Chapter 36

Canada, Twenty-Eight Years Ago

The boy bolted to his feet, “Daddy? This is rabbit, right? Tell Mommy this is rabbit. Sheshebens is outside in the ground. You’ll see.” He ran outside and frantically dug with his bare hands into the snow covering the grave. His father pulled him away. The boy kicked at him and screeched. “Lemme alone! I wanna see Sheshebens. I hate you…”

Northern California, Present Time

Other than mandatory counseling after the Bay Area shooting incident, Maggie never had been under the care of a therapist. “Hard work is what takes care of mental issues and trauma, not whining about your problems to some hack Voodoo doctor. What a phenomenal waste of money and time.” But Sally’s brutal murder dropped Maggie into the open jaws of insanity. When she broke down at the memorial service, she knew she needed help.

Dawn held a Wiccan service and a wake at Mama’s. A priestess in a flowing purple garment, wearing a pentagram around her neck the size of a dinner plate, performed a beautiful passage rite. Hundreds of people turned up. Mourners spilled out of the store and into the streets. The fire marshal, who was fond of Sally, and one of her best customers, held back as long as he could, but for public safety, he had to intervene. In a respectful tone, he asked everyone to disburse. The mourners drove to the Trinity Alps. There would be another ceremony, and then the priestess would scatter the ashes. Maggie remained behind. “No, I can’t do this. Dumping her ashes is too final,” she said to a woman who’d offered to drive her.

Maggie held it together, almost. After the ceremony, she caught up with Jake. “I don’t want you to say anything, not to anyone, not to me, but I need the number of that shrink you went to after Shelly died. I feel like I’m bleeding out emotionally, mentally, in every way. I’m losing it, Jake.” She leaned into him and sobbed.

He held her, rocking her back in forth in his arms. “Everything is going to be okay.”

The therapist, a beautiful soft-spoken woman from Guatemala, Dr. Jessie Ochoa, turned out to be a competent, highly skilled counselor. She recommended a combo of anti-depressants and anti-anxiety meds and scheduled twice-weekly hourly sessions. Maggie did not object.

With Jake’s urging, Maggie put in for some time off, and got online to research quiet B&Bs on the Oregon coast. She hired a neighbor to feed the cat and chickens, spread out a bucket of corn for the ravens, packed the Chevy and drove Chester to Bandon. On purpose, she’d left her cell phone at home, and did not share with anyone where she was headed.

It was bloody cold, but every day she bundled up and spent hours walking with Chester on the sand. Every night, she sat in a bubble bath so hot it nearly blistered her skin, downed a full bottle of pinot noir and cried. After, she’d put on a pair of chenille pajamas, curl up on the plush bed with her arms and legs thrown over her bloodhound, the sound of the surf lulling her into blessed, dreamless sleep. She ate very little. She didn’t brush her teeth, didn’t brush her hair, and didn’t care if her clothes were clean or dirty, pressed or wrinkled. All she wanted to do was walk, bathe, drink wine, cry and sleep. It was the first time in Maggie’s life that she felt hopeless.

One morning, she climbed out of bed, and flung open the curtains to let the daylight stream into the room. “Okay, Chester. I’m done moping. Let’s go home. I gotta catch the sonofabitch who did this to Sally.” She packed, then sat on the edge of the bed, and cleaned and oiled her side arm.

She really didn’t feel like going anywhere, or doing anything, but she forced herself to shower, and eat a small breakfast of toast and coffee. Chester jumped in the truck and waited while she went inside the office to pay her bill. She walked back out into the thin morning air, and took a deep breath. Jake’s right. It’s going to be okay, especially after I kill that murdering psycho. She and Chester headed south on Highway 101 toward Wicklow, and except for a fuel stop, she drove nonstop to her cabin.

*

The cleaning crew had done their best, but where Sally had bled was a pale pink stain on the plank flooring of Maggie’s kitchen. By herself, she pushed and shoved her heavy trestle table, solid wood chairs, the bulky antique buffet and china cabinet out of the room, got down on her hands and knees and scrubbed the floor with every cleaner she could find. Her knuckles and knees turned raw, swollen.

Maggie emptied the spare room where Sally had slept. She put a single piece of jewelry into her pocket, an amethyst and pink tourmaline dragonfly pin she’d given to Sally as a birthday present years before, and stuffed the rest of Sally’s belongings into plastic trash bags and threw them into her truck to give to the local Goodwill. She went into the bathroom and unloaded all of Sally’s toiletries into a waste basket. First, though, she opened a small cologne bottle. Jasmine perfume filled the room and brought back of flood of memories. Sally had worn this particular cologne since she was a teenager, and used it every day. Maggie allowed herself a moment to inhale the essence of Sally, and to remember better times, then she threw out the cologne, carried the basket outside, dumping it into the larger trash can, slamming the lid shut.

She moved the rest of her furniture out onto the porch and brought in gallons of frost white paint. She painted her entire cabin, the bedrooms, the hallway, living room, bath, and kitchen one coat after another until not one trace of Sally’s death remained.