Marlon said goodbye and hung up. She turned from the window and gasped.
Daltrey stood there, silently staring up at her with his enormous taupe eyes, solemn and watchful. He was almost four years old and hadn’t started speaking yet.
What had he heard? She definitely couldn’t tell by his expression because even if she’d been doing a stand--up routine, he would’ve looked at her the same way. His disposition was that of a serious, scholarly, middle--aged man deep in contemplation, preoccupied with thoughts of trash swirling in the world’s oceans and the hole in the ozone layer. This was the only reason she was glad he couldn’t talk, because she had no answers for the questions she knew he’d ask, that he already asked with his eyes.
He tapped his forehead twice with his thumb, palm out. American Sign Language for “Daddy.”
She picked him up, his sturdy, compact little body much heavier than it looked. She hugged him and kissed his hair. “No, that wasn’t Daddy. What are you doing up?”
He took her face in his little hands and pressed his forehead to hers.
“It’s way past your bedtime,” she said.
He nodded and rubbed his eyes. Nessa carried him up the stairs and put him back in his bed, kissed him, and closed the door.
He was toilet trained already and neat as a pin. He didn’t talk, but he didn’t cry or scream either. No tantrums, no fits, no epic messes. He did laugh sometimes, however—-the sweetest sound in the world. One that Nessa would do anything to provoke.
As she descended the stairs, she heard the siren and saw the red and blue lights of a police patrol car.
Nessa took a deep breath and went out the back door.
Declan MacManus howled until the patrol car siren went silent. Then he started barking, his hackles raised when two uniformed police officers got out and walked toward them. Nessa grabbed Declan’s collar as he whined, trying to check out the intruders.
“Good evening, Mrs. Donati,” one of the officers said.
“Hi,” Nessa said, trying to read their nametags.
Officer R. Michaels. Officer B. Watt. Right.
They’d been here before, that first week after she’d thrown John out, the night he’d stood in the front yard screaming like Stanley Kowalski in A Streetcar Named Desire.
Michaels and Watt approached and held out their hands palms down for the dog to sniff. Declan’s tail wagged, recognizing their scents, and Watt gave him an ear rub before straightening. Now Declan was eager to lead everyone back to the boathouse, wagging and smiling at the cops and Nessa.
“So what happened?” Watt said.
“The lock on the boathouse is broken,” Nessa said.
“He in there?” Michaels said, pointing.
“I don’t know. I didn’t look. I just called you guys.”
Michaels nodded and pulled out his flashlight, switching it on.
“Why don’t you wait inside, Mrs. Donati?” Watt said, unholstering his gun.
She walked toward the back door and whistled for Declan MacManus, but he ignored her. She had to go back and take him by the collar to encourage him into the house. She locked the door and watched through the window as her dog whined beside her, sad to be missing all the action outside.
“Police,” Michaels shouted, walking toward the boathouse, light aimed at the broken door. Watt aimed his weapon.
Nessa tensed. There was no telling what John might do, coked up and manic as hell. He might still have whatever implement he’d used to break the door and try to crack the cops’ skulls.
“Anyone in there?” Watt called. He held the gun with both hands and nodded at Michaels, who threw open the boathouse door, shining the flashlight beam inside.
Nessa ground her teeth, waiting and watching as they entered.
After what seemed a lifetime, the lights inside the boathouse illuminated. Officer Michaels exited, surrounded in the dark by a full--body halo.
Nessa opened the back door.
“No one’s in there,” the cop said. “You want to come out and take a look, see if anything’s missing?”
She walked on shaky legs out to the boathouse, simultaneously relieved and disappointed. Inside, Declan sniffed in a widening circle where John had no doubt stood recently.
She looked around but found nothing out of place. John’s Old Town Otca 16 canoe was still hanging from the ceiling on its rigging. She’d have thought he’d take it to sell, since it was one of the most valuable things they owned. The tool bench was undisturbed.
But something was off, as if the very air itself had been replaced. It smelled wrong. Instead of the usual musty, combination ancient wood/modern flooring odor, she smelled something else. A mixture of acrid and sour. It was the only indication, other than the broken door, that someone who didn’t belong had been in here.
She almost said something about it but stopped herself. These guys didn’t need any more crap from her. They must feel like they were constantly chasing ghosts out here.
“Everything looks fine,” Nessa said.