Friday Evening
Cooperative Hall
Himself put away the phone and looked around, hunting for Reggie MacDonald. He found him at the punch bowl, flask out, adding a bit of the water of life to the water in his glass. Himself made his way across the room, touched Reggie’s arm, and steered him to a quiet corner.
“Tak’ Monroe out the-nicht.”
“Tonight?” Reggie’s eyebrows rose. “Why the hurry?”
“Th’ police are lookin’ fer him. I want him oot o’ the way.”
Reggie nodded. “Give me half an hour. I’ll call you and tell you where to find the boat. Then he’s to go home, get his fishing gear, and drive to the dock, just as if he were planning fresh fish for breakfast. Remind him that the house must not look suspicious. The police will go over it with a fine-toothed comb. They’ll notice if something is missing.”
“Aye. I’ll tell him.” Angus Mackenzie surveyed the room. No Monroe. He checked the assembly rooms, but he wasn’t there, either. A search of the restroom, grounds, and kitchens all turned up nothing. Himself frowned. He caught Jim and Ginny just coming in.
“Ha’e ye seen Monroe?”
Jim nodded. “He was sitting on the edge of the lake, on a bench near the water fountain.”
“I ken th’ place.” He wrapped his cape around his shoulders and let himself out onto the grounds.
The Cooperative Hall had been built adjacent to the loch, abutting it, but private. The Laird sauntered along the path, spotted Monroe without trouble, and wandered up to the bench, sitting down on it and greeting the young man pleasantly.
“A bonnie nicht.”
“It is.”
“A canny man might be thinkin' o’ going oot fishing.”
Monroe blinked at the Laird, then turned his eyes to the sky, then back to the surface of the water. “Not much moon.”
“True. E’en a guid fisherman might trip and fall o’er board on a nicht wi’ nae moon. Could be lost. Ye’d need tae be careful, but the catch might be worth th’ risk.”
Monroe’s eyes narrowed. “It would be a good place to do some thinking.”
“Aye. Ye’d ha’ th’ loch tae yerself. Nane tae disturb ye.”
Monroe nodded slowly. “Do you know a good place to go night fishing?”
“Reggie does. He was plannin’ tae go oot this nicht. Loch Lavon, I think. Ye know it?”
“Yup.”
“Tis mild fer a February nicht. Ye could make do wi’ just yer tackle and a flask maybe, and yer coat, though ye could leave that on the seat o’ the boat if ye wanted tae ha’e yer hands free tae cast.”
Monroe nodded.
“Ha’e ye one o’ the floating key bobs?”
“No.”
The Laird climbed to his feet. “Come wi’ me, then. I’ve one I can let ye ha’e.”
Monroe rose and followed him to the parking lot. The Laird opened the trunk of his car and pulled his tackle box to the edge, making sure it could be seen by anyone watching. He dipped into his supplies, fished out the device Reggie had given him earlier that day, and turned to Monroe.
“Here, lad. This will see ye hame.” He dropped his voice as Monroe leaned in to inspect the contents of the tackle box.
“There’s a homing beacon in the bob, already activated. Swim ashore away frae th’ lights then walk tae th’ edge of the pavement. Reggie will pick ye up and take ye tae th’ Homestead. I’m tae remind ye tae take nothing but th’ fishing gear.”
Monroe nodded, dropping the beacon into his pocket. “Where do I go after I pick up my tackle?”
“Reggie should be callin’ any minute noo.”
The phone went off and Himself answered it, leaning against the trunk of the car while Monroe pulled a lure out and held it up to the light.
“Ye’re nae able tae go, then? Ah weel. Ye and Charlie will ha’e tae go another time.” He hung up the phone, then turned and leaned into the trunk.
“Lavon, Little Ridge Park.” He stood up and handed a lure to Monroe. “Ye can borrow this one fer when ye do get tae go and let me know how it does fer ye.”
Monroe nodded. “I’ll do that.”
* * *
Friday Night
Lake Lavon
Charlie Monroe stood in the bass boat and looked out over the dark water. He had taken a moment to pull Lake Lavon up on his computer and had seen a power plant warm water outlet next to Little Ridge Park. It made an excellent place to go overboard. He would be wet, but not frozen.
He baited his line by the light of the electric lantern, then cast it out over the water, watching the lure sink. He wondered what kind of fishing there might be in Canada.
He’d been trying not to think about what he was doing, but now the reality swam up to him from the depths, surfacing and disturbing the waters of his mind. He’d never much cared for cold weather. Well, that had better change, and fast.
He would never see any of his friends again. Or his family. He had a brother, five years older than he was, and a sister-in-law. Both were dentists and seemed to be perpetually abroad, caring for the needy somewhere in Africa. He hadn’t seen them in years, might not even recognize them if he did.
He’d visited his in-laws and given them a few things he thought they might like to have, to remember their daughter and grandchildren by. That had been a hard visit. He’d been careful not to tell them what he planned to do. No need to distress them further. He’d liked Mandy’s parents and they had liked him.
His own parents were dead, killed in an airplane crash, along with his maternal grandparents, when he was seven. He would never visit their graves again. Or Mandy’s. He put his hand to his eyes, pressing hard, trying not to weep.
He’d left the Navy when his paternal grandfather died of a heart attack, to come home and care for his remaining grandmother. She had Alzheimer’s and was in a facility run by the Homestead. She hadn’t recognized him the last time he went to visit.
He pulled back on the rod and cast again, not caring where the lure fell.
He didn’t have to go. He could stay and take his punishment. He had killed a man. He deserved to be punished. If he confessed, and didn’t get sent to the looney bin, that meant time in prison, in the company of hardened criminals. They would become his new family. It was that thought, as much as anything, that had made up his mind for him.
He watched the lights of a car move along the edge of the lake and wondered if it was Reggie MacDonald, coming to get him. He’d met the man, once, when he’d been sent down into the caverns to work on a covert communications project.
He’d had a promising future until last August, until that monster had taken everything from him. He found a lump in his throat and swallowed it with difficulty, his vision blurring.
What was he doing out here on the lake, planning to fake his own death, to escape into the night? Why had he let Ginny Forbes talk him out of shooting himself?
Had he been afraid? Afraid to die, to be with Mandy and the girls? Maybe he believed that suicides didn’t get to go to heaven. Maybe he’d just been unable to pull the trigger.
He didn’t understand that. He should have been able to kill himself without a second thought. He’d gone to the park and tried to make himself feel how bad it hurt, how his heart stopped beating when he thought of his girls. Annie’s birthday present was still in the closet, wrapped, ready to give to her. He’d been close. Why had Ginny stopped him? Why had he let her stop him?
He reeled in the line and cast again, his eyes on the ripple it caused on the surface of the lake.
The psychiatrist had talked to him at length. He’d been sympathetic, had said what he was feeling was normal. He’d also said the pain would fade, that he’d be able to face life again, in time. What if he didn’t want to feel good again?
If the psychiatrist was right, then starting over made sense. Mandy would want that. She was always supporting him, encouraging him. Charlie felt a tear trickle down his cheek and brushed it away.
He’d done as told, except that he could NOT leave without a picture of his girls. He’d put the flash drive inside three layers of plastic baggies, then duct-taped it to his skin, inside his clothes. It would be safe there. Eventually he’d find a computer he could use. He’d have his girls back.
He tugged gently on the line, trying to imagine the fish at the bottom of the lake. The fish was hungry and would take the bait thinking it was safe to eat. It would be wrong.
Charlie, too, was facing a lure, only, unlike the fish, he knew there was a hook inside. He could give himself up and endure whatever came. Or he could kill himself. Or he could leave everything he had ever loved behind and start over. Which of those was the honorable choice? Was there any way to tell?
His ancestors believed the Norse gods sent omens, messages to mortals, to guide them. What he needed was a sign. ‘Mandy,’ he pleaded, ‘give me a sign. Tell me what to do.’
The line he was holding tugged suddenly as a fish took the bait. Charlie jerked back on the pole to set the hook. He let out some line and tugged again, feeling the fish pull, then slide to the side. Charlie followed it in the dark.
The fish was pulling hard. Must be a big one and probably a bottom-feeder. Catfish, most likely. Charlie pulled too, trying to get the fish off the bottom, then gave him some slack and pulled again. This time the fish seemed to be coming toward him, rising. Charlie leaned back, keeping the tension on the line, but he couldn’t see what he was doing. He stumbled over the bench and tripped, then, with a startled cry, went over the side and into the water.
He had sense enough to drop the line and let himself sink, then drift. The water was murky and for a moment he wasn’t sure which way was up, then his head broke the surface and he could see the shore. He had lost one of his shoes. He kicked off the other, took a breath and submerged, heading for the edge of the lake.
He had already identified a landing spot. He surfaced, then pulled himself onto the rocks as quietly as possible. The key fob was still there, clipped to a belt loop. After a bit he rose and started to walk along the shore, carefully, since he could not see the ground and he was shoeless. Ten minutes effort brought him to the edge of the picnic area. A careful look around showed him one car, lights out, visible against the backdrop of the city. As he watched, a thin shadow detached itself from the side of the car and came over.
“You all right, then? Not drowned?”
Charlie swallowed hard. “Not drowned.” He followed Reggie MacDonald over to the car.
“Here.” Reggie handed him a blanket.
He climbed into the passenger side of the car and drew the blanket around him as Reggie put the car in gear and drove off.
Charlie found himself responding to the vibration of the car, the warmth of the heater, and the aftermath of the immersion. His gaze rested on the lights of Dallas, his home no longer, then he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. An image of his dead wife rose before him. He could see her, smiling at him, nodding to him. He smiled back.
* * *