Chapter 17
Do what we can, summer will have its flies.
—RALPH WALDO EMERSON
Olivia hadn’t expected to dream.
At first, her sleep had been deep and untroubled, but as the dawn light crept over the ocean, strange and disjointed images stirred in the trenches of her psyche.
She was back in the town hall again, but this time she was alone.
There were no policemen or exuberant preteens or members of her writer’s group filling the shadowy corridors . Haviland wasn’t at her flank. Overhead, the fluorescent lights flickered weakly.
“Haviland?” Olivia called out in a disembodied voice.
She knew the killer was here. At the same doorway in which she’d seen Atlas Kraus standing hours earlier, she stopped and reached out a trembling hand to turn the knob.
“That’s not your job,” Chief Rawlings murmured behind her. She turned, letting her hand fall to her side and surrendering her position. Rawlings opened the door, stepped into the yawning blackness, and was gone.
A bark emitted from another hallway and suddenly Olivia was outside. It was no longer raining, but the poster board signs bearing messages of idolization for Heidi St. Claire were scattered across the glistening asphalt of the parking lot, their words smeared, their hearts and smiley faces bleeding into ugly, distorted shapes.
Haviland came racing from around the corner of the building, a billow of fog following behind. Olivia embraced the poodle, then turned to witness Rawlings burst through the double doors of the hall with such force that the brass door pulls slapped against the bricks like a thunderclap. He shoved a handcuffed prisoner forward, shouting for the bystanders to make room.
In the way of dreams, where logic and orderliness seldom exist, the town hall’s portico, which had been deserted a moment ago, was crammed with people. Dozens of cops, reporters, and stunned townsfolk formed a tight knot Rawlings had to push his prisoner through.
Rawlings made his way to a waiting police cruiser, his grim face bathed in blue light.
The captive kept his head bowed and his face completely shielded by the brim of his baseball cap.
Olivia felt a pang of anxiety. Atlas hadn’t been wearing a hat, but the faded American flag emblem was familiar to her.
Rawlings placed a hand on his prisoner’s head and eased him into the squad car. He shut the door with an authoritative push and turned to address the yelling multitudes.
Feeling that the chief had made a grave mistake, Olivia circled around the edge of the crowd, which seemed to be rapidly multiplying. It was as if the fog were carrying people on its back and depositing them in front of the building.
Olivia picked up her pace, feeling a growing sense of fear as the police car slowly pulled away from the curb. Running now, she checked to make sure that Haviland was beside her as she cut across the lawn, hoping to intercept the cruiser at the end of the parking lot before it had a chance to turn onto the main road.
Breathing hard, she pumped her long legs and arms. Her bare feet were chilled by puddled water and pierced by sharp stones. Her lungs burned, but she somehow managed to reach the corner as the police car made its right turn.
At that moment, the killer raised his head and looked out the window, his eyes finding hers.
“No,” Olivia whispered in shock, for the face was not that of Atlas Kraus.
It was her father’s.
When she woke, the sun’s rays were already pounding down on the beach, erasing any evidence of last night’s storm but for some scattered branches and a fresh infusion of green into the parched dune grasses.
Olivia let Haviland out, leaving the sliding door to the deck open. Shuffling into the kitchen, she watched the coffeemaker as it gurgled and burped, sending the heavenly scent of Kona beans into the air.
Once her mug was filled, she walked onto the deck in her bathrobe. She let the steady rhythm of the surf restore order into her world, smiling as Haviland lunged at a small ghost crab near the waterline.
She wondered briefly if Rawlings had had any sleep at all.
Hoping to postpone a mental review of the previous evening for a little longer, Olivia went inside for a second cup of coffee and the pickle jar containing the recent metal detector finds. She poured the contents out onto the teak deck table, touching the shotgun shells and lining them up in a neat row. Glancing up momentarily to witness Haviland’s glee as he splashed through the shallows, she ran her fingers over the warm metal of the razor blade case, thinking that it wasn’t too long ago that she’d found the old case and made the acquaintance of Camden Ford.
The connection between the object and the man was startling.
Camden’s throat had been cut by a straight edge, like that of a razor blade, she thought and grabbed the next object she’d dug up: the Indian Head penny dating to the Civil War.
“The Confederate cemetery. That’s where Dean Talbot broke his neck.”
Genuinely unsettled now, she reached for the New Hampshire quarter and was whisked back into the town hall meeting room, witnessing the look of shock and fright on Heidi St. Claire’s face as her eyes fell on the familiar but unwelcome face of Atlas Kraus.
“Her father,” Olivia murmured, tracing the coin’s engraving of the Old Man in the Mountain. It had been that fleeting glance, combined with the memories of Blake teasing Heidi for being from a farm state beginning with the letter I and Annie telling Dixie how Atlas had left a family behind in Iowa, that had allowed Olivia to identify the murderer.
Abandoning her treasures, Olivia walked down to the water’s edge. The sand singed the bottom of her feet but she was grateful to be reminded that she was no longer dreaming. Stepping into the surf, she wriggled her toes into the wet sand and sighed.
“You’ve always taken care of me,” she said softly, listening as the ocean acknowledged her remark by delivering a crest that tightened into curl and finished in a surge of bubbled foam. And then came another. And another. Blessed predictability.
Calling Haviland, Olivia meandered a little farther down the beach, keeping her feet in the moistened sand.
“Let’s have a Grumpy’s brunch,” she informed her fur-dampened canine. Haviland bounded back toward the house at the suggestion. “Wipe your paws!” Olivia reminded him.
Inside, she took a long, hot shower but spent little time on her appearance. Donning a breezy, chartreuse linen sundress and a pair of well-worn flip-flops, she ran a brush through her white blond hair and ran a stick of moisturizing gloss over her lips.
Grumpy’s was packed. Between the tourists eating a late breakfast, the locals enjoying an early lunch, and the exuberant members of the press, the only available seat was at the counter. To Olivia’s relief, it was a single stool at the end of the row and the person occupying the adjacent stool was her friend Harris.
