M. Wren - A Gift Upon the Shore

But Topaz’s final act was, however unintentionally, an act of mercy. She didn’t force Mary to kill her. A retching cough, then she shuddered and closed her jewel eyes for the last time.

Mary didn’t try to stop Rachel’s weeping. She waited, dry-eyed, and the only other sounds were the crackle of the burning van and the omnipresent murmur of the sea. I am here …. There was still a glow of red at the horizon and a bright star above the clouds. Venus, probably. Lucifer. The wind blew chill out of the west.

She sat cross-legged in the grass on this erstwhile battlefield, smelled the bitter smoke, the gunpowder and blood on her hands, and tried to recapture that sense of triumph she felt when she became a killer. Self-defense? Of course. And more: revenge. But where was the satisfaction that was supposed to accompany revenge, that glorious, righteous satisfaction that was stuff of epics and history?

She felt none of that now. She felt no guilt, but neither did she feel anything she could equate with satisfaction.

She remembered the birth of Josie’s kids—was it only hours ago?—and tried to recapture her desire to take part in the mystical cycle of motherhood. But that was gone, too. She would bring no children into this world. Rachel was right. There were already too many children. And too many of them grew up only to starve or go insane.

Finally she rose, helped Rachel to her feet, and saw the dark patch on her jacket just below her right shoulder.

“Rachel, you’re hurt!” And it occurred to her then what a miracle it was that either of them was still alive.

Rachel stared down at Topaz. “I have to bury her.”

“I’ll do that. Let me look at your arm first.” But Rachel didn’t seem to hear her, and Mary added, “Shadow’s still in the house. She’ll be terrified.”

Rachel stiffened and abruptly set off for the house. “Oh, damn, she’ll be over the edge.”

And Rachel was nearly over the edge of endurance. She almost fell when they reached the backdoor. Mary got her inside and felt for the light switch, and Rachel began calling Shadow. They found her in the kitchen, huddled trembling in one corner. Rachel knelt by her, nearly fell again. Mary steadied her. “Rachel, your arm—”

“It’s not serious, Mary. If I could just… sit down.”

Mary helped her to the couch in the living room, then had to carry Shadow to her; she wouldn’t leave her corner. Rachel took her in her lap and whispered reassurances, and Mary thought, it’s not fair that Shadow should suffer this terror and that Topaz should die simply because the humans they live with were victims of the insanity of other humans. It’s not fair that Jim and Connie, who were kind and loving, should be so cruelly murdered because of that insanity.

But if she had ever doubted it, it was a conviction now. Fairness is the exception to the rule in life .

Rachel looked up at her, studying her face as if she hadn’t seen her for a span of years. “I’m grateful, Mary. For you.”

Mary could only nod. Then she went to the kitchen and a few minutes later returned with two glasses and a fifth of Jack Daniel’s. She put them on the side table, poured whiskey into the glasses. “Water?”

“No.” Rachel took the glass Mary offered, closed her eyes as she sipped the whiskey. “I suppose we should call Captain Berden.”

Mary wanted to laugh, but knew better than to allow herself that. She tipped up her glass, held the whiskey hot in her mouth. A poor remedy, she thought, wondering if there were any real remedies.

Clad in rumpled pajamas and robe, a rifle in her hands, Mary looked out over the broken top of the breezeway gate into the glare of the early-morning sun. Her head ached unmercifully. Only a few hours ago she had seen the light of dawn in the windows before she achieved the oblivion of sleep.

And a few minutes ago she had been wakened by the sounds of Shadow’s hysterical barking and a car horn. Now she stood trembling, trying to put her thoughts and memories in order. An Apie patrol was parked in the driveway, and she recognized the officer approaching her. Harry Berden. She opened the gate and went out to meet him, but stopped a few feet away. If she let him take her in his arms, she knew she’d start crying, and she wasn’t sure she could stop. For a moment he stared at her, then glanced at the rifle, and finally nodded.

She said, “Harry, you look terrible. When did you last sleep?” And he did look like a specter, pale and hollow-eyed.

But he called up a smile. “You don’t look so good yourself, Mary.”

She laughed, brushed at her hair with her fingers. “No, I don’t suppose I do. It’s been a long night.”

“Yeah. Damn long. The Rovers split up last night. Hit ten different places.” He looked around at the bullet holes in the walls, the bodies on the grass, the black shell of Jim’s van. “Is Rachel okay?”

“She has a very sore arm. Got grazed by a bullet, but I patched it up. And she lost three of her dearest friends. Did you get my message about Jim and Connie?”

A flicker of pain accompanied his nod. “We went to their house a couple of hours ago. Hell, I never thought…” He didn’t try to finish that. “Do you know about any next of kin for us to notify?”

“No. I think they had some distant relatives in California. They didn’t have any children.”

He stared at the van, then frowned. “You said Rachel lost three friends?”

“Topaz.” Mary looked toward the mound of earth near the beach path. “One of the bastards kicked her to death.”

“Oh, damn. I know how she feels about her dogs. But maybe I have—” He stopped, distracted. Rachel was coming out the back door.

Mary studied her as she approached, wondering what lay behind her encompassing calm. When she reached them, she had a smile for Harry. “Good morning, Captain.”

“Morning, Ms. Morrow. I’m sorry for what you’ve been through here. If it’s any comfort, I think we took care of most of the gang that was hanging out around Shiloh.”

She nodded. “I hope you didn’t lose any of your officers.”

The muscles of his jaw tensed. “Two. Five hurt. Anyway, I radioed for a tow truck and a wagon to clear out this mess here. It’ll take a while, but they’ll be around.”

“Connie and Jim? Did you—”

“Yes, we took care of that. Mary told me about your dog, and I’ve got something in the patrol—just a minute.” And he set off for his car, with Rachel and Mary, nonplussed, in his wake. He opened a back door, leaned inside, and emerged with Sparky in his arms. The dog was dull-eyed, atypically quiet, his right front leg bandaged.

Rachel’s breath caught, she reached out with a shaking hand to touch Sparky’s head as Harry explained, “Some folks down on North Front found him this morning and took him to the clinic. Had a bullet in his leg, but Joanie says he’ll be fine. Little doped up now. Anyway, I figured I’d better find a good home for him.”

“You’ve found it, you know that,” Rachel said huskily. “Come on, Sparky….” And Harry gently transferred the dog into her arms, while Sparky whined and tried to lick her face.

“Well, I’d better get going.” Harry looked around again at the evidence of carnage and shook his head. “My hitch is up in September, and I don’t think I’ll sign up again. Home is beginning to sound good.” He looked at Mary, a direct, questioning gaze. “Boise’s still a nice place to raise a family.”

She could think of nothing to say. Harry Berden was the kindest, most honest man she’d ever known, and yesterday—the day before yesterday—that oblique query would have at least given her something to ponder. Now it fell like a pebble in a frozen pond, creating no ripples.