Jordan stopped in his tracks as she raised the poker, and for a moment he just stared at her without expression. But in her mind she rehearsed her moves if he came at her. He was drunk, unsteady in his step, sloppy in his movements, seeing double—and she wasn’t. Maybe it was the adrenaline thundering in her veins, but she felt twice her size. One flinch of aggression from him and she’d split his skull.
He must have picked up her radiation, because his face slackened and his mouth creased into a stupid grin. “What the hell you doing? I’m not going to hurt you.”
“You bet your ass you’re not.”
“Put that thing down.” He was wavering and had to steady himself against the couch. “What the hell’s your problem? I was just trying to be romantic, for God’s sake.” And he flopped onto the couch, spilling more wine on himself. “Shit,” he said taking in the big red stain.
“Who was that on the phone?”
“What?”
“Who was that on the phone?”
“Grady. Who do you think it was?”
“And what did he say?”
For a moment Jordan had to regroup himself against the wine. “What do you mean? You know, that Leah wanted them to stay with … the grandparents … Why?”
His face was in flames. He was lying. He could have answered on the portable, but he took the call inside. It had been a setup—to get the Vickers out of the way. And now things were out of hand, and Jordan was too drunk to drive her home.
With the poker in hand, René went up the stairs for her bag, knowing that he was in no shape to follow her but certain that if he did, she’d nail him. She felt that close to the edge. (Once Todd had hit her in a moment of craziness, and she nearly scratched his eyes out.)
But Jordan didn’t come after her, and from the bedroom she called a cab and said it was urgent. “Five minutes, lady. Got a guy in the neighborhood.” She waited several minutes before going back down.
When she did, Jordan was sprawled on the couch, holding his head and groaning. “Where’re you goin’?” His shirt and pants were stained with wine.
“Home.”
Suddenly he was alert, his eyes huge glass balls. “You’re not taking my car?”
“I called a cab.”
“A cab? Aren’t you overreacting?”
Maybe, she thought. Then she remembered how he looked at her when she asked him to let her hand go. And the hot eyes.
Fucking little bitch.
He tried to get up, making it only halfway. He groaned. “God, my head.” Then he looked at her. “You’re being a … You’re being hysterical, you know that? I’m a doctor, for chrissake. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Outside a horn honked, and she headed for the door.
“You’re being ridiculous,” he said.
She stepped outside.
“Goddamn bitch!”
With her bag, she hustled to the cab. As she got in, she looked back to see Jordan stumble after her. She could hear him still muttering curses.
The cab pulled away and made a U-turn at the bottom of the street. As they passed the house, she noticed Jordan leaning against his Ferrari and vomiting wine and casserole onto the driveway.
67
YOU’RE NUTS! FUCKING WHACKO LOONEY TUNES nuts!
That’s what Jack told himself as he pulled his rental into the Harbor Line parking lot in New Bedford to purchase his round-trip ticket.
Homer’s Island.
It was located at the southwesterly end of the Elizabeth chain, about eighteen miles south of the old whaling port of New Bedford and four miles southwest of Cuttyhunk. Privately owned and devoid of strip malls, clam shacks, minimart Mobil stations, or any other commercial blight, the island consisted of seven hundred unspoiled acres and maybe a couple of dozen august mansions that sneered down from their cliffs over million-dollar yachts as reminders that you were not a member of the Lucky Sperm Club. In spite of the exclusive domain, the summer months drew a few boaters to the tranquil anchorage and the wildlife. The ferry left three times a week at ten A.M.
Jack arrived a few minutes early with a growing sense of unease. He really didn’t know why he was doing this. It was not a casual trip down Memory Lane. Yes, something happened out there when he very young. Maybe on the night his mother had disappeared. Perhaps something would come back to him if the projection guys messing around in his hippocampus would play him a recap. Or perhaps not. But at least he’d get the bug out of his belly.
From the upper deck he could make out the water taxi he had taken last August. The captain’s name was Jeff Doughty. A few days after Jack emerged from the coma, he called Jeff to thank him for alerting the Coast Guard and to tell Jeff that he was back from the dead. Jeff was delighted to hear that.
It was a cool, overcast Saturday, so only a handful of people was on the boat. The trip took a little more than an hour, making only one other stop, at Cuttyhunk. Most of the Elizabeth Islands lay low against the sky, and as the boat pulled out of port Homer’s rose like a gentle ruffle on the horizon.
Approaching from the east, Jack could make out a few mansions along the southern ridge, at the end of which sat Vita Nova, the Sherman estate. Only a few cars and a couple of taxis were on the island. Jack hired one to take him along Crest Drive to about a quarter mile short of the property, preferring the exercise of walking and the gradual approach. Along the way, he passed open sweeps of full-ocean views, some woodland stretches, and a few homes perched along the brow.
Vita Nova was a twelve-room structure of weathered clapboards—one of four homes that looked down on Buck’s Cove, a horseshoe anchorage rimmed with white sand, dune grass, and granite outcroppings. From the road one could not see the complex of flower gardens or the flagstone walkways or the brown caretaker’s cottage. Jack had been inside the estate only once or twice when he was a boy, as tagalong when his aunt dropped in to say hello or report a leaky window. Rental issues were handled by mail or phone, and the Shermans did not socialize with the Koryans or come down to the beach. Jack never understood how people who owned one of the most stunning spots on the New England coast never took a swim at their own beach or put a boat in the water. In fact, he almost never saw activity at Vita Nova.
He also never learned how his family was so privileged to rent the cottage. The Shermans surely did not need the money, and Jack couldn’t imagine why they’d welcome strangers with a couple of screaming kids in for two weeks out of the year. According to his aunt, Jack’s mother had befriended Thaddeus Sherman, the patriarch of the estate, who had offered her the use of the place before Jack was born—an agreement that apparently continued on and off for ten years following her death. Since then, Jack had not returned until college, coming out a few times on a friend’s outboard. They’d drop anchor in the cove, watch the sun go down, and under outrageously starry skies get beer-philosophical.
Vita Nova looked lifeless—dark windows, closed garage doors, no gardeners pulling weeds. Adding to the eerie calm was the fact that at this westerly end of the island you almost never saw cars, people walking dogs, or joggers. Except for the wind ruffling a flag, it felt as if he had entered a still-life canvas. And walking by the place he felt as conspicuous as a kangaroo. About fifty yards west of the estate was the beach access, an unmarked set of wooden steps hidden by scrub and dune grass.
From the time he woke up that morning, Jack kept thinking about descending these steps and how the cottage would emerge on the left and in the cove Skull Rock. He did not know how he’d react—if he’d be assaulted with flashback images and freak out. But he doubted that, since for the last week he had been on the new PTSD Whack-a-Mole pills, and they worked. No seizures, no flashbacks. Nothing. But in anticipation, his heart thudded as he made his way down, fixing his eyes on the water that under the bright gray sky looked chrome-plated. A few steps down, he watched the cottage emerge over the boulders, and he half-expected a blast of psychic shrapnel that would send him scrambling up the steps. Instead, all he felt was emotional blankness. Nothing.