False Mermaid (27 page)

He started to back up the stairs, and Nora felt a stab of panic. “Wait, don’t go. Please.” She began rummaging in her bag, conscious of the troupe of neighborhood kids down the block who’d started to notice her presence. They were about fifty yards away, pulling a beat-up red wagon along the sidewalk. She didn’t want to make trouble for the fisherman, but need drove her forward. She held up Tríona’s picture. “The person you found at the river. My sister.”

She felt guilty for lying, but couldn’t take the time to explain. Natalie Russo could have been someone’s sister. Frank had mentioned an interpreter. Maybe this man had no idea what she was saying. Her heart leapt when he said: “Your sister?”

“Yes—my sister. The person you found.” She reached back into the
bag again and pulled out Peter Hallett’s picture. “What about this man? Did you ever see this man at the river?”

Too much—the fisherman started backing away again, glancing sidelong at the approaching gang of children. One of the older kids called out to him in a language she couldn’t understand. From the tone, it was not a friendly hail.

He spoke under his breath, clearly anxious to get away. “This place—not good. You go now. I fish river, same place every day—very early. Big tree.” His hands suggested a sloping trunk. “You find me there.”

He was up the stairs and gone before she could even react. She tucked Tríona’s photo inside her bag, and turned to find the children swarming around her. She looked down at smudged faces. In the wagon were four squirming puppies, panting from the heat.

“Hey lady,” one of the kids sang out. “Wanna buy a dog? Only five”—a swift kick from one of his compatriots changed his tune—“I mean, ten dollars. Cheap.”

She looked down at the dog he held up, a mixed breed somewhere between a golden retriever and a husky.

“He’s beautiful, but I can’t—”

“Tony’s dad is going to drown them. He said so.”

“Can you keep them until tomorrow?” They looked at one another, shrugging. “Do you know the clinic around the corner? If you bring them over there in the morning, I know some people who might be interested. I’m sorry—I have to go now.”

She climbed into her car, suddenly surrounded by a group of older boys on bicycles, their figures throwing long shadows in the fierce horizontal light of the setting sun. They balanced on their bikes, holding on to the car’s frame so that she couldn’t ease out of her parking spot without fear of doing one of them injury. Wannabe gangsters, too young for the real thing, not much older than the kids hawking the puppies. As if responding to some silent signal, the boys began to pound on the car with the palms of their hands, slowly at first, then building to a thundering crescendo as Nora sat locked inside, debating whether to call 911, imagining the operator’s voice.
What is the nature of your emergency?

A hoarse yell pierced the air, and the pounding suddenly stopped. The crowd of teenagers lifted away on their bicycles like a flock of birds. In the rearview mirror Nora could see a uniformed figure climbing out of the dark pickup behind her, backlit by the sun. He was carrying a
baseball bat. When he approached the driver’s side window and leaned down to peer in, she saw that he wasn’t a cop, but a security guard. The word “Centurion” was stitched above the breast pocket of his shirt; there were two holes in the fabric where his name badge had been removed. She decided against rolling down the window.

“You all right there, ma’am?” He rested his right hand on the car roof, and the fingers of his left played against the handle of the bat, which was now balanced on the ground.

“Yes, I’m okay—thanks for your help.”

“You’re better off not spending too much time in this neighborhood.”

“I’m on my way.” The security guard stepped aside. As she pulled away from the curb, Nora glanced up to see the fisherman silhouetted in an upstairs window, and wondered whether she would actually see him down by the river at dawn.

Time seemed to have ground to a halt as Frank sat with his sister and brother-in-law in the waiting area outside the ER. He hadn’t even seen his brother; the doctors had said they would do everything they could, but they didn’t want to sugarcoat things. Chago was in serious trouble. There was a dangerous buildup of fluid in his tissues, not uncommon in cases of advanced heart failure.

Just after eight, one of the doctors came out and led them back into the ER, to a curtained alcove where Chago lay on a gurney. “We did all we could,” she said softly. “His lungs were just too full of fluid—I’m very sorry. The priest is with him now.”

Veronica began to sob, and Luis had to help her to a chair.

Inside the alcove, Frank watched a black-clad figure whispering over Chago, anointing his forehead with oil in the sign of the cross. Then the priest drew the sheet up over Chago’s face, and Frank felt the world tilt. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen. He had driven as fast as he could. Chago had seemed fine only a couple of days ago, joking about getting together for a cookout, to play a little baseball.

“Soon,” he had promised. “I’m on a big case right now, but just as soon as I get a break—”

Frank left Veronica’s side and walked over to the gurney. He drew back the sheet, taking in his brother’s broad brown face, the slack mouth, and closed eyes. His other half. The good half, pure of heart and mind.

Images began to fly past at alarming speed: the old man in white, waving a fan of feathers, whispering,
“Susto, susto.”
The sound of a rattle, and smoke stinging his eyes. He and Chago, cramped together under the bed, afraid to come out, afraid the dusty cowboy boots might come and find them. The sound of voices and blows, and stars bursting in a black sky like fireworks.

Frank stood at his brother’s side, clutching the edge of the sheet. A dark wave seemed to stretch a great distance above him, trembling with a dreadful anticipation, until it finally came crashing down upon him with a deafening roar.

At eight-twenty, Nora pulled up in front of Peter Hallett’s house for the second time in two days. This time, the house was lit up by the sunset, a blaze of light that punched through the trees. She reached for her camera and focused in on the living room. She could see Peter surveying the space. He shoved the sofa two inches closer to the fireplace, and turned to shift an antique Asian shield five degrees toward the center of the room.
He has to have everything a certain way,
Tríona once said.

Nora adjusted the camera lens, studying the perfect musculature of his face, the slightly cleft chin, the broad shoulders and graceful hands. What strange power had this man held over Tríona, and perhaps others as well? What happened when he focused his charms on someone? Peter lifted his head and gazed in her direction. It wasn’t possible that he knew she was out here, but the expression on his face nearly made her drop the camera.

A red Volvo sedan passed by on the river road and turned in at the driveway. Nora focused on the bright windows, and once again, the glass house afforded a view of the story being played out, as if on a stage. She watched her mother embrace Peter at the front door. A convincing performance. After a minute or so, Elizabeth appeared, and Peter stood behind her, his right hand on the back of her neck. When it was time to go, and her father bent down to kiss her good-bye, the child twisted away, shrugging off his touch. Why was she was so anxious to get away? When her mother got Elizabeth settled in the car and drove away at last, Nora felt an enormous weight lift from her. One major worry out of the way.

She set the camera down and glanced through the windshield, startled to see Miranda Staunton standing not twenty yards in front of the car, apparently loosening up for a run. This might be her only chance to speak to Miranda. It was now or never.

After jogging in place for a few seconds, Miranda checked her watch and took off. Nora got out of the car and followed on foot, staying about
fifty yards behind, and relieved that she happened to be wearing decent shoes. They traveled through the light and shadow of the streetlamps, under the graffiti-covered bridge at Ford Parkway. Miranda’s pace wasn’t killer, but it never slowed. She finally turned in at the north entrance to Hidden Falls. At the bottom of the ravine, she cut across the parking areas, headed toward the path that traced the river’s edge south of the boat landing. It was time to seize the moment.

Nora put on a spurt and called out: “Miranda—wait!”

Miranda stopped and whirled around. There was a brief pause as she put together the voice, the face of the person who issued the hail. “Nora? What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you.”

Miranda eyed her suspiciously. “What about?”

“Just to say—” Nora was out of breath, panting. She watched Miranda’s expression harden. “To tell you it’s not too late. You can still back out—”

Miranda cut her off. “You know, Peter warned me. He said you’d come around one day, making crazy accusations—”

“They’re not crazy, Miranda. Look at what happened to Tríona when she tried to leave. When she found out what he was. Please, listen—”

Miranda was trembling. “How dare you? Flinging around those sorry old lies. Peter had nothing to do with your sister’s death. Why can’t you get that through your head?”

Nora lowered her voice, hoping to find another way in. “Maybe you don’t know yet what I’m talking about. Maybe he’s been good to you. He was that way with Tríona as well, at first. I can’t just stand by and let you—”

Miranda’s voice turned cold. “You can’t
let
me? Just who the hell do you think you are?” She held up her left hand, flashing a large diamond and thick gold band. “And just for the record—we’re already married. We went to the courthouse before we left Seattle.”

“Miranda, you don’t know what he’s done—”

“I know exactly what he’s done. Nothing. You know, Nora, I pity you. You’re a bitter, mixed-up person who can’t stand anybody else getting something you can’t have. I don’t blame my brother for walking away. Your whole family is so screwed up. You know nothing about Peter. You have no right coming here, twisting the facts, trying to ruin everything. You need to stay away from us.”

Nora swallowed hard. “Please, Miranda—please think about what I’ve said.” She fumbled in her pocket for a card. “Here’s my number—”

Miranda batted the card away and it fluttered to the ground. She stamped on it, grinding it into the blacktop with the heel of her running shoe. “Now get the hell away from me—before I call the police.”

Nora held up both hands and backed away slowly. But the confrontation had evidently put Miranda off her evening run; she turned and headed back up to the river road.

Nora had plenty of time to berate herself as she walked back to where she’d left the car. What a disaster. A whole-scale, head-on debacle. Why had she imagined that Miranda would listen to her? Everything she said and did managed to make her look completely off balance. If Miranda had been experiencing any second thoughts, she had managed to quash them completely, coming on like some addled, street-corner prophet.
Stop it,
said the voice in her head.
Stop it. You had to take the chance
. Two days gone now. Miranda and Peter would soon be on the plane to Dublin. The one consolation was that Elizabeth was safely away from her father.

Nora opened her car door, realizing with a flash of annoyance that she’d left it unlocked. Fortunately, nothing seemed disturbed—not even the camera she’d inadvertently left on the passenger seat. She headed south along the river road, ticking through the day’s events. No word from Frank on the results from Tríona’s bloodstained clothing. Maybe she ought to try finding Harry Shaughnessy. She hoped the fisherman would have something useful for her in the morning. If he had recognized Peter from the picture, and could say that he’d spotted him at the river—

Caught up in her thoughts, Nora sailed along the river road. She tapped on the brake as she approached a curve, and wondered why it was so slow to respond—the bloody car was brand new, for God’s sake. And in a flash, she knew. It wasn’t a slow response; the pedal was stuck. She had no brakes at all.

Time seemed to slow as the car rocketed forward and left the road. The last thing Nora perceived was leafy branches whipping against the windshield as the car plummeted through underbrush, and finally came to rest, battered and steaming, against two trees at the bottom of the ravine.