Woman in Red (44 page)

He focused in on her, as if seeing her for the first time. Not as the ex-con he’d been spying on or his wife’s crazy sister, but the strong, decisive woman she was in Colin’s eyes.

Then Gary’s shoulders slumped, and when she reached down to pry the gun from his fingers, he didn’t resist. Delayed shock hit her then and for a long moment she just stood there, the warm weight of the revolver against her palm the only thing anchoring her in reality. She watched, as if from a distance, as Colin moved in, accompanied by the dog, helping Gary to his feet and guiding him out the door, Gary shuffling along beside him like an old, old man. By the time she came to her senses, the room was empty except for her and Owen.

The awareness, when it came, was like someone stealing up on her from behind:
I could kill him
. She could claim it was an accident, that the gun had simply gone off in her hand. And why not? It couldn’t be mere coincidence that she happened to be standing before him, holding a gun,
with no one to bear witness. Perhaps she was even the instrument of some divine retribution.

“Go ahead. You’d be doing me a favor.”

Alice started at the sound of Owen’s voice, rousing from her thoughts as if from a dream. When she focused in on him, she saw that the spark of defiance was gone from his eyes; they were as bleak and empty as Gary’s had been. The man who had once seemed so powerful looked small and shrunken to her now, a pale reflection of his former self, the faint rise and fall of his chest as he took in breaths the only thing marking his existence. She realized, to her amazement, that she was no longer afraid of him. She didn’t even hate him—that would have been giving him too much. All she wanted was to be free of him.

Still, she found she was unable to walk away. David wouldn’t let her. “I just want to know one thing. Why?”

He gave an almost imperceptible shrug. “You want reasons? I’m afraid I can’t help you there, my dear. It was an accident, just like I told the police. The only detail I left out was inconsequential really. It wouldn’t have brought your son back for it to have been made public. And, if it helps any, I haven’t touched a drop since.” He regarded her for a moment, then he sighed and said, “No, I don’t suppose it does.” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “And there you were again after all those years, turning up like a bad penny on my doorstep. Just when I was beginning to think I could put it all behind me. So you see, you left me with no choice. I had to do whatever it took to get rid of you.”

“Even if it meant sending an innocent boy to prison?”

“I wish your son no ill,” he said. “He seems like a nice boy. A bit confused perhaps, but I suppose that’s to be expected.”

Something twisted in her chest. “Not surprising, considering he grew up without a mother.”

Owen shrugged again. “As for that, I’d say I paid just as steep a price.” He glanced down at his lifeless legs, canted at a funny angle that made them seem unconnected to the rest of him. But there was no self-pity in his voice and the look on his face was oddly dispassionate, as if this final outcome to the drama that had been playing out between them for years was to be expected, and in some ways would be a relief. “But you feel differently, I know, so go ahead, shoot me. You have nothing to lose. I’m sure your lawyer friend will find a way to get you off.”

Nothing to lose? “You’re wrong about that,” she said. There was one thing left for her to lose; something that neither he nor the nine years she’d spent in prison had managed to take from her: her humanity. Carefully, she lowered the gun onto the end table next to the settee. She stared at it for a moment, the hard fact of it more real somehow than anything that had led up to this moment. Then without another word, she turned and walked away.

 

The war that had posed but a distant threat took a new and alarming turn when, in May, the same week as the pivotal battle at Midway, the Japanese invaded the Aleutians, off the coast of Alaska, seizing control of two of its islands. On Grays Island, this worrisome development brought the war even closer to home—it was practically in their backyard!—galvanizing them into new heights in their war relief efforts. Bond pledges reached a record high and as did yields for scrap metal, paper, and rubber drives. The home guard redoubled their efforts and a two-man watch system was instituted for the bunkers out at Pigeon Point, so there would be someone on the lookout round the clock for any signs of suspicious activity. This resulted in a few mishaps, nerves being as frayed as they were, such as when Arnie Sykes’s trawler was mistaken one morning for a Japanese sub in the midst of a dense fog. Poor Arnie had the fright of his life when the fog lifted and he found himself surrounded by Navy coast guard cutters.

But the threat proved short-lived. Within weeks American troops regained control of the Aleutians. During that same period a much smaller drama was taking place on Grays Island. One of the dozens of uninhabited little atolls dotting its coastal waters, a scrubby knuckle of rock and pine, gained temporary prominence when the chamber of commerce successfully petitioned the governor of Washington State to have it renamed, due to its unfortunate moniker—Jap’s Island. There was some debate over what the new name should be, and it wasn’t until summer of that year that one was finally decided upon. Henceforth it would be called Victory Island, a tribute to all the men and women on Grays Island who’d loyally served their country.

One of the few on the island who didn’t attend the official ceremony at the dock, which included speeches by the mayor and harbor master, was William McGinty. It had been some weeks since his wife had taken their son on what was billed as an extended trip to New York to visit her parents, and he’d grown tired of the endless inquiries about when they were coming home. Tired, too, of giving excuses that would seem all the more pitiful once the truth came out. For there was no longer any doubt in William’s mind as to how this would end. In the few terse phone conversations he’d had with Martha, she’d made it clear that a reconciliation wasn’t forthcoming, and William was past the point of trying to convince her otherwise.

He would have been able to make peace with that if not for Danny. William couldn’t bear the thought of being such a distance from his son. For that reason alone he’d begged Martha to see reason, offering her the house, along with a generous share of his earnings, if she’d come back to the island. But she’d refused to even consider it. She and Danny
would be staying on at her parents’ indefinitely, she’d informed him, adding that, in the future, if he had anything to say to her, he could speak to her lawyer.

The only thing that kept William from utter despair was knowing that when all this was over he’d be free to marry Eleanor. In the meantime, they’d agreed not to see each other until the dust had settled. It wasn’t just his impending divorce. The island was still buzzing with rumors about Lowell White’s disappearance. Some speculated that he’d fallen overboard and drowned while out sailing, though that was unlikely given that his boat was found moored at the marina and his car parked at the ferry terminal. A likelier theory was that Lowell, a known womanizer, had run off with a mistress. A suspicion that was confirmed in their minds when the
Seattle Times
brought news of a thirty-year-old woman in Port Townsend who’d gone missing, accompanied by a photo of an attractive blonde.

In time the talk would die down, William knew, only to be replaced by a new flurry of gossip when his intentions toward Eleanor became known. He would no doubt be portrayed as a philandering cad and Eleanor as a merry widow. They would have to take it slowly so as not to fan the flames (he didn’t give a whit about his own reputation, but they had their children to think of). But eventually that, too, would fade. What would take longer was their children’s accepting the new reality. He didn’t fool himself into thinking Lucy would be quick to embrace him, given how devoted she’d been to Joe, any more than Danny would Eleanor. But in the end, he believed, his and Eleanor’s love would prevail. Until then, he’d just have to be patient.

Which was easier said than done, for he missed her more than he would have thought possible. He didn’t even have
her portrait to fill the empty hours. In fact, he hadn’t picked up a brush in weeks. It was as if Martha, in destroying the one thing he’d cared about, had robbed him of his creativity as well. All he had left was Laird, though Martha would have taken him, too, if her mother hadn’t been allergic to dogs. For William, the dog’s presence was a comfort. Laird seemed to have an almost human understanding of the torment he was in and seldom let William out of his sight. No day ended without the dog curled at his feet, his furry black and white head resting on his master’s feet.

Then one morning Eleanor phoned him out of the blue and asked if she could see him. It had been weeks since they’d last spoken and the sound of her voice acted on him like tonic, bringing a bracing rush of adrenaline and clearing his mind of its cobwebs. He would have driven over to her place right then, but she insisted on coming to his house instead.

William, spurred by the prospect of her visit, was tackling the weeds in the garden, which he’d neglected these past weeks, when she came rattling down the drive in Joe’s old Ford pickup. From behind a clump of tall hollyhocks that partially screened him from view, he watched her step down from the cab. She wore a yellow checked dress faded from too many washings, her hair untidily pinned up atop her head, stray tendrils chasing the dappled sunlight that played over her cheeks and neck. She looked as beautiful as ever, yet from the shadows under her eyes, it was obvious the strain of these past weeks had taken their toll. Partly because of Lowell, he knew. Also, he suspected, because she harbored some guilt about Martha.

“Eleanor!” he called out her name.

She came to a halt on the path, her eyes darting about before she finally spotted him. William rose from his knees, brushing the dirt from his khaki trousers, while cursing his stupidity in not having changed into something less disreputable—he’d been so preoccupied he hadn’t thought to do so.

He hurried over to meet her. “I wasn’t spying on you,” he said, with a grin, noting the faint look of reproach she wore. “Just enjoying the sight of you strolling up my path. You look right at home.” He longed to take her in his arms, but something in her expression warned against it.

“And
you
look much too thin.” Eleanor’s fingertips brushed over his arm, a touch so light he barely felt it through the sleeve of his shirt. “How are you holding up? It must get pretty lonely out here.”

She was smiling, but she looked troubled. A little sliver of worry nicked at the edges of his consciousness. Was it possible her feelings toward him changed? He dismissed the thought at once, telling himself it was just the workings of his fevered brain.

“It does at times,” he confessed, “but I’m not exactly alone.” He turned to look at Laird, lying in a patch of sunlight on the porch, his head resting atop his paws, snoozing, as was his habit, with his eyes half open so as to track William’s movements. “You did well when you chose him for Danny. Only how did you know he would end up being my dog?”

She regarded Laird, hands on hips, her head cocked slightly. “I can’t take credit for that. He did the choosing, not me,” Laird picked his head up off his paws, as if he knew they were talking about him. “Some dogs are like that. They’re bonded to only one person, and it’s for life.”

Her eyes met his, and William could see that she wasn’t just talking about the dog. He felt a surge of relief. In her oblique way, she was telling him she loved him, that nothing had changed. “Shall we go inside?” he asked.

“Is it all right if we sit out on the porch? It’s so nice out.”

She settled into one of the wicker chairs on the porch, while William went to fetch them something to drink. When he returned she was sitting with her eyes closed and her head tipped back, savoring the sunshine. Summertime was when the rains that drizzled down throughout most of the year gave way to clear skies and dry, sunny weather, and today was no exception. The sky was a deep cobalt above the cathedral spires of the pines along the ridge and out beyond the cove the waters of the sound sparkled with pinpoints of reflected light. She opened her eyes at his approach, darting him a sheepish look, as if she’d been caught indulging in something she shouldn’t.

“I hope it’s not too sweet for you,” he said, handing her a glass of lemonade and settling into the chair across from hers. “I made it myself, and I didn’t know how much sugar to put in.”

She took a sip, pronouncing, “It’s perfect. Just the way I like it.”

So polite. As if they hadn’t made love. As if the man he’d killed for her sake weren’t buried on the hill behind her house.

“How’s Lucy?” He played along with the ruse, if that’s what this was, that they were just a pair of old friends catching up after a long absence.