“It’s just you, Rebecca. You’ve got to stop sleeping with him.”
“Listen to me, you stupid jerk. I would only sleep with the governor if world peace were in the balance. Even then it would be a very close call.”
The creep actually sighed. “Don’t lie, Rebecca. Just stop, do you hear me?”
“I can’t stop something I’ve never even done.”
“It’s a shame,” he said, and for the first time, he hung up on her.
That night the governor was shot through the neck outside the Hilton Hotel, where he was attending a fundraiser for cancer research. He was lucky. There were more than a hundred doctors around. They managed to save his life. It was reported that the bullet was fired from a great distance, by a marksman with remarkable skill. They had no leads as yet.
When she heard that, she said to the Superman cartoon character playing soundlessly on the television, “He was supposed to go to a fundraiser on endangered species.”
That’s when she ran. Her mother was dead and there was nothing more holding her here.
To Maine, to find sanctuary.
Riptide, Maine
June 22
Becca said, “I’ll take it.”
The real estate broker, Rachel Ryan, beamed at her, then almost immediately backpedaled. “Perhaps you’re making this decision too quickly, Ms. Powell. Would you like to think about this for a bit? I will have everything cleaned, but the house is old and that includes all the appliances and the bathrooms. It’s furnished, of course, but the furniture isn’t all that remarkable. The house has been empty for four years, since Mr. Marley’s death.”
“You told me all that, Mrs. Ryan. I see that it’s an old house. I still like it, it’s charming. And it’s quite large. I like a lot of space. Also it’s here at the end of the lane all by itself. I do like my privacy.” Now, that was an understatement but nonetheless the truth. “A Mr. Marley lived here?”
“Mr. Jacob Marley. Yes, the same name as in A Christmas Carol. He was eighty-seven years old when he passed away in his sleep. He kept to himself for the last thirty years or so of his life. His daddy started the town back in 1907, after several of his businesses in Boston were burned to the ground one hot summer night. It was said his enemies were responsible. Mr. Marley Senior wasn’t a popular man. He was one of those infamous robber barons. But he wasn’t stupid. He decided it was healthier to just leave Boston and so he did, and came here. There was already a small fishing village here, and he just took it over and renamed it.”
Becca patted the woman’s shoulder. “It’s all right. I’ve thought about it, Mrs. Ryan. I’ll give you a money order since I don’t have a bank account here. Could it be cleaned today so I can move in tomorrow afternoon?”
“It will be ready if I have to clean it myself. Actually, since it’s summer, I can round up a dozen high-schoolers and get them right over here. Don’t you worry about a thing. Oh yes, there’s the most adorable little boy who lives not far from here, over on Gum Shoe Lane. I’m not really his aunt but that’s what he calls me. His name is Sam and I watched him come into this world. His mother was my best friend and I—”
Becca raised her brow, listening politely, but evidently Rachel Ryan was through talking.
“All right, Ms. Powell, I will see you in a couple of days. Call me if there are any problems.”
And it was done. Becca was the proud renter of a very old Victorian jewel that featured eight bedrooms, three spacious bathrooms, a kitchen that surely must have been a showplace before 1910, and a total of ten fireplaces. And as she’d told Rachel Ryan, it was very private, at the end of Belladonna Drive, no prying neighbors anywhere near, and that’s what she wanted. The nearest house was a good half mile away. The property was bordered on three sides by thick maple and pine trees, and the view of the ocean from the widow’s walk was spectacular.
She hummed when she moved in on Thursday afternoon. She even managed to work up a sweat. Even though she wouldn’t use them, she cleaned the bedrooms just because she wanted to. She wallowed in all the space. She never wanted to live in an apartment again.
She’d bought a gun from a guy she met in a restaurant in Rockland, Maine. She’d taken a big chance, but it had, thank God, worked out. The gun was a beauty—a Coonan .357 Magnum automatic, and the guy had taken her just next door, where there was a sports shop with an indoor range, and taught her how to shoot. He’d then asked her to go to a motel with him. He was child’s play to deal with after the maniac in New York. All she’d had to do was say no very firmly. No need to draw her new gun on the guy.