A Matter of Mercy (18 page)

“Rather avoid that one, huh,” Elsie persisted quietly.

Caroline rolled her eyes. “I suppose I would. I really don’t know what I want. Maybe I thought he’d want to be part of the baby’s life. I don’t know. I guess I just thought it was the right thing to do, to tell him.”

“Could your baby’s father be trying to scare you into leaving him alone about the baby?”

“He did say something about the lawsuit, about was I suing him too? You know, he’s being sued by those people up on the bluffs. Do you think maybe the sea farmers are doing things like this to all the people with land on the waterfront? You know, to strike back? Maybe it’s all about that?”

“But you’re not?”

“Good grief, no. My grandfather was a fisherman, my parents worked here. I’ve been reading about aquaculture, too, just, well, because I’m here. Anyway, I’d never.”

Elsie put her spoon down. She leaned forward. “Have you spoken with any of your neighbors? Is it possible that they’re being harassed too?”

Caroline turned the idea around. Her shoulders raised, and her brows arched at the same time. “You know, I really have no idea. I haven’t talked with them. It’s so obvious. But, surely the police have. I mean, the police would have told me if there had been other complaints in the area, wouldn’t they? Elsie, they’re treating me as if I’m the local crazy lady they have to humor.”

Caroline could see Elsie think it over, noticed she had circles under her eyes. Were they darker than usual or was it the lighting? It was the end of Elsie’s workday, and she was keeping her. Who else could she turn to, though?
Mom? Mom. I’m so alone, Mom, too alone. I miss you.
Her eyes watered a bit and she used her thumb and forefinger to press down the tingle in the bridge of her nose.

“Perhaps you’re right about the police,” Elsie said. “But since the baby’s father—Rid, you said?—assumed you were in on that lawsuit, and got so angry, and the fact that now you own your mother’s house on the water. I don’t know. It’s certainly the only clue, so far. But you wouldn’t want to accuse the wrong person. Is there a way you—”

Caroline put her head down, pressed her fingers against her temples. “Wait a minute.” She shook her head and looked back up. “I know why the police might not tell me, or might not
do
something if the sea farmers are messing with me. The police are
locals
. Think about it. The big houses up on the bluffs—all those wealthy weekend people? They come in and build their fancy mansions so they can spend summer weekends and vacations in them, and they try to throw their weight around—against locals and natives who were working these tides before those people were born. Heck, the police have a lot more in common with the sea farmers than with the upland owners.”

“That does make sense,” Else said, laying down her spoon.

The waitress appeared and Caroline fell silent while their water glasses were refreshed. “I feel like I’m in a movie,” she said, sotto voice, to Elsie, when the waitress moved on. “This whole thing is surreal.”

“But you’re scared,” Elsie said softly, reaching across the table and covering Caroline’s free hand with her own.

“I’m really scared.”

* * * * 

That night in Noelle’s yellow and white guestroom Caroline lay awake with the light on. Cleaning up, seeing color on her face and body again, getting out, hearing herself talk like an adult had helped her to stop thinking some grownup was going to appear to take over and fix this.

For the first time in weeks, Caroline read a novel for a half hour before she reached over to the nightstand and switched off the light.
I can do this, Mom. I know. I need to pull myself together. I hear you.

She didn’t care anymore if talking to her mother meant she was insane. It was comforting.

* * * * 

Caroline woke under goose down, a pale sunup glazing the east window of the room. She’d only been up once in the night, and had gone right back to a sleep that now seemed blank and dreamless. Bacon and coffee scents floated on top of the air. Noelle, or maybe Walt, was up and cooking already. She stretched under the covers and turned onto her back to feel her belly. Now, even flat out like this, the rise was unmistakable, not like putting on weight anymore, but its own separate shape. His or her own
self
. She was going to have to tell mother’s friends. It would be too awkward to have them all just pretend they didn’t notice, like the elephant in the room no one mentions.

Caroline’s bladder wouldn’t let her stay in bed. Her feet recoiled against the cold on the hardwood floor. Where were the socks she’d packed? She rummaged for clothing, dreading the moment of temporary nakedness, and took everything into the bathroom to dress where she could heat the room with shower steam first. Downstairs, she heard dishes and a murmur of voices, so they were both up. A throaty laugh, Noelle’s. She felt rested and not afraid for the moment, knowing they were going to feed her breakfast, offer to let her stay another night if her own house still smelled from the exterminator’s chemicals, hug her warmly and let her go as long as she promised to come back. Such good people. Caroline took heart.

* * * * 

Over breakfast with Noelle and Walt, she checked the tide table in the
Cape Cod Times
. When she left their house at nearly ten, the tide was almost all the way in, so it was a sure thing Rid wouldn’t be on his grant. Spotting someone in Wellfleet off-season wasn’t all that difficult. She had a full gas tank and plenty of time, neither of which, it turned out, she needed. She only cruised the village once before she spotted his truck at the Cumberland Farm store on Route 6. She’d not memorized his license plate, but detected Rid’s dog in the passenger seat fogging the window with her breath.
Good. An adequately public setting. Safe. Nothing he can do to me
. She pulled in and parked alongside.

Rid came out with an oversize Styrofoam cup of coffee. Caroline opened her car door, stood and called to him.

“Hold up, Rid.” She shut her door and started toward him.

“Hey.” His tone was on the wary side of neutral. “How are you?” He ventured a small smile in her direction.

Caroline was taken back. This wasn’t what she’d expected, but, on the other hand, what was he going to do? Hand her a written confession?

She made her voice hard. “Look, I don’t know what you people are trying to accomplish, but it has to stop. I
will
press charges.”

“
Me?
What am
I
trying to accomplish? I’m trying to earn a living. Legally. On my own grant. The question is what are
you
trying to do?”

“I’m trying to live peacefully in my house. I’m not bothering anybody.”

Rid snorted. “No, you get
other
people to do your dirty work. You just said you’re going to press charges. Another suit? Goodness. How
do
you manage to keep all your lawsuits straight?”

Caroline felt her face flush and her heart was beating too fast. “What? Are you crazy?” Two cars down, a teenage girl just getting into her car looked over in alarm as Caroline shrieked at Rid. She was too enraged to be embarrassed.

“Sure. Completely.” He made a face at her, to go with the sarcasm. Was it a leer? Rid started to open the door of his truck.

Caroline grabbed his sleeve. “Oh no. You’re
not
doing this to me any more. Don’t you have any feelings? For God’s sake, there’s a baby involved.”

Rid spun around, coffee sloshing out of his cup onto his bare hand. “Shit!” He put the cup on the top of the truck and waved his fingers in the air, wiped them on his jeans. Lizzie came to the driver’s side and whined.

“I’m sorry,” Caroline said. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“I’m not the one throwing away the baby’s future. Look, why can’t you just go back where you came from? You and your washashore friends with your goddamn precious bay views.”

“Dammit Rid. I was born here. This is
my
home, too. You’re not going to drive me away. Stay off my property, stop stalking me, stop trying to scare me into leaving. I know who you are, I know what you’re doing, and I’m warning you.”

The day was dank, heavy clouds having moved in from the west to completely blanket the early sun. “Oh, you’re warning me are you? Well, I’m warning
you
.” His eyes were navy, stones under water, his whole face ruddy as if from weather, different from when he’d smiled at her. He wore a heavy hooded sweatshirt, gray, over a red flannel shirt. She could see the collar of it, and another white T shirt beneath that. The tips of his ears were flaming. He picked his coffee off the roof of the truck, sloshing more there, the ground and himself as he opened the door and got in.

Caroline saw the dog hustle back into the passenger side but quickly reverse position and lick Rid’s cheek and neck. Rid turned his face to the Lab, somehow rotating his body to bring his left hand up and over to caress her ears. Then he straightened and the motor roared to life while Caroline stood on the asphalt outside the convenience store as if she’d taken root there, trying to fathom how a man could be so tender to his dog and go out of his way to hurt the woman carrying his baby.

Chapter 18

Rid was so worked up he’d actually turned the wrong way on Route 6, forgetting that he’d been headed to the marine supply in Orleans. Now he found himself with his shorts in a twist and aimed toward P-town for no reason at all except that he’d wanted to head the truck away without having to pass CiCi and her car. Every single damn time he saw that woman he ended up with his heart pounding mad and his truck bed filled with guilt. He’d left her standing there, her mouth half-open like a bitten apple. Like she was talking but nothing was coming out. Just as well. It wouldn’t have been good, he knew that much.

He dried his coffee-covered hand on the ratty towel he kept on the floorboard for Lizzie when she’d been swimming in the bay, finishing it off with a couple of swipes back and forth against his jeans which were way cleaner than the towel. Traffic was non-existent. He took a breath, then another, trying to calm down. He’d had the impulse to call Tomas, but squelched it. Sometimes he got tired of Tomas telling him what to do, for one. There were times Tomas acted as if he was the only one with a working brain.

When Rid got to the Truro town line without having turned around, he decided to just go to the marine supply up in P-town. He was halfway there now anyway. What the hell had Caroline been talking about? Stalking her? Like he’d consider it. Jesus. Trying to drive her out? Rid shook his head in disgust. Obviously, the woman knew nothing about him. That was more lunatic Mario’s style.

Oh Christ.
Mario.

His mind did a yoyo reel. Mario had threatened Pissario. Maybe Mario thought Caroline was an easier target. It would be just like him. Was it even possible that CiCi was telling the truth? But she’d pretty much admitted that she was in on the lawsuit, hadn’t she? All that stuff about how this was her home. She sounded like Pissario, talking about his stinking rights. A lot that asshole knew anyway. When had all this started? Rid tried to lay out a mental time line but the line wouldn’t go straight, wouldn’t even stay just one line, but forked and turned all wavy, doubled back and looped into knots. Like his stomach right now.

He crossed over onto 6A where the roads ran close together near Beach Point. All the cottages lined like soldiers along the beach were deserted; you could fly down this road as fast as Route 6 if you felt like it now, but he’d wanted the change of scenery and thinking time, so he slowed a good deal from highway pace. He’d not had the thought consciously until the
Provincetown
sign was smack in front of him and then the road split, Bradford Street to the right and Commercial Street to the left. The marine supply was on Commercial Street but there he was, veering to the right.

He leaned to flip open the glove compartment, pulled out the paper Moonface had given him. Terry DiPaulo 290 Bradford Street.
Just check on things at this address,
Moonface said.
She needs anything, you help her.

Tomas said, “Don’t go near the place. It’s a set-up.”

He drove past the house deliberately, turned around in a driveway, passed it again, turned around again a quarter of a mile back the way he’d come from, and this time pulled over to park fifty feet east of the house and on the opposite side of the street.

What was he supposed to see? It was a house. An old Cape house with cedar shakes. Fenced, a bit ramshackle, but not falling down. The yard should have been mowed again in late fall, but it was too late now. The shrubbery could use pruning. So what? So could his own. In the small yard, a child’s swing set had an unused look, as all children’s play equipment does in winter. This set seemed to be for a toddler; the seats were the kind that harness a small body like a parent’s arms. The house didn’t appear particularly lived in, but didn’t look abandoned either. Most of the windows were covered, but not so much as to make it look as if the world had been refused entirely. Curled on the passenger seat next to him, Lizzie stretched, shifted position and sighed as she resettled in her sleep. The tags on her collar jangled softly one against the other. Rid stroked her head without taking his eyes from the DiPaulo house. “Atta girl, good girl,” he murmured. “I have no idea what the hell is going on.”

His lukewarm coffee tasted of earth and age. The truck windshield was dirty, big streaky fans left by the wipers, which annoyed him, and it annoyed him that he had let Moonface control him this much. It was easier to be annoyed than to be afraid.

His thoughts shifted back the confrontation with Caroline. Now that he was mad at Moonface again, it was easier to study her in his mind’s eye and see she was truly frightened. What the hell was Mario thinking? They’d all agreed not to do anything illegal, especially with Lorenz working behind the scenes. His impulse was to go have it out with him, but he didn’t want to hear Mario run his mouth. It’s not like it was going to be the truth coming out if it didn’t serve Mario’s purpose at the moment, partners or not. He and Tomas had already proven that much the night Mario sank his truck.

Pieces of an idea began to occur to him, shifting into different patterns as he turned them like a kaleidoscope and studied various ways the pieces could dovetail. But there were too many. He’d just have to leave the pieces in disarray. He started his truck and drove back to Wellfleet in the bleak of December without remembering to go to the marine supply in P-town and get the rope he needed. He hadn’t eaten yet that day, either.

* * * * 

That afternoon he hung out at the Oyster bar, not that he didn’t have plenty to do at home with cages to repair, fourth quarter taxes in a mess, and the giant tangle of HAASAP paperwork for which he had no talent or patience. He needed to get more firewood cut, too. He hardly had enough for himself yet, let alone enough to sell. (And he’d promised his sister to bring a load “for Mom,” although surely his lily-livered brother-in-law could dirty his hands enough to take care of keeping his own house warm if it came down to it.) But he was here because Billy would have the police scanner on, for one, and for two, the local cops hung out there themselves when they were off duty and hiding out from their wives. This was going to take some time to finesse. He didn’t want anyone knowing what he was after.

“Hey, Billy. Gimme a draft, will ya?” He’d hung his jacket up and settled at the bar. “And a Reuben, huh? With fries and a couple extra pickles.” Then, in a casual tone, he cast his first line. “Saw an accident up on 6A. Who was it?”

Billy’s face registered surprise, then he narrowed his eyes. He was the one who took the town’s pulse. “Squad cars there? Nothing on the scanner....”

“Maybe someone was trying to keep it off his insurance record. Only one of the cars looked messed up. But maybe you just missed it.”

“Nah. It’s a graveyard in here.”
Graveyahd
, it came out. South Boston never wears off. The local accent wasn’t nearly as broad. “I’ve had the scanner on all morning,” he said, skeptical.

“Huh. Dunno, then. Anything interesting for the flatfoots lately?”

“Some peeping Tom calls, not last night, though. But you’ll love this one. That Pissario guy up on the bluffs reported vandalism.” Billy gave Rid a sidelong flirtatious look and flipped his wrist, the other hand on his waist in a caricature pose. “Honey, I know that’ll just break your heart, you being best friends and all. I’m sure you just have no idea who might want to do any damage up there now, right?”

He’d gotten more than he bargained for. “Shit,” he muttered. “Shit. Do they know who did it? I mean did they catch anyone?”

“No arrest
yet
.” Again, that infuriating grin from Billy. And his dangling right earring shone and winked in the window light, which made it worse.

“Hey, wipe it off, will ya? If you’re thinking I had something to do with that, think again.”

Billy feigned innocent surprise. “Oh no. Certainly not
you
.
Your
name wasn’t mentioned on the scanner as someone to pick up for questioning. But you’d know the person who was.”

That had to mean Mario. Goddammit, why couldn’t he just stick to their plan?

“I’m pretty sure Mario was with Tomas last night anyway.” A lie, but he needed to get to what he really wanted to know. “Still, I suppose an alibi won’t count against Pissario’s money.”

“Hey, our cops are locals. They’ll be looking for a way not to hang it on him. But they’ve got to make it look right.”

“What’s the peeping Tom stuff about?”

“Dunno. It’s a chick over on the horseshoe beach at Indian neck. She’s called in a bunch of times is all I know. They’ve never found anybody on her property when they get there. I think they’re getting sick of her. Maybe she’s cuckoo.” Billy twirled his forefinger around the side of his head along with a cross-eyed lolling tongue grin. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt today, with darts. It looked like a woman’s XXL.

“They think Mario’s in on that, too?”

“I dunno. Didn’t hear one way or the other. Ask your partner. Hey, I bet your sandwich is sitting under the heat lamp waiting on me to pick it up. You’d think Chuck could give a holler, wouldn’t you? Lemme check.” Billy disappeared through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

Rid took a deep breath and tried to quiet his mind enough to sort through what he’d learned, but there wasn’t enough time. The doors swung again, and Billy appeared with his food, setting it down hard and then sliding some silverware in Rid’s direction. “He actually bitched at me for letting it sit there after it was done, can you believe it? So what? He’s got two broken legs and couldn’t have brought it out here himself? Like the grand master chef has anything else on the grill. Thinks he’s special….” Billy kept muttering, wandering down the bar, wiping the wood as he went.

Rid leaned way over to pick up a Provincetown Banner someone had left on a table behind him. He opened it and tried to look engrossed. He needn’t have. Billy had wandered over to the restaurant side where he was sharing his outrage with Jannie Stonegood, who served as both hostess and cashier during the off-season. Rid was free to try to put together something that resembled a plan.

* * * * 

He’d frittered away the afternoon as if minutes were just so much sand blowing around, unable to concentrate on all that needed to be done while he waited for darkness. It was absolutely unlike him, and added another layer to the frustration he was working on, to say nothing of how it was filled with anxiety.

This close to the winter solstice, moonrise was around four, and before five, the afternoon light gathered its skirt over to one side to reveal the blaze of sunset. Evening stars had taken over by five forty-five. Rid waited until six, then headed out to his truck with a full thermos of coffee, two shrink-wrapped sandwiches and a Hershey Bar he’d picked up at Cumberland Farms. “No, girl, you stay home,” he said first, as Lizzie automatically scurried to her feet and tried to get out the door ahead of him, but even as she reluctantly backed up, he said, “Oh, what the hell. You can come. You’ll just have to stay in the truck, but you’re used to that, aren’t ya?” The dog’s tail swung in furious pleasure, thumping against the door jamb as she scampered out. Right behind her, Rid suddenly thought of something else, went to the storage closet beneath the stairs and pulled out a small beach blanket and a backpack.

“Okay girl. Let’s roll,” he said, catching up with Lizzie who was waiting for him at the passenger door. “I’ll drive, you take shotgun,” he said as she made her leap onto the seat the instant he opened the door.

It was only a five-minute trip. He turned down King Philip Lane as if he were headed to his grant, but instead of making the right turn that would have taken him to the access road, he went straight, and where the little road turned off, at Blackfish Creek, to Hiawatha, which in turn would become the access road, he pulled over and parked. “Nap time, girl. I gotta work now.”

Lizzie jumped through the cleft in the two front seats to the back. She knew these words and this drill. Rid poured some water into the bowl on the floor of the back seat from the two-liter bottle he kept there, and pulled a biscuit out of his pocket. “I’ll be back,” he said, caressing her ears. “You be a good girl.” Opening his glove compartment, he pulled out the small high- intensity flashlight there, and stuck it in his back pocket. He took a blanket, his thermos and the sandwiches—one tuna salad, one roast beef—stuffed them in the backpack, cracked the driver’s side window and locked the truck. Then he started to walk back up toward the access road, pulling the backpack into position as he went.

Once headlights cut through the blackness ahead and he melted into someone’s yard, taking refuge behind a hedge. He crossed the access road, and then started to work his way into the woods, staying on property lines as best he could. There wasn’t a lot of underbrush; it was all tall pines, sandy yards, but still, oaks, especially, growing where there was more light. The closer he got to the water, the more beach plums and wild roses there were, and the harder it was to make his way.

He kept a wide berth of CiCi’s yard. Down close to the horseshoe beach, a lot of people let much of their land go wild. If they bothered with grass, they only mowed the smallest spot around their house, maybe clearing areas for vegetables and flowers, a private area for sitting outside with garden furniture and a patio table with a bright umbrella, that sort of thing. Most of the older houses also had wraparound porches, often screened. But they’d let the larger parts of their yards go wild over the years as the crowds of summer people swelled and were ever more intrusive. There’s not much vegetation that’s less hospitable when you’re uninvited than the daunting impenetrability of beach plums and rose hips.