Wicked Fix (51 page)

much more than we did."

She walked over and began restoring my dresser

things to order, stepping deliberately in front of Victor

to do it, so that he had to move away.

"His plan nearly worked," I added. "He almost

did make it seem to be too much trouble, to keep on

trying to get you out of jail."

He had the grace to look grateful, but only for an

instant. "And the trellis? What did that show?"

"Again, nothing in itself. But Reuben climbed one

when Mike was a kid, to terrorize him. He was trying

it again on Mike's child, on a similar trellis. And the

connections between those things were strong in

Mike's mind. He thought we would see them too,

much sooner than we actually did."

"Reuben made Mike a killer," Ellie said, "in the

sense that he gave Mike what it took to be able to do it,

fear and rage. But unlike Reuben, Mike still had some

remnant of a conscience, and that, in the end, was

what caught him up."

Victor pondered this for about a millisecond.

Then:

"Well, that's all very edifying, I'm sure. And it's

over. Jacobia, is there anything good to eat in the refrigerator?

Jail food is hideous, and I'm starved."

He rubbed his hands together in what he apparently

thought was a display of charming eagerness.

At this, I considered telling him of the lovely red

berries among the weeds in the garden: nightshade,

among the deadliest of the natural poisons. When I was

busy getting him out of jail I had somehow missed noticing

the obvious alternative to his imprisoned status:

that he would be here.

Which was when Wade came in, his knapsack over

his shoulder. He and Ellie had been putting their heads

together earlier, but I didn't know what about. Now he

took in the scene:

Me propped up on pillows, Sam at the card table,

Ellie in the doorway, and Victor, there in the middle of

it all, looking smugly sure of his newly regained position

as king of the castle, even if this particular annex

of it did happen to be my house.

The phone rang; Sam ran to answer it.

"Hey, Victor," Wade said pleasantly, putting down

his bag. "Welcome back. Glad everything worked out

okay for you."

Then, astonishingly, he began taking off his

clothes.

It was his bedroom, of course; Wade's and mine, I

mean. But somehow I don't think Victor had quite understood

that, before.

Slowly, Wade unbuttoned his shirt and hung it on

the chair where he always hangs his work clothes until

he washes them. He sat, removing his boots and socks

as casually as if he were used to stripping down in a

room full of people.

Which he was not. To Wade, there is a border between

the land of clothing and the land of not wearing

any, crossable by invitation only. Now, as Ellie left the

room very quietly, Victor cleared his throat and began

frowning with extreme discomfort.

Seeming not to notice, Wade pulled his belt off and

undid his pants. He looked fetching and entirely unselfconscious;

that he did this in front of me often must

suddenly have been, to Victor, illusion-smashingly clear.

Until that moment, I do believe Victor thought the

idea of my having any sort of romantic life apart from

him was just some ridiculous fraud I kept attempting to

perpetrate on him, just to annoy him. And the rest of it,

of course, was only an extension of that: Victor's belief

that somehow I still belonged to him.

Wade stood up, destroying as he did so any possible

remnant of this mistaken--not to mention utterly

CroMagnon--notion.

"Well," Victor croaked, glancing about wildly for

somewhere to rest his gaze, not finding any, and backing

toward the door.

"Say, isn't that Sam calling me?" he asked flusteredly

at last, then turned and fled.

When he was gone, Wade approached, looking I

thought rather convincingly Cro-Magnon himself.

In the nicest possible way, of course.

That night, Ellie and I went onto the porch

for a breath of air. The sky was full of stars

as if someone had punched pinholes in it,

letting light through from the other side. On

the eastern horizon lay the false blue dawn of moonrise.

"You put him up to it," I accused her, meaning

Wade.

"I never," she denied innocently, then temporized.

"Well, I did say I thought you needed some help setting

Victor's head on straight, making him see reality. And

anyway, what's wrong with a little help from your

friends?"

It wasn't reality. I was no more Wade's property

than I was Victor's, and Wade would be the first to say

so. But as illusion, it was better than Victor's idea that I

was still somehow part of his harem.

More fun, too. "Thank you," I told Ellie sincerely.

"What's going to happen to Molly, do you suppose?"

The child had seen it all; that, bottom line, had been

the reason for Reuben's murder.

"Anne Carpentier's flown home. Pretty shocked,

from what I hear. I don't think she had any idea Mike

was capable of anything like this."

"No." Sensitive and complicated, she'd called him,

while she herself was the perfect example of "what you

see is what you get." I'd have bet money that she'd

never even had an inkling.

"She's a tough cookie, though." Ellie's voice was

approving. "She'll get Molly through it, if anyone

can."

I thought so too, but it wasn't going to be an easy

task. In trying to protect her, Mike Carpentier had

done his daughter more damage than he'd prevented.

"If anyone can," I echoed.

We stepped off the porch, strolled down Key Street

to Water Street. Ahead lay the granite-block post office

building, across from the blackened remains of Paddy's

studio.

"Victor's project getting back on track?" Ellie

asked. Beside us Monday ambled companionably,

pausing to snuffle up a piece of apple core before trotting

on.

"In a New York minute," I said, still amazed at the

speed with which he had done it. "The district attorney

decided not to press charges about the prescription he

wrote Reuben, under the circumstances." Which

wasn't such a complete no-brainer as it sounded, since

it was that prescription drug, in part, that Reuben had

been incapacitated by. Victor had been lucky.

A bat swooped past, twittering as it gobbled the

last of the autumn insects. "This afternoon he was

working the phone so fast I thought it was going to

melt in his hand. He's got a new idea to add to his

plan. And it's such a hot money maker, he's already

got folks begging to be in on it. Alternative therapies."

She glanced sideways at me as we headed downhill

past the Quoddy Tides building, its little frame structure

perched neatly on an outcropping overlooking the

boat basin. Beyond, Leighton's Variety was doing brisk

business in quarts of milk, packs of cigarettes, all the

things people suddenly discover they want in late evening,

or they just want a little ride to the store.

"Herbs," I explained. "Acupuncture, massage,

hypnosis." People wanted those things, too. And increasingly

their insurance would pay for them. The

trauma center would be a great resource for Eastport,

but with the alternative-therapies clinic he was now

planning to add, I thought Victor had actually stumbled

onto something brilliant.

"Listen," I said. "I don't want to get your hopes

up. But Victor's planning something else, too. He's going

to Portland tomorrow."

Her face lit up. "Terence?" she asked, her voice not

daring to sound optimistic.

"Uh-huh. He's stabilized but still comatose. Victor

says he won't get any better until somebody removes

the blood clots from the injury, and that would be very

risky."

I took a deep, lung-cooling breath of the damp,

salt-tangy air, more delicious than any champagne.

"Victor wants to do it, though, and he wants to go

after the scar tissue at the same time. I don't understand

all of it," I confessed. "But Victor's been on the

phone with the surgeons in Portland, and he seems to

think he can get Terence through it."

What he'd said, actually, was something about one

hand tied behind his back. But I was sure he would

really use both of them.

She frowned. "What about Terence's illness? And

doesn't somebody have to give permission? For the surgery?"

"There's no reason people with HIV can't have

this surgery, Victor says. That's not a factor, given Terence's

good health otherwise. And Paddy can give permission."

A thump of regret hit me as I thought of this. If I

hadn't been so diverted by the diaries, I'd have paid

more attention to the letter Terence had written to go

with them, to Terence's attorney.

"Terence was confused. But Paddy was right, he

had enough sense left to know something bad was happening

to him. In his last lucid moments he gave Paddy

power of attorney and appointed him his legal guardian.

The letter was to tell his lawyer so."

I heard Ellie sigh. "So Terence will get a chance."

Out on the water, the ferry was making its final

passage to Deer Island for the night, its deck a puddle

of light. The waves of its wake began slopping desultorily

on the gravel shore.

"A little chance," I agreed.

Which I guessed was all any of us got. Only for

some of us, little miracles happened too.

"Sam's staying around here and going to college,"

I said. This time he seemed really sure of it. "He told us

at dinner. He'll work part-time at the boatyard, commute

to the University of Maine in Machias. Best of

both worlds, it seems to me."

Also, it gave him a way to start that he felt he

could handle. Later, Dan Harpwell would help him

plan how to go on.

"Wonderful. How did he decide, finally?" Ellie

reached down and took an urchin shell out of Monday's

mouth.

"Victor. Can you believe it? He told Sam that he,