back. The silence that rebuilt between them was like a weight. A frustrated anger simmered in her, but it didn’t last. In its place was a small, cold emptiness.
And she thought again: Enough.
T H I R T E E N
MACKLIN’S MOOD MATCHED THE sullen, cloud-heavy morning as they approached Fort Bragg. Little confrontational scenes like the one he’d just had with Shelby always left him feeling depressed. Powerless, too. Not against her, but against himself and the intractable compulsion to hold back. She didn’t ask much of him, and the one important thing she did ask he seemed incapable of giving her. It made him dislike himself all the more.
Scared him all the more.
The thought of what lay ahead fretted him again, brought that closed-fist feeling back into his chest. The coming year would likely make the last few seem happy by comparison. He was pretty sure he knew how Shelby would take the news and just what she’d say, the same thing she’d said at the other crisis points in their life together: “We’ll get through it.” But would they this time? He didn’t see how it was possible, not in the long run. This was so much harder to take than the other setbacks, ongoing and irreversible.
The prospect of life without her scared the hell out of him. Barren. Lonely. Yet even if she was willing to put up with him over the long haul, he wasn’t willing to become any more of a burden to her than he already was. If the situation grew unbearable, as it was liable to pretty quickly, he’d be the one to do the walking. He’d promised himself that and he wouldn’t renege. His gift to her, the best gift he could ever give her—her freedom.
He didn’t know where he’d go or what he’d do if it came to that. Except to get the hell out of Cupertino, put as much distance between them as he could. Head for Tucson, maybe. Tom would take him in, at least for a while; they weren’t close anymore, but his younger brother was a strong believer in family values, family support. But Tom and Jenna had three kids and a mortgage and bills to pay—they couldn’t afford to shelter him for long, even if he could find some kind of work to pay for temporary room and board. He’d be a burden on them, and he couldn’t allow that to happen either. Better to spare Tom and his family and not go to Tucson at all.
What, then? Crawl into a warm little private hole somewhere? He’d be able to manage alone if circumstances allowed him to earn a living wage, but the one thing he’d never do was to go on welfare. If things got that bad, if there was no longer any hope and he was of no use to himself or anyone else, he’d take himself out. There were ways, painless ways, and he’d done enough soul-searching to know that he was capable of it.
Quality of life. A phrase people used a lot nowadays, one that was absolutely true. No quality, no point to living. Simple as that.
They were in Fort Bragg now, crossing a long bridge that spanned the entrance to the harbor. Small seaside town, population seven or eight thousand, that had once been the home base for Georgia Pacific, the largest lumber mill on the north coast; now it was the fishing industry and tourism that supported it. There wasn’t much of either this time of year. Under that dark, threatening sky it, too, had a bleak aspect that an array of lighted holiday decorations failed to alleviate.
Beneath the bridge and along the harborfront to the east there was a collection of restaurants, fish shops, and docks for commercial fishing boats and whale-watching and sportfishing charters. Shelby had no interest in the town or in stopping for lunch—she spoke to him in short, clipped sentences, when she spoke at all—but he drove down to the harbor anyway. Her favorite fish was wild salmon; he thought maybe a couple of fresh sockeye filets for dinner would put her in a better mood. Pathetic peace offering, but he didn’t have any other kind to make.
She waited in the car while he went into one of the fish shops. Just as well, because there was a newspaper rack in front and the Santa Rosa paper’s front-page headline jumped out at him as he went by.
SEARCH FOR COASTLINE KILLER INTENSIFIES
Long, silent ride back down Highway 1. Macklin didn’t even try to make conversation. The rain continued to hold off, but by the time they passed the mouth of the Navarro River the wind gusts were fierce and there was more black than gray in the cloud churn overhead. It wouldn’t be long before the skies opened up and the rain spilled out.
Coming from the north, he missed the Ocean Point Lane intersection and had to turn around and retrace a quarter of a mile. Mr. Inept. The first drops of rain from the bloated cloud bellies had begun to speckle the windshield as he drove through the jog in the road past the big estate. At almost the same instant he saw the vehicles parked in front of the Lomax house.
“Now what the hell’s going on?”
Shelby stirred beside him. “What?”
“Up there. Look.”
Macklin put on the wipers to clear away the rain mist. Shelby still had to lean forward, squinting, because of the sticking blade on her side. There were two cars, a dark-colored sedan angled into the entrance driveway and a sheriff’s department cruiser on the blacktop.
“You don’t suppose Lomax really hurt her this time?” he said. “Bad enough to put her in the hospital?”
Shelby’s jaw tightened; she shook her head.
“Or maybe she did something to him. If it’s bad, I hope that’s the way it was.”
“It may not be anything at all.”
Instead of turning into the cottage’s drive, he rolled on past fifty yards or so—close enough to make out a seal on the driver’s door of the parked sedan. Highway patrol.
“Two official cars parked out there like that,” he said. “It’s sure not a social visit.”
“Not an emergency, either. No flashing lights and I don’t see an ambulance.”
“Could be parked inside the fence. Or it hasn’t gotten here yet.”
She said, to herself as much as to him, “I wish I knew what happened.”
“Well, we can’t go up and ask. We’ll probably never know.”
F O U R T E E N
THEY HAD BEEN IN the cottage less than fifteen minutes and Jay was making noises about going out to the lane “to see if the law’s still up there” when the doorbell chimed. He glanced at Shelby, muttered, “What the hell?” and went to open the door on its chain lock.
She saw him stiffen slightly as he looked out. “Yes, what is it?” The quickened beat of the wind blurred the voice outside, but whatever it said convinced him to remove the chain and pull the door wide. Two men came inside, one wearing an unbuttoned overcoat over a suit and tie, the other in a deputy sheriff’s uniform. Both wore grim, tight-lipped expressions. The man in the overcoat saw Shelby, approached her with a leather ID case open in his hand.
“Mrs. Macklin?”
“Hunter,” she said automatically, looking at the badge inside the case. “Shelby Hunter.”
“I understood you and Mr. Macklin were married.”
“We are. I kept my birth name.”
“Oh, I see. Well.” He put the ID case away. “My name is Rhiannon, Lieutenant George Rhiannon. I’m an investigator with the highway patrol. This is Deputy Randall Ferguson, county sheriff’s department.”
She nodded. Jay’s eyes were on the deputy—a big, youngish man with a bristly mustache and flat green eyes, standing in a ruler-backed posture like a soldier at attention.
“You’re the officer who led us out here the other night,” he said.
“That’s right.”
“Well … what can we do for you?”
“We won’t take up much of your time,” Rhiannon said. “Just a few questions, if you don’t mind.” He was in his forties, with an ovoid body on short stubby legs and a dark, pointy, long-nosed face. Like a dachshund that had acquired human features and learned how to walk on its hind legs, Shelby thought. But there was nothing comical about the man or his demeanor. His movements, his words had a sharp professional economy.
“What’s happened?” she asked.
“I understand you spent some time with your neighbors and their houseguests Sunday night.”
“Just long enough to have a drink with them. We went there to borrow matches when the power went
