The Body in the Sleigh (22 page)

He'd felt a bit dislocated to be here at Christmas, but dinner with the Marshalls and the joy of being just the four of them with no services to rush off to had set in. Even Norah Taft's death, and Faith's discovery of the body, had been sad, tragic, but not something that touched them directly. Then he'd gotten involved with Jake. Ever since the ride to Ellsworth, Tom kept thinking of the boy and what he and his family must be going through.

Ben's blond head—the same color hair as his mother's—was poking out of his sleeping bag. Tom felt an overwhelming desire to wrap both kids in cotton wool until they were, what? Twenty-one? Thirty? Keep them safe in an unpredictable and dangerous world.

Tom got up to get himself a snack. Again, he wished Faith were here—and not to look outside, but inside. He needed to talk to her. She'd understand.

 

It was close to dawn. When Mary returned from the 6
A.M
. milking, Miriam was sitting at the table. She was reading the Sanpere
local paper with such intensity that she didn't look up until Mary said good morning. Startled—and pointing at the paper—she said, “I know this girl. Except her hair was different and she said her name was something else. It began with a
Z.”

“Zara, but everyone on the island knew her by her given name, Norah.” Mary sat down next to Miriam. Christopher was still sound asleep. He'd awoken an hour ago and Mary had fed him. Miriam hadn't stirred.

“It says she died, but not how.” Miriam turned a stricken face toward Mary. “How did she die? She was so young.”

“At first they thought it was a drug overdose, but now the police think she was murdered.”

The color drained from Miriam's face as she whispered, “Murdered.” She sat very still, and then said, slowly, “She was just a kid.”

Mary waited. There really wasn't anything to say. Either Miriam would tell her more or not.

“I thought she was a runaway. She'd come to the apartment for, well, for drugs. Bruce had her dealing to pay for what she wanted. Then she was gone for a while. I was happy, because I thought she'd returned to her family. She seemed like the kind of girl with a family if you looked past the tattoos and the way she dressed.”

“She left her mother,” Mary said, “and a whole lot of people who thought of themselves as family. The police are talking to her boyfriend. He's from the island. In high school, like she would have been. Quite an athlete. We all think a lot of him.”

“He didn't kill her.”

“Nobody here thinks he did.”

“I need some paper and a pen, Mary. I need to write down that I'm surrendering my rights to the baby, giving him to you. And something else. Paper and two envelopes.”

“I've got plenty upstairs, but are you sure you want to do this? Look at him.”

Miriam glanced over at the baby, then back at Norah's photo in the paper. It seemed to hold her gaze more than the infant had.

“I'm sure. Absolutely sure. Always have been. How about you? I never thought that you might not want him. I guess I was kind of thinking of him as another one of your herd.” Miriam smiled. She had a joyful smile at times, Mary thought.

“I'm honored that you regard me as someone who would raise your son the way you think he should be raised. And yes, I want him,” she said gravely.

It was a moment for a hug, or failing that, a handshake. Miriam did neither, but stood up and placed the baby, his eyes slowly opening to the new day, in Mary's arms.

“I believe this belongs to you.”

When Mary returned with the writing materials, also taking time to put on fresh clothes, she noticed two things: Miriam was flushed and the boots she'd been wearing when she arrived had a thin layer of white. The boots were by the door in exactly the same place Mary had put them hours earlier, but now there was a coating of fresh snow on the toes. What had Miriam been doing outside? What possible reason could she have had to go to the barn—the only destination?

Mary hadn't mentioned what she'd seen on the news—the murder of a young man she was almost certain was Bruce, the same Bruce who had come down to the island with Miriam last summer and who was probably the baby's father. The same Bruce who had supplied Norah with the drugs that took such a deadly hold of her. What was Miriam thinking after she saw Norah's picture in the paper? Something that linked Bruce to the poor girl's death?

Faith Fairchild would help straighten everything out, and although she assumed Faith would first go home to her family, Mary hoped she would come by today. John Robbins kept Mary plowed out and she always told him to do her last—she didn't have to get
to the main road. She was tempted to call him, so Faith could get in, but with a storm like this, she didn't want to bother him. Miriam must have driven a car from Orono and left it someplace on Route 17. So, she wasn't going anywhere and the thought filled Mary with a sense of satisfaction, peace even. The girl could stay for as long as she wanted. Sanctuary.

“I have to start some cheese,” she told Miriam. “I won't be long.”

It was already a bright sunny day—warm enough so the snow that clung to the trees was starting to fall in clumps to the ground. The weighted branches relieved of their burden sprang up like jack-in-the-boxes. She reached down and shook the snow from a bayberry bush. As she freed it from the ground, she caught a slight whiff of its scent.

It didn't take long to finish her chore and when Mary returned she felt as if she were walking into a storybook picture—one by Jessie Wilcox Smith or Tasha Tudor. Miriam was sitting in the big chintz easy chair again, Christopher cradled in her arms while she fed him. Her long shining dark hair tumbled over her shoulders, tumbled over the soft blue sweater she was wearing. She looked up at Mary, but finished singing to the baby, “I've given you my onliness / Give me your tomorrow'” before asking, “All's well?” The query was as soft and melodic as her singing had been.

The room was glowing—with the heat from the stove, the smiles of the two women, and the radiant baby. Mary felt the sense of peace return. Out in the barn, her thoughts had strayed to the murder in Orono. She'd calculated the probable time of death the news had announced and measured it against the time of Miriam's arrival at the house. She couldn't have been in Orono at the time in question and made it down to the island in the storm. Or could she? Suddenly the warmth in the room became a suffocating blanket of heat and Mary went over to the window to open it a crack.

“Dear God! Something's wrong! It's Faith, but…” Mary didn't finish her sentence but raced for the phone. Miriam hadn't moved. “Quick, you've got to take Christopher and get out of here! Run!”

 

The snow was so soft that small, sparkling eddies swirled about Faith's feet as she made her way to her car. The surface caught the morning light, turning the motel parking lot into a blanket of diamonds. She'd slept, well, like a baby, and when she'd opened the curtains even the sight of the hideous new Penobscot Narrows Bridge couldn't dampen her spirits. It looked as if it were made of string cheese, a dismal comparison to the graceful copper-colored suspension bridge still standing next to it. Yes, the old bridge was near to collapse, so better a safe span than the ever-increasing possibility of plunging into the swift currents below, but did it have to be so ugly?

Pete was still on duty and had managed to get coffee and doughnuts from somewhere. Faith gratefully drank two steaming cups, accompanied by two very sweet powdered-sugar doughnuts. She settled her bill—he insisted on charging only half price even when Faith, in gratitude, offered to pay the full amount. It had been a real port in the storm. She left a large tip for Sue and Pete himself, then, hearing the roads were clear, set out on her way. She paused to call Tom and told him she'd be home in about two hours. Bucksport was normally much less, but the side roads through Penobscot and Sedgwick might not be in great shape.

A man was just finishing scraping the snow and ice from her front windshield. The back was clear.

“Why, thank you!” she said.

“Compliments of the management,” he replied.

Making a mental note to write to the president of the chain, Faith got behind the wheel and the car started right up. She backed
out of the space and turned toward the exit, stopping to check for an oncoming car.

“Just keep driving, ma'am. Keep your eyes on the road. I'm not going to hurt you.”

The words came from the backseat, where the speaker had been crouched, and were accompanied by the unmistakable feel of the barrel of a handgun, cold against the back of her neck. She felt the coffee and doughnuts she had just consumed rise into her throat and swallowed hard, keeping her mouth shut. If she spoke, she would scream, and if she screamed, he would do what? Pull the trigger? Could she chance it? He loomed large in the rearview mirror, a greasy watch cap pulled low on a tangle of dark brown hair that merged with a beard of the same color and texture. It was the man who had been in the lobby the night before. The man on the couch. His eyes were tiny pinholes in the mass of flesh surrounding them and it was the eyes that convinced her. He would pull the trigger.

She knew it wasn't a carjacking and his next words confirmed her fears.

“You just head for Sanpere and whoever you talked to last night. I'm not interested in whatever stuff you're delivering. Just Miriam. You'll be fine, unless you try anything funny. This is to do with her, not you.”

Faith took a deep breath and started to make the turn. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the good Samaritan who'd cleaned her windshields start to get into his truck, which was parked next to the street. She could lean on the horn. Whoever the madman in her rear seat was, he couldn't be so crazy that he'd shoot her with a witness so close by.

“Don't even think about it.” Her captor leaned so close to her ear that she could smell his breath. He'd had the doughnuts too. “Name's Ralph and Ol' Duane out there? He's with me.”

 

As she drove, Faith looked out at familiar landmarks: the Union Trust Bank and Radio Shack across the intersection, and there was Hannaford and Dunkin' Donuts. Things that were on Main Streets everywhere in the country. Normal, everyday things. “America Runs on Dunkin'.” The slogan popped into her mind. What did these two men run on? What fueled them? She couldn't begin to understand. Or maybe she could. Maybe it was as simple as seizing whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted it, by any means. No spark of conscience lit up the eyes she couldn't avoid seeing in the mirror.

How could this be happening? People didn't get kidnapped at gunpoint in broad daylight. Not in Maine. Not her.

It was happening.

A car passed her. It was moving slowly and she darted a look at the woman in the passenger seat, mouthing the word “help.” The woman smiled cheerfully and waved, mouthing something in return that could have been “hi.” The car pulled ahead and was gone.

Faith was gripping the steering wheel so tightly her fingers were beginning to throb and she wasn't sure she could continue driving. Fear threatened to overwhelm the reflexes that were keeping the car moving.

“All's we want is the money. Our money,” he said.

A justification?

Faith didn't pretend ignorance. As soon as he'd said Miriam's name, she knew what he wanted.

“I don't know where the money is, but the person who does will give it to you.” She tried to keep her voice steady and calm—as if talking to a two-year-old on the verge of losing it.

He nodded. “That would be Miss Miriam.” His tone made her name sound like an expletive.

“No, not Miriam,” Faith said. “I've never met her and don't know where she is, but she left some money with someone on Sanpere and it's the money you want.”

He didn't say anything for a while. Processing.

“Maybe you never met Miriam, but, ma'am, you said her name on the phone.”

“If you heard that, you also heard that I said I'd left a note for her in Orono.” Faith wasn't sure she liked being called “ma'am.” She wasn't the Queen of England or the new schoolmarm. How old did this guy think she was, anyway?

She pictured Mary's farm in her mind. She had to have a plan ready for their arrival. There was no way she could let the two men simply walk in without warning Mary and calling for help. She didn't believe they would leave them unharmed after getting the money. No, these two men wouldn't leave Faith and Mary alive, able to identify them as kidnappers and more.

With Ralph and Duane, Faith was sure she now had all the pieces of the puzzle that had started with her discovery of the body in the sleigh even if she hadn't fit them together. The dead man in the Orono apartment must have been Bruce and the fact that Norah was found with a bag from the convenience store across the street meant she had been connected to him.

Trees. Mary's farm had lots of trees. And trees meant cover. Faith began to figure out what she could do. Figure out what she had to do to keep the three of them from being killed. Or perhaps it was four. Had Miriam gotten her note? Was she at Bethany Farm?

Ralph sat in total silence. It was terrifying. Faith began to abandon her thoughts of running once they were at the farm and weighed the pros and cons of deliberately skidding into a pole right now. His sudden voice jolted her.

“This person who has the money. They'll know where she is.”

Ignoring the lack of pronoun agreement, Faith said, “No, she probably doesn't. That's why I was in Orono. To try to find Miriam. You'll get your money. You don't need Miriam for that.”

He pressed the gun harder into the back of Faith's neck. She
promptly abandoned any thought other than driving straight to Sanpere.

“We don't like it when people take things that belong to us. That's why we want Miriam.”