Skin Deep (3 page)

He leaned on her for a second, then nodded and let her lead him to a chair, watching closely as Dr. Mowbray knelt beside the couch and felt the pulse at Conn’s throat, then retrieved a flashlight from his bag. He tensed as the doctor peeled back the boy’s eyelids and shined the light into them.

“Well, that’s good,” he muttered. “Let’s see what else we have here.” He pulled away the blankets and opened the shirt. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, looking at the cuts crisscrossing the little body. “Can I have some more light here, Mrs. Durrell? And a big pot of water—hot but not too hot?”

Garland turned on the lamp by the couch and pulled the curtains all the way open, then hurried into the kitchen for the water. As she came back, trying not to slosh it on the floor from the soup pot she carried, she heard the beep of a thermometer and saw Dr. Mowbray staring at it, shaking his head. “Almost normal. For a small child who’s spent hours on the beach in March with no clothes on, that’s crazy. Oh, thanks. Let’s get some of this sand off him and see what needs doing.”

“Crazy” seemed to be the right word to describe everything she’d experienced that morning, except for Dr. Mowbray. She leaned over the back of the couch and watched him work. “Is it bad?” she murmured.

“It’s not pretty, but he’ll be all right. A couple of these might need suturing—I’ll know better once I’ve…” he trailed into silence, concentrating on blotting away as much sand and blood as he could. “What happened to him?” he asked, very quietly. “What did the father say?”

Garland glanced at Alasdair, gripping the arms of his chair as he watched them. “That he doesn’t remember—that it was dark. That’s about it. Someone did this to them, didn’t they? This wasn’t an accident.”

“No, it wasn’t. Whoever did it was a sadistic bastard—who could do this to a child? Look.”

With the worst of the blood and sand washed away, it was plain to see that the cuts on his body had been inflicted in a symmetrical pattern, from his collarbone down to the tops of his thighs. Not deep, but deep and frequent enough to hurt and bleed copiously. They were horrible in their cruel, surgical precision. She looked away, shivering. “I don’t want to know who did this.”

“And you found them like this on your beach? Lucky for them you were down for the weekend.”

“Oh, I’m not just here for the weekend. I’m moving down here.”

“Really?” His hands slowed ever so slightly. “Year round?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” He worked in silence for a moment. “No clothes, you said? No ID or anything?”

“Nothing. I found the boy first—he was lying face down in the sand. It had sort of drifted around him. I think they must have been caught in the storm last night and washed in on the tide. In fact they must have, because I walked there late yesterday afternoon after the movers left and they weren’t there.”

“Movers—so you really did just get here. Hell of a thing to find on your doorstep your first day here, Mrs. Durrell.” He paused and glanced up at her. His eyes were blue, and had nice smile crinkles at their corners. She’d forgotten about those.

“It was a bit of a shock,” she admitted. “But you don’t have to call me Mrs. Durrell. I’m Garland.”

“I know. And I’m Rob, okay?” More crinkles appeared. “Well, your driftwood theory might be right if they fell off a boat or were on one that went down in that storm last night. We’ll call the Coast Guard when I’m done and see if they know anything. More water, please?”

Garland brought him more water and watched as he closed a few of the deepest cuts with Steri-Strips. He worked swiftly but carefully, and Garland couldn’t help thinking that he would have made a deft quilter. “I’m amazed that he’s not waking up,” she whispered.

“I am too, even though I’ve given him a little topical anesthesia. He didn’t seem to be concussed, but I should check again.”

“What is it? What are you doing?” Alasdair demanded, wincing as he rose.

“It’s all right.” Garland hurried over and pressed him gently back down into the chair. “The doc—uh, healer is closing the deepest cuts so they’ll heal properly. Conn will be fine. Now sit still till he’s done, and then it’s your turn.”

Garland sat with Conn while Rob coaxed Alasdair to lie down on the floor to let him examine his injuries. It seemed wrong to leave the boy alone after what he had been through, and she fancied she could see some of the pain and distress lift from his sleeping features as she washed his face and stroked his salt-stiffened hair. Poor little thing—he wasn’t much more than a baby, was he? His mother must be frantic—if he had a mother. What had Alasdair said? That they had no family?

Not surprisingly, Alasdair flinched at Rob’s every touch. Something seemed to trouble him about Rob Mowbray despite the doctor’s gentleness and calm. Was it the questions Rob asked him about where they’d come from and how they’d come to be on Garland’s beach? Just as he had to her, Alasdair would only reply, in a monotone
, I don’t remember. I don’t know.

“Well,” Rob said after cleaning and bandaging Alasdair as much as he would allow. He wouldn’t remove the robe she’d given him and seemed extremely dubious about the dressings Rob had put on his various wounds, including several deep and vicious ones on the bottoms of his feet. No wonder he’d had a hard time walking up to her house. “That’ll do for now till you get to Hyannis. I don’t know why 911 wasn’t working, Garland, but I’m going to find out. In the meanwhile, I’d be glad to give them a lift to the hospital—if you don’t mind coming with me, I can get them admitted pretty quickly—”

“We will not go anywhere,” Alasdair said, struggling to sit up and frowning at Rob. “We shall stay here.”

Rob blinked at his vehemence. “You and your son have, God knows how, just survived a horrific ordeal. I’ve done what I can for you here but you should both really go to the hospital for observation to make sure you don’t have any internal injuries—if all goes well you’ll be out of there by tonight, and that’s a promise. But if you can’t remember how you got into this condition or where you’re from, that tells me you need to be admitted at least overnight to check for neurological—”

“No. We stay here.”

“Have you discussed that with Mrs. Durrell?” Rob asked just as flatly.

“Hey,” Garland broke in. Rob and Alasdair were scowling at each other so hard that their hair should have been on fire. “Why don’t we bring Conn upstairs to the spare room and let you and him rest while the doctor and I think about what we can do to help you? You’re in no condition to make decisions right now, and maybe after a nap you’ll begin to remember something. Okay?”

“Garland,” Rob muttered.

“It’s
okay
.” She looked at him meaningfully. “Come on. Is it all right if the doctor carries Conn?”

Alasdair glared a moment longer, then nodded. He let them help him up and watched Rob closely as he lifted Conn off the couch, then followed behind, leaning on Garland’s arm. At the bottom of the stairs he paused and gazed up them. “So high,” he said under his breath.

Garland motioned Rob ahead of them. “Left at the top, last room on the right,” she directed. That was the room she’d planned on using for her quilting studio because of the splendid light from its east- and south-facing windows. It was also the only room with twin beds in it. Well, no matter. Alasdair and Conn would be long gone before she was ready to start work.

She turned to Alasdair. “I’ll help you,” she said, taking his arm. “I’m not surprised you’re feeling dizzy.”

Alasdair started to say something then closed his mouth again and let her lead him up the stairs. He climbed them one at a time like a small child, staring at his feet in concentration as he did. At the top he looked back down, blanched, and turned away.

Rob had already tucked Conn under the covers of one bed. They helped Alasdair ease down onto the other. He sighed, and she sensed the rigidity in his frame relax just a little bit. “Rest,” she said. “I’ll close the curtains, all right? Just shout if you need me.”

“Garland.” He stared up at her, and she got the feeling that he was actually seeing
her
, not just the person who’d found him. “You…” He fell silent and closed his eyes. Garland waited a few seconds but he didn’t open them again. She pulled down the shades and drew the curtains, then tiptoed down the stairs after Rob.

“You make a very good surgical assistant, you know,” Rob said quietly as they descended. “Not everyone can face the sight of more than a drop or two of blood.”

“Oh, I didn’t do much…” Was she blushing?

“May I make one more request, Nurse?”

“Um, sure.”

He stopped on the bottom stair and grinned up at her. “Coffee, please?”

* * *

“So you found them lying on the beach like that?” Rob took a sip of coffee. “Ah, that hits the spot. What a great way to start your first day here.”

“It’s certainly not what I expected.” Garland leaned back in her kitchen chair and wrapped her hands around her mug. “What do you think happened to them?”

“I don’t know. But it’s obvious that it was intentional. Torture, maybe. Then dumping them in the water and letting them slowly bleed to death.” His voice was grim and controlled. “Did you see their wrists and ankles? They’d been tied up while this was done to them. Good thing they weren’t left bound or they probably would have drowned.”

“Dear God.” The few sips of coffee she’d taken turned sour in her stomach.

“I’m sorry.” He leaned forward and touched her arm. “You didn’t need this today, did you?”

“My problems seem pretty small compared to theirs.”

He smiled. “I’d forgotten how delightfully rational you are.”

And she’d forgotten how charming his smile was. And how good-looking in a boyish sort of way, with thick, straight brown hair that had an endearing habit of falling over his forehead and clean-cut features. It felt strange to be contemplating another man’s attractions.

She stole a peek at his left hand. Nicely groomed, capable-looking, and ringless. And she hadn’t heard any gossip last summer that he’d been seeing anyone seriously. Young Doctor Mowbray was quite the darling of the town. He paid for it in charity bachelor auctions and the like, which he participated in with cheerful good humor. But evidently no one had managed to win him on a more permanent basis.

“So you’ve joined us year-rounders.” His tone was light and casual—perhaps a little too much so. “Alone?”

“My husband and I are divorcing. It’ll be final in a few months. I got the Cape house.”

“Your choice?”

“Yes.”

Rob looked around the bright, airy kitchen. She followed his gaze as it took in the top-of-the-line appliances and custom-made teak cabinetry. “Really?” he said. “This house is a showplace. Didn’t you have it in the Mattaquason House and Garden Tour two years ago?”

“And the year before that. Actually, Derek was thrilled to be rid of it. He never liked it here very much. But having a summer place in a pricey and hard-to-get-to location was de rigueur in his office. Nantucket won the expensive and inaccessible contest, but the Cape ran a close second. He’s keeping our house in Chestnut Hill for him and his new wife and the kids he’s planning to have. That house makes this one look pretty humble.” She tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

Rob shook his head. “Trophy house and a trophy wife? Some people have no clue about what’s really important in life, do they?”

Garland poured herself more coffee. “Oh, I think he knew what was important to him. When I turned thirty-five last year, he decided it was time to divest some long-term holdings that hadn’t performed up to expectations and check the market for growth stocks.” She smiled wryly as she stirred milk into her cup. “My words, not his. But they tell the story pretty well. It’s how he views the world.”

“What are you going to do, now that you’re here?”

“Aside from find bodies on my beach?” She smiled again, then glanced toward the stairs. Shouldn’t she be up there, keeping an eye on them? Conn might waken and need comforting…she yanked her attention back to Rob Mowbray. “Quilting, I hope.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That sounds interesting. Why quilting?”

Garland turned her mug so that she could see the “Quilters Do It in the Ditch” logo on it. “I double-majored in history and art in college, and wanted to become a quilt artist. I’d been accepted into the fiber arts master’s degree program at the Rhode Island School of Design when Derek proposed. But after we were married he discouraged me from pursuing the degree because we both thought I’d be too busy with our kids. Well, that didn’t turn out to be an issue.”

“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “The whole infertility thing—”

“Oh, I wasn’t infertile,” she interrupted. “Neither was he. Believe me, he insisted we see the best fertility experts. We just couldn’t get me pregnant. We even tried in vitro. Twice. I couldn’t face it more than that.”

She kept her eyes fixed on her mug. “He had his work, and I had my quilts. But when I did anything at all public with my quilts, especially selling them, it bothered him. I think he thought it reflected on his ability to support us. So then he developed ‘allergies’ and complained that my quilting raised too much dust, so eventually I just stopped. But I think I knew I’d come back to it someday. I’m hoping that being down here where it’s quiet will help me find my way back to it. Kathy Hayes—you know, the Captain Hayes Gallery on Main Street—is an old friend, and she’s promised me space in her shop if I choose to start exhibiting and selling. She sold a couple of my quilts years ago and Derek was furious. He wanted me to spend my time doing high-profile volunteer work to make him look good, not hiding in a studio sewing bits of fabric together.”