At the Water's Edge (19 page)

I
t was an innocent embrace, I told myself for the thousandth time, hoping that I would eventually believe it. For hours after I returned to my room the night before, I lay in the dark wishing he was there with me. I wanted him to hold me, I wanted to fall asleep in his arms. I was aware of wanting more, too.

Despite being up most of the night, I got up early and waited at my door until Hank and Ellis were in the hallway. Then I joined them so we could all go down together. I was incapable of facing Angus—I could no longer think of him in formal terms—on my own. Even the thought of seeing him in the company of other people left me light-headed.

When the three of us went downstairs, he was standing by the front door talking with a very old woman in a language both guttural and burbling. When he glanced at me, I thought my knees might give out.

I couldn't look at him for fear of giving myself away.

The air was so electrically charged I was sure Hank and Ellis would pick up on it, so I also couldn't look at them. That left no one but the crone, who stared at me as if she were plumbing the deepest recesses of my mind and unearthing all kinds of terrible things.

“This is Rhona,” said Angus. “She'll be here until Anna gets back. She doesn't speak English.” And with that, he left.

“And the stellar service continues,” Ellis muttered, leading the way to our usual table. “What are we supposed to do? Learn Gaelic? Play charades?”

“Why not?” said Hank. “It's always porridge anyway, and I can mime that.” He put his hands to his throat and pretended to choke.

“Don't tell me you're getting used to this,” said Ellis.

Hank shrugged. “At least they've started putting my things away.”

Ellis harrumphed. “Talk to me when they start ironing the newspaper.”

Rhona served our breakfast in dour silence and otherwise ignored us completely. I wondered if she was the wife of the old man who'd blown our cover the first day. Even if she wasn't, it was clear she disapproved of us as much as he did.

She was ancient, with a dowager's hump and bowed legs. Her hair was white, her clothes black, her complexion gray. She smelled like wet wool and vinegar and, as far as I could tell, wore a perpetually sour expression. Her upper lip and chin were lightly whiskered, her face so weathered that her eyes appeared as mere slits under the weight of her lids. Even so, I caught an occasional flash of piercing blue—usually as I was fighting off the memory of being held by Angus, or despairing of Anna's brothers, and wondering how two such disparate thoughts could coexist in my brain.

“Maddie?”

Ellis was looking at me. His forehead was crinkled, and I realized he'd said my name at least twice, but I'd heard it from a distance, as though through a tunnel.

“Darling? Are you all right? You seem…I don't know, shaken, or distracted, or something. Are you having an episode?”

“No. Nothing like that. I just didn't sleep well.”

“Why not?”

“I was thinking about Anna's family. I was here when she got the news about her brother.”

“What about her brother?”

“He was killed in action,” I said. “He's at least the second brother she's lost.”

“Ah,” he said, smiling sadly. “I suppose that explains why you wouldn't come down last night. But I'm afraid these things happen, my darling.
C'est la guerre
. How are you now? Should I have sent for a doctor after all?”

I could only shake my head.

He patted my hand and turned his attention back to Hank.

I stared at him for a long time. If he wanted to end his search for the beast, he need look no further than a mirror.

I collected my things and escaped as soon as Hank and Ellis left with George, whom they'd apparently hired full-time, petrol restrictions notwithstanding. I wondered how fast Ellis was going through his remaining money. Perhaps Hank was already supporting us.

After I got outside, I was free of Rhona's penetrating glare, but found myself yet again with no destination, no goal, and no purpose on a day I desperately needed to be occupied. However, even if we'd shared a language, I wouldn't have had the nerve to ask Rhona about doing the rooms. She clearly despised me. Once again, I'd been lumped in with Hank and Ellis.

My brain was fevered, my system overwhelmed. My glass had been filled too full, too fast. The Caonaig, the death of Anna's brother, my embrace with Angus, never mind finally recognizing the sheer callousness of my husband—

Even after he'd shanghaied me into a war, even after I'd realized our entire marriage was a sham, even after I'd watched him go below deck to avoid seeing the wounded on the SS
Mallory
, I had never believed him to be as cold-blooded as he'd just revealed himself to be. I'd always assumed his avoidance of all things war-related was guilt over not being able to serve, but now I realized that he just didn't care.

Even if he didn't think of Anna as quite human, had he never considered the fate of George's leg? Apparently not, since he'd interpreted my distress as a symptom of fragility.

I thought of the moment Angus pulled me to him, gripping me tightly, not at all as though I might break, even as I was sobbing into his neck. We clung to each other as though life itself depended on it, and maybe it did.

I looked up with a gasp.

It'll be like Angus
, Anna had said, her face twisted in grief, less than a minute after laughing at me for getting his name wrong.

Was it possible?

I marched down the street, keeping my head down—especially when the lace curtain in a front window shifted by the width of a finger, as nearly all of them did.

If red was the new badge of courage, I was certainly a shining beacon of bravery, with my stupid red gloves and my stupid red gas mask case. I shoved my hands in my pockets and encountered the last of the elves' cups, which I flung to the side of the road for the crime of being red.

Red, red, everywhere. I wanted to be gray.

I found myself back at the headstone, staring at its etched granite as though I could force it to reveal its secrets.

A
GNES
M
ÀIRI
G
RANT
,

I
NFANT
D
AUGHTER OF
A
NGUS AND
M
ÀIRI
G
RANT

J
ANUARY
14
TH,
1942

C
APT.
A
NGUS
D
UNCAN
G
RANT
,

B
ELOVED
HUSBAND OF
M
ÀIRI

A
PRIL
2
ND
, 1909–J
ANUARY,
1942

M
ÀIRI
J
OAN
G
RANT
,

B
ELOVED
WIFE OF
A
NGUS

J
ULY
26, 1919–F
EBRUARY
28, 1942

I knew how many men in the village had the same names—I'd seen it myself on the other gravestones, and I knew that Willie the Postie was called that to distinguish him from Willie the Joiner and
Willie the Box because every one of them was a Willie MacDonald—but I couldn't shake the image of Angus putting snowdrops on the grave.

It seems there's nothing so good or pure it can't be taken without a moment's notice
, he'd said, and there was nothing so pure as an infant. Was it possible he'd returned from the war only to find that everything he loved had been snatched by cruel fate?

I thought back to the night we'd arrived in Scotland. When I realized it was the third anniversary of the child's death, I was afraid I might break into pieces after all.

I was afraid that if I went back to the inn I might take a pill, so I headed down the A82, knowing that somewhere between the village and the castle was the McKenzies'roft.

Small houses dotted the hillside and I stopped briefly in front of each, wondering if Anna and her parents were inside. Eventually I reached the castle, and knew I had passed them.

The ruined battlements looked very different than they had when we'd approached them by water. There was a large dry moat around the castle, full of high grasses and scrubby weeds, and I lifted my coat and tromped down, across, and up the other side, ignoring the thorns that snagged my hems.

Directly beside the entrance was a massive chunk of stone—or stones, really, because they were still stuck together with mortar, still rigidly holding right angles. It looked like someone had torn a large corner piece from a very stale gingerbread house and flung it to the floor.

I paused beneath the arched entrance, where the drawbridge had once been, imagining all the people who had passed in and out over the centuries, every one of them carrying a combination of desire, hope, jealousy, despair, grief, love, and every other human emotion; a combination that made each one as unique as a snowflake, yet linked all of them inextricably to every other human being from the dawn of time to the end of it.

I walked through it myself and went straight to the tower. Within its gloomy interior, I found a winding staircase, and climbed the worn steps carefully. They were so narrow I had to brace my hands on either side.

I stopped on the second floor to look out, but pulled back immediately.

Angus was standing at an arched gate that led down to the water. He stayed for a long time, staring at the loch, which was as flat as if it had been ironed. Then he leaned over, picked up his gun and a brace of rabbits, and turned around. I ducked further into the shadows, although there was no reason—he plodded straight to and through the main gate without ever looking up.

The light snowfall turned into a flurry, and before I knew it, turned into a blizzard. I had no choice but to return to the inn—to stay in the tower would mean freezing to death.

Rhona was neither upstairs nor in the front room, and although I had been desperate to get away from her just a few hours earlier, my need for a cup of something hot now made me just as desperate to find her. I hoped I would be able to pantomime what I needed, and that she'd be receptive to interpreting. I took a deep breath and entered the kitchen. When my eyes landed on the big wooden table and the freshly skinned rabbits upon it, I stopped.

Angus was standing shirtless at the sink with his back to me, washing his arms.

I knew I should leave, but I couldn't. I was rooted to the spot, watching the rhythmic, alternating movements of his shoulder blades as he cupped water first in one hand and then the other, sloshing it up past his elbows to rinse off the soap.

I don't know what gave me away, but he whipped his head around and caught me watching.

Despite my heart being lodged in my throat, I couldn't look away. After several seconds he straightened up and—without breaking eye contact—turned slowly, deliberately, until he was facing me.

His chest and abdomen were a network of thick, raised scars—red, pink, purple, even white. They were not puncture wounds. Someone had jammed a serrated blade into him and ripped through his flesh, over, and over, and over.

I stared, trying to comprehend.

“Oh, Angus,” I said, covering my mouth. I rushed a few steps toward him before coming to a halt.

He smiled sadly and raised his palms. After a few seconds, he turned back to the sink.

I reached a hand out as though to touch him, although a good fourteen feet still separated us. The illusion was there, though, and I let my quivering, outstretched fingers graze his shoulder. When I realized what I was doing, I bolted to my room.

I took my pills out and put them back no fewer than three times. I did not know what to do with myself, and ended up pacing between the bed and the window, turning on my heel as precisely as a soldier.

Had he answered my suspicion about the gravestone? Had he been assumed dead and somehow survived? And what in God's name had happened to him? I couldn't imagine, and yet I couldn't stop imagining.

E
llis thumped on my door as soon as he and Hank returned, demanding I join them for a drink. I tried to plead an upset stomach, but once again he threatened me with a doctor, saying that this time he really meant it.

As we walked toward the staircase, Ellis bounced off a wall. He was utterly soused.

We took our usual spot by the fire. His and Hank's initial excitement at interviewing eyewitnesses had gone sour after only three days and was compounded by Ellis's anger at not being able to view the site of the bombing, despite having traveled all the way around the loch to get there.

He relived their outing from the comfort of the couch, sputtering about “pulling rank” and “having someone's head” and other such nonsense. Eventually, his rant segued into the interviews themselves. He held his notebook open, stabbing it with a finger.

“Two humps, three humps, four humps, no humps…Horse head, serpent's head, whale-shaped, coils. Goddamned white mane, for Christ's sake!” He threw his arms up in frustration. “Scales on another.
Eyes of a snake, eyes at the ends of antennae, no eyes at all. Crossing the road while chewing on a goddamned sheep. Gray, green, black, silver. Dorsal fin, flippers, all arms, no limbs, tusks. Tusks, for the love of God!”

He glared at me as if I'd made the offending observation. When I didn't respond, he turned back to Hank.

“Vertical undulation. Flaring nostrils. Otters. Deer. Lovelorn sturgeon. Giant squid. Rotten logs exploding from the bottom. The only thing we haven't heard is fire-breathing with wings.”

“I'm sure we will,” said Hank. He was leaning back with his legs crossed, blowing rings of smoke.

“How can you be so calm about this? How the hell are we supposed to figure out what's true when so many of them are obviously lying to us?”

“We should stop paying them, that's how,” said Hank. He successfully blew a smaller smoke ring through a larger one. He leaned forward and poked me on the knee. “Maddie, did you see that?”

“I did,” I said.

So did Angus, who was watching from behind the bar.

“If you'd learn to smoke, I could teach you all kinds of tricks,” Hank continued. “Watch this—”

He exhaled a vertical loop before sucking it back into his mouth.

“Hank, for God's sake!”
said Ellis. “Get back on topic. If we don't pay them, they won't meet us.”

“And if we do pay them, they'll lie. If people are willing to meet with us just to tell their story, they're more likely to tell the truth.” Hank turned to me. “What do you think, darling girl?”

“I really don't know,” I said. “I can see both sides, I suppose.”

“What was that?” Ellis said, swiveling toward me. “Would you please repeat that?”

“I said I really don't know.”

“No, you don't,” he said, “and yet you're always offering opinions.”

I decided to ignore the insult and poked through the remainder of
the pie. I was looking for pieces of rabbit, because I didn't care for the mushrooms. Unfortunately, they were the same shade of brown.

A fully formed thought crashed into my head, a
coup de foudre
. I put my fork down and looked at Ellis, feeling my eyes grow wide.

He had decided upon sight that the elves' cups were noxious, but there was absolutely nothing noxious-looking about them other than their red interiors.

“Stop gaping,” Ellis said. “You'll catch flies.”

“Ellis!” Hank snapped. “What the hell is wrong with you? That's
Maddie
you're talking to.”

“If you'll excuse me,” I said, setting my napkin by my plate and rising.

Ellis scowled and shook his head.

“Shall I walk you up?” said Hank, rising quickly.

“No thank you. I'll be fine on my own.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, although he came around the table and touched my elbow. “Maddie, he doesn't mean it. He's just being a knucklehead. He's under a lot of stress.”

“Stress,” I said. “Yes, of course.”

I tried to wrap my head around the enormity of what I suspected. If I was right, not only would it prove Ellis immoral on a completely different scale, it would also negate the entire purpose of this foolish, arrogant venture. Finding the monster wouldn't restore his honor, because he had no honor to restore.

Over the course of the night, I became convinced.

He hadn't crashed cars because he couldn't tell if the light was red or green. He'd crashed cars because he was drunk. Likewise, it was no coincidence that the dresses and jewelry he bought me were almost exclusively red. He knew it set off my green eyes. And the only reason I could think of for him buying me a bright red gas mask case was that it matched my gloves.

The thing I found most abhorrent was that he'd made such a show
about trying to enlist a second time, then acted so devastated when they'd turned him down again. The entire spectacle was designed to garner sympathy, which—incredibly—he seemed to think he deserved. It was a production worthy of my mother.

I made sure I was the first one down the next morning, bringing my coat, gas mask, and gloves with me. I set the gloves on the table and waited. I was usually the last one down, so I didn't know who would arrive first.

To my relief, it was Ellis.

“Good morning, darling,” he said, kissing me on the cheek. “You're up early. Big plans?”

I was momentarily shocked by his cheer. I wondered if he even remembered the previous night.

“Just tromping around the countryside,” I said, trying to match his tone. “I wish I had my watercolors.”

“Your paintings would be entirely washed away by the rain.” He pulled a logbook out of his duffel bag and opened it.

I fingered my scarlet gloves, flattening the thumbs carefully against the palms.

“Yes, I suppose you're right,” I said. “Which reminds me, I'm so glad you got a weather-resistant case for my gas mask. I'm sure a cardboard box would have dissolved by now.”

“Nothing but the best for my girl,” he answered.

“But I
am
curious why you got this color.”

“To match your gloves, of course. Say, what do you suppose a fellow has to do to get some breakfast around here?” He craned his neck, searching for Rhona.

“But my gloves are green,” I said.

“No they're not, they're red.”

“No,” I said, slowly. “They're green.”

He looked down at the gloves, and then lifted his gaze until it was locked on mine.

“Well,” he said, just as slowly, “you told me they were red.”

“Did I?” I said, still playing with the gloves. “That must have been another pair. These are green, and it's a rather odd color combination. I feel a bit like a Christmas wreath.”

I looked up. He was unblinking, his expression cold as granite.

“Anyway,” I continued, “if you find yourself back in Inverness, I could use a new pair. These ones have water stains all over them. And this time I
would
like red—did you know there's a saying, that red is the new badge of courage?”

Hank appeared beside me. “What's up, kids?”

“What color are these gloves?” Ellis demanded.

“What?” said Hank.

“Maddie's gloves. What color are they?”

“They're red,” said Hank.

Ellis stood so suddenly his chair legs belched against the stone floor. He tossed his logbook into the duffel bag, pulled the bag onto the chair, then yanked the coarse-toothed zipper so hard it took him three tries to get it closed. He threw me a final searing glare and stormed outside.

After a couple of seconds, Hank said, “Christ. You two aren't falling apart on me, are you?”

Instead of answering, I stared into my lap.

He pulled out a chair and sat. “Is this about last night? He was just being stupid. He's under boatloads of stress. If the Colonel doesn't forgive him, he's seen the last cent he's going to until we find the monster. And even then, the Colonel still has to forgive him.”

“You underestimate the powers of Edith Stone Hyde.”

“I hope so, because he sent her a letter yesterday morning. That's why he got so snockered last night.”

I was shocked. “He wrote to her? What did he say?”

“Well, he didn't show it to me, but I assume he threw himself on her mercy and begged for divine intervention with the Colonel.”

“I had no idea he was going to write to her.”

“He didn't want you to worry.”

“Because I'm so delicate?”

“Because he wanted to protect you.”

“Well, he has a funny way of showing it.”

Hank sighed. “If you're talking about last night, they're just words, Maddie. You know he didn't mean any of it.”

“I don't know anything anymore. I don't think he even remembers. He's taking my pills and washing them down with liquor.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I just told you.”

His eyes met mine with something like comprehension.

“When did this start?”

“He's always helped himself, but it's really ramped up since we got here.”

“I had no idea.” He stared into space. After what felt like an eternity, he took a deep breath and slapped his thighs. “All right. Don't worry, darling girl. I'll straighten him out.”

“It's too late,” I said.

“I'll straighten him out,” Hank said firmly.

When the front door clicked shut behind him, I whispered, again, “It's too late.”

Ellis returned to the inn that night sober and courteous to a fault. His calm exterior and placid expression were too calm, too placid, and I wondered whether he was masking terrible hurt or terrible anger.

I began to second-guess myself.

If he really was color-blind and I'd accused him of faking it, I was no better than all the other judgmental people. But if he was faking it and knew I'd found out, I was as lethal to him as a loaded gun.

If the Colonel discovered that Ellis had lied to shirk duty, he'd disown him immediately and permanently, and there would be nothing Edith Stone Hyde or anybody else could do about it.

Either way, I'd made a mistake and was going to have to fix it.

When Ellis laid eyes on me the next morning, his expression confirmed how critical it was for me to get things back on an even keel. The second he saw me, his jaw clenched and he stared at his logbook.

I hated what I had to do, and hated even more that I knew how. I would be drawing directly from my mother's playbook.

“Good morning, darling,” I said, joining him. “Where's Hank?”

He made a great show of licking his finger and turning the page.

“Sweetheart, please tell me what I've done,” I said. “You left in such a hurry yesterday, and then you barely spoke to me at dinner. I know I've done something, but I don't know what.”

He continued to look down at the book, pretending I wasn't there.

“Except that's not true,” I said miserably. “I do know why you're angry. It was my pitiful attempt at a joke, wasn't it? Ellis,
please
look at me.”

He lifted his face. His expression was glacial, his eyes hard.

“My joke about the gloves,” I went on. “I was trying to be funny, not make fun of you. But I should have known better than to joke about your condition. It was awful of me.”

He had no reaction at all. He simply stared, his lips pressed into a grim line.

I had no choice but to barrel on, because I had no other plan.

“I thought if I told you my gloves were green, you'd think Hank had pulled a prank on you by picking the wrong color case for my gas mask, but then it all went wrong. As soon as I saw your face I should have stopped, but I was so far in I kept going and tried to turn it around instead. It's all so stupid—I really do need new gloves, and I was just trying to come up with a clever way of asking. It was the vaudeville in me trying to come out, but I'm no star. I'm meant to be a supporting act. So rest assured that yesterday's performance marked both the debut and finale of my solo career in practical jokes.”

He finally spoke. “Not vaudeville. Burlesque.”

My cheeks burned. “Yes. Of course. It's just we don't usually call it that.”

“My mother always said that blood will out. I wish I'd paid attention.”

My mouth opened and closed a couple of times before I could respond. “I suppose I deserved that, after what I said to you.”

He laughed once, a short, harsh bray.

The two of them didn't return to the inn that night or the next, so I had no idea if Ellis had bought my story about the gloves. They left no note or any other indication of where they had gone.