She nodded. “Doyle and Lou are going to land here any second. I don’t want them to see you patching me up.”
“Of course not.” He used a dish towel and dabbed at her arm, drying it as best he could. “Why are you so convinced it was Mattie?”
“He left an odor.”
“Do you think he’d been drinking?”
“I have no idea. If he was, it didn’t slow him down any. He had to move like a jackrabbit to get out of the house and out of sight.”
“Well, if I had you coming after me with a gun—”
“I had to get my gun. That created a small delay.” She winced as Owen applied the antibiotic ointment, then placed the bandage over it. “I didn’t take it up Cadillac with me.”
He wrapped gauze around her arm, covering the bandage, and secured it with tape, then glanced down at her right thigh. The bleeding there looked to have stopped. “You should go to the E.R. about your leg, at least.”
“I get worse cuts picking blackberries. If it starts looking infected, I’ll see a doctor.”
“You might need stitches.”
“I don’t need stitches.” She had a perceptible limp as she walked toward the deck door, then leaned against it and sighed at him. “This isn’t going to be my finest hour. You ever do anything stupid?”
“Me? Never.”
She laughed. “Oh, sure. Let’s see all your scars.” But color returned to her pale cheeks, and she made a face. “Umm. Forget I said that.”
“Sorry, Detective. I’m not letting that one go.” Owen walked over to her and slipped an arm around her waist. “I’ll drive you back to your place. Don’t argue.”
“I won’t—I don’t know how I made it across those rocks to get here as it is. Must be the pancakes I had for breakfast.”
“And for the record,” he said, half lifting her out to the deck, “you can see my scars anytime.”
He’d gone and done it now, Mattie thought, feeling terrible as he slipped through the iron gate on the border between Ellis’s gardens and the woods. Ellis was at the family estate on Somes Sound. Mattie had seized upon his absence to sneak down to Abigail’s house, hoping she wouldn’t be there—hoping he’d have the window of time he needed.
He’d taken what precautions he’d thought of. Cutting the phone line, hanging on to the drywall saw. He just couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
He crept along the fence, behind a swing that had been there since the Garrisons had owned the property. When he reached the shed he checked his trail for any footprints.
He’d just sliced open a cop. They’d all be looking for him now.
But he had his story ready. Doyle would believe him. Didn’t Doyle always believe him?
You don’t have your license because Doyle didn’t believe you when you said you hadn’t been drinking.
Mattie silenced the voices of doubt in his head and unlatched the shed door, stepping inside its crowded but ultra-neat single room of tools and garden supplies. Thankfully, he could relatch the door from the inside and wouldn’t have to leave it swinging open.
Sunlight angled through the small, paned windows, somehow making him feel more claustrophobic, more trapped.
He worked his way past bags of fertilizer, peat moss and dried cow manure to the back of the shed, where he pushed aside a stack of old wooden lobster pots and got down on his hands and knees.
Using his fists, he banged on the piece of plywood he himself had tacked onto the opening the chickens had used. It was bigger than necessary, really, for chickens, but that could help him in a pinch. The wood came free easily, but he left it leaned up against the hole. It was unlikely anyone would notice it, one way or the other, but he’d taken enough chances already.
If he had to, he could crawl out the tiny door and get into the woods, disappear.
He’d expected to have to disappear at some point, just not until he had his money. The whole ten grand. More. Damn it, Linc could spare it. He deserved to pay up for what he’d done. For the secrets he’d kept. The blackmail would help cleanse his soul.
Excuses. You should have told Doyle everything last night.
Mattie shook his head. He couldn’t afford to let any doubts creep in, undermine him. Not now. Not when he’d gone past the point of no return.
He sat on the floor, his back against a lobster pot. Was it one of Will Browning’s old pots? Pa, Mattie used to call him. Ol’ Pa Browning. He was the Browning who’d lived a long life.
“Two wrongs don’t make a right. Remember that, Mattie.”
Ah, Pa.
“I’m trying,” Mattie whispered. “I’m trying hard.”
At least Pa Browning hadn’t lived to see his grandson murdered. A small blessing, at least.
Mattie didn’t know if he fell asleep, or if he’d simply gone into some kind of trance, but he became aware of the shed door creaking open. He went very still, silently reassured himself that he couldn’t be seen from the door. If it was Ellis, returned from paying homage to his brother, he’d never come this far into the shed.