Owen could hear the struggle in Doyle’s tone to hide his resentment. He’d put the decision to do this training in Katie’s hands, saying it was hers, not his, to make. She’d pleaded with him to discuss his feelings with her, but he’d refused. And now he was irritated, because deep down he’d wanted her to stay.
It was all more complicated than Owen could get his head around, but Doyle and Katie had been together since they were teenagers. As ornery as Doyle could be, he would know that if his wife didn’t need his permission to go to England, she at least deserved his support.
“Summer’s my busiest season,” he said. “Katie could have picked a better time to learn how to save the world.”
“She didn’t pick the time. I did.”
Doyle gave him a faint smile. “Yeah? Well, screw you.”
The boys pounded onto the deck and burst inside with a frenzied energy that seemed to lift their father’s mood. Ian’s fingers were blue-red, a sign he’d been into the tide pools. He had his mother’s curiosity and affection for living things. Sean got more pleasure from scrambling over granite boulders.
“What’s going on?” Doyle asked at their obvious excitement.
“Nothing,” Sean said, his cheeks reddening as he warmed his hands in front of the woodstove, the fire glowing behind the screen.
“Nothing’s got you all excited, huh?”
Ian started to speak, but Sean shot him a warning look. “Dad, can we stay here tonight?”
“Not tonight. Let’s wait until a night I have a meeting, if that’s okay with Owen.”
Owen shrugged. “That’d be fine.” But he could see that Sean and Ian had something they were keeping from their father. “Did you notice the fog on the horizon?”
“Uh-huh.” Ian nodded, but he was watching his older brother, presumably for another warning look if he strayed too close to spilling whatever it was they were hiding. “It’s coming closer. Sean calls it The Blob. We pretend it’s a monster.”
Ian roared and stretched out his arms, pretending he was The Blob. Sean rolled his eyes. Owen followed them and their father out to the car. Sean said he wanted the front seat, Ian said it was his turn—the fight was on. Doyle settled it by making them both sit in back.
“They don’t fight that much,” he told Owen, then gave a tight smile as he opened the car door. “Katie’s doing. They’re more likely to act up around me.”
In the back seat, his window open, Sean had grown pensive. “Dad, do you believe in ghosts?”
Doyle didn’t hesitate. “No. Why? You boys think you saw a ghost?”
Ian’s eyes widened, and he elbowed his brother. “Sean, Dad’ll know what to do.”
Sean snapped his seat belt. “We didn’t see nothing.”
“Anything,” Doyle said. “You didn’t see anything.”
“That’s what I said.”
Doyle started the car. “Forget it.” He looked exhausted, overwhelmed without Katie at his side. “Wouldn’t surprise me if you saw a ghost out here. It’s been that kind of day.”
But as Doyle backed out of the driveway, Owen noticed Ian in the back seat, pale, his blue eyes unblinking, and felt his stomach twist.
They know about Chris Browning.
Owen knew Doyle avoided mentioning his childhood friend in front of Sean and Ian and never discussed the details of a long-unsolved murder that had deeply affected him. Their father’s silence had created a void that the boys, apparently, had filled on their own.
But what had made them think they’d seen a ghost?
Doyle Alden pulled into the short driveway of the little house he and Katie had bought six weeks before Sean was born and fixed up themselves. It was on a side street near the police station, a few miles from Owen’s place. Bar Harbor, where the Fast Rescue Field Academy would be located, was about twelve miles up and across the island, a picturesque drive that his wife would have to start making every morning once the construction was finished.
An unmarked Maine State Police car eased in behind him. Doyle recognized Lieutenant Lou Beeler behind the wheel, and knew it couldn’t be good news.
“Go on inside, guys,” Doyle told his sons. “I’ll be a couple minutes.”
In the glare of the front-door light, Lou looked thin and tired, his hair grayer. He planned to retire in the fall after thirty years on the job, fifteen of them in the Criminal Investigative Division. He was a decent guy with an extraordinary record, one of the most respected detectives in Maine. But riding off into the sunset with Christopher Browning’s murder unsolved grated on him. An FBI agent married to John March’s daughter, a man beloved on Mt. Desert Island—shot on his honeymoon within shouting distance of his boyhood home, left to bleed to death amid the rocks, seaweed, salt water and gulls.
Who wouldn’t want to find Chris’s killer?
“What can I do for you, Lou?” Doyle asked.
Lou rubbed his lower back. He’d have driven to Bar Harbor from his home hear Bangor. “Fog’s rolling in. I can smell it.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“I don’t like driving in it. My eyes aren’t what they used to be. How’s Katie?”
“Fine. She’s in England.”