Heaven and Earth (32 page)

Harding felt better
than he had in days. The vague fatigue that had dogged him was put down to recovery from whatever bug had invaded his system. But his mind was clear, and he was certain he’d passed the crisis.

In fact, he felt well enough to be annoyed that a touch of the flu had thrown him off stride and off schedule. He fully intended to rectify that by approaching Nell Todd that very day for his first interview.

In preparation for it, he decided to have a light breakfast and a large pot of coffee in his room so that he could go over his notes, refresh his memory of the details, and plan the best strategy for persuading her to talk to him for his book.

The idea of the book, and the money and glamour he intended to reap from it, filled him with anticipation. For days, it seemed, he hadn’t been able to think of it clearly, to imagine it, to remember just what it was that he planned to do.

It was as if his mind had been locked away behind some thick door, and whenever it had fought its way clear again, had been too tired to function.

While he waited for his breakfast, he showered and shaved. Looking at himself in the mirror, he admitted that he didn’t look his best. He was pale, a bit gaunt. Not that he couldn’t get by without the pounds he could clearly see he’d shed. But the dark circles haunting his eyes offended his vanity.

He considered using a portion of his imagined advance for the book for a little nip and tuck, and a regenerative stay in some posh spa.

After he had completed his initial interview with the former Helen Remington, he would finish putting his book proposal together and send it to the New York agent he’d contacted about the idea.

In the bedroom he considered the choice between tailored suit and the more casual look of slacks and sweater. He opted for the casual—more friendly, approachable. That was the image for Nell Todd, rather than the formal business attire he’d used with Evan Remington.

As he thought of Remington, a wave of dizziness washed over him, forcing him to grip the closet door to steady himself. Not quite a hundred percent yet, he thought. He would feel better, he was certain, after breakfast.

His next shock came when he put on his slacks. They gapped at the waist, bagged at the hips. He realized he’d lost at least ten pounds during his bout with the flu, perhaps more. Though his hands shook a bit as he cinched his belt in the last notch, he told himself he could take advantage of this unexpected development.

He would just keep the weight off, start an exercise program, watch his diet more carefully. He’d look fit and trim for public appearances when his book was published.

By the time he sat down to breakfast at the table that room service had set up by the window, he’d convinced himself he was perfectly fine. In fact, better than ever.

With his first cup of coffee, he gazed out the window. The sun was bright, almost too bright as it bounced off the ice that seemed to slick every surface. He found it odd that the strength of that sun didn’t appear to be melting any of the ice. And that the village street seemed so still. As if it was genuinely frozen. A bug in amber.

He hoped the bookstore wasn’t closed because of the weather. He preferred to approach Nell Todd there, this first time. She would feel safer, he imagined, and more inclined to listen to his pitch. He might also be able to set up an interview with Mia Devlin.

As the person who’d hired Nell, who’d rented her a house, when she had first come to the island, the Devlin woman would add a great deal to the book.

More, Mia Devlin was reputed to be a witch, not that Harding himself actually believed in such nonsense. But something unusual had gone on in the forest the night Remington had been taken into custody, and the Devlin angle was worth exploring.

Blue lightning, a shining circle. Snakes under the skin.

Harding shuddered despite himself, and began to look over his notes.

He could approach Nell Todd, tempering his request for information with his admiration for her courage and intelligence. And quite sincerely, too, Harding admitted. What she had done had taken guts, skill, and brains.

He would flatter her ego. Tell her how he had followed her trail across the country, interviewed dozens of people she’d worked for, or with. And ah, yes, he mused, flipping a page in his notebook, appeal to her sense of compassion, her duty to others who found themselves in abusive situations.

A beacon of hope,
he scribbled down hastily.
A shining example of courage. Female empowerment. For some, escape is an option too terrifying to be considered or too far beyond their crushed spirits. (Confirm latest statistics on spousal abuse, women’s shelters, victims of marital homicides. Select family therapist to interview re: most common causes, effects, results. Interview other survivors? Batterers? Potential comparisons and confirmations.)

Pleased that his thoughts were flowing smoothly again, Harding began to eat.

Conception often cubbyholes victims of this nature as being part of an abuse cycle. Helen Remington—Nell
Channing Todd—appears to have no such cycle in her background. (Continue research into childhood. Obtain statistics on what portion of abuse victims have no such activities in their previous home life.) A cycle, however, must have a beginning. From all appearances, this cycle began and ended with Evan Remington.

Harding continued to write, but his concentration began to waver. His fingers dug into the pen, and the pen into the paper.

BITCH! WHORE! BURN THE WITCH!

MINEMINEMINEMINEMINEMINE!

BLOOD. DEATH. VENGEANCE.

VENGEANCE IS MINE, IS MINE, IS MINE.

He flipped pages rapidly, slashing words over them, as his breath quickened. And the writing that was not his own all but scorched the paper.

THEY MUST DIE. THEY ALL MUST DIE. AND I WILL LIVE AGAIN.

When he came back to himself, his notebook was neatly closed, his pen set aside. And he was nonchalantly drinking coffee, gazing out the window, and planning his day.

He thought it might be wise to take a nice long walk, to be out exercising in the fresh air. He could fill in several areas of description of the island, take a closer look at the cottage where Nell had lived when she’d first arrived.

It was certainly time he had a personal look at the woods where Remington had chased her that night.

Feeling comfortably full, Harding tucked away his notebook, secured a fresh one. He slipped it, along with a
small tape recorder and a camera, into his pockets and set out to work.

He remembered nothing he’d written, nor the bloodlust that had gushed inside him as he’d done so.

Nineteen

The yellow cottage
stood quiet at the edge of the little forest. The trees were bare and black and cast short shadows on the ground. Within them was utter silence.

There were thin, lacy curtains at the windows and the glass sparkled in the bright sunlight.

Nothing stirred. Not a blade of winter grass, not a single crisp brown leaf. There seemed to be no sound at all, though the sea was close and the village just at his back. As he stood, staring at the house by the wood, Harding thought it was like studying a photograph taken by someone else. A frozen moment, given to him for reasons he couldn’t explain.

He felt a chill run up his spine. His body shook with it, and his breath came hard and fast. He took one stumbling step back, but it seemed as if he was rammed against a wall. And could not turn and run as he so suddenly wanted to do.

Then, as quickly as the sensation had come, it passed. He was only standing on the roadside, looking at a pretty cottage by a winter wood.

He would definitely get a checkup when he got back to the mainland, he decided, as he took one shaky step forward. Obviously, he was under more stress than he had realized. Once he had all the background data and research for the book organized, he would take that vacation. Just a week or two to recoup and recharge before he got down to the serious work of writing.

Cheered by that thought, he continued toward the woods. Now he could hear the soft and steady heartbeat of the sea, the careless call of birds, the light rustling of wind through naked branches.

He shook his head as he marched into the trees, and glanced around with the suspicious condescension of a confirmed urbanite for the solitude of nature. Why anyone would choose to live in such a place was beyond him.

Yet Helen Remington had done so.

She’d given up great wealth, a privileged lifestyle, a beautiful home, and a gilded social standing—and for what? To cook for strangers, to live on a rocky lump of land, and one day—he imagined—to raise a brood of squalling brats.

Stupid bitch.

His hands clenched and unclenched as he walked. Beneath his feet a dirty fog began to churn, to boil over his shoes. He quickened his pace, nearly running now, though the ground was slick and patched with ice. His breath came out in visible streams.

Ungrateful whore.

She had to be punished. To be hurt. She and all the others had to pay,
would
pay for everything they’d done. They would die. And if they dared challenge his power, dared challenge his rights, they would die in agony.

The fog ate along the ground and spilled at the edges of
a circle that pulsed with a soft white glow. His lips peeled back, and a feral growl sounded deep in his throat.

He lunged at the ring—and was repelled. Light rose from the circle, a thin, sparkling curtain of gold. In fury, he threw himself against it, time and time again. It burned, white fire scorching his skin, smoking his clothing.

As rage devoured him, what was inside the body of Jonathan Q. Harding threw itself on the ground, howling and cursing the light.

Nell made up
two orders of the day’s lunch special. She hummed while she worked and toyed with adjustments to the menu for the wedding she was catering at the end of the month.

Business was good. Sisters Catering had found its feet, and even in the slow winter months kept her busy and content. But not so much so that she hadn’t eked out time to work on a proposal for Mia. A cooking club in Café Book and an expanded menu were both very doable. Once she had the details more refined, she would present the idea to Mia—businesswoman to businesswoman.

After she served the orders, she glanced at the time. Another half hour and Peg would relieve her. She had a dozen errands to run and two appointments to discuss other catering jobs.

She’d have to move fast, she thought, to get everything done in time to put dinner together. The simple chaos of housewifely chores and business obligations piled together in overlapping layers made her happy.

But there were serious issues to be faced, she couldn’t deny it. Dinner that night wasn’t just a social function. She understood Mac’s concern, and the need to focus her
energies on what was to come. But she had already faced the worst and survived.

Whatever had to be done to protect who and what she loved would be done.

She strolled out to clear a table in the café, pocketed her tip. Tip money went in a special jar and was considered her splurge money. Paychecks were for expenses, catering profits would be plowed back into the business. But tip money was for fun. It jingled cheerfully in her pocket as she turned to carry the plates and bowls back to the kitchen.

She stopped short, then rushed forward when she saw Harding standing by the counter staring blankly at the chalkboard menu.

“Mr. Harding, what happened? Are you all right?”

He stared at her, through her.

“You should sit down.” Quickly, she put the dishes on the counter, took his arm. She led him around the counter and back into the kitchen. He sank into the chair she pulled out for him, and she rushed to the sink to get a glass of water.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know.” He took the glass gratefully, gulped down the cool water. His throat felt scorched and raw, as though it had been scored with hot needles.

“I’m going to fix you some tea, and some chicken soup.”

He simply nodded, staring down at his hands. The nails were full of grit, as if he’d clawed at dirt. The knuckles were abraded, the palms scraped.

He saw that his trousers were stained with dirt, his shoes filthy. Bits of twig and briar clung to his sweater.

It embarrassed him, a fastidious man, to find himself in such disarray. “Might I . . . wash my hands?”

“Yes, of course.” Nell tossed a worried look over her shoulder. A red streak, like sunburn, covered half his face. It looked vicious, painful and frightening.

She led him to the rest room, waited for him outside the door, and then walked him back to the kitchen. She ladled the soup, brewed the tea while he stood as if in a trance.

“Mr. Harding.” She spoke gently now, touching his shoulder. “Please sit down. You’re not well.”

“No, I . . .” He felt vaguely nauseous. “I must have fallen.” He blinked rapidly. Why couldn’t he
remember
? He’d taken a walk in the woods on a bright winter afternoon.

And could remember nothing.

He let her tend him the way the very young or the very old allow themselves to be tended. He spooned up the warm, soothing soup, and it comforted his aching throat and uneasy stomach.

He drank her herbal tea sweetened with a generous dollop of honey.

And he basked in the sympathetic silence she gave him.

“I must have fallen,” he said again. “I haven’t been feeling quite well lately.”

The scents of the kitchen were so appealing, her movements as she took and filled more orders so graceful and efficient, that his anxiety receded.

He remembered his research on her, and the admiration he’d felt when he’d followed her path across the country. He would write a very good story—book—about her, he thought. One that spoke of courage and triumph.

Ungrateful whore.
The words echoed dimly in his head and made him tremble.

Nell studied him with concern. “You should go to the clinic.”

He shook his head. “I prefer seeing my own doctor. I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Todd. Your kindness.”

“I have something for that burn.”

“Burn?”

“Just a minute.” She moved out of the kitchen again, spoke to Peg, who’d just come on for her shift. When she came back in, Nell opened a cabinet and took out a slim green bottle.

“It’s mostly aloe,” she told him briskly. “It’ll help.”

He reached a hand to his face, snatched it away again. “I must have . . . the sun’s deceptive,” he managed. “Mrs. Todd, I should tell you I came to the island for the specific purpose of speaking to you.”

“Yes?” She uncapped the bottle.

“I’m a writer,” he began. “I’ve followed your story. First, I want you to know how much I admire you.”

“Do you, Mr. Harding?”

“Yes. Yes, indeed.” Something wanted to crawl up from his belly to his throat. He forced it down again. “Initially, I was merely interested in the story for a magazine piece, but as I learned more I realized the value of what you experienced, what you did. It speaks to so many people. I’m sure you know how many women are caught in the cycle of abuse,” he continued as she dabbed the balm on her fingers. “You’re a beacon, Mrs. Todd, a symbol of victory and empowerment.”

“No, I’m not, Mr. Harding.”

“But you are.” He looked deep into her eyes. They were so blue. So calm. The cramps in his gut eased. “I followed your trail across the country.”

“Really?” she replied, then her coated fingers slid over his burned cheek.

“I spoke with people you worked with, stepped in your
footprints, so to speak. I know what you did, how hard you worked, how frightened you were. You never gave up.”

“And I never will,” she said clearly. “You should understand that. Prepare for that. I’ll never give up.”

“You belong to me. Why do you make me hurt you, Helen?”

It was Evan’s voice—that quiet, reasonable voice he used before he punished her. Terror wanted to burst free. But it was terror, she knew, that it wanted.

“You can’t hurt me any longer. I will never allow anyone I love to be harmed by you.”

His skin rippled under her fingers, as if something crawled there. But she continued to smooth on the balm. He shuddered once, gripped her wrist. “Run,” he whispered. “Get away before it’s too late.”

“This is my home.” She fought her fear. “I’ll protect it with all that I am. We’ll beat you.”

He shuddered again. “What did you say?”

“I said you should go rest now, Mr. Harding.” She capped the bottle as pity for him welled up inside her. “I hope you’ll feel better soon.”

“You let him go?”
Ripley paced the station house, tugging at her hair in frustration. “Just patted him on the head and told him to take a nap?”

“Ripley.” Zack’s voice held a quiet warning, but she shook her head.

“For Christ’s sake, Zack, think! The man’s dangerous. She said herself she sensed something in him.”

“It’s not his fault,” Nell began, but Ripley whirled to face her.

“This isn’t about fault, it’s about reality. Even if he were
just some reporter with delusions of grandeur, that would be bad enough. He came here looking for you, he followed your path all across the damn country, talking to people behind your back.”

“That’s his job.” Nell held up a hand before Ripley could snap at her again. A year before, she would have backed away from the confrontation. Times had changed. “I’m not going to blame him for doing his job, or for what’s happening to him now. He doesn’t know what’s happening, and he’s sick, he’s frightened. You didn’t see him, Ripley. I did.”

“No, I didn’t see him because you didn’t call me. You didn’t bring me in.”

“Is that the real problem? I didn’t ask you for advice, for help?” Nell tilted her head. “Tell me, would you have called me? Or Mia?”

Ripley opened her mouth, then shut it again in one hard, thin line. “We’re not talking about me.”