The Deepest Water (30 page)

She shook her head violently. If she shot him, he would die from wounds, loss of blood, hypothermia. He would die. Shaking, she put the shotgun back on the counter and closed the window. Could she do it?

In the Halburtson house Felicia shifted on the sofa and looked at her watch, twelve o’clock. Although she had not slept, she had rested; now it was Willa’s turn to stretch out and try to relax. She felt stiff and creaky when she stood up, but by the time she reached the dining room window and touched Willa’s shoulder, she felt fine again. They had positioned a comfortable chair by the window, and Willa had taken a throw from the living room to cover herself. No matter that they had turned up the thermostat and the house was warm enough, keeping the night watch was chilling, as Felicia well knew. She wondered how many nights she had sat up with a sick child and shook her head. Many, many times.

“Go get some rest,” she said softly, as Willa stood up and stretched.

“I doubt that I’ll sleep,” Willa said, just as softly, as if they both were afraid their voices would carry out into the black night. “If you see his car lights, come get me. And only two hours, then my turn again.”

“I know,” Felicia said. “I know. Go rest now.”

Abby sipped hot black coffee and wished she had left some cheese out, but she wouldn’t open the refrigerator to get any. The cabin would be flooded with light. She should have thought of something she could do in the darkened cabin while she waited. Like Madame LaFarge, knit and watch, knit and wait. She stood up, stretched, sat down again and again, but still felt twitchy all over.

Suddenly, on the opposite shore, a shadow moved in front of the ramp light. No longer aware of her restless legs, or her nervous hands, she snatched up the binoculars, slid the window open, and searched the ramp area, and then she found him.

Brice was putting a tiny canoe into the water.

She could see him clearly, black cap, black coat that she never had seen before, a peacoat, the kind sailors wore, black pants. He got in the canoe and started to paddle; the canoe was faster than she had thought it would be. Very soon it would pass out of the light from the ramp, into the black space, and then it would reappear in the light from the cabin. She put the binoculars down and picked up the shotgun.

When Felicia saw the headlights turn in at the Halburston driveway, she stood up and silently put on her heavy outerwear: jacket, scarf, knit stocking cap pulled down nearly to her eyes, wool gloves. She checked to make certain the cell phone was in her pocket, then she made her way through the dark house and out the kitchen door without a sound. On the porch she felt for the rail and the guideline she and Willa had placed there.

Using the utmost caution, she descended the three steps down to the dark mulch trail; then, keeping her hand on the guideline, she followed the trail to the back of the boat shed. There was a glow beyond the shed, but no light on the path; she never let go of the guideline. She stopped at the shed and watched Brice inflate a rubber boat. He had a canister of compressed air; it took him only seconds to finish. Across the finger, the dock light beckoned, a warm yellow light road.

As soon as he was in the boat and had started to paddle, Felicia retraced her steps back to the house. She had to warn herself repeatedly not to rush, not to risk a fall, not to lose the guideline. She could not see her hands, or the line, or even the house.

Finally, back on the porch, she felt for the door, then continued to feel her way across the rear of the house, past the window, and to the electrical service boxes. She took off her gloves now and felt for the switches. The bottom one, the biggest one, was the one she needed. She found it and threw the switch, then repeated the act with the service box next to it. The glow beyond the boat shed vanished. The glow from across the finger vanished, and the night was darker than ever.

She found the stairs again and, as before, keeping a grasp of the guideline, she returned to the back of the shed. Now she had her other hand on the cell phone. If he had a flashlight, a light of any sort, she would have to call Abby, warn her. She did not believe he had a light; the dock lights were sufficient. She waited.

Before Abby could position the gun against her shoulder, the ramp light went out, the light at the back of the cabin went out, and there was only the black night.

Spook made a low growly sound, a deep rumble in her throat. “Be quiet,” Abby whispered. “Spook, watch.”

What was he doing? What had he planned? Maybe he had a light of some sort in the canoe. She shook her head. A flashlight wouldn’t be of any use to him, not unless he followed the black shore all the way around the finger to the ledge. That would take a long time. But if he didn’t have a light, or if he had a night light of some kind, she wouldn’t be able to see him when he came ashore; she would have to rely on Spook to warn her, rely on her own ears to warn her. She didn’t move, listening, watching for the beam of a flashlight to come on, go off. It was so dark nothing was visible—no sky, no water, nothing.

She had begun to feel drowsy, but adrenaline and the cold air had roused her, and now fear raised her to an even higher level; she could hear her own heart, Spook’s every breath, the whisper of water on basalt…

Then she heard the sound of a paddle slapping water, and again… It got louder, nearer; he was beating the water, not sliding the paddles in. Then the sound began to fade again. Drawing away? Or had he begun to master the technique? She leaned against the counter to get closer to the window, and she heard it again, the splash of a paddle hitting water, but it was faint, farther away.

He was lost, she thought then. Out there in the dark, lost. She didn’t move, listening.

After a long silence, during which she hardly breathed, straining to hear, she lowered the shotgun to the counter, and rested her hand on Spook’s head; the dog’s ears were stiff, her hair bristled, her whole body was rigid, listening, on watch. If Brice came this way again, Spook would know, and through her Abby would know. She didn’t move again for a long time.

Then she heard a faint cry from far away; it sounded like the scream of an owl. Slowly Abby reached out and closed the window. If it had been closed before she wouldn’t have heard the cry, she thought distantly. She sat in the rattan chair and started to shiver.

Across the finger Felicia was standing at the back of the boat shed, also listening, and she too heard the cry that could have been an owl. Slowly she began to make her way back to the house, using the guideline rope, moving with utmost caution through the pitch-black night. She reentered the house without a sound and returned to the dining room, the comfortable chair by the window, where she sat down and pulled the cover about herself without first removing her heavy jacket, her gloves, or the stocking cap. She was very cold and she knew that without electricity, the house would only get colder.

24

“It’s time,” Felicia said, touching Willa’s shoulder. The young woman was sleeping, huddled in a tight mass, with a blanket up to her nose; the house had become refrigerator-cold overnight. Felicia was still dressed in her heavy outdoor clothes, her face flushed with cold. “If we’re going to get to the cottage before the park ranger drives through, we’d better be on our way,” she said.

Willa yawned, and sat up.

“Let’s put that chair back where it belongs, and while you straighten up things in here I’ll collect that rope, and we’ll be off,” Felicia said. Together they moved the easy chair back to the living room, and afterward Felicia went outside quickly. The sky was lightening, but the woods were still very dark, with shadows dense and impenetrable. Using her penlight, Felicia made sure the circuit breakers were in their proper place; then she followed the guideline to the end of the boat shed, and gazed at the cabin across the finger; the pale light looked warm, soft yellow against black. At this side, the ramp light was enough so that it was a matter of seconds to undo the rope and start back to the house, coiling the rope as she went.

They finished up in the Halburtson house quickly, went out and got into Felicia’s car, and she backed out from between the two pine trees, turned, and headed toward the road. At the spot where the driveway branched, she caught a glimpse of Abby’s little black car down near the carport. Willa’s eyes were closed, and Felicia didn’t say a word. She drove to the cottage.

“It was a bust,” Willa said tiredly when they got out of the car. “But I’m glad we did it. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Felicia said. “I’m fine.” She opened the cottage door where they were greeted by the two excited poodles. “As far as the rest of the world is concerned, last night we drove home, talked awhile, then went to bed. Not a word about anything else. Agreed?”

“Of course,” Willa said.

“You should go on to bed now, get in a few hours of real sleep at least. I’ll let these idiot dogs out and as soon as they come back in, I’ll go to bed.”

Willa was already peeling off layers of clothes as she headed toward the bedroom they had been sharing. There was a sofa made up for a bed in the room, and Felicia’s twin-sized bed, one easy chair with a lamp nearby on an end table, and a chest of drawers. Enough.

While she waited for the dogs, Felicia stood at the kitchen window gazing out over the lake that was slowly defining itself, recreating itself from darkness, form out of chaos. Presently the poodles wanted back in; she opened the door for them, undressed, put on a warm flannel gown, and she went to bed.

In the cabin, when the light came back on and she could see what she was doing, Abby put things back in their place, then huddled on the couch, shivering hard. She should go to bed, get some real sleep, she knew, but she leaned back, pulled one of the gaudy throws around herself, and after a long time she fell asleep.

At nine Felicia woke up, then, putting on her robe, she went to the kitchen to look at the lake, at what was happening out there. On shore were two sheriffs’ cars, a truck, and a rescue team ambulance. A few people were being kept back by a deputy—curious campers, she guessed. In the water she saw a six-man rowboat, with men grappling for something. She was glad they hadn’t sent a diver down; the water was too cold to put anyone through that. She went to rouse Willa.

They stood side by side watching for a moment, then Willa said faintly, “We have to call Abby. He must have gotten to the lake somehow.” She looked and sounded terrified.

“Did you see any car lights?”

“No! But he must have gotten in!” She ran to the phone and punched in numbers, and after a few seconds, her face ashen, she said, “The phone’s disconnected or something. I’m getting a recording.”

“I have her cell phone number,” Felicia said, and hurried to find it in her address book. Her hands were shaking.

Willa placed the call, and on the fifth ring Abby answered groggily. Willa slumped down into a chair. “Listen,” she said, “something happened out on the lake last night. The sheriff is here and a lot of men are looking for something in the water. I think you should come over. Drive. Don’t come by boat.” She listened a moment, then said, “We didn’t either. No one.” When she hung up, she looked old and tired. “She didn’t hear or see a thing during the night.”

Felicia nodded. “Thank God!” She was putting on her heavy jacket and stocking cap. “I’m going to talk to the sheriff,” she said. “Ed Grayson. I’ve known him all his life. Why don’t you make coffee?”

She wanted to intercept Abby before the sheriff got to her, or one of his deputies turned her away. Abby would see the little black car; she might not be able to get around it without scraping it, in fact, and she would know what they were looking for out there. Felicia let herself out and walked toward the ramp area and the sheriff.

“What’s going on, Ed?” she asked when she drew near him. He was a slightly built man with a mustache far too big for his face. He was very proud of that mustache; he seemed to think it made up for a fast receding hairline.

“Morning, Mrs. Shaeffer,” he said. “Reckon there’s been some kind of accident out there. The park ranger spotted a little boat hung up on the rocks and called us, and here we are. I put in a call to the state troopers, cause that lieutenant—Caldwell?—he said if anything unusual happened out here, he should be called. And that’s all I know.”

She nodded. It probably was all he knew. She pointed to a small blue canoe on the shore, partly deflated. “That was out there?”

“Yep. Damnedest thing I ever saw. Rubber canoe, who would have thought of such a thing?” He shook his head in wonder.

They stood gazing at the canoe for a time. Out on the lake the men continued to drop the grapple over the side of the boat, and pull it up. Then Felicia saw the van appear on the park road that edged the parking area, and she waved to Abby to stop. “It’s Abby,” she said to the sheriff. “Jud’s daughter. I thought since she was at the cabin alone, maybe she should come on over and stay with us for a time, until we know what’s going on out there.” She went to meet Abby, who was still in her clothes from the day before, and who looked as if she had been up all night. She was pale down to her lips. She drew even with Felicia, stopped, and rolled down her window.

“My car is in the driveway over there,” Abby said in a low voice. “My car, the Supra, it’s in the driveway.”

“Maybe you’d better tell the sheriff that,” Felicia said. “It looks like someone had an accident last night, maybe fell out of a boat, something like that. Let’s tell him about the car, and then we’ll go on to the cottage and get warm.”

Abby stared at her, a long searching look; she started to say something, but abruptly turned away and swallowed hard. Then, not looking at Felicia, she nodded. “Yes, I should tell the sheriff,” she said.

Sheriff Grayson nodded politely when Felicia and Abby drew near. “Why don’t you ladies go on to your place,” he said, not unkindly, but clearly wanting them not to linger.

“She saw her car in Halburtson’s driveway,” Felicia said. “Her own car. She drove Jud’s van over from Eugene.”

He looked past them at the van, then at Abby. “Anyone in it?” His voice was different, harder now.