She said, “Harry, you look terrible. When did you last sleep?” And he did look like a specter, pale and hollow-eyed.
But he called up a smile. “You don’t look so good yourself, Mary.”
She laughed, brushed at her hair with her fingers. “No, I don’t suppose I do. It’s been a long night.”
“Yeah. Damn long. The Rovers split up last night. Hit ten different places.” He looked around at the bullet holes in the walls, the bodies on the grass, the black shell of Jim’s van. “Is Rachel okay?”
“She has a very sore arm. Got grazed by a bullet, but I patched it up. And she lost three of her dearest friends. Did you get my message about Jim and Connie?”
A flicker of pain accompanied his nod. “We went to their house a couple of hours ago. Hell, I never thought…” He didn’t try to finish that. “Do you know about any next of kin for us to notify?”
“No. I think they had some distant relatives in California. They didn’t have any children.”
He stared at the van, then frowned. “You said Rachel lost three friends?”
“Topaz.” Mary looked toward the mound of earth near the beach path. “One of the bastards kicked her to death.”
“Oh, damn. I know how she feels about her dogs. But maybe I have—” He stopped, distracted. Rachel was coming out the back door.
Mary studied her as she approached, wondering what lay behind her encompassing calm. When she reached them, she had a smile for Harry. “Good morning, Captain.”
“Morning, Ms. Morrow. I’m sorry for what you’ve been through here. If it’s any comfort, I think we took care of most of the gang that was hanging out around Shiloh.”
She nodded. “I hope you didn’t lose any of your officers.”
The muscles of his jaw tensed. “Two. Five hurt. Anyway, I radioed for a tow truck and a wagon to clear out this mess here. It’ll take a while, but they’ll be around.”
“Connie and Jim? Did you—”
“Yes, we took care of that. Mary told me about your dog, and I’ve got something in the patrol—just a minute.” And he set off for his car, with Rachel and Mary, nonplussed, in his wake. He opened a back door, leaned inside, and emerged with Sparky in his arms. The dog was dull-eyed, atypically quiet, his right front leg bandaged.
Rachel’s breath caught, she reached out with a shaking hand to touch Sparky’s head as Harry explained, “Some folks down on North Front found him this morning and took him to the clinic. Had a bullet in his leg, but Joanie says he’ll be fine. Little doped up now. Anyway, I figured I’d better find a good home for him.”
“You’ve found it, you know that,” Rachel said huskily. “Come on, Sparky….” And Harry gently transferred the dog into her arms, while Sparky whined and tried to lick her face.
“Well, I’d better get going.” Harry looked around again at the evidence of carnage and shook his head. “My hitch is up in September, and I don’t think I’ll sign up again. Home is beginning to sound good.” He looked at Mary, a direct, questioning gaze. “Boise’s still a nice place to raise a family.”
She could think of nothing to say. Harry Berden was the kindest, most honest man she’d ever known, and yesterday—the day before yesterday—that oblique query would have at least given her something to ponder. Now it fell like a pebble in a frozen pond, creating no ripples.
After a moment he opened the front door of the car, then paused, frowning. “Ms. Morrow, I figure you’d like to know. We got a report yesterday that there’s been two cases of Lassa in Oldport.”
Mary felt a chill at the back of her neck, and Rachel went pale. “That’s only thirty miles away,” she whispered.
He nodded grimly. “Right.”
Neither Rachel nor Mary spoke as he got into his car and backed down the drive, not until Rachel said, “Mary, I think we’d better start making some plans.”
Chapter 9
Rachel said once—stated categorically—that it is impossible for a wave to make a shape that is not perfectly graceful. Now at evening I look down at the beach and consider her dictum. In forty years I haven’t forgotten it; the sea reminds me of it each day.
On this clear spring evening, the tide has gone out with the day, the sun has just set, its final moments marked with a pinpoint burst of incandescent green. The sky above the horizon is rose orange shading into pale yellow made green by its context, shading into warm blue and ultimately into ultramarine. There is little light left for the sea; it is pewter gray. The beach is umber verging on black, a somber expanse deserted by the tide. At the sea edge of this newly revealed strand, the waves have scoured out a topography of miniature hills and valleys, every valley a pool of captured seawater, every pool a mirror set in velvet umber, reflecting in reverse order the ultramarine, warm blue, green-hinting yellow, and rose orange. The shapes of these sky mirrors are all unique, the relationships of concave, convex curves complex and elegant. They are perfectly graceful.
I sit at the end of the table in the living room, my chair turned so I can look out the window at the beach and watch the children playing tag on the grass beyond the deck. Jonathan, the oldest, is also tallest, and he runs like a deer. Yet he lets Isaac catch him sometimes, and they fall laughing into the grass. Jonathan even lets eight-year-old Mary catch him, although she’s so quick and lissome I wonder if he isn’t fairly caught.
The youngest children, Deborah and Rachel, are downstairs being put to bed. Jerry is helping Miriam with that task, while Esther, Enid, and Grace are in the kitchen cleaning up after the evening meal. I can hear their voices, the clatter of silverware and pots. Bernadette is in the workroom grinding herbs for her medicines. Behind me, the fire crackles in the fireplace, beside me Stephen sits with his chin propped in his hand, and I remember my years of solitude here and know I’m fortunate to have such warm and peaceful evenings in my old age.
On the table is a stack of Rachel’s watercolor paper cut into small rectangles. My hand still aches from wielding the old, dull scissors. I haven’t yet begun writing the Chronicle, only preparing the paper. Fine rag watercolor paper: D’Arches rough, Whatman’s hot press, Utrecht cold press. I’ve saved this paper all these years. Now I know why.
Stephen picks up a piece, runs his thumb over the rough surface. “Did you say this paper is handmade, Mary?”
“Yes, some of it.”
“Could we make paper here?”
How many times have I asked myself that question? “I think so, Stephen. I have a book on papermaking. Maybe you’d like to read it.”
“Yes, I would. Someday we’ll have to make our own paper.”
I smile at that. The words right out of my mouth. “I’ll find the book for you tomorrow.”
Not tonight. This is the sabbath. And this isn’t one of my sanctioned lessons with Stephen. Sunday is supposedly a day of rest. It’s also the day of the sabbath service: at least four hours of sermonizing and hymn singing. The children have no choice but to endure it, and I always feel sorry for them. Perhaps Jerry does, too. He usually plans something special for Sunday afternoon, and today it was a picnic on the Coho River. I didn’t go along, but I’m proud of Jerry for making Sunday afternoons pleasurable for the children. When he was a child, his Sundays offered him no pleasure.
“Mary, what did you and Rachel do after… after your friends were killed?”