Sterling watched him bump up to the road, spat disgustedly over the side and dragged the chain back. Ground fog drifted into the glaring light. He waited for a moment, thinking it would be just his luck tonight that another car would come screaming down to the landing just as he'd shoved off. Then he'd have to coax the ferry in again, unhook the chain, and pray the driver didn't dive off the far end.
He had had enough trouble as it was this weekend. Goddamned folks spooked at the storm, and he was going to have to spend practically all day tomorrow making sure the ferry was secure enough not to be dumped halfway across the goddamned state. Good God, when it all went friggin' wrong…
He spat again and wiped a rough sleeve over his chin, had half turned to head for the cabin when he thought he saw something moving, out there just beyond the reach of the floods. A dark thing, undefined, perhaps a tree shadow or a break in the fog. He frowned, and waited, his hand curling around the target pistol in his pocket. The margin of the floodlights' reach formed a white wall on the landing, and now that he took a good look he knew damned well someone was standing there. He would have called out, but that had been Stu's job. Little brother Stu was the friendly one, always hanging back and screwing up the schedule to be sure they weren't leaving anyone behind.
He sighed, startling himself with the sudden and brief touch of loneliness that brought an even briefer burning to his eyes.
Then he shook it off and frowned, stepped over the chain and peered into the light.
"Hey!" he called, in memory of Stu.
The figure moved closer, and he could see now it was a short man. Or a boy.
"My God," he whispered. "Stu? Stu?"
And he cursed soundly and viciously when he saw Frankie Adams walking arrogantly toward him. What the hell right did that damned kid have, fooling him like that? It wasn't nice. It was cruel. The dumb-
Frankie walked through the white wall, and Wally's eye widened. The front of the kid's shirt was covered with blood.
"Jesus, kid, you all right?" he said, hurrying off the boat and wondering what he was going to do now. Frankie looked like he'd been hit by a truck, for God's sake. Maybe that wind, he thought suddenly, A branch came down and clobbered him maybe.
"Kid, listen, didn't you see Nichols go by just now? You should've flagged him down. I ain't got no car, for Pete's sake. Listen, I'll-"
He stopped abruptly.
Frankie raised his head and opened his eyes.
"Oh my God," Wally said. "Oh my God!" And he yanked out the target pistol and started firing. The reports were echoed, confined within the reach of the light and slammed back.
Frankie's shirt rippled, but Frankie didn't stop.
With Harcourt tucked back into his plastic sack, and placed in the large refrigeration unit kept in the office basement, Hugh Montgomery decided it would be the gallant and prudent thing to do to walk Annalee home. She protested, as always, but this time he managed to override her by pointing out bluntly that whoever killed Warren might still be on the island. It may be only an isolated episode, but you never knew about the kinds of nuts running around the world these days. He was pleased when he realized she was relieved, and he even kept his hand on her elbow the entire way. With luck, Garve would have finished whatever it was he was doing, pass by and see them. He might get jealous. He might even stop and grab Annalee, throw her into the car and put an end to everyone's agony, for once and all time.
Fat chance, he thought then, pushing his glasses back up his nose.
Annalee, though a full head taller, stayed close to him until they reached her porch. Then, while he waited patiently, staring puzzledly across the street at the darkened police station, she fished her keys out of her purse and unlocked the door.
"You want some coffee?" she asked, and gave him a smile.
Beautiful. God, she was beautiful! There were times when he wanted nothing more than to bury his hands in all that lovely hair, bury his face between those uncommonly lovely breasts; but there were also times when he knew he'd win the state lottery and retire a millionaire.
"Thanks, no, Lee," he said. "Feels like fog coming in again, and I want to get back." He rubbed the back of his neck, and sighed shyly. "I'm tired, too."
"You going to be able to sleep?"
"You mean with Warren keeping me company?"
She nodded, looking over his head, across the street.
"I've done it before. It doesn't bother me. Besides, if I get the insomnia, I can always call Hattie and let her tell me all about Greek gods or Egyptian burial practices or the mythology of the Manitoba back-country."
Annalee laughed quietly. "She does go on, I guess."
"The world's leading expert on-" He stopped, realized he didn't have her full attention. "Well, don't worry, anyway. If Hattie isn't home, I'll take a pill or something."
She nodded again, absently, and opened the door. "See you tomorrow morning."
"Sure thing," he said, and was alone on the porch.
The blinking amber light over the intersection, the night sound of the ocean tearing at the island, and the fog. The lamp just extinguished in Annalee's window, Warren on the table, and the fog outside his bedroom.
He shuddered the images away and decided maybe home wasn't exactly where he should be right now. The idea of listening to Hattie Mills fill him in on the latest mythological gossip was absolutely more than he could bear tonight. He had just put his hand to the driftwood door of the Inn when he heard a speeding car. He turned and saw the patrol car, lights whirling, hit the intersection and squeal into a sharp turn to race down Neptune. He wasn't quick enough to see who was driving, but knew it was probably Nichols. Even in an earthquake Garve would take his time.
He shrugged and went in, blinked at the dim lighting from the lanterns on the rough walls, and took a stool at the corner of the deserted bar. A glance, and he frowned; he was the only one in the place. But he said nothing to the bartender, only ordered Bloody Marys to be served in formation-when one was half-finished there should be another one waiting.
There was, each one perfect, and he stared at his hands and thought of Annalee and her breasts.
An hour later his knuckles were slightly blurred.
Poor old Warren. What a jackass.
An hour after that he was trying to figure out why the glasses were so slippery.
Poor old Warren. Leave it to the lush to get his throat cut when guys like Carter Naughton walked around still alive.
He blinked at the vicious thought, and felt a chill that disturbed him. He wasn't drunk; he knew that. He knew, and the bartender knew, his capacity, and he was still four drinks away from being barely able to walk home. What he felt was a gentle, and not unpleasant, buzzing in his right ear, a hydrogen cloud in his head, and a tingling in his left foot. So why be so maudlin about a dumb drunken lawyer, and so damnably cold about a miserable teenaged kid?
He shrugged, and nibbled at the celery stick plucked from his glass. Such philosophical musings were best left to daylight.
The door opened then, and before he could turn around, Garve Tabor slammed onto the stool beside him and ordered a triple bourbon. As Hugh watched, mouth agape, Tabor downed it in a swallow and ordered two more.
"Jesus," he said, "you want to slice up your liver?"
Garve looked at him and scowled. "I've had a bad night."
Hugh nodded, knowing exactly what bad nights were. "You wanna… do you want to talk about it?"
"Nope."
Two more glasses emptied, two more in line.
"You're gonna get drunk."
"Yup."
Hugh sniffed, and pulled at the ends of his mustache. "You shouldn't, y'know. You have duties to perform."