Страница 6 из 70
Rock Harbor was a nine-mile stretch of water protected from the storms by a chain of islands: Raspberry, Smithwick, Shaw, Tookers, Davidson, Outer Hill, Mott, Caribou. The administrative offices of the National Park Service were clustered on Mott Island, the biggest in the chain. A majority of ISRO’s employees were housed there in dormitories or apartments. The island’s somewhat gruesome history-it was named for Charlie Mott, who had tried to eat his wife one long and hungry winter-was all but exorcised by the banal necessities of bureaucratic life.
The niche in Rock Harbor that was thought of as the “real” Rock Harbor was three miles from Mott toward Blake’s Point. It was a doubly protected cove shut in an elbow of land. The lodge was there, along with the Visitors’ Center, the boat rental concession, and a clapboard windowless hall where National Park Service naturalists liked to shut the tourists away from moose and fox and thimbleberry, from rain and wind and mosquitoes and show them slides of Nature.
Gasoline and groceries could be had in Rock, and there was a pumping station for boats. During the height of the summer season the Voyageur from Grand Marais, Mi
Bustle and busyness, petty crimes and medical problems had earned the port the nickname of Rock Harlem among park and concessionaire employees. Though A
As she dragged her kayak up between the docks that lined the harbor, she saw a blond woman in the khaki and green uniform of the Student Conservation Association. SCAs were volunteers, often college students, who traded their time for the experience and the joy of summering in a park.
A
The woman had a vague and whimsical nature, as if she believed, along with Liza Mi
A
On the short walk up from the water, A
The booth provided for NPS employees was built of pecky cedar, but after years of use it smelled like a dirty ashtray. Set off in a small clearing in the spruce trees, windows on all four sides, it had the look of the bridge on a tugboat. Several yards away, next to a sixty-watt bulb on a metal post, was a bench for people waiting to use the phone.
Line forms to the right, A
“ParkView Clinic,” came a toneless voice. But for twelve years of experience, A
“Is Dr. Pigeon in?” A
“One moment please.” Never a spark of recognition, never an “Oh, hello, A
“Will you hold?” pierced through the static.
“I’ll hold.” Music, Yo Yo Ma on cello, drifted down the wires through the white noise.
A young man came and sat down on the waiting bench. He had dark thick hair that seemed both wild and well coiffured, the envy of any girl. His eyes were wide-set above chiseled cheekbones. A
“Can’t talk long. Give me the news.”
Molly’s voice, sudden and startling, seemed to speak from inside A
“My four o’clock had a lot on her mind today. Still afraid her husband will leave her. Been coming to me twice a week for eleven years about it. I must be one hell of a shrink.”
“You do her good.”
“Maybe. If not for my fees, her husband could’ve afforded a divorce in 1986. This co
A
“Seven minutes, A
“Those things’ll kill you,” A
“This from a woman who carries a gun,” Molly returned.
“Not anymore. It would be more likely to drown you here than save you from the bad guys. I carry it in a briefcase like any self-respecting Manhattan drug dealer.”
Molly laughed, almost a cackle. “Six minutes… nope. Four.”
“Why? What’s up?” A
“Promised to go to a function up in Westchester. A political winetasting.”
“Wine’s not your drink.”
“Not like it’s yours.”
A
“Two reasons: A client of mine is obsessing on it. Can’t name names but you’ll find his byline in the Girls’ Sports section of Sunday’s Times.” A
“Secondly: It’s in Westchester County. I haven’t been there for a while. I thought I’d stop by Valhalla-” Molly interrupted herself with a snort of laughter. “Valhalla. A good Christian cemetery, no doubt. Look up Zachary. See if the eternal flame still burns or whatever.”
“My mother-in-law takes care of that,” A
“Does Edith still think his ashes are under that god-awful marble slab? Speaking of mental health,” Molly went on without giving A