Mudlark (29 page)

"Look, I'm going to take this in to Melanie. Can you get a bucket of water while I'm inside and put some
on to heat?"

"Fetch it your own self. I'm not going nowhere." I didn't argue the point. Melanie gave another muted
shriek. Her throat had to be sore.

In spite of my trembling hands, I carried most of the water into the tent without spilling it. I knelt
beside Bonnie. She had flopped the sleeping bag over Melanie's exposed body and was sitting, cross-legged, on the
canvas by the woman's head, holding her hands. "Yes, that's right--puff, puff, puff, hold. That's the way. You can do
it, Mel."

Between the two of us, we managed to get about half a cup of water into Melanie. The rest spilled--on
us and on the tent floor. Melanie moaned rhythmically. Bonnie kept talking to her.

I was crowding them. I poked around the edges of the tent and found another sleeping bag, rolled up
and tied, and a duffel bag. Melanie moaned. Bonnie chanted.

I grabbed the duffel. "I'm going to heat water. What else do you need?"

"Puff, puff, puff, hold. Good girl. Soap and warm water. We can clean her up, but I'm not going to move
her into the other sleeping bag until the baby comes. That'll be the only clean warm place available." Bonnie had
done some exploring too. "Right, Melanie, concentrate-- What is it?"

"Back!" Melanie moaned.

"She's having back pains," Bonnie muttered. "See if you can improvise a hot-water bottle, Lark. We need
to get her warm and ease the muscle cramps."

"How soon--"

"Hours, probably."

Melanie gave a real shriek, and Bonnie bent to take up her incantation. I fled with the duffel bag.

The rifle barrel swung my way again.

I did my best to ignore it. I made for the stump, sat on it, and pawed through the clothes in the bag. A
flannel nightgown, jeans and sweatshirts, underwear of both sexes, socks. The clothes were clean. The Johnsons
hadn't been on the island long.

A zippered makeup kit held lipstick, eyeshadow, mascara, blusher, a toothbrush and toothpaste, hand
soap in a plastic box, fingernail scissors, and a bottle of aspirin. There were no baby things at all, not so much as a
disposable diaper, nor were there any sanitary napkins. At least there was soap.

After a paralyzed pause, I picked up a bucket. "How far is the spring?"

"Hundred yards. Follow the path." The barrel of the rifle glinted. "Just get the water and come right
back. Don't try no funny stuff. There's bears in them woods."

That was a confidence-builder. I left the open duffel on the stump and took the path Kevin had
indicated. It led into dense brush. Within ten yards I was out of sight of the camp, and the bushes closed around
me.

It may be that I had cherished hopes of running off to find help. If so, I abandoned them. The
underbrush was so thick I could see no more than a few yards in any direction, and the bushes looked thorny. Huge
cedars towered overhead, blocking the watery sunlight. Condensation from the sword-ferns that lined the path
soaked my jeans and sneakers. I was glad of the rain jacket.

I was far too frightened to cry. I trudged along the narrow path, crushing ferns underfoot, until I came
to a reedy bog. Kevin or someone had laid lopped cedar branches to the heart of the swamp. I followed the
branches, squishing. I thought of the peat bogs of my home area of upstate New York. They went down hundreds of
feet. People had drowned in them.

The water that burbled up in the middle of the reeds flowed off to the south in a stream that was clear
but tinged with brown, like very weak tea. I filled the bucket to the brim and squished my way back to the trail. I
took the path slowly, and I began to think.

It was almost four o'clock. Clara had to have noticed our absence. What would she do? Given the purple
boots, she probably wouldn't venture onto the mudflat. Could she see our abandoned gear from the point? I didn't
think so. The gravel bar where we had harvested cockles lay beyond the next headland.

I wished Bonnie and I had not pulled the rowboat so high onto the sand. The tide was coming in, but it
would take Clara awhile to float the boat and row across the bay. That was what I hoped she'd do. Row across the
bay and call Jay or Tom.

Kevin didn't know about Clara, did he?

He knew we hadn't parachuted onto the island, and he had to know someone would wonder where we
were. Soon.

Someone. Clara. What did I know about Clara? She had brought us to the island, directed us to dig clams
near Kevin's hideaway. Maybe Clara was the mastermind, the murderer. No. Surely not. Hadn't she been out of
town when Cleo Hagen was killed? That could be verified. My heartbeat slowed. Of course, Clara could still have
hired Kevin.

I tripped on a clump of fern and a pint of water sloshed on my sneakers. Gritting my teeth, I steadied
the bucket and walked on, eyes on the trail. I was carefully not thinking about bears.

By the time I returned to the camp, several scenarios, all of them appalling, had flashed through my
head. The mildest featured an innocent Clara trotting along the shore in her purple boots and up the path to find us.
Then Kevin would have three hostages. The worst scenario involved a SWAT team, helicopters, and a general
massacre.

Jay would guess Kevin was involved in our disappearance because Kevin was on Jay's mind, but how
would Jay respond? He was an experienced policeman, but he was also an affectionate husband. Sometimes his
affections skewed his judgment. I hoped he wouldn't call out the National Guard.

When I emerged from the brush, Kevin's rifle targeted me instantly. At least it didn't have a
hair-trigger.

Though I was not skillful around Coleman stoves, I lit the balky device after much pumping and
swearing. Melanie still yelled at brief intervals, but I had begun to be able to block the sound out. I set a fresh pan of
water on the stove and placed the half-empty bucket on the stump.

The next hour and a half passed with excruciating slowness. Bonnie and I swabbed Melanie clean. She
seemed to like that. I dumped Coke from a two liter jug and filled the jug with almost boiling water. That made a
fair hot-water bottle. I listened to Bonnie's mantra and rubbed Melanie's back. Bonnie said the baby was crowning,
meaning that the crown of its head showed.

I cajoled a fishing knife from Kevin to cut up sweatshirts. The knife was only marginally a weapon. He
had the rifle. He got out his tackle box and gave me the knife, grumbling.

I ripped away. The soft inner fabric of the sweatshirts would make reasonably warm blankets for the
baby. I also tore up all of Kevin's undershirts and constructed something like a diaper. That gave me satisfaction. I
was saving Melanie's flannel nightgown for Melanie.

Kevin kept silent. I didn't say anything either. I brooded about the situation, rejecting lines of argument.
I had great difficulty putting myself in Kevin's head. I didn't know him, and what I did know I didn't like. There was
no use appealing to his concern for Melanie. After all, he had dragged her to the island. That he had captured us to
take care of her probably just meant he didn't want to deal with her himself. What he intended to do with Bonnie
and me after the baby came didn't bear thinking about. At least he wasn't drunk. Yet.

When I finished ripping cloth and improvising the layette, I took the duffel back to the tent. Melanie's
Coke bottle had cooled off. I carried it out, heated more water, refilled it. Bonnie thanked me and approved the
"baby clothes." When I ducked back out of the tent, I went over to where Kevin was standing, his rifle still at the
ready.

"The baby could come any minute."

He grunted. His eyes shifted.

"Bonnie will need something to cut the cord with. I'm going to boil the fishing knife--"

"No way!"

"Use your head, Kevin. The knife has to be sterile, doesn't it? We don't want the baby to get an infection.
Also I need some fishing line or leader." I didn't see Bonnie tying the umbilical cord in a granny knot. It was bound
to be slippery. Hence the line. "I'll have to sterilize that, too, and I'm going to need more water. Is there another
pan?"

"Frying pan."

"Wonderful." I had given up expecting him to help, so I went back to the stove and restarted it, found
the frying pan under the supply tarp, and poured the last of the water into it. I set the grimy knife in the skillet.
Then I picked up both plastic pails and went for more water. When I returned Kevin was standing near the stove.
He handed me a coil of fishing line.

"Thanks."

Grunt.

I popped the line in the boiling water, trusting it wouldn't melt, filled the saucepan, and set it on the
other burner. I wondered how long the knife would have to boil before it would be safe to use.

Bonnie was easing Melanie back onto the sleeping bag when I poked my head in the tent to report.
Melanie gave a full-throated scream.

"When?"

"Soon." Bonnie knelt again and took Melanie's hand. Melanie screamed.

I explained about the fishing knife and line through the litany of puffs and groans. Bonnie nodded.
"Good. Take it easy, Mel. Almost done... What's that?"

Outside the tent a man had shouted. Male voices rumbled.

Bonnie and I looked at each other. Rescue? We waited. I think Melanie was listening, too. She missed a
scream. When no rifle shot came, I eased back out of the tent and straightened.

Tom Lindquist stood by the path from the beach, his hands clasped behind his neck. Kevin was holding
the rifle on him.

Behind me, Melanie gave a muffled shriek.

I took two cautious steps in the direction of the stove. The rifle barrel swung my way, wavered, swung
back toward Tom.

Tom said, "Are you all right, Lark?" He was wearing short boots, jeans, and a sweatshirt under a gaping
nylon rain jacket. He looked as if he'd been fishing--or inspecting his oyster bed, more likely. I tried to remember if
he'd said anything about coming to Coho Island that afternoon. No. Not a word. He had intended to write.

I drew a breath. "I'm fine. Bonnie's fine. Melanie is about to have a baby." I took two more cat-steps
toward the stove. The frying pan would boil dry if I didn't take it off the burner soon.

The barrel of the rifle wavered between Tom and me.

I said in conversational tones, "I am going to take the knife and fishing line in to Bonnie, Kevin." I turned
the burner off. The water in the saucepan was boiling, too, so I turned that burner down.

I rummaged for the sweatshirt sleeve I had been using as a hotpad. It wasn't sterile, of course, so I was
going to contaminate the knife, I hoped not horribly. The knife hasp protruded from the water. I picked the knife
out, dropped it on the fabric, and blew on my scalded fingertips. When the sting faded, I plucked out the line and
dropped it on top of the knife. Without looking at the two men again, I turned and went back to the tent.

"Who is it?"

"Tom. He's not armed."

"Tom? But why...that's it, Mel. It's coming." Bonnie was hunched over the writhing woman. "Here's the
head."

Melanie pushed hard and gave a yell that was half pain, half triumph.

"Great. Now the shoulders."

I could see very little. I knelt by Bonnie and peered over her shoulder just as she pulled the bloody child
from its mother's body and laid it on Melanie's stomach.

"Give me a cloth."

A cloth. Jesus. I dropped the knife and fishing line on the canvas floor of the tent and handed Bonnie the
damp rag I had carried them in.

Bonnie swabbed the baby's face and cleared its air passages. It let out a mewling yowl.

"Oh, God, he's alive!" Melanie burst into tears.

"Get me something to wrap him in," Bonnie ordered.

I blinked back sympathy tears and scuttled for the duffel. By the time I found the improvised receiving
blankets and the undershirt-diaper, Bonnie had tied off the cord. As I watched, she severed the umbilical. The baby
howled, and Melanie wept.

Bonnie was smeared with blood. So was Melanie and so was the baby. Bonnie looked at me. The bloody
knife was still in her hand. "Soap and warm water?"

"Coming up."

"You'll have to dispose of the afterbirth, Lark."

I gulped and nodded.

Bonnie wasn't interested in my sensibilities. She had turned back to her charges. "More work, Mel. Keep
pushing."

I fled in disorder. Once outside I ignored the two men and bent over, hands on my thighs, sucking in
oxygen. When my head cleared I walked to the stove. Water simmered in the saucepan. I turned the burner off and
added a couple of cups of cold water to the pan. The handle was hot. I rummaged for more scraps of sweatshirt to
use as a hotpad.

Kevin cleared his throat. "What's happening?"

I ignored him. It was none of his damned business.

Tom said, "Lark?"

"The baby's alive. I have to take this in, and then I have to bury the afterbirth. Is there a shovel,
Kevin?"

He cleared his throat again. "Under the tarp."

I found a short-handled shovel, Forest Service surplus, and emptied one of the water buckets. Then I
carted the shovel, the empty bucket, and the pan of warm water into the tent. Bonnie was wrestling the baby into
its makeshift diaper. It was still mewling. It was incredibly tiny and manifestly male. Melanie watched, her face
smeared with tears. Another contraction hit her, and her face clenched.

When Bonnie had wrapped the child in the sweatshirt-blanket, she acknowledged my return. "Is that all
the water?"

"All that's hot. Shall I get the soap?"

"Yeah."

I laid the bucket and shovel on the floor and scrabbled in the duffel for Melanie's makeup kit. Bonnie
handed me the baby. Then she took the soap, scrubbed her hands, and moistened the scrap of fabric she had used
to clean the baby's face. "Clean rags."

"Uh, yes." The baby wriggled and let out another howl. Its eyes were closed, and its thin hair was
plastered to its tiny skull with blood and mucus. I once picked up a garter snake. It felt just like insulated wire until
it wiggled. Then it felt like nothing else on earth. It was pure luck that I didn't drop the baby the way I had dropped
the snake.