Last to Know (5 page)

Diz had watched her run, crouching low, to the narrow strip of shore, climb into the small boat beached there, place the bags in the stern, then row her way across to the island a couple of hundred yards away where he’d observed her get out, take her plastic bags, and disappear into the bushes.

She’d emerged a short time later without the bags and gotten back into the boat. Pushing off, she rowed expertly, with hardly a rustle of water, he’d noticed admiringly, back to the coarse sandy shore where she beached the craft. Diz had watched her walk back to her house, keeping to the cover of the trees, and climb back in through the kitchen window.

At the same time, something else, a movement, had made him glance back at the island. Surprisingly, he’d seen a man there. He couldn’t quite make out who the man was, but now he was carrying the white plastic bags. Diz watched him wade to a waiting dinghy and row slowly out of sight.

At the time, Diz had wondered what the two were up to, what was in the bags, whether they’d had a secret rendezvous. He’d shrugged it off. Girls were a mystery. It probably had something to do with sex. It always did. At least with his sisters it did.

Actually, even though it was now 3
A.M.
it wasn’t totally silent. Not many people knew it but there was always something doing at night. No hooty owls and dumb country stuff like that, but a lot of slithering and grunting went on when the rest of the world was safely asleep in their beds. Voles rustled through the grass escaping the talons of the silent, watchful owls; rats scratched in the wooden boathouse, shredding it to bits, his father complained, but then his father was always complaining about something these days. More interestingly, a set of badgers gleamed in the dark like they were headlamps, making Diz wonder how they could not expect to be noticed by other, more predatory creatures.

Just went to show you, he thought, picking another fig off the tree and shoving it, whole, into his mouth so that the juices slid out the corners and ran down his chin. He wiped it off with the back of his hand, bored. And then he saw a light go on in the downstairs window at the house across the lake.

He checked the time again. Three
A.M.
Immediately alert, he grabbed the binoculars strung around his neck. Curious, Diz had been observing the family for the past few weeks, though he had never met them. He knew that his own mother, Rose, who almost always liked everyone regardless, did not approve of the way the girl’s mother dressed, flashily, in too-short shorts and too-tight tank tops and always with her oversized white sunglasses. Too sexy for her own good, he’d heard his sisters comment the other night when he’d been out here on his tree branch which was conveniently close to their bedroom window. Not that he spied on them, just snickered when they talked boys and stuff. Were all sisters as stupid as his, he wondered, and decided probably all girls were. Though not the one who came with the woman across the lake, and whom he had observed earlier that evening, rowing to the island and back. Now she was quite something.

Tall, skinny as a snake, long pale hair that hung straight to her shoulders and swung when she walked, which was always right behind the cheap blonde he guessed must be her mother. “Walk, Goddammit,” he’d heard the mother snarl when the girl dawdled to look at the horses grazing in the field or the red-tail hawk flying overhead, or something equally important and anyhow probably the reason she was on vacation there, to enjoy nature, etc., like the rest of them. The woman had a hard mouth and narrowed eyes, and something about her gave Diz the impression she drank. Unlike his dad, who Diz knew was drinking. Diz guessed Wally was considered good-looking and very probably attractive to women, which might be the reason now, in the middle of the night, he saw his father rowing back across the lake from the direction of the woman’s house. Shit! It couldn’t be! His dad wouldn’t do that, and not with her! God, he could never tell his mom, never tell anyone, not even his older brother, Roman … Wait, though, could that be Roman? Hiding in the trees, watching his father? Why didn’t Roman call out, a simple “Hi, Dad, what’s going on?” What
was
going on, anyway?

Diz watched his father dock the small, lightweight craft, pack the oars, drag the boat into the boathouse, then walk silently toward the house, followed seconds later by Roman. Diz pressed back against the tree trunk, rustling the leaves. For a second his father paused and looked directly at the tree. Roman was in the shadows behind him. Diz thought surely they must see him … but no, his father walked on and went into the house, while Roman simply disappeared into the night.

Two minutes later, the whole world lit up in a surprising rose-tinged glow.

Astonished, Diz immediately focused his binoculars on the house across the lake. The door was flung open. The blond girl stood there for a second, then ran screaming, toward the lake. It was odd, Diz thought, because she seemed to be surrounded by a halo that lit up her face, illuminating her open screaming mouth. And then he realized the girl’s hair was on fire … Oh Jesus, oh Jesus … he was down that tree in seconds, knees skinned, palms raw …

The girl flung herself into the water, submerging like a terrified porpoise. And then the explosion rocked around, knocking Diz to the ground and the breath from his lungs with its force, and the house behind the girl seemed to disintegrate in slow motion, pieces flying in the air, in a ball of fire that radiated heat to the lake itself.

8

Moments after the explosion, Harry picked himself up. He saw the girl plunge into the lake and begin to swim toward the island. He grabbed his little outboard boat kept for lake emergencies, and headed fast toward her, but even with the shock and her house in flames with debris falling all around her, she made it before him. She dragged herself onto the sandy strip of shore, where she lay on her stomach, arms stretched out sideways.

All the houses on her side of the lake were now in darkness, the power knocked out by the explosion, but every light was on on the opposite shore. The boat he had noticed earlier and thought might be Len Doutzer’s had disappeared, as had Wally’s.

He scrunched ashore, running toward the girl who sat, knees hunched under her chin, face in her hands, sobbing.

Harry stood over her, dripping lake water. He said urgently, “Are you hurt?” She did not answer.

Diz suddenly waded out of the lake. “Jesus H. Christ,” he yelled to the girl. “Your hair was on fire, you must be burned.”

Harry pushed back the girl’s hair and inspected her. She closed her eyes, seeming to await his verdict, as though, Harry thought, she felt nothing. He saw there were no burns on her face, but that she was in shock. In the background, fire engines clanged along the lake road.

“We’ve got to get her out of here,” he said to the boy. “I’ll carry her to the boat, you come back with us.”

Even in her soaked jeans, Harry thought the girl was light as a child. The word “waif” came to mind as he laid her down in the stern while Diz, who knew a thing or two about outboards from many summers at the lake, jerked the motor to life. They skimmed toward the Osbornes’ jetty where his family stood, illuminated like a row of cardboard figures, as were the occupants of every other lake house, all staring stunned at the inferno.

A police helicopter clattered suddenly, its searchlights beaming down on the boat. The girl moaned again, hiding her eyes with her hands. Harry wished he had a blanket to cover her but there had been no time to think. All he had on were his soaked striped boxers; his sweatpants and sweater were still on the lake path where he’d left them, along with the dog, while he swam first to his own jetty to get the boat, because a boat was the only way he was going to get to this girl in time. Oddly, despite the burning hair, as far as he could see her face was unharmed; even her hair seemed okay, thanks no doubt to her quick thinking, diving into the lake like that. He would never forget the halo of fire around her head, though.

Suddenly, she opened her eyes and looked at him; big clear blue eyes drowning in terror. “My mother,” she whispered.

Harry turned to look back at the inferno. He knew there was no hope.

The search-and-rescue squad brought the helicopter in low. Harry told Diz to switch off the outboard motor. The small boat floated silently as the rescuer swung himself down and with Harry’s help got the girl into the mesh stretcher to be hauled up and inside. She was already being wrapped in a foil blanket as the pilot gave the thumbs-up and took to the skies again. She would be in a hospital in Boston within half an hour. Not knowing the extent of her injuries, Harry hoped it would be soon enough.

He was thinking about that second boat he’d seen on the lake and about who was in it. It had to be a local, someone who knew how to maneuver the lake in darkness, knew what he was doing. He’d thought it might be the local oddball, Len Doutzer, it had looked like him anyway, but he could be wrong. Later, he would check Len out though, ask if it was him, and if so exactly what he was doing there when that house caught on fire.

9

Boston, Massachusetts

It was close to four that same morning when Homicide Detective Carlo Rossetti pulled his five-year-old stick-shift black BMW, tires screeching, into the lot outside the converted waterfront warehouse, now known as the Moonlightin’ Club. He ground through the gears into park, slid out of the front seat, slammed the door shut, and gave the car an affectionate pat.

He stood for a minute in the lemon-yellow streetlight, hearing the silence. Rossetti was thirty-six years old and good-looking and he knew it. He fastened his Italian leather jacket, buttoned his immaculate white shirt to the neck, adjusted his Hermès tie—the one with the tiny gold dragons, a gift from a woman who liked him—slicked back his already slick black hair, then, satisfied, sauntered casually into the club.

A wall of sound blasted from gigantic speakers, enveloping the dancers still pounding off their energy even though it was late. Most of them had nowhere else to go. The Moonlightin’ Club had been Harry’s idea, financed anonymously by him in an attempt to get troubled kids off the street, give them a place to hang, a place where they knew they belonged no questions asked, though there were strict rules: no discrimination, no drugs, no weapons, and no gangs. So far, Harry’s investment had been successful: the rules were respected, kids played basketball, worked out, made amateur music videos, invented games for iPads, looked around for a life other than trouble. Harry had seen too many go the wrong way, seen too many lives ruined.

Rossetti knew his buddy was a caring, concerned man who somehow could never get his own life into gear. Now the fiancée had had enough and ditched him. His friend was in emotional trouble and Rossetti knew he might be considering quitting the force.

He grabbed a cup of coffee then went to check the gym. Even this late the machines were jammed. The “high” gained from working out was better than roaming the dark streets looking for the high of danger.

He leaned against the wall, sipping coffee from the cardboard cup (Styrofoam was not allowed, everything must be recyclable, Harry had been adamant about that), watching the action, keen-eyed, always looking for tensions that might erupt into something. But all was quiet, everyone keeping to themselves, racing on treadmills, sweating over weights, feeling good.

Rossetti was whistling his favorite tune, the Italian opera aria “Nessun Dorma,” through his perfect teeth, slicking back his already slick black hair, when his phone rang. He glanced at his Rolex Oyster Perpetual. The watch was a gift from Harry at the conclusion of a case when Rossetti had gone more than overboard and put himself in great personal danger to nail a notorious killer. He treasured that watch and always arranged his cuff so that it showed a little. Now it said almost five minutes after four. Shit.

Unfolding himself from the wall, Rossetti removed the phone from his inner pocket where he always kept it, even though it disturbed the hang of the jacket, but he was damned if he was gonna wear it stuck on his belt where anyhow he already had his detective badge clipped. He checked the name of the caller. Wally Osborne—the Wally Osborne? Jesus! And in the middle of the night.

He clicked on. “Yes, sir, Mr. Osborne,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“It’s me, Rossetti,” Harry replied. “I’m on a borrowed mobile, I’m okay, but someone else is not. She’s being helicoptered, as we speak, to Mass General, probably with burns and certainly with severe shock. Her house just exploded. It’s opposite mine on the lake. I saw her run into the water with her hair on fire … I got her out of there. She’s around eighteen years old and her name is…”

Rossetti waited. He could almost hear Harry thinking.

Then Harry said, “Jesus, Rossetti, I don’t know what her name is. I only knew her by sight, her and her mother.”

“So where’s the mother?” Thinking of what Harry had said about the fire Rossetti almost didn’t want to hear the answer but “God knows,” was all he got.

“Detective,” Rossetti said, sighing, “I thought you’d gone to the lake for some peace and quiet and now look what’s happened. I swear you take it with you…”

“Take what?”

“Trouble, asshole, that’s what.” Rossetti groaned. “It’s the middle of the night…”

“I know what time it is.” Harry could hear music blasting behind Rossetti’s voice. “So why are you at the club instead of in your bed anyway?”

“Just amusin’ myself.”

There was silence, then Harry said, “Detective Rossetti, you and I are a couple of lonely guys, using our jobs to keep out of real relationships with real women, hangin’ in clubs at four in the morning drinking stale coffee out of cardboard cups and checking that the rest of the world is okay while we are not.”

Rossetti drained his cardboard cup and tossed it into the waste bin. “And finding out why young women get themselves burned up in a house fire and their mothers go missin’. Ever think the girl might have wanted to get rid of her mother, Harry?”