The Lies They Tell(33)
Dad didn’t say anything as he left. They both knew the tractor was an excuse to start up the drinking again, to sit around Yancey’s garage getting numb with the same guys he saw at the Tavern every week. How many hours had Dad spent out there this spring, even when he had to know how much crap his so-called buddy had been talking about him since what happened to the Garrisons? She dropped the pot she was scrubbing back into the water roughly, splashing herself. There was no rule that said she had to stay here and wait to see how long it took him to walk back through the door.
Instead, Pearl drove. Through downtown, past tourists leaving restaurants or toting shopping bags of souvenirs: balsam pillows, mugs reading Maine: The Way Life Should Be. Out into the woods, to Millionaires’ Row, past the Spencer compound on its ledge. Daylight seemed to hover, the low sun casting everything in flat, unreal brightness, like an old Technicolor movie. It felt different being here without Reese this time. Desperate, compulsive. In the backseat, her tennis racket lay covered with a sweatshirt. She hadn’t known what else to do with it.
She drove up the Garrisons’ driveway, reaching the clearing that opened on the gatehouse before she spotted the car parked inside the gate. Tristan’s Bentley.
Swearing under her breath, she dropped into reverse and backed down the drive, praying he hadn’t seen her. She reached Cove Road, whipped onto the shoulder, and sat parked, rigid, tapping her fingers on the wheel. What was he doing in there? It had never occurred to her that he’d set foot inside the house since what happened, actually walked those halls. Just the thought made her stomach take a lazy, nauseating plunge.
Pearl drove down the road to the dirt turnaround and left the car parked under the cover of low branches, walking back to the Garrisons’ property at a brisk pace, praying her luck would hold and nobody would drive by and see her.
She followed the driveway as far as she dared, then entered the woods, circling off to the left, always keeping the security fence in sight through the trees.
The house sat on a rise, flashes of white clapboard visible as she walked. She crouched for a time, watching, wondering how far away she was from where the killer had sat that night in the snow. She tried to picture it, flakes swirling around the gate, the way Dad’s hunched figure might’ve looked from this distance, wading through the snowbanks around the perimeter in the dark, a flashlight in his hand. Had the killer drawn his gun, sighted for a time on the back of Dad’s head?
The thought made her weak, but it was logical. Get the watchman out of the way. Cove Road was mostly deserted in winter; there would’ve been no one else around to call 911, no one to smell smoke until it was too late. The house probably would’ve burned flat, taking with it much of the evidence that the Garrisons hadn’t simply fallen victim to an accidental house fire. So why let Dad live?
There was a click as the back door of the three-car garage opened. As she watched, Tristan crossed the yard, following the winding stone path past a brick outdoor oven, a garden with a stone sundial in the center. There was a rear gate in the fence, which he unlocked and left ajar behind him, continuing down the path toward the beach.
Pearl followed at what she hoped was a safe distance, cringing at every snapped branch or crushed leaf. Tristan made his way down the rocky path until he reached sand, where he disappeared from view.
She went to a gnarled birch tree at the edge of the embankment and knelt, watching him go, hands in his pockets, eyes on the ground, following the line of the tide on his private beach. She recognized the posture well: beachcombing.
He completed the circuit, walking back close to the tree line. Pearl shrank down, her pulse throbbing steadily, her abdomen clenched, wondering what he’d do if he spotted her through the leaves.
Tristan headed toward a structure on the beach some twenty feet away from where she hid, a sort of two-story playhouse made from weathered planks and driftwood. A sign had been affixed to the peaked roof, painted in a kid’s handwriting: The Roost.
There were other treasures visible on the second-story platform: a peeling lobster buoy, a couple of plastic crates holding pails, shovels, beach toys. Tristan went up the ladder to the platform, looking through the crates for a bit before settling back to watch the tide, letting his legs hang over the edge. He wore a Henley shirt, the sleeves tugged over his hands, and from this distance he looked much like his little brother, Joseph, might’ve looked the last summer he swam here, played in his fort.
There was nothing but the sound of the wind. Gradually Pearl lowered her head, shut her eyes to rid them of the grainy feeling. She didn’t sleep—impossible—but when she looked up, dusk had crossed the seamless threshold to twilight. The sky was two shades darker, and peach sunset filtered through the horizon. The Roost was empty.
Her nerves leaped as a footstep crunched a few feet away. She held motionless, wide-eyed, cheek pressed against the smooth bark. More footsteps followed, heading down the path. Tristan, returning to the house.
She was breathless by the time she reached tree cover outside the fence. She crouched, watching him leave the garage again, this time by the front door, carrying a duffel bag and a couple of big cardboard boxes. He popped the trunk and leaned inside.
Pearl made for the slope along the driveway, running when she thought she was far enough away to crash through the underbrush without being heard.
Once she was back in her car, she accelerated down Cove Road, but the Bentley was already gone. She finally caught up with him on Ocean, relaxing slightly, letting a car pull out in front of her at the intersection with Pine so she didn’t feel so obvious. She doubted Tristan had any idea what she drove, but better not to risk it.