In the Waning Light (14 page)

Blake and Geoff walked slowly up to the marina from the old boathouse cabin on the water. Blake had set his brother up in the cabin with fresh linen, firewood, and kerosene for the lanterns. The place was not wired for power. Lucy waddled behind the brothers. Smoke curled from the marina chimney up on the rise, and waves slapped gently along the shore. Down on the water the wind was turning icy as the day tilted toward dusk. Clouds scudded across the expanse of darkening sky.

“You sure you’re okay to stay down here?” Blake said.

“I’d rather not get into your hair.”

“You mean, rather not stay in the old house—too many bad memories?”

Geoff shrugged inside his coat. “Maybe I can do some work down here—the old logs, some sculpting.”

“How long are you going to stay?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“What does it depend on?”

Geoff stroked his goatee. “Thought I might catch up with a few old friends now that I’m back. We’ll see.”

Blake cast a sideways glance at his sibling, a cool unease feathering into him. Or perhaps it was just the drop in temperature.

They reached the marina building, and Blake held the door open for his brother to enter the Crabby Jack space, which was still in the throes of renovation. Earlier, Geoff had helped him and Noah carry supplies in from the back of his truck, and the three of them had given the place one last coat of paint. It smelled strong, but looked clean and ready for the tables to move back in.

“You always did love this place, this bay,” Geoff said, hands in pockets as he walked into the center of the room and turned in a slow circle.

Until Meg left me hollow. She took the heartbeat of the bay away. How can one be so fond of, so in tune with, so in love with a person? So crushed
by rejection . . .

The thing about love, Blake mused, watching his brother, is that it came in so many colors, so many guises, and it could hold both small and enormous power. It could move one to do extraordinary things . . . like keep secrets against better judgment, just to keep someone safe.

“Hey, Dad.” Noah appeared in the archway that led into the large open-plan kitchen. “The buzzer went.”

“Thanks, bud—you set the table?”

“Yup,” Noah said, eyeing his uncle with a kind of awe as he followed them into the kitchen. It made Blake smile inside as he opened the oven and took out the piping hot lasagna he’d made.

They sat at a table nestled into a small dining nook next to the old stone fireplace, in front of the big windows that looked out over the darkening bay. A wall of mist was beginning to menace in from the sea. The fire cracked and popped.

“So where is Meg staying?” Geoff said between mouthfuls.

“The old house.”

“She never sold it?”

“Irene was living there, until recently. She has early stage dementia, set fire to part of the living room with candles she left burning. She’s moved into Chestnut Place, that assisted living facility.”

Geoff took a pull of his cold beer. “How is it—seeing her again?”

Blake stole a cautionary glance at Noah, who was tucking into his lasagna with unusual gusto. “She looks good. She’s engaged. Some forensic shrink dude.”

His brother held his eyes, unspoken words hanging between them.

“My dad told me you’re an artist,” Noah said, reaching for his juice.

“I am. A sculptor. Installations.”

“You mean, like statues?”

“Sort of. Wood. Stone. Metal. Mostly really big projects now. I like to use stuff from nature. And old glass. Wire. Depends on the theme, the commission.”

“Is your work in famous places?”

Geoff smiled. “You could say. I won a contract for the public art structure that now stands outside a big courthouse in San Diego, and a commission for installations along a mile-long sea walk, to name two of the projects I’m most proud of.”

Noah stared at his uncle. “That’s so cool.” Blake felt a squeeze in his chest at his son’s interest, at the light in his green eyes tonight. It drove home the importance of family. Of role models and mentors. Of openness, support. Things Bull Sutton had not been able to give his eldest son.

“I like art,” Noah declared with pride. “It’s my favorite subject at school.”

“It is?” Geoff said, giving his nephew his full attention. “Have you got anything you can show me?”

“Some paintings.”

“After dinner,” said Blake, getting up to snag another two beers from the fridge. He placed one in front of his brother, popped the cap on his own, then stoked the fire.

“Say, I brought you something,” Geoff said, digging in his pocket. He set a smooth, shiny, turquoise-green object in front of Noah. “California sea glass.”

“Cool,” said Noah, picking up the piece and holding it to the light. “What’s sea glass?”

Geoff grinned. “Just a piece of broken glass, but washed smooth and shaped by the ocean and rocks and sand. That’s the kind of thing I like to use in my art. And that particular piece,” he said, “happens to be a good luck charm.”

Noah’s eyes flared up. “How do you know?”

“Feel it, rub your thumb over it.”

Noah did.

“See how that feels? You can feel the magic, right? You can feel it in here.” Geoff tapped his chest. His eyes twinkled in the firelight.

“I think so,” Noah said, concentrating.

“Keep it in your pocket. When you feel troubled, you rub that sea glass.”

Noah grinned. His legs swung back and forth under the table. And Blake wondered if it might be that simple, the answer to some troubles, a little bit of magic in the pocket. Belief.

He did the dishes while Noah showed his uncle his paintings. After Noah had bathed and was in his flannel PJs, Geoff read the bedtime story by the fire, with Lucy lying upside down and undignified on her mat in front of the hearth. Blake reclined in his father’s old wingback, just listening and watching the two of them. He put his head back, closed his eyes, and thought, yes, this is what he wanted. The simple warmth of family once again filling this old marina, living by the rhythm of the seasons and tides. Perhaps he was just a simple man, a physical man, like his dad. A man who wanted to protect and cherish a small tribe of his own. It was no wonder Meg had left him, all those years ago. She’d had her sights set on a big-time glitzy career, a lover with a small fortune and the looks and charisma of James Bond. A shrink who analyzed monsters. Not vaguely in his league. If he could have seen this years ago, maybe he’d have given Allison a better chance. Regret washed through him, and he reached for his beer, taking a deep pull.

“Okay,” Geoff said, closing the book with a flourish. “Bedtime. School day tomorrow. Installment number two tomorrow night—good enough?”

“Yeah!” said Noah. He bounded up the stairs to brush his teeth.

“Have a good day, kiddo, at school tomorrow,” Geoff called after him.

“Will you be here when I get home?” Noah called from the upstairs landing. “For dinner again?”

“I don’t know about dinner, kiddo. But I’ll be around for a few days.”

After Blake had tucked Noah into bed, he came back downstairs and said, “Coffee? Nightcap?”

“Nightcap.”

He poured two whiskeys and he sat by the fire with his brother, listening to the rattle of wind as it picked up.

“He’s a damn fine kid,” Geoff said after a while.

“I know.”

“Not an easy time of it?”

“I’m learning my son,” Blake said quietly. “I never really knew him. The tours in Iraq, then Afghanistan, I missed his birth. I missed out on so much of his growing. He’s so much like his mother, too. It’s good for him to see you, to connect with family.” He paused. “Thanks, for coming, for spending some time.”

A dark look shifted into Geoff’s face. He broke eye contact. And something in Blake sank. The subtext, the real reasons he might be back, rose cool between them.

“He’s a good artist.” Geoff cleared his throat and infused his voice with an upbeat tempo. “Seriously. It’s not just glib talk. I do some volunteer work with kids at a local community center, teaching art. From the drawings he showed me, Noah has inherent talent. And an outlandish imagination. He could take this places.”

“That’s a talent he gets from you, I suspect. Or Allison. Or even his grandmother. Certainly not me.” He downed the dregs of his whiskey and plunked the glass hard on the table beside him.

Geoff eyed him. “If I had to write a letter to my young father today, I’d say, acceptance is at the heart of love. Differences are what make the world a wonderful place. Be open, Blake, nurture him when he shows his passions. If you want to make your boy strong, this is how. Be the buttress roots. Support him. He’ll surprise you with his strength.”

Blake swallowed, embarrassed by the powerful emotion these words put into his chest. The fire crackled. He got quickly to his feet. “I need to call it a night. You want to stay by the fire a while, another drink?”

“This book on Sherry’s murder, she’s really set on it?” The elephant in the room loomed forward.

Blake stilled. “You know Meg, when she gets an idea between her teeth. She’s like a dog with a bone.”

“And you want to tell her I was on the spit that day?”

“If she asks me to run through it. What I remember.”

“Blake, it has nothing to do with—”

“Doesn’t it? Because someone else was there, too, the person you went to meet. This person was never questioned. This person could have seen something—”

“He
didn’t
. Okay?”

Their gazes warred.

“What’s the issue here? You think Tyson Mack didn’t kill Sherry, or what?”

“No, it’s just—”

“Just about the truth? Or is this about Meg, and you just not wanting to keep something from her? For what? Some weird crisis of conscience?”

Blake stared at his brother in silence.

“It’s not going to win her back, Blake,” Geoff said softly. “It’s not going to change a damn thing, telling her I was on the spit. All that could happen is that she will go on a witch hunt, looking for the person I was with.”

“And what is so wrong with that?”

“It would kill him.”

Blake blinked. “He’s still in town?”

“Yes. And he’s living in an iron closet. His life is a facade. This would tear his marriage apart, destroy his life. Please, I beg you, just let him be.”

“You loved him,” Blake said quietly. “You still do.”

“Those first loves . . .” Geoff cleared his throat. “I care about him. If Meg goes on a witch hunt . . . Please.”

Blake walked over to the window and looked down at the water. He ran his hands over his hair.

“She’s engaged, Blake. You have your own life with Noah here.”

“I know.”

“Let her write her story. Let her interview you, but leave me out of it. Leave what Dad did to me out of it. You honestly want to see our personal family issues in print all over the nation? Have her writing about us, about how Dad abused us, talking about it on national television?”

Blake’s head began to pound.

“Don’t let her get under your skin again.” A pause. The flames spat, popped. Wind gusted and the building creaked. “She’s not good for you. Please.”

Blake turned, met his brother’s eyes. He couldn’t recall the last time Geoff ever begged him. For anything. Yet he couldn’t shake the disquieting sense there was something more that lurked behind Geoff’s words. That something else
had
happened that night on the spit.

“Maybe her memory will come back,” Blake said.

Geoff held his stare. “Maybe. It still won’t change anything.”

“Are you sure?”

“Do I sound unsure?”

Yeah, you do. I’ve known you my whole life, bro, and I know when you’re hiding something . . .

Noah tensed outside the door. He’d been listening. Like a super spy. But at the sound of his father’s footfalls approaching, he ran quickly and softly on socked feet to the stairs. He hesitated, then scampered up, using hand over hand, crawling like a fast, giant tarantula. He raced to his room, closed the door, dived into his bed, and clicked off the lamp.

He lay there, listening to his dad’s footsteps coming up the stairs. His dad’s bedroom door closed. Noah’s mind spun. He’d guessed they would talk about him. When adults suddenly said “go to bed,” it was because they didn’t want the kid to hear. It happened like that in his books all the time. And like a character in one of his books, Noah had crept back downstairs. He’d reached the door when they were talking about Meg doing the book.

And the secret Geoff didn’t want his dad to tell her.

THE STRANGER AMONG US

By Meg Brogan

THE BROTHERS

You know her well . . . Very well . . .

Guilt twists through Blake as he watches the mist and storm swallow his dad’s boat. Meg was wearing shorts, a skimpy T-shirt, Skechers. She’s not dressed for this. He sees her in his mind’s eye, lean, pale legs racing down the dock, a pennant of deep-red hair snapping behind her as she speeds her little tin boat across the bay. She wasn’t wearing her life jacket, either. She never did wear one if she could help it—didn’t think it was cool. Meg was fond of risk.

He casts his mind a little further back, and suddenly it strikes him. He remembers his brother’s boat returning just after dusk, how his brother was shirtless, how he made straight for the boathouse cabin, how he didn’t bother to securely moor his craft, and Blake had to do it for him when he noticed. A dark sensation coils in the pit of his belly. Geoff hasn’t bothered to exit his cabin tonight, not even with all this commotion and the search going on.

Blake runs in his oversize gum boots down the twisting path, tripping over stones and sliding in mud, to the old boathouse where his older brother now lives. It’s Geoff’s hideout, where he does his “art.”

Rain lashing his face, wind tearing at his slicker, Blake bashes the base of his fist against the peeling paint of the wood door. “Geoff! You in there?!”

Nothing.

“
Geoff
!
”

He tries the handle. It’s unlocked. He swings open the door and blows in with the wind and water. He freezes at the sight in front of him. Slowly, he pushes the door shut behind him.

It’s hot inside. Too hot. A strong kerosene scent comes from the flickering, smoking lantern. But it’s the strange smell of sweat, acrid, that assails, and startles him.

His brother sits in a chair at an old stripped-wood table. He’s wearing jeans. Is barefoot. Shirtless. His back is to Blake, his head in his hands. His skin is sheened with sweat.

“Why . . . aren’t you out helping?” Blake demands, suddenly unsure. His brother sits, unresponsive. Blake’s attention zeroes in on a ball of fabric in the corner of the room, on the floor. It’s the shirt Geoff was wearing this morning. The shirt is black with . . . blood? Fear trickles into him. “What’s going on, Geoff?” he says quietly. “What happened?”

Silence.

“Geoff?”

“Fuck off.”

But Blake stands his ground, rooted by an unspecified anxiety. Slowly Geoff turns around. What Blake sees in his older brother’s eyes is not anger at his younger sibling for having entered his stupid sanctuary. It’s something that guts him on a much deeper, more primal level. In his brother’s eyes he sees fear. No, not just fear, a kind of bright, atavistic terror. Geoff’s complexion is waxy white. A nasty gash has been slashed across his cheekbone. There are scratches on his arm. Blake swallows, his eyes flicking between the soiled T-shirt, and his brother.

Silence swells. Wind moans and rattles at the doors and window, beseeching a way in. Surf crashes and thunders at the point. The foghorn is pleading. Air horns sound out on the bay, voices yelling on the water as volunteers search for the Brogan girls.

“Where’ve you been?” Blake’s voice comes out hoarse. “You went to the spit—I saw you heading out there this morning.”

Silence. Unreadable, unfathomable deep holes in his sibling’s eyes.

“What happened on the spit?” he says quietly, coming forward.

Geoff looks slowly down at his hands, as if they somehow no longer belong to him, as if they’ve done things he doesn’t comprehend. He looks back up at his brother and his eyes pool with moisture. Tears track down his cheeks.

Blake has to force his next words to form. “What happened? What did you do to your head? What happened on the spit—did you see the girls?” His questions come out in a rough wheeze, as if through a wind instrument constricted by a tension-tight reed.

“Nothing, dammit!” Geoff explodes from his chair. The chair crashes back onto the floor. His neck muscles cord blue. “I caught a branch with my face, now get the hell out of here!”

Inside his stomach Blake starts to shake. For the first time in his life he’s afraid of his older brother in the way that he’s sometimes afraid of his father. “It was Dad,” he says hoarsely. “Wasn’t it? I heard. Last night. I heard you guys fighting. He hit you again.”

“Just fuck off, okay.”

Blake goes to the door. Stops. “The Brogan girls are missing. Did you know that?”

“No. And I don’t the fuck care.”

“You didn’t see them, on the spit?”

“What part of ‘no’ don’t you get, you moron? Just fuck off, will you.”

“Did you see anyone, anyone at all?”

His brother’s eyes flare to Blake’s. Electricity crackles from him in waves. He stinks. “No. No one.”

But something about his brother’s face deepens the fear in Blake.

“Where’s your bag?”

Geoff turns away, rights the chair, and resumes his position at the table, face in hands, his back to Blake.

“I saw you go out with your sack this morning, the one you use to collect flotsam for your work.”

Silence.

Blake turns and makes for the door, but swings back. “It was about you wanting to go to art school in the fall, that’s why you fought, wasn’t it?”

Silence.

“You’re the one who’s the moron—you should know better than to talk to him when he’s had a few. You asshole.” Blake reaches for the door handle, fighting compassion, bashing down his own unarticulated fear and mounting sense of urgency. It’s always his brother who bears the brunt of their father’s wrath. Geoff is Bull Sutton’s punching bag. If Blake had to pinpoint the day the animosity started to fester between them, it was the day Geoff found their mom’s seascapes stashed in the dusty old shed at the back end of their property, and he told his father he wanted to hang them in the house, because they were so beautiful.

“What are you going to do, Geoff?”

“Leave. Get out of this hellhole. Go to California.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. Tomorrow. Next month. As soon as I get my shit together.”

Blake exits the boathouse. Heavy heart, thudding adrenaline. Anxiety churns through him. It’ll be just him and his dad now. The sense of looming loss is profound. Tears mix with the water running down his face as he stomps up through the rain and enters the office. He fiddles with the radio channels, listening to the crackle and hiss of the calls out on the bay. Then he hears a snatch that thumps the wind out of him. They’ve found Sherry.

She’s dead. Police have been called. The death sounds suspicious. Then there’s an order to cut radio chatter on the subject.

Raw chill slices through him.
Meg?
Where’s Meg? Frantically he scans through the other channels.

No sign of the other girl.

Blake can’t stand it. His brain screams. Sweat pools under his arms, drenching his shirt. He paces, up and down, up and down, up and down, hitting his fist into his palm, the radio crackling, his mind racing.
What happened to Sherry? Where’s Meg?
What was Geoff doing on the spit today?
He explodes suddenly like a volcano—manning the fort be damned—he grabs his weather gear, a flashlight, headlamp, first aid kit, a portable radio of his own, and makes his way through the slashing rain down the gangway to his small boat.

He casts off the lines, motors into the storm wearing his tiny headlamp. Tossing like a little cork upon a boiling sea, he gooses his engine, setting his prow dead center of the incoming waves, slapping into the crests as they break and crash into whitecaps around him, spraying his face. He’s watchful of the rebound surge coming off the dike that could hit him broadside. He keeps an eye on the backwash from the cliff side of the point. He knows the vagaries of the tidal currents in this bay, how they swirl when high tide pushes in, and he compensates, running his craft up the far left of the channel, knowing that even going full power into the surge, it will still carry him at least fifty yards over to the right, where he’ll run into trouble against the rocks. Blake knows exactly where each painted cairn stands along the dike, marking where sailors have drowned. He has no intention of having his life marked by a cairn. Salt water driven by wind stings his face, leaks from his squinting eyes.

He aims for the flare of the lighthouse at the mouth, aims toward the boom of the waves against the riprap reef—the dangerous maw of the point and the south beach. He’s a young Odysseus navigating between the treachery of a Scylla and Charybdis to rescue his redheaded little goddess. For he knows Meg’s secret place.
Their
secret place. A small cave to which access is cut off at high tide. But if you know where to go, you can still get into the cave during high water,
if
you dive under and swim up inside the grotto, from where you can climb to higher ground and stay dry even at top watermark. If . . . just
if
Meggie ran into trouble, that’s where she would go, that’s where she might try to hide.