The Deepest Water (29 page)

“I said I’d give up my position, go on part time, and divide the year, half here, half in town, the best of both worlds…”

Abby’s mind was drifting: the Xuan Bui Institute in Vietnam near her village, the Jud Vickers Art Institute here by his cabin, his lake. How excited he must have been.

They talked about the art colony throughout the rest of dinner. Abby made coffee, and later she and Willa cleared the table and washed the dishes.

Then Felicia said, “Abby, thank you, child, for letting this day happen, for letting us be here. Thank you. Now, we should be going.”

Willa clasped Abby’s hand fiercely. “Come with us. We’ll toss a coin for the cot; the winner gets the sofa. Please, Abby, come with us.”

Abby shook her head. “I’m glad I realized in time that I didn’t want to be alone today, that you both belonged here, too. But now I have to be alone. For a while.” She hugged Willa and kissed her cheek. “Thanks, Willa.” Then she drew away and embraced Felicia. “And you. I can’t thank you enough. I love you both so much.”

Then very briskly she said, “Now get bundled up. It’s going to be a cold ride across. Felicia, you must be exhausted, all that hiking, cooking, shopping. You have your gloves?”

They all pulled on waterproof boots, heavy jackets and hats, gloves, and they left the cabin. Abby told Spook to stay, to watch, and obediently the dog lay down with a low whine.

“I won’t linger on the other side,” Abby said, steadying the boat for Felicia to step in. “Too cold.”

It was very dark, the woods and sky a black wrap that started somewhere beyond comprehension and came to the edge of the boat; only the lights from the cabin and the light from the ramp existed in such overwhelming darkness. A faint breeze had started here at the surface of the lake; higher up it was brisk enough to rustle the pine branches, whisper in the needles. That and the faint slap of the oars sliding in and out of the water were the only sounds.

At the ramp Willa helped Felicia out of the boat, and then pleaded with Abby. “If you won’t come with us, let me go back with you, spend the night.”

“Another time,” Abby said. “Take care of Felicia.” She pushed off and started to row.

For several seconds the two women on the shore watched her, then Felicia took Willa’s arm and said, “Let’s get to it. Come on.” They started up the path to the carport; when they got there Felicia looked once more at the water; Abby was gone, out of sight, past the reach of the ramp light. On the other side of the finger the cabin glowed like a beacon.

Felicia and Willa got into Felicia’s car and she started the engine and backed out carefully. At the fork in the driveway she turned and drove to the front of the Halburtson house, then farther, and stopped between two pine trees, a spot where the car would be all but invisible to anyone who didn’t look hard for it. Silently they got out and walked back to the front porch; Felicia used a tiny penlight to find the keyhole, unlocked the door, and they entered the house to start their vigil.

23

Abby reentered the cabin and locked the door. She checked the wood supply, unnecessarily; she knew there was plenty inside, more than enough to see her through the night. Spook was pathetically happy to have her home again, and she ruffled the dog’s fur, then unlocked the dog door. Later she would lock her inside. After taking off her heavy jacket and boots, she picked up the shotgun and the box of shells and took them to the table and very methodically loaded the double-barreled gun.

The answering machine light was blinking, she realized. Someone had called in the short time she had been out. It was Brice. His voice sounded strange, thick, the words slurred: “Abby, pick up the fucking phone! I know you’re there. Please. Please pick up.” She stared at the telephone. Was he crying? “Abby, please. I’m begging you. Tell her, Eddie, tell her I’m begging.” His voice broke, and a moment later, in a steadier, more measured, even deliberative manner, he said, “I’m at Eddie Blankenship’s place. I’ll be here for a while. If you need me… What’s your number, Eddie? What’s your fucking number?”

He was drunk, she thought in amazement. Drunk, at Eddie Blankenship’s house. He was repeating a number, enunciating each number too clearly, too precisely. “Call me, sweetheart. Call me.”

She felt weak with relief suddenly. He couldn’t drink and almost always he stopped with one drink, one glass of wine. The only time she had ever seen him drink too much had been at his birthday party when he turned thirty. He had passed out on the couch and had slept for hours, through the party, through the noise of music and laughter, through good-byes hours later, through the night. She had covered him up and left him on the couch. After that he had been teased mercilessly by his friends. Cheap date, they said, what a cheap date. Eddie Blankenship had been at the party, she remembered. And tonight Brice was at his house, drinking himself into a stupor.

She started to replay the message, and midway through she whispered, “I don’t believe it.”

He was putting on an act. There must be others around who knew he couldn’t drink, and he was putting on an act for them. Setting up an alibi. Using her to set up his alibi. Someone would take him home, put him to bed, and presumably he would be out cold for the rest of the night. Respectable people would testify to that: a banker, his wife, people whose words would not be doubted. She disconnected the phone from the wall jack.

Eddie lived a few blocks away in their neighborhood, at the top of the hill; their house was midway down, and how Brice wanted a house at the top of the hill. By the time he achieved it, Eddie would have moved to Spyglass Hill, or some other even more elite neighborhood, and then Brice would not be able to rest until they could move there, too. She looked at her watch, a quarter to ten. He would make it look good, another fifteen minutes or half an hour, and then Eddie would take him home, probably take off his shoes, watch him pass out on the couch the way he had done before. He wouldn’t arrive at the lake for at least two and a half hours. If he came, she added.

If she was wrong, he wouldn’t show up at all. But if she was right, he would be there sometime after twelve, probably closer to twelve-thirty or one, or even later. On Sunday nights most lights in their neighborhood were off by eleven. He might wait until eleven or a little later to start.

Unhurriedly she resumed her preparations. On the back wall of the kitchen the refrigerator was in the corner next to three feet of counter; there had been wall cabinets above it at one time but Jud had taken them down and put in a sliding window, for light and air, he had said, but actually in order to sit at the table and be able to see out over the finger. Then came the sink, with another window, more counter and cabinets, and the stove. The worst possible kitchen design; Lynne had complained about it often, but for one person or even two people it was fine. Abby cleared the counter between the refrigerator and sink, put a toaster and dish drainer on the other side and placed the shotgun on the side where they had been. She considered the box of shells, it should be within reach, but not in the way. She put it near the splash board under the window. Caldwell’s card with his cell phone number went by the telephone in the living room. She made a pot of coffee and filled a thermos, placed a mug nearby; she hated the plastic cup on the thermos. The binoculars, she remembered, and got them from a drawer to take to the kitchen. Scanning the opposite side of the finger, she found the rock she had picked out as a focal target, and when it was perfectly clear she put the binoculars down, close to the edge of the sink. A glass in the dish drainer, where, if she knocked it over fumbling in the dark, it would not crash into the sink; any sound at night carried, she knew. No noise. No light. No shadows at the window.

She brought in a rattan chair and placed it by the counter, but when she sat down, she realized she was too low; she couldn’t see the lake well, couldn’t see the ledge, only across the water. Two cushions made it exactly right. She surveyed the scene, unlocked the window, and then turned off the lights in the cabin. Rehearsal time.

There was more light than she had thought there would be. The glass panel in the door of the woodstove glowed with firelight. Standing at the window with that glow behind her, she might be seen. Regretfully she decided to turn up the thermostat, let the fire die out. The light from outside also illuminated the cabin dimly. It would not reveal her, but it would be a spotlight on him when he came ashore. No rehearsal was needed, she realized; she could see all the items she had arranged. She stood up, then paused, gazing at the water beyond the window.

Although only a few inches deep, the water on the ledge looked bottomless, an abyss; it was responsive to the breeze, restless with shifting patterns under the soft light from the house. Would he wear waterproof boots? She doubted it. He had never been here at this time of year; he didn’t know the ledge would be covered, his feet would get soaked with the icy water, his fine Italian shoes ruined.

It was still early, just eleven. Without turning on a light, with no need for more light, she went to the stove and poked at the wood to make it burn faster, be done sooner. Afterward she sat in the living room. Newly-energized, firelight flared brighter than ever; fire shadows danced on the walls.

If he didn’t come, if she was wrong about everything, then what? She didn’t know. But no matter what else, she knew she could never live with him again. In her mind she had seen him plot the murder of her father and carry it out, and she knew he was capable of it and believed he had done it. But they might never be able to prove anything.

Uneasily she got up and while there was still enough light, although it was fading at last, she went to the pegs in the kitchen, reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out her penlight. She wouldn’t need it in the kitchen, she now realized, but when she used the bathroom she would, and even now she needed it to see the thermostat and set it. Having turned off all the lights, she felt a great reluctance to turn them back on.

She checked the door again, and latched the dog door, and finally she sat down in the rattan chair in the kitchen. Poor dumb Spook, without a clue, sniffed her legs, nuzzled her hand, and finally lay down at her feet with a sigh.

If he didn’t come, Abby started again, she would leave tomorrow. What if he really had a fool-proof alibi? If he really had not committed murder? She would go home, pack some things, and hole up someplace. Go to Salem? Talk to Caldwell? She had to do that, but when? Not before Brice’s hard drive was copied onto disks. If he had left a trail, it was on his computer. She had to start there. And if his alibi couldn’t be disproved, what? Give Brice a chance to admit what he had done at the office, make him go to Durkins and confess and guarantee restitution, starting with the money she was borrowing? She realized she was considering giving him the same chance her father had given her first husband: confess, pay up, and get out. Brice would have to agree to go into some other work before she turned a cent over to him, he could never manage anyone else’s money again. That would be like putting a pedophile in charge of a daycare center, or a diabetic with an insatiable sweet tooth behind a candy counter.

It was almost laughable, trying to imagine Brice accepting such an ultimatum from her. She would tell him she had changed her will first, or, better, leave him a note saying that she had done it. She bit her lip. When should she talk to Caldwell?

The idea of accusing her husband of murdering her father made her stomach hurt, made her spinning thoughts spin even faster, out of control. She knew what she had to do, but she couldn’t find a sequence. Everything had to be first. She took several deep breaths and started over. If she went directly to Caldwell, what could she tell him?
Brice made his motel reservation only after I reserved the cottage at the coast, and that was at his urging, to go that weekend
.
Brice would deny it.
He stayed home that morning because my father called and wanted me to come out and Brice had to make sure I didn’t do it, that I would go on to work, and then to the coast.
His word, her word.
He went to three meetings in Portland before that one, and each time he got home by midnight, there was no good reason for him to stay over that night.
He already had explained that away.

Embezzlement, the need of money supplied a motive, and Caldwell wasn’t interested in motives, only means. That left the canoe, and possibly the gun, but where were they, if he had them at all? He could have flown to Seattle, bought the canoe with cash, flown back home with it the same afternoon. Would a salesman remember him? And he had kept it somewhere. Not at home; she might have seen it during one of her sporadic cleaning frenzies. He wouldn’t have risked it.

She stood up to stretch, afraid tension would make her legs start to cramp, make her hands cramp. She reached across the counter and slid the window open. A faint rubbing sound was the only noise it made. She picked up the shotgun and cradled it against her shoulder, against a big bruise that throbbed painfully at a touch. Coop had said if she intended to practice a bit more, she should pad her shoulder with a towel.

Maybe he really was drunk, asleep on the couch. Maybe he had wanted to come out here and found he couldn’t do it, and had started drinking instead.

She lifted the shotgun and sighted the restless black water at the end of the ledge, where he would come ashore, and she said under her breath, “I can go this far, but could I shoot him? Actually shoot him?” She didn’t know the answer.

She had visualized how it would be, but she had no image, no idea what would follow tomorrow, the next day, next week; everything beyond tonight was a blur.

He would not be holding a gun—he would need both hands to manage the canoe, to get it up on the ledge. The gun would be in his pocket. Her shot would be a complete surprise, he would stagger on the ledge, slippery under the water, fall backward into the icy water, another systemic shock. He might struggle up, try to get back on the ledge and she would shoot him again, knock him back again, and while he struggled she would have time to reload and to shoot as many times as he got to his feet and tried to reach her. But it would be like shooting an unarmed man, lying in ambush and killing an unarmed person. Coop said the buckshot wouldn’t kill a bear, and probably not a cougar, but it wouldn’t do them any good either. She had visualized Brice climbing back into the canoe, fleeing, and then she would call Caldwell and tell him that Spook had wakened her, that she had seen someone coming ashore and shot him. They would find Brice, wounded, bloody, soaking wet, find the gun, find the canoe, and it would be over.