Reprisal

by Mitchell Smith

From the author of novels the New Times Book Review hails for their "chilling terror" comes a haunting story of past sins and present-day retribution ...

Professor, wife, and mother, Joanna Reed is a survivor. She hones her body exploring the deep, jagged caves beneath the earth, and hones her mind writing the poetry for which she is acclaimed. But on Asconsett Island, the peaceful Massachusetts coastal town where she and her family spend their summers, her world is suddenly, brutally ripped from its moorings.

Her husband, an accomplished sailor, drowns in a bizarre boating mishap, his body found without the life jacket he always wore. Then her father burns to death in a terrible blaze. Both apparent accidents, both shattering Joanna's life and forcing her into a duel with grief and an outside world that refuses to believe there is a more malevolent design behind the two deaths.

Now Joanna has just been rocked by the cruelest, most incomprehensible tragedy of all. In her rage and desperation, she lets someone into her life. Charis is young, beautiful, confident--and seemingly untouched by violence. She offers companionship, understanding, and a loving friendship that slowly brings Joanna back from the abyss. But it is no accident that Charis has come now ...

Imbued with a striking and powerful narrative voice, Reprisal is a harrowing tale of loss, madness, and a vengeance that won't end until it obliterates everything in its path ...

One life at a time.

Mitchell Smith is the author of five previous novels, Sacrifice, Karma, Stone City, Daydreams, and Due North. He attended Columbia College and served with Army Intelligence in Berlin before embarking on his writing career. He lives in the Pacific Northwest.

Published by: the Penguin Group, New York, New York.

Copyright Mitchell Smith, 1999

Also by Mitchell Smith

Sacrifice

Karma

Due North

Stone City

Daydreams

To Linda, beautiful and brave

A wound of the heart need not be made

by steel; Lack and loss make more than ample institution. Nor must its distance run be metered by a wheel, To leaf the thorn of pain past any restitution. A search for what medicines that sore may seal, Is sure to come at last to healing retribution. Joanna Reed, Cut Flowers Sansome, Day and Co.

Boston, 1994

REPRISAL

She knew the dock watchman's rounds. She'd learned his hours. Charis came down the dark wooden stairways at five forty-five, carrying her duffel and the crutches. At the end of the fourth dock finger, past ghost boats softly bumping, whispering in the last of night, she found Bo-Peep, an eighteen-foot half-decked strake-wood sloop with a cramped cockpit--an outboard, cocked and covered, fastened to its transom.

She sat by her duffel a few yards down, her back against a bollard, and laid the aluminum crutches across her lap.

Then she was still, and never moved as the night slid away and the day came on.

Frank Reed left the cottage in veiled dawn light, breakfast still warm in his belly. He started down Slope Street, careful on night-damp cobbles, and conscious--as he rarely bothered to be--of settled near-perfection. Reminded of it, really, by having forgotten his wedding anniversary the day before ...

so stupid because he'd had it on his office calendar, and then they'd come out to the island a couple of weeks ago and he'd forgotten.

Had been reminded pretty briskly, however --by Joanna, then Rebecca calling from the college. Two reminders of their twentieth wedding anniversary.

Twentieth. God almighty. ...

That interesting date, and a good breakfast this morning--ham steak, eggs over easy, wheat toast, and Colombian coffee. A twenty-year marriage and a good breakfast made for some self-congratulation.

Health: very good for forty-three. Work: coaching going well--one of the best college soccer teams in New England. No complaints about work, except your typical small-school budget for athletics. No football.

Cobblestones made for slippery walking. Slope Street looked quaint, but a sidewalk would be a definite plus. However, try to persuade these island people of that, talk about changing anything--and good luck. ...

At the foot of the hill, Frank turned right and strolled along Strand, the town's main street, its pavement shining damp from the night's sea mist, the stores and shops still closed. It was too early for the morning's small ferry load of summer tourists.--That long ride through the islands, with three tedious intermediate stops, had been Asconsett's salvation from becoming a major tourist trap.

... So, twenty years of a good marriage--and the lady still beautiful, even with the breast thing. Twenty years, and a great kid out of it, Rebecca. No other children--which meant no son, meant living in a house of women, which had become a pleasure in itself. But even so, no son, despite trying. If Joanna had tried for a second kid, not secretly vetoed that.--Who knows? Who knows what women get up to with that machinery of theirs? It runs the world, and the men plod along behind them wondering what the hell happened.

"Mr. Reed ..." An older man walking toward him--tall, balding man with a short gray beard. Walking a little dog, some sort of terrier. Man was wearing slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt.

"Morning." Frank recognized him as he went by. Had been fooled for a moment by the slacks and shirt.--Porter. Captain Hollis Porter. Had had that interesting talk last week at the Hatch. ...

So, here was Anniversary Frank Reed--one of the plodders, no doubt. His mother had spent an afternoon with Joanna when he'd first brought her over to the house. And all Megan Reed had said to him afterward was, "Frank, she's lovely and she's smart as a whip and she loves you--and son, you've got your work cut out the rest of your life, because she's a kitten I doubt will ever make a cat."

Truer words never spoken. And his mother--no fool, a successful businesswoman and a widow who'd raised her son alone--had liked Joanna, liked her very much.

But she'd seen the necessary protection and care, even though Joanna was already somebody, an achiever at eighteen. She'd had her stuff published--new young Radcliffe poet and so forth. ... People at Boston U., that had never met her, already knew her name. He'd gotten congratulations from his friends on Joanna-congratulations on those long legs, too.

Frank stepped off the curb at Ropewalk, crossed the alley to stay on Strand.

He walked past the post office--still closed. But the grocery store, Barkley's, down the block at the corner, was opening for business. Mr. Barkley

--with a gull's beak, a gull's sharp eye--and probably the tenth Barkley to run the place, was setting out small fruit stands.

Passing him, Frank said, "Good morning."

"--Mornin'."

... So, twenty anniversary years ago, the South Boston boy, college student, good athlete--but not quite in the young lady's league, let's face it--had been very happy to accept that responsibility, to take what care of her he could. ... And no regrets now for having done it.

Joanna'd wakened him last night, at some ungodly hour, whispering, "Hey, What's-your-name--I didn't pick you up in that bar and bring you home, to not get laid." Tough talk from a shy girl. It had taken him only a few months of marriage to confirm what his mother had said, to realize all Joanna's "I can handle it" energy was armor over softness, apprehension. Last night, she'd said, "Does this feel good? Tell me if what I'm doing ... tell me if this feels good." Her hands on him always harsh, hard hands, callused from rock climbing, cave-scrambling. Stone and ropes. With words, and with rock and ropes and caves, she was absolutely confident. It was life, it was people, that frightened her.

This looked to be becoming a bright morning, fine and clear. South-southwest breeze. A perfect day for sailing, unless you liked a little more sea running, a heavier wind. One advantage of forty-three years' living; you learned not to ask for trouble, weather or otherwise.

Bakery was open. Frank glanced at himself in the store's plate glass as he went by. Short, sturdy-looking man in a green windbreaker, carrying a small blue-and-white beer cooler in one hand. Middle-aged man in good shape. Still had all his hair, graying ginger Irish hair.

... Boston people had already known her name, had known her work. And when he'd read Joanna's poems, at first he'd thought, hell, stuff is nothing like her. ... But turned out that wasn't true. The longer he knew her, the better he understood that poetry and where it came from. It was like verses to a song she was singing to herself through the years. Private song made public.

Sometimes uncomfortable stuff to read--yes, there it was, nice steady breeze coming up the cross streets from the sea. Bringing fish smell with it--from Manning's, down on the dock. Still finding fish. But evidently not enough to keep their boats, live the old fishing-fleet life. ...

Frank turned left, down Dock Street to the stairs.

The sea wind was stirring back and forth, eddying off the old brick buildings, the much older, smaller, gray clapboard structures stepped down to the piers.

Rich, rich odors of fish and tarred wood and the sea. ... Four Miller beers and two tuna sandwiches in the cooler--two beers and one sandwich too many.

Have to watch the pot, be careful he didn't wind up like one of those fat coaches couldn't demonstrate any moves at all. ...

Frank went down wide wooden steps past four fisher-crewmen coming up out of dawn mist. They had that awkward stomping way of moving ... didn't have their land legs yet. Older men, middle-aged. The young fishermen must be drifting away, leaving the island.

So, the twentieth anniversary--what was it, silver? bronze? Some metal. The anniversary, a good breakfast, and an island summer to look forward to.

Already more than two weeks of good sailing--even with the old man along for a few days there. An interesting stretch of coastal water. Very interesting that morning last week, even with old Louis aboard making a mess cleaning his catch, grumbling about having to fish from a sailboat. Used to lake fishing in that canoe, for God's sake. ...

Frank turned left across the landing, and down the last flight of wooden stairs to the lease dock. Some of the docks along here were doubled, with another pier platform built eight feet beneath them for unloading into the warehouse basements. ... The shadow of night was moving across Asconsett Bay, drifting west as sunlight heated clouds red-gold over the Atlantic. The island's fishing boats were already out and rigged, two of them tracking white wakes through the bay's dark water.

Frank's sneakers thumped softly on the pier decking. Water moved through the pilings a dozen feet beneath him; between the planks, he could see it flicker and stir. It was a pleasure. Church or no church, it had always seemed a natural, an unarguable thing that man, that all life had come from the sea.--From where else? Dry dirt? Empty air?

He walked down the lease dock, past two Hunter sloops with their fancy preset rigging. Yet to see one of those beauties out. There was a ketch that did go out. ...

Lease, don't buy had seemed sensible, concerning boats. How many friends they knew who were stuck with boats, some big boats, that they took out only a few times a year. ... Even so, if you only leased, you never really had a boat.

Bobby Moffit was halfway down the first dock finger, setting out paint and tarps to work on a four-oar dory he'd been sanding for a week. Moffit looked a little drunk, even this early in the morning. Looked old, too. Years, and booze, and fishing in hard weather were wearing Bobby out.

Frank walked along to the fourth finger, turned down it, and saw a boy--no, a girl--sitting out there beside a small blue zipper duffel. Angled metal crutches lay across her lap, aluminum shining red in sunrise light.

Nice-looking girl, tall and slender, dark-blond hair up under a red baseball cap --Cardinals cap. The duffel appeared to be new.

"Hi."

"... Hi. Could you tell me if this is C-dock?"

"Yes, it is--it's the lease dock."

"Oh. Well, I thought it was."

"Somebody picking you up?" Frank loosed Bo-Peep's stern line ... the heavy nylon stiff with night dampness.

"Supposed to, last night--yesterday evening --but I guess they changed their minds." The girl smiled, seemed to think it was pretty funny.

"And you waited down here all night?" Frank loose-coiled the line, tossed it over into Bo-Peep's cockpit.

"I thought maybe they were just late, you know. We were talking, yesterday, and I told them I'd never been out sailing, and they were going to take me out for a while. Moonlight ... moonlight sailing. I thought it was more definite than it was." She got up with some difficulty, hauled herself up on the crutches.

Don't say it, Frank said to himself, and said, "Listen, then how about a sunrise sail? Couple of hours out--couple of hours back. Would you want to do that? ... Name's Frank Reed, by the way."

"Charis. Charis Langenberg." She stood leaning on her crutches, looked at Frank and the boat. Her eyes were hazel, and slightly slanted.