John March had started out as a Boston cop. Bob O’Reilly remembered him and said they’d all known—even the rookies like him—that her father wouldn’t stay in uniform. He had drive, ambition and a willingness to sacrifice. He’d gone to law school, joined the FBI, moved his family from one city to another as he worked his way to the top. He was fifty-nine, handsome and unstoppable. He was also absolutely convinced that no one would ever crack the only unsolved murder of one of his own—FBI Special Agent Christopher Browning.
Abigail never doubted her father’s love or his desire to see her happy, only what they might lead him to do.
“You know about the calls, don’t you?” she asked him bluntly.
“I was briefed earlier today. You’re my daughter, Abigail. You can pretend I’m a plumber all you want, but I’m not—”
“Do you have any reason to believe the calls are related to your position?”
“No.” He spoke without hesitation, and he wasn’t a liar. If he didn’t want to tell her something, he simply wouldn’t. “Do you?”
“I don’t know anything. It’s frustrating. I’d hoped coming up here would get the caller to come out of hiding, but so far, no luck. And I have zip for leads.” She smiled into the phone. “But I did have tea and popovers at the Jordan Pond House today.”
“Alone?”
“With Owen Garrison, actually.”
“And the Coopers. They were there, weren’t they?”
Abigail sat at the kitchen table and frowned. “Dad, are you having me watched?”
He gave a small laugh. “That’d send Washington aflutter. Just imagine. To answer your question, no, I’m not having you watched. The two agents doing the background check on Grace Cooper saw her there with her father and uncle.” His humor vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Abigail, you are my daughter. If you’re getting anonymous calls, for any reason, I need to know about it.”
In other words, she should have called him on Saturday after the first call—or, at the latest, this morning, not left it for the news to work its way to him. But she hadn’t, and she didn’t know why.
“Next time, I’ll let you know sooner,” she said.
“Right now, it doesn’t sound as if this caller has shed any new light on the investigation into Chris’s death.”
“So far, no.”
“Do you want protection? An agent—”
“Good heavens, no. Tell Mom I said hi. Don’t worry about me, okay? I’ve been painting and knocking out walls and having tea and popovers.” And kissing Owen Garrison. “I rousted Mattie Young from the old Garrison foundation. He was drinking beer and smoking cigarettes out there in the dark. The Alden boys thought he was Chris’s ghost.”
“You don’t fool me,” her father said quietly. “You’re all over this case. You’ll do what it takes to wring out of it whatever you can.”
“Maybe we’ll finally know—”
“Maybe, but if I had my way, it wouldn’t be now, not this way, with you all alone up there.”
She smiled. “I can take care of myself.”
“See that you do.”
After she hung up, she returned to the back room, saw that fog and gray clouds were moving in from the south and west. She could feel the dampness in the air and pictured herself by Owen’s woodstove, cozy under a warm blanket.
She grabbed a hammer and attacked nails and bits of plaster stuck on the beams of the gutted walls. Two more walls to go, and she’d be done.
Tonight, she decided, was for her and her memories.
S
he’s harder.
There’s an edge to her that wasn’t there before. She tries to keep others from seeing it, but I see it. I know. She’s small and mean and doesn’t care about anything but her own pain.
She won’t stop.
She won’t ever stop.
Calling her isn’t easy. Hearing her voice. Hoping I didn’t slip up. She would pounce if I did.
Abigail.
She would treat me like a common criminal if she knew what I have done.
I hate the thought of trying to defend myself. Trying to explain what she will never let herself understand.
I don’t kill out of passion. I don’t get caught up in the moment and regret later what I’ve done.
I act quickly. Decisively. I capitalize on what’s going on around me.
I see things.
Everything.
I know how to be patient when I have to be. To act when I must.
Abigail can be my freedom if I don’t allow the thought of failure to undermine my courage.
I cannot write that script for myself.
“Abigail!”
I remember how Chris called his wife’s name.
“Tell her to be happy. Please. Tell her not to grieve too long for me.”
He’d always known he would have a short life. He lived each day to its fullest and never looked back, never indulged in self-pity.
I remember.
And I’ve never told her what her husband’s dying words were.
How could I?
Then she would know I killed him.
“Abigail…Abigail…”
I remember.
And now I must be patient. Calculating. Willing to capitalize on events.
Just as I was seven years ago.
As I had to be.
I remember.
L
inc Cooper bounded over the wet rocks below Owen’s house, slipping but not falling, his hair soaked. He was wearing just a sweatshirt, not appropriate, Owen knew, for long periods in the cold rain.
“Hey, Owen.” Linc grinned at him, rain dripping off his nose, his shoulders hunched against the damp chill. “I can’t hike today. I have something else I need to do.”
“Suit yourself.”
“It’s not the rain—I don’t care about that.”
“You’re not dressed for the conditions. When you’re cold and wet, you stay cold and wet.”
Linc gave him an awkward, self-conscious grin. “That can’t be good, right?”
“Not if you want to avoid hypothermia.”
“Yeah, well, I do. Look—I just wanted to let you know.”
“No problem.”
“I mean, everything’s okay. I’m still interested in training with you.”
“You don’t owe me anything, Linc. I said I’d hike with you for a few days. If you want to get serious, you can sign up for training.”
His eyes, which seemed bluer in the gloom, sparked. “Think I could do it?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Thanks. Okay—I’ll see you later.” But he paused, looking down at the rocks, at the spot where Chris had died. “This place. It’s where…” He didn’t finish his thought. “How can you stand being out here?”
“I don’t think about it just as the place where Chris died. He loved it out here.”
“Yeah. I guess you’re right.” Linc pulled his gaze away from the rocks, but the spark had gone out of his eyes. “I’ll see you later.”
“Anytime, Linc.”
The rain picked up. Linc pulled his hood over his head and shoved his hands into his sweatshirt pockets, jumping from rock to rock, slipping once but correcting himself quickly. He was obviously wobbly from pushing himself on the previous hikes with Owen, but he was gutsy and strong—and he had something to prove.
Owen glanced up the coastline toward Abigail’s house, out of view behind trees and in the fog and rain. She’d needed to be alone last night. The two calls—the timing of them—had gotten to her. She tried to take them in cop mode, but they had to remind her of the twenty-five-year-old bride who’d stood out here and watched her husband’s blood mingle with the tide.
Rain pelted on Owen’s hat, dripping off the brim, turning into a downpour.
He walked back to his house and filled the woodbox, wondering what Abigail would do if he knocked on her door and said he was at a loose end on a rainy day.
Shoot him, probably, he thought, and smiled to himself.
Abigail almost didn’t answer her cell phone when she saw Bob O’Reilly’s number on the readout. She could pretend she was back at her house, where there was no cell service, instead of standing in front of the Abbe Museum in downtown Bar Harbor, crowded with scores of rained-out tourists.
“Hey, Bob,” she said.
“Where are you?”
“I’m in Bar Harbor watching a seagull devour the remains of an ice-cream cone some kid threw on the sidewalk. Too cold for ice cream if you ask me. Is it raining there?”
“Pouring. What’re you doing in Bar Harbor?”
“I just toured the Abbe Museum. Have you ever gone through it? It’s dedicated to the Native Americans of Maine. Fascinating.” She brushed raindrops off her hair. She didn’t have a hat or umbrella, but the rain had tapered off to an intermittent drizzle. “And I just bought a moose sweatshirt.”
“You’re not playing tourist,” Bob said. “What’s in Bar Harbor that you think might lead you to your anonymous caller?”
“Nothing specific. I’m casting a wide net.”
“Owen Garrison’s new field academy is setting up in Bar Harbor.”
“So it is.” She’d stopped by on her way into town, and no one was there. “Katie Alden’s going to be its director. The chief of police’s wife.”
“Good for her. What about the FBI? They poking around in Bar Harbor?”
“Not that I’ve noticed.”
Bob sighed. “I wish I had something to report on my end. Now that you’ve had a second call, we’re taking another look at the one you got on Newbury Street. Nothing but dead ends so far.”
“I gave Lucas a list of people who know I frequent that particular restaurant.”
“We’ve already gone through the list. The truth is, anyone could know. Wasn’t it in the papers one year? Some reporter said how you spend your wedding anniversary having dinner alone there—”
“That was at least five years ago. Who’d think I still went there? And why wait until now to act?”
“Because ‘things are happening’ now,” Bob said, a bite of frustration in his voice. “Craziness. We’ll figure this out, Abigail. You just keep your eyes open and stay safe.”
“I will, Bob. Don’t worry about me.”
“Oh, no, why should I worry? You’re up on an island in the rain, all alone, with some maniac calling you at five o’clock in the morning, and you’re going to museums and buying moose sweatshirts. Who the hell would worry?”
By the time he finished, he had her laughing. “Goodbye—”
“And Owen Garrison. Let’s not forget the studly rich guy. I’ve seen him, you know. I’m doing my homework—guy’s in Maine resting up after a year of nonstop rescue and recovery work. Guys like that, they don’t rest.”
Fair warning, that, Abigail thought, suddenly feeling warm. “Are you done now?”
“Yeah. No—” He bit off a sigh. “If you need anything—
anything
—you know I’ll be there. Scoop, too. Just say the word.”
“Thank you. I do know that. And I appreciate it.”
But Bob couldn’t resist. “Anything you need, kiddo. Bail money, a spare set of handcuff keys—”
She laughed and disconnected, slipping her cell phone into her jacket pocket. She hadn’t lied to him. She had visited the museum and bought a moose sweatshirt. But she’d also asked around about MattieYoung, making up a story about having heard that his old photographs were in demand. A woman in the sweatshirt store had pointed to a small gallery that, she believed, had some of Mattie’s work in stock.
Abigail walked down the street and ducked into the gallery, its display window offering the obligatory watercolor of the rockbound coast and a red-and-white striped Maine lighthouse—and she could understand why. If she could have afforded the painting, she’d have bought it herself. On a bad day in Boston, she would close her eyes and conjure up just such an image, of bright sky, rocks and glistening ocean. Why not add a picturesque lighthouse?
She eased off her wet jacket, careful not to let it drip on any of the wares, and wandered among shelves of carved waterfowl and pottery painted with wild blueberries and cranberries, and walls crammed with original paintings and photography.
A wiry older man—he had to be at least eighty—greeted her. “May I help you?”
“I’m looking for the work of a local photographer, Mattie Young.”
He seemed surprised. “Mattie? Heavens. I haven’t had anyone ask about him in ages. Yes, we do carry his work. A few pieces. We don’t have anything on display right now—we haven’t in a long, long time.”
“May I see what you do have?”
“Of course.”
But as he led her through an open doorway to a small room lined with cabinets, Abigail saw Owen entering the gallery. He waved to her as he crossed the gallery toward her.
“Fancy meeting you here, Abigail.”
She noticed the older man straighten his spine as he inclined his head in greeting.
“Mr. Garrison. We haven’t seen you in some time. I’d heard you were on the island.”
“It has been a long time, Walt. Too long.”
Abigail didn’t know why she was surprised at the exchange between the two men. The Garrisons had been fixtures on Mt. Desert Island for more than a hundred years. She wondered if Walt had known Owen’s grandfather, too.
Not that their reunion stopped her from speaking her mind. “Did you follow me?” she asked Owen.
He smiled. “Tough to miss you in that red jacket.”
It was
very
red. “You’re not wet. What, were you driving past the gallery, saw me and decided to pop in?”
“I was on my way to the field academy.”
“You must have had good parking karma,” she said, then turned back to Walt, who had stopped in front of a cabinet of thin, deep drawers.
“We might have one or two other pieces,” he said. “But most of what we have is in here. Do you know Mattie?”
Abigail didn’t look at Owen as she answered. “He and my husband grew up together.”
“Your husband?”
“He died seven years ago. Chris Browning.”
The man’s aged eyes settled on her a moment, any awkwardness fleeting. He nodded. “I knew your husband’s grandfather. I didn’t know Chris well. He’s the one who persuaded Mattie to display his work.”
“Mattie’s had his ups and downs over the years.”
“Yes. They started long before your husband was killed.”
And before she turned up on the scene. Although he didn’t say as much, Abigail knew Walt must have thought it. She, the FBI—they’d taken Chris away from the island and his friends. At least in their minds. But Abigail knew that Chris had always considered Mt. Desert Island home. Since she’d moved a lot growing up, that was fine with her.
Owen stood behind her, not crowding her, but not going on his way, either. “Has Mattie brought any new work in lately?” he asked Walt.
“Not recently, no. It could help us sell his older work.” The older man unlocked the drawer and opened it, gesturing at the contents. “Mattie has an incredible, unusual talent. You’ll see. These photographs are some of his best work. The earliest were taken when he was a teenager. They’re not as refined as his later work, of course, but his eye is there. Well, I’ll leave you to them.”
Walt withdrew to the outer room, and Abigail lifted a black-and-white print from the drawer. She took a breath, immediately recognizing the cliffs just down the waterfront from her house. Mattie had captured the dramatic beauty of the sheer granite face and the white-capped waves crashing onto massive rectangles of rock.
But the danger was there, too, palpable, unrelenting. The cliffs and the sea would be unforgiving of a carelessly placed foot, a reckless paddler, a poorly dressed hiker—a fourteen-year-old girl, Abigail thought, upset after a meaningless fight with a friend.
“Mattie took that picture the day Doe drowned,” Owen said.
“This picture?
You’re sure?”
“He had his camera with him on the boat with Chris and his grandfather. This was later, after they’d gotten Doe to the harbor. He went back to the cliffs.”
“But there are no police—”
“They’d gone. Everyone had gone by then.”
“Were you with him?”
Owen shook his head, staring at the stark photograph. “No.”
“Then how do you know—”
“Chris told me years later. He didn’t want Mattie to put this particular photograph out into the public.”
“Mattie?”
“He didn’t agree.”
“But no one’s ever bought it,” Abigail said, setting the photograph on top of the cabinet and digging back into the drawer for more of Mattie’s work.
Owen touched a corner of the old photograph. “Would you buy it, if you knew the circumstances of when it was taken?”
“No. I wouldn’t. But you never know what some people will do. Besides, most tourists wouldn’t have a clue.”
“I suppose so.” He kept staring at the scene of the cliffs. “I convinced myself I wasn’t alone out there that day. I thought someone followed Doe and me to the cliffs, or was there already, hiding in the trees.”
“Someone who could have helped her,” Abigail said.
He shrugged. “At least someone who could have screamed for help. I couldn’t—I tried, and no sound came out.”
“What an awful memory to live with.”
“I know now it wouldn’t have made a difference. Doe hit her head on a rock, and had early-stage hypothermia. She fell in a tough place to get to by land or by boat. Help wouldn’t have arrived in time.” He pulled his gaze from the picture, his gray eyes taking on the color of the gloomy afternoon. “Doe was a gentle soul. She never liked difficult, scary hikes. The cliffs terrified her. She never meant to fall.”
“But she was upset that day, wasn’t she?”
“Grace Cooper had teased her about backing out of a hike up the Precipice Trail.”
“It’s not my favorite trail, either,” Abigail said. “If I have to use rungs, it’s too vertical for me.”
“Not going to turn you into a rock-climber, are we?”
“No way.” She saw that her humor had broken through his darkening mood. “Did your sister go down to the cliffs to prove herself somehow? Or just because she was upset and wanted to get away from everyone?”
“I don’t know why she went down there. She was used to Grace teasing her. Doe would tease her back.” He shook his head. “It’s been twenty-five years. Hard to believe. The truth is, what happened wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
“Grace must feel guilty, even if she knows your sister’s death was an accident.”