NINETEEN

“So what now?” Jim lowered himself to sit on a rock at the top of the grassy slope that overlooked the bay. “We’ve walked most of the island, and we’ve walked some parts of it twice.”

Portia turned her wrist to check her watch.

“It’s almost six. Nicholson’s customer should be along anytime now to pick up that motor.” She sat next to him. “Unless he was making that up to get rid of us.”

“Maybe not.” He pointed to the dock where a cruiser towing a smaller boat was pulling into a slip. Three men jumped out and were walking toward the shop. “That might be him now. That bow rider he’s towing doesn’t have a motor.”

The men disappeared into the shop and ten minutes later came out carrying the motor.

“Showtime, Agent Cahill.” Jim stood and stretched. “When is that ferry due back?”

“In about an hour.” She watched as the men positioned the motor on the back of the boat. One man jumped into the water to secure it and maneuver the motor into place. Finally, the one in the water pulled himself onto the deck.

“I hope he’s not a smoker,” she muttered. “He’ll light up like a Roman candle with all that gas and oil from the water around the dock on his clothes.”

“Oh, shit, look.” Jim stood and pointed beyond the building that housed the crab shack, the repair shop, and the Bait ’N Beer to where a figure hurried along the road.

“Is that Nicholson?” Portia jumped to her feet. “Son of a bitch. I’ll bet he’s headed home.”

“His wife’s still here, though.” Jim noticed the woman was behind the counter, serving a plate of crabs to a family that had wandered down one of the paths. “Let’s follow him, catch him at home, you have your little chat, and we’ll be back here in time for the ferry.”

They walked quickly in the direction they’d seen Doug Nicholson take. They found him standing on the porch of a house about a quarter of a mile in land past the small hamlet. There was no welcome in his eyes as he watched them approach.

“I told you I don’t know nothing about him,” Nicholson called to them.

“And I told you that I have a job to do,” Portia called back. “This will take us ten minutes,” she said as they drew closer, “and then we’ll leave, and no one—not even your wife—needs to know what we talked about.”

“What, then?” He sat on one of the two rocking chairs but did not offer Jim or Portia a seat.

“The psychologist who examined your brother…” she began.

“Half brother,” he corrected.

“The FBI’s psychologist who examined your half brother ten years ago says that Sheldon told him he was sexually abused as a child. I was wondering what you know about that.”

He shook his head. “Nothing. He never told me nothing about that.”

“You lived with him and your mother until you were seventeen, he was being abused, and you never knew?”

“He’s probably lying. Probably made it up, you know, so it would sound like he had an excuse for all those things he did. If it happened, he never told me. But maybe it didn’t really happen.”

“You’re what, four years older than Sheldon?”

He nodded.

“You must have spent a lot of time together when you were little. Only siblings…”

“So?”

“So I was wondering what he was like as a child. Who would know better than you?”

Nicholson shrugged. “He was just a kid.”

“A whiny, obnoxious kid? A spoiled, nasty kid?”

“No, he was none of those things. At least not then, when he was real young. He was always small for his age.”

“So he must have looked up to his big brother.”

“I guess. Back then, anyway.”

“When did that change?” she said, sensing that at some point that relationship became different.

“I guess when his father left.”

“How old was Sheldon then?”

“About five, I guess.”

“How did your relationship with your brother change?”

“He changed.”

“How so?”

“He had to be Mama’s little man, once his father split.”

“Where did that leave you?”

He shrugged again, his face closed.

“I understand that your mother has been married several times.”

Jim sat on the top step and let her do her thing.

Nicholson nodded.

“How many times when you were a child, do you remember?”

“Three, four maybe. I honestly don’t remember.”

“Do you remember the names of her husbands?”

“I suppose.”

“Who were they?” Portia pulled a chair around so that she sat facing him. “What were their names?”

Nicholson sighed deeply, as if resigned to something he wanted no part of.

“After my dad, there was a guy named Claude Dwyer. She never married him, but he was around for a time. Then there was Aaron Woods, Shelly’s father. He left when Shelly was about five.”

“Any idea why he left?” Portia asked, noting the use of a nickname for his half brother. Until now, he had avoided calling him by name.

“You’ll have to ask her.”

“So after Aaron Woods, who came next?”

“Guy named Buck something-or-other moved in for a while, then he left, too. She took up with Andy Lewis, married him.”

“How about this guy Davey? What was he like?”

Nicholson shrugged. “I never knew him. He was after my time.”

“So while you lived with your mother, there was your dad, then Dwyer, then Aaron Woods. After he left, there was a guy named Buck and a guy named Andy Lewis. Anyone else?”

“There was always someone else,” he snorted. “That woman never slept alone one night in her entire adult life.”

“What was Buck like?”

“Quiet man.” Nicholson looked off toward the bay. “He liked to play blues music on the radio. She liked rock-and-roll. He drank scotch, neat. She drank whatever she could get her hands on. Looking back, I think maybe he was too good for her.”

“Looking back, do you think he could have been abusing Sheldon?”

He seemed to be lost in thought.

“Mr. Nicholson?” She touched his arm and he shook his head.

“No. It wasn’t him.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“He never paid any mind to either of us kids. He came into the house, did what he did with her, and left when he’d had enough of her.”

“How about Andy Lewis, then?”

“I don’t think so.” He rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Sheldon never said that someone was bothering him, maybe an older child in the neighborhood? A relative, maybe?”

“Are you asking me if I molested that little shit, Agent Cahill? Because if that’s what you want to know, why not ask me outright?” He stood, his anger building. “No, I never laid a hand on him. Ever. You think something happened to him when he was a child that fucked him up? It wasn’t me who did it.”

“Then who, Mr. Nicholson?”

“Ask her.” He stood up and shoved his chair back.

“Mr. Nicholson, after your father left, before your mother met Aaron Woods, were you your mother’s ‘little man’?”

He went into the house and slammed the door.

“Well, I guess that takes care of that,” Portia said.

“Interesting how he speaks of his family using pronouns. He or him for his half brother, her for their mother.”

“I did notice that. I guess it’s his way of putting distance between himself and them. Though he did refer to Sheldon as Shelly there toward the end. A childhood nickname, I guess.” She sat next to Jim on the step. Just as she did so, they heard the ferry’s horn. “Oh, shit.”

She jumped up and grabbed him by the hand. They ran across the lawn, through a grassy field to the road, then down the shell-covered path to the dock. They rounded the corner of the Bait ’N Beer just as the ferry pulled away.

“Hey!” she called, but the motor drowned out her cries. “Well, shit. Now what? That was the last ferry for the day.”

“Before we panic, let’s just make sure that it was, in fact, the last trip. I’ll go inside and check with Donna Jo. Be right back.”

She stood on the dock, her hands on her hips, and watched the ferry glide across the bay.

“Okay, now you can panic,” Jim told her when he came out of the building. “That was the last ferry today.”

“Oh, that’s just swell,” she grumbled.

“I guess we should see if we can find a place to stay, then catch the first boat back in the morning.”

“Maybe someone has a boat for hire,” she suggested. “Maybe we can find someone to take us across. It won’t hurt to ask.”

Together they returned to Doug’s Crabs.

“Sorry,” Donna Jo shook her head slowly after they’d asked. “Tonight’s bunco night down at the church. No one’s likely to be going anywhere on bunco night.”

Jim and Portia exchanged doomed looks.

“Try Ida’s up there on the hill.” Donna Jo pointed to a spot behind them, and they both turned. “That white house up there with the fancy widow’s walk on top? That’s Ida’s place. She has some cabins she rents out this time of year. I know some of them are taken—there’s a wedding here day after tomorrow and the groom’s family has been coming in for the past few days—but she might have something for you.”

“That’s the only place that rents rooms?” Portia asked.

“’Fraid so.”

“Thanks.” Jim nodded.

He and Portia started up the hill. “If worse comes to worse,” he told her, “we could always sleep on one of those picnic tables.”

“The mosquitoes will eat us alive.”

“Maybe in one of those fields, then.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of deer ticks?”

“Then you’d better cross your fingers that Ida has a couple of cabins,” he said as they approached the house in question. A sign on the lawn read WELCOME TO IDA’S, and a long, narrow path led to the front door. The house was sided with cedar shake that had long ago turned a rich dark brown, and the windows and door were clean and white with fresh paint.

“I don’t know why, but I’m getting this really strong Hansel and Gretel vibe,” Portia said under her breath as they went up the stairs. “So if anyone starts shoving food at you, don’t eat it.”

Jim rang the bell, then stepped back to admire the property. “You have to admit, it’s a pretty place. As a matter of fact, the entire island is charming.”

“If I didn’t feel like I was being held hostage here, I’d probably agree with you.”

A young girl answered the door and told them that Ida was out back. They made their way around the house to the spacious yard and found a woman tossing bread crumbs into a fishpond. She looked up at their approach.

“You here for Todd’s wedding?” she asked.

“No,” Portia told her. “We came over for the day and missed the ferry. We’re stranded. We were hoping you’d have some cabins available for the night.”

“You’re lucky,” Ida smiled and stood up. When she did, Portia noticed the fish were not koi, but in stead looked like trout. “Someone called in a little while ago to let me know they’d missed the ferry over, so they have to find a place there on the main land. So you can have their cabin, but just for tonight. They’ll be catching the first boat over in the morning.”

“Great.” Portia smiled.

“Come on inside, and we’ll get your information, give you your keys.” Ida not so much walked as waddled on bowed legs. “Will you be wanting breakfast in the morning? I serve coffee and some muffins out here in the courtyard.”

“That would be great, sure.” Jim nodded. “Do you serve dinner as well?”

“No, but the crab shack down there does a fish fry on Thursday nights, so you’re in luck.” She climbed the back steps and opened the screen door. “Looks like your lucky day all the way around. If I were you, I’d be buying some lottery tickets.”

“Does anyone sell them on the island?” Portia asked.

“No, you’d have to have done that already. Shame.” Ida appeared saddened by the thought that they’d missed their chance at a jackpot.

They followed Ida through the big, old-fashioned kitchen into a small sitting room. She told them the fee for the night’s stay, then opened a desk drawer and took out a small brown envelope. When Jim and Portia each took out their wallets and counted out the cash, Ida held up a hand. “No, no, that price was for the cabin, not for each of you.”

“Two cabins,” Portia said, holding up the bills. “Two payments.”

“No, honey. One cabin. That’s all I have.”

“One cabin?” Portia asked.

Ida looked from one to the other, then shrugged and said, “You two work that out between yourselves. I got one cabin, don’t care who sleeps in it.”

“Well, maybe there’s someplace else,” Portia turned to Jim. “A motel or a B and B, or something.”

“No other thing, honey. It’s Ida’s or you sleep under the stars. The bugs ain’t too bad yet. We seem to have a lot more bats this year.”

They each handed over half of their cash.

“Cabin D,” Ida smiled as she tucked the bills into a pocket. “It’s a nice one. Has a little sitting area with a couple of comfy chairs.”

She gestured for them to follow her out a side door, and chatted away as they walked to the cabin. It stood in a line of others that were obviously designed and built by the same person. The cabins all shared the same weathered cedar, white gingerbread trim, and matching porches that Portia had admired on the main house.

Ida took a key from the brown envelope and unlocked the door, pushed it open, and handed the key to Jim. “Here you go,” she said. “I hope you have a real enjoyable night, folks.”

         

“How ’bout we sit up there on the grass and watch the fish jump around in the bay?” Jim suggested after they’d finished dinner. It was still fairly light and neither of them had wanted to confront the issue of who was sleeping where just yet.

“What about the bats?” Portia gazed skyward at the dark shapes fluttering and swooping overhead.

“You heard what Ida said. The bats are doing their part to keep the bug population down.”

“No pesticides needed on Dufree Island, that’s for damned sure.”

He took her hand and they walked up the slope behind the picnic area and sat on the grass. It was still warm from the heat of the day. Portia took her phone from her bag and checked her call log.

“I set the phone to vibrate before we went to see Doug in the shop, and I forgot to turn the ringer back on.” She scrolled through several missed calls, then checked her voice mail. When she finished, she was scowling, prompting Jim to ask, “Is something wrong?”

“Howard Heller, the state trooper who met me in Lancaster, called to let me know that they’d identified the boy whose body we found on Amos King’s farm. His name is Josh Winston. He was nine years old a week ago Sunday.” She drew her knees up to her chest.

“It really gets to you, doesn’t it?”

She nodded. “I’d be inhuman if it didn’t.”

“I thought all you law enforcement types developed a kind of shield against taking it to heart.”

“There is no shield. You cover up what you have to so that you can do your job, because if you think about it too much, you can’t take it. I never met a cop or an agent who could look at the body of a dead child and not have it tear his or her guts out. Regardless of what you say, or what kind of an act you put on, it rips you up inside.”

He put his arm around her and pulled her to lean solidly against his body. The smell of honeysuckle from a nearby hedge floated on a breeze and occasionally mixed with traces of the saltiness of the bay. She closed her eyes and tried to lose herself in the scents and the softness of the air, attempting to exorcise the image of Josh Winston lying in the makeshift grave, dirt filling his open eyes.

Jim’s phone rang and he drew it from his pocket to answer it. Portia took deep breaths and concentrated on the sound of his voice and his soft laughter as he ended the call.

“That was Dani,” Jim told Portia. “I should have called her to let her know I wasn’t going to make it to my nephew’s ball game, but I completely forgot.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. Finn’s okay with it. I promised him I’d make tomorrow’s game. I’m assuming we’ll be able to get off the island tomorrow, right?”

“Assuming there’s no hurricane or the ferry doesn’t sink on its way over, I think that’s a promise you’ll be able to keep.”

“Good. I told him I’d pick him up at his summer camp. I’d hate to disappoint him.”

“You’re very close to him, aren’t you? And to your sister?”

“It’s just the two of us now. Well, the two of us and Finn.”

“Since your parents passed away?”

“And my brother.”

“You had a brother?”

He nodded.

“Older? Younger?”

“Older.”

“How did he die?”

For a moment, she was uncertain that he’d answer, and was beginning to regret that she’d asked.

“Pete died in prison. He was beaten to death.”

“Oh, my God, Jim…” Portia all but choked on her own words. It was the last thing she’d have expected.

“My brother was brought to trial on a rape and first-degree murder charge. He was convicted and sentenced to sixty years. He was killed the first month he was inside.” He spoke in a flat tone, as if by rote. “Eight months later, there was another rape in the same neighborhood. This woman also died as a result of the assault. When the cops arrested the guy who’d done it and searched his apartment, they found articles of clothing belonging to the woman my brother had allegedly murdered. The guy confessed to raping and killing both women.”

“Jim, I don’t know what to say…”

He shrugged. “What’s to say?”

“How was he convicted in the first place? What evidence did they have?”

“The only thing they had was a witness—a friend of the victim’s—who was in the bar where Pete was drinking that night. She said that Pete came on to the victim, and that she blew him off. She claimed that Pete left the bar right behind them, that she saw him get into a little blue sedan. Pete drove a blue Honda.”

“What did Pete say?”

“He said yeah, it was true. He’d tried to pick the girl up but she wasn’t interested so he dropped it. He said he didn’t notice when the two women left that night, so it could have been around the same time that he headed home.” He stared out toward the bay. “He was very open with the cops. They used what he told them to build a case against him.”

“She told him to get lost and it pissed him off. He waited until she left, then followed her home.” Portia knew how the scenario would have been spun.

“That’s pretty much it. There was no DNA to match up, no physical evidence to implicate him, but this witness was real convincing. She just knew that Pete had raped and killed her best friend.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks.”

“That’s what influenced your decision to become a criminal defense attorney.” His commitment suddenly made sense to her.

“If we’d been able to afford a better lawyer than we had, he might have been able to prove reasonable doubt. But the guy we had…looking back, I think the witness even had him convinced that Pete was guilty. I went to law school with the thought that I couldn’t make it right for him, but maybe I could make a difference for someone else.”

“How old were you when this happened?”

“Seventeen. Peter had just turned twenty-one the week before he was arrested. It was his first night out alone in a bar. He usually went out with his buddies but no one was around that night, so he took off on his own.” His thumb idly traced small circles on the top of her arm. That slight touch raised her awareness of just how close they were. “I was in the courtroom for every minute of that trial. There were times when it was all I could do to keep from yelling at Pete’s attorney, the judge, the DA, the jury, the witness. I wanted them all to know Pete the way I did. I wanted his lawyer to put me on the witness stand so I could tell the jury. He said it wouldn’t do any good.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t understand how anyone could fail to see what a gentle guy he was.”

“It must have been really hard on your parents.”

“My mom was already gone. But I do think that’s what killed my father. He never got over what happened—the trial, his son going to prison as a convicted murderer, then Pete’s own murder. It was hard for my dad to stay in town after my brother went to prison, but he never considered moving away. He said he knew his boy was innocent no matter what had happened in that courtroom.”

“He must have felt vindicated after the real killer confessed.”

“All the friends who’d turned away from my dad tried to approach him, but it was too late. He just couldn’t take it, couldn’t deal with all the what-ifs. What if my brother hadn’t gone into that bar that night? What if the witness hadn’t been so adamant, so convincing? What if that gangbanger in prison hadn’t killed Pete? My dad had a heart attack and died two weeks after the real killer was arrested.”

His protectiveness toward Danielle made perfect sense. She’d been in a relationship with a violent man, and Jim had to stand up for her, because there was no one else she could rely on. And maybe there was a bit of guilt on his part as well: he hadn’t been able to save his brother, but he would not let his sister down. A seventeen-year-old boy would hold himself accountable, would assume a responsibility that maybe wasn’t really his, and that feeling of being responsible would stay with him for a long time.

“Is your sister upset that you aren’t coming home?”

“Oh, yeah.” He nodded and in the last light of the setting sun, she saw the first trace of a smile touch his lips. “She’s convinced that you’re out to seduce me. Actually, Dani thinks every woman I meet is out to seduce me.”

“Are they?”

“Sadly, no.” He smiled down at her. “Which doesn’t mean you shouldn’t give it your best effort.”

“And if I did?”

“I’d have to fight you off, of course. Give it my best effort, to counteract yours.”

She turned in his arms, her face turned up to his.

“Well, then. Perhaps we should see whose effort is, in fact, the best.”

“I’m always up for a challenge.”

He lowered his lips to hers and kissed her, softly at first, then more demanding, his tongue teasing the corners of her mouth. She held his face in her hands for a moment, then wrapped her arms around his neck to draw him even closer. He eased her back onto the ground and lowered himself next to her. With his mouth he traced the softest part of her neck to the top of her cotton shirt and back again.

Portia felt like she was falling, slowly drifting downward, like a leaf on a summer breeze, unable to catch herself and not wanting to try. Warmth spread through her, head to toe, and she welcomed it. It had been a very long time since she had wanted a man in this way, and suddenly, she wanted Jim very much. Wanted his mouth and his hands on her skin, wanted to feel his body on her and in her. When his mouth closed on her breast over her shirt, her head fell back and she ran her fingers through the hair on the back of his head, urging him on. Her breath caught in her throat and she wanted to rip her shirt off with both hands. His fingers slid beneath her clothing, and the need that swept through her was unbearable. She wanted him, and wanted him now, right there. She tugged on his shirt until it came free from his khakis and ran her hand up his chest. He slid her breast free from her shirt and bra, and when his mouth captured it, she arched her back and moaned, offering him more, begging him to take more. She pulled on her skirt, forcing it up, and his hand followed, slipping under the silky fabric there and finding her core. She closed her eyes when his fingers slid inside her and let the rhythm begin.

“Just ride it out,” he whispered, his breath jagged, and she did, until the stars behind her eyes exploded.

She reached for his belt to undo it and he caught her hand. “I think now might be a good time to head on back to the cabin,” he said. “Anyone could come along right about now and see more of me than they might like to.”

“Everyone’s down at the church,” she reminded him. “Playing bunco.”

“What is bunco?” He smoothed her skirt and straightened her shirt, then stood and pulled her up. “Is it a card game?”

“I think it has something to do with throwing dice. Someone in the office plays every week with a bunch of friends.”

She started to tuck her shirt back into the waistband of her skirt, then decided against it. Her body felt soft and spent, but she knew it would take very little for the edge to return. She took his hand, and together they walked up the slope in the darkness and found their way back to the cabin. Jim un locked the door and started to turn on the light.

“Don’t,” she said as she drew back the curtains. “We have moonlight. I’ve never made love in the moonlight before.”

“Well, then, moonlight it is.”

She backed up to the bed, leading him with one hand. With the other, she unbuttoned first her shirt, then her skirt. Soon her clothes were in a heap on the floor along with his. She lay back against the pillow and he followed. She wrapped her legs around his waist and without a word, drew him in side her. He groaned when she lifted her hips to meet his and he sank into her, the fullness of him taking her breath away. The sweet tension filled her and mounted, higher and higher, and she sought his mouth, wanting to feel his tongue on hers when their tension crested.

“You win,” Jim gasped after release had shaken them back to earth.

She pulled back to look into his face. “What?”

“Your best. Better than mine.”

Portia smiled in the dark. “Hell of a fight you put up, though.”