The Deepest Water (12 page)

Now she pulled the papers out from under the jacket and shirt, opened them, and started to read. She skipped over the first part, a vivid description of the hot spring pool.

“We have to leave or I’ll be stuck on the wrong side of the lake all night,” he said. “Would that be so bad? You can stay with us.” She was playing with him again, the hot smell of sulphur water in his nose, her body smell, his own body, and the resinous scent of pine all mingled, intoxicating. She smiled languorously, and sank under the water, where she fondled his penis… He pulled her up furiously. “He’s here, isn’t he? If you want him to know, why don’t you just tell him?” “And spoil half the fun? Forbidden fruits. You know.” I will be like a cat, smiling, lazy, languid, and he will stamp around and want to hit me, but of course he never would. He climbed out of the hot pool and toweled himself roughly, jerked on his clothes. “We’re through. Show’s over.” “Don’t be an idiot. It’s fun with you, and you have fun, too. Admit it.” I shut my eyes and she was there, like a gardenia bud cool and pale in the late heat. “I have to get back. It’s a long walk.” “Not yet, my love. I will take you a short way.” She is so beautiful, so beautiful. “My love,” I murmur again and again. Again the tears want to fall and again I must not, must not. “Be whole, my love, go home and be whole, unhurt and free, and in time I will be like a dream you once had, a lovely dream that must vanish like the ghosts when you awaken.” Her hand in his, guiding him through the forest. She stops and pulls her long hair up in a swirl, puts on her cap, and now she is a shapeless figure in black pants, black shirt, black cap. “Good-bye, my love.” Then she is gone, vanished in the dense forest, and he stumbles after her. “For God’s sake, stop acting like a schoolboy! He knows. He always knows.” “You’ve used me to taunt him. You really are a bitch.” He goes down the rocky trail too fast for her to keep up; she is the furious one now. “You can’t do this to me, you bastard. I decide, not you.” I throw a rock and catch him on the shoulder; I want to hurt him, to see him fall down, bloodied. He just moves faster, out of sight and I run to catch up. He is nearing the break before he sees her in the canoe coming after him, and behind her at the back of the cottage, Lawrence with a can of paint, brush in his hand. The canoe is faster than the rowboat, Lawrence sees us, he knows where I’m going, why. It isn’t too dark yet, but I won’t be able to come back. He’ll have to bring me back. He turns toward Coop’s ramp. He’ll wait for her and put her in the car, take her back to the cottage and push her out. No confrontation, not on her terms, not this way. She’s paddling too fast, on her knees, her face ghost-white in the gathering dusk. Lawrence raises his hand with the paint brush, opens his mouth, going to call her back, warn her? He lets his hand fall to his side and I realize she turned too soon. I yell something, I don’t even know what, then she crashes and the jolt throws her onto the black rocks, into the water. Lawrence turns around and starts to paint again.

It didn’t come to the bottom of the page, just stopped there, and on the next page in block capitals were the words SIREN ROCK.

9

Later that Friday afternoon the cabin phone rang, but since the many incoming calls had all been for Christina, Abby didn’t even glance at the receiver on Jud’s desk, but assumed that Christina had given out this number as well as her cell phone’s. Abby had called Brice a couple of times and did not expect anyone to call her; today, however, Christina yelled up the stairs, “It’s for you.” Abby stood up and lifted the receiver. Her legs had started to cramp from sitting too many hours on the floor; she stretched one, then the other before she spoke.

“Abby? It’s Felicia Shaeffer. I heard you were at the cabin.” She sounded faint and distant, and Abby realized that she had not heard the click of the downstairs phone being hung up.

“How are you, Felicia?” she asked, listening for the click.

“Oh, I’m fine, but there’s something—”

“Felicia, hang on a minute, will you? I can’t hear you on this phone. I’ll go down and use the other one.”

The downstairs phone was off the receiver, on the end table near the couch. Christina was at the table, her back to the couch.

“Let’s try this one,” Abby said to Felicia.

“Someone’s with you?”

“Yes. I brought Dad’s agent up here to look at his new novel.”

Felicia hesitated, then said softly, “Is she going to take things to New York with her?”

“That was the idea,” Abby said, her gaze on Christina’s back. She appeared unnaturally stiff and still.

Felicia’s voice dropped even lower. “Don’t let her take the only copy of anything, Abby. I think—Abby, would it be possible for you to drop in for a few minutes? I’d really like to talk to you for just a few minutes.”

Felicia had been one of Jud’s closest friends, and she had always treated Abby like a granddaughter, but a conspiratorial tone in her voice made Abby suspect that she was not proposing a social call. She said, “We’re only here for a couple days. We have to leave early Sunday.”

“Any time tomorrow. I’ll be here,” Felicia said swiftly.

“I’m glad you called,” Abby said. “Thanks. I’ll do that.”

When she hung up, she eyed Christina thoughtfully. Was she a snoop, or had she really left the phone off without thinking of it again? Now Christina moved; she put down papers she had been holding, and picked others up, to all appearances engrossed in them.

Silently Abby left the room and returned to the aerie, and this time she sat at Jud’s desk drumming her fingers, thinking, gazing out the window. The aerie, with windows on every wall, was enclosed in greenery on three sides, green pine boughs, green alders with their red bark, green mosses… The fourth wall had taller windows, framing the lake. A hawk sailed past that window without a wing motion, in a long sweeping glide. She brought her gaze back to the cartons she had not gone through yet; there were three remaining, and one half-finished. Then she looked at the stacks she had set aside to hand over to Christina. Advertising copy, stories, essays, sketches, anecdotes… There were hundreds of pages of printouts, five hundred, six… And the stack she had hidden away had about that much material. She decided to change her tactics, take out everything remaining that was not obviously computer or advertising related, and keep all of it; she knew she would have too little time now to go through everything carefully, the way she had been doing. She went back to work.

Dinner that night was more strained than usual. Their relationship had not been an easy one and the time spent together at meals, or just in passing had done nothing to relax it. Carefully Abby said, “I think I’ll take all the stuff you want to carry back to New York to a copy shop in Bend and get Xeroxes made first.”

“You don’t know what you’re proposing,” Christina said sharply. “There are several drafts of chapter after chapter in that pile.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Abby said. “High-speed copy machines, an hour or so. Some of the stories I’ve put aside for you are the only copies. I don’t think the only copy of anything should be taken away.”

“Normally that’s a wise thing to do,” Christina said coolly, “but this is not a normal situation. If I’m going to act as agent for his material, you have to trust me.”

Abby shrugged. “But it’s my decision,” she said. “Things get lost traveling, misplaced, the plane can crash. Besides, I want to compare the various drafts with his disks, with what’s on the hard drive. That’s going to take a lot of time. I’ll go early, get back well before dark tomorrow.”

“What am I supposed to if you take all this stuff away for hours?”

“Start with the advertising copy, see if you really want to keep any of it. I’ll leave that here.”

Christina’s eyes took on a glassy appearance. “As you say, it’s your decision. You’ve found things about yourself up there, haven’t you?”

“Of course. We always knew he wrote about the people in his life. Are you in the new novel?”

Christina shook her head. Watching her, Abby realized that the past few days had taken a terrible toll; now she would guess her age closer to fifty than forty, and she looked as if her eyes were troubling her. With a start of surprise Abby thought, she’s been crying. Impulsively she said, “You really did care for him, didn’t you?”

Christina poked at the food on her plate, a prepared manicotti, frozen, ready to be popped into the oven. It was leathery, the cheese tough, with a tomato sauce unnaturally red. She put her fork down, picked up her glass of wine, and drank it all. “It’s complicated,” she said slowly then. “Neither of us was looking for a commitment, nothing permanent. We both knew and accepted that from the beginning. But I cared for him as a writer in a way I don’t think you would understand.”

Abby felt her cheeks grow hot and she ducked her head to keep from saying anything that might lead to a fight.

“I’m sorry,” Christina said. “That wasn’t meant as a putdown. You loved him as the man, your father, and I imagine he was a wonderful father, and no doubt you appreciated him as a writer, respected him, all that. I found him attractive as a man, but I’ve known and been attracted to many men, maybe too many, but I loved him as a writer, revered him as a writer. That’s the difference. That’s all I meant.” She refilled both their wine glasses and sipped hers, then said in a low fierce voice, “I could kill the one who did that to him. I would like to kill him myself, with my hands.”

“Me too,” Abby said in a near whisper. Abruptly she stood up. “You’re not going to finish that, are you?” She pointed to the food on Christina’s plate.

“No. I’m done.”

“Tomorrow I’ll get some steaks, potatoes, veggies, real food,” Abby said, clearing the table. She paused. “Can you tell much about the novel yet? Have you put it in the proper order?”

“No. Some chapters have several drafts, and I’m beginning to think that some pieces aren’t there, not written yet maybe.”

Abby sat down again. “The police said a disk is missing. Someone turned off the computer without saving the last things he worked on, and he took the disk. He must have taken part of the manuscript, too.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

They both looked at the untidy stacks of papers and Christina shook her head. “How could anyone have found a particular section? How long did he spend searching?”

“I don’t know,” Abby said again, more harshly. She closed her eyes hard. Someone up there searching, Jud’s body on the stairs, blood soaking into the carpet runner, Spook outside barking… The images would not go away. Such a burning hatred flared for the killer that she became rigid.

Christina’s fingers on her wrist made her jerk her eyes open. The fingers felt hot, as if Christina were feverish.

“You’re shivering,” Christina said. “Are you all right?”

She was freezing and shivering, and burning up with hatred. “All right,” she said. “Leave all this stuff. I’ll clean it up later. I’m going to copy everything from his hard drive to disks. It will take a while.” The police had made copies, she remembered, but that didn’t count. She needed to have her own, compare files, compare everything.

She was at Jud’s desk working on the computer files later when Christina came upstairs, bringing coffee.

“I was thinking, if what he was working on wasn’t saved, what good is this going to do?” Christina asked, setting down a mug. “I thought you might need this. It’s been hours. It’s after one.”

Abby leaned back and picked up the coffee gratefully. Her neck was stiff and hurting. Too tense, concentrating too hard. “Unless it was written over, it’s in there,” she said. “You can delete, but it’s still there until you write over it. The trick is to find it. He had his automatic back-up set for seven minutes, that part’s easy. And the rest that wasn’t saved automatically is still there, too.” In fact, she had learned that Jud had written a separate back-up program that saved every single keystroke as he worked. Power outages were too common here in the mountains; he had prepared for them. “Tomorrow I’ll have to buy more disks when I go to town.”

“If you find the missing pieces, will you send them to me?” Christina asked.

She no longer was demanding anything, pleading rather, fearful of Abby in a new way, as if she had seen something change, someone unknown emerge, and she was not sure how to talk to her now.

“Yes,” Abby said.

The next morning Christina helped carry boxes of papers to the ledge where she watched Abby stow them in the rowboat. Today Abby had brought out a folded tarp and her rain gear. It was going to rain before she got back. “Are you okay?” she asked Christina before she pushed off.

“Yes, of course. I’ll start reading advertising copy. I’ll be fine.” She looked frightened at being left again, as if Abby might strand her, or might have an accident and be taken to a hospital or something. But whatever she feared, she feared the boat and the water more, and she had not even suggested that she might go with Abby. She would keep Spook with her, she had agreed. Spook clearly wanted to get into the boat with Abby.

It was very cold, perhaps snow weather instead of rain, Abby thought sniffing the air. There were no studded tires at the cabin; she would check the carport, and if there weren’t any there, she would buy some and have them put on while she did the Xeroxing. And there was Felicia waiting for her. She would be gone quite a while, she thought gloomily, thinking of Christina going through Jud’s files, reading correspondence, old bills, notices of discontinuance of service from utility companies. Abby had hurriedly looked into many file folders and decided to leave them alone. Let Christina get a glimpse of the man Lynne had known, loved, and left. Abby had copied all the correspondence files to disks, and Jud never had kept paper copies of his own letters. Let Christina see the many fan letters, the reviews…

There were no studded tires in the carport. She carried the boxes to the van, got in and started, but when she came to the turn to the county road, she headed toward Felicia’s cottage. No one was out on the lake that morning; it was too cold and threatening.

Abby loved Felicia’s workroom with its smells of paint, varnish, old paper, wax, cinnamon. The cottage had always smelled of cinnamon, she remembered from years past. Today Felicia drew her inside with both hands, embraced her and kissed her cheek. “My dear child,” she murmured. “Come in, get warm.”