Dark Lady (37 page)

In the afternoon, on a crisp, fall-like day, Caroline aimlessly strolled the Harvard campus. She barely saw it. For a time, she sat on the steps of the law school. Summer students came and went; she could almost have been

one of them. But now, Caroline knew quite clearly, she, might never be. She forced herself not to call him. That night, alone in her hotel room, Caroline slept badly. She had not eaten lunch or dinner. In the morning, Caroline gazed out her window toward the Public Garden. It was green and pastoral, a piece of London amidst a much younger city. The skies were darkening, Caroline saw; with the instinct of a sailor, she sensed that the Vineyard was in for stormy weather. Caroline closed her eyes. In her mind, David sailed the catboat with the wind on his hair, smiling at her across the wheel. She went to the phone and called him. The phone rang, and rang again. She did not hang up. Finally, he answered. “Hi,” she said. “It’s me.”

“Hi.” Her spirits lifted with his voice. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.” Caroline took a breath. “I’m ready to talk about this, okay? I’m flying back this afternoon.”

“Shall I pick you up?” I’ll find you.” She paused. “It’ll give me that much more time.” There was silence for a moment. Quietly, he said, “Can you give me a preview?” She sat on the bed. “I think it’s better just to talk things through. Okay?”

“Okay.” He was trying to sound stoic. Softly, she said, “I love you, David.”

“And I love you, Caroline.” Slowly, Caroline put down the telephone, not knowing that it was the last time she would ever hear him say this.

Caroline flew to the Vineyard in a driving rainstorm, which buffeted the twin-engine prop plane. There was the crash of thunder, a sickening jolt; the tiny plane took a brief, vertiginous drop, and then a second bolt of lightning lit the roiling seas below. Caroline gripped the arm of her seat and tried to think of David. As it dipped for a landing, the plane lurched from side to side. And then the wheels hit the ground, circling to a stop, and the handful of stunned passengers straggled out like refugees into the pelting storm. Caroline was last. In front of the airport, a wooden outpost that dated from the Second World War, she found a battered taxi. Inside, she shivered; her hair and face were wet, and a sideways rain spattered the windshield like hail. Once she had given her destination, neither Caroline nor the taciturn gray-haired cabbie spoke at all. She was going straight to the boathouse. Her life might be about to change, she thought. How foolish to wish for better weather. The cab turned down the road to Eel Pond. Caroline tried to compose herself. In the darkness, all that she could see was the cabbie’s fleshy neck, the low shrubs and trees of the moorlike fields as the headlights caught them. And then they passed the Rubins’ place, and the terrain opened to the bluff above a black, pounding sea. The cab stopped. Hastily, Caroline fumbled loose some bills from her purse and got out with her suitcase into the rain.

She stood atop the bluff for a moment, gazing at the silhouette of her father’s house, perhaps two hundred feet away. A bolt of lightning struck nearby. Caroline started: as the thunder exploded, she imagined in her mind’s eye that she had seen the outline of her father’s car. But this could not be. Turning, Caroline ran down the bluff and across the beach. Her boots labored in the wet, heavy sand; by the time she clambered to the pier, suitcase still in hand, she was panting, half blind from rain. She ran for his door, footsteps hammering the wooden planks. His light was on, Caroline saw. He was waiting for her. She sprinted the last four steps and burst through the unlocked door. She stopped, blinking in the light. David’s clothes were pulled from drawers and strewn near his suitcase on the floor. Caroline turned, stunned and frightened, looking for him. He stood in the passage to the porch, white-faced. The tension building inside her drove Caroline across the room to him. She clutched the front of his shirt. “What happened to you, David?” He stared down at her. “Your friend came to warn me,” he said tersely. “Frank Mannion. He didn’t like draft dodgers much, he told me, but he didn’t want you hurt anymore.” He paused. “The FBI’s coming tomorrow, Caroline. Someone turned me in.” Caroline felt herself freeze. David watched her face. “You were the only one I told. The only one, including my own mother, who even knew that I was here.” Caroline’s eyes shut. Silent, she laid her head against his chest. He did not move, or hold her. Quietly, David asked, “Who did you tell?” Miserably, she whispered, “Only my sister.” Gently, firmly, David pushed her away. When he knelt to

close the suitcase, his face was taut and his eyes were narrow slits. Caroline trembled with cold. “She wouldn’t do that.” Snapping the final latch, David looked up. Voice still soft, he answered, “But your father would, wouldn’t he?” He paused. “The rich are different, after all.” All at once, Caroline went numb. “His car …”

“Oh, he’s back.” His tone was bitter now. I’m sure to ‘inspect his holdings,’ as you once put it. Of which you’re one.” Tears came to Caroline’s eyes, and then the weight of betrayal overwhelmed her—her betrayal of David, Betty’s betrayal of her. Her father’s … “But I was going with you.” Her voice filled with anguish. “After we talked, if you still wanted me, I was going with you.” David turned pale. “Don’t do this. Please. You never would have gone, not really. You’re much too tied to all of them.” His voice was flat, final. Caroline folded her arms, staring at the floor. In a few terrible moments, she realized, her life had changed forever. Despairing, she asked only, “What are you going to do?” He looked at her and then gave a faint sardonic smile in which, Caroline hoped, she might have seen a glimmer of affection. “Think you can keep a secret?”

“Tell me, damn it.” There was another flash of lightning. David glanced out the window, then said, “I’m stealing your boat.” Caroline stared at him. “That’s crazy.”

“Is it?” David pulled on his jacket. “The only other ways off this island are the airport and the boat from Vineyard Haven. Both places will be watching for me. The only ticket they’ll give me is to prison. And I refuse to go there on account of your family.” Caroline was seized by despair. “You’ll never make it. Not in a catboat.” He looked at her steadily. I’ve sailed through much

worse. And once I do, I’m halfway to Canada. Just a pleasant sail up the coast of Maine.” Wordless, Caroline clutched the front of his jacket, shaking her head. “I’m taking the boat,” he repeated. “You can help me, or say goodbye here.” Caroline fought back tears. In a muffled voice, she said, “I’ll help you.” Gently, David removed her hands from his jacket. He went to the doorway. Standing there, irresolute, caroline saw his guitar in the corner. She walked across the room to get it. Caroline turned to him, guitar in hand. Framed in the doorway, he looked at the guitar, then at her, and a second faint smile crossed his face. “Let’s go,” he said. They walked down the pier in the driving rain, David carrying his suitcase, Caroline his guitar. Not looking at each other, and yet not hurrying. Struggling across the beach, they left twin trails of footprints. At the end of the Masterses’ dock, the catboat bobbed in the storm. Caroline stopped abruptly. “I never fixed the dinghy,” she said. “Or the rib.”

“I know.” David paused for a moment, gazing at the boat, and then kept walking. Slowly, she followed him. Beneath the wind and rain, his footsteps sounded hollow. Turning, David looked at her, and then he tossed his suitcase onto the catboat. As Caroline leapt onto the boat, guitar in hand, the rain came down in sheets. She went below. Carefully, she placed his guitar in one corner. Above, David had begun to unfurl the canvas. His curly hair was rain-soaked. Caroline went to help him, a catch in her throat.

Together, they raised the sail aloft, flapping in the punishing wind. Numb, Caroline moved from one task to the next. Just as they had done in so many days of summer—silent, knowing their routine so well that there was no need to speak. In the rain, Caroline’s tears were nothing. David had turned to her. Softly, he said, I think we’re ready, Caroline.” She could not seem to move. He came to her then, taking her face in his hands. “No,” he said. “You can’t.” The boat lurched violently beneath them. Tears ran down Caroline’s face. David placed both hands on her waist and looked intently into her eyes. It was as if, Caroline thought for a moment, he wanted to remember them. Perhaps he would change his mind. Gently, he lifted her over the side and placed her on the dock. She started to reach out, realized she could no longer touch him. “Think you can toss me the line?” he asked. Caroline knelt, freeing the line from the spile that secured it. For a last moment, she held it in her hand. And then, underhand, she tossed it to him as he had asked. “Please,” she said, “at least let me know that you’ve made it. Somehow.” Silent, he gazed at her and seemed to force a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll remember Joshua Slocum.” Wind flapped in the sails above him. David gave her a last long look and then turned quickly to his task. Caroline watched, hands in her pockets, as the catboat slipped into the storm. Soon it began to merge with the dark. Caroline strained to see him. He was a slim figure at the helm; perhaps in her imagination, in the last moment before he vanished, David turned to wave. As far as Caroline knew, they never found him. She never heard from him again.

Later, when she came to California, Caroline tried to find his parents. But she could not. Perhaps it was best; she was not sure what she would have said. She made her own life. At odd times, Caroline the defense lawyer imagined a man named David Stern, in Canada. She hoped he had forgiven her, for she had so much to tell him.

Amidst a throng of reporters, Caroline Masters ascended the steps of the Connaughton County Courthouse.

The crowd—the outthrust microphones, the cameras, the reporters jockeying for position—was largely Caroline’s doing. Two days before the hearing, she had told the Patriot-Ledger that she would expose weaknesses in the prosecution case and singled out Megan Race by name. She repeated this challenge on television, to ensure that Megan would not miss it. Now the hearing had become an event, its centerpiece Megan’s testimony, perhaps three days away.

“Do you expect to vindicate Brett Allen?” a woman reporter called out.

Caroline paused, gazing straight into a hand-held camera.. She had sacrificed sleep to preparation, and the circles beneath her eyes had required more work than usual. But in her sleekly tailored blue suit, with her hair freshly cut, she looked crisp and in command.

“What I intend,” Caroline answered, “is to show that the prosecution case against Brett Allen should not satisfy anyone who comes to this courthouse with an open mind. I hope the prosecution meets that description.”

Caroline turned away, making this challenge to Jackson her sound bite of the morning. It also hid her own discomfort; after all, she thought grimly, only she could guess the origin of the murder weapon, only she knew that Brett and James Case had quarreled in the moments before his death. Her stomach felt hollow.

At the top of the courthouse steps she turned, waiting for her family. Dressed in a three-piece suit, Channing Masters was a figure of judicial rectitude, head held high as he climbed the stairs toward Caroline. Betty clasped one elbow, Larry the other; their faces, as Caroline had schooled them, were open and hopeful. They met Caroline, forming the tableau of a family come to seek justice for its youngest member. Minutes before, Jackson had arrived. With a certain restraint, he said only that what mattered was the evidence. As for Megan Race, she was in virtual seclusion: two nights before, a television camera had caught her leaving the apartment, straight-backed and angry. She would not speak at all.

The previous day, Jackson had appeared at the inn unannounced. They had gone to her room. In a voice much colder than usual, Jackson asked, “What have you done to Megan Race?” With reigned indifference, Caroline had answered, “What does Megan think I’ve done.”?” Jackson gazed at her across the room. His eyes looked puffy; Caroline knew that he was as tired as she was. “She wants me to investigate you,” he said finally. “She still thinks someone broke into her apartment.” Caroline sat back. “Any more proof of a break-in?” Jackson hesitated. “No. Not that we can see.”

“Then it never happened, did it? Just like a drug dealer never broke into James’s apartment …”

“Don’t play games with me. Megan’s jumpy as a cat now—you did something to intimidate her.”

“Maybe she’s trying to intimidate me. Or maybe you are.” Caroline’s voice was brittle with strain. “If you want to investigate me, go ahead. But not until this hearing’s over.” Jackson folded his arms. “Save it for the cameras, Caroline. I’ ve been watching you ratchet up the pressure on this girl for the last two days. If you’ve got some reason to believe she’s not reliable, tell me.”

“I already did,” Caroline snapped. “And yet you insist on calling her.”

“She denies any relationship to Larry.” Jackson stood, hands on hips. “Look, if you’ve got something else, tell me. But don’t try to set me up.” Rubbing the bridge of her nose, Caroline was silent. “This is a capital case,” she said at last. “It’s about Brett, not you and me, and you’ve chosen to base it on Megan Race. I’m entitled to cross-examine her without giving you a preview.”

“You did do something, didn’t you?” Jackson’s tone was sharp now. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that whatever it is will come out too? What about your judgeship?” Caroline looked at him wearily. And what about your judgeship, she wanted to ask; all at once, she understood what public embarrassment might do to him as well. It made her sorry for them both. “I’m a defense lawyer,” she answered. “Brett comes first.”

“Just what do you plan?” her father had asked. They sat in Carlton Grey’s office a few hours after Jackson’s visit. Perhaps it was fatigue; Caroline felt the full weight of her memories, the deep despairing wish never to have returned. It took an act of will to address her father as a lawyer. “Several things,” she said. “First, to show that the physical evidence, in which Jackson put such stock, is ambiguous. I’ve been over this with our experts——on serology, on drugs, on pathology, and on forensics—until the lab reports are swimming before my eyes.”