The Sense of Reckoning Read online

  “You know, that does sound good. I’ll find out when Walt can bring me down.”

  Chapter 4

  Walt was free the following day and he and Ann made a midmorning departure from the Adirondack Regional Airport into cloudless blue skies. As they flew, the giant’s shoulders of the Adirondacks lowered into the spine-like ridges of the northern Pennsylvania mountains and then the flanks of the rolling hills of Chester County. The foliage in the Adirondacks was in full fall glory but as they flew south the colors settled into the verdant green of the Indian summer that Pennsylvania was enjoying.

  Ann had brought a book with her to pass the time but, with the thrum of the engine filtering through her headset and the world slipping by beneath them, she fell into a reverie. Specks of cars glided along the narrow ribbons of road; the anonymous expanses of shopping mall and warehouse roofs clustered around highway intersections; small airports appeared, marked with the tiny white crosses of parked aircraft. It was hard to imagine this as anything other than a meticulously constructed model, free of all the complications and messiness of real life.

  Walt’s Arrow made the trip from the Adirondack Regional Airport to the Brandywine Airport in about two hours. His radio calls as he flew the pattern into Brandywine roused Ann from her daydream and she spotted Mike’s Audi in the small parking lot next to the terminal. While Walt got the plane settled after they had landed, Mike and his partner, Scott Pate, strolled out to meet them, Scott waving enthusiastically. Mike was a shade shorter than medium height, stocky, with dark hair and eyes. Scott was taller and thinner, with clipped blond hair and pale eyes behind chunky Ray Bans. Hugs for Ann and handshakes for Walt were exchanged.

  “How about lunch before you head back?” Mike asked Walt. “Your choice.”

  “Wouldn’t say no to a slice or two of pizza,” said Walt.

  Mike drove them to Caruso’s Pizza, Scott ceding the front seat to Walt.

  When they finished their slices and Ann excused herself to use the restroom, Mike leaned across the table to Walt.

  “So, how do you think she’s doing?”

  Walt fiddled with the straw in his soda. “I don’t know. Helen says she seems unhappy.”

  “I don’t know why she stays in that cabin,” said Scott. “Such terrible memories.” He shuddered.

  “We keep telling her she should move back to West Chester,” said Mike. “Or upgrade the studio.” Ann had built a studio on a mountaintop a few miles from her cabin to provide her with the light she needed for her painting. “If she did that, she could stay there in the summers, if she still wants a place in the Adirondacks. She should sell the cabin.”

  “Although it might be hard to sell, considering ...” said Scott.

  “Or easy to sell, depending on the buyer,” said Mike. “Some people like that kind of thing.”

  Scott pushed away his plate, empty save for two crusts. “I can see why she would be unhappy. Of course it would be difficult for her to live in the place where Biden Firth attacked her, but I hope it’s not more than that.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Walt.

  “I hope she doesn’t feel guilty about what happened. She didn’t have any choice—if she hadn’t shot him, he certainly would have killed her.”

  Mike shook his head. “I guess there’s no logic about a thing like that. I’m sure she never thought of herself as a killer—”

  “Hi there!” said Walt in an uncharacteristically hearty greeting. Mike and Scott turned to see Ann approaching the table.

  “That was fast,” said Mike.

  “There was a line, I can wait.” She looked at the three of them suspiciously. “What’s up?”

  “Talking airplanes,” said Scott breezily. “Did you know that planes fly because the air pressure sucks the wings up? Speaking of which, shouldn’t we be getting back to the airport?”

  Back at Brandywine, Mike discreetly slipped Walt his payment for the flight, then Mike, Scott, and Ann lingered in the small terminal watching two- and four-seater planes arrive and depart, listening to the radio calls on the PA system. When the Arrow had taken off and shrunk to a pinprick in the autumn-blue sky, Mike turned to Ann.

  “What now? In the mood to do anything special?”

  Ann shrugged. “Nothing in particular. Did you guys have anything planned before I showed up?”

  Mike wrinkled his nose. “Just stuff around the house. Scott was going to plant some spinach in the pots on the patio.”

  “The weather has been so warm I thought I might be able to get one more crop in,” said Scott. “But I don’t think gardening is going to work out so well with a bandage on your hand. You could sunbathe.”

  “I’d fry, even in October,” said Ann.

  “We’ll put the umbrella up and you can read.”

  When they got to Mike and Scott’s townhouse, Mike went grumblingly upstairs to do battle with a leaking faucet while Scott got the patio umbrella set up for Ann, then collected his gardening equipment. Ann discovered a stack of Philadelphia Magazines in the living room and brought them out onto the patio.

  Scott glanced over at what she had. “There’s an article about the Firth case in one of those. Just so it doesn’t take you by surprise.”

  “Really?” said Ann, looking at the stack of magazines with distaste. “Which one?”

  “It had a sports person on the cover.”

  “What did it say?” Ann glanced down at the magazine she was holding. The cover was a photo of one of the Flyers and his wife. “Never mind, I’ll read it later. I’m not in the mood.” She picked up another magazine from the stack—it featured a well-known actress, originally from Ardmore, holding a cheerful-looking pit bull. Ann got herself comfortable in the shade of the umbrella and began paging through the magazine.

  Pretty soon Mike showed up looking grumpy. “Plumbing sucks,” he said, flopping into one of the other patio chairs. “Is it five o’clock yet? I need a beer.”

  “You couldn’t have been working on it more than about ten minutes,” said Ann, looking at her watch.

  “You should just call the plumber to begin with. Trying to do it yourself just puts you in a bad mood,” said Scott, emptying a bag of potting soil into a ceramic planter.

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” said Mike. He moved his chair so he could look over Ann’s shoulder. “Whatcha got there?”

  “Article about pit bulls.”

  “Dog article, eh?”

  “Uh huh,” said Ann. “This actress is having a sort of PR campaign for the breed.”

  Mike and Scott exchanged a glance.

  “Pit bulls seem like good dogs,” said Mike.

  “Yeah, seems like it,” said Ann without looking up.

  “Do you think you might get another dog?” Mike asked cautiously.

  Ann turned a page. “I don’t know.”

  “If you’re going to stay in the cabin, I’d feel better if you had a dog.”

  Ann sighed and flipped a few pages forward to a review of Waterman’s restaurant. “I don’t need a dog. I’ll get some pepper spray.”

  “A dog wouldn’t be good just for protection,” Mike pressed on. “He’d be good company, too.”

  Ann tossed the magazine onto the patio table. “Mike, I don’t want a dog right now. Maybe later. I’m going to take a nap.” And she went inside, leaving Mike and Scott on the patio.

  Scott shook his head. “Poor Annie.”

  “Yeah,” said Mike, “I hope we can snap her out of it.”

  Chapter 5

  As he had done all their lives, Mike sprang to Ann’s defense—this time in response to the cloud of depression that still clung to her. As a distraction, he set a goal for them of sampling the mushroom soup of every southern Chester County restaurant that advertised it as a specialty.

  They stopped at one of their favorite destinations, a restaurant in Kennett Square that drew a well-heeled crowd from the surrounding gentleman’s farms. Soaring ceilings and polished concrete floors were
softened by scuffed wooden tables and white linen napkins. Ann ordered an old fashioned and talked Mike into ordering a cocktail featuring Laphroaig Scotch and a house-made pine liqueur. When it arrived she wrinkled her nose.

  “Holy cow, it smells like something you’d clean the kitchen counters with!”

  Mike sniffed it suspiciously. “How come you always make me order the weird drinks?”

  “Because you’re braver than I am,” she said, sipping her drink.

  Mike’s eyes widened slightly.

  “Well, not so much braver as more foolhardy,” Ann continued, then noticed that Mike was looking over her shoulder. “What?” She started to turn around to see what had attracted his attention.

  “Don’t turn around,” he whispered.

  She stopped. “Why not?” she whispered back.

  “Dan Kaminsky is at one of the tables behind you.”

  Ann’s fingers actually loosened their grip on her heavy cocktail glass, which went crashing down onto her bread plate. An immediate hush fell over the previously buzzing dining room.

  “Smooth,” muttered Mike.

  “Is he looking?” hissed Ann.

  “Of course he’s looking. Everyone in the restaurant is looking.” Mike glanced over her shoulder and raised his hand in greeting, a somewhat strained smile on his face.

  Their server appeared at their table with a stack of napkins and began blotting up the mess. He handed several napkins to Ann. “I think you got some in your lap, ma’am.” The murmur of conversation began to rise around them again.

  “Sorry about that,” said Ann, her face burning. “I’m just going to go clean up.” She grabbed the leather knapsack she used as a purse and wended her way through the tables to the back of the restaurant, her eyes on the floor. The door to the women’s room was locked, but the men’s room was unoccupied so she went in there.

  In all the years she had been visiting Mike and Scott in West Chester, she had never run into her former boyfriend. She had originally met Dan when he’d taken over the vet practice to which she took her lab, Kali, and he had won her over with his sweet manner, his obvious devotion, and his meltingly brown eyes. But Dan was a scientist in spirit as well as profession, and he had been skeptical when he finally found out—not from Ann—about her spirit-sensing abilities. When he had implied she should see a psychiatrist about her belief in her own skill, Ann had been devastated. She had left unreturned the voicemails and emails he’d sent for weeks, until they slowed and finally stopped. And when Dan showed up at the apartment she shared with Mike, she told Mike to tell him that she had no interest in speaking with him—a message that Mike, always her staunchest defender, had no doubt delivered with convincing finality.

  She had gotten through those post-breakup months when she expected to see Dan in every store, on every West Chester street corner, at any concert featuring music that she thought he might enjoy, but almost a decade had gone by since then and it had been years since she had thought of him. Much.

  And when I finally do see him—hell, I didn’t even see him myself—I drop my glass like a ditzy blonde in a bad sitcom. She gave a shaky laugh that was one moment of loosened self-control away from tears.

  Her face was flushed and she ran cold water on a paper towel and pressed it to her cheeks. She had a junior high moment of wondering if she could leave the restaurant by a back entrance, even as she realized that anything other than a calm and collected return to the dining room would make the incident even more embarrassing than it already was.

  When she had dabbed the remains of old fashioned off her jeans, smoothed back a few tendrils of hair that had escaped from her ponytail, and applied some tinted lip balm, she returned to the dining room. Her stomach lurched when she saw that Mike was standing at Dan’s table, and lurched again when she saw that Dan wasn’t alone. Of course—why would he be?

  She crossed to the table, being extra careful not to sweep any diners’ glasses off the tables as she passed with her knapsack. Dan had grown a beard and mustache, and his hair was just beginning to show a few strands of gray at the temples, but otherwise he looked much the same as he had the last time she had seen him. Across from him sat a beautiful woman—Indian or Pakistani—her jet-black hair pulled back in a long braid, her dramatic coloring set off by a cherry-red sweater that looked like cashmere. Next to the woman sat a little girl, the perfect combination of the two adults—dark hair with Dan’s curls, dark brown eyes with Dan’s sparkle. Their table was in front of the restaurant’s large front windows and the light created a halo behind the little girl and shimmered off what must have been metallic threads in her shirt.

  Dan stood. “Hi, Ann.”

  She wiped her palms on her jeans, hoping no one would offer to shake hands. “Hey, Dan.”

  “Ann, this is Dan’s wife, Amita,” said Mike.

  Ann smiled and nodded. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Amita nodded back, a bit formal but not unfriendly.

  “Mike says you’re visiting from the Adirondacks,” said Dan.

  “Yes.”

  “Scott and I are always trying to get her to spend more time in West Chester,” said Mike. “Especially during the winter—Pennsylvania is practically balmy in comparison. But she’s tougher than I am. How’s the vet business?”

  “Going well,” said Dan distractedly. “It’s turning into a family business—Amita’s my partner now.”

  “And how about your daughter?” asked Ann. She turned toward the girl. “Are you going to become a vet and join the family business when you grow up?”

  Amita’s expression froze. Dan followed Ann’s gaze and then looked back at her, the blood draining from his face.

  “I’m sorry,” Ann stammered, “I just thought—”

  Mike took her elbow. “Well, Dan, it was nice to see you,” he said, extending his hand, which Dan took mechanically. “Nice to meet you, Amita. I recommend you stay away from that Scotch cocktail, unless you want to knock down a few cold germs.” He steered Ann back to their table.

  Another old fashioned had appeared at her plate. She took a gulp, clunked the glass down on the table, and leaned forward. “What did I say wrong?”

  Ann had at first thought Mike was annoyed with her, but now she saw his lips were twitching with what might have been an almost-suppressed smile.

  “You didn’t say anything wrong,” he replied.

  “I just thought—” started Ann, turning to glance over her shoulder toward Dan’s table.

  Dan and Amita were bent together across the table, Dan holding his wife’s hands while she whispered low and fast, casting occasional glances toward Ann. It looked to Ann like she was about to cry. And the little girl was not in the chair next to her.

  Ann turned back to Mike. “Where did the daughter go?”

  “She didn’t go anywhere,” said Mike. “It was always only Dan and Amita at the table.”

  *****

  Mike wasn’t buying Ann’s argument that they should leave.

  “I ordered the food while you were gone,” he said. “Plus, it would be weird to leave.”

  “I’m sure they’d be thrilled if I left—I make them think about a little girl who is obviously their dead daughter and now Dan has to try to convince his wife that it’s all parlor tricks.”

  “Well, obviously it’s not parlor tricks,” said Mike, and leaned forward. “That’s extraordinary that you saw a spirit so clearly that you thought it was a living person!”

  Ann took another gulp of her drink. “The sun was behind her, I couldn’t see her that well.”

  Mike shook his head. “Now you’re being silly—this is a huge leap forward and you know it.”

  They both sat back as the server delivered their mushroom soups. Mike tried for a while to engage Ann in a discussion of the movie they had seen the night before—The Blues Brothers, a personal favorite of Mike’s—but she responded in monosyllables and he finally gave up.

  When their entrees arrived, Ann pushed her
food around on the plate, her stomach clenched by the distraction of wondering what was going on behind her. Mike gave her periodic updates—“They just got their lunches” ... “Looks like they’re not getting dessert”—and finally he reported that they had paid and were leaving. He gave them a wave.

  Mike got Ann’s uneaten entree boxed up and wished the hostess a good day as they left. Ann wished he wasn’t so damn cheerful.

  They were walking toward Mike’s Audi when the driver door of an immaculately clean pickup opened and Dan emerged. He trotted toward them and they stopped to let him catch up.

  “Hey,” said Dan when he reached them. “Would it be okay if I talked to Ann for a minute?”

  Mike glanced at Ann, who nodded. “Sure, no problem,” he said and strolled away.

  Despite the warm October afternoon sun, Ann pushed her hands deeper into her jacket pockets. They stood in silence for a few seconds, then Dan said, “Wow, that was something.”

  Ann looked toward where Mike was looking in the window of a women’s clothing store. Women’s clothing not being Mike’s thing, she guessed that he had picked it as a location far enough away that they would have no fear of being overheard but close enough that he could get back to Ann quickly if she looked like she needed help. “Dan, I don’t—”

  “I’m so sorry that I didn’t believe you when you told me what you could do,” he blurted.

  Ann’s eyes snapped back to him. “Really? I mean, you believe I saw something?”

  “How could I not? You saw my daughter, right? Little girl with dark curly hair?”

  “Yes.”

  Dan shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. “That’s just unbelievable,” he said, then waved his hand as if trying to erase something in the air between them. “No, I don’t mean unbelievable—I completely believe you.”

  Ann glanced toward the pickup. “How about Amita? Does she believe me?”

  Dan also looked toward the truck, his face tightening with concern. “Well, at first she thought you were playing a joke on us—a really horrible joke. She thought you must have heard about our daughter from one of our old friends.”