely at the closed door.

  “I think you can go in.”

  Winslow hesitated, reached for the doorknob, then let his hand fall back to his side. “I’d like to talk to Will and Jorie first. Honey, why don’t you go get some coffee?”

  This, to the unfortunate Nicole. She slipped away without a word or a backward glance; and Peter wondered, suddenly, why she had come at all. But Jack Winslow had already forgotten her; his eyes were fixed on Jorie and Will.

  “What in the hell did you two think you were doing, trying to take care of Paul yourselves?” The words came out in a spattered rush, throttled with anger. “You might have been hurt. And then what would I have said to your parents, miss?”

  Jorie flinched, but did not reply.

  “Or to yours, young man? And why you had to go and involve Mr. Mason—”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Winslow,” Will broke in, his voice cracking in a way it hadn’t for years, “but the last time we talked, you told me Paul needed friends. Jorie and I tried to be that, tonight.”

  “Then you went about it in a damn-fool way,” Winslow retorted. “You should have called me.”

  “Maybe so.” Will’s dark blue eyes looked almost black in the hospital’s fluorescent lights, and his cheeks had turned a dusky red. “But that’s not what Paul wanted.”

  “The hell with what Paul wanted! Paul hasn’t been in his right mind for months! Who knows if he ever will be? What he needs is to be committed! Someplace where they can take care of these things!”

  “That’s not fair!” Jorie cried.

  “Look, Mr. Winslow—” Peter broke in.

  But it was Will’s voice that cut through them all. “I don’t think you understand what he’s trying to do.”

  Jack Winslow gave a sour bark of laughter. “Oh, that’s rich! I don’t understand, is that it? I’ll tell you what Paul’s trying to do—he’s trying to make me feel guilty, and kill himself into the bargain, so we can all see just how much we failed him!” He shoved a finger under Will’s nose for emphasis. “Well, I’ll tell you right now, Will Starbuck, I’m not buying it. I gave that kid everything—everything! And I’m not going to crawl to his side and beg forgiveness for something that was inevitable.”

  “His drug use, you mean?” Peter asked, frowning.

  Winslow dismissed the question with a sweep of his hand. “I’m not talking about that.”

  “You’re talking about the divorce,” Will said.

  “Yes. The divorce. Which happens in probably half of all marriages these days. What makes Paul so different from any other kid? Why does he always have to play the victim? He’s got to grow up, and he’s got to do it now. Because I wash my hands of him.” Winslow turned and headed for the door.

  “You did that a while ago, mister.”

  Will’s quiet voice stopped Paul’s father in the middle of the corridor.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said you gave up on Paul a long time ago. You don’t even understand what tonight means.”

  “Will—” Jorie reached for his arm, but Will ignored her.

  “Your son is trying to break a habit that was about to kill him. He probably tried the wrong way, because he’s proud and he’s broke and he’s got nobody to turn to; but what he’s done is incredibly brave.” Will walked down the hallway, stopping inches from Winslow. “Before you came here tonight, I thought there might be hope for you and Paul. That you might be proud, even, of what he’s tried to do alone. But I can see that I was wrong. You’re just like he is. Too afraid to admit that you made a mistake, or that maybe there’s room for forgiveness. You’d rather lose your son than lose face, wouldn’t you?”

  Jack Winslow looked for an instant as though he might strike Will, and Peter almost stepped between them; but then something died out of the older man’s eyes, leaving only the mark of defeat.

  “Somebody’s got to bend here, sir, or you’ll both lose,” Will continued, more gently. “And forgive me for saying so—but this time it’s got to be you. Paul needs a dad more than anything else. Certainly more than he needs friends. But he’s in no position to ask for help. Jorie and I have to do that for him.”

  There was a silence, while Jack Winslow studied the linoleum floor. Nicole Winslow chose that moment to return with two cups of tepid coffee. He took one from her, and sipped it absently.

  “Are you going in?” she asked softly.

  He nodded.

  “I should probably wait here.”

  “You do that,” he said, and handed her his cup.

  • • •

  When Jack Winslow finally emerged from his son’s room, and walked slowly down the corridor with his wife and a doctor to discuss Paul’s options, Peter clapped a hand on Will’s shoulder. “Ready to go? I don’t think there’s anything else we can do tonight.”

  Will’s face, when he looked up at Peter, was flushed and contentious. He had been arguing with Jorie in a fierce whisper for the past few minutes, and from the gleam of decision in his eyes, he had prevailed.

  “We need your advice.”

  “About what?”

  “Paul. When he was raving at your house, he said some weird things.”

  “Ravers often do.”

  “We don’t know whether it’s important or not.” Will glanced at Jorie. She refused to meet his eyes.

  “Come on,” Peter said. “Get it over with.”

  “He kept talking about Margot.” Will’s eyes went to the waiting-room television, suspended in the far corner. “We just saw the news. Somebody named Margot was killed last night in Sconset.”

  Peter looked sharply at Paul Winslow’s door.

  “I think we ought to tell Merry,” Will persisted.

  “Merry?” His heart sank. He was going to have to call her after all. But would she, in fact, hang up on him?

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Merry did not hang up on Peter.

 
She listened without warmth or comment to his brief explanation, and then, for the second night in a row, she put down the phone and crawled out of bed straight into her clothes. Bill Carmichael of the state police might be in charge of the case by morning; but until then, Merry felt duty-bound to contain the situation. It would be nice to think that Paul Winslow was going nowhere before morning, when he was scheduled to be sent to a detox center on the mainland; but as calm and reason returned on the wings of methadone, he might decide to run.

  Before she left her apartment, Merry called the Water Street station. She didn’t have a reason to hold Winslow—the mere presence of his ATM slip near the murder scene was hardly enough—but with his friends dying like flies, the boy would need a guard for as long as he remained in Cottage Hospital.

  A strong wash of moonlight led her through the silent streets. As she drove, Merry’s lips moved unconsciously over a stream of whispered thoughts. She had been so intent upon simply locating Paul Winslow that she had never debated the notion of his guilt. Could he have been so desperate for heroin that he wrecked Margot St. John’s house in a fruitless search for drugs? Had he brought the steel edge of a tomato can down upon her head with vicious force, simply because she had denied him what he needed?

  Merry was certainly meant to think so. And that thought alone stilled her roving mind.

  Peter sat alone in the dark at Mason Farms, looking first at the silent phone and then at the shadows of the dormant rosa rugosa vines the moonlight threw across his bedroom wall. He was thinking about Merry Folger. He had deliberately left the hospital before she arrived; the glare of fluorescent light was antipathetic to delicate negotiation.

  What had Will told Jack Winslow—that somebody had to bend, if a bond was not to break? In this instance, it was unlikely to be Meredith. She had no reason to bend at all. She had simply done what she believed to be her duty, and he had punished her. For the crime, perhaps, of regarding his claims upon her attention as less important than those of her work. Or for having been unapologetic for doing so. But was this so wrong? If the roles were reversed, would not her strident claims on his time be regarded as unreasonable? Selfish, even? She had struggled for some time now with the warring attractions of love and duty; and rather than helping her make them compatible, he had forced her to choose. It had been brutal, and childish, and entirely understandable. But he was done now with childish things. The brutal and the understandable were far too lonely at the end of the day.