The Edge of Winter Page 2

  He headed up the road, the dunes at his right. The thicket had thinned out here, and an icy wind blew full force off the ocean. Sand had drifted right onto the pavement; he saw the drifty remains of the girls’ bike tire marks and admired them for riding down here on such a day. Hardly anyone loved this remote winter beach the way he did, not even most of his surfing buddies. They went for easy access, at the town beach. Mickey had mentioned the snowy owl. Was the bird the reason she’d come all the way out here in twenty-degree weather?

  When he got to the ranger station, his stomach tightened. This wasn’t going to be pretty. He saw O’Casey’s green truck parked outside the low one-story building. Painted gray-blue, the color of the February sea, the ranger station blended into the sea and sky, into the beach itself.

  Shane tore up the steps, into the office. O’Casey sat at his desk, dressed in his khaki uniform, glancing up over his reading glasses, looking just like the hard-ass authority figure that he was. Ex-Marine, people said. Shane wouldn’t be surprised, and he thought of his mother down at Camp Lejeune. Jerks. Standing there, not wanting the ranger to see how out of breath he was, Shane glared down. He watched O’Casey tense up, his hand inching toward the desk drawer. Did he keep a sidearm in there? Jesus Christ, Semper Fi.

  “What brings you back here?” O’Casey asked.

  “Call 911,” Shane said to his old enemy.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There’s a hurt girl,” Shane said. “Hurry up.”

  All at once the ranger was on his feet. One hand reaching for the radio—static cracking, the police dispatcher taking the information as Shane relayed it: “Injured girl, bike wipeout, Beach Road, mile marker 3, near the jetty”—other hand grabbing his jacket, a bulky green government-issue job, just about as beat-up as the one Shane had left covering Mickey.

  In that second, registering that Shane didn’t have a coat, O’Casey thrust his at him. Shane refused to take it. He backed toward the door, hating to stand by the ranger. At six foot four, O’Casey towered over him. His shoulders were huge, but he somehow managed to look fit and trim for an old guy. His skin was weathered and lined, his hair nearly all gray. The way his eyes looked behind those reading glasses: like he’d spent most of his life either in battle or looking for one. That look sent a shiver down Shane’s spine.

  Locking the door behind him, O’Casey followed Shane down the steps. They climbed into the beach truck. The bench seat was cluttered up with coiled lines, binoculars, gnarly old leather gloves, and a printer’s box of new Refuge Beach brochures—ready for next summer.

  “What’s that smell?” O’Casey asked as he backed out of the sandy lot.

  Shane knew he reeked of kerosene, but he just stayed silent, staring at O’Casey. It was a combination of disbelief and dare: disbelief the ranger could ask that when a girl was lying hurt in the road up ahead, and daring him to figure out what Shane was planning next.

  “You’re on probation,” O’Casey said. “As far as I’m concerned, they should have taken your board away.”

  “Just for surfing the tail end of a hurricane?” Shane asked.

  “Try thinking about the rescue workers who would have had to go in after you,” O’Casey said, and that shut Shane right up. He felt himself go red, as if he’d suddenly gotten a sunburn. “Mile marker 3, you said?” the ranger asked, staring down the road.

  “Right there!” Shane said, pointing.

  But everything was different than he’d left it. The road was empty: the broken bike had been hauled off to the side, and Mickey and Jenna sat huddled together under Shane’s jacket. Shane wasn’t sure he’d ever felt this relieved: she wasn’t paralyzed.

  Jumping out of the truck, Shane ran to her. Her brown braids and the side of her face were streaked with blood from a scrape along her hairline. Her face was nearly blue-white, and she cradled her left arm with her right hand. At the sight of Shane—or maybe the ranger—she began to cry like a little girl.

  “Let me see, sweetheart,” O’Casey said, crouching down beside her, first-aid kit tucked under his elbow, tenderly pushing her hair back to see the wound. He must have jostled her arm, because she moaned in pain.

  “Hey, watch it,” Shane said. “Can’t you see she has a broken arm?”

  “Is that right?” O’Casey asked.

  “My wrist, I think,” she said.

  “It’s just hanging there, limp!” her friend said. “She can’t even move it!”

  Mickey pulled back Shane’s jacket so O’Casey could see. Shane noticed that she’d bled all over the nylon, and he felt glad he’d been able to keep her warm. She wasn’t in shock, and she was sitting upright: two great signs.

  “I moved,” she said, looking up at Shane.

  “As long as you did it yourself, it’s okay,” he said, looking into her green eyes. “It’s when other people move you that it can be a problem.”

  O’Casey had the first-aid kit open now. He eased Shane out of the way, pressed gauze to the still-bleeding wound on Mickey’s head. Shane watched the way he stared steadily into Mickey’s eyes as he gently applied more pressure. Mickey gazed up at the ranger as if he were her father, or the best doctor in the world. The trust in her eyes did something inside to Shane, made his heart tumble over, like a stone falling off a cliff.

  “Can we get out of here?” Jenna asked. “It’s freezing, and we have to get Mickey to the emergency room.”

  “We’ll take her there right now,” O’Casey said, and when they looked up the road, they saw the convoy: an ambulance and two cop cars.

  “I don’t need them,” Mickey said, panic in her eyes. Shane wasn’t sure whether she meant the ambulance or the police.

  Two officers and the EMTs walked over. One of the policemen gazed down with recognition. Shane’s stomach flipped, but the cop wasn’t looking at him—he was staring at Mickey.

  “Hello there,” he said to her. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she whispered.

  Shane concentrated on the spark in her eyes. He wanted to put his arm around her, help her into the ambulance. Were they just going to let her sit here on the cold ground?

  The EMTs began doing their thing, with O’Casey giving them his take on her head wound and broken wrist. Suddenly they had her up and into the ambulance; they wrapped her in blankets and handed Shane his jacket back. Jenna was led to a squad car, their bikes loaded into the back of O’Casey’s truck. The ranger said something to the second cop. Shane saw their eyes flick over to him.

  His blood was on fire. He knew he should run—start now and never stop until he got to California. There were places to surf out there that made the waves here look like they belonged in a bathtub. He could find his dad’s friends, and they’d hide him in dune shacks till he was older and grayer than O’Casey.

  But he had a mission here on this beach, and he had to say one last thing to Mickey. Make her a promise that would help her get well fast. Something made him know that was necessary—the fear in her eyes was too familiar to him to let her just drive away without speaking to her.

  He pushed past the EMTs, crawled right into the ambulance. She was already strapped onto a stretcher, orange straps tight across her chest. She was staring at him, eyes focused on his jacket.

  “I bled on your jacket,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. “It’ll remind me…”

  “Of what?” she asked.

  “Of the owl,” he said.

  “The snowy owl…”

  “I won’t let them chase it away,” he said. “If it’s the last thing I do.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Shane touched her face, and then he felt himself being hauled out from behind. The ambulance rear door was slammed shut, but he could still see her face through the window as the vehicle began pulling away. She’d seemed really shy when he’d seen her around school. And Shane had stayed back in grammar school—he’d had “adjustment problems
” that they attributed to his father’s death. Whatever the reason, it had always made him feel like an outsider and he’d never approached her.

  “The last thing you do,” one of the cops said. “Interesting choice of words.”

  “Ranger O’Casey told us he smelled kerosene on you,” the other cop said. “So we looked around and found these.” He held up the Nerf pump-action ball launcher. Unfortunately, Shane had already soaked the Nerf in kerosene—he’d been seconds away from applying flame when Mickey had had her wipeout.

  “Yeah, what about it?” Shane asked.

  “You think acting like a moron, destroying Cole Landry’s heavy equipment, is really the best way to stop them from dismantling the U-boat?” O’Casey asked.

  “What’s a surf slacker care about that?” Cop Number One asked. “It’s just a tin can full of dead krauts.”

  Shane opened his mouth to let loose on him, tell him that the sunken U-boat was responsible for the most reliable swells on this stretch of shore, that its length, and the height of its conning tower, and the periscope and every other bit of barnacle-encrusted metal, caused a vortex, pulling so much water from below, creating waves that moved straight and fast, folding back on themselves and erupting in terrible, elegant explosions craved by surfers everywhere.

  But O’Casey beat him to it.

  “It’s a grave, Officer,” O’Casey said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s not a ‘tin can,’ ” O’Casey said. “It’s U-823, and there are fifty-five dead men aboard.”

  “Hey, Tim—your father’s Joe O’Casey, right?” the other cop asked.

  Ranger O’Casey nodded, and nothing more was said. Even with his jacket back on, Shane was freezing. He tried to hold the shivers inside, under his skin, so the cops and O’Casey wouldn’t see. Not that the cops cared. One of them pulled out handcuffs, yanked his hands behind his back.

  “You’re under arrest,” he said. “For the unlawful use of hazardous materials, destruction of property, and we’ll see what else. You have the right to remain silent…”

  Shane listened as, for the second time that month, he was read his rights. He glanced up and met O’Casey’s eye. He nearly scowled out of habit, but then it hit him: O’Casey, while not exactly defending him, had pretty much just argued his case for not disturbing the U-823 wreck. He and O’Casey were, sort of, on the same side.

  Strange, Shane thought. Very strange.

  Then he let the cops lead him to the squad car—the one not occupied by Mickey’s friend—cover the back of his head, as if they cared whether he whacked it on the car roof, push him inside, and drive him to the station.

  2

  Neve Halloran was pretty sure the tenth circle of hell was family court. The imposing stone building with massive granite columns, the marble floors, the individual courtrooms with their rows of dark wood seats, the judges in their black robes sitting above it all on the bench, gazing out at this local, hopeful sea of humanity—deciding fate with one blow of the gavel.

  The problem was, the fates being decided affected not only the adults divorcing each other, but also the children of their marriages. Every time Neve walked through the heavy doors to the courthouse, she imagined herself holding Mickey’s hand—not that Mickey would ever let her! But the image guided her, kept her from giving up before it started, kept her focused on what she had to do.

  She had a team: her friend Christine Brody, and her lawyer, Nicola Cerruti. They had been here for her countless times before—and now, although the divorce was final two years ago, they were back again. Today they had a hearing for Richard’s failure to pay child support. His thought process had become a great mystery to her, nearly as unfathomable as the mystery of how she had once loved him with her entire heart and soul in the first place.

  She wore a blue suit, white blouse, sensible black pumps. Her auburn hair hung to her shoulders; behind wire-rim glasses, her eyes were soft blue. Her gold necklace had been her grandfather’s watch chain. She also wore the sapphire birthstone ring her parents had given her for her thirteenth birthday: talismans blessed by her family saints.

  “Why am I even here?” she asked her lawyer, standing in the hall and waiting to be called into the courtroom. “Who needs him and his money? I work, I support Mickey.”

  “You’re here because of him,” Nicola reminded her. “He’s defying a court order.”

  “We’re here because it’s right,” Chris said. “The court ordered him to pay, and he’s not paying. Mickey needs things that cost money. It’s that simple.”

  Just then the elevator doors opened, and James Swenson, Richard’s lawyer, stepped out. Neve felt the ground shift beneath her feet. It was just like being in seventh grade. She felt a cold rush of nervousness, in anticipation of seeing Richard right behind him. Would they speak? Would he explain to her what he was doing? Would he have his girlfriend with him? Would Neve be able to keep from attacking him?

  But the elevator doors closed behind the lawyer—no Richard. Swenson was tall and thin, with the same basketball build he’d had in college, when he and Richard had played against each other. He glanced in Neve’s direction, turned away quickly. Not a smile, not a nod: no recognition at all.

  “Oh man,” Nicola said.

  “What?” Neve asked.

  “I smell blood in the water….”

  Nicola headed across the large hall, now filling up with other lawyers and their clients. Neve watched as she made her way over to Swenson, and felt gratified that she seemed all-business, with none of the collegial banter she sometimes saw between other members of the bar. Swenson had pulled some papers from his briefcase, stood erect as Nicola got in his face—or as close as she could, considering the top of her head wasn’t much higher than his elbow.

  “Whoa, what’s going on?” Christine asked, huddled with Neve, watching the scene.

  “Swenson does not look happy,” Neve replied.

  “Good,” Chris said. “He shouldn’t look happy, considering what a creep he has for a client. Where do you think Richard is?”

  Neve didn’t reply. Thinking of Mickey, she felt her heart sink.

  “Let’s see,” Chris said. “He could be any number of places. Selling someone swampland in Florida. Courtside at the Final Four. Cruising the Mexican Riviera with Alyssa. Schmoozing with Senator Sheridan. Or somewhere on a bender…” Chris shook her head at all the scenarios that added up to the prize that was Richard.

  Neve knew that Chris meant well—Neve had railed and vented to her through it all. But at the same time, what gripped Neve today was the wish that Richard could get it together, show up for Mickey the way she knew he wanted to. Loving Mickey had never been hard for him—it was holding himself together that had been the problem. Why couldn’t he just pay child support the way he was supposed to?

  As Nicola turned from Swenson and began walking toward Neve with a satisfied smile on her face, the courtroom door opened and the sheriff beckoned them in before Nicola could fill her in. By now the procedure was routine: Neve and Nicola went to the table on their side of the courtroom, Christine sitting one row behind the wood rail, Swenson went to the other table, and all that was missing was Richard.

  “Parties ready?” the sheriff asked.

  “Yes,” Nicola said quickly, before Swenson had the chance to say anything.

  “All rise!” the sheriff barked out. “Court is in session, the Honorable Dennis J. Garrett presiding.”

  The judge entered from his chambers: black robes, salt-and-pepper hair, crooked glasses, bristly mustache. Neve had run the gamut of emotions with him during the divorce: elation when he’d given her sole custody of Mickey, outrage when he’d given Richard a share of her grandfather’s estate, and everything in between. Why did they call this place “family court,” when it was all about war and the aftermath, about families who had already torn each other apart?

  Judge Garrett peered across his bench, frowned at Swenson.

  “Well, Mr
. Swenson. Where’s your client?”

  “Your Honor, I’d like to request a continuance…”

  “Objection,” Nicola said. “Mr. Swenson and his client had ample notice about today’s hearing, and meanwhile Mr. Halloran’s failure to pay child—”

  Judge Garrett waved his hand, silencing her.

  “Where is Mr. Halloran?” he asked, staring at Swenson with hard eyes. He reminded Neve of a strict father who’d heard one excuse too many.

  “I…I don’t know,” Swenson admitted.

  “He knew about today’s hearing?” the judge asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m issuing a bench warrant for his arrest. Failure to appear, failure to pay child support. His wages are about to be garnished.”

  “Your Honor,” Nicola said, jumping to her feet, “since Mr. Halloran is self-employed, and claims that his real estate business is making no money, there are no wages to garnish. Meanwhile, as you see in our motion, he has made no payments on his daughter’s health insurance, has failed to—”

  “Enough, Ms. Cerruti. I get the picture. Mr. Swenson, I suggest you encourage your client to come in voluntarily. We’re done here.” He gathered the papers together, pushed back his chair.

  “All rise,” the sheriff called, and Neve and everyone in the court stood.

  With a crack of the gavel, the judge left the bench. Neve looked at Nicola, saw the triumph in her eyes. Turning around, she saw Chris nodding with satisfaction.

  They filed out of the courtroom, stood together in the hall. Swenson strode past them, already dialing his cell phone. Nicola could barely hold back her glee.

  “They’re both toast,” she said. “Jim Swenson’s in trouble with the judge—did you see the way Garrett looked at him? He hates lawyers who can’t control their clients. And Richard’s in so deep, he might never get out of it. If he’s not paying child support, you want to bet he’s also behind on his legal fees?”