Chesapeake Tide (30 page)

Libby leaned against a pillar and chewed on her lip. She was an unfit parent. Somewhere along the way she'd missed out on acquiring the skills that every other mother naturally assimilated. It wasn't through lack of trying. Where had she gone wrong? Her own upbringing had been sane enough. Nola Ruth made it all look so easy. Even Shelby was a good mother. Her red-haired, green-eyed friend managed her twins with a scattered, down-home consistency that left no doubt in their minds when she meant business. Of course Shelby had Fletcher, a man who had adored his tiny scraps of humanity from the moment they drew their first breath. Nola Ruth had Cole and Shelby had Fletch. Libby had been alone since the moment the obstetrician pronounced her child a girl. She hadn't wanted it that way, but Eric hadn't been interested in parenting.

She gave herself a mental shake. That was water under the bridge. “C'mon, everybody. Let's go inside. We're home now. Russ can call Tess's mother and explain and we can get something to eat. Everything will be all right.”

“Verna Lee fixed us dinner,” Chloe said.

Libby frowned. “Where's Serena?”

“It's her night off.”

Could her guilt be any worse?

Apparently Russ could read her mind. His voice, smooth and warm and slightly amused, came from behind her in the hallway. “Easy does it, Libba. You're allowed a day off now and then. No one could have predicted this.”

Verna Lee came out of the kitchen. She slung her purse over her shoulder. “I'll be leaving now,” she said quietly. “I never intended to stay this long, but Cole left and your mother—” She paused. “She's sleeping now. I didn't tell her much. You can do that.”

“Thank you for everything you did today.”

Verna Lee waved away her words. “Don't think twice about it. I like Chloe. I've liked her since the first day I met her. I'd have liked her even if she wasn't your daughter. She's unusual. You've done a fine job, Libba Jane.” She looked embarrassed. “That was a mouthful. I'll be going now before I say any more.”

Chloe waited for the door to close behind Verna Lee. “What was that all about?”

Tess spoke up. “I think she just gave you a compliment.”

Over Chloe's head, Russ's eyes met Libby's. “You know where the phone is,” she said. “The girls and I will wait in the living room.”

Ten minutes later, white-lipped and monosyllabic, Russ returned. “Get in the car, Tess. I'll take you home.”

“Is everything all right?” Libby asked.

“Fine,” he said tersely. “I'll tell you about it later.”

“Is Mama really mad?” Tess asked anxiously.

Russ attempted a smile. “You know the answer to that, Tess. You knew it when you took off today without telling anyone. You have to face the music.” His voice gentled. “But don't worry, you won't face it alone. I won't let her beat you.”

“She doesn't do that.”

“Not physically, anyway.”

Tess stood. “Bye, Chloe. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Chloe nodded.

Libby walked them to the car. “What's going on?” she asked when Tess was safely in the car.

Russ shook his head. “I'll handle it. Thanks for the day.”

“You haven't done anything wrong,” she reminded him. “It's not your fault that Tess left school and came here. She has to know that.”

“You're assuming Tracy thinks logically.” He took her hand and kissed her briefly on the lips. “Don't worry so much. We've all got our problems. I'll handle my ex-wife.”

She watched them drive away until there was nothing left but a swirl of dust in the distance.

Inside the house, Chloe lingered on the stairs. “What's going to happen to Bailey?”

“I don't know,” Libby said honestly. “Granddad will do everything he can.” She hesitated. “Did Bailey ever talk about his mother's illness?”

The girl shrugged. “Not specifically. I asked him about it once. She was blind, you know, and in pain. It hurt him to see her like that. She wouldn't sell her land. She wanted it for Bailey.”

None of it sounded promising. Once again Libby had a sudden urge to go to church. She hadn't stepped inside one for years, but the hold of her religion was still strong. It was just as impossible to be an ex-Catholic as it was to be an ex-daughter or an ex-female, although she'd read about people who'd tried. Right now the pull was strong. She felt vulnerable, out of control, desperately in need of something more powerful and competent than herself.

She felt sandy and sticky. “I need a shower. We can go for a drive later, if you want,” she suggested. “Maybe we could find some ice cream in Salisbury.”

Chloe shook her head. “I'm tired. I'm going to bed early.”

Libby slung her arm around Chloe's slim shoulders and together they walked upstairs.

Despite the purifier she knew her father had installed, she showered quickly, keeping her head down and the seam of her lips tightly shut. Slightly ashamed of her phobia, she turned off the water and toweled herself dry. Wrapping the terry cloth around her head, she wiped the mirror with her hand and stared at her reflection, critically examining her body. Not perfect by any means, but not bad. Libby had only recently been obsessed with appearances, not like Shelby who bemoaned every new wrinkle and suffered agonies over some future date when she imagined walking across the street and hard hats continued about their business instead of turning to whistle in appreciation. Hers was a milder obsession. She had a sense of time marching on and leaving her behind less, somehow, than she'd been before.

She cupped her breasts and tightened her stomach muscles. Finally, concave again, and not only because of her regular morning runs. Anxiety was the best diet in the world. Only contented women who had their lives in order with nothing to hide had meat on their bones. She wanted to be one of them, round-faced, comfortable women who carried a sweetness within them, women who were long past relationship worries.

Libby sighed. If only Chloe wasn't traumatized. That was more than enough to ask for. If they could get through this, and if Chloe still wanted to go home, she would make her happy and take her back.

Meanwhile, there was Russ. He had a slow hand and an easy touch and a way of making her heart pump and her blood sing. For Libby, the dry spell was over. The strength of her desire shook her. He would no more than move his hand across her skin and she was lost in that swirling whirlpool of heat and color and longing that rocked her senses and stripped her of the inhibitions collected over a lifetime. She knew every intimate crevice of his body, the taste of his skin, the sound of his breathing, the pulse beat in his temples. Each time, with the trembling anticipation of the first time, she waited for the moment when it would all begin again and the slow, careful, seductive touch of his hands and mouth and tongue would change the woman that was Libby Delacourte, Eric Richards's cold and uninspired wife, into a sensuous, flame-lit addict of the flesh.

What would it be like to begin again with Russ, somewhere far away from Marshyhope Creek and Nola Ruth, from Bailey Jones and Tracy Wentworth, somewhere safe and suburban and normal, where people and animals could drink from the taps and swim in the lakes and fish in the streams? Maybe he would come back to California with her.

She sighed. There was no going back. There would always be Tracy because there was Tess, and for Libby, right now, there was Chloe and Nola Ruth.

C
ole Delacourte wrote out his signature, tore off the check and handed it to the officer at the desk. Then he turned to the boy standing silently beside him. “C'mon, son,” he said gently. “We're going home.”

Bailey's eyes flickered for an instant and then went blank again. Without speaking, he followed Cole out to the car.

Cole slid in behind the wheel and backed out of the parking lot. “How serious are you about finishing school, Bailey?”

The boy blinked in surprise. “Serious enough,” he replied.

“Do you intend to go on to college?”

Bailey shrugged. “I'd like to go to art school.”

Cole nodded. “Have you looked into whether or not you need a high school diploma?”

“No, sir.”

“My guess is you do.” Cole was silent for a minute. “What do you think about a home teacher until we sort this thing out?”

“I don't want to put you to any trouble or expense.”

“Don't worry about that. The school district will pick up the cost. It's simply a matter of turning in your work once a week to a teacher who makes up assignments for you and helps out when you have questions. How does that sound?”

“It sounds good enough.”

“Your hearing is set for next week, son. I'd like you to tell me exactly what happened. You'll need to tell me the truth. Don't leave anything out. Do you understand?”

Bailey stared out the window, his face white and drawn.

“You'll stay with us until this is over,” Cole continued. “It'll give you some time to think things through. No one will bother you.” He glanced over at the boy. “Is that all right?”

“It's fine.”

Cole decided he'd gotten enough response for a short ride home and they managed the rest of the drive in silence.

Chloe was sitting on the front steps when they pulled into the driveway. She stood, biting her lip until Bailey stopped beside her.

“Hi,” he said.

She smiled. “Hi. How are you?”

He considered her question. “I've been better.”

“Do you want to take a walk?”

Her grandfather stepped in. “Not now, Chloe. Bailey needs a break.”

Reluctantly, she turned and walked beside them up the steps. “Are you going to school tomorrow?”

Bailey shook his head. “I'll be doing my schoolwork here for a while.”

She looked at her grandfather. “I don't suppose I could do that, too?” she asked.

“I don't think so, honey,” answered Cole.

Crestfallen, she nodded. “It was worth a try.” She brightened. “But at least you'll be staying here.” She thought a minute. “What about your studio? How will you paint?”

“I don't know. I haven't thought about it.”

“If you give me a list of what you need,” Cole said, “I'll send someone over to get it.”

For the first time since Cole had seen him, Bailey smiled.

Russ cut the engine, threw the anchor over the side, pulled out a cigarette and struck a match. Bending his head, he lit the unfiltered end and inhaled deeply.

Libby sighed and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. “When are you going to give those up?”

His eyebrows rose. “We're here, in illegal waters, attempting to measure radioactivity near the Patuxent River Naval Air Station and you're worried about my lungs?” He shook his head. “If anyone spots us, we're in some serious trouble.”

“There has to be an explanation for the side effects present in the ecosystem,” she explained. “The PCB content in the water isn't enough for the fish advisory imposed on the watermen. It isn't enough for the elevated BOD levels in the water and it certainly isn't enough for genetic mutations in the animal population. Manufacturing here in the Tidewater is strictly regulated, which makes leaking of contaminants for any length of time impossible. There's something funny going on and I can't help but think it's going on legally under the auspices of the government. There's nothing left to do but this.”

Russ held her gaze for a long minute. Then he nodded. “Go for it. I'll keep an eye out.”

Without a word, she pulled a small box from her bag, flipped a switch, adjusted a dial and leaned over the side of the boat, submerging the instrument.

Russ's stomach tightened. He couldn't remember when the bay had been more silent. Seconds passed. Then he heard it, a tick-ticking that resounded like a time bomb in his ears.

Libby sat up quickly, wiped down the box with a paper towel, stripped off her gloves and reached for her notebook.

“What is it?” he asked, striving for calm.

“The radioactivity in the water is beyond acceptable levels.”

“How beyond?”

“Way beyond. There's activity up and down the bay, but it's stronger here than anywhere.” Her hands shook. “I think we've found the source.”

His eyes focused on the embankment, the barbed wire and the sign above it that read Patuxent River Naval Air Station, Trespassing Prohibited.

“What do we do now?”

“We talk to an expert,” she said.

Dr. Susan Saunders, manager of the university lab in Annapolis and a former classmate of Russ's, welcomed them warmly. “How can I help you?”

“I need to ask you a few questions,” Libby said.

Susan grinned. “As long as we can eat at the same time. I'm starving.”

“Let's go,” said Russ.

Over hamburgers and large glasses of milk in a local coffee shop, Libby posed her question. “Tell me about the Patuxent River Naval Air Station.”

“Anything specific?” Susan asked around bites of her burger.

“I have water samples from all over the bay, Shad Landing, Holland Sound, Crisfield, Toddville, the Nanticoke River, Nancy's Point, Hooper Island and Cedar Point. All have levels of radiation exposure that are unacceptable. The highest levels recorded are near the air station. I'd like to know what kinds of hazardous waste are stored there.”

Susan frowned. “The usual, plant sludge, cesspool wastes, sewage treatment sludge, spent oil absorbents, pesticides, you name it.”

“What about nuclear waste?” Russ asked.

Susan shook her head. “I don't think so. If there is any nuclear waste at the air station it would most likely be low level, you know, protective clothing, lab equipment, nothing serious. We have natural uranium. You know as well as I do it exists in seawater.”

“What would you say if I told you the local waters are showing high levels of uranium and cobalt 60?” asked Libby.

“That's impossible,” Susan said flatly. “You're talking about waste from nuclear reactors, glass logs, even plutonium.”

“Do we know for certain that radioactive nuclear fuel isn't being stored there?”

“No, but it's highly unlikely.”

Libby leaned forward. “More than 200,000 tons of spent fuel has a home somewhere, Sue. The Atomic Energy Commission claims there will be 450,000 tons by the middle of the century. Does anyone know for sure that Patuxent isn't being used for such a purpose?”

Susan pushed her food away. “Good lord, Libby. Do you have any idea what you're suggesting?”

“Do you want to see the samples and the Geiger counter readings?”

“I certainly do, and the sooner the better.”

Russ slid out of the booth. “I'll get the check.”

Cole Delacourte carried a plate of ham sandwiches, two glasses and a pitcher of lemonade out to the back lawn. Bailey Jones sat at the picnic table overlooking the Chesapeake, a still, solitary figure, his face dark and expressionless beneath the shadowed umbrella. Cole set the plate on the table and poured the lemonade.

“I've got to prepare your case, son,” he said, coming right to the point. “It's time you told me what happened.”

Bailey stared at him. “Pardon?”

“I want you to tell me what happened with your mama, Bailey, and I want the truth. No surprises, son. Do you understand? As long as you tell the truth we have a chance.”

Bailey waved his hand at the bay. “It's beautiful here.”

“Yes.” Cole looked out over what was his. “It is, isn't it?”

“Mama and I lived our whole lives in a room no bigger than that bathroom you're letting me use upstairs.”

Cole kept silent.

“They wanted her to give that up, too.”

“Who wanted her to give what up?”

“They did.”

“Who?” Cole persisted.

“The developers who wanted her land. They wanted the last little bit of her and she wouldn't give it to 'em. She said she'd rather die.”

“Did you kill her?”

Bailey gazed out over the glittering blue water. “Yes, sir. I suppose you could say that.”

Cole hesitated. He didn't want to put words into the boy's mouth and yet he wanted the whole story. “Did she ask you to help her die, Bailey? Was it her idea?”

Bailey didn't answer. “Do you know,” he said instead, “that she never ate in a restaurant?” His voice shook. “She didn't know about things that most people know about. She never had credit or a bank account or an ATM card. It was like we lived in another world different from everyone else. She liked me to read her the newspaper, every bit of it, from beginning to end, except for sports. She didn't care about sports. I wanted to buy her a television. We had one once, but it broke down.” He shrugged. “We could have bought another, I suppose. The ADF check came every month. I guess it wasn't important enough to us. She couldn't see it and I didn't care either way.”

Cole tried another approach. “Tell me what happened that day from the beginning.”

“What day?”

“The day she asked you to help her die.”

Bailey thought a minute, his dark eyes opaque and distant. “I can't remember the exact day. It started a long time ago.”

Cole frowned. “She asked you more than once?”

Bailey stared out over the sun-steeped water. “I lost count of the times she asked me. It started when the pain got bad. Doc Balieu saw her in the beginning, but after a while we didn't have the money for the prescriptions she needed. Finally, she wouldn't go anymore. She said it didn't help.”

“How long ago was that?”

“A year ago, maybe longer.”

“Your mother was in pain for more than a year and no one would help her?” Cole was incredulous.

“She could have had Medicaid, but she would've had to sell the land.” Bailey's mouth twisted. “They won't give you anything unless you have nothing left. She wouldn't do that.”

“Did you tell Dr. Balieu what was happening?”

“Yes, sir.”

Cole willed himself to remain calm. “Do you remember when she first said that she wanted to die?”

“It was after we got the results of the new cancer. She said she didn't want to go through the radiation again. She wanted to die at home, with dignity. That was when she asked me to do it.”

“What did you say?”

“I said I couldn't. We argued. I told her it wasn't fair to me, that I'd get in trouble.”

Cole waited.

“She asked me if I thought what was happening to her was fair. I said it wasn't, but I still couldn't do it.” Bailey's temper flared and he clenched his hands. “She was my mother.”

“Easy, son. Take it easy now.” Cole poured a glass of lemonade and set it in front of the boy. “Settle down and have something to drink. We don't have to go through this all at once.”

But once he'd started, Bailey seemed to want to finish. “She stopped for a piece,” he continued, “but then the pain would come back and when I'd ask her what I could do, she'd say it again.” Tears flowed unchecked down the brown cheeks. “It got worse and worse. Bourbon helped, and marijuana. But after a while she had to be drugged all the time. I got to a point where I couldn't leave her, she was so bad off.” He shrugged and scrubbed his eyes. “Then I decided to do it.”

“Good Lord.” Cole couldn't help himself.

“I took her to Shad Landing and we ate barbecue outside.” Bailey smiled, remembering. “She liked it. Then we drove to the point and looked out over the wildlife sanctuary. She couldn't see it, but I described what it looked like. She liked that, too. After dark, we went home.” He swallowed. “I poured her a glass of bourbon, all the way to the top. She drank it down. I thought she'd gone to sleep. I held the pillow down over her face. She struggled some, but not much. And then she was gone.”

“They found your skin under her nails. Why didn't you stop when she struggled?”

“We talked about it,” Bailey said. “She told me not to.”

Cole Delacourte had practiced law for forty years, and he was quite sure in all that time that he had never heard anything quite like Bailey Jones's confession. He was also quite sure he had never taken on so complicated a case. There was no doubt that the boy was guilty of the act of homicide, but was it justifiable? Cole believed it was. It helped that the trial would be held south of the Mason-Dixon Line, where the average man drove a pickup and quite often that pickup had a gun rack in the back, complete with a rifle or two. Would it be enough? He had no idea how a jury would react to the idea of a boy playing God with the life of his own mother.

Susan Saunders leaned against the building, one leg propping her up. Her hands shook as she lit a cigarette, inhaled and blew out a stream of smoke. “If those samples come from as far east as Marshyhope Creek Bay, we've got a real problem.”

“There are ways of dealing with this,” Libby replied. “Have you heard of uranium eaters, organic phosphorus? When combined with uranium it forms an insoluble material.”

Susan snorted. “That's very experimental. The problem with phosphorus is that the same property that allows it to travel through soil also keeps it from sticking to anything.”

“That's where microorganisms come in. When you combine genetically mutated phosphorus it would combine with uranium.”