On Mystic Lake Part 13

"How are you doing?"

"Better. I saw that little girl's dress in the window-"

She clapped her pudgy hands together. "Ooh-ee, that's a beautiful thing. Perfect for Miss Isabella. How old is she now?"

"Six."

"Ooh, I'll bet she's growing like a weed. I haven't seen her since her mama-" She shut up abruptly and took him by the arm, propelling him through the store. He let himself be carried away by her steady, comforting stream of words. He wasn't listening to her; she knew it and didn't care. She seemed to sense that it was a major event for him to be here.

She plucked the dress off the hanger. It was a pink and white gingham with a white lace underskirt and a pale blue yoke embroidered with tiny pink and white flowers. It reminded him of Kathy's garden- Come out here, Nicky-the tulips are coming up- It hit him like a blow, the memory. He winced and squeezed his eyes shut. Don't think about the flowers . . . Don't think about the flowers . . . don't think about her at all. . . . don't think about her at all. . . .

"Nick? Are you feeling well?"

A little unsteadily, he pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his pants pocket and tossed it on the counter. "The dress is perfect, Susan. Can you wrap it up?"

She answered, but he wasn't listening. All he could think about was Zoe's, and how a single drink-just one- would calm the shaking in his hands.

"Here you go, Nick."

It seemed only a second had pa.s.sed before she was back beside him, waving a big lavender-wrapped package beneath his face. He wet his dry lips and tried to smile.

Susan touched his shoulder. "Nick, are you all right?"

He nodded, though even that simple action seemed to take too long. "I'm fine. Fine. Thanks." Gripping the package, he pushed through the gla.s.s door and went outside.

It had started to rain, big nickel-size drops that splashed his face. He glanced longingly toward Zoe's.

No. He wouldn't go that way. He'd finish out his rounds and head home. Izzy and Annie were waiting, and he didn't want to disappoint them. Taking a deep breath, he straightened his shoulders and kept moving down the street, his hand resting lightly on his baton. With each step, he felt better, stronger. He wouldn't go that way. He'd finish out his rounds and head home. Izzy and Annie were waiting, and he didn't want to disappoint them. Taking a deep breath, he straightened his shoulders and kept moving down the street, his hand resting lightly on his baton. With each step, he felt better, stronger.

He returned to his patrol car and got inside, ducking out of the hammering rain. He reached for the radio, but before he could say anything, a call came out.

Domestic disturbance on Old Mill Road.

"s.h.i.+t." He answered the call, flicked on his siren, and headed out of town.

When he reached the Weavers' driveway, he knew it was bad already. Through the falling rain and the curtain of trees, he could see the distant red and yellow blur of lights. He raced up the b.u.mpy road, his heart beating so fast he couldn't draw an even breath.

The mobile home was surrounded by cars-two patrol cars and an ambulance.

Nick slammed the car in park and jumped out. The first person he saw was Captain Joe Nation, the man who had given Nick a place to live all those years ago.

Joe was walking out of the trailer, shaking his head. The long black and gray braids he wore swayed gently at the movement. Across the clearing, he caught sight of Nick, and he stopped.

"Joe?" Nick said, out of breath already.

Joe laid a thick, veiny hand on Nick's forearm. "Don't go in there, Nicholas."

"No . . ."

"There's nothing you can do now. Nothing anyone can do."

Nick shoved past Joe and ran up the muddy driveway, splas.h.i.+ng through the puddles. The door fell away beneath his shove and crashed against the wall.

Inside, several people were milling about, searching for clues in the green s.h.a.g carpeting. Nick pushed past them and went into the bedroom, where Sally lay on the bed, her thin floral dress shoved high on her rail-thin legs, her face bloodied almost beyond recognition. A red-black blotch of blood seeped across her chest and lay in an oozing puddle across the wrinkled gray sheets.

Nick skidded to a stop. It felt as if pieces of him were crumbling away. He knew he was swaying like an old Doug fir in a heavy wind, but he couldn't stop. He was thrown back suddenly to another time, another place, when he had had to identify a similarly beaten body . . .

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Sally," he whispered in a harsh, fractured voice.

He went to her, knelt beside her bed, and brushed the bloodied, matted hair away from her face. Her skin was still warm to the touch, and he could almost believe that she would wake up suddenly and smile and tell him that it was nothing.

"Don't touch her, sir," said someone. "The evidence . . ."

Nick drew his shaking hand back and got awkwardly to his feet. He wanted to pull her dress down-give her that final dignity at least-but he couldn't. No one could do anything that mattered for Sally anymore. Now it was time for detectives and photographers and pathologists.

He turned blindly away from the bed and stumbled through the cluttered trailer, emerging into the rainy day; everything looked exactly as it had ten minutes ago, but nothing felt the same.

Joe came up to him, pulled him away from the trailer. It felt strangely as if it were years and years ago, back when Joe had met a skinny, freezing fifteen-year-old boy at the bus station in Port Angeles. "There was nothing you could do, Nicholas," he said. "She didn't want our help."

Nick felt the life slowly, inexorably draining out of him. Buried images of another night, not long ago, were oozing to the forefront of his mind, images that were also stained in blood and violence and tragedy. He'd spent eight months running from the images of that night, burying them deep in his subconscious, but now they were back, killing him. "It's too much," he said, shaking his head. "Too much."

Joe patted his back. "Go home, Nicholas. Go home to the little girl who loves you and your beautiful house on the lake and forget about this."

Unable to move, Nick stood there, gripping the b.u.t.t of his gun, standing in the rain, knowing there was only one thing that could help him now.

Nick hadn't shown up for dinner again.

Annie had tried to pretend it meant nothing. She'd made a great show of cheeriness for Izzy, but she knew that the child wasn't fooled. No amount of cookie dough or knock-knock jokes could make Izzy stop looking outside. . . .

Annie held the girl in her lap, gently rocking back and forth in a rocking chair on the porch. She hummed a quiet song and stroked Izzy's silky hair.

She could feel a tiny tremble in the child's body, and if she listened very, very carefully, she could hear the unasked questions in Izzy's in-drawn breaths.

"Your daddy will be back soon, Izzy," she said softly, praying it was true. "He loves you very much."

Izzy didn't move, didn't respond.

"Sometimes grown-ups get confused . . . just like kids do. And your dad's confused right now. He doesn't feel like he belongs anywhere, but if we're patient, and we give him time, I think he'll figure it out. It's hard to be patient, though, isn't it? Especially when the waiting hurts."

Annie's voice faded. She closed her eyes and leaned back in the rocker, listening to the rhythmic sc.r.a.ping of wood on wood and the plunking echo of rain on the porch roof.

"He loves you, Izzy," she said at last, perhaps more to herself than to the silent child. "I know know he loves you." he loves you."

It took her a moment, but Annie realized there was a sound coming from the child, a tiny, reed-thin whisper that sounded like png-png-png. png-png-png.

She was mimicking the sound of the rain hitting the tin roof overhead.

Annie smiled.

Izzy was trying to find her way back.

Izzy felt the scream starting again. It was way down deep inside her, in that dark place where the nightmares lived. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw her mommy, and she remembered what she'd heard. You can't You can't follow me . . . can't follow me . . . can't follow me . . . follow me . . . can't follow me . . . can't follow me . . .

What if that were true? What if she disappeared into the fog and still couldn't find her mommy? A tiny, whimpering cry escaped her lips.

She was scared. It was one of those nights when nothing good happened in her sleep and she woke up with tears on her cheeks. She kept dreaming about that doctor, the one with the pointy nose and the thick gla.s.ses who told her that she had to talk or else she wouldn't get over her mommy. It had scared her so much, those grown-up words that she hardly understood. The last thing she'd ever said was to him. I don't want to get over my mommy. . . . I don't want to get over my mommy. . . .

Her whole body was shaking.

She didn't want to scream again.

She threw the covers back and slithered out of bed, walking barefooted to the closed door. There, she stopped. She stared down at her own hand, at all that nothingness around her thumb and forefinger. She wished suddenly that she wasn't disappearing, that she could just reach out and grab that old doork.n.o.b and twist it hard.

With a sigh, she used her two fingers to turn the k.n.o.b. It took a while, but finally, she got the door open.

She poked her head out and saw the dark hallway.

Her daddy's room was to the left, just three doors down, but she knew he wouldn't be there. She'd heard Annie talking to Lurlene. They thought she was gone, but she wasn't. She'd been hiding in the corners, listening.

Her daddy was in the bad place, the place that made him smell like cigarettes even though he didn't smoke, the place that made him come home with that scary look in his eyes and slam his bedroom door shut. The place that made him walk funny.

She crept down the hallway and peeked over the railing, and saw Annie asleep on the sofa.

Annie, who held Izzy's hand and brushed her hair and acted like it didn't matter at all that she didn't talk. Annie, who was going to make her mommy's garden grow again.

Very slowly, she went down the stairs. The steps felt cold beneath her bare feet and made her s.h.i.+ver, but she didn't care. Once she started walking, she felt better. The scream slipped back into the dark place.

She almost wanted to say something, call out Annie's name, maybe, but it had been so long since she'd even wanted to talk, it felt weird. She couldn't even remember what her voice sounded like anymore.

She tiptoed to the sofa. Annie was asleep, with her mouth open. Her short hair was smashed to one side of her head and stuck straight up on the other.

Izzy wasn't sure what to do. When she was little, she used to climb into her mommy and daddy's bed whenever she was scared, and it felt so good, so warm. Mommy would curl Izzy up in her arms and tuck the blanket around them both, and Izzy would go to sleep.

Annie made a quiet snoring sound and stretched out, leaving a big empty s.p.a.ce along the edge of the sofa. Just enough s.p.a.ce for Izzy.

Izzy cautiously peeled back the scratchy blue blanket and gingerly crawled onto the couch.

She lay stiffly on her side, hardly breathing. She was afraid Annie would wake up and tell her to go back to her room. But she didn't want to be alone in her room. She was scared of the dark in there.

Annie made another quiet sound and rolled toward Izzy.

Izzy clamped down on her breath and went perfectly still.

Annie curled her arm protectively around Izzy's body and pulled her close.

Izzy felt as if she were melting. For the first time in months, she felt as if she could breathe right. She snuggled backward, poking her bottom into the vee of Annie's bent body, so they were like two spoons pressed together.

With a quiet, happy sigh, she closed her eyes.

In the early hours of the morning, Annie woke to the scent of baby shampoo and the feel of a small, warm body tucked against hers. It brought back a flood of memories- days long ago and a child that was now far away and hadn't been a baby in years. She gently stroked Izzy's sweaty hair and kissed her small, pink ear. "Sleep well, princess."

Izzy snuggled closer. A quiet sound answered Annie, so quiet she might have missed it if they'd been outside or if it had been raining or she had been talking.

In her sleep, Izzy laughed.

Annie glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was fivethirty in the morning. Very gently, she peeled back the blanket and climbed over Izzy. Hugging herself against the chill morning air, she walked over to the window and stared out at the lake. Dawn was a pink brush stroke across the serrated black treetops.

"d.a.m.n you," she whispered.

This time, Nick hadn't come home all night.

Chapter 13.

The phone rang at five forty-five in the morning. Annie reached over Izzy and answered softly, "h.e.l.lo?"

"h.e.l.lo. Annie Bourne, please."

She frowned, trying to place the male voice. "This is she."

"This is Captain Joseph Nation, of the Mystic police force."

Annie's stomach clenched. She eased away from the sleeping child and sat down on the cold floor. "It's Nick . . ."

"He was in an accident last night."

"Oh, my G.o.d. Is he-"

"Fine. Apart from a few bruises and . . . a h.e.l.l of a hangover, he's going to be fine. He's at Mystic Memorial."

"Was he driving?"

"No. He was smart enough to get a ride home with someone-but not smart enough to pick a sober driver."

"Was anyone else hurt?"

Captain Nation sighed. "No. They hit a tree out on Old Mill Road. The driver walked away without a scratch, and Nick just bonked his head a good one. He has a slight concussion. He was lucky . . . this time. I'm calling because he's going to need a ride home from the hospital."

Annie glanced over at Izzy, sleeping so peacefully on the sofa. She couldn't help remembering the way Izzy had waited and waited for a daddy who didn't come home- because he was getting drunk again.

Enough was enough. Slowly, she answered, "Oh, I'll come get him all right."

Nick moaned and tried to roll over, but the covers were tangled around his legs so tightly he couldn't move. Slowly, so as not to punish his already throbbing head, he pushed to his elbows and looked around. Lights stabbed through his brain, and somewhere a radio was blaring.