of
mouths.
And left with the taste of her on his lips.
94
Eight
WHEN THE SUN ROSE, BLEEDING PINK BETWEEN the gray
sky and the iron ocean, Caleb gained the light but lost four of the men he
had assigned to protect the crime scene.
Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.
Red sky at morning, sailor take warning.
Last night, he’d called out the island’s volunteer fire department,
posting guards at the access road, the hiking trail, and both ends of the
beach. Most of the firefighters were willing to sacrifice sleep for the
novelty of playing policeman. But working men couldn’t ignore their jobs
to stand around outside the yellow tape, smoking and speculating.
Howard and Manuel had left with the lobster boats at 5:00 A.M.; Dick
and Earl had taken the 7:00 ferry to the mainland.
Caleb recorded their exits in the log book, aware of his team slipping
away. His time, slipping away. His chances, slipping away. At 10:00
A.M., the ferry would return, carrying the state evidence team he had
requested to process the crime scene.
Too late , he thought.
The wind snatched at his notebook. He anchored the pages with one
hand, glancing from his diagram of the scene to the heavy clouds above.
Some small-town police chiefs were too proud or too dumb or too
damn territorial to call in the State Criminal Division for anything less
than homicide. Mainers liked to do for themselves, and cops used to
dealing with petty thefts and traffic violations didn’t always realize how
quickly a case could be lost by a single missed or mishandled piece of
evidence.
Caleb knew. But there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
Rain and tide threatened the point. If he didn’t conduct a detailed search
soon, his crime scene would be irretrievably contaminated, the evidence
swept or washed or blown away.
95
I need what he took from me , Maggie had said.
He wanted to find it.
Whatever it was.
Five hours later, Caleb sat at his desk with a mug of bitter coffee,
working his way through the paperwork required by the state lab as
methodically as he’d worked his way across the beach.
His eyes were gritty with sand and ash and lack of sleep. His leg
throbbed. His stomach growled. He hadn’t stopped for breakfast. Sliding
open his desk drawer, he groped under the files and procedure manuals
for the brown prescription bottle that held his painkillers.
The doctor had said Maggie wasn’t supposed to take aspirin because
of the risk of bleeding into the brain. Had Lucy remembered?
He reached for the phone with his other hand, punching in the
number from memory. His sister answered on the second ring.
“How is everybody?” he asked.
“Maggie’s fine. We’re both fine. We’re about to have lunch. Where
are you?”
“No nausea? Headaches?”
Muffled voices carried over the line.
“She has a bit of a headache,” his sister reported moments later. “I
gave her some Tylenol.”
“Good,” Caleb said, feeling foolish. “That’s good.”
“Maggie wants to know when you’re going to take her to the beach.”
“Later.” He glanced at the window, where a cold, gray rain lashed
the glass. “It’s raining.”
“Do you want to talk to her?”
96
He tapped the plastic bottle on the desk. He shouldn’t feel like a
damn fifteen-year-old calling a girl and then hanging up because he had
nothing to say.
But he had nothing to offer her. Not yet. He looked from the piles of
crap on his desk to the piles of crap on the floor.
“I’ll call back,” he said, and hung up.
Cradling the pills in his hand, he squinted at the bright warning
labels: Do not take on an empty stomach. May cause drowsiness. Do not
drive or operate heavy machinery .
His hand clenched in frustration before he dropped the bottle back
into the drawer.
He needed Vicodin and about twelve hours of sleep. He’d settle for a
shower and a cigarette. Instead, he took another sip of cooling
mouths.
And left with the taste of her on his lips.
94
Eight
WHEN THE SUN ROSE, BLEEDING PINK BETWEEN the gray
sky and the iron ocean, Caleb gained the light but lost four of the men he
had assigned to protect the crime scene.
Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.
Red sky at morning, sailor take warning.
Last night, he’d called out the island’s volunteer fire department,
posting guards at the access road, the hiking trail, and both ends of the
beach. Most of the firefighters were willing to sacrifice sleep for the
novelty of playing policeman. But working men couldn’t ignore their jobs
to stand around outside the yellow tape, smoking and speculating.
Howard and Manuel had left with the lobster boats at 5:00 A.M.; Dick
and Earl had taken the 7:00 ferry to the mainland.
Caleb recorded their exits in the log book, aware of his team slipping
away. His time, slipping away. His chances, slipping away. At 10:00
A.M., the ferry would return, carrying the state evidence team he had
requested to process the crime scene.
Too late , he thought.
The wind snatched at his notebook. He anchored the pages with one
hand, glancing from his diagram of the scene to the heavy clouds above.
Some small-town police chiefs were too proud or too dumb or too
damn territorial to call in the State Criminal Division for anything less
than homicide. Mainers liked to do for themselves, and cops used to
dealing with petty thefts and traffic violations didn’t always realize how
quickly a case could be lost by a single missed or mishandled piece of
evidence.
Caleb knew. But there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
Rain and tide threatened the point. If he didn’t conduct a detailed search
soon, his crime scene would be irretrievably contaminated, the evidence
swept or washed or blown away.
95
I need what he took from me , Maggie had said.
He wanted to find it.
Whatever it was.
Five hours later, Caleb sat at his desk with a mug of bitter coffee,
working his way through the paperwork required by the state lab as
methodically as he’d worked his way across the beach.
His eyes were gritty with sand and ash and lack of sleep. His leg
throbbed. His stomach growled. He hadn’t stopped for breakfast. Sliding
open his desk drawer, he groped under the files and procedure manuals
for the brown prescription bottle that held his painkillers.
The doctor had said Maggie wasn’t supposed to take aspirin because
of the risk of bleeding into the brain. Had Lucy remembered?
He reached for the phone with his other hand, punching in the
number from memory. His sister answered on the second ring.
“How is everybody?” he asked.
“Maggie’s fine. We’re both fine. We’re about to have lunch. Where
are you?”
“No nausea? Headaches?”
Muffled voices carried over the line.
“She has a bit of a headache,” his sister reported moments later. “I
gave her some Tylenol.”
“Good,” Caleb said, feeling foolish. “That’s good.”
“Maggie wants to know when you’re going to take her to the beach.”
“Later.” He glanced at the window, where a cold, gray rain lashed
the glass. “It’s raining.”
“Do you want to talk to her?”
96
He tapped the plastic bottle on the desk. He shouldn’t feel like a
damn fifteen-year-old calling a girl and then hanging up because he had
nothing to say.
But he had nothing to offer her. Not yet. He looked from the piles of
crap on his desk to the piles of crap on the floor.
“I’ll call back,” he said, and hung up.
Cradling the pills in his hand, he squinted at the bright warning
labels: Do not take on an empty stomach. May cause drowsiness. Do not
drive or operate heavy machinery .
His hand clenched in frustration before he dropped the bottle back
into the drawer.
He needed Vicodin and about twelve hours of sleep. He’d settle for a
shower and a cigarette. Instead, he took another sip of cooling
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