Part 12 (1/2)

No ring on his finger and no study dates that winter.

Oh what the h.e.l.l, I thought. I left Proust lying on the table and followed Lev out of the library that evening and when we were almost to the bottom step, I let myself fall against him so that we both went down in a tangle of books and scarves and laughing apology.

I must have slipped on the ice, I told him, and no, nothing seemed broken, but it wouldn't be, would it, not with all the heavy coats and gloves y'all wear up here? He heard my accent (how could he not, the way I was laying it on?) and asked how long I'd been in New York and all I could think was that I'd never seen eyes so dark and piercing and the smell of his aftershave-I could almost smell it now, could almost- I stopped rocking abruptly.

It wasn't Lev's aftershave I smelled, but a fragrance sweetish and equally well known. I stood up, sniffing now, quartering the wind like one of my daddy's hounds.

Nothing.

Yet, seated in the rocking chair, I smelled it again, an elusively familiar aroma.

Insect repellent?

I walked over to the near end of the porch. In the dim light, did the gra.s.s there looked scuffed? If I hadn't been looking straight down at it-a dark shape that I'd thought was a rock or a piece of sc.r.a.p wood-I might not have noticed when it drew back very, very slowly and disappeared under the edge of the porch.

A booted foot.

I sat back down in the rocker and thought about that foot a minute and then went out to the trunk of my car and got the loaded .38 Daddy gave me a few years back when I made it clear I wasn't going to quit driving alone at night or stop looking for witnesses in rough places.

Back up on the porch, I rocked for another couple of minutes, then slid the safety off and said in a low conversational tone, ”I don't know why you're under my porch, but if you don't come out now, I'm going to start shooting right through these planks.”

I heard a m.u.f.fled ”Oh s.h.i.+t!” and sc.r.a.ping sounds, then a man hauled himself out feet first. As he reached for his pocket, I said, ”Keep your hands in the air, mister!” and tugged at the front door.

”No! No lights, okay?” His urgent voice was barely a whisper. ”Please, lady.”

He was a tall and lanky silhouette against the faint light coming from the store a quarter-mile away. ”If you'd just let me-”

”Officer...” I had to fumble for his name. ”Chapin, is it?”

It was the same game warden who'd been in court that afternoon. He peered at me closely.

”Oh s.h.i.+t!” he swore again. ”Judge? Excuse me asking, ma'am, but what the h.e.l.l are you doing here?”

”I live here,” I answered. ”At least, I'm staying here this week. More to the point, what the h.e.l.l are you doing here?”

He stepped up onto the porch and pressed himself against the wall where the shadows were deepest. ”Trying to save a few loons and swans. Mind pointing that thing somewhere else?”

”Oh. Sorry.” I put the safety back on and laid the gun on the floor beside my chair.

”We got a tip that somebody down on this part of the island's been getting away with shooting loons for a few years now. Just stands on his porch and bangs away. If he bags one, it's just a few steps out and back in again before we can get a fix on where the gunshot came from. I decided that this year, by d.a.m.n, I was gonna bag him.”

”You're talking about Mahlon Davis, aren't you?”

”Well, that's the way our suspicions have been running. Don't suppose you've seen him at it?”

”No-o, but-”

”But what, ma'am?”

”I was just remembering that both yesterday and today, I did hear gunshots when I first woke up. Didn't think anything about it, though.”

”Not many people do, down here,” he said bitterly. ”It's the sound of springtime-spring peepers, migrating loons, shotgun blasts.”

”Were you really going to spend the night under this porch?”

”I didn't know anybody was staying here, although I should have realized, the way your phone's been going crazy the last hour. I thought it belonged to somebody upstate that only comes down weekends. Stalking some of these boogers is like stalking wild turkeys. Except they're smarter and edgier than any turkey and they can spot a game warden a mile off. Only chance you have is to get in a place they can't see you and then grab 'em while the bird's still warm in their hands.”

”Spoken like a man who enjoys his job,” I laughed.

”We might not go in it for the sport,” he said, ”but most of us do like to hunt. And this surely is a hunt.”

”Yeah, I used to hear tell of a revenuer like that. He'd lay out in the woods for a week at the time to catch somebody.”

”It's not too bad. I've got a sleeping bag under there.”

”Where's your car?”

”Parked up at the Sh.e.l.l Point ranger station. One of my buddies dropped me off up the road about ten minutes before you pulled in. Only thing I could think to do was dive under there before you saw me. I thought you'd go on to bed and I could just sneak out. How'd you spot me?”

”You were a little too liberal with your Off,” I told him.

All this time, we'd been speaking in low tones. The wind was stiffening now and I was getting cold and suddenly quite tired.