Comparing Wounds
“I wanted to tell you in person that Lucinda has been injured in a hunting accident,” Frank said. “She’s on medical leave.” He paused, watching Chester’s eyes narrow and mouth tighten.
“That’s bull,” Chester grumbled. “She doesn’t hunt, so what the hell really happened?”
“Illegal hunting on her property while she was riding. She’ll be ok.”
Chester scrutinized Frank as if he were the one who shot her.
“I know how you feel about her leadership in development for P-H — ” Frank began.
“Get her back, Wickes. Rindge said she’d been terminated. Not in so many words, but I ain’t dumb.”
“When she recovers — ”
“Get her back or do without my gift,” Chester said. “Or any future support. Constance is distraught. She refuses to head the Colonial Night Gala Committee as she’s done for the last eight years.”
Was Constance the wife or daughter? wondered Frank. Frank rearranged his features to express concern, while Chester, at the end of the oval table, practically impaled Frank with his gaze. Frank spied the pledge document on Chester’s desk. Perhaps, Frank thought, he could bring Lucinda back until the pledge was signed and in his hands, and then continue making life unnerving for her. Not in that stupid, brutish way that Warren had so clumsily engineered, but through cleaving her off into her own silo. Or buying her off? But he knew by now she wouldn’t go for that, damn idealist that she was. Lucinda was a puzzle with no solution.
“I’ll ask her to come back as soon as possible,” Frank said, displaying capped teeth in his most reassuring business-deal smile.
“If she doesn’t accept,” Chester said, “I’d like to meet with her.”
“I’ll call when we’ve talked. I’m sure she’ll be happy to be back on the team in some capacity,” Frank said, holding out his hand to Chester, not quite meeting his eyes. “Good to see you.”
Frank turned and strode toward the door, scowling at the pledge document as he passed Chester’s desk.
In some capacity? Chester wondered what Frank was beating around about. He kept his arms folded firmly across his chest until Frank left the office. Then he spun his chair around and peered out the window at the swamp, rather dismal looking, he thought, in its late November huddle before the freeze.
“Hell,” he said to the small birds flitting about for seed heads in the dried weeds, “if she won’t agree to Frank’s begging on hands and knees, I’ll start a foundation that she can run.”
* * * * *
“Drop by,” she said. “We’ll compare wounds.”
Lucinda returned Harris’s call from the barn on her cell where she’d just finished cleaning her bridle. Peter was dressing Nanogirl’s wound in her stall.
Lucinda’s arm wound was minor, bandaged with a ridiculously thick sterile pad, and she was going ahead with the show. The other bullet only grazed the top of her left riding boot, which she was going to continue to wear. Like a notch on her belt. Or something to carry with pride, like grit in her gut.
“I’ll take you up on that. I’m in the neighborhood and will swing right over.”
Lady Grey seemed unfazed from the shootout and had trotted by the memorial boulder compound with no problem on Monday’s trail ride. Lucinda hurried through the rest of her nightly barn routine, showered, and changed into jeans and a thick white cable-knit sweater. She was just putting on water for coffee, when she saw Harris’ round face in the windowpane by the front door. Thank God his color was good. Thank God he was alive.
“We should give that dinky horse some kind of purple heart award from the Sheriff’s Department,” Harris said, when he settled in at the dining room table and stretched his legs out underneath.
“She’d rather have a year’s supply of carrots,” Lucinda said, passing him a coffee. In the center of the table sat a plate supporting a low pyramid of dark brown cookies, deeply cracked on top and sprinkled with white sugar. Peter got them from Bakers of Thornbury. He was turning into their best customer since he returned from Vermont. Harris placed his visored cap on the table next to the cookies.
“How’s your head?” Lucinda asked, noticing the shaved area on the back.
“All I know is I’m never going to complain about no little ol’ headache again. I’m lucky that idiot didn’t crack my skull,” Harris said. He bit into a cookie and chewed.
“You know, I wonder who actually saved you? It sure wasn’t me.”
“It was a team effort,” Lucinda said. “You could make the case for Peter. Since he did the deed. But it was Nanogirl who alerted him to Lady Grey’s distress and led him straight to the top of the orchard where Peter could see Stong. Or you could also make the case for Tori.”
“Tori?”
“If she hadn’t insisted I posted the property, Peter wouldn’t have been nearby.”
Harris nodded, pulling another cookie toward him.
“Know who else?” Her whole face brightened.
“Who?”
“My Aunt Jean. Giving me that boulder to hide behind and a mega-dose of courage when I most needed it.”
“You gotta give Aden credit too.”
Lucinda looked into Harris’s dark eyes, her face an open book. The name of the one you love being said aloud instantly grabs your attention. He smiled at her.
“Struck a chord, huh? If Aden hadn’t been tailing Stong on his own — against my orders — since Friday, we might have let him slip by on Sunday. And Stong screwed up the dates — shotguns for deer don’t start till November twenty-seventh. And everyone knows you don’t hunt on Sunday in this state.”
“Yes, but if you’re not from here, you wouldn’t think of that, would you?” She picked up a cookie and bit, enjoying the strong punch of molasses and gritty sugar coating. It is great to be alive, job or no job.
“Have you been able to connect him definitively with Warren?”
“Stong’s cell phone is a treasure trove,” said Harris. “Text and voice messages from Rindge. We’re still on the trail of actual arrangement of payment for attacking you. One thing’s curious though.”
“What’s that?”
“As of right now, we haven’t found evidence that Rindge directly ordered Stong to kill you. In so many words. He paid him by the month to be available. It was more like escalate the attacks until you got scared away. Make you think your life was in jeopardy.”
“He had me convinced he was going for the kill,” Lucinda said, shuddering. “I imagine Rindge thought it was going to be much easier to scare me off, but he wasn’t counting on you being in the picture. What about Stong?”
“Rindge wasn’t counting on you being so fearless… or foolish,” Harris said, grinning. “Stong’s playing some kind of amnesia game at the moment. I imagine he’ll remember things in time.” A smile of deep satisfaction formed crow’s feet around his dark eyes. “But who the hell knows what he would have done, really, if your brother hadn’t shown up at the right moment? These boys can get frenzied, no matter what their orders are.”
Peering out the window, Lucinda noticed a few tiny snowflakes sifting down and landing to melt on the flagstone walk, and then she looked at Harris.
“First Rindge blabs to my husband about something that’s none of his business. Then he tries to have me killed or almost killed even after I’m already out of his way. Or was he trying to scare me away from Thornbury? Hah!” The word came out in a harsh snort. “Was that how he planned to salvage Chester’s gift and keep my job? If there wasn’t a me to bring back in? Has anyone bothered to connect this whole business to Wickes?”
“What do you mean ‘you’re out?’”
“Fired. By Wickes. Last Wednesday. You didn’t hear?”
Harris sat up straight. “Yes, but when Honor told me, she said she wasn’t having it, and I thought the Board had overruled it, I mean, they can’t be serious! Why the hell would Wickes fire you?”
“Because I’m too nosey a
nd I’m guessing there’s something big to hide. Perhaps I should sue for wrongful discharge.” She had no intention of doing that, her beef was with Wickes, not P-H, but she enjoyed entertaining the idea. She also knew there was no need to carry it out.
“You know you’re going to have to tell me who that source is who swore you to secrecy. Unless… .” Harris rose and retrieved his cap. He unclipped his cell phone from his hip and called the head of campus security to arrange a drop-in.
“Unless, what?” Lucinda said, concerned.
“I’m off to have a little chat with Ms. Emerson and homeland security,” Harris said, reclipping the cell to his belt. “Thanks for these,” he said, shoving another cookie into his pocket.
“Take a dozen!” Lucinda said. “And take that blasted handgun back to Honor. I don’t want it in the house!”
Number Thirty-Eight
The Friday before the show, Lucinda was back at Salt Marsh Stable braiding Lady Grey’s mane for her dressage debut as Art D’Argenta the next morning at Thelbank Steeplechase Grounds. She felt that same mix of excitement and anxiety she felt as a pre-teen preparing for a local horse show — a kind of gleeful tension. She knew her two tests cold and just had to calm herself. Remember the boulder, she reminded herself, anything after that will be a breeze.
She was busy with the third braid from the mare’s withers when she felt Lady Grey’s neck lower and stretch forward. The braid pulled out of her hands. She looked to her right to see the mare accepting a carrot offered by Bart. With the sound of horses shifting in their stalls, riders walking their mounts down the center aisle, and a radio playing smooth jazz by Bally’s stall, she hadn’t heard him approach.
“I thought I’d find you here,” he said.
“Bart. Bart,” she said softly. She hopped down off her small stool and offered him a hug, pulling out of his arms after only a few seconds.
“Did they spring you?”
“I graduated,” he said. “I feel kinda raw, but I’m dry.” He held out his right hand at chest level. “See, no shakes.”
“Congratulations.” Their eyes met. Lucinda broke eye contact first and ran her hands through the mare’s forelock, which she wouldn’t braid until morning.
“Well, that’s great. I… .” Lucinda’s voice trailed off. What was there to say? What did she feel about him? Would sobriety stick? You always feel compelled to give someone earnestly trying to recover the benefit of the doubt, unless —
“Hey,” he said. “I see you’re busy so I won’t keep you long. I — ”
“But, Bart,” she interrupted. He held up a hand.
“I saw Tori on the way in. She told me you’re showing tomorrow. I just wanted to.… ” He stopped, looked down at his feet, looked down the aisle. He shut his eyes and took a breath and opened them and saw Ramsey at the end of the aisle.
“There’s this thing we do. Step eight. It’s called making amends to people you’ve hurt. You’re the first one on my list.”
Lucinda leaned against her left arm on the mare’s neck for support. She watched his face, so open, almost raw. She hadn’t seen him like that for years.
“I put you through a lot of shit that I apologize for. Running away from you, from home. From the babies we lost. In addition to withholding my forgiveness for what happened with Parnell. For expecting you to be perfect when I was fu… messed up too.” He took a breath and checked her face. Lucinda waited.
“I was so lost. But that’s not an excuse. I’m truly sorry for hurting you and letting you down.”
He stood there square and said it, looking her in the eye. His body seemed to ease and relax when he said the final word.
“Evenin’, folks,” Ramsey said. “Ready for the big day?”
“Getting there,” Lucinda said. Bart smiled at Ramsey pushing the wheelbarrow and stepped out of his path.
“I accept your apology. And I’m glad you’re doing so much better.” She hugged him again. When she pulled away quickly, his face clouded for a moment.
“Where do we go from here?” Bart asked, laying a hand on her waist, but lifting it off quickly when she looked at it and stiffened. Lucinda heard Ramsey shouting out his goodbyes, later than usual because there was more activity at Salt Marsh on Fridays in the show season. She inhaled the sweet scent of horse shampoo from Lady Grey’s freshly washed coat. Lucinda didn’t know where they went from here. Did they go anywhere from here?
“Well. I can’t think right now,” she said. “Let’s talk after the show. How’s Sunday? Ok? I’m really wound up this week.”
“I’m sorry. You must have a lot to do. A lot on your mind. I came barging in out of the blue — ”
“Where are you staying?”
He watched her face as if deciding something. As if checking the weather. As if with you might be the answer. No.
“The Bentleys,” he said. “See you later, Lucinda. Good luck tomorrow.”
She almost asked, Will you come watch? But didn’t. She reached out to touch his arm but he had already turned around so she watched his back as he trudged down the aisle and through the tack room. Her heart pounded with a mixture of regret and relief.
She knew it was over.
“We need to come through, Lucinda. Can you scooch over?” said Margo, leading Bally toward the mare.
“Oh, sure,” Lucinda said. She was standing in the center of the aisle, staring at the tack room door.
Margo stopped in front of the mare. “Glad you’re ok. Must have been horrendous.”
Lucinda looked at Margo. Could she have known it was Warren’s doing?
“It was. Worse than you could know.”
“I bet,” she said. “Good luck tomorrow.”
Lucinda unclipped one of the crossties, and Margo led Bally past, Lady Grey trying to sneak a sniff of Bally’s rump. She re-clipped the lead and quickly finished the braids, wondering what had gotten into Margo. A shot of civility?
Driving home though, Lucinda felt a coward. I couldn’t tell Bart that we don’t go anywhere from here because my heart beats fast for someone else. And it wasn’t just because she didn’t want to throw him a roadblock in his recovery. It was because she still hadn’t been able to tell Aden. What was stopping her?
* * * * *
On that Friday night, Frank was in his office late. He’d met briefly with Margo at five pm. She acted warm mixed with wary, he thought, although he kept it strictly work related. Generous smiles but she kept herself a good two feet from him the whole time. But wasn’t there something he detected in her eyes that told him there may be some future for them? Or was it not visual? Was it that not-so-subtle ylang-ylang scent that swirled in her wake by his desk? The stuff that made him, well, single minded? About her body. Did she intend that?
Tonight was not the night to go anywhere with Margo. With great restraint, he held the door open for her and did not even touch her shoulder, just bowed slightly as she passed him. Then he quickly locked the door, as if he might change his mind and dash down the hall after her.
The desk phone rang, pulling his attention back to work.
Private name, private number.
“Ahhh, Dr. Wickes? We have your son,” said a deep voice from somewhere. Was it South America? “He is safe, for the time being.”
“Who is this?” Frank said, clutching his phone as if trying to squeeze something out of it.
“We have your son, as I said. If you would like him alive you will come to Rio alone, with payment. Come alone,” the man said, his voice almost a purr.
Frank could barely breathe — the ugly force behind the words seemed to press against his lungs. He stared out the east window but did not see the moonlight on the ocean, only darkness. Then after quickly reciting bank transaction arrangements, the man rang off before Frank got breath enough to respond.
Frank didn’t think this stuff happened in Brazil, but what did he know of the latest rebel groups and government defense and new conflicts? Groups springing up and overrunni
ng the border with Columbia and Bolivia? He would need to be in Rio at the airport on Sunday if he wanted to see Sean alive again, himself and a second payment.
When he realized he was still holding the phone, he hung up on the dial tone, opened his smartphone, and punched in Hal’s speed dial number. “Wire $2 million to Raul X. Luis at Unibenco Holding in San Paulo from the P-H corporate stewardship account.”
Hal did not seem particularly inquisitive about the assignment. Frank figured he might as well use Fargill’s money to pay for a Fargill employee. His son. If the money was not to come from P-H, he’d beg or steal it, but it would come from somewhere. P-H was the quickest way he could transfer the ransom payment even though he had many people who owed him favors. Sean’s captors probably assumed Frank was an American millionaire, but they got that wrong. He had access to millions, it was true, but they weren’t his.
Then he traced the call back to a cell phone in Mexico, obviously someone hired. If he brought in the cops now, they interrupt his money flow and ask too many questions. He didn’t have that kind of time.
Frank swiveled his chair to face his computer monitor and booked a flight from Boston to San Paulo for Saturday. After printing out the details, he called Honor and told her he had to take an unexpected trip for family health reasons and expected to be back by Thursday. Funds for the trip were going to have to be made up with a big splashy donation from God knows where. He’d worry about that later, along with the Lucinda issue.
Just after Frank shut off the office light, the landline phone rang again. He sat in the dark and listened to Captain Darnell Harris informing him that his new VP for Institutional Advancement was out on bail under a plethora of charges ranging from stalking to assault with a deadly weapon to accessory to attempted murder. Harris would be by for questioning about his employee on Saturday morning at nine. What had Rindge gotten into?
Frank left his office at midnight, walking alone across the yard to the president’s mansion, feeling numb, but still moving forward, never one to freeze when sighted by any enemy. He spent the night almost falling to sleep, then his eyes would pop open in shock when he thought about Sean and what he must be going through. Without more than a half hour’s sleep, he rose at six.
Halt at X: A North of Boston Novel Page 34
