book on the bedside table: Stephen King’s
Christine
.
“I wouldn’t have figured Ken for a reader.”
Ellie looked over, her glance softening. “Ken liked reading. Took him a while to get the hang of it, but he did, finally.”
Moments later we were out of there. Leaving the clearing I looked back, still hoping I would see Hallie and persuade her to come with us. But all I saw was the dog; as soon as we’d come out, he’d returned to the deck.
More evidence, I thought, that the girl didn’t really know how to control him. Now he lay watching us with eyes that were calmly professional. I felt bad leaving him there, but I assumed he wouldn’t have come with us, anyway.
Driving home, we passed the barracks-like building that had housed the Quoddy Dam workers, back in the1940s when the Navy’s never-completed project to produce electricity from the tides had been in its heyday. A two-storied frame structure with dozens of windows, a red-shingled peaked roof, and a porched entrance, the building now stood empty, its shutters hanging askew.
Ellie gazed at it as we went by. “Too big,” she remarked.
“What?” I replied, distracted. I’d been thinking of Hallie: how pretty she was. Some of Sam’s friends, both male and female, had been pretty, too. Once upon a time.
“Those shutters,” Ellie said, “on the barracks. But they’re too big for your house. Didn’t Felicity Abbot-Jones say last year that she thought all Eastport houses ought to have shutters? And I thought you meant to do something about it.”
“Yes,” I said, feeling a thud in the pit of my stomach as I remembered: murder or no murder, Felicity was coming—and soon.
Months earlier I had hired a crew to take down my old shutters, most of them irreparably damaged. But now without them my house resembled a woman who has, for some ungodly reason that probably seemed sensible at the time, shaved her eyebrows off.
The difference being that a woman’s eyebrows will grow back.
“Good heavens,” I whispered inadequately as we pulled into the drive. “I don’t even have an extension ladder.”
We tiptoed into the house, where the silence was absolute, as if someone had filled the place with anesthetic gas.
“But,” I said, peering around—the radiator was gone, and the spot underneath it had been swept, scrubbed, and coated with wax; good old George—“that’s not the real problem.”
The dining room was empty, and so was the parlor.No sound came from Sam’s room, and Monday was asleep in her dog bed.
“The problem is, I have nothing to haul up there. No,” I finished, “shutters. Ellie, where is everyone?”
Ellie picked up a note from the roll-top desk that Sam had found, abandoned in a barn in Lubec. When he brought it home, it looked like a load of firewood, but now it gleamed with all the sanding, staining, and finish-rubbing that he had put into it; it was, he had informed me proudly, bird’s-eye maple.
“ ‘Gone to movies. Victor asleep. Look in refrigerator,’ ” the note said, and it was signed by Wade.
So I looked, and found a split of champagne, along with two rose crystal glasses that I had admired in a shop in Calais. The card tucked under the bottle read, ‘Do not open until midnight.’
“Too bad he didn’t put some shutters in there,” Ellie said.
“Probably he would have, if they’d fit and he’d had some. Do you suppose we should check on Victor?”
“Uh-uh. If he’s dying, I don’t want to resuscitate him.”
I shot a look at her.
“Oh, all right,” she relented. “I guess it wouldn’t be so good if Victor stopped breathing. Although,” she added, “it
would
mean that he would also stop talking …”
“Ssh.” I slipped along the upstairs hall ahead of her. A small lamp burned on the guest room’s bureau, so we could see his chest slowly rising and falling.
“Okay, he’s alive,” Ellie said. “Now let’s leave him here. Having him at my mercy like this is too
Christine
.
“I wouldn’t have figured Ken for a reader.”
Ellie looked over, her glance softening. “Ken liked reading. Took him a while to get the hang of it, but he did, finally.”
Moments later we were out of there. Leaving the clearing I looked back, still hoping I would see Hallie and persuade her to come with us. But all I saw was the dog; as soon as we’d come out, he’d returned to the deck.
More evidence, I thought, that the girl didn’t really know how to control him. Now he lay watching us with eyes that were calmly professional. I felt bad leaving him there, but I assumed he wouldn’t have come with us, anyway.
Driving home, we passed the barracks-like building that had housed the Quoddy Dam workers, back in the1940s when the Navy’s never-completed project to produce electricity from the tides had been in its heyday. A two-storied frame structure with dozens of windows, a red-shingled peaked roof, and a porched entrance, the building now stood empty, its shutters hanging askew.
Ellie gazed at it as we went by. “Too big,” she remarked.
“What?” I replied, distracted. I’d been thinking of Hallie: how pretty she was. Some of Sam’s friends, both male and female, had been pretty, too. Once upon a time.
“Those shutters,” Ellie said, “on the barracks. But they’re too big for your house. Didn’t Felicity Abbot-Jones say last year that she thought all Eastport houses ought to have shutters? And I thought you meant to do something about it.”
“Yes,” I said, feeling a thud in the pit of my stomach as I remembered: murder or no murder, Felicity was coming—and soon.
Months earlier I had hired a crew to take down my old shutters, most of them irreparably damaged. But now without them my house resembled a woman who has, for some ungodly reason that probably seemed sensible at the time, shaved her eyebrows off.
The difference being that a woman’s eyebrows will grow back.
“Good heavens,” I whispered inadequately as we pulled into the drive. “I don’t even have an extension ladder.”
We tiptoed into the house, where the silence was absolute, as if someone had filled the place with anesthetic gas.
“But,” I said, peering around—the radiator was gone, and the spot underneath it had been swept, scrubbed, and coated with wax; good old George—“that’s not the real problem.”
The dining room was empty, and so was the parlor.No sound came from Sam’s room, and Monday was asleep in her dog bed.
“The problem is, I have nothing to haul up there. No,” I finished, “shutters. Ellie, where is everyone?”
Ellie picked up a note from the roll-top desk that Sam had found, abandoned in a barn in Lubec. When he brought it home, it looked like a load of firewood, but now it gleamed with all the sanding, staining, and finish-rubbing that he had put into it; it was, he had informed me proudly, bird’s-eye maple.
“ ‘Gone to movies. Victor asleep. Look in refrigerator,’ ” the note said, and it was signed by Wade.
So I looked, and found a split of champagne, along with two rose crystal glasses that I had admired in a shop in Calais. The card tucked under the bottle read, ‘Do not open until midnight.’
“Too bad he didn’t put some shutters in there,” Ellie said.
“Probably he would have, if they’d fit and he’d had some. Do you suppose we should check on Victor?”
“Uh-uh. If he’s dying, I don’t want to resuscitate him.”
I shot a look at her.
“Oh, all right,” she relented. “I guess it wouldn’t be so good if Victor stopped breathing. Although,” she added, “it
would
mean that he would also stop talking …”
“Ssh.” I slipped along the upstairs hall ahead of her. A small lamp burned on the guest room’s bureau, so we could see his chest slowly rising and falling.
“Okay, he’s alive,” Ellie said. “Now let’s leave him here. Having him at my mercy like this is too
Similar Books
