The Wishing Tide (18 page)

Cynthia closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose in a gesture Lane recognized all too well. Her mother’s migraines had been a regular part of life growing up, sometimes lasting for days at a time, forcing her to hibernate in a dark room with hot tea and a cold cloth. Now, at least, she had medications that helped, but they didn’t always work if she waited too long.

“Actually, I think I feel one of my headaches coming on. Would you mind very much if we went back to the inn for a bit so I could lie down and close my eyes?”

“Of course I wouldn’t mind. Do you have your pills?”

“Yes, but not with me. Oh, I’m sorry to ruin the day. You had it all planned out.”

Sliding her purse off her chair, Lane stood. “Don’t be silly. There’ll be plenty of time to shop tomorrow. Let’s get you home before it gets any worse.”

Lane had just started the car when her cell went off. When she saw Dally’s number pop up she answered immediately. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Your friend—the one you asked me to keep an eye out for?”

“Mary,” Lane supplied, and felt her mother’s eyes shift in her direction.

“I think I found her.”

“Found her? Where is she? Is she all right?”

“Not really, no. I’m at the park with Skye and I’m pretty sure I just saw the police take her away in a squad car.”

Lane smacked the steering wheel soundly. “Damn it! This has Landon’s fingerprints all over it. And Breester’s.”

“Mayor Landon? What’s he got to do with anything?”

“I’ll explain later. Right now I’ve got to go.”

“Yeah, I thought you might. Just try not to get yourself arrested while you’re doing whatever it is you’re about to do, okay?”

“I can’t guarantee anything, but thanks.”

Lane ended the call and turned to Cynthia, who was eyeing her expectantly. “The police have her. They picked her up in the park.”

“She’s been arrested? What for?”

“I don’t know.”

“We’d better get to the police station, then.”

“Oh no,” Lane said, as she slipped the car into reverse. “I’m taking you home first, to lie down. Besides, I’m pretty sure you won’t like the language I’ll be using when I get to the station.”

Mary

T
hey’ve taken me. I suppose I knew they would one day, but it’s not like before, not like those other places. There are no White Coats here, no square-jawed nurses lurking with their sharp eyes and soundless shoes, no random screams ringing in the halls. And yet it isn’t altogether different.

The room they’ve put me in is small and stark—all curling linoleum and naked white lights, familiar in a way that makes me queasy. Something to do with the smell of the place, I expect—coffee and anxiety, mixed with disinfectant. I heard the cold scrape of the lock when they left me, an echo of old nightmares.
You’re here,
it said mockingly,
for as long as it pleases them to keep you.

Sweet mother of God, my insides clench to think they might actually keep me here.

Confinement.

It’s the nice word for locked up, a pretty word they liked to use at the hospital. But then, there are so many pretty words for the grisly things in life, words meant to sound like something else, sanitized of their awkward, uncomfortable truths.
Melancholia
is another of those words, like music with all its small, fragile syllables, or the name of a flower one
might pluck from a country garden. Not a hint of grief in it. No misery. No sorrow. Sorrow and grief are unseemly, you see, and terribly inconvenient for those who must witness the suffering—and we mustn’t be inconvenient.

The urge to laugh is suddenly overwhelming, bubbling up into my throat—from where I do not know—until I fear it will choke me. Hysteria, I believe they call it. There, you see, another flowery name; this one meant to pretty up good old-fashioned panic. But there’s nothing pretty about it. I see that plainly as I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the small plate-glass window, a blind window that looks out on nothing at all. There are eyes behind it. I feel them watching. Or maybe they’re not. Maybe that was before. I can’t be sure. Suddenly, terribly, it’s as if time has rewound itself, has wrenched me back to where it all began. Or perhaps I should say where it all ended.

I watch the black-and-white clock above the door, the agonizing sweep of its bloodred second hand, and wait for something to happen. I’m aware of a slow, creeping numbness, an insidious blurring of the then and the now, as if my past and present have somehow overlapped. It’s how my life is defined, you see, before my confinement and after—then and now. Is this to be a new beginning, then—the start of a new
confinement
? When I’ve done nothing wrong? I stare a moment at my hands, quiet in my lap, harmless now after so many years of penance and confession. I haven’t done anything wrong, have I—nothing new, I mean?

I wish I could be sure.

When the lock turns again I look up. There are two of them staring at me, their eyes full of pity, and something else I don’t like the look of. I know what they’re like, these hard men with their soft eyes, always dredging up the wreckage and making you look at it, all the bits of your life that have washed up on the rocks,
shattered almost beyond recognition. And then they tell you it’s your fault, again and again, until you
almost
believe them. Only it isn’t true.

It isn’t
real
.

But no one will listen. Then, after a while, you stop telling them. You let them believe what they want, and you let them think you believe it, too—even when you don’t, and never will.

Lane

A
s Lane pulled into the parking lot of the Starry Point Police Department, she found herself almost wishing she’d taken Michael up on his offer to accompany her. Given his feeling about Mary, the offer had both pleased and surprised her, but in the end she’d decided to go alone. As it was, Mary was leery of strangers, and Michael might not be seen as a friendly face. Come to that, she wasn’t sure after the way things had ended the other day that Mary would want anything to do with her.

The station was stifling, the air thick with coffee and stale cigarette smoke. The desk sergeant, a stringy young man who couldn’t have been more than twenty, glanced at her over his glasses as she moved in his direction, a half-eaten hot dog forgotten at his elbow.

“Afternoon, ma’am. Something I can do for you?”

Lane scanned the lobby, relieved to find it empty. “Mary . . .” Her voice trailed off as she realized with a pang of shame that she didn’t know the woman’s last name. “I’m here for Mary.”

“The bag lady?”

“Her name is Mary,” Lane corrected, for what seemed like the tenth time that day. “And I’d like to know why she’s been brought here.”

The sergeant peered at her timidly. “Your name, ma’am?”

“Lane Kramer. And I’d like an answer to my question, please.”

He clearly had no intention of answering. Instead, he indicated a wall lined with chairs covered in tattered red vinyl. “If you’ll just have a seat, Ms. Kramer—”

“Look . . .” She paused long enough to search out his name badge. “Sergeant Matthews, let’s not play games. A friend saw you pick her up in one of your squad cars. I know she’s here, and I want to know why.”

“Are you a family member?”

For a moment she thought about lying but shook her head. “I’m a friend.”

“In that case I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

He sounded polite enough, but there was something in his tone that suggested he was enjoying himself just a little. “You can’t or you won’t?”

Matthews pushed his glasses back up his nose, his baby-smooth face carefully bland. “The rules state—”

Lane threw up a hand, cutting him off. She didn’t care about the rules, except for the one that said you couldn’t just drag an old woman in for questioning because you felt like it, especially one with a history of mental illness. “Has she been charged with anything?”

Matthews’s eyes slid away.

Lane rapped her knuckles on the desk. “Of course she hasn’t. Because she hasn’t done anything wrong!”

“Your
friend
is a person of interest, Ms. Kramer.”

“Person of interest? In what, exactly?”

“In the recent rash of break-ins.”

“That’s ridiculous! They haven’t got a scrap of evidence.”

“They’re just asking her some questions.”

“And before they started asking questions, I don’t suppose she was offered a lawyer, by any chance?”

“No need for a lawyer if she hasn’t been arrested. It’s just routine.”

“It’s harassment!” Lane shot back. “Of a woman with a history of mental illness!”

“Ma’am, please. I’m going to have to ask you to lower your voice or leave.”

“I want to talk to Donny Breester.”

“Chief Breester is tied up at the moment.”

“Interrupt him.”

“Ma’am, I really can’t do that.”

Lane leaned over the desk until she was eye-to-eye with Sergeant Matthews. “Get him out here now, or I’ll go back there and find him myself.”

Matthews scowled back at her but eventually turned away, disappearing down a narrow hallway. A few moments later Breester appeared, looking smug and vaguely annoyed.

“Well, well. Twice in one day. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’ve come to take Mary home.”

“Mary?”

“The woman you picked up in the park, and are holding for no damn reason.”

Breester folded his arms. “We’ve had several reports of her being seen in the general area where the burglaries took place.”

Lane’s eyes widened at the absurdity of his assertion. “Of course she’s been seen in the general area. She
lives
in the general area! Just what did you think you were going to accomplish with this little interrogation of yours?”

“Who said anything about interrogation? We’re simply gathering information about her, and her, uh . . . friends.”

“Do you intend to charge her with anything?”

Breester’s smile was thin and indulgent. “I believe we’ve already had this conversation, Lane. Police business is police business.”

“And harassment is a lawyer’s business, Donny. Has she been read
her rights? Was she offered an attorney before she started answering your questions? For that matter, does she even know why she’s here?”

“I’m not treating her differently than I would any other criminal in my custody.”

“Except she’s
not
a criminal!” Lane fired back. “And if you haven’t arrested her, she isn’t actually in your custody. You’ve got no right to do what you’re doing, and you damn well know it. So, either you charge her with something or you let her go.” She paused then, lifting her chin a notch. “Unless, of course, you’d rather explain it all to an attorney?”

Breester’s smile was lazy, insolent. “You’re telling me that woman—that bag lady—has a lawyer?”

Lane fought to keep her voice even. “I’m telling you she has a friend with one. And I’ll be only too happy to get him down here.”

Breester glared at her while the seconds ticked by, clearly weighing his options. Finally, he glanced at Matthews, who was doing his best to appear invisible. “Tell Deacon I said to turn the old bat loose.” He shot Lane a glance before turning away. “For now.”

Lane was actually shaking as she and Mary left the station. She filled her lungs with cold air, then exhaled slowly, willing her hands to steady as she helped Mary into the car and fastened her seat belt. She’d never been good with confrontation, especially when she wasn’t sure she had a leg to stand on—like today, when she’d bluffed her way out of the police station with a visibly rattled Mary in tow. She knew nothing about the law and, apart from her divorce lawyer back in Chicago, didn’t even know the
name
of an attorney, let alone have one on call. Still, she’d pulled it off, winning the battle if not the war. But the worst lay ahead, and it was time Mary knew it.

Rather than starting the engine, Lane reached into her purse and pulled out Mary’s purple bag of pills, placing it on the seat between them, a poignant reminder of their quarrel. “Mary, I know you’ve been through a lot today, and that you’re probably still mad at me about the other day, but we need to talk.”

Mary’s head came around with agonizing slowness. She said nothing, just fixed Lane with a queer, empty-eyed stare.

“Mary . . . do you know who I am?”

“You’re the Inn Lady,” she said, with a childlike vacancy in her eyes. “You’re Lane.”

Lane was relieved to find Mary still tethered to reality, if only loosely. It was clear the day’s encounter with the police had left her more than a little rattled. Had they been rough with her? Badgered her into talking about her past—about the boy? Discreetly, she peered down at Mary’s hands, searching for traces of ink, but found none. She hadn’t been fingerprinted, then. Thank God for that. But if they had, what would they have discovered? A charge of murder? Manslaughter? She shuddered to think what Landon and Breester would do with that sort of information, and how quickly they would use it to their advantage.

“Yes, I’m Lane,” she said finally. “And before I say anything else, I want to say I’m sorry about the other day, when I pressed you about . . . about what you told me. Do you remember that?”

The wide, staring eyes closed briefly. “I remember.”

“You don’t have to worry. I’m not asking you to talk about that. In fact, after today I promise I won’t ever press you to talk about anything you don’t want to. But right now there are things you need to know about Hope House . . . and the police. They want to close it, Mary.”

Mary’s eyes narrowed, sharp and suddenly lucid. “Why?”

“They think—or they’re pretending to think—that the break-ins are connected to someone who lives there.”

A long, slow blink. “To me?”

Lane shrugged. “That’s the thing. I don’t think they care, really. As long as they can pin it on someone, and look good doing it.”

“It’s the mayor, isn’t it? It’s Landon?”

“Mostly, yes. How did you know?”

“His wife’s been hanging about the last few weeks. Volunteering, she calls it, though I’ve never seen her peel the first potato. Asks a lot of questions about who’s in charge, where the money comes from to run the place, that sort of thing. She hasn’t gotten far, I don’t think, since no one seems to know. She’s been asking about us, too, wanting to know everyone’s story. No one tells her anything, of course. It’s against house rules.”

“I know you said no one seems to know, but, Mary, I’ve got to speak with whoever oversees Hope House, and let them know what’s happening. They can’t stop it if they don’t know what Landon’s up to. Now think hard. Are you certain you’ve never heard a name mentioned, or a trust maybe?”

Mary shook her head. “There was a Gwen someone or other who set it all up for me. She was just a social worker, though. Nothing to do with Hope House. Can they do it, do you think? Shut it down?”

“I don’t know. I just know they’re going to try. And the police chief’s in on it, too.”

“Breester. He’s Landon’s man, that one. Does as he’s told.”

Lane was surprised by Mary’s keen assessment of the situation, from the hidden agenda of the mayor’s nosy wife to the role of Landon’s feckless henchman. But there was something else behind those suddenly shrewd eyes, a grim understanding of what Hope House’s demise would mean for her, and for her friends.

“I’m sorry, Mary, to be the one to tell you this. But I thought you should know.”

Mary’s lids slid closed, her head lolling against the headrest as if she’d suddenly grown very tired. “They’ll have no place to go. No one to feed them, or make them take their pills. They’ll slip back, get sick again. And then they’ll be sent back to wherever they came from—back to the White Coats.”

She was talking about herself, of course, contemplating the loss of her freedom, perhaps even her sanity, because some small-town
mayor and his sidekick had painted a bull’s-eye on the place she called home.

“We’re not going to let them get away with this, Mary,” Lane vowed fiercely as she turned the key in the ignition and slipped the car into reverse. “We’re going to fight them—the mayor, Breester, all of them. We’ll fight them, and we’ll win.”

Mary’s eyes dragged open slowly, empty again, and so very sad. “How?”

“I haven’t figured that part out yet, but I will. In the meantime, I think we should keep this between us until I figure out who I need to talk to. Right now we’re going to the park to pick up your bike, and then I’m taking you home.”

Michael was waiting at the door when Lane walked in, a pen behind his ear, his face full of questions. He took her keys and the stack of mail she was holding and placed them on the foyer table, then helped her off with her coat.

“Well?” he prompted, when the coat was finally hanging on the rack and she still hadn’t volunteered any news.

Lane wasn’t sure she was ready to rehash it all, especially with someone who wasn’t likely to see her side. Groaning, she kicked off her shoes, crossed the parlor, and sagged onto the couch.

“I just dropped her off at Hope House. They actually had her in a room when I got there, grilling her about the break-ins. I had to threaten to call my lawyer before they’d let her go.”

Michael snorted. “They think she’s behind the break-ins?”

“No. They just want it to look like they do. I ran into Landon earlier today. He informed me, quite proudly, too, that he plans to close Hope House, and means to use the break-ins to do it, even though they haven’t got a shred of evidence against anyone living there.”

“You think he hauled Mary in for questioning just to make it look good?”

“Something like that, yes. She also told me the mayor’s wife is pretending to volunteer while she pumps everyone for information.”

“Sounds like the man means business.”

“Yes, it does. And I have to figure out a way to stop him.”

“Lane, I know how you feel about this, but have you considered that getting mixed up in a local skirmish like this might be bad for business? We’re talking about the mayor and the chief of police. I’m not saying what they want to do is right. It’s not. But the deck is sort of stacked against you. These are powerful people you’re talking about, at least here in Starry Point.”

Lane sighed. She found Michael’s advice exasperating, probably because she’d been rolling something similar around in her head since she dropped Mary off at Hope House. It wasn’t like her to stick her neck out, to stir the pot and risk any kind of fallout. Yet here she was, ready to take on the world for a woman she barely knew.

No. That wasn’t true. She did know Mary, or at least knew her well enough to know she was in desperate need of a friend. Maybe it was the haunted look in those sea-colored eyes of hers, as if she’d lost some part of herself along the way and didn’t know how to get it back. Lane had seen that look before—in her own mirror. Broken. Empty. Lost.