Fiona thought about dinner, and had another glass of wine instead. Talking to Greg’s parents tore off the scar tissue and opened the wound again. She knew the healthy option was to fix a meal, maybe take a long walk with the dogs. Get out of the house, get out of herself.
Instead she shooed the dogs outside and indulged in a long session of brooding so wide and deep her hackles rose at the interruption of another visitor.
Couldn’t people just let her wallow?
The chorus of happy barks translated to a friend. She wasn’t surprised to see James and his Koby exchanging greetings with her dogs.
She leaned against the porch post, idly sipping her wine and watching him. In the floodlights she’d flipped on, his hair had a sheen. But then, something about James always did. His skin, an indescribable shade she thought of as caramel dipped in gold dust, was a testament to his widely mixed heritage. His eyes, a bright, shining green, often laughed out of a forest of lashes.
He turned them on Fiona now, with a quick and easy smile as he shook a jumbo take-out bag.
“I brought provisions.”
She took another slow sip of wine. “Davey talked to you.”
“Seeing as he’s married to my sister, he often does.”
He walked to her, bringing the scent of food, then just wrapped his free arm around her to bring her close. Swayed.
“I’m okay. I’ve just been holding the first meeting of my Pity Me Club.”
“I want to join. I’ll be president.”
“I’ve already elected myself president. But since you brought provisions, you can be the second official member.”
“Do we get badges? A secret handshake?” He leaned back to press his lips to her forehead. “Let’s go inside and vote on it over burgers.”
“I talked to Greg’s mother,” Fiona told him as she led the way.
“Hard.”
“Brutal. So I’ve been sitting here drinking wine in the dark.”
“Fair enough, but I’m calling time’s-up on that. Got any Coke?”
“Pepsi. Diet.”
“Blech. I’ll take it.”
As much at home in her place as in his own, he got out plates, set a burger, loaded, on each, then divvied up the mountain of fries from an insulated box. She poured out the drinks after dumping the rest of the wine in her glass down the sink.
“We should’ve had sex before we got to be friends.”
He smiled, sat. “I think we were eleven and twelve when you started coming on island to see your dad, so we were a little young for sex when we got to be friends.”
“Still.” She plopped down in her chair. “If we’d had sex back then, we could have a revival now. It’d be a good distraction. But now it’s too late because I’d feel stupid getting naked with you.”
“It’s a problem.” He took a bite of burger. “We could do it in the dark, and use assumed names. I’d be Rock Hard and you’d be Lavender Silk.”
“Nobody can call out ‘Lavender’ while in the throes. I’ll be Misty Mars. I like the alliteration.”
“Fine. So, Misty, you want to eat first or just go jump in the sack?”
“It’s hard to resist that kind of romance, but we’ll eat.” She nibbled on a fry. “I don’t want to beat on the drum all night, James, but it’s so strange. Just the other day I was telling Syl how I could hardly get Greg’s face in my head. How he’s faded on me. Do you know?”
“Yeah, I think I do.”
“And the minute Davey told me about what’s happened, it was there again. I can see him, every detail of his face. He’s back. And . . . is it awful?” she managed as tears rose in her throat. “Is it? That I wish he wasn’t. A part of me wants him to fade, and I didn’t realize that until he came back.”
“So what? You should wear black and read depressing poetry for the rest of your life? You grieved, Fee. You broke, and you mourned, and you healed. You started the unit out of love and respect for him.” Reaching over, he gave her wrist a squeeze. “And it’s a hell of a tribute.”
“If you’re going to be all rational and sensible, I don’t see how you can be a member of the Pity Me Club.”
“We can’t have a club meeting while there are burgers. That requires really bad wine and stale crackers.”
“Damn you, James, you’ve screwed up a really good wallow.” She sighed, ate her burger.
EVEN THE COMFORT of a friend, the familiarity of her dogs and the nighttime routine didn’t spare her from the bad dreams. She woke every hour, struggling out of the goop of a nightmare only to sink in again the next time she drifted off.
The dogs, as restless as she, got up to pace or rearrange themselves. At three a.m., Bogart came to the side of the bed to offer her the rope as if a game of tug would set things right.
At four, Fiona gave it up. She let the dogs out, made coffee. She did a hard, sweaty workout then settled down with paperwork.
She balanced her checkbook, drafted upcoming newsletters for her classes and for the Search and Rescue subscribers. While the sky lightened she updated her Web page and spent some time surfing various blogs because she couldn’t drum up the enthusiasm to write her own.
By the time her first class began, she’d been up for over four hours and wanted a nap.
She loved her classes, Fiona reminded herself. She loved them for the work itself, the dogs, the social opportunity, the interaction. She loved being outside most of the day.
But right then she wished she’d canceled the other two classes on the schedule. Not to wallow, she told herself, but just for some alone time, just to catch up on sleep, maybe read a book.
Instead, she prepared for round two, took a call from Sylvia—word traveled—and got through it.
By the end of her workday, after she and the dogs had gathered and stowed all the toys and training tools, she realized she didn’t want to be alone after all. The house was too quiet, the woods too full of shadows.
She’d go into town, she decided. Do some shopping, maybe drop by and see Sylvia. She could walk on the beach after. Fresh air, exercise, change of scene. She’d keep at it until she was too damn tired for dreams, bad or otherwise.
She decided on Newman for company. As he leaped in the car, she turned to the other dogs.
“You know how it is. Everybody gets a chance for some one-on-one. We’ll bring you something. Be good.”
When she got in, she gave Newman a sidelong glance. “No smirking,” she ordered.
Stress eased as she drove, snaking along while the early evening sun dipped beams into the water. Fatigue lessened as she opened the windows wide and cranked up the radio while the wind tossed her hair.
“Let’s sing!”
Always ready to oblige, Newman howled in harmony with Beyoncé.
She intended to drive to Eastsound, stock up on essentials and treat herself to something she absolutely didn’t need. But as she wound along between hill and water, by field and forest, she followed impulse and made the turn at the mailbox marked simply DOYLE.
Maybe he needed something from the village. She could be neighborly, save him a trip. It didn’t have anything to do with wanting to see where and how he lived. Or hardly anything.
She liked the way the trees screened, and let the sunlight shimmer and shine on rock and tall grass. And she liked the house, she thought, as it came into view. The central double peaks, the tumbling lines that followed the slope of the land.
It could use some paint, she decided. Something fresh and happy for the trim. And some chairs, some colorful pots of flowers on the porch and the sweet little second-story deck. Maybe a bench under the weeping cherry that would burst into bloom in the spring.
She parked beside Simon’s truck, noted he’d replaced the headrest he’d patched with duct tape. Then she spotted the outbuilding a few yards from the house, nearly enveloped by the trees.
Long and low, it likely held as many square feet as her house, and offered a generous covered porch on the front. A scatter of tables, chairs and what she took as parts of other pieces of furniture stood or leaned under the shade.
She heard the sound of sawing—at least she thought it was sawing—buzzing under heroically loud rock and roll.
She got out, signaled Newman to join her. He scented the air—new place, new smells—as he fell into step with her.
“Great view, huh?” she murmured, looking out over the sound to the opposing shorelines and the little nubs of green on the water. “And look, he’s got a little beach down there, and a pier. He needs a boat, but it’s nice. Water, woods, some nice stretches of ground, and not too close to the road. It’s a good home for a dog.”
She scratched Newman’s ears and wandered closer to the outbuilding.
She spotted him through the window—jeans, T-shirt, goggles, tool belt. And noted she’d been right about the saw. It was, she thought, one big, scary mother. He slid wood under its fast, toothy blade. Her stomach tightened a little at the thought of what it could do to fingers, and with that in mind, she moved carefully around to the door, standing out of range until the buzzing paused.
Then she knocked, waved through the glass. When he only stood there, frowning at her, she opened the door. The pup lay on the floor, feet in the air as if he’d been electrocuted.
“Hi!” She had to pitch to just under scream level to beat out the music. “I was on my way to the village and thought . . .”
She trailed off as he pulled out earplugs.
“Oh, well, no wonder it’s so loud. Listen—”
She broke off again when he pulled a remote from a pocket of the tool belt, shut down the music. The silence roared like a tsunami—and woke the puppy.
He yawned, stretched, then spotted her. Insane joy leaped into his eyes as he sprang up, did a kind of bouncing dance, then charged her. Fiona crouched, held out a hand, palm facing dog so he bumped into it first.
“Hi, yes, hi, good to see you, too.” She rubbed his head, his belly. She pointed a finger at the ground. “Sit!” His butt vibrated a moment, then plopped down. “Aren’t you smart, aren’t you good?” She grabbed him when he spotted Newman, sitting patiently outside. “Can he go out? I’ve got Newman, and he’ll watch out for him.”
Simon simply shrugged.
“Okay. Go play.” She laughed when Jaws took a flying leap out the door and belly-flopped into the grass. When she glanced back, Simon remained by the table saw, watching her.
“I’ve interrupted you.”
“Yeah.”
Blunt, she thought. Well, she didn’t mind blunt. “I’m heading into the village and thought I’d see if you needed anything. Sort of a payback for playing sounding board.”
“I’m good.”
“Okay, then. We both know the do-you-need-anything’s just an excuse, but we can leave it at that. I’ll—Oh my God, that’s beautiful!”
She headed straight for the cabinet across the shop, skirting benches and tools.
“Don’t touch it!” Simon snapped, and stopped her in her tracks. “It’s tacky,” he added, in an easier tone. “Varnish.”
Obediently, she linked her hands behind her back. It was the varnish she smelled, she realized, and sawdust, and freshly sawed wood. The combination merged into a fascinating aroma. “Those are the doors? The carving’s just exquisite, and the tones of the wood. Delicious, really.” As delicious as the scent that soaked the air. “I want it. I probably can’t afford it, but I want it anyway. How much?”
“It doesn’t suit you or your place. It is elegant, and a little ornate. You’re not.”
“I can be elegant and ornate.”
He shook his head, then walked over to an old, squat refrigerator, took out two Cokes. He tossed her one, which she caught one-handed.
“No, you can’t. You want something either simpler, cleaner or going the other direction into fanciful. A little tension with the primarily Mission and Craftsman style you lean toward.”
“Is that where I lean?”
“I’ve been in your house,” he reminded her.
She yearned to run a finger over the deep carving—elongated hearts—on the raised panel of the door. “This could be tension.”
“No.”
Sincerely baffled, she turned to him. “You actually won’t sell it to me because I’m not elegant?”
“That’s right.”
“How do you sell anything?”
“On commission or direct sale. By designing what works with the client.” He eyed her while he took a deep drink. “Rough night.”
Now she jammed her hands in her pockets. “Thanks for noticing. Well, since I’m interrupting and I’m not suitable to buy your stupid cabinet, I’ll leave you alone with your monster saw.”
“I’m taking a break.”
She drank, studying him as he studied her. “You know, given my line of work, really crappy manners such as yours don’t bother me.”
“If you’re thinking of training me like my dog, you should know I’m intractable.”
She only smiled.
“So, if the need-anything-in-town was an excuse, are you hitting on me?”
She smiled again, wandered. She saw a lot of clamps and chisels, a skinnier saw and a stationary drill thingee that looked as scary as the monster saw.
She saw tools she had no names for and empty coffee cans full of nails and screws and other strange things.
What she didn’t see was any semblance of organization.
“Hitting on you? Not yet. And given your behavioral flaws, I’m reconsidering.”
“Fair enough, and to be fair back, you’re not really my type.”
She stopped examining a wonderful wide-armed rocker she coveted to send him a cool stare. “Is that so?”
“Yeah, it’s so. Mostly I lean toward the arty, feminine type. Curvy’s a bonus.”
“Like Sylvia.”
“Yeah.”
“Or Nina Abbott.” She couldn’t help the smug smile when annoyance flicked briefly in his eyes.
“Or” was all he said.
“Thank God we got that cleared up before I gave my squishy, susceptible heart into your hands.”
“Lucky break. But . . . it’s good to mix things up now and then. Try new things.”
“Great. I’ll let you know when I want to be mixed and tried. Meanwhile, I’ll take my inelegant, art-starved, unfeminine, flat-chested self out of your way.”
“You’re not flat-chested.”
The laugh escaped before she knew it was there. “God, you’re a weird sucker. I’m going while I still have enough crumbs of ego left to sweep into a pile.”
She went to the door, called his dog. When the puppy raced to her, she petted and praised. Then she nudged his butt farther into the room, closed the door with him inside. She flicked one glance at Simon through the glass before striding to her truck, Newman faithfully at her side.
He watched her through the window, the long, athletic stride, the easy grace. She’d looked lost when she came into the shop. Hesitant, uncertain. Tired.
Not anymore, he thought as she hopped into her truck. Now she was brisk, distracted and maybe a little pissed.
Better. Maybe he was one weird sucker, but he’d worry less about her now.
Satisfied, he replaced his earplugs, his goggles, turned on the music. And got back to work.
EYES BRIGHT, SYLVIA leaned on the counter of her pretty little shop while Fiona debated earrings. “He did not say that.”
“He absolutely said that.” Fiona held long pearl drops to one ear, funky, colored glass balls to the other. “I’m not elegant enough for his overrated cabinet. I can be elegant.” She turned. “See? Pearls.”
“Very pretty. But the fused glass ones are really you.”
“Yeah, but I could wear the pearls, if I wanted.” After setting them back in the display, Fiona wandered over to a tall raku vase.
There was always something new to see in Sylvia’s place. A painting, a scarf, a table, a treasure trove of jewelry. She stopped by a bench with high, curved sides and skimmed her fingers over the wood.
“This is beautiful.”
“It’s one of Simon’s.”
She resisted giving it a flick with her formerly admiring fingers. “Figures. Then he said I wasn’t his type. As if I’d asked. You are.”
“I am?”
“He even used you as an example. Arty and female and built.”
“Really?”
“Sure, go ahead and look smug.”
Deliberately, obviously, Sylvia fluffed at her hair. “It’s hard not to.”
“Well, feel free to follow up,” Fiona added with a dismissive wave.
“It might be interesting, but I think I’ll just stay smug. I’m sure he didn’t mean to insult you.”
“Oh yes he did.”
“Tell you what. I’m closing in ten minutes. We’ll go have dinner and trash him. Better, men in general.”
“That sounds like fun, but I need to get back. I really just came in to bitch. Jesus, Syl, it’s been a crappy couple of days.”
Sylvia skirted the counter to give Fiona a bolstering hug. “Why don’t I come over and fix you some pasta while you take a nice long bath?”
“Honestly, I think I’m going to open a can of soup, then go to bed. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“I worry about you, Fee.” She gave Fiona’s tail of hair a little tug. “Why don’t you come stay with me until they catch this maniac?”
“You know I’m fine. Me and the boys. Besides, the maniac’s not interested in me.”
“But—” She broke off when the door opened.
“Hi, Sylvia. Hi, Fiona.”
“Jackie, how are you?” Sylvia smiled at the pretty blonde who ran a local B&B.
“I’m just fine. I meant to get in earlier. I know you close in a few minutes.”
“Don’t worry about that. How’s Harry?”
“Tucked up in bed with a cold—which is one of the reasons I ran out. I swear you’d think he had the plague instead of the sniffles. He’s driving me crazy. I’ve been doing a little early spring cleaning between waiting on him hand and foot and listening to him moan. I decided I need to spruce the place up a little, do some redecorating. Mind if I look around, get some ideas?”
“You go right ahead.”
“I’d better get going. Nice to see you, Jackie.”
“You, too. Oh, Fiona, my boy and his wife just got a puppy. Practice, they say, before they start working on making me a grandmother.” She rolled her eyes.
“That’s nice. What kind did they get?”
“I don’t know. They went to a shelter.” She smiled then. “Brad said they’d save a life, then start thinking about starting one.”
“That’s really nice.”
“They named her Sheba—as in Queen of. He said if I ran into you I should tell you they’re going to sign up for your puppy classes.”
“I’ll look forward to it. I’d better go.”
“I’ll come by tomorrow, give you a hand with your classes,” Sylvia told her. “Oreo could use a little refresher course.”
“I’ll see you then. Bye, Jackie.”
As she walked out she heard Jackie exclaim over the bench, “Oh, Sylvia, this is a wonderful piece.”
“Isn’t it? It’s by the new artist I told you about. Simon Doyle.”
Fiona grumbled all the way to the truck.
IN HIS CELL in Washington State Penitentiary, George Allen Perry read his Bible. While his crimes had earned him a maximum-security cage for the rest of his life, he was considered a model prisoner.
He joined no gangs, made no complaints. He did the work assigned to him, ate the food served him. He kept himself clean, spoke respectfully to guards. He exercised regularly. He did not smoke or swear or use drugs, and spent most of the endless days reading. Every Sunday he attended services.
Visitors came rarely. He had no wife, no child, no staunch friends outside, or inside, the walls.
His father had long ago deserted him, and his mother, who the psychiatrists agreed was the root of his pathology, feared him.
His sister wrote him once a month, and made the long trek from Emmett, Idaho, once a year, considering it her Christian duty.
She’d given him the Bible.
The first year had been a misery that he’d borne with downcast eyes and a quiet manner that had disguised a raging fear. In the second year he’d lost fear in depression, and by the third he’d accepted that he would never be free.
He would never again be free to choose what to eat, and when to eat it, to rise or repose at his own whim. He would never again walk through a forest or glade or drive a car along a dark road with a secret in the trunk.
He would never again feel the power and the peace of a kill.
But there were other freedoms, and he earned them carefully. Meticulously. He expressed regret for his crimes to his lawyer, to the psychiatrist.
He’d wept, and considered the tears humiliation well spent.
He told his sister he’d been born again. He was allowed private consultation with a minister.
By his fourth year, he was assigned to the prison library, where he worked with quiet efficiency and expressed gratitude for the access to books.
And began his search for a student.
He applied for and was granted permission to take courses, both by visiting instructors and by video feed. It gave him an opportunity to interact with and study his fellow inmates in a new setting.
He found most too crude, too brutal, too lacking in intellect. Or simply too old, too young, too deeply entrenched in the system. He continued to further his education—he found it interesting—and he held to the thinning hope that fate would offer him the spiritual freedom he sought.
In his fifth year in Walla Walla, fate smiled on him. Not in the guise of a fellow inmate, but an instructor.
He knew instantly, just as he’d known the woman he would kill the moment he saw her.
This was his gift.
He began slowly, assessing, evaluating, testing. Patient, always, as he outlined and refined the methods by which he would create his proxy, the one who would walk outside the walls for him, hunt for him and kill for him.
Who would, in time, in good time, correct his single mistake. One that haunted him every night in the dark cage where silence and comfort were strangers.
Who would, in time, kill Fiona Bristow.
That time, Perry thought as he read Revelation, was nearly here.
He glanced up as the guard came to the cell. “Got a visitor.”
Perry blinked, carefully marking his place before setting aside the worn Bible. “My sister? I didn’t expect her for another six weeks.”
“Not your sister. FBI.”
“Oh, my goodness.” A big man with thinning hair and prison pallor, Perry stood meekly as the door clanged and slid open.
Two guards flanked him, and he knew others would search his cell while he was gone. No matter, none at all. They’d find nothing but his books, some religious tracts, the dry, God-fearing letters from his sister.
He kept his head down, repressed the smile that strained to spread over his face. The FBI would tell him what he already knew. His student had passed the next test.
Yes, Perry thought, there were many kinds of freedom. And at the thought of gaming with the FBI again, he took wing and soared.
