As soon as Peg saw the dazed look on her son's face, her throat went dry and her skin turned cold. She rushed to his side and gathered him silently into her arms, looking to Fox as he climbed from his seat.
"Lilla," the red-haired man said. "She come out of the woods and scared the kids half to death."
She stroked the boy's cold cheeks, his rigid shoulders, brushed his dark hair away from his eyes. "Darling, are you all right?"
"She didn't touch him, I don't think," Fox said, standing at the curb as Garve came from the office. "I chased her off," he said to the chief, "but Jesus, Garve, God knows what she might've done. Damn, she's crazy!"
Colin stood beside her. "Matt, you okay?"
The boy nodded quickly several times.
"Did she say anything?"
He nodded again.
Peg cupped his chin with a palm and turned his head toward her. "What, darlin'? What did she say?"
"Colin," the boy whispered. "I'm here, pal."
"No. She said 'Colin.' "
"Anything else?" Garve asked from over her shoulder. "No."
Peg eased him from the jeep, a protective arm hard around his shoulders. "I'm going to take him home," she said tightly. "Then I want to talk to Lilla."
"I'll go with you," Colin said.
"Don't bother," she told him, and led Matt around the corner as she whispered to him gently, telling him it was all right and nobody was hurt and Lilla still feels bad about Gran and something like that sometimes makes people do strange things.
Matt pulled away from her. Slowly, not abruptly. He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the sidewalk, the curb, the sidewalk again. A pebble got in his way, and he kicked it aside. She looked back only once, faltering when she saw Colin storming around the corner of the hedge, heading for the Run. But damn it, what did he expect her to think? Does Lilla ask for help from someone who's known her all her life? Does she ask for Peg, who had held her when her parents died, and fought with Gran to let her go to college, and was more than a friend, practically a surrogate mother? No, of course not. She frightens Peg's only son to death-God knows why she picked on him of all people-and then she asks for Colin. Colin Ross the artist. Colin Ross the man she's only known for five years. Not Peg. Colin.
A year ago she had seen them on the beach, sitting there, watching the waves, Lilla talking, Colin listening, Lilla suddenly turning to kiss him on the cheek for whatever response he'd given. He'd laughed. She'd kissed him again, was on her feet and running. Peg, as with the first time she'd seen them, hadn't the nerve to confront him for an explanation. It was, of course, all very innocent. Lilla was only a child (seventeen, Peg, and hardly a child), and everyone knew she had a crush on the artist.
But Colin never said a word, and Lilla never said a word, and of course there was nothing to it, and she'd felt cheap for her inadvertent spying, and now here it was again and… she blinked once, slowly, and almost exclaimed aloud: My God, Peg Fletcher, you're actually jealous. You're so frightened for Matt you've made yourself jealous.
Good God, a hell of a thing.
"Mom, what's for supper?"
"Crow, my darlin'," she said wryly. Good Lord, jealous; I haven't felt that in years.
He grimaced and stuck out his tongue. "That's rotten."
"Yes," she said, impulsively hugging him. "Tell me all about it."
She followed his gaze as he looked at the sky. The storm clouds-white slashed with black and reaching for the blue-had drained off all the haze. And over the mainland the slowly-sinking sun glided broad golden beams to the tops of the trees. It was so perfect it was unnatural, and she wasn't surprised when Matt told her, "I don't like this day, Mom. It doesn't feel right, y'know?"
"Yes," she said quietly, "I know exactly what you mean."
At their front door he looked fearfully over his shoulder.
"It's all right," she assured him. "Lilla's not there." He frowned, then nodded in silent contradiction. Peg closed the door behind them, and made sure it was locked.
Frankie crouched behind a wall of red-thorned shrubs and scratched at a pimple breaking on his cheek. He frowned. He stared at the back of the boarding house and wondered if Mayfair was working in the kitchen, or sitting in the front room, or sitting on the porch talking to herself. The house was brown and three stories high, bay windows and additions everywhere you looked. There were dim lights here and there, and dazzling reflections from the sun lowering to the treetops. There were no cars in the driveway, but that didn't mean a thing; Mayfair didn't drive. And he figured there wasn't a car big enough to hold her.
If she were in the kitchen, he was dead, simple as that.
The birdbath was halfway between him and the back porch, and nothing but dead grass and weeds to hide him if she saw him.
Maybe, he thought, it would be a good idea to wait for dark. But if he waited for dark, Cart and Denise would be holed up in one of the empty motels, going at it on one of the beds, taking a little dope, laughing at nothing and calling him a shithead.
No. He had to do it now. He had to take the chance that the concrete bowl would lift off the pedestal easily and wouldn't be all that heavy to carry. Hell, if he did it right, he could roll it like a hoop.
He stared until his eyes watered, thinking about Denise and Carter and his mother and his old man, and he turned around twice when he heard the squirrels bounding through the leaves in the shadows behind him. After the second time, he realized he was losing his nerve.
Damn, he thought, double damnation.
Slowly, listening to his knees pop, he rose and licked at his lips. A deep breath filled his lungs. A palm rubbed his stomach in slow circles.
Okay, Frankie, he thought, in and out like a fuckin' rocket.
He eased around the brush.
And a hand grabbed his shoulder.
THREE
Colin shoved through the Clipper Run's door almost at a run and stood panting in the narrow foyer while he tried to catch his breath. There was silence, and from where he stood he could see no one at all. He was glad; it would give him a moment to try to calm down.
The restaurant's interior was constructed on two levels. The upper, straight in from the scrolled oak door and the cubbyhole of the check room, stretched along the right side of the building. A long, dark mahogany bar curved from one end to the other- brass footrailing, padded black leather handrail, black leather stools with high backs for unsteady drinkers, a huge mirror edged in daily-polished silver behind the artfully-stacked bottles. It was separated from the dining area by three broad, carpeted steps and a waist-high railing of lemon-waxed, hand-smoothed teak.
He moved in cautiously and grabbed the back of a stool, leaned on it heavily and brushed a hand through his hair.
The dining room held two hundred people at irregularly placed, small round tables, each with captain's chairs, white linen, red-chimneyed candles and a slender white vase with blossoms in season. In the room's center was a grand piano Alex Fox's wife played when she wasn't waiting tables; no jukebox, no taped music.
From the exposed-beam ceiling hung netting and intricate shark's-tooth mobiles. On the walnut-paneled walls were original oils and water colors of MacKay's clipper ships, Fulton's steamboats, whalers, Cape Cod trawlers, and a three-master in full sail at sunset flying a bold skull and crossbones.
There were no windows. What lighting there was came from bracketed brass lanterns on the wall and on the squared rough posts that supported the ceiling. Only a few of the wicks were burning; the restaurant was dim, and filled with static shadows.
On the far side of the bar were three doors. The last two led into the kitchen, and he could sense slow movement in there, a preparation for the dinner hour nearly upon them. The first, with a blank brass plaque in the center, led to Cameron's office. Colin stared at it, taking deep breaths, clenching and opening his hands, pulling once in a while at the bottom of his jacket.