Authors: Margaret Carroll
“Okay now?” he said, studying the surface of the lake as though that was all that mattered.
But his jaw was working.
“Yeah.”
He cast off, sending his lure wheeling through the air in a perfect arc. “It doesn’t matter how long it takes, because even if they won’t bite you get to spend time here.” He looked at the sky, then back to his line as he reeled in, slow and steady and deliberate, taking his time.
The way he did everything, Caroline thought.
He gave her a quick glance and smiled. “Life is beautiful, Alice Stevens.”
Caroline nodded. She didn’t dare tell him what she really thought. That the way he wore life like a loose garment melted her heart and made her brave, like she could try again to have a normal relationship. She drew in another deep breath, fighting the urge to tell him everything. Ken Kincaid was as gentle and sweet inside as he was rugged on the outside. But Caroline didn’t dare allow herself to get close to him, or let any man view the pollution of her past. To do so now would only put Ken’s happiness in jeopardy.
She was overcome with sorrow for the doors that had slammed shut for her on the day long ago that she had chosen Porter.
Ken reeled in his line. “Don’t think they’re biting for me today. Let’s see how you do, Alice.” He positioned her rod expertly in her hands and raised it in alignment with her right shoulder. “Okay, cast off like I showed you.”
He watched Caroline’s line whirl through the air and splash into the lake. “Excellent!”
She reeled it in, slow and steady, dragging the lure across the surface.
“You’re a natural.”
They repeated the process until gradually any tension Caroline had felt disappeared, and for a while at least, she was able to forget her problems. She beamed.
“When you least expect it, there’s a fish out there with your name on it that’s ready to be caught. The thing to remember about trout, Alice, is they are not dumb,” Ken said, focusing on the lines. “They won’t get caught by just anybody. Trout are smarter than people give them credit for.”
His words echoed in her mind late that night as she watched clouds scuttle past the moon from her bed, thinking about her life, the things she had done and the things she still wanted to do, find a small town and someday open an art gallery there and maybe even sell her own paintings. She also could not help but replay over and over the way Ken had looked at her today, the way his arms had felt around her, and the way she had felt when he kissed her.
P
orter started driving west the next day. He pulled over at a truck stop in Missouri to gas up. Inside the restrooms he splashed cold water on his face, which burned and itched with fatigue. He’d slept fitfully the night before, his last in the townhouse.
He bought a small pizza and a giant slush drink flavored with cola, and used it to wash down a handful of antihistamines.
The clerk with the bright red apron behind the counter took Porter’s money and said something.
Porter looked up from his wallet and frowned.
The young man flashed a wide smile. “I said, here’s your change and have a nice drive.”
Startled, Porter mumbled thanks. He gathered his purchases and walked away as the young man called after him.
“Hey, mister, you get a free package of chips with that.”
Porter kept walking. He found Midwesterners annoying.
He ate the soggy pizza as the miles rolled. He took Interstate 70, following the line he had highlighted in yellow on his atlas. A small tube of lip balm rolled in the
console between the seats. He opened it and saw smudges of coral lipstick on top. Caroline’s favorite color. He rubbed it across his mouth, erasing her imprint, and this small act gave him a feeling of satisfaction.
He spent the night in a motel at the edge of St. Louis. It was one of those places where you pulled the car right up to the room, like he had stayed in one time with his parents when he was very young. He remembered lying in one bed, cranky and carsick following a day in the backseat of their Ford LTD station wagon. His parents shared the other, watching muted images flicker from the TV screen while his father checked the sports scores. There were no more vacations after his mother left.
Motels made Porter mournful.
Porter parked the Saab outside the battered steel door and cinder-block walls of the St. Louis Sojourner Inn. Exhausted from his day on the road, his arms vibrated from the feel of the road beneath the wheels. But he was on schedule.
He opened the door to a tiny room that stank of cigarettes. The bored girl at the front desk had promised him a nonsmoking room. He propped the door open to air the place out, shivering in the chill night air.
The Saab was hanging low with a heavy load. The trunk was packed full. There was a printout of the file from Beltway Security Investigations containing the full dossier on Storm Pass and the people his wife was associating with. Shopping bags, full to bursting, with items purchased at the wilderness outfitter in the upscale pedestrian mall on M Street’s Potomac Canal. His valise, heavy with the weight of a Smith & Wesson .38 caliber semiautomatic pistol. A length of sturdy rope, should
the need arise, and a gleaming red container of kerosene. A roll of heavy plastic sheeting and some blankets. Sterile syringes with rubber tubing and a small glass bottle containing Pavulon, a drug with which Dr. Porter Moross had more than a passing acquaintance.
Everything he needed for his fishing trip.
C
aroline fell into bed exhausted but happy after her afternoon up on the mountaintop with Ken. She slept fitfully, dreaming vivid dreams as her mind explored the perils and possibilities that awaited her in the days and weeks to come…
The first wave of flights touched down at Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport, bringing the day’s first group of transfer passengers. Most were traveling north or south along the eastern corridor of the United States. Uniformed staff checked boarding passes at the entrance to the first-class lounge, ushering premium-class passengers inside, away from the hustle and bustle of the terminal, so they could help themselves to complimentary cocktails, juice, snacks, and gourmet coffee. At this hour the lounge was filled mostly with businessmen working on laptops and talking on cell phones.
And one elderly woman in a wheelchair. On the woman’s lap was an FAA-approved Sherpa bag for the carriage of live animals. A small dog pushed its nose through the steel grid in the container door.
“Hello. Welcome to the Red Carpet Club,” said the
passenger services agent. “I hope we can make you comfortable today.” She smiled at the elderly passenger.
The old lady smiled back and handed over her boarding pass and ticket.
The dog snarled, working its sharp fangs around the steel grid opening.
“Good morning, Mrs. Nan Birmingham,” the agent said, entering something into her computer. “You are connecting from Denver to Naples, Florida, is that right?”
The old lady nodded.
Inside the container, the dog growled.
“And your dog,” the agent said.
“He hates to fly,” the elderly woman explained.
“We sure are glad you chose Delta,” the agent said brightly.
The dog snarled.
The passenger services agent walked out from behind the desk and leaned over to greet her first-class special assist.
Which sent the dog into another round of frenzied yapping.
The agent’s smile lost some of its sparkle. All airline employees hated pets, at least when they flew. “Let’s find a quiet spot where you and the doggy will be comfortable.” She steered the old lady and her wheelchair to the farthest corner of the big lounge, settling her with hot tea and a package of sugar cookies. She winced when the woman requested cheese, a bottle of water, and a bowl for the dog.
“It’s time for his tranquilizer,” Nan said.
A series of low growls emitted from the cage.
The agent frowned. “I’m afraid all dogs must be kept
inside their traveling container at all times inside the airport. For their safety as well as that of your fellow passengers.”
“It’ll help him sleep,” Nan explained. “It’s a long trip from Denver. Which is why I paid for first class.”
That settled it. The passenger services agent looked around. The only person nearby was a guy in a black suit, traveling on a group fare to a conference in Miami, hunched over his Sony Vaio laptop like it contained the Da Vinci code. He didn’t look up.
“Okay,” the agent replied. “But remember, I told you we don’t allow it. If you open the door to his cage while my back is turned, that’s another story.”
First-class passenger Birmingham gave a happy smile.
“Please don’t let him off the leash.” The passenger services agent took one last look at the tiny fangs that were working the cage door before heading to the kitchenette for some mini cheese packages, which she loaded onto a china plate. She chose two bottles of mineral water, one sparkling and one still, a glass, and a small bowl. She placed them all on a tray with some napkins and deposited them on the table in front of her wheelchair passenger.
The old lady beamed.
The passenger services agent bent down, close enough to the cage to set the animal growling again, and whispered, “Please, Mrs. Birmingham, please don’t let him off his leash.”
Nan smiled and waved her off. “Not to worry.” She searched her purse for the medication the vet had prescribed. The little terrier didn’t behave well on planes. He didn’t behave well off planes, for that matter. Scout had been the Colonel’s dog.
“Wretched animal. Take your pill,” Nan grumbled, stuffing one of the pills inside a wad of cheese. She set the cage on the floor, opened it, and quickly clipped his leash to his collar.
Scout nosed out and gobbled the morsel. He sniffed the carpet for crumbs, straining at the end of his leash.
“No exploring,” Nan said quietly. “Sit.”
The dog pulled harder and whined.
The man at the table glanced up from his laptop and frowned.
Scout tugged at his leash.
Nan tugged back. “Hush,” she whispered.
Scout whined, louder this time.
Nan sighed. She reached for another mini cheese packet.
Scout sat on his haunches and barked.
Frowning, Nan broke off a piece of cheese and tossed it to him.
Scout gobbled it and backed away, ears erect. He gave a low whine.
Nan took another piece of cheese and held it out. “Sit.”
The dog inched closer and sat.
“Good dog,” Nan said, the way her new housekeeper had shown her. “Now shake.”
Scout did not move.
Nan repeated the command. “Shake.”
Scout licked his chops.
“Shake,” Nan said again, louder.
The man in black released an audible sigh, closed his laptop noisily, and stood.
Scout eyed the cheese and yapped once.
Nan scowled and shook the cheese near Scout’s mouth. “Shake,” she commanded.
Scout did not move.
“Stubborn dog,” Nan muttered.
The man in black collected his belongings, his face twisted in a grimace.
Nan tried one last time. “Shake.”
Scout rushed at Nan’s hand and nuzzled it, looking for the cheese.
The man began to walk away.
Exasperated, Nan opened her hand.
Scout gobbled the cheese.
“It always works with Pippin,” she muttered.
The man stopped and stood, stock-still.
Nan unwrapped one more piece of cheese and tossed it to the dog. “Might as well,” she said, “We’ve got a long way to go.”
The man did an about-face and surveyed Nan through steel-rimmed spectacles. He walked over and smiled. “That’s a good-looking dog you’ve got there,” he said
…
Caroline woke from her dream with a pounding heart, her breath shallow and ragged. It was only a dream. A nightmare, something about Porter. She couldn’t remember the details, only that it was something long and complicated and twisted. Her mouth was dry and had the taste of wet slate that, she had learned long ago, accompanied panic.
She tried to calm herself with knowledge she had acquired from Porter. Nightmares, she knew, were usually the acting out of conflict, in this case guilt from kissing Ken. Which, in turn, was an externalization of guilt from that other, older stain that was stamped on her soul forever.
And yet Caroline’s gut had a different interpretation.
She would never be safe if she stayed in one place too long.
Going back to sleep was impossible now. She rose and went to the window. The night was crystal clear, the yard silvery with light from a brilliant orange moon that hung low in the sky. The harvest moon, Ken had told her, explaining that every full moon had a name.
She watched as a ghostly shape unfolded itself from a branch, taking flight across the night sky on giant black wings. The creature wheeled across the pasture like a phantom and was gone. An owl on the hunt.
Her grandmother had believed in omens.
A shiver passed through Caroline, wracking her all the way to her core. A familiar claustrophobia took hold of her chest, sending tendrils of despair up into her throat so that breathing became difficult. She could not escape the past. Not really.
She spent the hours until dawn in a restless state that was neither sleep nor wakefulness, rising at dawn to let herself out.
The dogs scampered past her into the yard. Snow had fallen on Ute Peak overnight, dusting it with white so it looked like a confectioner’s dessert. The air was clear and shimmering with frost.
Lack of sleep left her edgy, nervous. She loved the pinkish light of dawn when the day was new, but today was different. The sky didn’t seem bright enough, leaving the forest in shadow. Small sounds made her jump. She decided too late she would have felt safer in bed.
Great billows of steam rose from the pond.
She stripped, anxious for the soothing effect she felt in the bubbling water, and waded through the shallows
until she was knee-deep. She sank down, turned onto her back, and floated, drifting toward center. The shoreline receded, and all that remained was the steamy wet cloud hanging just above her head, masking all sound except the splashing of her own limbs in the dark water.
It was a lonely sound.
Pieces of the nightmare drifted back, slowly at first. Porter. He was hunting her like she was some sort of animal. Her pulse quickened at the thought of him focused on one single powerful objective. Finding her. Her pulse quickened as the night terror returned.
She was not safe. Not here, not anywhere.
She forced herself to draw deep breaths, reminded herself of where she was, that she was awake now. But it was no use. Unease took root at the base of her spine and spread, like spiders racing across bare skin. She shuddered, telling herself the dream was induced by her own guilt and meant nothing.
But guilt was a powerful emotion.
More snatches of the nightmare popped into her mind, crowding in faster and faster until they fit together and told one terrible truth like pieces of a puzzle.
Porter was good at solving puzzles.
Panic set in. She imagined unseen hands pulling her down into murky depths. She began to flail, her limbs jerky and uncoordinated, rudderless in the dark water. She was gripped by a terror that, she realized, had taken hold of her in her sleep. It grew in ferocity now, gripping her, filling her mouth with the taste of slate, panic.
She screamed, and the sound hung in the air above her head as she scrambled for the shallows, splashing loudly. The sound, she was sure, would alert the unseen phantoms that would reach up to pull her down.
The pond, usually so inviting, had turned on her.
She gasped for air and took in water instead. She rotated her limbs, splashing wildly, and felt herself sinking down into that vortex.
The message of her nightmare hit home. Porter would find her. And once he did, she would not have many hours left to live.
Caroline screamed again.
Her feet touched bottom. She scrambled on all fours to the edge, bracing to be grabbed from behind at any moment.
As though Porter had already arrived.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when Pippin and Scout appeared in the mist at the water’s edge. She barely toweled off, pulling on her clothes with hands that shook.
She ran back through the woods, gripped by the fear that she was pursued by phantoms. She recalled that the ancient people who had settled here believed the waters held powerful magic. If the mountain didn’t accept a person, it would turn its power against him.
Caroline knew the time had come to leave Storm Pass.