Hemlock Bay

“It’s possible,” Simon said.

Lily punched Simon in the ribs. “It’s more than possible, Clark. Call us on the cell phone as soon as you know, okay?”

Hoyt said, “You promised no hotdogging. That means you don’t go see Charlotte Frasier without having at least me along.”

Hemlock Bay, California

Lily pointed to the Bullock Pharmacy, and Simon pulled into an open parking spot in front of Spores Dry Cleaners next door. An old man was staring out at them from the large glass windows that held three hanging Persian carpets, presumably just cleaned.

Ten minutes later, Lily came out of the Bullock Pharmacy carrying a small paper bag. She eased into the passenger seat and drew a deep breath. “It’s such a beautiful town,” she said. “I always thought so. You can smell the ocean, feel that light sheen of salt on your skin. It’s incredible.”

“Okay, I agree, lovely town, lovely smell in the air. What happened?”

“I had a real epiphany going into that pharmacy.” And then she told him what had happened. There’d been about ten people in the store, and all of them, after they saw her, were talking about her behind their hands. They stepped away if she came near them, didn’t say anything if she said hello to them. Lily was frankly relieved when Mr. Bullock senior, at least eighty years old, nodded to her at the checkout line. Evidently he was the spokesperson. He looked at her straight in the eye before he rang up her aspirin and said, “Everyone is real sorry you tried to kill yourself again, Mrs. Frasier.”

“I didn’t, Mr. Bullock.”

“We heard that you blamed it on Dr. Frasier and left him.”

“Is that what everyone believes?”

“We’ve known the Frasiers a long time, ma’am. Lots longer than we’ve known you.”

“Actually, Mr. Bullock, it’s very far from the truth. Someone has tried to kill me three times now.”

He just shook his head at her, waved the bottle of aspirin, and said, “You need something stronger than these, Mrs. Frasier. Something lots stronger. You’ll never live to be as old as I am if you don’t see to it now.”

“Why don’t you talk to Lieutenant Dobbs in Eureka?”

He just looked at her, saying nothing more. Lily didn’t feel like standing there arguing with the old man to change his mind, with the dozen other people in the store likely listening, so she just paid and left, knowing those people were thinking she was one sick puppy, no doubt about it.

“That’s it. Nothing much, really.” She waved the bottle of aspirin. “Thanks, Simon.” He handed her a bottle of diet Dr Pepper, and she took two of the tablets.

“Isn’t it interesting that no one wanted to speak to me,” she said, “except Mr. Bullock. They were all content just to hang back and listen.”

“It’s still a beautiful town. Te

After a light lunch at a diner that sat right on the main pier, Lily said, “I want to visit my daughter, Simon.”

For a moment, he didn’t understand. She saw it and said, even as tears stung her eyes, “The cemetery. After I leave, I know I won’t be back for a while. I want to say good-bye.”

He wasn’t about to let her go by herself. It was too dangerous. When he told her that, she simply nodded. They stopped at a small florist shop at the end of Whipple Avenue, Molly A

“Hilda Gaddis owns Molly A

“The daffodils are lovely.”

“Yes. Beth loved daffodils.” She said nothing more as they drove the seven minutes to the cemetery set near the Presbyterian Church. It was lovely, in a pocket nestled by hemlock and spruce trees, protected from the winds off the ocean.

He walked with her up a narrow pathway that forked to the right. There was a beautiful etched white marble stone, an angel carved on top, her arms spread wide. Beth’s name was beneath, the date of her birth, the date of her death, and beneath, the words She Gave Me Infinite Joy.

Lily was crying, but made no sound. Simon watched her go down on her knees and arrange the daffodils against the headstone.

He wanted to comfort her but realized in those moments that she needed to be alone. He turned away and went back to the rental car. His cell phone rang.

It was Clark Hoyt, and he was excited.

21

Saint John’s, Antigua

There was nothing more for Savich to do in Antigua. Timmy Tuttle, with two healthy arms, had Marilyn, and Savich didn’t want to even think of what he was doing to her.

Or maybe two different people had her, one wild-eyed man with black hair and two arms, and a woman with one arm and madness and rage in her eyes.

Savich couldn’t stand himself. He’d set up Marilyn, gotten an FBI agent killed, along with a local police officer, and left chaos in his wake. He knew he’d see Virginia Cosgrove’s sightless eyes for a very long time, and that long red gash that had slit her throat open.

Jimmy Maitland had taken his arm, trying to calm him down. “Batten down the guilt, Savich. I approved everything you did. We faced something or someone that shouldn’t have been there. It happened. You’ve got to prepare to move on.”

Maitland shook his head, ran fingers through his gray hair, making it stand on end. “Jesus, I’m losing it. There’s nothing more we can do here. We’re going home. I’m leaving Vi

Savich didn’t let Sherlock out of his sight. He realized soon enough that she was different-more quiet, her attention not on any of them, and he’d look at her and know she was thinking about what had happened, her eyes focused, yet somehow far away.

There was so much cleanup, so many explanations to give, most omitting the inexplicable things because they didn’t help anyone to know the sorts of things that could drive you mad. And most important, there was no sign of the man who’d taken Marilyn Warluski from the Saint John’s airport.

When they got back to Washington, Savich left immediately for the gym and worked out until he was panting for breath, his body so exhausted it was ready to rebel.

When he walked in the front door, feeling so exhausted each step was a chore, his son was there to greet him, crawling for all he was worth right up to Savich’s feet, grabbing onto his pants leg. Savich started to reach down to pick him up when he heard Sherlock say, “No, wait a second.”

Sean yanked hard on his father’s pants, got a good hold, braced himself, and managed to pull himself up. Then he gri

All the miserable unanswerable questions, all the deadening sense of failure, fell away. Savich whooped, picked up his son, and tossed him into the air, again and again, until Sean was both yelling and laughing, one and then the other.

It was Savich who wrote Sean’s accomplishment in his baby book that evening. “An almost giant step for kid-kind.” Then “The leg lift, one at a time-he’s getting ready to walk, amazing. His grandmother says I started walking early, too.”

In bed that night, Sherlock nuzzled her head into Savich’s neck, lightly laid her palm over his heart, and said, “Sean brings back focus, doesn’t he?”

“Yes. I was ready to fall over from working out so hard when I walked in the house, and then he crawls over to me and pulls himself up. Then he lifts each leg, testing them out, nearly ready to take off. I didn’t think I had any laughter left in me, but I guess I do.”

“Don’t feel guilty about it. You should have seen Gabriella. She was so tickled when I got home, so proud of both herself and Sean that she couldn’t wait to show off what he could do. Those leg lifts, I haven’t read about that in any baby books. Gabriella got some video of him doing that with me. I swear she didn’t want to leave this afternoon. I expect her husband to call me and complain about what demanding employers we are.”