by Nevada Barr
The call went on as calls between sweethearts do, with professions of love and mutual "I miss you's," but Anna kept it short lest she weaken and take the White Knight option. Being a damsel in distress had a dark fascination for her; the idea of being without responsibility, merely enduring and hoping and--if the scenario happened to be in a fairy tale--ultimately rescued not only from the situation but from the specter of loneliness. In real life she'd never had the guts to try it. Even had she found the courage to wait, to have faith, she knew she would never have the patience. When things went wrong she couldn't rest till she'd righted them, or tried to. And, too, self-respecting damsels were not allowed to kick, spit, shout or swear at their respective dragons. "Got any guesses as to who might be doctoring my water?" she asked to get the conversation back on safer ground.
"My money is on Ms. Timothy Leary, R.N.," Paul said. "Poisoning is a woman's crime traditionally, and the fact that this was not poisoning with intent to kill or even harm permanently strikes me as additionally female from a statistics point of view. A way she could safely remove you and what's-his-name--"
"Wilcox."
"Wilcox from her husband's way without feeling guilty about it. It fits in with the nursing, too. Unless she's got that Angel of Death thing going on, she probably views herself as a healer, a caretaker. Using a non-lethal drug might tie into that."
"Works for me," Anna said. Hearing his rationale given in deep, strong tones with roots deep in the Mississippi clay made her feel calmer, saner. The thoughts he expressed dovetailed with those she had had in her skittery drug-paranoid fashion. It was infinitely comforting to know her mind not only worked but had done so under duress.
"Do you dive? How about that engine on the coral moving?" Asking the question, it occurred to her that, though she'd known Paul for a year or so, there was a great deal about him she was not yet privy to. They'd met and courted under unusual circumstances, what with dead men and living wives underfoot. Even realizing this, she did not change her mind about matrimony. "Do you know anything about scuba diving?" she amended her question.
"Not as much as you do," he replied. "But I've had a whiff of high school physics and I've lifted more than my share of engines in and out of secondhand pickup trucks. If that motor was seated as solidly as you say it was then it didn't shift because you put your tiny little self underneath and wriggled about a bit."
"I braced the heel of my hand on it when I was copying down the serial number," Anna confessed.
Paul laughed. "Even given the strength of your good right arm, I don't think you could have shifted that thing. Either it was already unseated or somebody moved it."
Anna had known that. Of the various neuroses, the one she most lusted after was the one she could never quite attain: denial. Always, just when she thought she had a handle on it, a pesky fact or puzzling anomaly would punch a hole in the dike and reality would pour in.
Of course she'd checked the seating of the motor on its coral bed. Having no desire to be trapped--or crushed--beneath the engine, she had pushed and shoved and peeked at its edges to confirm it had reached its final resting place. Without that reassurance, she could never have tricked her claustrophobic self into slithering into the crevice beneath it.
Then it had shifted and caught her, nearly killed her.
Ergo someone or something or some event had caused it to move.
It was at this point that logic ceased to work and the practice of denial would have come in handy. Who or what could have moved the engine? The obvious choice was Mack. As the only other creature with opposable thumbs within a hundred-foot radius, he was at the top of the suspect list. With a pry bar and a working knowledge of levers and fulcrums, he could have managed it. Why he would want to was an open question, but Anna had always considered herself a pleasant enough person and relatively harmless. Still, Mack might have his reasons. It was possible he'd been behind the light in Lanny Wilcox's bedroom window, had known she'd followed and didn't want her poking her nose into whatever business he'd had there. Could be he loved her and felt rejected, hated her and felt seduced or didn't like the fact that she never parted her hair.
Why he may have tried to crush her could be any of a hundred things the human psyche finds irresistible or intolerable. Given that he had means, motive and opportunity, if he did it, why not finish the job? Mack had gone to great lengths to rescue her. There were no witnesses but the fishes. Had he wanted her dead, it could have been done with thumb and forefinger: no muss, no fuss and no evidence left behind. Instead he'd worked feverishly to get her out and, once she was safe and topside, showed a concern for her welfare that Anna did not believe was feigned.
Unless he'd suffered a brief psychotic and homicidal episode, then repented and saved her, Mack was not her man. There'd been no seismic disturbances, not tsunamis, no ground swells shifting the sands. According to Daniel, no torpedoes had been fired, and the only anchor dragged was his when he and Mack had engineered her release.
The tried and possibly true Sherlockian assertion that once everything possible has been ruled out, whatever remains, however improbable, is the truth, suggested an answer.
There was another diver.
Anna returned to her quarters. There was much to think about: the second diver, the whereabouts of Theresa Alvarez, Teddy Shaw's proclivity for drugs, two sunken vessels and one accepted proposal for marriage. The first four she would attend to in due time. The fifth she was oddly content with, pleased, excited even. Marrying Paul Davidson felt as warm and light and supportive as this southern sea when first tumbled into. If like dangers to life and limb lurked in the connubial depths, so be it.
Tired as she was, she sat down with her great-great-aunt Raffia's letters. In a way she hoped the affects of the hallucinogen had not completely worn off. The drug had given her a heightened connection to Raffia: reading the letters was as poignant as speaking to the dead.
18
Dear Peg--
I was in the downstairs parlor--it's quite a gracious room and used by all the officers and their wives on occasion--restuffing the pillows with moss some of the soldiers gather and sell to their fellows to make mattresses. The moss is not so comfortable as a feather bed, but it has the advantage of being cheap and easily available. In a place where one's bedding mildews and is subject to becoming a home for creatures that bite, being able to stuff pillows anew is almost a necessity. I was called from this mindless task by a shrieking as of fishwives.
I ran upstairs to see who was murdering whom and found Tilly and Luanne in a tug-of-war over a skirt. Luanne was in one of her stubborn moods. They come upon her when she is doing her duty as she declares, "In a right and God-fearing way," and one of us has the temerity to interfere with her. Tilly, who has been raised properly and ought to know better, had worked herself into a tear-streaked state of shouting and pulling. With some difficulty and a bit of fishwifery of my own, I managed to wrestle the garment from them before they tore it into pieces.
Because Luanne is older and has not had the advantages that Tilly has, I let her tell her side first. "I gathered up the laundry like I done every Tuesday since I started doing for you," she told me. Despite the odd use of language the slaves have adopted, her indignation gave her dignity. Tilly began to behave less like a wild animal and have the decency to look a little ashamed of herself. "I got this dirty old skirt out from under Miss Tilly's bed where it's got no business being. It got foods on it and now she got it crumbled and all over with dust. I was taking it with the rest to see to it, and out she comes screaming I was stealing. I never stole nothing in my life."
Stealing, in the life that Luanne was given, the life of a slave, was a serious accusation. Where she had come from she would have been beaten or worse for theft.
"Matilda, what have you got to say for yourself?" I demanded. I sounded so much like Molly at that moment you would have laughed or cried to hear me. Tilly had the grace (or the very sensible fear of my wrath) to apologize to Luan
ne.
"There's something in the pocket I need to have back," she said as if this explained her outrageous exhibition.
"Why didn't you simply ask Luanne to take it out of the pocket and give it to you?" I asked reasonably. I added the "reasonably" because I am inordinately proud that, given the embarrassment I was suffering because of our sister, reason did not come easily at that moment.
"It's mine," Tilly stated.
Well, that was no sort of an answer at all. I waited for the rest of the explanation but it was not forthcoming. Luanne, her blood still up from the unwarranted attack on her character, started in again with "I never took" etc. etc. Not wishing to be drawn back into it, I cut her off.
"Why didn't you just ask?" I repeated to Tilly.
Tilly lost her prettiness in that moment. I have never seen a child so changed. Her face grew sullen, her eyes hot and dull and she would not look at me. It struck me as a blow. Our Tilly has always carried such a light within her. Foolish she can be, and rash most certainly, but I had never seen her secretive and sly. The ugliness with which it clouded her delicate features made me want to cry. At this point I had sovereignty over the disputed skirt. It was clear that whatever was in the pocket was not only of utmost importance to Tilly, but was something she believed would cause others a great deal of displeasure.
"We'll see about this," I said, once again using Molly's voice and, though I disliked myself for doing so, could no more have stopped than I could carry one of the great cannons to the third level of this fort.
I fumbled through the wad of fabric in my arms till I found the pockets. Inside one of them I felt the crinkle of folded papers and pulled them out. I shook them open to see what dreadful words could change Tilly from child to cornered fox. Before I could read a word, she snatched them from my hand, shouting, "They're no concern of yours!" and ran down the hall, through our rooms and, by the slamming of doors, I surmised out on the veranda and down the stairs.
For a moment I thought to give chase but chose not to humiliate her or myself in such a way. I was angry, but mostly I was worried. This was so unlike Tilly. After apologizing again to Luanne, I went not back to the parlor but to our rooms, where I could be assured of being alone. There I sat and thought.
Peggy, do you think it could be a love letter? Maybe from Joel Lane? That was my first thought, but surely the discovery of a love letter would bring on blushes, stammers and giggles, not the desperation and wretchedness I saw. Unless it was a profession of love (or, God forbid, some baser emotion) that was not appropriate. Perhaps from Dr. Mudd or Samuel Arnold? I mention them because, other than Joseph and Joel, they are the men she sees, speaks of and I know full well Dr. Mudd has gotten too much influence over her. Lord knows Joseph has made note of it as well. The mere mention of the doctor is enough to put him in a pet.
I assumed Tilly would be back within the hour. On this bit of earth there simply is no place to run to. In the heat and the dust, the ever-shifting sea of men on land and water from horizon to horizon, I was sure discomfort would hound her home without my having to dangle after her.
Two hours passed. Then three. Many times I cycled through anger to worry and back again. Worry won out in the end, and I decided to search for our errant sister--not to reprimand her but to see her safe and well for my own peace of mind.
I went first to the top tier of the fort. After that last cannon was lifted into place, the building and arming was stopped. Since we are no longer at war, an order came through that the arming of the fort was to cease, though the construction continues as Jefferson will be used as a prison for some time to come. Within six months Joseph estimates that our confederate soldiers will all have been released, but those sent here for other crimes, the deserters, thieves, murderers and, of course, the Lincoln conspirators, will remain to serve out their sentences.
The third tier, blessedly devoid of humanity, was manned only by sentries and a few knots of off-duty men up catching sea breezes and smoking and gambling. Not wanting to air our domestic concerns before this rough gathering, I did not ask any of the men if they had seen Tilly.
A circumnavigation of the fort revealed no truant girl. It is close to a mile walk to complete the circumference of these walls. By the time I had done so I was sweating, and worry had once again come round to anger. I returned to quarters expecting to find her there. She was not, and my anxiousness for her safety again pushed out my anxiousness to slap her.
I debated whether or not to tell Joseph. In telling him I would have marshaled the forces of the Union Army to search for Tilly. I was not yet sufficiently concerned for her welfare to subject her--and us--to the ensuing gossip. That is the good reason I did not tell my husband but not the only reason. The other is not so easily articulated even to myself. I shall try to tell it to you, but you must burn this letter should I die unexpectedly. I would not like a distant relative to read it and know what a small person I was.
I did not tell Joseph partly because I was afraid, not of his anger at Tilly or of his anger at me for failing to run our home in such a way that its inner workings did not interfere with him. On reflection I believe I did not tell him because I was afraid to see the concern in his face, afraid it would be greater, deeper than any concern he has ever shown me. Peggy, I was jealous of our sister, jealous of my husband's affection for her. May God forgive me. You, my dear sister, I know will understand. Though it is undoubtedly a sacrilege, to be understood is far more comforting than the cold release of forgiveness.
In this unpleasant state of the heart it came to me that possibly Tilly had been so madly protective of her letter because her brother-in-law had written it. I cannot tell you what sudden sickness this thought engendered in me. The instant it came into my mind I was doubled over with it as if I had received a blow to my midsection and could not draw breath.
Fortunately this miserable and unworthy state was short-lived. The letter could not have been written by Joseph. It simply could not. Joseph is not given to writing letters of any sort and least of all love letters. Even when he was courting me with such purpose, he never wrote me. And, though I only glimpsed the papers, I am sure I would have recognized his handwriting.
Once I recovered myself, I set off to look in the only other place I could think that Tilly might have run to. Both Joseph and myself have expressly forbid her to visit Joel Lane's cell unaccompanied, but given her newly acquired insolence, I thought that's where she might have gone.
It took only a moment to bully one of the sentries at the sally port into escorting me to the cells above and unlocking the door. By now they were not only accustomed to my going there but had become used to the Lincoln conspirators and, though they are still much reviled, Arnold and Mudd are no longer feared as they once were. The sentry was an older man, nearly fifty--much too old to be an infantryman, but it is the life he's used to. As we ascended the spiral stairs adjacent to the guardroom, he said: "First the young miss and now you. Those rebs must be pouring some mighty fine tea to attract the prettiest ladies at the fort."
I did not thank him for the compliment. He took my silence as a rebuff and didn't say another word. I had not intentionally snubbed him. It was his testimony that Tilly had visited the cells that caught up my attention. I wanted to ask when she'd come, if she was still there, but that would have been to admit I did not know the whereabouts of the child entrusted to my care. Soon enough I would find these things out.
He unlocked Joel's cell door, then said: "I'll be waiting just out here. You call out if you need me." It wasn't concern for my privacy that motivated this act. As he turned away he was already fumbling for his tobacco pouch. Men are not allowed to smoke on duty. They can be beaten for it or made to carry a heavy cannonball in circles hour upon hour or even be cruelly strung up from one of the trees. Though I believe the regulation to be just and necessary, it is hard on those men who have come to depend on tobacco. Behind these enclosed casemates was an ideal place to enjoy a smoke undetected.
Joel was lying on his mattress, his back propped against the wall, doing nothing. The forced inactivity of our prisoners must be the most difficult cross they bear, worse even than bad food and poor living conditions. Those who can work are able to earn money for the small luxuries available at Sentler's store by the docks. Joel was healing quickly but was not yet fit enough to join the crews building or recoaling the ships.
"Good afternoon, Private Lane," I said, attempting to sound cheerful. There was no need to add the weight of my concerns to his.
"Is it?" His sulleness so matched Tilly's I began to wonder if poor manners were contagious.
I chose to ignore his tone. "Has Tilly been here?"
He glanced at the door that communicated between his casemate and that of Dr. Mudd and Mr. Arnold.
"Is she here?" I amended my question with some alarm. The thought of her behind closed doors with two men--any two men--was not something I would have condoned.
"She was. She's gone," he said.
There was some comfort in that at least.
"Do you know where she went?"
"Why don't you ask my glorious physician? It was him, not me, she came to see." At this moment Joel Lane was no longer a soldier, a man recuperating from a beating or a carefree actor and balladeer. He was a peevish boy looking and sounding as young as our little sister.
Clearly I was not the only one bitten by the green-eyed monster this day. I was beginning to understand why women are often banned from military postings. It is not our behavior that is an endangerment but that of the men made foolish and rash by the presence of a skirt in their midst.
"Is Dr. Mudd in?" I asked, then realized the stupidity of my question and crossed to the adjoining door without awaiting a reply.
I felt a bit silly knocking on the door to a prison cell as if I'd come calling of a Saturday afternoon, but simply flinging it open like an invading army was unthinkable. I tapped and called out: "Dr. Mudd? It's Mrs. Coleman. May I speak with you a moment?"
