Linc had known his father would like that one. The thought of his one-and-only son doing something physical, besides playing video games, would appeal to him. He wouldn’t risk inadvertently dissuading Linc by interfering—which Linc counted on. He’d seen how his father had reacted when he’d told him about hiking with Owen. The restrained approval, as if going overboard would turn Linc right back to being a couch potato.
Grace, however, quietly put down the book she was reading and followed her brother onto the front porch. “Linc, it’s Mattie, isn’t it?”
“I think so. I suspect he’s drunk.”
“My God. I’d hoped he’d stopped for good this time.” She kept her voice to a whisper and showed no sign of wanting to see Mattie herself. “Please, do what you can to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself or anyone else.”
“Like you, Grace?”
Even in the dim light, he could see her flush. “The FBI’s here on the island, checking up on me, my past. We all know that. But that’s not what I was thinking—”
“I know it wasn’t. I’m sorry.” He nodded in the direction of the front door. “Go back in. Keep Dad occupied. He’s not going to give Mattie many more chances.”
Linc waited a few seconds to give Grace a chance to get back inside, then took the porch steps in two leaps and ran out to the driveway.
Mattie kicked his bike. “Fucking piece of shit.”
“Mind your language here,” Linc said. “You know what my father’s like.”
“He swears. I’ve heard him.”
“He doesn’t always live by the same rules he expects the rest of us to live by.”
“Especially the hired help?” Mattie half tripped over the bike, standing close to Linc, his eyes wild, furious. But he wasn’t drunk. “I want my money.”
“Not here—”
“All of it. Every goddamn dime.”
“Mattie, I can’t.”
“Linc, you can. Your daddy has that much stuffed in his mattress. Get it, before I demand another ten.”
Linc’s stomach rolled over. He thought he’d throw up right there on the driveway, but saw the futility of arguing with Mattie. He just wanted to get rid of him without attracting his father’s attention. “All right, all right. I’ll see what I can do. Can you give me a couple days?”
“Tomorrow.”
Linc nodded. “Okay. No promises, though—”
“Get. Me. My. Money.”
“I will.”
Mattie sucked in a breath, mollified, then coughed, half sobbing. “I’ll do good with it. I’m getting back into my photography. I don’t care if you think I’m scum. People will see the real me.”
The real Mattie? Linc checked his disgust. “I hope so, Mattie.”
“You wait. You wait and see.”
“I will. Everyone’s always said you have an incredible talent for photography.”
“It’s not just talent. It’s skill. There’s a lot more to photography than just pointing a camera and pressing a button.”
“You know more about it than I do.”
“Damn right.”
For a moment, Linc almost felt sorry for Mattie—wanted him to get back on his feet. The guy who was blackmailing him. “Look, why don’t I give you a ride back to your house? It’s dark as hell out here, and it’s cold—”
Mattie shook his head. “I’ll ride my damn bike. When I get my license back—” He sniffled, picking up the bike. “No more, you understand? No more. I’ll show everyone.”
“I bet you will.”
After two tries, Mattie got his bike rolling, and he pedaled smoothly off into the night. Linc walked out to the end of the driveway and shut and locked the security gate, knowing it was what his father would expect. And he needed the time to pull himself together.
The backs of his legs ached from hiking with Owen. He had to be crazy to think he could do search-and-rescue—he wasn’t in Owen’s league. The guy climbed up mountains as if he was on a stroll. He was strong, sure-footed, in top shape.
His father was right, Linc thought. Everyone was right. He was soft.
And now he was in serious trouble, too. He was letting Mattie blackmail him and had just come down close to rooting for the guy.
He started back down the dark driveway, wishing he’d just trip and break his neck and die on the spot. He was useless. Worse than useless. He was an albatross around his family’s neck.
He brushed at his tears with his forearm.
Mattie had no honor, no boundaries, no rational thought process. He was unreliable, contradictory, volatile. Linc could let himself get sucked into Mattie’s twisted thinking. He couldn’t trust him.
Linc swallowed a sob. Where was he going to get nine thousand dollars by tomorrow—hell, by next week, even? What would Mattie do if he didn’t come up with the money?
Tears ran down his face. What he couldn’t stand, far more than the fear of not getting Mattie the money, was the thought that anyone—even that drunk—would think he’d killed Chris Browning.
But why shouldn’t they think it?
Chris is dead because of you.
Stumbling, Linc cut past the garage and across the yard, knowing he had to compose himself before he saw his father and sister.
He could see the silhouette of the mountains across the sound, against the starlit sky. “I got you killed, Chris,” he whispered. “Please forgive me.
Please.”
Owen Garrison had found a way to thrive in spite of the guilt he had to feel over his sister’s death. But Linc didn’t have Owen’s strength.
“Linc?” His sister walked down from the stone terrace, casting a long, black shadow under the night sky. “Is everything okay? Dad’s getting worried.”
“Everything’s fine. I was just on my way in.”
She stood next to him. “Mattie?”
“He’s gone. He wasn’t drunk. He just—he wanted to check about coming out here tomorrow. I don’t know.” Linc gave a fake laugh. “Mattie goes his own way.”
“That he does.” Her voice was subdued, and her color was off—it wasn’t just the light. She shivered, wrapping her baggy sweater more tightly around her. “We should go in.”
“Grace—” Linc stopped himself. “Never mind. You’re right, we should go in. It’s cold out here.” He sniffled. “That’s why my nose is red and running.”
“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”
That was his sister, Linc thought. Always so decent. He wanted to tell her about the blackmail and get her advice. But how could he? She had enough on her mind. She might feel obligated to tell the FBI. Would that screw up her appointment?
But if she didn’t tell them and they found out, then what?
No, Linc thought, following her through the cool grass, he had to figure out this one on his own.
Get Mattie the rest of his money. Hope it’d be enough.
Only for guys like MattieYoung, there was never enough.
He’d be back once he had the ten grand. He wouldn’t be able to resist.
T
he boys started bickering five minutes after Doyle picked them up at camp and hadn’t stopped since. For two cents, he’d put them on a plane to London. Let their mother deal with them.
“Why can’t we stay with Owen?” Sean asked, a demanding note in his tone.
“Because you went out his window.”
“Nothing happened. We didn’t get hurt. He didn’t mind. Come on, Dad, it was no big deal.”
“I
mind. What if it hadn’t been Mattie up in the old foundation? What if it
had
been a ghost? Then what, huh?” He glared at Sean, then shifted to Ian. “There. You don’t have an answer, do you? You didn’t think this one through. You just got a bee up your behinds and out the window you went—”
They sputtered into giggles.
“What’re you laughing at?”
“‘Bee up your behinds,’” Ian said. “That’s funny, Dad.”
He sat back, grinning at his two sons. “What am I going to do with you? Did you tell your mother you went out Owen’s window on a bedsheet when she called?”
“No,” Sean said.
Ian nodded. “She’d worry.”
“What about me? Don’t you care if I worry?”
That just drew more laughter.
At least, Doyle thought, the rascals weren’t fighting with each other. If he heard one more squawk, whine, fake cry or whispered threat, he’d shove them both upstairs and sit and watch television by himself.
Someone pounded on the door—not a normal knock, and it was past nine o’clock. Doyle got out of his chair, pointing at the boys. “Stay put. Understood?”
He flipped on the outside light and peeked out the window, seeing Mattie Young shifting from one foot to the other on the front stoop. Doyle felt a prick of irritation. He’d resisted tracking down Mattie today and asking him about the beer and cigarettes in the old Garrison foundation—why he’d let Sean and Ian think he was a ghost. He’d had to calm down first. And it wasn’t anything that couldn’t wait a day, never mind how Abigail Browning would have handled it.
“It’s Mattie,” Doyle called to the boys. “I’ll be just a minute.”
“Okay, Dad,” Sean said, as if he were the boss. “Take your time.”
Doyle pulled open the door and stepped outside, Mattie automatically backing up, hunching his shoulders in that guilty way he had. He looked gaunt and cold, his hair hanging down his back in a greasy ponytail, his skin pocked with mosquito bites.
“What’s up, Mattie?” Doyle asked him.
“This isn’t an official visit. I mean—I’m not here on police business. You don’t have to log me in somewhere.”
“I guess that depends on what you want.”
Mattie shivered, not meeting Doyle’s eye. “I want you to tell Abigail Browning to stay away from me.”
“Why? What’d she do to you?”
“Nothing—not yet.”
“Then on what grounds?”
“You don’t need grounds. I told you, I’m not here because you’re a cop. I’m here because you’re my friend. She’ll listen to you.”
“When did you last see her?”
Mattie licked his lips and looked behind him, as if he expected to find Abigail standing there. “Just now.”
“Damn it, Mattie, are you going to make me pry it out of you? Just tell me what happened.”
“She scared the hell out of me.” Mattie turned back to Doyle, the light hitting the burst blood vessels in his face. “I was minding my own business—”
“Where?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
Doyle rocked back on his heels. “She caught you drinking out at the old Garrison foundation.”
Mattie’s mouth dropped open. “She told you?”
“No, Mattie, she didn’t tell me.”
“But you—” He stopped himself, gave a little laugh. “Did the boys see me out there? I tried not to let them see me. I figured—you know. I didn’t want them getting the wrong idea.”
“What wrong idea would that be, Mattie? That you were drinking beer and smoking cigarettes by yourself in the dark?”
“Just one beer. Honest.”
“It’s never one beer with you, Mattie. You’re a drunk. You know damn well what alcohol does to you—”
“Yeah. I know. That’s why I stay away from it.”
“Drinking beer isn’t staying away from it.” Doyle realized he wasn’t even angry. He was just sick of Mattie and his problems. “You know the deal. Alcoholism is a disease. It’s not here today and gone tomorrow. It’s here to stay. Stop running from it. Face it.”
“I have faced it. I can drink one beer. Not everyone has to go cold turkey. One beer, and that’s it.”
“No, Mattie, you can’t drink one beer and that’s it.”
He rubbed his nose with his fingers and stared down at his feet, not out of shame, Doyle knew, but irritation. Mattie liked to think he knew better.
He lifted his head. “I wasn’t on Abigail’s property.”
“No, you were on Garrison property. Did Owen see you?”
“I shouldn’t have bothered coming here. I thought you were my friend.”
“You don’t treat your friends well, Mattie. You’re a chronic liar and a disappointment to everyone who’s ever cared about you. What do you expect me to do? As a friend?”
“Nothing. Not one damn thing. Just forget I even came here.”
“If Abigail crossed the line—”
“What would you do?”
“I’d do my job.”
Mattie snorted. “Yeah. Right. The detective daughter of the FBI director. Chris’s widow. You wouldn’t do anything if she knocked me on the head and I was in the E.R. for stitches.”
“Go home. Sleep off your self-absorbed rage. Stay off Owen Garrison’s property and don’t provoke Abigail.” Doyle regarded Mattie with a resignation he’d come to terms with a long time ago, a disappointment so deep, he couldn’t even feel it anymore. “That’s my advice.”
Mattie stepped forward abruptly, grabbing Doyle’s upper arm. “Something’s going on with Abigail.” He dug his fingers into Doyle’s arm, then let go, flipping his ponytail over his shoulder. “I’m attuned to people. I see everything. I see things other people don’t. It’s why I keep drinking.”
“You keep drinking because you’re an alcoholic and you won’t take responsibility for your own recovery.”
“I’m not being paranoid. Abigail wants to find Chris’s killer. I don’t even think she cares if she gets the right person anymore. She just wants it over. The wondering, the hunting.”
“Mattie, come on. You’re not making any sense.” Doyle felt the familiar sense of desperation that being around Mattie, his wasted life, often brought out in him. “Why would she push for answers if she doesn’t care if she gets the right answers?”
A veil of denial fell over him. Doyle had seen Mattie go into this mode before, shutting down, pretending he didn’t care what happened to him—to anyone. “Whatever. I just wanted you to know the score. You don’t want to tell her to stay away from me, fine. Your call. Say hi to the boys for me, okay? They should ride their bikes over to my place some afternoon.”
“Mattie—”
He’d already started down the steps and waved a hand to Doyle without looking back. “See you around, Chief. I need to be up early to help Ellis. Real estate agents are going to come check out the place soon. Everything’s got to be perfect.”
“Yeah,” Doyle said. “That’s Ellis. Hey, Mattie—”
But he was done. He walked out to the road and picked up his bicycle, walking it a few steps before climbing on. Doyle didn’t stop him. Years ago, he’d watched Mattie Young throw away his potential as a photographer and slip deeper and deeper into self-destruction, bitterness and entitlement. No one could help him if he didn’t want to help himself—if he didn’t even admit to the damn problem.
In the months before Chris’s death, they’d all seen a glimmer of hope. Mattie was cleaned up, working hard, doing his photography. Happy. Making plans for the future. Taking responsibility for his own recovery and making the needed changes in his life.
He’d started to slip before Chris’s wedding. And two days after Owen had found Chris’s body—before their friend was even laid to rest—Mattie turned up on Doyle’s doorstep, drunk.
He’d had fits and starts of sobriety in the seven years since, but he’d always find a reason to go back into the bottle. Now, it seemed to be because he’d convinced himself he could manage one beer.
Except, from the description Owen had given, Doyle knew damn well Mattie wasn’t stopping his solitary parties after just one beer.
He shut the door and went back inside, wishing Katie was there to talk to. She’d known Mattie as long as he had, but she had more distance than Doyle did.
He was just wrung out.
“What did Mattie want?” Sean asked.
“Not much. You boys ready for bed?”
For a change, they didn’t argue with him or pick a fight with each other. Doyle followed them upstairs. If he had his way, Katie would be home this summer, and Abigail Browning would be investigating homicides in Boston, not sticking her thumb in everyone’s eye up here.
But when the hell did he ever get his way?
Mattie got off his bike thirty yards from his house and walked it to his driveway. His butt hurt from the hard seat. He wanted to get one of those gel seats.
What he
really
wanted was to have his license back.
Doyle had refused to pull any strings to help him or look the other way. He could have—Mattie hadn’t run over anyone or anything. His blood-alcohol level had been just over the legal limit. What harm would it have done for Doyle to give him one more chance?
As he dropped his bike onto the grass in front of his crummy rented house, someone darted out of the dark shadows. He jumped back, almost screaming.
Grace Cooper put a finger to her perfect lips. “Shh. It’s just me.”
“Grace—man, you almost gave me a heart attack.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t want anyone to see me.”
Of course not. He nodded like a fool. “I understand. I’ll be at your place tomorrow to mow the lawn. Why didn’t you just wait—”
“This can’t wait.” She spoke in a controlled voice just above a whisper. “Mattie, the FBI’s here, on the island.”
He pulled a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of his denim jacket and tapped one out, noticing that his hands were surprisingly steady. “They are, huh? Daddy March knows them?”
“There are a lot of FBI agents. Abigail’s father can’t possibly know them all.”
“Bet he knows the ones sent here to check up on you.”
“They’re not checking up on me. They’re conducting a routine background investigation.”
She had on a long, shapeless sweater, its ice-blue color and the harsh light from the nearby houses washing out her face more. She wasn’t as plain as she thought she was, and she could be passionate. Mattie remembered just how passionate.
He knew she didn’t want to remember anything about their time together.
She crossed her arms over her chest, as if she knew what he was thinking. “Long day today?”
“They’re all long days this time of year. What’re you doing, besides worrying about what people are going to tell the FBI?”
“My father and I took the boat out today. The little one.” She licked her lips, looking away from him. “It’s a good time to be away from Washington for a few days. Things are quiet.”
“I’d like a nice lazy day.”
“We used to have days like that. Remember?” She turned back to him, a spark of affection in her eyes, surprising him. “You’d keep a camera with you at all times. You had such hope.”
“So did you,” he said.
“I still do. This appointment means a lot to me.”
“And to your father?”
“Of course. He’s very supportive. Mattie—I’d never ask you to lie…” She trailed off. When he didn’t speak, she shook her head. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have come.”
“The FBI doesn’t know about our affair.”
She lowered her eyes. “No. I didn’t tell them.”
“It’d come back to haunt you, wouldn’t it? An affair with the town drunk. The yardman. A murdered FBI’s no-account friend.” Mattie couldn’t believe the bitterness in his tone, how fast it had infected him. “I’m the guy you had because you couldn’t have him.”
She gasped. “That’s not true! That was never true.”
“No?”
“Of course not. Mattie, don’t say such a thing.”
But he knew it was true. He’d known it seven and a half years ago, when he’d had five months of bliss—pure heaven—with Grace Cooper. He’d had such high hopes. She’d planned to rescue him from himself, clean him up, show him off as her brilliant photographer lover, her salt-of-the-earth Mainer.
And when her eyes were closed, she could pretend he was the man she couldn’t have.
By unspoken agreement, Mattie had never said aloud that she was in love with Christopher Browning. But she had been, and for all he knew, she still was.
“Who knows about us?” he asked.
She winced visibly. “No one.”
“What about your brother? He’s a sneaky little shit. He knows everything that goes on around here.”