Escape (35 page)

“Yeah. We’ve been going back and forth. The poor guy’s been worried about you. Wait’ll he hears about me.”

“Don’t tell him! He’ll have a coronary!”

James snorted. “He isn’t the only one. My parents have never rebelled against anything in their lives. But hell, it’s not like I’m leaving the firm. I’m just taking the weekend off.”

He looked at me. I might have argued that a weekend wasn’t long enough, not for the kind of thinking we needed to do, that nothing would change if he was back at his desk Monday morning.

But I was silent. Right here, right now, we were a couple again. I wasn’t risking another rift, wasn’t wasting this precious time.

So we played. Since he had already seen the town center, I showed him the scenic outskirts—a ravine filled with blue lupines, a woodsy path that rose to a breathtaking outcropping of rocks. Solicitous, he helped me over slippery stretches, taking his cue from me that the baby was fine. In time, we found ourselves in a six-table café at a crossroads just south of Bell Valley, desperate for iced drinks after hiking to a lookout several miles down the road.

“The truth,” James said once the worst of our thirst had been slaked. “Last time, you were here with Jude.”

“Sure was.” I grinned, refusing to be put on the defensive where Jude was concerned. “Aren’t you glad? Most people don’t know about this place—or about the lookout or the ravine. He was a great guide. Now you and I have our own mark on them.”

“Just for the weekend,” he cautioned quietly.

I nodded. “That’s all.”

“We can’t both be unemployed.”

“I know.”

“I do have to go back—”

I pressed my hand to his mouth. “Our escape—just a little longer?”

He used his BlackBerry twice that day. The first was in an exchange with Sean, who forwarded a note from his accountant. Having followed the trail of trust disbursements to an investment firm in Panama, she had hit a wall. Sean told her to keep at it, but she warned that it would take time.

James wasn’t patient, hence his second exchange, this one with his own man, who had ways of getting information under the table.

What had happened at the firm made him feel powerless. This was one way of countering it, but his frustration remained. A little line between his brows came and went, came and went. I saw it, but didn’t comment. I did want this to be our escape.

We heard the coyotes again that night. Their howls lulled us to sleep, but I was awake again at dawn, thinking of the sound. Coyotes also made yips and barks, but howls, Jude said, were a gathering call. I might be crazy, but I couldn’t shake the sense that they were calling for us—and as escapes went, what could be better?

It was a beautiful Sunday morning—dry, clear, cool—and James had been sleeping since nine the night before. So I woke him, pulled a sweatshirt over his head while he pulled on sweatpants, and led him past the old wood gate, over the rotted post, and through the ferns. We followed the old stone wall, passed the grandfather oak and the granite arch.

Between our passage and the slow spread of daylight, the woods were starting to waken. Tiny bodies scurried out from the undergrowth; birds flew off to look for seeds. Catching a small movement, I stopped, but it was a minute before I spotted a doe and two fawns,
carefully camouflaged as they munched on a wild shrub. Silent, I pointed them out to James. They stared at us for a breathtaking second longer before bounding off.

By the time we heard the brook, sunlight was gilding the tops of the trees. I dropped my head back and inhaled. Of all the rich and earthy scents, the strongest was serenity. I didn’t look back to see if James felt it. His hold of my hand was relaxed, his fingers warm in a way that went beyond the physical.

The water flowed downstream in reflections of blues, golds, and browns. Settling on the bank, watching the far side, we listened for sounds above the gurgle. In time, as though they had been waiting for us, they appeared.

“How did you know they’d come?” James whispered.

“They know when I’m here. We have a meeting of minds.”

He shot me an amused look that I felt more than saw, since I was keeping my eye on the far side of the stream. “Look,” I said softly. “The pups. They’re bigger each time I see them. The den must be nearby.”

“Is this safe?”

“Our being here? Absolutely.”

“They won’t attack?”

“No. They know me. You’re with me, so you get a pass.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. They know my scent. Besides, coyotes don’t eat people. They don’t even eat housecats when they can get things like mice, squirrels, and rabbits. Where do you think all those aging rodents go? It’s about the food chain.”

“What about aging coyotes?”

“Bear.”

“If they aren’t shot first by sheep farmers.”

“Coyotes only eat sheep when they have nothing else. They also eat insects and fruit.”

“And garbage. That’s what the ones in Manhattan get into.”

“Not their favorite meal. But they adapt. They do what they have to do to survive.”

“See, that’s what we need to do,” he said, “find a way to survive in New York.”

“Or relocate to a place more suited to our needs.”

He paused. “Is this the pitch?”

“No,” I said. “But I do identify with the coyote.”

“A coyote is a wild animal. We’re domesticated. We think.”

“Maybe too much.” I glanced back at the fat pine against which our child might well have been conceived. “A little wildness is good.”

I wanted to think a part of him agreed, but he looked troubled as he continued to watch the coyotes.

“What,” I coaxed. I felt safe here, buffered from reality.

“Look at them, just tumbling around. Their lives are simple. I envy that.”

“Why do ours have to be complex?”

“Because we’re human. Because our food chain is complex.”

“Ours isn’t about survival,” I said. “It’s about ego.”

Another coyote appeared. Slightly larger than the mom, it sat by the trunk of a tree, watching us. I guessed it to be the dad.

“The whole family, out havin’ fun,” James quipped.

“Like us,” I said, and kissed his jaw.

“About the ego thing, babe—are you saying that’s what drives me?”

“I’m asking it, and it’s not only you, James. I’m just as bad.”

“But ego has to do with self-esteem, which is good.”

“Do you get self-esteem from your work? I don’t. Do you get it from the friendships you have in New York?” His silence said it. “Some people get self-esteem from technology,” I continued, “like if they master it, they’ve mastered the world. Not me. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about myself in this last month, it’s that I do
not
get happiness from all that. I love you, James. Love
you
. But the rest of what I was doing is … is like spinning. I sit in a room of thirty people I don’t know, and I pedal faster and faster to keep pace, but
when I’m done, I haven’t moved an inch. Okay, I can check off exercise as done, but do I walk home smiling in satisfaction? No.” I took a quick breath and softened, pleading. “I do smile when I help Vicki. I get satisfaction helping Lee. And the Refuge. I feel good there. I want you to see that, too, sometime.”

I left it open. If he was heading back today, I wanted him to choose what to do before he left. It was enough that I had dragged him into the woods to see my coyotes.

The Refuge was my priority. Sleep was his. He got several more hours while I helped set up for brunch at the Red Fox. When I returned to the shed late in the morning with a tray, he was just getting out of the shower. I half expected he would be wearing slacks, readying for the drive straight back to the office. But no. A T-shirt and jeans. That was a good sign. Likewise, when he carried the tray outside so that we could eat on the bench facing the woods.

He was the one who suggested going to the Refuge—perhaps appeasing me in advance of his leaving, but he actually seemed curious about the place. I could see his surprise at its size and spread, could see him lift his head to sniff horse and hay when we got out of the car.

“Who are all these people?” he asked, studying the sign-in sheet when I added our names.

“Volunteers. They pretty much run the place on weekends. Some are up for the day from Concord and Portsmouth. Others just stop off on their way elsewhere. Guests at the Red Fox stay longer.”

He stopped out back to read the weather vane of lopsided signs, looked around in alarm when a loud bray came sudden and close, but I led him to the cats first. I wanted him to see where I spent so much of my time, but I also felt a need to see my friends, and I swear, the cats did know me. They came without pause, hungry for scratches and rubs, though there were other volunteers around. Talk about ego. Mine soared. When I shot James a satisfied grin, he actually laughed.

“You are such a bleeding heart,” he said in a good-natured way
that would never,
never
have happened two weeks before. And it was the same when I took him to Rehab. “How much time have you spent here?” he teased when the cats crowded in.

“Not that much,” I assured him, stroking the massive Maine coon that had plopped down by my thigh, minus a leg but so much sturdier than my kitten had been. I told him about her, how she had wobbled to me, how she had died in my arms, and though he couldn’t possibly feel my emotion, he stroked my arm when I was through.

Sensing my affinity for these particular cats, he gave me time, wandering out while I stayed to freshen water. He didn’t keep poking his head back in to see if I was ready to leave. He wasn’t even waiting right outside the door. I had to go looking for him, one bungalow to the next, asking about a tall, dark-haired guy wearing a blue Gold’s Gym tee.

I finally found him behind one of the dog huts, leaning against the wire mesh of a large, open-air pen. Curling my fingers by his on the mesh, I watched beside him.

“I never had a pet growing up,” he finally said.

“Did you want one?”

“Every kid wants one. The house was too small, my parents said. We had no yard. They both worked. It sounded right. I didn’t learn the truth until I was home for college vacation and out on the front walk, talking with neighbors who had just moved in next door. They had a spaniel puppy. It was small and jumpy. Mom backed away and hurried into the house.”

“Scared of dogs?” I asked in surprise.

“Terrified. She told me that when she was little, she’d been chased by a dalmatian. Sad to base a phobia on one experience. I mean, look at these dogs.” Several had approached us. He lowered his hand so that they could nose it. “They aren’t wild. They’re homeless. How can you not feel for them?”

I leaned into him.

“Oh no,” he warned. “We don’t know where in the hell we’ll be living in six months. Now is not the time to get a dog.”

“I know,” I said, though with regret. “And these dogs will find homes. The Refuge places hundreds every year.”

“Look at that one.”

I followed his gaze to a distant corner of the pen, where a dog sat alone. It was midsize and heavily furred, with a black body and white markings on its chest and face.

“It’s an Australian shepherd,” James said. “I had a friend who had one. They need a ton of exercise, but I’ve been here for fifteen minutes and that dog hasn’t moved. He’s frightened. Look, see his eyes?” They grew especially fearful when a man emerged from the hut. “He’s been abused.” When the man approached, the dog shied away, then bolted off. “What’ll happen to a dog like that?”

“They’ll work with him,” I said. “He’ll stay here as long as it takes, but they’ll find him a home.”

“They have their work cut out for them with that one.”

“Mm. But totally rewarding when they break through.”

James wasn’t about to suddenly crave a dog. But something about breakthroughs, satisfaction, or self-esteem must have been in play, because he didn’t pack up and head to New York Sunday night—though he did set his BlackBerry to ding at four Monday morning, so that he could do it then. When the alarm rang, though, he turned it off, pulled me close, and went back to sleep.

I left him sleeping while I worked at the inn, but I was back with him at nine. He had just e-mailed Mark that he wouldn’t be in. At least, not in the office in New York. Rocco Fleming was due in Manchester-by-the-Sea by noon and would be interviewed at the police station. We wanted to be there.

Chapter 22
 

We drove to the house first. In the ten days since we’d seen it last, holes had been boarded up, and though police tape still stretched around much of the bedroom wing, I suspected that whatever evidence there was had already been bagged.

The police station was humming. Fleming hadn’t yet arrived, which gave James a chance to talk with the detective in charge. Selfishly, we weren’t as concerned about the arson investigation as with anything Rocco might know about further harm aimed at Lee. And though we knew we wouldn’t be allowed in the room while he was questioned, the detective noted our questions.

Rocco had a buzz cut and an overhanging gut, but his eyes were what compelled. They were half-lidded and mean. Seeming unduly sure of himself, he didn’t blink when three separate townsfolk picked him out of a lineup. After being Mirandized, he waived his right to an attorney and was closed in with the detective and the chief. He admitted to being in Manchester that day, insisting that he had been sent there on a job. He claimed that what they were calling an “accelerant” found in his truck was a fluid used in the installation of windows.