Nervous Water (22 page)

I called Roger Horowitz's cell phone. He'd know what to do.

When he answered, I told him what had happened.

He listened without interrupting, and when I finished, he said, “It would've been a helluva lot more convenient if you could've arranged for all this to happen in Massachusetts, you know.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Inconsiderate of me.”

“Yeah, apology accepted. Don't worry about it. Anybody need an ambulance or something?”

I looked over at Becca. She was now sitting with her back against the wall watching us. Her face registered bemusement and mild curiosity.

Cassie was sitting beside me on the sofa with the shotgun leveled at Becca.

“We're good,” I said. “I just want to turn our prisoner over to somebody and get the hell out of here.”

“Okay,” he said. “Sit tight.” And he hung up.

No good-bye. No thank-you. No “Good work, Coyne.” No “How are you feeling?”

That was Horowitz.

I clicked off the phone and looked at Becca. “Tell me something,” I said.

“Sure,” she said.

“Why didn't you kill me when you had the chance?”

“In Webster's office, you mean?”

I nodded. “You put your gun against my head and cocked the hammer. But you didn't pull the trigger.”

She smiled. “I remembered how you gave Danny a Cheerio. That was sweet. I didn't want to kill you.”

“Sweet,” I said. I shoved the cell phone into my pants pocket, and the movement sent a dart of hot pain up my arm and made me wince.

“Lemme have a look at that,” said Cassie.

“It's okay,” I said.

I watched her touch the area around my left biceps with her fingertips. It was pretty bloody. I couldn't feel her fingers.

“Looks like the bullet just scratched you,” she said. “It's all red and black and blistery. Pretty nasty.”

“Powder burn,” I said. “Could've been worse.”

“A lot worse,” she said.

 

By the time the troops arrived at Cassie's trailer, she had cleaned my wound and doused it with antiseptic and wrapped a bandage around it. Becca was holding a bag of frozen peas from Cassie's freezer against the side of her head where Cassie had smashed her with the butt of the shotgun.

There were four or five Maine state troopers plus the county sheriff and a couple of his deputies, and I sensed that a little local turf war was building already.

They hadn't seen anything yet. Rebecca Hurley had committed two murders in Massachusetts, most recently Grantham Webster. This was Horowitz's case and Becca was—or would soon become—his prisoner.

All they had here were a few firearms violations, maybe an assault with a deadly weapon, and a superficial gunshot wound.

 

They handcuffed Rebecca Hurley and whisked her away in a state-police squad car. They bagged her Chief's Special for evidence, and the sheriff and one of the police officers took statements from both me and Cassie and made sure they knew how to reach us. The whole thing took a couple of hours. I had the sense they were going through the motions. They'd figured out that Becca would quickly be extradited to Massachusetts. Horowitz had already made that clear.

After everybody left and Cassie and I were alone, I turned to her and said, “Now what?”

“I want to go see him. We've got a lot to talk about.”

“Moze?”

She nodded.

“Now?”

She shook her head. “I need to do some thinking first. Work up some courage. Tomorrow, I think.”

“What about your…Hurley.”

“My husband?” she said. “I'll divorce him as soon as possible. His own daughter?” She shook her head. “I don't want to ever lay eyes on that…that monster again.” She looked at me. “You're a lawyer…”

“It would be my pleasure,” I said. “We'll get you a tidy settlement.”

She shook her head. “I don't want anything from that man. I should never have married him in the first place. I did it for all the wrong reasons. I just want it over.”

I shrugged. “We can do it any way you want.”

“It's weird,” she said, “you know? I kind of feel sorry for Becca.”

“Speaking of monsters.”

“I know,” she said. “But how did she get that way?”

“How does anybody?”

She nodded. It was a rhetorical—and an unanswerable—question.

We sat there for a few minutes, saying nothing. Then Cassie turned to me. “Hey, Cousin. Will you do me a favor?”

“Sure,” I said. “What?”

“Take me home?”

“Home?”

“I've only had one home in my life.”

Uncle Moze's house, she meant.

“I'll be happy to,” I said. “Your bedroom is waiting for you.”

“Huh?”

I smiled. “You'll see.”

She stood up. “It'll only take me a minute to get my stuff together,” she said. “What I took from—from that man's house—it's in a trunk. I haven't even unpacked it.”

The same trunk, I thought, that Howard Litchfield watched Cassie and Grantham Webster carry out of Hurley's house on Church Street in Madison that Saturday night just a few weeks ago.

While Cassie packed her trunk, I went outside and called Evie.

She answered on the second ring.

“Honey,” I said, “it's me. I'm up here in Maine, but I'll be heading home pretty soon.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Everything's fine,” I said. “I just got tied up with a few things.”

“Tied up.” She laughed. “Sounds like fun.”

“It wasn't,” I said. “I'll tell you all about it.”

Fifteen minutes later I pulled into the sandy driveway in front of Uncle Moze's little house in Moulton. I turned off the ignition and opened the car door.

Beside me, Cassie remained sitting.

“Coming?” I said.

“Yup.”

I glanced at her. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

“Take your time,” I said.

She turned and smiled at me. “No, I'm good.”

We got out, slid her steamer trunk from the back of my car, lugged it to the front door, and put it down.

Cassie turned the knob, and the door pushed open.

“He never locks up,” she said. “It's a stupid point of pride with the old coot.”

“Let's get the trunk inside,” I said.

“Just leave it here.” She turned to me. “I want to do this by myself. Is that okay?”

“Sure.”

“You can go,” she said. “I know you want to get home. Go ahead. I'm fine.”

“I'll be happy to stay with you for a while if you want.”

She shook her head. “No. Thank you. I'd like to be alone.”

“Want me to pick you up in the morning,” I said, “take you to the hospital?”

She looked at me for a minute. Then she nodded. “I should be able to do it myself. To—to see him again. To get reacquainted. To apologize. But…yes. That would be nice. It would be really nice.”

“I'll be here around ten, then?” I said.

She put her arms around me and hugged me close. “That's perfect.

Thanks, Cuz. Thanks for everything.”

By the time I left my car in the parking garage and started walking home, the streetlights on Charles Street had come on. I was thinking I should've called Evie again, given her a better idea of what time I'd be home.

She'd turned on the porch light for me. I went in and called hello, but Evie didn't answer, and Henry didn't come bounding at me with his tail wagging.

I walked through the house and looked out through the backdoor window to the garden.

Evie was sitting in an Adirondack chair. She was wearing a flowery summer-weight dress with a scoop neck. High heels. Her hair done up in a complicated bun. A string of pearls—inherited from her mother—hung around her graceful neck.

I tried to remember. I was pretty sure this was not the outfit she'd worn to work, which meant she'd changed into it when she got home. Which raised the obvious question, since Evie loved to “get out of her school clothes,” as she put it, first thing upon getting home from work. She loved sweatpants, T-shirts, cut-off jeans, no bras.

She'd hitched her dress halfway up her thighs, and her long bronze legs were stretched out in front of her. Her head was tilted back. I couldn't tell if her eyes were closed or she was staring up at the sky.

Then I noticed that our silver ice bucket was sitting on the picnic table. The neck of a bottle was sticking out of it, and two tall stemmed glasses sat beside it. Champagne, I assumed.

Huh? Champagne?

I stepped out on the porch. Henry, who'd been lying beside Evie, lifted his head, blinked at me, then pushed himself to his feet and came limping over.

I scootched down, gave his muzzle a scratch, then went over to Evie.

She looked up at me, smiled, and lifted her hand to my face.

I bent down and kissed her cheek.

She steered my mouth to hers, then hooked her arm around my neck to hold it there.

It was a long kiss.

When she finally let me up for air, I waved my hand around the garden and said, “What's the occasion?”

“Does there need to be an occasion?”

“Certainly not,” I said. “But I've got the feeling that there is one.”

She looked at me for a minute, then smiled and said, “I got it.”

“Got what?”

“The promotion. The raise.”

“Wait a minute—”

“Brady,” she said, “sit down, okay?”

I sat down.

Evie reached over and grabbed my hand in both of hers. “I've been such a bitch lately.”

“That's okay,” I said. “You're entitled to be a bitch sometimes. I just wish I'd known what was going on, that's all. I could've been there for you better.”

“I didn't want you to be there for me,” she said. “I was—I was so afraid I wasn't going to get it. That's why I never told you. I didn't want your pity if I didn't get it. I don't know why I wanted the stupid job so bad, but I did. I kept getting mixed signals. I almost pulled out about a dozen times. Wanted to tell them, fuck it. Fuck you. I don't need this. Except I did. I felt like I needed it. It's a great job. A big step up. Huge raise. More responsibility. More fun, too.” She paused. “I guess, mainly, I just wanted to know that they appreciated me.”

“I could never pity you,” I said.

She smiled. “I know.”

 

I picked Cassie up at Moze's house at ten the next morning, and the nurse let us into the ICU around eleven.

Moze was lying on his side facing away from us.

I went over to his bed. Cassie stayed behind me. When I turned to look at her, I saw that her cheeks were wet.

I touched Moze's hip. “Hey, Uncle,” I said. “Come on. Wake up. You got company.”

He twitched and groaned, then slowly rolled onto his back. He blinked at me. “Sonnyboy,” he said.

I turned around, reached for Cassie's hand, and tugged her beside me.

Moze stared at her.

“Hi, Moze,” said Cassie.

“Cassandra,” he said. “Jesus Christ.”

“It's me,” she said.

“You are a sight for old eyes,” he said. He hitched himself into a sitting position. “I was thinking I'd never see you again.”

“I'm here,” she said. “I'm sorry.”

Moze blinked. His eyes were glittering.

“I've been awfully mad at you,” Cassie said.

I found a chair in the corner of the room and dragged it over beside the bed.

Cassie looked at me, smiled quickly, and sat in it. She reached for Moze's hand and held it in both of hers. “How are you feeling?”

“Cooped up,” he said.

“I found out about Mary and Norman,” said Cassie. “My real parents. You lied to me all that time. It was hard to understand.”

“Me and Lillian was your real parents,” he said. “We raised you.”

“You know what I mean,” she said.