First Light (28 page)

The coffee was hot. It scalded its way down to my stomach. It made a fiery spot in my stomach, like a hot marble.

The rest of me was cold.

My brain was numb.

I just wanted to go back to sleep.

When I opened my eyes, the colors were so vivid and the light was so bright that I closed them again. I
tried to shift my position, and pain zipped down my left arm. I groaned.

I felt something warm and soft on my face. I opened my eyes again. Eliza. She was bending close to me. Her hand was touching my cheek.

“Are you awake?” she said.

I narrowed my eyes, and the light didn't hurt so much. “I guess so,” I said.

“How do you feel?”

“I don't know. My arm hurts. So's my head. What happened?”

“Nate and J.W. saved your life. You were wading out among the rocks in the dark. It was windy and the surf was high and the tide was coming in, and you got tangled in your line and fell and hit your head, and those guys came along just in the nick of time. Another fifteen minutes and the tide would've covered you over.”

I tried to shake my head, and an arrow of pain jabbed into my neck. “That's not what happened,” I said.

“Nate said you had some weird story about somebody hitting you and sticking a needle into you and then dragging you out into the water and leaving you to drown.”

“That's what happened, I think,” I said. “I sorta remember something like that. It's very fuzzy.” I realized I was in bed, covered by blankets. “Did they bring me home?”

She smiled. “Yes, they did. I've called a doctor. He should be here pretty soon.” She laid the back of her hand against my forehead. “Can I get you something?”

“Sleepy,” I said.

Her face came close to mine. I closed my eyes, and I felt her lips brush my eyelids. “It's okay,” she whispered. “Sleep. Eliza is here.”

I guess I slept some more.

Then somebody was prying my eyelids open and shining a light into them. A deep man's voice was saying, “… morphine would be my guess.”

The light went away, and I blinked. He had sparse white hair and round, rosy cheeks. Santa Claus without his beard.

“How're you feeling?” he said.

“Sleepy, mainly.”

“What about pain?”

I shifted my shoulders. “In my neck and arm, a little. Darts of pain. Sort of numb in my fingers.”

He nodded. “Ever have a cervical injury? Whiplash?”

I thought for a minute. “Yeah. Several years ago.”

He nodded. “Can you tell me what happened this morning?”

“Somebody hit me on the back of the neck and stuck a needle into me.” I tried to rotate my head. It hurt, and I groaned.

“It's that old injury flaring up. You'll be fine.” He cleared his throat. “That needle. You were drugged. Did you know that?”

“Vaguely.”

“It's about worn off. We figure it happened eight or ten hours ago.”

“What time is it?”

He glanced at his wristwatch. “A little after three in the afternoon.”

“What day?”

He smiled. “Friday.”

“I've been asleep all this time?”

“Drugged, Mr. Coyne. You had a close call. You nearly drowned, and you were hypothermic. Eliza, here, has been taking good care of you.”

“I'm okay, though?”

“Yep. You'll probably be sleepy and a bit disoriented for another day or so, and you may never remember what happened very clearly. But otherwise, you're going to be fine.” He turned to Eliza, who was standing beside the bed smiling down at me. “Hot liquids for a while. He might have trouble keeping down his food, so nothing spicy. Chicken noodle soup, tea, like that. You know how to reach me if you need to. But I don't think there'll be any complications.”

She nodded.

He turned to me. “I'll notify the police.”

I shrugged and closed my eyes.

The next time I woke up, I felt stiff and achy and a bit more clearheaded. I lay there in the darkness thinking about what had happened, and for the first time, I realized that someone had tried to kill me.

I pondered the two most obvious questions— who? and why?—without much luck.

After a while, my door creaked open, and Eliza was standing there in the doorway, silhouetted against the light in the hallway. She was wearing something transparent. Backlit as she was, it revealed the womanly shape of her body.

“Are you awake?” she whispered.

“Come on in.”

The silk of her gown hissed in the darkness. She left the door open a crack. The light from the hallway lit up the wall beside me, leaving the rest of the room dim.

Eliza sat on the edge of the bed. “The police were here,” she said. “I sent them away. They'll be back tomorrow.” She smelled clean. I reached up and felt her hair. It was damp.

She touched my face. “How are you feeling now?”

“Worse,” I said. “Which means I'm better, I guess. Less fuzzy. More achy. It feels as if I'm battered and bruised all over.”

“The drug's worn off,” she said. “Can I get you something? Soup? Hot tea?”

“I don't know. I'm not sure I could stomach anything just now.” I tried to hitch myself into a sitting position. It hurt all over to move, and I grunted with the effort.

“I've got an idea,” said Eliza. “How about a nice back rub?”

“A nice back rub sounds … nice.”

She got off the bed. “You've got to roll over,” she said.

I did. It hurt.

I bunched a pillow under my face, and I felt Eliza strip the sheet and blankets off me.

I was wearing a pair of boxer shorts and a T-shirt. She tugged at the shirt and helped me get it off. Then she slid my shorts off.

I felt her hands on me. She'd squeezed some kind of warm lotion on to them, and they moved over my
shoulders and neck, softly at first, then more firmly. Her fingers poked and massaged the knots of muscle, and I groaned.

“Am I hurting you?” she said softly.

“It feels great.”

After a minute, she said, “This is awkward for me.” I felt her weight on the bed, and then she was straddling me, sitting lightly on the backs of my thighs, and I know I wasn't mistaken—she was wearing nothing under that gown, and she'd hitched it up around her hips.

Her warm, slippery hands were moving in circles over my shoulders, tracing my spine, pushing back up along my sides. She was bending over me, her bare thighs clamped against mine, and I could feel her hair brushing my back as she reached up to massage the muscles in my neck.

I realized I was responding to her.

“Jesus, Eliza,” I whispered. “You're—”

At that moment, the room was suddenly filled with light. I opened my eyes, turned my head, and looked at the doorway. A man's shape was silhouetted there.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” It was Patrick.

“I'm just giving poor Brady a back rub,” said Eliza.

“Like hell you are,” he said. “You're fucking him.”

“No, I'm not, honey,” she said.

Patrick came into the room, grabbed Eliza's arm, and yanked her off me.

She tumbled off the bed and onto the floor.

Patrick loomed over her. “You're a whore,” he growled. “You've always been a whore.”

Eliza pushed herself to her feet. She stood there for a moment, facing him. Then she reached out a hand to him.

He slapped it away. “Don't try that,” he said.

“Oh, baby,” murmured Eliza. “Be nice to Mommy.” She stepped closer to him and reached out her hand again. “Come on, baby boy. Mommy loves you best.”

This time, Patrick did not slap her hand away. Eliza took his hand, and Patrick just stood there. She lifted his hand to her mouth, kissed his palm, and then slowly lowered it to her breast.

Patrick stood there motionless. Eliza was pressing his hand against her breast, smiling up at him, and Patrick's eyes were closed. She slid closer to him. He didn't move. She leaned her body against his, and I could see her hips moving rhythmically against him.

Patrick moaned softly.

Eliza lifted her hand to the back of her son's neck and guided his mouth down to hers, and it was a long, deep, openmouthed kiss.

I was transfixed.

I was horrified.

Suddenly, Patrick shoved her away from him. She fell against the bed and crumpled onto the floor.

He stood over her. His face was twisted, and his fists were clenching and unclenching. “Whore,” he whispered.

Then he reached down, grabbed her arm, hauled
her to her feet, and backhanded her on the side of her head, sending her toppling backward.

“Hey!” I said.

Patrick ignored me.

He went after Eliza, grabbed her hair, and yanked her onto her feet again. She fell against him and tried to hug him. She was moaning and crying. “Baby boy … Mommy loves you … be nice to Mommy … Mommy will keep you safe …”

Patrick swatted her away, and again she toppled down. Then he bent down and grabbed her throat in both hands and began throttling her. Eliza's eyes bulged and her face was turning red and she was making gurgling noises in her throat.

“Patrick,” I said. “Jesus! Cut it out.”

He ignored me.

I scrambled out of the bed. A shaft of pain zinged up into the center of my brain, and I staggered, momentarily dizzy. Then I righted myself and went after Patrick. I grabbed his shoulder. He shoved Eliza away, turned, and punched me on the point of my chin.

Lights exploded in my head, and I stumbled backward, crashed against the wall, and slumped down.

I blinked. The room was spinning. Vaguely, I saw Patrick go back after Eliza. He knelt down, grabbed her throat, and started banging her head against the floor. It seemed to be happening in slow motion, and I couldn't move, could only watch Patrick Fairchild kill his mother… .

And then I heard a growl, saw a fast shadowy movement in the doorway, and in an instant Nate had his forearm around Patrick's throat. He hauled him off Eliza and clubbed him on the side of the head.
Patrick crashed against the wall, and Nate went after him, picked him up by the front of his shirt, and clubbed him again, and Eliza was screaming and Patrick was slumped on the floor, moaning, and Nate was cursing, going after him again, and then Eliza threw herself onto Nate's back and wrapped her arms around his throat. She was crying. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. “Leave my baby alone,” she kept saying. “Don't hurt him. Don't hurt my little boy.”

And then, abruptly, it was over. Nate shrugged his sister off his back, nodded a couple of times, sighed, and sat down on the edge of my bed. Eliza knelt beside Patrick. She bent close to him, stroked his face, kissed his eyelids, whispered to him.

Nate's big chest was heaving, and his face was wet with sweat. He looked at me, shook his head, and muttered, “Jesus Christ.” Then he narrowed his eyes. “You okay?”

I nodded. “You better call the police.”

“Police?” Nate shook his head. “This is family business, Mr. Lawyer.”

“He was trying to kill her,” I said.

Nate laughed quickly. “Not hardly.”

I looked over to where Eliza was tending to Patrick. She was helping him to his feet. He staggered for a moment and put his arm on Eliza's shoulder for support. He looked at me and Nate, nodded to each of us as if he were seeing us for the first time, and gave us a quick, apologetic smile.

Then he looked at Eliza and shook his head sadly. “‘Frailty,'” he said, “‘thy name is woman.'” Then he walked out of the room.

I
got the old Land Cruiser into four-wheel drive and slithered through the rain up the slope to the cottage. There, Nate and I loaded Brady aboard and took him up to the big house. Brady was semiconscious, articulating an occasional clear word, but mostly mumbling about things I couldn't understand. I was worried about concussion and hypothermia.

Eliza met us as we carried Brady inside. Her hand flew to her mouth and she gave a cry, but then, almost instantly, she turned cool and efficient, the way many women behave when there's no time for faint nerves. “This way. We'll get him into his bed and call the doctor. What happened?”

We got Brady to his room and told Eliza what we knew and what Brady had been saying.

“He's got needles on his brain,” said Nate. “A hit on the head can make you pretty wacky.”

His sister gave him an angry look. “You're an angel of sympathy, as usual. The poor man's hurt.”

“I saved his ass, sister dear, which is more than you could have managed. Do something useful for a change, and call a doctor while J.W. and I get
Brady into bed. Or would you rather undress him yourself?”

“You're hateful!” Eliza stomped out of the room, and Nate and I got Brady out of his clothes and into dry briefs and a T-shirt we found in his bureau drawer. We had him tucked under the covers when Eliza came back into the room.

“The doctor is on his way.” She went straight to the bed and looked down at Brady.

“Good,” I said. “When he gets here, tell him everything—where we found him, how he's been mumbling, everything.”

“Where you gonna be?” asked Nate.

“I'm going home to change my clothes, then I have to visit some tennis courts.”

Eliza took her eyes off Brady long enough to look at me. “Tennis courts?”

“Molly Wood and another woman I've been looking for are both tennis players, and I want to find out if anybody remembers seeing them play or remembers their partners. If they do, I want to talk with the partners.” I had a thought. “You play, don't you? Did you ever see Molly playing with anyone?”

Eliza lifted her chin just a bit. “I only play at the Chappaquonsett Club. I don't think Molly Wood is a member.”

“No, probably not.” According to the local papers, the Chappaquonsett Club had once allowed the vacationing family of the President of the United States to play there, even though they weren't members, but I doubted that they'd extend a similar invitation to a widowed visiting nurse from Scituate.