Bad Company

by Sarah Dreher

  She strode back and forth. "Gwen knows exactly what happened in Bangor. And it wasn't my doing. I think she set it up from the start, to make me look like a creep. She's the one who told me about Marcy's ex-lover calling. She's the one who insisted we stay in town because the truck was making a funny noise." She stopped in front of Stoner. "I didn't put it together until just now, but now I realize it was you two doing those things, all along." She faced the others. "Think about it. Before they arrived, what had happened? We'd had a couple of accidents, and some kids took our flashlights."

  "And left them in your closet?" Stoner asked.

  "There aren't any flashlights in my closet."

  "Not now," Esther said under her breath. "We took them."

  Clara nudged her. "Hush."

  "But after they got here, it was one thing after another, wasn't it? Things disappearing and destroyed, everybody getting into a mess and turning on each other. They wormed their way into our confidence and used us. And now they're trying to blame it all on me." She came up close and put her round face inches from Stoner's. "Tell me, Stoner McTavish, if I did all these things, what was my motive? To destroy my own theater company? To make things harder for myself and my sisters? To get some kind of sick thrill out of messing up people's lives?"

  "All of the above," Stoner said. "Especially number three."

  "I watched you at work, cozying up to one woman after another. Intimate talks with Rebecca, trips to Green Lake with Divi Divi, you even had to get next to Marcy after you were through using her. And Rita! That was quite a number you did on her, destroying her frog and then pretending to be oh, so sympathetic."

  The confusion among the women was deepening. She could feel herself losing ground.

  Sherry walked away from her, to the other side of the center, then turned. “Well," she said, placing her hands on her hips, "go ahead. It's your turn."

  "I have evidence," Stoner said uncertainly. She retrieved her knapsack "Here are ladder rungs she practiced on." She threw the charred wood to the floor. "A marijuana plant, half its leaves harvested." This was sounding more lame by the minute.

  "Burnt wood and illegal drugs," Sherry said. “Which you could have provided yourself. We want proof, Stoner."

  The other women murmured. She couldn't tell what they meant by it.

  "Okay." She took one of the flashlights. “We found this in your room."

  "And you can prove that?"

  She held up the computer disk. "What about this?"

  "What about it? It could be Div's, or Rebecca's. Is my name engraved on it?"

  The Xerox of the registration book. ''You used this to practice my handwriting."

  "I keep copies of all inn records. My accountant requires it.”

  “What about bugging our room?"

  Sherry smiled. "Maybe you'd like to show us that. We can all go up to the house and take a look"

  Damn. Esther had removed the bug.

  "How about this?" It was Gwen. She was holding up the card from the roses. "You wrote this, Sherry."

  Sherry took the card with a grin. She walked around the circle, showing it to each woman in turn. "You all know my handwriting. Is this my handwriting?”

  Every woman shook her head.

  Of course. Sherry had ordered the roses by phone. The florist would have written out the card.

  She was losing ground. One by one, her arguments were falling apart, self-destructing. And the women—she was asking them to take the word of a stranger, an outsider, against someone they'd known and worked with for years.

  Stoner studied their faces, silently begging them to believe her. Disappointment on Divi Divi's. Rebecca was hurt. Rage was building up in Rita. Marcy was shocked. She didn't dare look at Boneset.

  Artemis, she prayed, if you have one true arrow left in your quiver, fire it now!

  "I have something," she heard Esther say behind her. "I'd like to present it."

  Boneset turned to the circle. "May the Crone speak?"

  The women nodded. All except Sherry, who was frozen, staring at Esther.

  Stoner turned and looked to the stage.

  Esther came forward, carrying the locked box in one hand, and Jennifer's letter in the other. "This letter was in this box, which I stole from Sherry's room. Her other room, on the third floor. I'd like to share it with you." She took her glasses from Clara and read. "It's addressed to Sherry Dodder, care of The Cottage, etc., etc. 'Sherry.' No 'dear,' just 'Sherry.' 'Sherry, I know about your affair with Rita. I trusted her, and 1 trusted you. But I guess it's open season now. So much for your "respect for our relationship." Jennifer.'" She removed her glasses. "Can anyone shed light on this?"

  From the periphery of the group came a loud, "Affair with me? She never had an affair with me!" It was Rita, and she was raging. "There's no way I'd have an affair with a skinny little twerp like that."

  "Of course you were," Marcy shouted.

  "Well, who the hell told you that, douche-bag?"

  "Sherry did. She ought to know."

  "You expect me to believe you? I wouldn't believe you if you told me I have blue eyes."

  "Well, you do have blue eyes," Marcy yelled. "Ass-hole."

  "All right," Clara said firmly. "This is getting out of hand."

  "Listen to the Crone," Boneset warned.

  Marcy ignored them. "Do you really think I'd have gone after Jennifer if I thought you were still a couple? That's not Feminist. What do you take me for?”

  "A sleazy, slimy, home-wrecking douche-bag, that's what I take you for."

  “You were having an affair with Sherry!"

  "Says who?" Rita demanded.

  "Sherry said..." Marcy stopped dead. "Oh, Great Mother! You weren't having an affair with Sherry. But she said… I mean, 'Go for it,' she said. 'Rita and I are getting it on, and she'd be glad for an easy out.' That's what she told me.”

  "For Christ's sake," Rita fumed, "if you were so innocent, why did you let me call you names all this time?"

  "I thought we were doing theater!"

  Stoner nearly laughed out loud. "Instead of yelling at each other," she said, "why don't you yell at..."

  She looked for Sherry.

  Sherry was gone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  "The circle's been broken," someone shouted.

  A broken circle was the least of their problems. Grabbing Esther's flashlight, Stoner ran toward the door.

  It was black as tar outside. She looked toward the inn, where she might catch a glimpse of Sherry's shadow against the light from the French windows.

  Nothing.

  Noise from the barn, women yelling, Boneset trying to keep order.

  “We have to go after her!" It sounded like Rebecca.

  "Don't break the circle."

  "She'll kill herself. I know she will."

  Stoner came to a halt. Kill herself?

  "She's tried it before," Rebecca said. "She told me. She asked me not to tell, but..."

  "She asked me not to tell." That was Divi Divi. "She said no one else knew."

  "That's what she told me." Marcy.

  "Hell," Gwen said. "She even told me."

  Stoner broke into a trot. Maybe Sherry had told them all lies, or maybe not. It didn't matter. If it was true, if Sherry had indeed attempted suicide, there was a good chance she'd try it again if she found herself in a tight situation. That kind of thing happened all the time, and Sherry certainly wasn't the picture of mental health.

  She didn't have time to find out the truth. She had to handle this very carefully.

  But first she had to find her.

  She held her breath and listened for running footsteps.

  Nothing.

  Okay, decide on a direction and hope for the best.

  The boat house. From there Sherry could pick up the path to the wood road, and then to the main road. She could even circle back along the road behind the grounds to the parking area and get her car. There might even be a road across the lak
e. If she got away...

  She couldn't let that happen. She didn't want Sherry dead, but she sure didn't want her getting away.

  Flicking on her torch, she headed for the boat house.

  The light was on, showing through chinks and separations in the walls. Sounds of thumping from inside. Sherry was there.

  Stoner tried the door. It held, blocked from within. Not by the boat house lock. That lock was a hasp and padlock type, on the outside, and the hasp was empty. She thought about calling out, but that would be ridiculous. Sherry wouldn't respond. They never did. She'd seen enough television shows to know that. People in television shows were always beating on doors and yelling things like, "Let me in!" and "I know you're in there!" and "Open this door immediately!" No one ever did.

  She remembered a window on the other side. Carefully, trying not to give away her moves, she worked her way around. The inside light went out. The glass panes reflected the sky. Beyond them, everything was dark. She heard an unfamiliar scraping, chain-rattling sound.

  Something was going on, and it was pretty certain that that something had to do with Sherry and escape. Returning to the door, she contemplated it for a moment. Break it down. There was nothing else she could do. Break through whatever barrier Sherry had put up, and hope the woman wasn't standing on the other side with a sawed-off shot gun.

  Because she had the feeling Sherry Dodder wasn't into saving her life.

  Putting her shoulder against the wood, she pressed as hard as she could. The door didn't move. She backed up a few feet. The odd sound came again.

  In the barn, the women were beginning to chant, healing their circle. The thousand names of the three-fold Goddess floated through the air.

  She threw herself at the door. It held.

  This wasn't going to work. Her shoulder ached.

  Maybe she should go for help. But Sherry would take advantage of her absence to get away.

  Stoner took a deep breath. All right, Goddesses and other ladies, I can use your help. Maiden, Mother, Crone, give me a push.

  One more try. She backed up a few steps more to get a truly serious running start, and hurled herself forward.

  The door cracked and creaked and swung open.

  She ducked back outside and hid in the shadows beside the door, anticipating a rain of bullets.

  The boat house stood empty and silent.

  Cautiously, she inched around the edge of the door and reached for the light switch. Flicked it.

  Nothing.

  She went all the way in and turned her light toward the fuse box. The wires were ripped, the circuit breakers thrown. Sherry had disabled the electricity. And the phone. It lay in pieces, wires sprouting from the base in a rainbow of curls. Irrelevantly, it made her think of Rita.

  Still apprehensive and moving slowly, she swept the room with her flashlight. Nothing seemed to have changed since the other day. Oars, paddles, and tools still lined the walls. Opposite the door, a small window. Against the wall to her right, the canoes rested in the framework of iron pipes. A wooden walkway surrounded the patch of open water where they were launched. An overhead door cut in the far wall could be raised and lowered on a chain to let them out. It was closed. The room was empty. Sherry was gone. One of the canoes was missing.

  That must have been the sound she'd heard. The overhead door opening, then closing.

  Sherry was out on the lake.

  Well, she could follow. Granted, her canoeing skills left something to be desired, but she ought to be able to handle it. She ran to the canoe rack.

  The door slammed behind her.

  She whirled around.

  The hasp clanked shut. The padlock clicked.

  Sherry had brought her canoe around to the dock, climbed on shore, and locked her in.

  There was always the boat door to the lake. That couldn't possibly be locked from the outside. She crept toward it.

  Just goes to show you how wrong you can be. The door was fastened tight, locked with a dead bolt lock that could only be opened with a key. The key was missing.

  She really had to compliment Sherry on her excellent security.

  If she ever saw her again.

  The women in the barn were continuing their litany of Goddess names.

  Come on, come on. I need your help here, folks.

  Damn, what if they made a mistake and had to start over again from the beginning?

  She stood for a moment, listening. No sound of running footsteps, no rustling. Only the slow lapping of lake water against the shore and women's voices in the distance.

  Sherry could have gotten away down the path and road by now.

  She had to get out of here, had to go after her.

  Okay, we have two choices. The lake or the window.

  She opted for the window, and sized it up. Small, yes, but she could probably get through. Shoulders were the problem. Maybe hips. It wouldn't be comfortable or fun, not with the unfinished and splintering wood. But it was possible. And probably quicker than going into the lake, swimming around to the dock, getting out, making a lot of noise all the while...

  She crossed the catwalk to the other side.

  That was when she smelled the gasoline.

  And heard a soft rasping sound, like a match being struck.

  She stood in the middle of the wooden building, paralyzed.

  An ear-pounding "whump," and the boat house exploded in flames.

  For a moment she couldn't think, it happened so fast. Not at all the way she'd imagined, with tiny curls of smoke seeping through a crack, then little flame fingers, and all the time in the world to make plans for escape.

  But the building was old, and entirely built of wood. Even the roof. Old wood, which had dried out decades ago.

  The heat was suffocating. Looking down, she saw the flames race toward her over the floor. One board, then the next, and the next, and the next. The fire jumped the small air pockets between the boards. An instant of ghost-like smoke, and the board exploded.

  So fast.

  The floor under her bare feet turned hot as a griddle. The edge of her robe began to steam.

  Idiot, DO SOMETHING.

  She whirled to her left and dove into the water. The door to the lake was smoldering. Grabbing a quick lung full of searing air, she submerged. On the other side she hesitated, reluctant to surface, certain she'd break through water into fire. Sherry was proving herself to be thorough, surely she'd think to pour oil on the water and ignite it.

  But the lake water was clear and black.

  She came up for air a safe distance from the shack. It was totally engulfed in flames. The roof sagged, then buckled and collapsed in on itself.

  Treading water, she watched it.

  It seemed she'd gotten out just in time.

  Sparks flew skyward like a swarm of stars. Surely the women would see that and come to help.

  Meanwhile, she'd lost Sherry, who had probably made a run for it after starting the fire. By now she'd have reached her car. By now she was probably halfway to...

  Something heavy and sharp hit her shoulder, sending a lightning bolt of pain down her left side.

  She cried out and went under the water.

  Looking up, she could see the keel of the canoe, like the belly of a huge fish, against the fire-brightened sky.

  Sherry hadn't run. She'd gotten back into her canoe and paddled back toward the middle of the lake, knowing Stoner would try to save herself by diving into the water.

  More than escaping, Sherry wanted to play this out.

  Man, that was sick. That was truly demented. Demented and dangerous.

  So it was down to just the two of them. With all the advantages on Sherry's side.

  The cotton sheet she was wearing weighted her down. She struggled to untie the rope belt. It was swollen with lake water. Her left hand was numb, her fingers wouldn't work.

  Her air was running out.

  She stroked her way to the darker side of the canoe and slipped to th
e surface.

  Sherry heard her break the water, and turned, paddle upraised.

  Stoner gulped in a lung full of air. Pushing upward with her good hand, she forced herself back beneath the dark water.

  The paddle hit the surface of the pond with a brutal smack.

  That was supposed to be my head, she thought.

  She held her breath and tried to come up with a plan. If she could swim under the canoe, it would be relatively easy to tip it over.

  Trying not to make waves, she stroked toward the black shape of the canoe.

  It backed away from her, just out of reach.

  She moved forward again. It moved away.

  She must be visible. Probably the white robe.

  She was running out of air. Getting out of here seemed like a good idea. Maybe even better than capturing or saving Sherry and making either a hero or a fool of herself. She could swim, even in the heavy robe. There was lots of shore line. Go away from the light, where she can't see you. She struck out for the darker shore.

  The robe slowed her. Too much.

  She struggled forward a few yards and looked up. The canoe was still directly above her and out of reach, following her now. No chance to get away that way, then.

  Confused, unsure of what to do, she floated below the surface in circles.

  Her lungs began to burn.

  I certainly am in a lousy condition. All that city living and smog, no doubt. Can't even swim worth pennies.

  Well, hell, how many city people are real swimmers? Only the health freaks with their club memberships, and they probably don't use them half the time.

  Not being able to breathe, she thought, is a very painful experience.

  She had to risk surfacing again. Inching close to the canoe, she moved upward through the water. Maybe Sherry wouldn't see her this time if she slipped up along the side.

  Air filled her lungs in a blessing.

  The canoe paddle struck the water's surface with a sound like fury. It missed her by inches.

  Sherry swung the paddle again. The water exploded again. Sherry missed her again. In the confines of the canoe, she probably couldn't find the leverage to swing.