The Best American Mystery Stories 2012

Man on the Run by Kathleen Ford

FROM New England Review

Ithaca, New York, 2003

“This isn’t the first time the McGuires have taken in a man on the run,” Rosemary said to the imaginary crowd beyond the stove. She loved the drama in her words, even though they weren’t exactly true. She and her sister hadn’t taken in a man but a woman, and the woman wasn’t running from the law but from a boyfriend. Still, the situations weren’t entirely different. When the crowd roared, Rosemary took the wooden spoon out of the oatmeal, whacked it on the rim of the pot, and waved it at them. Then she shuffled to the hall and looked up the stairs to where the poor girl was sleeping.

Last night, after the battered girl climbed the stairs, Rosemary had called to her to ask if she could see the lake. “Sorry, Aunt Rosemary,” the girl answered. “It’s pitch black.” Rosemary rested her forehead on the newel post, remembering how the upstairs windows turned into shiny black mirrors, and how, when she stood in front of them, she felt she was inside a glass ball.

Francis, Rosemary’s husband, had wanted curtains, but Rosemary loved the bare windows. She loved looking out to the water and the wide stretch of lake, and besides, she always told him, there wasn’t any need to cover the windows because no one could look inside. A pine grove stood at the front of the house and a brush-covered hill was at the back. The hill fell away as sharply as a sliding board, and at its base was Cayuga Lake-a lake so deep the water never froze.

Hours before, when Rosemary first woke, she’d gripped the handrail and hoisted herself up the steps. She thought that by using her hands, she’d spare her hips, but she hadn’t taken her upper body into consideration. She hadn’t considered how she’d get down the stairs either. Frightened and wobbly, she’d bounced down on her backside, so now, in addition to the usual aches in her hips and knees, her elbows and shoulders were throbbing.

Even so, it had been worth it. It was worth a million aches to see the sleeping girl’s hair spilled out like golden seaweed. Rosemary’s brothers and sister had been blessed with that same glorious hair, while Rosemary had been cursed with hair like the strings on a coconut. But in the next generation, the injustice was righted and the honey-colored hair passed only to Rosemary’s daughter, Moira. And now, here it was in still another generation. Linda-the girl with the bruised face and swollen lips-was the granddaughter of Rosemary’s oldest brother.

When Rosemary’s daughter was a toddler, strangers would stop to ask if they could touch her hair. By age six, Moira gave permission herself. The girl’s nod told people she understood her own beauty-her blue eyes and perfect features, her black eyebrows and golden crown. When she became a teenager, Moira rinsed her hair with lemon juice and brushed it every night. On winter nights, her hair came alive and threw sparks in the air. At age twenty, when Moira lay in her coffin, her face as smooth and peaceful as an angel’s, people leaned over to touch her hair.

Rosemary turned when the water began its whistle. She was ninety-one, but her hearing was sharper than a guard dog’s. She could hear the drip of water in the basement washtubs and the crunch of gravel in the neighbor’s drive. She could hear the beating of birds’ wings as they flew to and from their nests in the fir trees. And lately, after determining that the scratching sounds weren’t branches brushing against the house, she could hear the scurrying of squirrels in the attic. Once she identified exactly what the noise was, it was easy to picture the dirty pests nibbling away at her papers. Just thinking about the nasty rodents made her stiff with fury. She dreamed of firing Mike’s pistol into the rafters and leaving poisoned chestnuts in the eaves, but she had as much chance of getting to the attic as of landing on the moon.

Rosemary shut off the teakettle and tilted her head. Ordinary creaks came from the second floor while a whine like a pipe organ came from Betty’s room off the kitchen. Rosemary was used to her sister’s snoring. Betty was up half the night going back and forth to the bathroom, then she slumbered the morning away.

In the sitting room, Rosemary pressed the back of her knees against the cushion and sank faster than she planned. She folded her hands and smiled at the memory of the golden hair. “May perpetual light shine upon her, O Lord,” she whispered, “and may her soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, rest in peace.” Rosemary had prayed for the repose of Moira’s soul for fifty years, and for fifty years she’d regretted being talked into a home wake.

Rosemary didn’t believe it was natural for a mother to want her daughter to be put in the earth, but with every moment Moira’s body remained unburied Rosemary feared for her daughter’s soul. Throughout the days of waking, when Moira lay in her coffin on the table in the front room, Betty never stopped talking. The mourners came and went, filling and emptying the rooms, but Betty rattled on, explaining how the poor girl had taken Rosemary’s car even though she’d been warned the brake lights weren’t working.

Rosemary, numb with shock, understood that Betty kept telling the story about the broken brake lights in order to shield her from blame. But every time Rosemary heard the story, she felt only guilt-for being too weak to insist that the car was unfit to be driven.

“Is Linda awake?” Betty said, coming into the sitting room in her red quilted robe.

“Not yet,” Rosemary answered.

Betty sank to the sofa. “Well, now we have proof, if we ever needed it.”

“Proof?”

“Of the power of prayer.”

“What are you saying, Betty?”

“My prayers have been answered.”

“Betty, what are you talking about?”

“Ever since Mike graduated, I’ve been praying that someone would come to help us. When Al told us he was moving, I really stormed the heavens with my prayers, and now, here she is-a girl to help us.”

“You think this poor girl is an answer to your prayers?” Rosemary stared at her sister, but Betty looked away.

It was true that they’d been in a fix since Mike moved back to Texas, but back then Rosemary hadn’t realized how bad their situation really was. She’d assumed another Cornell student would take Mike’s place in the neighbors’ basement apartment, and that this other young person would be happy to make some money running errands. She hadn’t thought that the neighbors would lock up the house and go on sabbatical. She hadn’t thought that the other students on Mike’s list would be busy. Then, in what turned out to be an even bigger surprise, Al Murphy-the son of one of Francis’s old colleagues-announced that he was retiring. Al said he needed the sun; he was moving to Florida.

Rosemary and Betty were on a church list for a driver and errand-runner, but so far no one had turned up except Gladys O’Farrell, a seventy-year-old woman who took them to Sunday mass. On the way home from church, Gladys sometimes let Betty go into the store for milk or eggs, but usually Gladys was in a hurry to drop them back home.

Every few weeks, Betty called a cab to go to the hairdresser. The taxi wouldn’t come down the sloped driveway the way Gladys did and that meant Rosemary couldn’t go at all.

“Our situation,” Rosemary had said two weeks ago, when she looked at the dwindling supply of canned soup and tuna fish, “isn’t good. You might even say it’s desperate.”

“I’ll pray to Saint Jude,” Betty had said.

Rosemary put her hands on the armrests and tried to lift herself, but her elbows screamed and she fell back. Meanwhile, Betty, whose face was settled comfortably in a smug smile, was swinging her left leg like a beauty queen. “Little Miss Muffet sits on her tuffet,” Rosemary mumbled.

Rosemary didn’t believe having a grandniece beaten up by someone described as a “psychopath” was the answer to any prayers, and no one, no matter how desperate, would pray that a young woman would have to change her whole life around to avoid what Joanne, Linda’s sister, had called “a control nut.”

When Joanne phoned to ask if Linda could stay with them, she said that Linda needed a safe place where Tommy wouldn’t think to look. “He’s a real psychopath, Aunt Rosemary,” Joanne added, her voice thick with worry. “And I’m sure he’ll keep stalking her if she stays in the city.”

“Stalk.” The word made Rosemary think of big-game hunters. She actually pictured a man in a jungle carrying a rifle and wearing khaki shorts and a pith helmet.

“He’s a control nut,” Joanne said. “He knows all Linda’s friends and the places she’d hide. He’ll come to my apartment the minute he finds out she’s gone, and with my kids here, I can’t take a chance.”

“Of course not.” Rosemary remembered something about Joanne’s marrying and having children, though she couldn’t recall if she and Betty had been invited to the wedding or if they’d sent a gift. “We’d love to have Linda stay with us. Tell her to take a taxi when she gets to the bus station. Aunt Betty and I will be waiting up for her.”

“I’ve given her some clothes and money,” Joanne said, “but I’ll get to the bank tomorrow and send more.”

Rosemary stared at her sister, who’d fallen back to sleep. Rosemary had always wished she could sleep late and doze off at odd hours, but she was the nervous sort like their father, though now, thinking back, she had to admit that even their father could take it easy. Every now and then he’d sprawl in his club chair, his feet crossed at the ankles, smoke curling up from a cigar between his fingers.

“Doesn’t all this remind you of Daddy and de Valera?” Rosemary said, watching as Betty opened her eyes and wiggled a throw pillow behind her back. A moment later, Betty plunked her feet onto the padded footstool as if it were as easy as dropping a spoon.

“What?”

Betty’s hearing wasn’t as sharp as it should be, and Rosemary had to work on holding her temper. “EAMON DE VALERA!” Rosemary shouted. “THE MAN ON THE RUN! WE TOOK HIM INTO THE BROOKLYN HOUSE IN 1919.”

“De Valera? What about him?”

“I said having Linda here, running away from the boyfriend, reminds me of the time Daddy took in de Valera.”

“I was too young,” Betty said. “I don’t remember.”

“You certainly do remember! We’ve talked about it a hundred times.” Rosemary couldn’t bear it when her sister acted dumb. She knew it was just because Betty didn’t want to think hard.

“Well, I don’t remember the way you do. I was only five years old.”

Rosemary was seven when de Valera came and she remembered everything-how her father brought the family into the parlor and said a great honor had befallen them-that they’d been asked to open their home to one of the greatest Irish patriots who ever breathed God’s air.

“A 1916 man,” James McGuire had said. “He gave proof of the faith that was in him.” It was an expression Rosemary’s father used for the men of the Easter Rising.

Rosemary’s father told them that although de Valera would be raising money and trying to get America to recognize an independent Ireland, they weren’t to tell anyone they had a guest, or who he was.

“Didn’t Daddy make us promise not to tell anyone de Valera was staying with us?” Betty asked, as if reading Rosemary’s mind.

“That’s right.”

“What was all the secrecy about anyway?” Betty asked.

Rosemary couldn’t believe her sister had forgotten. For over eighty years they’d talked about that visit. They’d discussed the vow of secrecy their father had made them take hundreds of times.

Rosemary took a deep breath and counted to five. “If the authorities found out when de Valera arrived, they’d know which ship he’d been on. And if they knew which ship, then they’d know who’d given him help, and the people who helped him would have been in trouble. De Valera and his friends would have lost an important link to America.”

“Huh?” Betty said.

Rosemary narrowed her eyes. “He had to stay quiet before meeting the public. That meant we had to stay quiet, too.”

“He was a stoker on the ship, wasn’t he?”

“That’s what Daddy said.” Rosemary tried to lift her feet, but her hips wouldn’t allow it. The old newspaper next to the chair reminded her of the newspapers her mother had saved from de Valera’s visit. Rosemary had taken dozens of boxes of old papers when her mother died, and she was sure she’d had them when she married Francis and moved to Ithaca. Were those old newspapers still somewhere up in the attic? Was it possible that at this very minute they were being eaten by squirrels?

“You made that big pot of porridge?” Betty said.

“Oatmeal. And it will wait.”

“I’m hungry. Do we have to wait?”

Rosemary held up a hand when the floorboards creaked. Half a minute later, when the toilet flushed, she managed to right herself. She had to stand a full minute while the pain in her hips subsided. Meanwhile, Betty, nimble as a cat, bolted up from the sofa and practically ran to the kitchen.

Betty had the bowls on the table and was pouring milk into a pitcher when Linda came into the kitchen wrapped in a turquoise robe. The left side of her face was the color of an eggplant; her right eye was a slit in her cheek.

“Oh, dear heart,” Rosemary said, feeling pain in her own face. Last night, the girl’s face hadn’t seemed quite as bruised or swollen.

“I’m all right,” Linda said through cracked lips. Her eye began to run with tears. “I slept like a log for the first time in months.”

“We’re very glad we could help,” Betty said. “Rosemary made some porridge.”

“I wonder if you should see a doctor,” Rosemary said, remembering that over seventy years ago, she’d taken a friend to a doctor after a beating. The friend had sat beside her on the trolley, her head wrapped in a shawl, her hand squeezing Rosemary’s wrist.

“Joanne looked me over,” Linda said. “She’s a nurse, you know.”

Rosemary couldn’t remember if she ever knew Joanne was a nurse. The only thing Rosemary was sure of was that Linda and Joanne’s parents-Rosemary’s nephew Jimmy and his wife-had been killed in a hotel fire.

When Betty brought the tea to the table Rosemary made sure she dipped her toast into the mug so Linda would follow her example. The girl couldn’t put a cup to her lips, but she needed nourishment. She was a stick under that beautiful head of hair.

Rosemary tried to picture what Linda would look like without the bruises, but with all the swelling it was hard to imagine. She didn’t have Moira’s widow’s peak or blue eyes, and the one eye Rosemary could see was green. Still, the hair was the same; if anything, Linda’s mane was thicker than Moira’s had been.

Moira would be seventy now, Rosemary thought. She forced herself to picture a seventy-year-old woman. All that came to mind was a plump woman with florid cheeks and thinning hair. The woman, Rosemary realized, was Gladys O’Farrell.

When Linda bent her head and began crying, Rosemary leaned toward her and touched her shoulder.

“I’m so ashamed,” Linda said.

Rosemary’s friend on the trolley had used the same word. Rosemary hadn’t known how to help her friend-hadn’t even advised her to leave her husband, though she was sure she’d known her friend had done nothing to be ashamed of.

“Why do you say that, dear heart?” Rosemary asked.

“I let it happen,” Linda said. “Almost like I was punishing myself.”

“But you did nothing wrong.”

“Oh, everything will be just fine,” Betty piped up. “You’ll get yourself back together in no time.” She sounded as breezy as a summer wind. “And would you refill the pitcher, Linda dear?” Betty pointed to the counter where the milk carton stood.

Linda struggled out of her chair, and in that moment Rosemary was sure the girl was as bruised under her robe as on her face. Rosemary was furious that she hadn’t told Betty to get the damn milk herself.

Betty dished out her third bowl of oatmeal, then sprinkled it with two spoonfuls of sugar.

Linda dabbed her bruised cheeks with a napkin. “Joanne gave me medicine so I could sleep. She gave me stuff for the swelling, too.”

“Well, you go upstairs and rest,” Rosemary said. “I’m just sorry we can’t bring a tray to you, but neither of us can climb the stairs.”

“Please don’t worry. I’ll be all right. You’re wonderful for taking me in.”

After the girl had gone, Rosemary went to the sitting room to finish her shopping list. Al had told them he could make one more shopping trip before his move, and Rosemary had already filled two pages. Now she added ice cream, cookies, and packaged cakes. On a separate piece of paper, she wrote, “Rat Poison.” Al wouldn’t be too happy to go to the hardware store, but Rosemary felt that because there was a girl there with workable legs, she might as well get the damned squirrels out of the attic.

At four in the afternoon, Linda was still sleeping. It was dark enough to put on the back porch light, and when Rosemary flipped the switch she wondered when they’d have their first snow. Last year it had come the week before Thanksgiving, but she knew it could be as early as October. Still, the air wasn’t quite cold enough. She looked through the window, angry that she couldn’t see the water. She used to be able to see a decent sliver of lake from the bottom panes of the first-floor windows, but the underbrush now blocked the view. Seeing the water had always given Rosemary a peaceful feeling. Francis used to say that she looked drugged when she watched the water. Rosemary would tell him she was simply relaxing. But the truth was, the sight of water did put her in a stupor. It brought a calm feeling to every part of her body.

She’d probably inherited her love of the water from Nonny, her maternal grandmother. Nonny had lived all her life on Tralee Bay. Ma had said Nonny could read the ocean waves as well as the priest could read his prayer book. Ma swore that as a young woman Nonny had seen the Phantom Islands-the underwater home of the spirits. “And after she saw those islands, she told everyone she met that there was no reason to fear death.”

Rosemary tapped the window. Even if the man at the bank told her she couldn’t afford it, she was going to call the tree man in the spring and have him clear out her view.

When Betty finished watching her game shows and began saying her rosary, Rosemary wandered into the living room. The man at the bank said she had to protect the investment in her house, so last year she’d had the roof patched and the chimneys repointed, even though she rarely saw the roof and never used the fireplaces. After spending the money for the outside, there was nothing left for the inside, where she might have enjoyed the improvements. Large plaster cracks crisscrossed the ceiling, and sheets of wallpaper pulled away from the walls. The windows that fronted on the porch were thick with grime, and Rosemary deliberately didn’t look too closely in the corners of the room. On her last inspection, she’d found cobwebs as long as Spanish moss.

A moment after turning to the back of the house, Rosemary heard a snap coming from the front porch. Next the porch floor creaked. A second later there was a knock at the door. The mailman always came before one o’clock, and he knocked only when the mail wouldn’t fit through the letter slot. Al Murphy came to the back door, and Gladys O’Farrell, who’d never come anytime other than Sunday morning, always tooted the horn from inside her big car.

“Just a minute,” Rosemary called, turning on the lamp on the hall table. She went to the door and switched on the light. When she looked through the glass panel on the side of the door, she didn’t see anyone. Then, just as Mike had instructed her when he’d installed the chain, she checked to see it was securely attached before unlocking the bolt.

“Who is it?” she called. “Is anyone there?”

Just then, like a jack-in-the-box, a large man popped up in front of her. He pulled off his watchman’s cap and his hair fell forward in dark coils. “I’m sorry if I scared you,” he boomed. “I’m looking for Linda McGuire.”

“Linda?” Rosemary said after a second. Her heart had jumped to her mouth and was beating behind shaky lips.

“She’s here, isn’t she?”

“Who?”

“Linda McGuire,” the man said, coming so close to the chain Rosemary could feel his breath in her face.

“McGuire,” Rosemary said as if she’d never heard the word.

“I know she’s here,” he whispered softly.

“There’s no Linda here,” she said. She needed to get to the telephone and call the police. This was a stalker. This was a psychopath and a control nut.

“You know who I want,” the man said. “She’s here. I found out from a reliable source.”

“I’m sorry I can’t help you,” Rosemary said, pressing her body against the door.

“You’ll help me,” he said, the second before Rosemary got the door closed and bolted. She made it to the sitting room as fast as she could.

“Betty.” Rosemary was breathless from fear and from moving quickly. “He’s here. The boyfriend who beat Linda is on the porch.”

“What?” Betty said, waking from a sleep. The silver rosary beads, blessed by the pope, were on her lap.

“The stalker is on the porch! I’m calling the police.”

Betty kept a startled look on her face while Rosemary went to the desk and picked up the phone. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph help us,” Rosemary said, pressing the phone button.

“Who did you say was here?” Betty said.

Rosemary pushed the button over and over, but she couldn’t get a dial tone. She rushed into the hall.

Frustration about her body’s limitations made her pound the newel post. If only she could run up the stairs or dash out the back door. If only she could get to the road and hail a passing car. “Linda!” she yelled. She yelled three more times before shifting her eyes from the stairwell to the front door. The porch light was still on, and so was the lamp. Anyone watching from outside could see her.

“What?” Linda said, coming down the stairs. “What’s the matter?”

“He’s here,” Rosemary said. “He came to the door. I tried to call the police but the phone is broken.”

“Tommy is here?”

Rosemary grabbed her grandniece’s hand. “What will he do?”

“He won’t hurt you, I promise.”

A loud crash came from the dining room. “Linda,” Tommy called, over a tinkling sound.

Rosemary took two steps and twisted her head until she saw him cracking off shards of glass from the window frame.

“I need to talk to you,” Tommy called.

Rosemary felt the heat leave her body. A second later, Linda whispered in her ear. “I’ll try to get rid of him. See if you can get the police on the phone.”

Rosemary, as petrified as a fossil, watched Linda go into the dining room. She listened as Tommy said, “Don’t you ever run away from me.”

“Tommy,” Linda said, “please calm down. We can talk.”

“Defend us in battle,” Rosemary whispered. She’d learned the prayer to Saint Michael over eighty years ago. “Be our protection against the malice and snares of the devil.”

Rosemary made her way to the sitting room and found Betty asleep on the sofa.

“Thrust into hell Satan and the other evil spirits who roam through the world seeking the ruin of souls.” Rosemary couldn’t stop the words from shooting into her head. She went to the phone and lifted the receiver. Nothing. She clicked the button again and again, but there was no dial tone.

She padded her way to the kitchen and from there to the threshold that led to the dining room.

“You can’t leave me,” Tommy growled. “I’d rather see you dead.”

“Please, Tommy,” Linda said.

“No!” he shouted, and from the loud thump, Rosemary guessed he’d slammed his fist on the table. “Now get dressed. I’ve got a car.”

“Okay, it’s okay,” Linda said. “Would you wait outside? There are two old ladies here and they’re very scared.”

“Get dressed.”

Rosemary retraced her steps through the kitchen as fast as she could. Linda was already there, hugging her shoulders in the passageway between the kitchen and the sitting room. “Did you get the police?” she whispered into Rosemary’s ear.

“No dial tone.”

“I’ll have to go with him,” Linda said.

Rosemary put her hand on Linda’s shoulder and the girl leaned forward so her wild hair brushed Rosemary’s cheek.

After Linda went upstairs, Rosemary stood stock-still. She knew Tommy was in the house but she hadn’t heard him. She thought he was still in the dining room. “Be our protection against the malice and snares of the devil…,” she began again, her terror growing with each second.

“Hey,” Tommy said. He’d come around through the kitchen and was looming behind her. He was even bigger than she first thought. In the kitchen light there seemed to be oil on his face and in his dark eye sockets. She had to speak, if only to prove that she could. “How did you find her?”

“Joanne goes out but leaves the address right on the refrigerator. Not too smart.” He went to the refrigerator and grabbed the orange juice container. He took a long drink from the cardboard spout before opening the drawers.

Rosemary looked at the oatmeal pot, filled with soapy water and sitting on the counter. She made herself think about what would happen next. He’ll need to stop us from reporting him, she thought, a second before he found the knives. He looked them over but left them in the drawer.

“Are you Linda’s old granny?” he asked, opening the drawer where they kept the table mats and napkins.

“Great-aunt,” Rosemary said. Tommy looked at the bottles of pills they kept on a tray near the sink.

“What have you got here, anything good?”

Rosemary heard Linda on the stairs, but she didn’t turn. She wanted the girl to run out the front door. She sent Linda a message by closing her eyes and thinking the words, “Save yourself!” In grade school, she’d learned that the first duty of a Catholic was to save his own soul.

When Rosemary opened her eyes Linda was standing beside her, dressed in the black pants and purple sweater she’d worn the night before. “I’m ready,” she said. “Let’s go.”

“What about the old ladies here? One is asleep in the next room, but we got this one-the Big Defender. What’s she gonna do? Report the broken window?”

“She won’t do anything,” Linda said. “Let’s go.”

“I want to think first,” Tommy said, opening the cabinet that held the silver candlesticks. As he reached for the silver from the cabinet, Linda kissed Rosemary’s cheek. Rosemary put her hand on Linda’s back and felt the girl’s bones. She was as delicate as a bird, more delicate than Moira. “I’m going to check the broken window,” Rosemary said; her voice was trembling and she wasn’t sure Tommy or Linda heard her. She turned and headed back to the hallway. As she moved, she thought how scared she was and how she despised her fear. It made her legs and arms tremble and it made her feel she was suffocating. Fear had plagued her her whole life; it had pulled her back and stopped her from taking action. It had made her weak and indecisive, and had caused her the deepest sorrows.

Entering the dining room, she wondered if she’d have the strength. She’d only have a minute before Tommy would come to see what she was up to, but a minute would be enough if she was going to do it.

She went to the left side of the buffet table and slid open the drawer. Mike had said the gun wasn’t any good if she couldn’t get to it, or if it wasn’t fully loaded. He’d shown her the safety, and how to take it off. She released it now before lifting the gun from the drawer. It wasn’t as heavy as she remembered, but she held it in both hands pointing downward as she walked.

“Thrust into hell Satan and the other evil spirits who roam through the world seeking the ruin of souls,” she whispered. The words in her head were louder than the pounding in her heart. At the entrance to the kitchen, she stopped. Linda was standing where she’d been before, but Tommy was leaning with his back against the sink, facing her.

“Oh, the old granny’s got a weapon,” he said, straightening up. He took a step forward as Rosemary raised the gun in the way Mike had shown her. “Help me,” she said. She squeezed rather than pulled the trigger and heard the loud explosion. The smell and the smoke surprised her, but nothing was more surprising than the look on Tommy’s face. He stood still, staring at her, as his eyes went from wide to narrow.

Rosemary squeezed again, this time aiming higher. Blood sprayed the kitchen.

Linda held both hands to the sides of her head as if she needed to suppress her unruly hair. Betty, her mouth open, stood in the doorway.

Rosemary saw them but couldn’t hear them. She looked at Tommy on the floor. His head was gushing blood. The smell of fire filled her nose and the taste of ashes was in her mouth, but no noise reached her ears. She thought maybe the gun had made her deaf, and that probably the deafness was temporary, the way everything was.

Stillness filled her chest, and the muscles in her neck and shoulders eased. A deep peacefulness spread through her body, and she felt as she did when she stared at the water. It was the same feeling, she now knew, that her grandmother must have had when she saw the Phantom Islands and knew there was nothing to fear.