Lost & Found (17 page)

“You should go,” she said.

“Let me give you a ride home,” he said.

“No. I’m going to stay here.”

He nodded and seemed like he was going to say something else, but then he gathered up his gear and walked away, pulling open the gate with an iron screech. She waited until the sound of his truck faded before she pulled out some arrows, set one in the notch, pulled her hand along her jawline and released. Nothing was right. Her arrows stuck around the outside perimeter of the target as if the center were covered in a glass dome. She tossed her bow on the ground and went to get her arrows. As she approached the target, her eye was drawn to the mark that Hill made on all his targets on the bottom left corner, a stamp that one of his students from high school made for him of a hunter with a fully drawn bow. He sometimes gave students a new paper target.

“Oh, Jesus,” she said. That was what she had seen at Liz’s old place. That’s what had caught her eye when she looked out the window. The target with the stamp on the bottom left corner.

In Providence, Rhode Island, Liz’s mother smoked the last cigarette in her pack and smashed the stub in an ashtray cluttered with the remains of filtered menthols. Her daughter was dead and she was raging day and night, smoking two packs of cigarettes per day, cauterizing her lungs in the deepest places, and coating them with an anesthetic of tar.

With every breath that she had taken during the two-year strain of not speaking to her daughter, she had imagined Liz and what she’d be doing at any point in the day. Would she take her medication, did she know how angry Jan was, that her mother was right? She had pictured a future when Liz would ask for forgiveness, when the time of punishment would be over, and Jan could have her daughter back. But the side effects of shunning her daughter, not taking her calls, not reading her imploring letters, refuting even her husband when he said, “Come on now, Jan, that’s enough,” was that her world had grown darker and smaller and even the sweetest sounds from birds in her backyard had turned into jagged points of scratching.

She had busied herself with the logistics of death: arrang
ing for the cremation, writing the brief obituary, discovering that the house in Orono had been sold and Liz was only renting it, and suffering the tangle of paperwork that comes with death. The property on Peak’s Island would have to wait for the slow grind of probate court before they could put it up for sale.

Jan pulled another cigarette from the pack and clicked on the plastic butane lighter. The dog was still outside tied to the zip line that allowed him what Jan thought was a perfectly fine run of thirty feet. He had stopped eating his food. He was stubborn like Liz. She’d let him inside when it was time for her to go to bed. The weather report predicted freezing temperatures. She was not impervious to the suffering of others. Liz had loved this dog. Even Jan had seen the cord of connection between Liz and her dog, a braid of fuchsia and green, and fragrant like pumpkin vines, yes something that had slowed Liz’s manic moments in the worst of times.

Jan was drowning in the deep gash created by Liz’s death. This is not how life had started with Liz, this was not the flutter of joy she had felt with her daughter before Liz’s bipolar brain had torn them in half. She closed her eyes and dared to remember the tender joy of holding Liz in her lap when she was three years old, sniffing her hair and thinking that, like a mother bear, she could smell her own child blindfolded. Hers was the child that smelled like fresh hay, earth, and almond oil.

She felt a flutter near her armpit that was soft like a child’s hair. A tendril of scent caught her attention. It was the musky almond smell of her daughter’s hair when the girl had been small, when the world had been theirs. For one agonizing moment, she felt the cupped palm of a child against her
cheek. As if lancing a gangrenous wound, the years of poison released from Jan and the green squirt of liquid shattered. All that was left was the deep ember of mother and child.

Outside in the yard, the dog sat up, tilted his head back and howled as if a fire truck was splitting the night with its siren.

Rocky hit the redial button. She had already left a message at the funeral home ten minutes ago. She wanted to speak to a person, not a recording. She wanted the phone number of Liz’s parents. The funeral home had been listed in the obituary and that was all she had. The Townsends were unlisted; she’d already tried calling Information. She’d gone into Tess’s house and tried everything to search for them on the Internet. Nothing. Isaiah was still out of town and he had been the only one to talk to them on the phone. As a last-ditch effort, she tried the vet clinic in Orono, but they were closed for two days. “In case of emergency, leave a message for the doctor on call and he’ll get back to you.” Rocky had tried the doctor on call and he said he couldn’t give her information from another veterinarian’s office.

Cooper had been gone for four days and Rocky was frantic. She had never been this clear about anything. She had made a terrible mistake and now she was going to fix it. She hit the redial button for the funeral home in Providence seventeen more times in the next hour. Then on the eighteenth time, a voice said, “Harsdale Mortuary.”

Rocky’s voice stuck in her throat, then she swallowed hard and spoke. “I’d like to call the Townsends in Providence to offer my condolences and I believe you handled the arrangements of their daughter Elizabeth. Do you have their phone number?”

“Who’s calling please?”

“This is an old friend of Liz’s from Maine. I just found out about her death,” said Rocky. Why had she fabricated this lie, why didn’t she just tell the man that she was the dog warden and that she needed to get in touch with the Townsend’s about the dog?

“We can’t give out phone numbers of our clients. But you can send your condolence card to us and we’ll be sure to get it to them,” said the as yet unidentified man.

“I’ve already done that. Now I want to call them. Calling is better. I mean I used to have their phone number, but I’ve changed address books and that was back when Liz lived with her parents. I just don’t have the address now, it’s not like I never had the address and phone number. So could you just give me the street address? I’d like to send flowers too,” said Rocky.

“We can handle the flower arrangements also. What would you like to send? Do you have a price range?” he asked.

Rocky hung up.

Because she was desperate for any connection to Liz and Cooper, Rocky decided to drive over to the old Hamilton place where Liz had so briefly lived, possibly for only a few days. Tess had described it as one of the few old houses that had ventured toward the center of the island. Almost all the old vacation houses were built as close to the shore as possible,
but this house was the last house on a sandy road that plunged inward, crossing a small bridge over a marsh, surrounded on both sides of the lane by impenetrable growth, tangled and dense.

The road ended in the yard of an older house that had gone through a series of additions and remodels. Like so many of the houses, it was built on the uncompromising waves of rock that layered much of the island. The core of the weathered house was tucked behind a façade of screened in porch. On either side, newer additions had been attached with limited regard for symmetry.

She opened the door on the truck and the groaning creak of door hinges sounded louder out here. She made a mental note to blast the hinges with WD40. The owners of the house had made a heroic effort to keep about an acre cleared of the encroaching undergrowth. Rocky looked at the large outbuilding where a riding mower was likely to live. She grabbed her gloves from behind the front seat and slammed the door shut. A damp wind whistled in the clearing. She was not going to think about Hill today.

Had this been Liz’s dream, to come here with her dog? And do what? It might have been the impulsiveness of youth, the result of manic buying, or the simple desire to live within an easy commute of Portland. Rocky zipped her jacket and walked to the outbuilding, a small barn that was rapidly rotting into the ground. Stone-lined garden spaces graced either side of the large barn doors. With a forceful heave, she slid open one of the doors. Air that was even colder than the outside temperature escaped and ran over her, chilling her to the core.

The flashlight was in the truck, and if the dog had been
with her, she would have gone to get it. Or if Tess was with her, she would have gone to get it. But here alone, not needing to take care of anyone else and not caring very much what happened because all the worst things had already happened, she stepped into the barn and waited for her eyes to adjust to the gray light. Late-afternoon sunlight came in through two dust-covered windows. She sat gingerly on a wood chair that needed webbing on the seat.

Someone had shot Cooper out here. He had to have been shot on the island. And by all accounts, no matter how difficult Liz’s life had been at times, she loved Cooper more than anything or anyone else. The two of them must have had just a few days of their new life on the island before things went terribly wrong. Rocky scratched the heel of her shoes along the dirt floor and the low rays of sun caught the disturbed dust. She sat until her bottom ached from the cold.

Her heart double-timed as she heard a truck pull up. She was terrified that it was Hill, because if he knew about the Hamilton place, then he had lied about everything. Could he have shot Cooper? Rocky went to a dust-covered window and peered out.

Rocky knew it was Peter, the boyfriend of the dead woman, the minute he stepped out of his SUV. The windows were tinted dark, the color of the vehicle was dark; she still couldn’t tell exactly what color in the approaching twilight. She was obviously here; her truck was outside. She walked out of the barn, mustering all of her best body language to appear confident and official.

What was it, how did neediness and obsession get exactly translated by the way he held his shoulders in so tight that she could see it through his jacket? And the way he walked
straight toward her, and smiled with the bottom half of his face while his eyes hooked into her.

“Shit,” thought Rocky.

What do you do if you meet a bear on the trail, or a mountain lion, or any of the big predators? Those were the only two she could think of, and she was pretty sure that most black bears were more interested in bird feeders and compost. You didn’t run, she remembered that much. Bob had told her that in the animal world it really is about size or about perceived power. Make yourself bigger, turn and face them, maybe back up slowly, which she didn’t think was such a good idea in this instance because that would put her back in the empty barn, and more than anything she didn’t want to be in the barn with this man. She scanned the area for something large to pick up, like a thick branch, all without moving her head. Turn and face him and make yourself bigger. No backing up.

“I saw your truck. Are you the animal control lady? Someone at the dock said you drove a yellow truck. I think you have a dog that I’m looking for.”

He stopped four feet from Rocky. She didn’t know if he remembered running into her for all of thirty seconds that day in Portland. She’d had her car, and Cooper and they were in the parking lot of a convenience store, when this guy pulled in and Cooper went off like a grenade in her car. But before Rocky could hold on to this shred of temporary comfort, Peter drew in closer and pointed a finger at her chest, dead center.

“Hey, that was you, wasn’t it? About a month ago, over in Portland.”

Rocky felt one of her fingernails pierce her palm. She was
with a predator. Stand and face him, make yourself bigger.

“Yes, and I recall the dog didn’t seem to take to you. He went ballistic, didn’t he?”

Peter kept his arms at his sides, not folded in front, not hands in pockets, but at his sides as if he had guns ready to go off.

“That dog belonged to my girlfriend. I know how to handle him. A dog like that, you have to be firm, show him who’s the alpha. She’d want me to have him. She’s dead.”

Rocky willed herself into being a therapist again and not a woman alone with a crazed ex-boyfriend of a dead woman.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s so hard to lose someone.”

She saw a flicker near his eyes, a moment of hesitation, a moment of who he had been before he had turned into the bad boyfriend who couldn’t let go. Now he was stalking the dog because that’s all he had left.

Rocky had only worked once with a man who stalked his ex-girlfriend, and he came to therapy because he was convinced that going to therapy would get his girlfriend back. She had been struck by the absolute singularity of his pursuit; he became a laser beam, breaking into his ex-girlfriend’s computer, accessing her e-mail, her post office box, even tapping into her parent’s phone messages. Rocky realized that Peter had something that she wanted more than anything right then, the address and phone number of Liz’s parents in Providence. She became the predator. She became very large and faced him.

“I brought the dog to the shelter in Portland. I didn’t know about other family. Why don’t you check the shelter tomorrow. And I’d like to send the family a sympathy note. What’s the street in Providence?” said Rocky. She kept her gaze soft, remarked on the shockingly early arrival of night at this
time of year, and jingled her keys as a cue to leave.

The address and phone number slid off his lips so easily. Rocky knew instantly that he had prowled the neighborhood in Providence searching for the dog. She thanked him like she meant it and walked past him to her truck. She held the car keys as if they could save her.

Rocky locked both doors of the truck and pressed her palms against the steering wheel. She suddenly had to pee worse than anything, but she was too afraid to get out of the truck, too afraid that he’d come back, that he would have caught her lie. He was on a mission, and his senses were shined up like silver. Any minute now he’d guess what had happened. Somehow Rocky had gotten what she needed from him, the phone number and address of Jan and Ed Townsend in Providence. Rocky had lied to him, said that the dog was being held at the shelter in Portland. She had until he took the ferry to Portland and drove to the animal shelter, worse yet he probably had a cell phone. But the shelter should be un-staffed at night. She had until tomorrow. He might call and find out that Cooper had never been there. It wouldn’t take him long to figure out what she had done.

She stopped her hands from shaking and drove the truck to her house. She drove right up on the winter grass, left the truck running and jumped out. She hadn’t locked her door, half the time she forgot. She grabbed the phone and punched in the number for the Townsends. The answering machine picked up and Jan’s dusky voice came on. Why weren’t they there? It was six
P
.
M
. and they didn’t look like the kind of people with either friends or hobbies.

“This is Rocky on Peak’s Island. This is very important.
Your daughter’s former boyfriend is going to try and convince you to give him Cooper. Liz didn’t want Peter to have the dog. Look, it’s worse than that, something is off with this guy. I have a feeling he had been stalking Liz. Don’t let him in your house.” She hung up the phone.

She still had to pee. She didn’t want to. She knew it would take too long, but she had to. She marched into the bathroom and slipped her jeans down and sat on the cold toilet seat. Faster, go faster, she willed herself. She pressed on her belly. The next commuter ferry would be leaving in thirty minutes, and then not again until seven o’clock. She hauled up her pants. She couldn’t miss the ferry. Peter would have taken the ferry that just left. She grabbed an atlas, turned the pages to Massachusetts and Rhode Island, and in two running steps she was out the door and back in the truck. As she drove past Melissa’s house, she paused, and without knowing why, she stopped and knocked on the young girl’s door. Melissa and her mother both answered.

“Melissa, I just wanted you to know that I’m going after Cooper. I’m not coming back without him. You keep an eye on my place and feed Peterson, OK?”

Melissa’s eyes softened slightly, going from rage to hope and settling in at caution. Rocky saw that Melissa’s skin was pulled even tighter around her face than the last time she had seen her.

Rocky turned and ran back to the truck and drove to the ferry, waiting impatiently for the 6:30. She prayed that she wouldn’t see Peter standing at the dock in Portland. She stayed in the truck for the crossing, kept the doors locked and was prepared to drive over him if he stood glaring at her on the dock. But he wasn’t there.

She changed vehicles in Portland. The yellow dog warden’s truck hadn’t passed an inspection in five years, so she picked up Tess’s car in Portland.

She figured the trip would take two and a half hours. She flew onto the highway out of Maine and watched the digital clock glow the time at her, watched the odometer tick off the miles. She had to stop in the notch of New Hampshire before Massachusetts to get fluid for the windshield wipers to keep her windshield clear. When she hit Massachusetts, she started imagining what she would say to Jan and Ed, wondered if she’d have to wrestle them to the ground, if they’d call the police, and what she could say so they would just give Cooper back to her. She slipped into the eastern edge of Connecticut and had to pull over once to turn on the overhead light and chart the fastest path into Rhode Island.

When Rocky hit the city limits of Providence, she stopped at a gas station and asked where Clementine Drive was. The two high school boys running the place didn’t know, so she bought a city map and found it on the northern edge of the city. When she pulled up to 63 Clementine Drive, the house was dark except for a bluish glow coming from what Rocky imagined to be a kitchen fluorescent light.

The neighborhood was filled with sixties’ ranch-style houses. Rocky turned her car around and parked across the street several houses away. She remembered what Jan had said about a new fence and a dog run in the backyard. She stepped out of her car, closed the door, and looked at a new fence that started at the edge of the garage and connected with the property fence, butting up against a neighbor’s hedge. The lumber was still fresh, a barricade type of fence, the sort that Rocky connected with prison yards minus the razor wire.