For the men, the enemy was the Natural Resources police, who enforced the always-changing rules on crabbing and fishing. Growing up on the island was not unlike living in a colony or some close-held territory. They had a hard-earned skepticism of all authority except God. So even if anyone there had ever questioned the not-quite-told story of Becca’s flight, all those years ago, they would never speak of it to outsiders.
But they hadn’t questioned it. And they did not speak of it, even among themselves, because they would not want to hurt his mother, presumed to be in denial ever since the day his boat was found, drifting on its own, near Shank Island. Suicide was such a shameful thing. Of course, almost as shameful was the possibility that an island boy like himself had drowned by accident, had made a miscalculation when the storm came up. Confronted with those two possibilities, people chose simply not to speak of what had happened to Audrey’s boy. After all, she had just lost her husband to bad blood and now she had no boy. She had carried this falsehood fifteen years now, constant and unswerving. It was only lately that she seemed to worry so much.
She began again. “June Petty said-”
“June Petty. Never has a woman been so aptly named.”
“June said there was two of them. She thought they might be DNR, but they never showed no badge or said exactly why they wanted to find Becca.”
He knew, but he could not tell his mother. There were only so many secrets she could be expected to keep. She did not know how Eric Shivers had come magically back to life, much less why. She knew he used an array of fake names but assumed those were for his business. His mother had no problem with what he did for a living. A person whose ancestral home was almost swallowed by the bay tends to have more respect for nature, but also less. Everything the earth produces must be allocated and reallocated. Survival of the fittest.
“Did June say what they looked like?” he asked, as if he did not know. His mother would not expect him to know.
“The man was orangey, like a Cheshire cat, and speckled as an egg. The woman was tall, with a braid. June said she just missed being pretty.”
“June Petty,” he said, with more heat than he intended, “thinks everyone just misses being pretty, except herself and her daughters. I wonder if she’s looked in the mirror lately. She was a hag when God was a boy.”
“She was the best-looking woman on the island in her prime.”
“Which is quite an achievement when you consider that the island had maybe-oh, three hundred and fifty people in June’s heyday.”
“What’s got into you, son? It’s not like you to be so sharp.”
“Nothing.” He backs away from the anger. “I’m sorry, Ma. It just bothers me that June ran to the phone, eager to tell you all this. She likes… pitying you, always has. First when Dad got sick, and then after I-” He doesn’t need to finish the thought. “Are you sure you weren’t the prettiest girl on the island and June Petty’s just trying to get you back after all these years?”
His mother laughs, the sweetest sound he has heard all week. Just then, the telltale buzz of a bad cell begins. He is losing her. He says good-bye hurriedly, hating the feel of being cut off. Whatever happens, he never forgets to tell his mother “Good-bye” and “I love you.”
He slips the phone into the well beneath the radio and drives on. It’s raining today, and the temperature is barely in the fifties. The past few days had been sunny and almost hot, close to eighty. A typical spring in these parts. He knows a moment of envy and resentment: She has been to the island, a place denied to him now for fifteen years. He doesn’t even dare to go to Crisfield or Princess Anne. Those who would seek to punish him will never be able to equal the pain of this exile from the place he loves above all others.
The end of April in Harkness. The hackberry trees would be coming into their own just now, and the marsh grass would be that soft shade of green he has never found on the mainland. It is too early for the snowball bushes to bloom, but they would be well on their way. Most of all, there would be the excitement that slowly builds when the rush is imminent as the blue crab mating season gets under way and the jimmy starts to court the sook, holding her to him for hours and hours. Beautiful swimmers indeed.
He wonders if her city-bred eyes and nose could begin to absorb the teeming bounty that was around her in those few hours. He could teach her. He could show her.
He has so much to teach her.
CHAPTER 21
“I charge for missed appointments. I thought I made that clear at our first meeting. You must cancel twenty-four hours in advance, or you will be billed in full.”
“But in the case of an emergency-” Tess protested.
“I do not consider driving to the Eastern Shore at the last minute to be an emergency.”
“Sorry,” she said, sullen as a child, reduced once again to pulling on the strings of the old wing chair. “I’m just trying to track down a serial killer, so I came in on Wednesday instead of Tuesday. God forbid that should make me a day late for this court-ordered charade.”
She had been more authentically contrite when their session started. But Dr. Armistead had been maddeningly indifferent to her explanation, which struck her as much more interesting than most of the mundane utterances made in therapy. Carl had a point: It was all my-mother-this, my-father-that. Yet Dr. Armistead had been downright incurious about her work. All he wanted to know was why she had not thought to call, how she could have forgotten her appointment.
At times he had seemed more like an aggrieved suitor than a doctor.
“We all think our work is important, Tess,” he began now.
“Yes, only I’m right. My work is important, okay? This man has killed at least two women and stolen two identities. He could have three-four victims by now. He could be in another relationship, weeks, even days away from killing a new woman.”
Armistead had a habit of clasping his hands and holding two index fingers to his lips, where he tapped them softly. A tell, Tess thought, but what was he telling?
“Let’s talk about you and impulse control, Tess.”
“Impulse control? I don’t think I have a problem with that.”
“I didn’t say you did. I’m not here to say you have this or that problem. But can you identify any patterns in your behavior when it comes to impulsive action? Do you think you are more prone, or less prone, to following every novel idea that pops into your head?”
“No. No, I don’t.” But her own body language made her realize what a brat she was being. She had slumped in the chair until her chin was on her chest and her legs were stretched out in an adolescent’s defiant posture. Sheepishly, she straightened up and made eye contact with the doctor. Although eye contact was a bit of misnomer, for she was always distracted by those bristling eyebrows, so much more compelling than the small deep-set eyes beneath them.
“I think I have a lot of self-control,” she said, but her voice was more tentative.
“How about the night you attacked Mickey Pechter?”
“I didn’t attack him.”
“Excuse my use of the term, then. But can you see any way in which your actions were impulsive, that things escalated from what I’ll call emotional momentum. Is it fair to say you got carried away?”
“Carried away by what?”
“I don’t know. You tell me. I might describe it as… a sense of righteousness, perhaps. A certitude that your actions were justified.”
“But they were.”
“Perhaps. The question of whether you did the right thing doesn’t interest me as much as whether you have a tendency to think you’re always doing the right thing.”
He was accusing her of being like the people she had described to Carl, the ones who thought they could always justify their own actions. But she wasn’t one of them. Was she?