A Suitable Vengeance

St. James walked some paces behind Lynley and Deborah. He watched their progress, making a study of their proximity to each other. He memorised the details of Lynley’s arm round Deborah’s shoulders, hers round his waist, the angle of their heads as they talked, the contrast in the colour of their hair. He saw how they walked in perfect rhythm, their strides the same length, fluid and smooth. He watched them and tried not to think about the previous night, about his realisation that he could no longer run from her and continue to live with himself, about the moment when his stunned awareness had finally absorbed the fact that he would have to do so.

Any man who had known her less well would have labelled her actions on the previous night as a clever manipulation whose end-product gleaned her the witnessing of a measure of suffering to pay for the suffering he’d inflicted upon her. A confession of her adolescent love for him; an admission of that love’s attendant desire; an encounter that blended the strongest elements of emotion and arousal; an abrupt conclusion when she was certain that he intended no further flight. But even if he wanted to evaluate her behaviour as a manipulative woman’s act of spite, he could not do it. For she had not known he would leave his bedroom and join her in the study, nor could she have anticipated that after years of separation and rejection he would finally let go of the worst of his fears. She had not asked him to join her, she had not asked him to drop onto the ottoman next to her, she had not asked him to take her into his arms. He had only himself to blame for having crossed the boundary into betrayal and for having assumed in the white heat of the moment that she would be willing to cross it as well.

He had forced her hand, he had called for a decision. She had made it. If he was to survive from this time on, he knew he would have to do it alone. Unbearable now, he tried to believe that the thought would become more endurable in time.

Propitiable gods held back the rain although the sky was growing rapidly more tenebrous when they reached the cove. Far out to sea, the sun burst through a ragged tear in the clouds, casting beams like a golden spotlight on the water below. But it was only a momentary break in the weather. No sailor or fisherman would have been deceived by its transitory beauty.

Below them on the beach, two teenaged boys were idly smoking near the rocks. One was tall and big boned with a shock of bright orange hair, the other small and whip-thin with great knobs on his knees. Despite the weather, they were dressed for swimming. On the ground at their feet lay a stack of towels, two face masks, two snorkels. Looking up, the orange-haired boy saw Lynley and waved. The other glanced over his shoulder and tossed his cigarette aside.

“Where do you suppose Brooke threw the cameras in?” Lynley asked St. James.

“He was on the rocks Friday afternoon. My guess is that he’d have edged out as far as he could go and heaved the case into the water. What’s the bottom like?”

“Mostly granite.”

“And the water’s clear. If the camera case is there, they’ll be able to see it.”

Lynley nodded and made the descent, leaving St. James with Deborah on the cliff. They watched as he crossed the narrow strand and shook both boys’ hands. They grinned, the one driving his fingers into his hair and scratching his scalp, the other shifting from foot to foot. They both looked cold.

“Not exactly the best weather for a swim,” Deborah remarked.

St. James said nothing.

The boys pulled on face masks, adjusted their snorkels and headed for the water, one on either side of the rocks. Alongside them, Lynley climbed the granite outcropping and picked his way out to its furthest point.

The surface of the water was extraordinarily calm since a natural reef protected the cove. Even from the cliff, St. James could see the anemones that grew on the outcropping beneath the water, their stamen swaying in the gentle current. Above and around them, broad-leafed kelp undulated. Beneath them, crabs hid. The cove was a combination of reef and tide pools, sea life and sand. It was not the best location for a swim, but it had no match as a site for the disposing of an object one wished to go unrecovered for years. Within weeks, the camera case would be shrouded by barnacles, sea urchins, and anemones. Within months, it would lose both shape and definition, ultimately coming to resemble the rocks themselves.

If the case was there, however, the two boys were having difficulty finding it. Again and again, they bobbed to the surface on either side of Lynley. Each time, they carried nothing with them. Each time, they shook their heads.

“Tell them to go farther out,” St. James shouted when the boys made their sixth return empty-handed.

Lynley looked up, nodded, and waved. He squatted on the rocks and talked to the boys. They dove under the water again. Both were good swimmers. They clearly understood what they were looking for. But neither found a thing.

“It looks hopeless.” Deborah seemed to be speaking more to herself than to St. James. Nonetheless, he replied.

“You’re right. I’m sorry, Deborah. I thought to have recovered at least something for you.” He glanced her way, saw by her expression of misery that she’d read the meaning behind his words.