“I need to get to this, Donna.”
“I know you need to get to this, but I’ve got something to say first.” She clutched her big summer straw purse in her lap. “I want to say it before you open it, because we both know this is another threat against you.”
“Go ahead then,” he said as he got out a pair of gloves, his penknife.
“You kept your word. I believe you’d have kept it whether or not you took an oath on the good book. But that’s a kind of insurance. You did the right thing and didn’t let those boys—including my grandson—off scot-free, but you didn’t mess up their lives over a prank. Dobson hammered at you, pushed at the mayor, but you did the right thing.”
“It was toilet paper, Donna, probably biodegradable.”
“That’s not the point. I didn’t know what to think about them bringing you in as chief, but I didn’t think very well. You’re young, you’re from the mainland, and you’ve got a sassy way half the time.”
He had to smile, even with the slow burn working inside him over the card waiting on his desk. “I’m sassy?”
“That’s not a compliment. But you do a good job, you treat the deputies with respect, and you kept your word. You’re good to that idiot dog.”
“He’s only half an idiot these days.”
“I didn’t like the idea of you bringing him in here, but I’ll tell the truth and say I’ve got a fondness for him now.”
Her fondness, Reed knew, included sneaking the dog tiny bone-shaped treats from a bag she now kept at her station.
“Barney grows on you.”
“I think you need a decent haircut and real shoes instead of old beat-up sneakers.”
Reed frowned down at his high-tops. They weren’t that beat-up. “Noted.”
“Otherwise.” She sniffed. “You’re doing reasonably all right. More or less.”
“I’m touched.”
“And you’re chief, so that’s that.” She dug into her bag, pulled out a black ball cap with CHIEF over the crown in white. “So this is for you.”
“You got me a hat.”
“I watch these TV movies all the time and the chief of police has a hat like this one.”
Touched, sincerely, Reed took it, settled it on his head. “How’s it look?”
“Well, you need a decent haircut, but it’ll do.”
He took it off, studied the CHIEF, put it back on. “I appreciate it, Donna. I’m proud to wear it.”
“At least people will see it and not think you’re some beach bum with that ragged hair and those beat-up sneakers.” She pushed up from the chair. “I’ll call in the off-duty deputies, so you can brief them after you’ve looked at that card.”
“Thanks.”
She paused at the door. “You be smart and you be careful.”
“I intend to be both.”
“See that you do. I paid good money for that hat. I don’t want anything to happen to it.”
He smiled for a moment as she walked out, then put on the gloves, slit the envelope with his knife.
This one read:
THINKING OF YOU
On a floral background.
Inside, over a rainbow and more flowers, the sentiment read:
YOU MEAN SO MUCH TO ME, I NEED TO LET YOU KNOW.
NO MATTER WHAT I SEE, NO MATTER WHERE I GO.
YOU’RE ALWAYS IN MY THOUGHTS.
She’d signed it XXOO Patricia, and on the inside cover had written her personal message.
I can’t wait until we’re together again. It’s been too long! I hope you think of me as often as I think of you, and with the same—should we call it passion?
Enclosed is another token of my undying loathing.
Until … Patricia.
He lifted out the lock of hair inside the sealed bag.
It wouldn’t be McMullen’s, he thought. McMullen, the abduction, the video, the killing, all that had been not just personal for Hobart, but intimate.
This lock of hair was Tracey Lieberman’s.
He took photos, sealed the original and the lock of hair in an evidence bag.
“Just come, bitch. Just stop screwing around and come. We’ll finish this.”
He contacted Jacoby, shot her the photos, did the same with Essie.
Then he swiveled in his chair, gazed out the window at the flowering bushes. Azaleas—even he knew that much. They made a nice show. He had a couple of them at his house, in flaming red, and the wild dogwood—CiCi had identified—had burst out in late March between snowstorms.
The fishing boats would be out, and the lobstermen. Before long they’d be joined by sailboats, powerboats, boogie boards, sunbathers, and sandcastles.
Whenever she came, however she got there, he’d find a way to stop her from leaving a scar on the island.
He flicked a finger down the bill of his cap, got up to brief his deputies. The dog, toy in his mouth, followed him.
*
In her studio, Simone circled the clay. She searched for imperfections, for possibilities of improvements. For the last few days, she’d touched up details, cutting minute bits of clay with hook and rake tools, smoothing out with kidney tools, delicately brushing with solvent to remove those tool marks.
She knew, from experience, an artist could cut and rake and smooth a piece—searching for perfection—and destroy the soul of it.
Her hands itched for her tools, but she walked out, called down the stairs to where she knew CiCi sat with her morning coffee.
“CiCi, could you come up, take another look at Reed?”
“I’m always ready to look at Reed. You haven’t let me look for days—covering him up even when you had Hank and Essie up there.”
“I know. He wasn’t ready. I know he’s ready now, but I can’t stop looking for reasons to tweak just a little more. Stop me,” she said as CiCi reached the landing. “Or tell me to keep going.”
CiCi stepped in, flipped her long braid behind her back, then circled as Simone had.
The image stood two feet in height on a base she’d created to resemble a platform of rough stone. She’d caught him, as she’d envisioned, in mid-swing, the sword gripped two-handed over his left shoulder, his body turned at the hip, legs braced, with the right foot planted ahead of the left, and in a pivot.
His hair, tumbled and with that hint of curl, seemed to flow with the motion. For his face, she’d sculpted the barely banked rage and cold purpose.
Behind his left leg, Barney stood, leaning in, head up, eyes full of hope and trust.
“God, he’s gorgeous,” CiCi stated as she circled.
“In person, or here?”
“Both. Absolutely both. Simone, this is brilliant. It’s stunning, and it’s absolutely Reed. The Protector you said you called it. And that’s just perfect. Leave it alone. Perfect’s often the enemy of done, but you’ve already gotten perfect.”
She traced a finger a hairbreadth from the scars. “Perfectly flawed. Real. Male. Human.”
“It got more important to me every day. And the more important … I want to cast it in bronze.”
“Yes. Yes. Oh, I can see that.” CiCi shifted, slipped an arm around Simone’s waist. “Will you let him see the clay model?”
“Nope.”
“Good. Let him wait.”
“I’ve let it dry. Most of me knew it was done. I can start the molding process this morning.”
“I’ll let you get to it. My talented girl? It’s going to be a masterpiece.”
“Okay then,” she murmured when she was alone.
She got her brush, the latex rubber mixture. Stopped herself, got a bottle of water, turned on music, going with one of CiCi’s New Agey playlists. Soothing harps, bells, flutes.
With the brush, she painted the mixture onto the clay. Avoiding air bubbles while coating every millimeter took patience and care, and time.
She knew his body so well now, the length of torso, the line of hip, the exact placement of the scars.
Once done, she stepped back, searching for any tiny area she might have missed. Then she cleaned her brush, put the mix away.
This process took more patience. She’d apply the next coat the following morning, then another. Four coats, she determined, before she made the mother mold of plaster.