He wondered. That day, as he’d cast off with their father in handcuffs, the man’s children had stood at the top of the ramp crying. The ones with the children do the best, he’d thought, as he piloted the vessel away. Maybe. They were safe from abuse. Which was the point. But the children still looked so sad, as they watched their father being taken away from them, maybe forever. The next night he’d seen May’s lights: two lanterns in her window, the signal she’d use when she needed to relocate people. Two if by sea. May and her network moved women and children to other safe houses when things looked dicey—part of what May called the New Underground Railroad, a network of safe houses up and down the coast. Seeing those lights, Rafferty had understood that the children and their mother would leave the island and become new people in a new place.
Now Rafferty watched as the women who were currently staying at the shelter walked in groups, back and forth between the schoolhouse and the big house, carrying platters of food. Towner had arrived on the island earlier this morning to help with the brunch preparations. Each year his wife closed the tearoom on Thanksgiving Day, and every year it saddened her, because it left the women who worked there at odds. Most had lost contact with their families, and the holiday reminded them of this wound. Almost every one of them had started out on Yellow Dog Island, then gone on to work at the tearoom when they were ready to rejoin the world. Each of them was welcome today—the women would have celebrated in their honor—but the island wasn’t someplace they wanted to return to. They just wanted to move on.
Which was exactly how Towner felt about the place. She loved May well enough. And she did everything she could to support the shelter. But coming out here was difficult for her. Too many bad memories. Towner had grown up here, the victim of an abusive father, who had blinded her mother, leaving her brain-damaged as a result of one of his rages. The trauma Towner had suffered was the reason May did the work she did, and why Towner helped her. Still, coming out here, even to visit May, was difficult.
But if Towner hated to come to Yellow Dog Island, May hated to leave it even more. Except for this yearly Thanksgiving brunch, the two women communicated only via e-mail and cell phone. As soon as it was over, Rafferty and Towner always went directly to the Whitings’ Thanksgiving dinner, and then Towner would spend the rest of the weekend at Pride’s Heart trying to recover.
Rafferty had no blood family on Yellow Dog Island, but he saw far more of the place than Towner did; there was always something going on that required police attention. He and May were uneasy relatives. Her rescue methods, though effective, were often illegal. She was not opposed to using firearms to protect the women and children she sheltered, and, though she’d deny it if questioned, more than once she’d fired a warning shot across the bow of the police boat as it approached her island. He understood that most of what she was doing was necessary; he secretly applauded her efforts. But as a cop, he wished he never had to deal with her.
He walked against the crowd to find his wife and see what he could do to help.
“And I told you I’m not comfortable doing that!”
He could hear Towner’s raised voice the moment he entered the old Victorian that had been May’s house for as long as anyone could remember. He found the women in the kitchen. Towner stood, red-faced, her hands on her hips, looking every bit the petulant child she had once been under May’s care.
May sighed and turned back to her dishes. “Have it your way.”
Towner pushed past him and out of the house.
“I don’t know why she still comes out here every year,” May said to him, shaking her head. May’s long curly hair was pinned on top of her head with chopsticks, but it still escaped its confines. Though her expression was calm, it was a practiced look. The pitch of her voice had risen by several notes.
“You know why she comes. You insist on it. You’re the only family she’s got left.” Rafferty gestured out the window toward a burned-out house at the far end of the island. “Why don’t you get rid of that place?” As if he hadn’t suggested this to her a hundred times already. That place, or what was left of it, was full of sadness and ghosts.
“You think it’s that simple? What, I just call someone and presto? Or we put on hard hats and tear it down? This is an island, Rafferty. Things aren’t that easy out here.”
Rafferty didn’t dispute the fact. Nor did he remind her that they’d accomplished other, far more difficult tasks over the years. He’d offered to demolish the house himself, but May had refused his help. She was holding on to the wreckage of the burned-out old building. As what? A reminder of the worst time of Towner’s life? She’d lost someone she loved very much in that fire.
“Out of sight, out of mind,” he said.
May glared at him.
“Seems like everyone’s a little tense out here,” he said, trying to lighten things up.
“It’s Thanksgiving, Rafferty. What do you expect?”
“What about the heightened security? You trying to move someone?”
“You know better than to ask me that,” May said, turning away from him.
He left May and found Towner where he knew she would be: standing on the hill overlooking what had been her childhood summer home.
“You want to go?” he asked, as she buried her head in his chest. “We can go right now and be at Pride’s Heart before she even notices we’re gone.”
“No,” she said, forcing a smile. “I’m okay. I can stay. But only if we can sit at the kids’ table.”
“Done. You can even have crayons.”
It is Shown that on Account of the Sins of Witches, the Innocent are often Bewitched, yea, Sometimes even for their Own Sins.
—Malleus Maleficarum
Callie and Paul pulled into the driveway at Pride’s Heart just in time to see Rafferty and Towner emerge from the woods beside the big house.
“How was Yellow Dog Island?” Callie asked as she got out of the car, glad to see familiar faces. “Did you have a good visit with May?”
“It was fine,” Towner said too quickly. Rafferty rolled his eyes and shook his head.
“We just docked at the boathouse,” Rafferty said, eager to change the subject. “We’ve got my Whaler tied up behind the big boat. Is that all right?”
“Perfect.” Paul shook Rafferty’s hand and hugged Towner. “So glad you could join us.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Towner said, turning to Callie. “You’re just arriving? I thought Marta was picking you up.”
They walked together toward the door, Rafferty and Paul in front, Callie and Towner lagging behind, just out of earshot.
“Paul took me for a little ride,” Callie said.
Towner lifted an eyebrow. “A ride, huh?”
Callie shook her head. “Tell you later.”
Paul beat Darren to the front door, opening it and holding it for them to enter, then directing them all to the library. Other guests had arrived during the time he and Callie were gone; servers were circulating, offering hors d’oeuvres and champagne, but, Callie noted, Finn was still playing bartender.
“Ah, Paul and Callie, you’re back!” Finn called, speaking much more loudly than when they’d left him. “With Towner and Rafferty! Come on in and join the usual suspects.”