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Authors: Jeanne M. Dams
Tags: Mystery
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once.
“Never mind.” Hester held up her hand. “Get her up to bed. I’ll bring hot water bottles.”
It was odd to be talked about as if I weren’t there. I tried to say I’d be all right if I could just get warm, but in the end it seemed easier to let someone else deal with the problem. I’d help when I felt more like myself. With no very clear idea of how it happened, I found myself in bed, surrounded with hot water bottles and covered with a thick duvet.
As I began to feel warm, the roar and tumult of the wind receded. I slept.
5
W HEN I WOKE the room was dark and the wind was howling like a banshee. The old house shook and creaked like the
Iolaire
running on high seas. I sat up and turned on the lamp next to the bed; it was almost eight o’clock. I’d slept past suppertime, but I wasn’t hungry; I made no move to get out of bed.
My sleep had not been peaceful. Nightmares were only to be expected, of course. It wasn’t, though, the repeated vision of Bob sliding off the rocks of Fingal’s Cave that had wakened me, over and over again, bathed in a cold sweat, my heart pounding. It was something much more insidious, something, I realized, that I probably should have told the police.
I kept hearing Maggie McIntyre’s voice. “It’s a good dry day for Fingal’s Cave . . . the rocks are slippery when they’re wet . . .”
Where had the water come from?
The rocks had been dry as bone at the entrance to the cave, and all along the outer pathway, as well. The whole path was far above the waterline; even the spray from powerful waves didn’t reach that high.
But up at the top of the path, far into the cave where Bob had been, it had looked wet. Why?
I could have been mistaken in what I thought I saw. I’ve seen enough mirages along roads in the blistering sunshine of an Indiana summer to know that it’s easy to see water where none exists. But it had been cold in the cave, with no direct sun, and this hadn’t had the shimmery look of a mirage. It had just looked darker than the other rocks, and a bit shiny.
And besides, as I watched once more my mental tape of Bob’s fall, I saw what looked exactly like someone trying to keep his balance on a slippery surface.
So again I asked myself: If it was wet, how did it get that way?
That was when I remembered the plastic bottle I’d seen floating in the water far below. Was it a water bottle? Suppose Bob had taken a drink of water out of a bottle like the ones so many people carried in their backpacks. Suppose he had dropped it and it had spilled, the water falling on the rocks and the bottle plunging on down into the sea. Bob sounded like a nitpicky sort of guy, and not overly bright. Would he have leaned forward to see if the bottle was within reach? Tried to catch it as it fell?
Probably. That sounded characteristic.
The trouble was, he hadn’t. I had been watching him for a few seconds before he fell. He hadn’t dropped anything, leaned over to look for anything. He had just looked at me, stepped backward, lost his footing, and fallen, the best part of sixty feet, crashing against rocks as he went, until he landed in a small, roiling, angry piece of the Atlantic Ocean.
That didn’t mean he hadn’t spilled the water, of course. He could have, earlier. He wouldn’t have known about the hazard of the wet rocks, probably. I hadn’t known until a few hours ago, and Bob had been on the island exactly as long as I had. That was almost certainly what had happened. Only an accident.
I tried to punch my pillow into a more comfortable position. The prickling at the back of my neck wouldn’t go away.
What if somebody else spilled that water? What if somebody else knew that the rocks would be dangerous when wet? What if there
was
someone behind me in the cave, watching, waiting . . .
The prickles got worse. I had thought I’d seen something disappear around the corner when I’d looked frantically for help. What if it hadn’t been my imagination,
“Never mind.” Hester held up her hand. “Get her up to bed. I’ll bring hot water bottles.”
It was odd to be talked about as if I weren’t there. I tried to say I’d be all right if I could just get warm, but in the end it seemed easier to let someone else deal with the problem. I’d help when I felt more like myself. With no very clear idea of how it happened, I found myself in bed, surrounded with hot water bottles and covered with a thick duvet.
As I began to feel warm, the roar and tumult of the wind receded. I slept.
5
W HEN I WOKE the room was dark and the wind was howling like a banshee. The old house shook and creaked like the
Iolaire
running on high seas. I sat up and turned on the lamp next to the bed; it was almost eight o’clock. I’d slept past suppertime, but I wasn’t hungry; I made no move to get out of bed.
My sleep had not been peaceful. Nightmares were only to be expected, of course. It wasn’t, though, the repeated vision of Bob sliding off the rocks of Fingal’s Cave that had wakened me, over and over again, bathed in a cold sweat, my heart pounding. It was something much more insidious, something, I realized, that I probably should have told the police.
I kept hearing Maggie McIntyre’s voice. “It’s a good dry day for Fingal’s Cave . . . the rocks are slippery when they’re wet . . .”
Where had the water come from?
The rocks had been dry as bone at the entrance to the cave, and all along the outer pathway, as well. The whole path was far above the waterline; even the spray from powerful waves didn’t reach that high.
But up at the top of the path, far into the cave where Bob had been, it had looked wet. Why?
I could have been mistaken in what I thought I saw. I’ve seen enough mirages along roads in the blistering sunshine of an Indiana summer to know that it’s easy to see water where none exists. But it had been cold in the cave, with no direct sun, and this hadn’t had the shimmery look of a mirage. It had just looked darker than the other rocks, and a bit shiny.
And besides, as I watched once more my mental tape of Bob’s fall, I saw what looked exactly like someone trying to keep his balance on a slippery surface.
So again I asked myself: If it was wet, how did it get that way?
That was when I remembered the plastic bottle I’d seen floating in the water far below. Was it a water bottle? Suppose Bob had taken a drink of water out of a bottle like the ones so many people carried in their backpacks. Suppose he had dropped it and it had spilled, the water falling on the rocks and the bottle plunging on down into the sea. Bob sounded like a nitpicky sort of guy, and not overly bright. Would he have leaned forward to see if the bottle was within reach? Tried to catch it as it fell?
Probably. That sounded characteristic.
The trouble was, he hadn’t. I had been watching him for a few seconds before he fell. He hadn’t dropped anything, leaned over to look for anything. He had just looked at me, stepped backward, lost his footing, and fallen, the best part of sixty feet, crashing against rocks as he went, until he landed in a small, roiling, angry piece of the Atlantic Ocean.
That didn’t mean he hadn’t spilled the water, of course. He could have, earlier. He wouldn’t have known about the hazard of the wet rocks, probably. I hadn’t known until a few hours ago, and Bob had been on the island exactly as long as I had. That was almost certainly what had happened. Only an accident.
I tried to punch my pillow into a more comfortable position. The prickling at the back of my neck wouldn’t go away.
What if somebody else spilled that water? What if somebody else knew that the rocks would be dangerous when wet? What if there
was
someone behind me in the cave, watching, waiting . . .
The prickles got worse. I had thought I’d seen something disappear around the corner when I’d looked frantically for help. What if it hadn’t been my imagination,
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