35
Graham Hoyt went down the ladder to the dock ahead of Cassie and me, helping each of us off as we followed.
"When I stop by here next June, young lady," he said to Cassie, "I expect you to take the afternoon off for some waterskiing with the crew."
She gushed with delight and ran back into the mini-market to buy a disposable camera and snap some shots of the Pirate, while I thanked Hoyt for breakfast.
We shook hands and he held on to my left elbow, hesitating before he spoke. "You know, Jenna and I are spending the weekend with Dulles. Bringing him onto the boat, cruising up the Hudson and around New York Harbor to try to get him comfortable with us. Maybe, if you get back to town in time-I realize it's only a 'maybe'-but I'd like you to think about meeting us for lunch, to get a sense that Dulles is going to be okay with all this behind him."
The Hoyts were obviously intent on adopting the boy, and I was beginning to think it was hopeless for me to try to guess what would serve the child best in the long run.
"Help him understand that all this-this bad stuff-lawyers, courts, cops-that it's all behind him, Alex. Give him some closure. Give him back his childhood, his life. You represent the bridge between what's past and what kind of future he can have."
"It's a nice idea, but I'm not too optimistic we can end the emotional damage so quickly." I looked away from Hoyt, knowing that the judge wouldn't condone any further delays to dispose of the misdemeanor charges involving Tripping's son, now that the rape case had been tossed. "I may not be able to 'give' him those things any more readily than you can," I said, smiling at Hoyt, "but maybe I can return his baseball jacket. He's entitled to that."
"Yankees, I hope? They're the only thing in his life that provides pure joy. My wife already got some play-off tickets."
"Well, yes, he left his jacket at the hospital the night his father was arrested. We thought it might be his security blanket. Maybe that can be my peace offering, when I do see him."
Hoyt clasped his left hand on top of mine, shook again, and boarded the yacht. "Bet we beat you back to the city, Alex. Sure you don't want to try the high seas?"
"No thanks. Speak to you soon."
I trudged back to police headquarters through the mounds of damp sand. It was several hours until the island came to life again, as power was restored and the pavement cleared. When Chip Streeter got word that the Menemsha Crossroads had opened up, he offered to drive me home so that I could assess the damage and change my clothes.
The sunny fall day had everyone out picking up the debris around their houses. Several utility poles were still down and there were branches scattered everywhere. We pulled off State Road into my driveway, and as we came over the rise, things didn't look as bad as I had feared.
I got out of the car and kneeled to examine the tread marks that the intruder had left in the mud. An expert could easily match the marks to a shoe brand, which was likely to be all too common to be significant.
"Yup," Streeter said, "the state troopers took photos and measurements, and some kind of cast of the prints. Dusted around inside, too."
This wasn't the first time my home had been a crime scene. I knew that it wasn't going to be pretty. We went in and looked over the mess that had been tracked through. Once again, I felt shocked and unsettled at the sight of my belongings in such disarray. There was still no electricity or water, so the cleanup would be a job for my caretaker, when he returned to the island.
"Wanna see if anything's missing?"
"Sure," I said, walking from room to room, checking the obvious places and opening drawers and closets. Nothing seemed out of place. In the bedroom, I looked into my sail bag and purse. "Missing some cash. About a hundred and fifty dollars."
"See? Probably just an ordinary break-in, somebody looking for a quick score."
There was no point telling him about Spike Logan. I'd let Mike and Mercer work that angle, and allow Streeter to keep thinking this was just a petty theft. The island was so small, such an insular community, that there was no way of knowing who was connected to whom. In my book, taking the money was just a convenient way for my visitor to show me that he had been there, that he might come again.
"I figured I'd wait for you to change and drop you at the airport."
"That's too much trouble. I can get myself-"
"I got to go down-island to Shirley's Hardware to pick up some tools for repairs at the station. I'd rather not leave you here alone."
I was glad about that. "It will just take me a minute." I closed the bedroom door, pulled out a pair of jeans and a sweater from my closet, and folded the borrowed chinos and shirt for Streeter to return.
We drove to the airport, twisting our way around the assortment of storm-tossed things in the roadway. I thanked him when I got out of the car and joined the short line of impatient city folk waiting at the counter for word about air service to New York.
It looked like a special direct flight would leave for La Guardia at 6P.M.
The day was a wash. My cell phone, uncharged for more than twenty-four hours, was dead. The telephone kiosks, which afforded no privacy, were in steady use by anxious travelers trying to find alternate ways to get to Providence, Boston, Hartford, and points west. I spun the paperback rack in the gift shop and found only the good books I had read in hardcover months earlier. There was a British thriller by a writer I'd never tried before, so I settled in a corner window seat and killed the time with crime fiction.
Somewhere in the northeast corridor, the airline had come up with a DC-3 to lug us home. It rolled to a stop outside the terminal, looking as if it had just come over the hump from Burma in a World War II flick. We boarded quickly, climbing up the sloping aisle to get into our seats. The normally short flight took almost ninety minutes, and it was close to 8P.M. when I walked out of the New York terminal to hail a taxi.
Hot running water. I stripped down and turned on the shower full force. Mud was still caked between my toes and under each nail. I must have been a sight to all of the evening's air travelers. My matted hair looked several shades darker than before the storm, and I scrubbed for minutes until I could even get a lather going.
Dried off and snug in a long nightshirt, I sat on the bed and played back the eleven messages on the machine, hoping to hear one voice. I deleted Nina's news about her son's admission to a Beverly Hills pre-k; my mother's concern about the damage caused by the hurricane; three routine messages from Mike, who wasn't really sure where to find me; an assortment of nonurgent friendly calls; and found Jake on the ninth try.
"Hey, guess you decided to stay on after all." His voice sounded cool and clipped, and I had missed him by less than half an hour. "I'm off for supper with a friend. Be home for the weekend." Too much silence. "We need to talk, Alex."
The one thing I needed less than root canal was to talk. Whatever happened to action?
Good old action. Talk was going to expose every layer of difference between us, every nitpicking reason we weren't good for each other. His walking in the door and taking me in his arms and making me feel sexy and safe and adored was what I wanted more than anything at this very moment. Talk was as overrated as renewing marriage vows on top of a Hawaiian volcano to assuage a cheating husband's guilt.
No answer at Mike's place. I put on some music and sat at my desk, rereading the case files on Paige Vallis-the rape and the homicide-to see whether I could make sense of the directions things had taken in her life. No sense, no nothing. I moved to the mountain of bills growing beside me and took out my checkbook.
I crawled into bed before ten, hit with the exhaustion that follows shock and stress. Sleep helped, and I was up by 8A.M. on Saturday, ready for a better day.
The first call was from Mercer Wallace. "Any trouble getting back into town?"