Devlin's Light

by Mariah Stewart

  “No. He left to drive Darla and Jack home. Ollie is sleeping over with me. Tomorrow Aunt August is taking me and Ollie to the library for the story hour.”

  “That sounds like fun. Call me tomorrow night and you can tell me all about the story, okay?”

  “Okay. I will.”

  “Now put Aunt August back on the phone,” India instructed.

  “You did miss a lovely dinner,” August told her. “Corri and Nick caught a couple of blues that would have knocked your socks off.”

  “I am sorry I missed it.” Mentally, Indy amended her earlier fantasy. Bluefish would have been stuffed with a savory stuffing—cornbread, perhaps, or maybe sage—and wrapped in foil and baked in the oven to the perfect degree of flakiness.

  “And we all missed you,” August told her. “Nick asked for your phone number. I didn’t think you’d mind if I gave it to him.”

  “Not at all,” India said, playing with the cap from a Bic pen. “He promised to get me a list of Ry’s acquaintances from Bayview and from the Save the Bay group.”

  “Well, I’ve no doubt if there’s anything to be found, the two of you will find it,” August said. “Must run. I have two little girls here who are waiting to make peach ice cream.”

  “Bye,” Indy said, knowing that August had already moved on.

  “You coming into the kitchen to eat, or are you going to eat here?” Roxanne asked from the doorway.

  “I’ll come in.” India stood up on legs that badly needed stretching, taking in the mess of papers and files that were her professional life. One wall held her degrees: a bachelor of arts from Middlebury College, her law degree from Dickinson. Between the two hung a framed piece of embroidery, a gift from Aunt August when Indy had passed the bar exam. Summum ius summa inuria. The more law, the less justice.

  India rubbed her back with one very tired hand and massaged her neck with the other as she followed Roxanne to the kitchen down the hall.

  Nick Enright’s big hands came suddenly to mind, and India could not help but speculate on what a great massage one might expect from a pair of hands like that. She brushed the image away abruptly and slid into a seat at the small table in the makeshift kitchen where her dinner awaited. Surrounded by FBI posters—Have you seen this man?— she sat down to her first real meal in forty-eight hours. Not, she silently lamented, perfect baked bluefish, caught by a winsome man with honey-colored eyes and a killer smile and his darling six-year-old assistant, prepared with love by Aunt August, and shared with friends and family in the warm, inviting Devlin kitchen, but half-cold Chinese from the corner takeout. She sighed and for the first time in a very long time questioned her sanity.

  Aunt August’s Baked Stuffed Bluefish

  1 whole bluefish, split and cleaned (head removed unless it doesn’t bother you. I personally don’t like the idea of the fish watching me while I stuff it.)

  Stuffing:

  4 cups bread cubes

  1 large onion, chopped

  1 clove garlic, minced

  4-5 mushrooms, sliced

  1 apple, chopped

  1 stalk celery, chopped

  3 tablespoons butter

  1/2 teaspoon salt

  1/8 teaspoon pepper

  1/4 teaspoon poultry seasoning

  2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley

  2 tablespoons lemon juice

  2 teaspoons grated lemon peel

  Sauté onion, celery and garlic in butter in large skillet or Dutch oven until onion is translucent. Add mushrooms and apples and cook until the mushrooms just begin to brown and the apples begin to soften. Add seasonings, parsley, lemon juice and lemon peel, sauté for 1-2 minutes. Toss with bread cubes. If bread cubes appear too dry, add a tablespoon or two of boiling water to moisten.

  After cleaning the fish and removing all bones, place the fish on a sheet of aluminum foil 2½ times the size of the fish. Place a generous amount of stuffing in the pocket. Wrap the foil around the fish and bake for 35-40 minutes, or until done. The fish is done when it flakes easily with a fork.

  Chapter 5

  I need to find some time to rake. India made a mental note as she kicked through the yellow and green leaves that had begun their descent from the scrawny maple standing in the small front yard and trudged to her car, half dragging the overloaded briefcase, which as always, was too full to close.

  Fall had always been a favorite season. India paused on the sidewalk, momentarily lost in the memory of Ry raking leaves in the side yard at the Devlin homestead, piling lofty piebald layers of yellow, brown, red and orange into a heap for a small and eager Indy to jump into. Sitting on the front porch steps eating slices of warm, cinnamon-y apple pie from Aunt August’s oven, talking about the new school year and watching the ever-hopeful Darla sneaking moonstruck peeks at the always-oblivious Ry. Seeking solitary refuge out on the dunes on an October evening, sipping from a steaming mug of cider poured from her father’s old chipped thermos and trying to sort out all the twists and turns that had bent and shaped her young life this way and that. Being fifteen and angry with her mother for dying before she’d had an opportunity to know her. Watching the geese take flight over the bay on a November afternoon, wishing she could take off with them wherever they were going.

  The honking of a neighbor’s car horn brought her back to the present and she waved absently.

  India swung the heavy satchel onto the backseat. The Thomas trial was into its third hard week. She was taking no chances on losing this one. She would put on every witness, use every piece of evidence, turn herself inside out to put him away. India remained unruffled in the courtroom, seemingly unnerved by the defendant’s bold stare of defiance, meeting his taunting eyes with a cool, level gaze. She would spend hours cross-examining witnesses, shaking his alibi, smoking out the truth. In the end, she would have him. She knew just how to play it. It wasn’t the easiest case she had ever tried; far from it. It was proving to be grueling, emotionally as well as physically, but in the end, she would have him. She owed it to his victims—to all such victims— to prove to the jury beyond a shadow of reasonable doubt exactly what this man was, all he had done, and to make certain that his particular evil was contained for the rest of his days on this earth.

  Per ardua ad astra, Aunt August had so often reminded her. Through hardship to the stars.

  The courtroom was filling rapidly. The city had become enamored of the trial, and the press had been all over her from day one. Every local newspaper and television news show featured her face, highlighting her cross-examination of this witness or that, reporting every caustic remark exchanged between India and Jim Cromwell, the city’s best-known criminal defense attorney, who had drawn the unsavory court appointment to represent Thomas.

  India set up her exhibits in front of her on the long pine table and stacked a pile of yellow legal pads and a score of pens where she could easily reach them. Today she planned to present physical evidence to the jury. Blood smears and DNA, strands of hair found in Thomas’s car that had come from the head of his third victim, a nine-year-old girl who had played soccer and read Nancy Drew books, who walked her elderly neighbor’s dog and baby-sat for her little sister. For a long moment, memory brought India face to face with another young girl who had once played soccer. Who had loved Nancy Drew. Who had played with India on the dunes of Devlin’s Beach …

  India slammed a file onto the table. This one would go down, she promised, and would stay down. There would be no deals, no safe place for Axel Thomas.

  By four-thirty in the afternoon, India was drained and frustrated, and no closer to the end of the trial than she’d been at eight o’clock that morning. Procedural arguments had dominated the entire day. The minute that court was dismissed, India gathered the exhibits that had been lost in the mire of Cromwell’s rhetoric and their dueling citations of case law. Her carefully prepared charts and photographs would have to wait until court resumed on Monday morning, when, hopefully, she would have an opportunity to place the
m into evidence. India tucked her portfolio under her arm, pointedly ignoring the smirking defendant, who whistled an upbeat version of the theme from “The Bridge on the River Kwai” as she prepared to leave the courtroom for the weekend.

  “It’s time to deal, Lady Prosecutor. Deal or lose,” Thomas said, sneering mockingly from twelve feet away.

  She turned to snap a response, when a waving hand from the third row caught her attention.

  “Indy!” Corri jumped up and down, trying to restrain herself from shouting.

  “Corri, what on earth—” She started toward the child, then saw the man who stood behind her. “Nick? What are you doing here?”

  “We came to take you out for your birthday.” Corri clapped her hands excitedly.

  “My birthday?” India repeated, then recalled the date. “It is my birthday. I’d forgotten.”

  She made her way through the thinning crowd to hug Corri to her, closing her eyes for a moment of solace as the child’s thin arms wrapped tightly around her neck.

  “Aunt August told me it was your birthday, so we brought you dinner and a cake.” Corri beamed.

  “Where is Aunt August?” India searched for her in the still-crowded courtroom.

  “She couldn’t come. She had a migrate,” Corri announced, “but Nick said we couldn’t let you celebrate your birthday alone, so he brought me.”

  “You mean a migraine?” India frowned. It seemed that her aunt’s headaches were increasing in frequency. She wondered if Dr. Noone had been consulted.

  “I offered to bring Corri because she had her heart set on surprising you,” Nick explained.

  “Nick, this is really very sweet …”

  “I hope that isn’t a but I detect.” Nick lowered his voice and leaned closer to her. “Corri would really be disappointed, Indy.”

  “No, no, of course not,” she assured him. She had planned to stay up half the night to go over today’s proceedings, but she would have the rest of the weekend for that. Tonight she would put it aside and be with Corri. And Nick. “I’m just so surprised, that’s all. I didn’t even realize it was my birthday, I’ve been so wrapped up in this trial. But I’m delighted, truly. Just let me get my things. And Corri, you can help me carry—”

  She stopped in midsentence. Corri stood all but frozen, facing the front of the courtroom, her gaze held fast by the man in prison blues. Axel grinned meaningfully with the eyes of a son of Satan.

  “Nick, take Corri out into the hallway. I’ll meet you there.” India practically shoved the girl into Nick’s arms. “Please.”

  She turned and walked toward the defendant’s table, too enraged to speak.

  “That your little girl, Madame Prosecutor?” Axel drawled as he was pulled to his feet by the bailiff. “She’s a pretty little thing.”

  “Don’t even look at her,” India hissed like a maddened viper across the defense table, “or you won’t have to wait until the jury convicts you. I’ll rip your heart out myself.”

  Axel laughed as he shuffled toward the side door, where he’d be loaded into a van and returned to his cell until Monday morning.

  Shaking from head to foot with the raw terror that washed over her with all the force of an unforeseen tidal wave, India folded her arms across her chest and sought to control her breathing. She forced her feet to carry her back to the prosecutor’s table, where, with trembling hands, she began to pick up stacks of paper and shove them mindlessly into folders.

  “India, my God, what is it?” Herbie Caruthers took the papers from her hands. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “For a moment, I guess I thought I had.” India dropped into a chair and rested her head in her hands.

  “Here.” Herbie handed her a glass of water. “Are you okay?”

  She sipped at the water, which had grown tepid as the day progressed and the chips of ice melted in the warmth of a sunny, late September afternoon.

  “I’m good. Thanks.”

  “Look, how ’bout if I take this stuff back to the office for you,” Herbie said, packing up their case documents, “and I’ll meet you in the conference room in an hour and we’ll go over today’s testimony.”

  “It’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning,” she told him, her composure slowly returning. “I have a birthday to celebrate.”

  “Since when has a minor detail like a birthday come between you and a big case?”

  “Since now.” She thought of Corri’s little upturned face, so filled with the joy of having a surprise for Indy. India couldn’t remember the last time anyone had offered her so great a gift. She had no intention of disappointing the child.

  India gathered her things and left the courtroom, her briefcase under her arm and her shoulder bag swinging along next to her, filled with the sudden certainty that whether she worked tonight or not, Axel would not walk away with a sweet plea bargain this time, as he had done in the past. He may have dealt his way through other states, other jurisdictions, but this time he had chosen Paloma in which to play his evil games. Backed by a district attorney who had been elected on a strong anticrime platform, India had the blessing of the department to take this one all the way. Unaware of promises she had made long ago, promises she had spent her entire adult life trying to keep, Axel Thomas had made the mistake of getting caught in a city that had no interest in making deals. Had she been in any danger of forgetting those promises, the unvoiced threat to Corri had been more than enough to remind her.

  Tonight she would celebrate her birthday with a child who asked only that India love her. Tomorrow she would return to the task of putting away Axel Thomas once and for all.

  “Indy, can I play with your soaps?” Corri bounced into the bright kitchen, having emerged from the first-floor powder room with a basket filled with little soaps in various shapes and colors—a house-warming gift to India from a co-worker, which, until now, had been pretty much forgotten.

  “Sure,” India said, laughing.

  “How does one play with soap?” Nick asked from the corner of his mouth, and India nodded toward the carpeted area between the kitchen and the dining room, where Corri had planted herself and proceeded to remove the soaps, one by one, from the basket. All the starfish went into one pile, the flowers into another, the little animals into yet a third. Corri then separated them by color.

  “I see.” Nick grinned as he hoisted a large basket onto the kitchen table.

  “What’s in there?” India tried to peek under the lid, but Nick closed it from her view.

  “Dinner. Complements of August. She gave me strict instructions. Let’s see now, where did I—oh, here they are.” With a flourish, Nick removed a sheet of folded paper from the pocket of his blue and white pinstriped shirt and snapped it open. “Now, let’s see what I need here … a long baking pan—got one of those?”

  His eyes were dancing as he looked into hers, and she nodded, somewhat dumbly, that she did in fact have one of those … whatever it was he had asked for. It was hard to concentrate when he stared directly into her eyes like that, like they were the oldest, the very best of friends, friends who had shared so very much.

  But then again, she told herself, they had shared something special. They had both been blessed with Ry’s presence in their lives. It made Nick less of a stranger, more of a friend.

  “And we need to set the oven to 350 degrees,” Nick said, reading from her aunt’s crisply printed instructions.

  India rummaged around in her cupboard and emerged with a baking pan. “Will this do?”

  “That’ll do just fine.” He smiled, and those little dimples she’d noticed that day on the beach emerged to taunt her.

  She handed him the pan, wondering what she had done to deserve having a man like Nick Enright show up on her birthday to cook her dinner.

  “August said to heat these up in the microwave.” From the deep basket he removed a dish of rosemary potatoes in one hand and a brown bag in the other. He plopped the bag onto the counter. “These we
can just steam. Green beans. The last from Liddy Osborn’s garden.”

  “And what’s in there?” She pointed to the long object wrapped in foil and packed in ice, which Nick had removed from the basket.

  “That’s what we need the baking pan for.” Nick began to unwrap the bundle.

  “Ohmygod!” India nearly melted in anticipation. “Aunt August’s stuffed bluefish.”

  “We caught it,” Corri piped up, “me and Nick. Out by Heron Cove.”

  “I can’t believe it!” Indy all but swooned. “My favorite dinner. You don’t know how I dreamed of Aunt August’s stuffed and baked bluefish. Just thinking about it makes me ravenous.”

  “Well, you sit right down there, Birthday Girl—” Nick pulled out a kitchen chair and motioned for her to sit— “while I prepare to make your dream come true.”

  “And I will set the table.” Corri abandoned her little zoo of soap animals and hopped on one foot into the kitchen. “I know how.”

  “Is that a deck I see out there?” With one finger Nick drew the curtain aside from the window overlooking the small back yard.

  “Yes,” Indy replied. “The previous owners had it built. I haven’t used it much.”

  “I want to see out back,” Corri told her, the table-setting assignment momentarily forgotten.

  India unlocked the back door and opened it to step onto the deck, which faced an overgrown yard.

  “Indy, you need to cut your grass.” Corri pointed toward the lawn.

  “I know, sweetie,” a somewhat abashed India admitted. “I just haven’t had time.”

  “It’s too tall to walk in,” Corri said, frowning from the bottom of the steps.

  “I’m sorry, Corri. Maybe by the next time you come I’ll have gotten to it.”

  Nick appeared in the doorway.

  “Got a lawn mower?” he asked.

  “Well, yes, I do, but …”