Chill Waters (19 page)

The beach swarmed with people as if this were a favorite tourist spot. Necks craned, onlookers hoping to see something, at the same time afraid they might. Whispers rose up around her. Questions, speculations, as men wearing plastic gloves worked quietly to disengage the body from the rocks.

Cars snaked back along the road as far as she could see. As the coroner and police zipped the corpse into a body bag, a hush fell over the scene.

The three boys she and Betty had had the run-in with in town were standing beside the black sportscar watching the proceedings. As if sensing her looking at him, the one named Derek turned his head in her direction and made an obscene gesture with his hand that set her face aflame. Little creep.

Did Derek have the spare key to her house? Is he the one making the phone calls?

Similar thoughts plagued her that night as she tried to fall asleep. Not the least of which was the boy’s explicit description of the corpse. So when the phone rang, Greg’s voice was the last one she’d expected to hear. At first, hearing it, this voice from the past, she felt only a strange detachment. “You’re the best, Rach. I think I made a helluva mistake. Goddamn Lisa. She left me. I don’t know where the hell she is…” He broke into sobs. He was drunk. She slowly, disbelievingly, hung up the phone.

“You bastard,” she said in the quiet of the room. “How dare you?”

He called again the next night to apologize. She hung up again. The phone rang immediately, persistent. Sighing, she picked it up. Greg wasn’t a drinker; he must be in a bad way.

“Rach. Are you there?”

She closed her eyes, receiver pressed to her ear. You could not spend half your life with a man, bear his children and feel nothing for him. At least she couldn’t. Or maybe it was just that old habits died hard. She could only imagine what Betty would say to that bit of rationalization.

“Yes, Greg. I’m here.”

“Damn, it’s good to hear your voice. I miss you, Ray-shul.” Either drunk again, or still drunk.

“I justLisa left me, you know. That bitch, Betty, prob’ly told you. Jeez, Halston and his big family image. It’s okay as long as it’s one of them. Lisa’s a slut. You’re the best, Rach. I want you to come home. I’ll make it up to you. I will…”

“No,” she said quietly. “This is my home now, Greg.” And finally, she knew it was true. “I’m going to hang up now. You’ll be okay. Just…” Lord, was she about to give him advice? Pick him up when he fell down, like in the old days? Well, what the hell…

“You know you’re the best salesman in the business, Greg. You need to stop drinking now and show themshow them you can rise from this. Halston needs you…”

“Goddamn Lisa, she’s driving me nuts,” he said, and began to cry, fat, wet sobs that seeped through the lineover Lisa. She held the receiver away from her as if it were not a receiver at allbut a teddybear turned snake. If the whole damn thing were not so sad, she might have laughed.
You deserve this, Rachael.

For a long time she lay staring at the ceiling and thinking about those first nights in this house, curled in a fetal position, crying herself to sleep. Sometimes she dreamed Greg had come to take her home. She would see his Mustang in the drive, and before he had time to park it she would run to him, throw herself into his arms. He would beg her to come back to him. Lisa was a mistake, he would say, a terrible mistake, that it was Rachael he loved. In her dreams, she always forgave him.

That dream ending was no longer possible, if indeed it ever had been. Not for her anyway.
Tout fini,
as the French say. Thank you, Greg.

The phone rang again. She snapped up the receiver. “Greg, go to bed and sleep it off. Please don’t call here ag…”

Not Greg.
Her words fell away as the familiar breathing slid over her skin like damp ooze.

She couldn’t get to her pottery lesson fast enough the next day. To top off a very pleasant hour, Peter dropped by as she was getting ready to leave. She realized she’d been unconsciously looking for him.

I like him. I like being around him. He makes me laugh.
Something she hadn’t done in a long time. He was also damn good looking, but in a different way from Greg. His appeal grew of out a deeper, more solid place. And when he left a room, it seemed to pale in personality. Oh, yes, no question she was attracted to Peter Gardner and it scared the hell out of her.

That night Betty phoned to tell her that Lisa had dumped Greg and moved on to bigger fish in the firm.

She had been about to tell her that Greg had called, but for some reason changed her mind. When she didn’t reply right away, Betty went on to explain that one of her customers was a secretary at Halston’s. “She says Lisa’s new interest is someone high on the ladder, big enough so that no one dares comment. Married, of course. Talk is that Greg is screwing up big time at work. Anyway, thought you’d like to know he’s getting back a little of his own.”

“I don’t wish Greg ill,” she said. Though, in fact, she’d wished him dead.

A pause. Then, “He called, didn’t he? I knew you were keeping something from me. He wants you back. I knew it.”

She sounded at once triumphant and disdainful. She actually thinks I’d go back with him. Doesn’t she know I’m not the same person who sat across from her in the eatery pushing a piece of lettuce around on my paperplate? Lettuce as limp as my own backbone. Maybe she doesn’t want to know.

Twenty-Three

Hartley enjoyed walking in the woods, especially in the early hush of morning, with Luke padding along beside him. It helped him to think clearly, like being on the water did.

Beneath his olive green boots, the forest floor was spongy, his steps all but silent, but for the occasional branch snapping. Snow had fallen overnight, dusting the ground and trees. The autumn sun filtered through the trees, and the air smelled fresh.

The kind of morning that could clear a man’s head of rotting corpses washed up on a beach. Hartley had the poor timing to come along only minutes after the boy came across it. Seeing half the town headed for a look-see, he didn’t hang around.

Noticing the stack of cut wood piled up against the cabin, he turned his thoughts to more practical matters. Oughta gather that wood up before it rots and take it over to Ms. Warren’s for her fireplace.

He wondered if she found her key okay. He’d felt bad her thinking he hadn’t returned it. But he shouldn’t have taken it personally. Rachael Warren was a lady on her own after all and right to be on her guard. Lotsa nuts out there. Maybe he’d take her a couple of nice flounder as a peace offering.

Hartley uprighted a red wheelbarrow lying on its side. It was missing its wheel, beginning to rust. As he straightened, sharp pain shot through his shoulder. Damned arthritis was getting worse. He supposed he’d have to give in soon and start motoring like some tourist. He and Luke had trekked the distance this morning, taken the route through the woods, around the cove.

He spotted a moldy case of beer bottles setting by the back door, nearly hidden in the thick brush. George’s little secret from Ethel, which Hartley suspected was really no secret at all. Couldn’t blame a man for wanting to get off by himself now and then. Ethel would have understood. She was a lot like his own Margaret in that way.

Hartley ran a hand fondly along the rough bottom of George’s old boat. Right here where George left it upturned on two sawhorses. Splotches of green paint were still evident here and there along the sides. George had been intending on doing some work on her, but never got around to it.

A short bark from Luke drew Hartley’s attention to the grimy cabin window.

“What is it, boy? You see something? Or are your old eyes playing tricks on you, too?”

It startled him to see the cabin door open and a stranger standing in the doorway. “Morning. Nice day for a walk in the woods.”

“’Tis that,” Hartley said. “Didn’t know anyone was staying here.” Hartley took him in—average height, stocky through the chest and arms. He’d seen him around somewhere.

“Just for a few days.”

“Don’t say. Ms. Warren know you’re here? This is her property in case you didn’t know. And her cabin.”

“Oh, sure. We’re old friends from college days. I’m doing a bit of fixing up inside in exchange for some retreat time.”

Despite his misgivings, Hartley’s interest was stirred. “That right?”

“Sure is. Look, uhI was just about to have some coffee. Will you join me? Nice dog you got there, but I’m afraid I can’t invite him in. Unless you want to see me break out in hives,” he chuckled. “Sorry.”

“I’ve already had my mornin’ coffee,” Hartley said. “Thank ya, just the same. I’ll be headin’…”

He knew exactly where he was heading, and he couldn’t allow that to happen. “You look like a man who knows his way around a hammer and saw,” he grinned. “I could use your advice. Won’t take but a few minutes of your time…”

For several long seconds Hartley said nothing. There was a gnawing deep in his gut something not quite right. The hunter in him might have termed it ‘the patch of brown among the green’. But Hartley was not the hunter here. He allowed himself to be flattered. For the first time in his life, the old man’s pride at being asked to share his knowledge of work he’d been doing most of his life, caused him to turn his back on old, reliable instincts.

“Well, maybe for a minute or two. Sit, Luke.”

The dog whined fretfully as his master moved toward the cabin. His warning going unheeded, his tail sagged and he barked again. He fretted and whined. He growled at the man in the doorway.

“Good watchdog.”

“That he is. Getting on though. Sit, boy!”

Luke obeyed reluctantly, his eyes steady on the man. The stranger held the door open, and Hartley stepped across the threshold ahead of him. Luke’s odd behavior sat uneasily within him, but like the gnawing in his gut, he paid it no serious mind. “What is it exactly I can help you with, Mr…?”

Hartley didn’t hear the metallic clank of the shovel against the pot-bellied stove. Never saw its blade bearing down on him until it was too late.

The first blow stunned him, sent him reeling backwards, though he remained on his feet. His hands flew to protect his head. But the blood was already streaming through his splayed fingers. The shovel came down three more times before the old man finally fell, sprawling face down on the cabin floor.

Tough old coot, he thought, grunting as he dragged the dead weight of the old man into the closet.

Whistling softly to himself, he set about opening a can of chicken from the stash on the shelf, thumbed back the jagged lid. Picking up the shovel, he propped it in the corner by the back door, within easy reach. He eased the door open.

Luke was already on his feet, a deep growl issuing from his belly.

“Hey, easy fella. Look what I got here.” He kept his voice kindly, unthreatening.

Luke’s growl softened, confusion in his eyes as he tried to see past the man into the cabin, where he’d seen his master enter. He sniffed the air, growled again.

The man set the can before the animal and stepped back. “Go ahead, boy. It’s good. Eat up.”

Luke hesitated, then, tailing wagging tentatively, he inched toward the food. Abruptly, his tail stilled. Now he backed away, whining mournfully, for he had smelled death.

“C’mon, fella,” he said again, reaching behind him for the shovel. He gripped its wooden handle. Catching the subtle change of tone in his voice, the stealthy movement, Luke jumped to one side just as the shovel came down causing the man to miss his target. Luke lunged at him, sank his teeth into his left leg just above the knee.

Stifling a howl of pain, he tried to shake him off, but the animal’s hold only became more tenacious. He tried for better leverage with the shovel, but it was impossible with the dog so close. But he was a strong man, and dealt a powerful blow to the side of the animal’s head. The dog let go and fled yelping into the thick woods.

To his relief, the bite turned out not to be serious; lucky the mutt was old. He’d pick up some antibiotic ointment at the drugstore tomorrow.

That night under cold, starry skies, he buried Hartley McLeod’s body in a shallow grave and covered it over with brush and leaves. Scooping up handfuls the new snow, he sprinkled it over the top. Icing on the cake, he said aloud, and laughed at his own perceived wit.

He was ten when he did his first killing. A stray cat in the neighborhood. At first, he couldn’t believe what he had done. But his shock and fear were quickly replaced with fascination as, lying on the ground on his stomach, chin propped in his hands, he watched the light go out in those clear green eyesslowly, like they were attached to those dimmer switches they have nowadays.

It had been like that with his mother. Maybe especially with her. She had once seemed all-powerful, invincible. Even terrifying to the small boy he had been. It was purely satisfying to see her own terror reflected in her eyes as recognition of him dawned. To see the smile on her old face crumble. Before she could cry out, he clamped a over her mouth, silencing her cries. He could feel her loose dentures against his palm, the disgusting warm drool as she tried to call out for help. Hatred of him had blazed in her eyes even as they began to glaze over. Only when they remained fixed and dilated, and her hands fell limply to her sides, did he remove his own hand from her mouth.