Ashes (37 page)

That patrol should never had found him. Yes, he would have died, but he would have died with his faith in the cause and people he served intact, before time and events shook and finally destroyed his faith. Would not have seen his former masters betray and reject, watched his old colleagues fall away. He would have died without the blood of friends and innocents on his hands.

No stars to give him comfort. He walked toward the motel office, to the pay phone on the wall. No stars, but he could find comfort of a different sort, through miles of wires and cables. Sean had no idea what time it was but Monique had always been a night owl. Chances were good she’d be awake. He dialed the number from memory. He wouldn’t tell her any of it. Just needed to hear her voice.
Talk to me, Monique. Say you’re all right. Let me know that there’s one good thing in my life I haven’t destroyed. Say that you cared for me once. Hell, tell me you loved me, even if you didn’t, because God knows I’ll never hear that from anyone, ever.

The phone rang three times and then Monique’s bittersweet honey voice said, “Hello?” In the background Sean could hear a movie.
Casablanca.
Renault saying he was shocked, shocked that gambling was going on here. “Hello?” she said again.

Monique, it’s me.
But the words wouldn’t come out.
I need you.

He heard a male voice ask something, heard Monique say, “I don’t know” to the man. “Anyone there?” into the receiver.

Sean said nothing, didn’t make a sound. He was sure of it. But Monique’s voice became softer, concerned. “Flint? Is that you?”

He hung up. He could not talk to Monique, and his bruised throat and hoarse voice had nothing to do with it. No, he had forfeited any right to seek comfort from Monique when he killed Anna. Only two women in the world he cared about, and he could not seek one’s help when the other was dead at his hand.
I’m sorry, Monique. Forget you knew me. Have the happiness you deserve. You never would have found it with me.

For a while he stood by the phone, fingertips idly running over the buttons. Then he picked up the receiver, began to dial again. Area code 207 this time. Maine. Robert’s number. Robert was the one he really should talk to. Because Monique could only give him comfort. Robert would understand. He could tell Robert everything. It would be like when he was a child back at Saint Stephen’s, only confessing into a phone instead of a cloth screen. Instead of a priest on the other side of the screen Robert would be in his castle on the rocky coast of Maine, surrounded by his books, with a glass of brandy in one hand, a fire roaring in the fireplace, and classical music on the CD player. He would say
Robert, you were right, the whole mission went wrong, so very wrong.

Dialed 1, then the area code, the first three digits...and then stopped, finger hovering over the keypad. Torn, for hand-in-hand with his longing to talk to Robert was the fear — almost but not quite a certainty — that Robert was no longer there to talk to. That the cancer had done what the dangers of countless missions could not. Killed him. Sean told himself it was not true, but what if it was? What if he got a rote voice saying the number was disconnected? Or some stranger’s voice telling him that the man who used to live there isn’t with us anymore, so sad? If he heard that, what then?

If he didn’t have the hope of talking with Robert, could he even go on?

He hung up. Once, his own will had been enough to sustain him. A year and a half ago, the plight of Jennifer Thomson had put him in motion. But too much had happened, and now his will was nearly spent and he had trouble remembering the image of Jennifer that had once haunted him. No home to go back to, no more missions for him. No more Monique. There was only the hope that he could talk to the one person who would understand, and maybe find absolution. Or something like it.

Sean walked away from the phone, away from the motel, down the highway, occasionally taking swallows of Scotch, never mind how it burned his throat. Walked away from the lights of the motel, found a fence and climbed it into a cattle pasture. In the distance a few Holsteins stood, asleep on their feet, paying him no mind. He walked without looking, until he stumbled and fell, rolled and lay on his back, looking up at the sky. Put the bottle to his lips and was surprised to find it empty.

He let the bottle fall to the ground, looked up at the sky. Still no moon or stars, just an infinite expanse of black as far as he could see. Like the void he’d nearly fallen into, and now he wondered why he had been afraid. If he was falling forever in darkness he wouldn’t have to keep hearing Anna’s head hit the fireplace, or Beatty’s desperate pounding on the ice. He could stop seeing Anna dead along with the child inside her, stop seeing the look in Robert’s eyes as he said that nothing could wash the blood away from their hands.

Sean looked up at the sky in appeal and said, “I wanted to help Jennifer. That was all I wanted. To do my job again.”

And now? He looked up into darkness and knew that he could have what he wanted. It would be very easy. He knew how. Eight rounds in the gun’s magazine, and all he needed were two. One for Richard, one for himself. It would be doing Richard a favor, really. Himself as well. And whether he liked what he’d wanted wouldn’t matter any longer.

Sean had just about made up his mind when he heard Robert’s voice. Not echoing down the halls of memory but as if Robert was here, standing among the cows in this Montana pasture.
Giving up?
Robert asked.
That’s most unlike you.

“I can’t help it,” he said in his new hoarse voice. “You tried to warn me and it’s gone wrong. I should have listened. I’m sorry.”

What’s done is done, my friend. But after all this, to leave it unfinished? Then it really will have been all for nothing.

“I don’t care.”

You do. At least keep your promise to come see me when it’s done. Can you finish the job, and do that?

Sean wanted to say no. But Robert was right. He had never left a job unfinished before. He should see it through, otherwise it was all for nothing. And when it was done, he would drive back across the country, from one land’s end to the other, and see his friend. If he was still there.

“All right then,” he said. “Be seeing you.”

No answer to that. He hadn’t expected one. Nor did he know what he would do when he got back to Maine. If Robert was there, they would talk, but what then? And if he wasn’t there, what then?

He’d figure it out when he got there. Improvise. He was good at that.

* * *

T
he gray van hit the road again just a little after dawn. Sean drove with a dry mouth and a dull ache behind his eyes, sipping Gatorade to rehydrate himself. Richard was still a bit doped up, but had recovered himself enough by noon to say the last words he would utter for the rest of the drive. “What if she won’t do it?”

“She will.”

“But what if she won’t?”

“Then I will.”

Richard did not seem surprised. “That’s what I thought. I just wanted to know for sure.”

Sean stood for a moment, looking into Richard’s face. Saw that something was different. It wasn’t exhaustion, or fear, or the dope from last night. No, something essential, the thing that had sent Richard on his crusade to reshape the country in the way he saw fit, the thing that had made him command men and inspire admiration — that thing was gone. Wounded by betrayal and killed by grief. Gone. The Richard he was bringing to Jennifer was not the one who had ordered the bombing. That Richard was gone forever, with no way to exact justice. This was not the same man.

But he would have to do.

H
aven Cove and its inhabitants weathered the storm well. No lives were lost, though there were several people in the hospital. The Coast Guard had to rescue a fishing crew caught out in the storm, and several of the crew were suffering from exposure. Angus, the harbormaster, had a mild heart attack but was already well enough to complain loudly and often about the hospital food, leading Mr. Bradbury to remark that Angus was the only man he’d met contrary enough to be feistier after a coronary than before one.

Four fishing boats had been lost, including the
Tally-ho.
The harbor was damaged, though not as much as everyone had feared it would be. A bait-and-tackle shop was wiped out completely, and several other harbor businesses were going to need a good clean-up. But the town considered itself lucky, and everyone was pitching in to help.

The sight of the
Tally-ho
on its lucky and unlikely perch brought the news media to Haven Cove. Jennifer managed to elude the reporters and photographers but Gene, having no compunctions, appeared more than once on TV describing what had happened, wearing that same look of dismayed amusement he’d had when the boat wrecked. When Jennifer asked him what was going to happen to the
Tally-ho,
Gene seemed remarkably calm. “There’s no way they can get it off the rock,” he said. “And even if they did, no way to tow it back without it sinking. I guess she’ll stay there. Might become a tourist attraction.”

“Maybe you could sell tickets,” she said, and he laughed.

* * *

I
t was a Thursday night, a few days after the storm. The Delacroixs were helping to coordinate a food drive their church was putting on for the people whose boats and businesses had been damaged, and now Jennifer and Suzanne sat, having some pizza while they took a break from loading canned goods and other nonperishables into boxes.

“I can’t wait until the men get here, to help us lift all this,” Suzanne said, reaching for another slice of pepperoni with extra cheese.

“Gene’s at Bill’s office, right?” asked Jennifer.

Suzanne nodded. “Gene’s insurance company tried to tell him they wouldn’t pay for the boat because technically it hadn’t sunk. So Bill’s giving them an earful. Gene’ll get his money, sooner or later.”

“Believe me, if I was in Gene’s situation I’d want Bill on my side. And speaking of storm damage, I ran into a blast from my past today.”

“Do tell,” said Suzanne.

“Drove past Salto Mining. What a mess. That big tree outside the office fell over and knocked out half their windows. Alex was out there bitching at the crew cutting down the tree.”

Jennifer had been on her way back from a lunch errand when she saw Alex standing in front of his office. He was yelling and wincing with every bit of glass that fell to the sidewalk. She was at a stoplight; he turned and saw her. It was the first time she’d seen him since the New Year’s debacle, but the sight of him didn’t bother her. That was so long ago. He gave her a rueful shrug as she saw the damage, then a grin and a wink. She couldn’t help it; she flipped him the bird, laughed, and drove on her way.

“Well, I’m not taking up a collection for him. Unless you want to throw some of these cans at him.” Suzanne held up a can of Campbell’s tomato soup.

“Nah, one of the Chunky soups. Can’s bigger,” Jennifer replied with a giggle.

At the door a knock, and Gene’s voice calling out, “Hello, hello.”

“Come on in!” Suzanne said.

The door opened and Gene and Matthew came in. Matthew ran over to Jennifer and gave her a big hug. Since the storm he did that every time he saw her, and she didn’t mind at all.

Gene followed, making his way through the boxes of food. He had a bucket of take-out chicken in one hand and a bag of sides and drinks in the other. “Hey, I brought — oh, you’ve got pizza.”

“Fear not, Gene, I’m sure it’ll get eaten,” Suzanne replied.

Gene plunked the food down on the table. He seemed remarkably chipper for someone whose means of livelihood were gone for good. “I didn’t just bring food. Check this out.” He dug in the bag of sides and brought out a stack of newspaper supplements. On the cover was the headline
The Hammer Falls,
and a picture of the
Tally-ho
on its perch. “Take a look.”

“I’m sorry, Gene,” said Suzanne.

But Jennifer, leaning forward to look at the photo, saw what Gene really wanted her to see. The credit for the photograph.
Photo by Gene Tally.
“That’s your picture!”

He nodded happily. “Got John Proulx to take me out there the other day, get my pictures and tapes and things. And I took a few shots, gave them to one of those reporters that was around. And last but not least,” he took a slip of pale blue paper out of his pocket. “Here’s my first paycheck for something that didn’t involve fish.”

Jennifer, Suzanne, and Matthew applauded.

“Best of all, I go down to Vancouver on Monday to show them my other pictures. Seems they’re looking for photographers.”

“So you’d probably get some freelance out of it?” asked Jennifer.

“Maybe even full time,” Gene said with a grin.

“Gene, that’s wonderful!” said Suzanne. “We need to celebrate.”

“I think I can help with that matter,” said Bill, who walked in and held up two six-packs of beer.

Four bottles were opened (and a Sprite for Matthew), and clinked together in a toast. “To us,” Bill said.

“Amen to that,” Jennifer said and they all drank. She’d never had much of a taste for beer but this one tasted finer than anything she’d had in a long time.

The five of them laid waste to the pizza and the chicken. When the food was consumed, Gene let out a sigh. “I suppose we should load those boxes into the truck. No, stay there, you’ve done the hard work,” he said to Suzanne and Jennifer. “Come on big guy.” He ruffled his son’s hair. “Little help here?”

“In a minute?” Matthew asked, and when his father nodded and got up from the table, Matthew turned to Jennifer. “Miss Jen, can I ask you something?”

“Fire away.”

“Was it scary out there?” Matthew’s eyes were wide.

“You bet it was,” Jennifer said. “Just ask your Dad.”

Matthew rolled his eyes. “Dad’s never scared.”

“Really?” asked Jennifer. Gene gave her an apologetic shrug.

“Were you more scared than you’ve ever been in your life?” asked Matthew with the sort of curiosity only a nine-year-old can have.