She expected the parking area to be empty now that the summer swimming season was over, but noticed a small black BMW idling near the exit. She ran through the lot on the pond side, keeping well away from the car, which was exactly what she had been instructed to do at the women’s personal safety workshop that Officer Barney Culpepper, Tinker’s Cove Police Department’s community outreach officer, offered from time to time. She was about halfway through the lot when a second car pulled in and then the two cars drove off together.
Weird, she thought, heading for the exit at the far end of the parking lot. She felt uneasy after witnessing the incident and was relieved when she reached the paved road, which was fairly well-traveled. She got friendly waves and toots of the horn from several passing drivers.
Reaching the rural mailbox that she used as a marker, she turned around and began the return route that would take her home. She considered continuing along the paved road, which met up with her own Red Top Road, but that would mean missing the uphill climb from the pond on the logging road, and she knew the Turkey Trot route had a similar incline. She really couldn’t avoid it. She needed the workout the hill provided, so she headed back to the parking lot. There was no danger, she told herself, because the cars had left.
But as she drew closer to the lot Libby began barking, and sure enough, that little black BMW was back in the same spot, idling. Lucy picked up her pace, sprinting along the opposite side of the lot from the BMW and was almost through when an aged Caravan with a dented fender pulled up and stopped next to the BMW, driver’s side to driver’s side. She didn’t stay to watch. She yanked the dog’s leash and pounded across the remaining few yards of parking lot and entered the safety of the woods.
What was that all about, she wondered as she slowed her pace to allow her ragged, uneven breathing to even out and her racing heart to settle down. What was going on? There was something odd about the whole thing that simply didn’t feel right. Was she paranoid? Maybe they were just bird watchers or nature lovers or something. Or maybe, she thought with a shock as she began the tough uphill climb, she had witnessed a couple drug deals. The parking lot was perfect for that sort of transaction. It was secluded from view, it was reliably deserted this time of year, and it had easy access to the paved town road. It was a no-brainer, she decided, wondering why she hadn’t realized what was going on sooner. Drug deals! At Blueberry Pond.
But if she—a middle-class, middle-aged woman whose only experience of illegal drugs was a few puffs of marijuana in college—could figure it out, she figured it was hardly a secret. Everybody must know. And if everybody knew, that meant the cops must also know. So why were they ignoring it? Didn’t they know there was an opioid epidemic? What was keeping them from making an easy arrest? Maybe even a lot of arrests, she thought, remembering one of the EMTs who’d responded to Alison’s drowning telling her there was a nearby shack frequented by drug users.
* * *
Back at the house, Lucy couldn’t stop thinking about the drug deals she’d witnessed. It was shocking to her that this was happening so close to home. Blueberry Pond wasn’t that far from their house, and the logging road was passable by car. Were they in danger from these criminals? Would they have to start locking the doors to the house, something they’d never done in all the years they’d lived on Red Top Road? And what about the stuff in their shed? It was chock full of Bill’s expensive power tools, which a desperate user could steal and sell, probably for pennies on the dollar, but enough to buy some cheap heroin. Maybe more. She had no idea how much heroin or oxy or whatever they were buying cost.
Even worse than theft, what about the home invasions she’d heard about, she thought, as she stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around herself. Remembering she was alone in the house and feeling vulnerable, she turned the lock on the bathroom door. True, there’d never been a home invasion in Tinker’s Cove, and her fear was probably irrational, but it was there. She didn’t feel safe in her own home, and she was terrified for her girls. She couldn’t erase the memory of that terrible episode in New Hampshire that had dominated the news for so long, when two crazy men broke into a home and raped a mother in front of her two preteen daughters, who they’d tied to their beds. After strangling the mother they’d torched the house, and the girls died from smoke inhalation.
The story went on for months as new details were revealed, the suspects caught, and the trial unfolded. A scratch and whine from the other side of the door, undoubtedly Libby looking for her breakfast, reminded Lucy that those particular criminals had even killed the family dog. Only the father, who’d been at work, was spared.
“Okay, okay,” she said, opening the door cautiously and allowing Libby to stick her nose through the crack. Summoning her courage she opened the door and proceeded down the hall to her bedroom, accompanied by the dog, who jumped on the unmade bed and rolled around, legs in the air. Then she jumped off, ran to the door, and gave a sharp yip, reminding Lucy that
