Authors: Gloria Repp
He reached into his jacket. “Got something here.” His red-rimmed eyes blinked with concentration as he pulled out an old soup can.
He brought it close to his face, looked inside for a minute, then stepped forward and banged it onto the table.
Madeleine eyed it. The can was badly burned and its label almost gone. What made it so remarkable?
He nudged out its contents. Black ash skittered toward her, and a clump of partly-burned wooden matches fell onto the table. They were held together by charred strands of wire.
He scratched at the whiskers on his chin and stared at her. “You ever seen anything like this?”
“No.”
“You know where this here tin comes from?”
“No.”
“I do. And I’m going to make me some money off it. Sally, girl, we’re goin’ to be ridin’ high and easy.”
Tara chewed on her lip.
His voice picked up a threat. “What’d you say to that, girl?”
“Sure, Uncle Sid.”
His words glided on, as if oiled by the alcohol. “You don’t believe me, do you? I’ll show you.”
He swayed, put out a hand, and lowered himself into a chair, bending so close that Madeleine could smell the liquor on his breath.
“You know Kent Sanders,” he said. “Don’t you?”
She shrugged.
“Sure you do. These days, he hangs around with all the grand folks down by Tabernacle.”
He poked the can with a blackened finger. “You’re going to take this and give it to Sanders. Tell him it’s a present from his ol’ buddy.”
She leaned away. “I don’t see him very often.”
Tara sent her a worried glance.
The man frowned. “You’re telling me you don’t want to get your pretty hands dirty—like me—is that it?”
He rubbed his hands together, and a shower of ash drifted onto the table. “Here.” He reached into the trash, pulled out a cracker box, and dropped the can inside. “There. All set.”
Madeleine didn’t move toward it.
He pushed it closer. “Do as I say, woman! Take it.”
Tara made a small, agitated movement, and Madeleine picked up the box.
Her uncle levered himself upright.
Good, he was going to leave now.
He looked down at her. “Don’t you think you’ve been visiting long enough? Sally has work to do. And you have a job to do for me.”
Madeleine exchanged a regretful glance with Tara and got to her feet, but her thoughts had untangled themselves.
Sid and the pendant—the sight of it spooked him? His brother was Tara’s father? And he got it from
where
? Sid knew something about that pendant, and if he weren’t so drunk, she could get him to tell her. Next time.
She had to tilt her head back to stare into the man’s eyes, but she felt six feet tall.
“Mr. Marrick.” She addressed him in the firm, courteous voice she used with her students. “If you want me to do this job, then you will answer some questions for me when I come back. Remember that.”
Anger sparked in his eyes, soon replaced by uncertainty. “A pretty woman with spunk—now I like that.” He swayed toward her.
She gave him a warning look. “Agreed?”
“Guess so.” His eyes agreed too.
“Goodbye then,” she said. “Tara, I’ll see you later.”
The way to the front door was clear, and she left before he could decide to come after her. Getting out into the sunlight gave her such a feeling of release that she understood why Tara escaped to her hideout whenever she could.
She stepped across the iron frame, marched to her car, and locked herself inside, conscious that he was watching her from the porch. Rather than backing down the driveway, she turned her car around, swerving to avoid the engine parts, and finally left the house behind.
A minute later she’d reached Salty Spung Road, and as her nerves began to uncoil, she reviewed what she’d learned. Tara seemed to feel that she had as much right to the pendant as the Castells. How could it be the same one?
What about Kent and Sid? An unlikely pair? Perhaps not.
She glanced at the cracker box beside her. Dirty thing. What could she do with it?
No ideas, right now. But she had promised, and somehow, she’d get it to Kent.
It was past noon by the time she arrived at the Manor. She changed into the cranberry shirt Nathan liked, and while she was finishing up the deviled eggs, he phoned to say that he’d be there in a minute.
She met him at the door, and he took her into his arms as if they’d been parted for weeks. “Mmm,” he said into her hair. “Will you wear it down today?”
She laughed. “That’s easy.” They walked arm in arm to the kitchen and she said, “Do you want to eat now or pack a lunch?”
“Both.”
“I thought so. Here, you’re good with knives.” She handed him a knife and had him slice the bread and left-over roast beef.
“Grapes? Cookies?” she said. “Anything else?”
“Do you have any of those specialty hard-boiled eggs?”
“Done.” This was going to be a happy day, she could tell already. An invigorating hike with good conversation. And she could share her worries about Tara.
By daylight, the Hampton area looked disheveled and weedy, with the furnace ruins invisible, but the tall sycamore still stood on guard, and she gave it an affectionate glance as they passed.
They parked in the same place as before, and Nathan, map in hand, walked back along the way they’d come until he found a sandy track that branched off into the woods. “Logan said we might want to look at this one too—it follows the Batsto for a while. Even has an underwater bridge. I’d like to see that sometime.”
They passed the warehouse ruins and the bridge over the Skit, and continued along another sandy road, bronzed with pine needles, that grew soft under her feet.
Whenever the road forked, he consulted the map, and she was glad he’d brought it, because after a while all the roads looked the same. The landscape varied—widely-spaced pines set in dappled sand; ragged, skeletal pines; slim, close-growing pines—but always pines. The forest had its usual effect on her, and she began to hum a tune under her breath.
He picked up a fallen branch and tossed it out of their way. “How was Tara this morning?”
“Not very happy when I was asked to leave.”
“Her aunt?”
“Uncle.” She reached into his backpack for a bottle of water. “Besides being drunk, he was rather agitated.”
She described the scene with the soup can, and he looked thoughtful. “So you’re going to give it to Kent?”
“Not a chance. Their little tiff has nothing to do with me. I’ll get it to him somehow, but that’s all I agreed to do.”
“How about Remi?”
Remi would be at church tomorrow. He could take it off her hands. “That’s a good fix,” she said.
The pines on their right were mixed with oaks and thick underbrush, and once in a while she caught a glimpse of the river. Swamp maples grew along its banks, alight with red leaves.
Clouds hung low, but it was warm enough that she rolled up the sleeves of her shirt. Good thing she’d left her jacket in the car.
“What’s this?” She veered onto a faint trail leading off to their right. “I’d like to see more of the river.”
Nathan followed her. “Could be a deer path, from what Logan said.”
They had to push through barbed vines and brittle, leafless bushes, but they ended up beside a deep pool that looked like a fisherman’s dream. The river, swirling past, caught the light in topaz ripples. “Worth it,” she said, smiling up at him.
On their way back through the brush, he took her arm. “Those scratches are almost gone, I’m glad to see.”
“Excellent medical care,” she said. “And I heal quickly.”
“You won’t have any scars.”
“I hope not.” It wasn’t hard to guess what he was thinking.
She brushed the twigs out of her hair and thought, Let’s not spoil this day by talking about Brenn.
“So,” she said, “where in Alaska did you grow up?”
He told her how his parents had homesteaded a piece of land that bordered Denali National Park. They’d hauled in supplies by dogsled or Super Cub, and his father had taught him to track everything from wolverine to moose, and he’d loved it all.
She smiled to herself as she listened.
“What is it?”
“I was just picturing you as this little boy trudging to school through the snow—five feet deep, uphill both ways—with your slate under your arm.”
“Hey, it wasn’t that long ago.”
“Just kidding. What books did you have at home?”
“We traded back and forth, and there was a library in town. But the ones I remember best were the Bible, a one-volume Shakespeare, and
The Wilderness Homestead
.”
Shakespeare? That would account for a few things.
A few minutes later, he said slowly, “I didn’t go to a real school until I was a teenager and we had moved to town.”
“Your mother taught you?”
“Until she left. After a while my dad decided I should have a more civilized life. I hated it at first.”
“That’s when you met your Inuit friend, Denny?”
“And Timothy. An important person in my life.”
She nodded. “What was it about the raisins and porridge?”
“My dad always cooked up a big pot of oatmeal. With just the two of us, it lasted for a week. He’d put in raisins, and they got big and bloated and I’d pick them out and feed them to our pet raccoon.”
The look on his face made her laugh.
As the road meandered on, he asked what her father had been like, and she told him about Dad’s ruffians and the hikes they’d taken, the canoe trips together.
They arrived at another clearing, and she followed his gaze off to one side.
“Railroad tracks?” she asked.
He grinned. “Right where they’re supposed to be.” They followed a well-trodden path beside the tracks, which were clogged with grass, obviously unused, and she said, “The teens will like this, won’t they?”
“I think so. We should run into the river again, up here.”
A train trestle, with planks secured lengthwise between the rails, came into sight. “Another bridge?” she said. “I’m loving this place.”
Up close, the trestle was bigger than she’d thought, built of massive, creosote-blackened timbers and huge iron spikes.
They walked out across it to look at the river, gleaming as it curved away into the pines. She was wishing she’d brought her camera when the trees bent before a gust of wind and rain began to fall, spattering the boards.
“C’mon,” he said, turning back. “Let’s see what’s underneath this.”
A steep, cindered slope took them down to the river’s edge, and they ducked into a space beneath the trestle. The beams slanted above them, looking strong enough to gird a skyscraper, and the rain fell in quick, wind-driven bursts.
“Good idea,” she said. “Snug and dry enough, and we can still watch the river.”
He leaned against one of the uprights and put an arm around her. “I need to talk to you.”
She didn’t like the sound of this.
“Thinking about last night . . .”
She’d rather not.
“The kiss,” he said. “It seems to be a trigger for your panic attacks. Can you tell me why?”
She turned her face into his shoulder. Did they have to discuss this? But he’d asked a reasonable question. Perhaps he should know . . . some things.
He put a hand on her arm, stroked it lightly, and waited.
“At night . . .” She took a shallow breath. “When he kissed me hard and rough, I knew . . . I knew . . . it was going to be a bad time.”
His hand on her arm paused and then began again.
Little dripping sounds came from the timbers, and the wind sent two crimson leaves skittering under the trestle. They glowed against the gravel like tiny embers.
In a choked voice, he said, “Any other triggers?”
She bent away from him. Why not pick up those leaves? Here was one more. Three pretty leaves—they’d make a bouquet.
She took her time, tucked them into the pocket of his shirt, and looked sideways at him. He stood there, waiting. Patient as always.
He drew her gently back to himself.
She couldn’t bear for him to see what Brenn had done. How could she even tell him? But perhaps then he’d change his mind about her.
“Fire.” Her breath came quickly, and she kept her eyes on the crimson leaves. “I am afraid of fire. Especially little bits of fire on little blue lighters.”
He said nothing.
She glanced up and saw the pain in his eyes. She could trust him with this much. “It helps,” she said, “to tell a nightmare.”
But she had to lean back against him for support, had to speak reassuring words to herself:
This is Nathan. Breathe.
“Bones,” she said. “Bones and bone marrow—his specialty, you know. Ribs fascinated him. He liked to decorate . . . mine.”