Bunker 01 - Slipknot (19 page)

Before I could return her fire, the electronic tone ding-

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donged, forecasting the entrance of a legitimate customer and sending Lucy to her post as greeter. “Ariel Cogan! Do come in! I haven’t seen you in weeks. You look marvelous.

How has your summer been?” Lucy was more than cordial.

The women exchanged small talk while I moved to a circular rack of sale items over which I could watch both Lucy and Ariel, whose back was to me, as choreographed by the pro-prietress. I had not met Ariel Cogan but was aware that she was Green Haven’s most loved summer resident. From what I now saw and heard, I understood how she had gained her reputation as the consummate lady. Though her talk was pure polish and refinement, her messages were plain and direct.

She was tall, with perfect posture, and her look was one of classic elegance. There was an aura about her. The human embodiment of pictorial harmony and enchantment, Ariel Cogan was indeed a person of distinction. The absolute antithe-sis of Lucy Hamilton in all of her flashy, flamboyant, dazzling gloss over white trash, Ariel Cogan was the genuine article.

Feigning interest in a black skirt, I listened intently to the conversation as it shifted to local politics. Ariel, it became clear, was on a fact-finding mission to help her make an educated decision about the proposed offshore site for the wind farm for which Lucy’s husband was pushing. “I’m all for wind-generated power. But the fishermen are concerned about the loss of Penobscot Ridges. That area has been closed to them for so long! Shouldn’t Green Haven’s fishermen enjoy the bounty they have sacrificed to create?” Ariel argued passionately for the survival of the town’s traditional lifestyle. She was saddened by the possibility that the ap-s l i p k n o t

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proval of the offshore site would snuff out what remained of Green Haven’s fishing heritage. It seemed to me that she wanted an advocate to convince her the fishing fleet could survive along with the wind farm.

But Lucy accomplished little with her insensitive, matter-of-fact statement: “Soon there won’t be a single codfish left in the ocean—not even on Penobscot Ridges.” That was harsh, I thought, and wondered how Lucy had come to that conclusion. It seemed painful news to Ariel, and I resisted butting in with some statistics to the contrary. I knew I would learn more from listening. Lucy skillfully changed the subject, probably sensing my urge to blurt out “Bullshit!” from behind the sale rack. “That suit is great on you, Ariel. I had you in mind when I ordered it. No one’s styles are as clean as the Italians’, are they? I’m expecting another small shipment by the end of the week.”

“Oh, marvelous! Perhaps I’ll find something to wear to your little fete. I haven’t RSVP’d yet, but you know I adore your husband,” Ariel said, ignoring Lucy’s attempts to cut her off. “Saturday the twelfth, right?” Now Lucy launched into a coughing fit. Ariel banged her on the back and kept talking. “Do you really think Blaine will be surprised, after thirty-seven years of birthdays, to be having a thirty-eighth?”

The twelfth? My heart and mood sank like a failed soufflé.

I didn’t hear another word of their conversation. The twelfth was my brother’s birthday, too. How could I have forgotten my precious baby brother, Wally? Here I was, shopping ex-travagantly for myself, while I hadn’t even purchased a card for Wally. I needed to exit the boutique before Lucy called my

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bluff and humiliated me into buying what I could not afford.

As I left Le Follie without so much as an acknowledgment from Lucy, I received a warm smile and nod from Ariel Cogan.

On the drive home, I consoled my selfish, egotistical being by reminding myself that Wally wouldn’t really care if his thirty-eighth birthday had temporarily slipped my mind. Of course, he would rather I was there with him, and I missed him fiercely. But he’s always hated phone calls and never much cared about his birthday. As long as I continued to send him goofy cards every week, he’d be pleased.

Self-centered me was back at the top of my game when I cheered out loud at the sight of the empty parking area at the Lobster Trappe. The Vickersons had actually taken the bobbing-headed plastic dachshunds for a ride in the Caddy.

With any luck, they would remain away until after I left for my date. I had just enough time to complete today’s tasks on the laptop, and send the surveys into cyberspace for someone else to deal with, before showering and finding something decent to wear.

Letting myself into the apartment, I was not surprised to find a note on the table from Alice. They had gone to a flea market in Belfast, hoping to find “a few goodies” to resell here at the Trappe, and would not be home until after dinner.

They wished me a fun time tonight and left a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth to spread and enjoy the picnic upon, as

“men never think of these things.” They also mentioned something in the refrigerator for “dessert emergencies.” I couldn’t imagine what might constitute an emergency in this case or what would need refrigeration that could possibly s l i p k n o t

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help. I flung open the door to find a large basket filled to the top with strawberries.

The berries were ripened to perfection and were as heavy as a basket of berries could be. My mouth watered with one whiff of their sweetness. I sighed and realized the berries were actually a necessary addition to the evening. After all, what if I
had
misinterpreted his note and all Lincoln had in mind was a piece of pie? “Good thinking, Mrs. V.,” I said aloud, placing the basket on the counter. Perhaps the best strategy would be to take just a few strawberries, leaving room for something more if anyone was interested. Hadn’t I read somewhere that strawberries were an aphrodisiac, like oysters? Was I being too forward? Maybe I’d forget about the berries and pick up some cookies at the coffee shop, I thought. “Oh, for God’s sake!” I berated myself. “Put a few berries in a bowl and be done with it!”

After plunking several of the biggest berries into a small glass bowl, I spent the next five minutes struggling with the Saran Wrap. First the end of the wrap was hiding on the roll.

Then I couldn’t get it to tear against the serrated metal teeth.

Next the sheet I did manage to tear off wanted to cling to everything but the bowl. With wadded-up balls of plastic all over the kitchenette, I abandoned the wrap in favor of a plastic bowl with its own snap-on lid. Tucking the berries into the paisley satchel along with the tablecloth, I realized I had no time to waste. I booted up the laptop, proofread survey reports for
Desperado
and
Witchy Woman,
and sent them along through the painfully slow dial-up connection.

After jumping in and out of the shower, I upended my

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bureau drawers and tore through a few things hanging in the apartment’s lone closet for something appropriate to wear. Too revealing, too frumpy, too stained, too tight, bad color . . . I settled on a crisp white pair of knee-length shorts and a canary-yellow cotton sweater. I threaded a multicolored necktie through my belt loops and tied a neat square knot at my left hip. Then I slipped into my strappy white sandals, grabbed the satchel and map that Cal had drawn for me, and headed out, feeling vibrant and put together.

Leaving Green Haven proper by the western route took me the length of Main Street, where the shops were already deserted. This town really closed up at five p.m., I thought.

Even the Old Maids had left their plate-glass window. The only activity I saw was through the well-lit storefront of the coffee shop. It was Friday night, and an all-you-can-eat fish fry would keep the coffee shop hopping until the
ungodly
hour of nine. Soon I passed the turnoff to Granite Bluff and couldn’t help recalling my most recent encounter with Lucy Hamilton. She remained with me, surrounded in hazy suspicion, until I passed the end of Nick Dow’s driveway. What was their connection? I would, in time, get to the bottom of it. I knew I would. Perhaps Lincoln could shed some light.

Just as Cal had described in his written directions, I found the well-marked entrance to Spruce Hill exactly seven miles out of town. The road sign indicated this area was a public park open year-round. Smaller signs in the picnic area asked visitors to carry out all their trash and not to light fires. At six-forty-five p.m. I left the Duster under the only light pole in the parking lot and went on foot up a path marked the clearing.

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The sun was still well above the horizon. I resisted the thought to go back to the Duster for the flashlight I kept in my messenger bag, knowing that its batteries hadn’t much life and certain that Lincoln would bring a light, because men always thought of these things. The grassy path led to a forest thick with tall spruce trees. The path was more like a trail here, winding up and around the hill at a lazy incline. A red squirrel chattered a welcome. Exposed roots crossed the trail, dissecting the well-traveled ground into many possible landings for feet. The woods gave way to a hillside dense with a tangle of wild raspberry bushes. A swath cut in the bushes for a walk-way was wide enough for two people to travel abreast through plants so thick that I imagined only the berries along the edges were harvested by human pickers. It was beautiful. I was lucky to have been invited to share this special place.

I kept moving uphill and through what seemed acres of raspberries not ripe enough to sample. The path flattened out into a plateau where the end of the thorny stalks of raspberry plants nestled against a low, lush mossy carpet. A wet field in front of another patch of spruce forest was bridged with slabs of trees cut lengthwise and laid hewn side up for sure footing.

Breaking out of the woods into what had to be the Clearing, I was exhilarated by the sounds, smells, and sights of what some might experience as the absolute nothingness of nature.

This simple area in the spruce held so much life that I was inspired, and wondered how I had endured city life so long. I reached the center of the Clearing and laid the tablecloth on a soft bed of ferns that appeared to have been matted down by deer. I thought of Thoreau and vowed to start reading more.

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I paced around the square cloth until seven o’clock. Lincoln would be here any second, I thought. Not wanting to appear as nervous as I was, I decided to sit down and wait.

Should I face the path? No, that would only make me look anxious. I spun around, putting my back to where Lincoln would soon appear. No, maybe side to was best. After all, I was expecting him, so shouldn’t it look like I was eager for him to arrive? Cross-legged Indian-style wasn’t much of a suggestive pose. Perhaps crossed at the ankles, legs stretched straight. No, too stiff. Not comfortable. Not relaxed. How about lying partway down, propping my top half up on an elbow behind me? That was comfortable. My tummy appeared nice and flat this way, too. What a perfect spot to see the stars, I thought as I looked straight up at the sky. The tops of the circle of giant spruce trees formed a crown through which I watched a blue sky dim in the fading light.

At seven-fifteen I reassured myself that all was well and that my watch was actually a few minutes fast. The sun was well below the tree line, and the air was cooling quickly. Seven-thirty had me wondering if I’d read Lincoln’s card correctly.

But this had to be the only clearing, and I was certain the invitation had read seven. Maybe I had the wrong night. No, he was probably running a little late and would burst through the opening in the spruce any minute now, full of apologies and armed with a picnic he’d put together himself. My anticipation had surged from a pleasant tingle to a nauseating burn. At eight, I faced the sad reality that I had been stood up. I hadn’t thought it would matter this much. Feeling thoroughly defeated, I was angry not with Lincoln but with myself.

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Well, no sense hanging around any longer. The mosquitoes had found me. I was cold and hungry. Standing up, I grabbed an edge of the tablecloth and gave it a good shake to rid it of any spruce needles or bugs. Just as the far end of the cloth fluttered to the ground, something tugged it, and a loud blast pierced the otherwise silent dusk. After two decades in law enforcement, I knew a gunshot when I heard one. Dropping to my belly and covering my head with both arms, I felt and heard another near-miss. This time I gasped. I had been set up to be killed—led like a lamb to the perfect spot. My life would end wrapped in a plastic checkered tablecloth.

Remaining motionless for what seemed an eternity, I waited for another gunshot while the mosquitoes did a number on my legs and neck. Waiting a while longer, I reasoned that whoever held the gun had assumed himself a better shot than he was, and had left me for dead. Then again, maybe the marksman hadn’t left. When I decided it was dark enough to make a move, I crawled commando-style through the ferns to the edge of the woods, where I unfortunately missed the trailhead. Daring to stand only after I had slithered into the thicket, I felt my way in the general direction of the path, bumping into and being poked by prickly branches.

Out of the woods I emerged in a boggy area I hadn’t seen earlier, and trudged through ankle-deep muck toward the raspberries. Once I found the berry patch, all I had to do was travel downhill. I would eventually come out to the main road, hopefully not too far from my car. Though I had the eerie sense that I was being followed, I knew it might just be my paranoid imagination running wild. Still, I had to move

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faster. As I thrashed my way through the raspberries, thorns scratched my bare calves until they felt red-hot. I ran, nearly tumbling, through the last of the spruce forest, red squirrels screeching all around me. Tripping over root after gnarled root, I stumbled miraculously close to the Duster, which sat alone in the yellowish spotlight.