Ruth Langan - Retribution

Adam carefully looked around the grounds of the lighthouse for signs that anyone had been here while he’d been gone. Confident that nothing had been disturbed, he shoved open the door and set his camera on a nearby table. Since the explosion, and subsequent attempts on his life, extreme caution had become second nature to him.

Not that he’d ever been careless. His work had taken him to some of the most dangerous hot spots in the world. He’d covered wars, revolutions, uprisings and rebellions for WNN. Life in a war zone had taught him many things. Among them, to trust his instincts, to know not only where he was headed, but how to escape a trap. His associates used to boast that he had eyes in the back of his head. How ironic that it had been here at home, with his guard down, that he’d found himself in the greatest peril of his life.

He started toward the kitchen, thinking about the day he’d put in. He’d just spent hours on a trek through the woods, capturing the spirit of northern Michigan in autumn. Though he’d seen deer before, it was different watching them in their natural habitat. They were careful animals, he’d noted. Heads lifted often to catch any strange scent. The buck standing guard while the herd feasted on the tender branches of low-hanging trees. Not so different from people, he realized. Always looking out for any danger that might threaten. By the time they’d finally caught his scent and melted into the forest, he’d used up an entire roll of film.

There had been humor in the forest, as well as beauty. A squirrel, busy storing acorns in the hollow of a giant oak, had been his first model. Then he’d come across a spider spinning a web, intricate as finest lace, damp with dew and glistening in the thin rays of sunlight that filtered through the branches of towering evergreens. Next he’d spotted a flock of geese honking as they flew overhead in perfect formation on the first leg of their southward journey. No sooner had they passed than he’d come upon two chipmunks that performed a comedy routine by leaping into a mound of red-and-gold leaves, then leaping out again with their precious store of nuts puffing out their tiny faces. They’d managed to entertain him for an hour or more.

Odd, he thought, how much vibrant life he’d discovered in these woods. He’d come here expecting to be bored. After a lifetime spent covering wars and terrorist uprisings, recording the range of human emotion from despair to euphoria, from depravity to heroism, he wouldn’t have believed he could be amused, entertained and thrilled, all in a matter of hours merely by tramping through a Michigan forest. What’s more, he was learning to look at life on a smaller scale rather than the large canvas he’d been using for most of his adult life. When he took the time to look, really look, he’d managed to find beauty, humor and even drama alive and well in the seclusion of the forest.

Idly rubbing his shoulder he heated up the last of the morning’s coffee. After two sips he nearly gagged before tossing the rest down the drain and turning away. He promised to treat himself to a fresh cup in town after another therapy session with The Dominatrix.

If he was making any improvement, he couldn’t see or feel it. The pain never left him, and the range of movement seemed unchanged since he’d first begun therapy. If it wasn’t for the fact that he needed this therapist’s signature, as well as his surgeon’s, on a set of discharge documents required by WNN, he would simply forego any future torture. Still, Marcella The Dominatrix insisted he was showing definite improvement. And this was, he knew, more than just a chance to heal. It had been singled out as the perfect refuge from an assassin bent on eliminating any witnesses to his crime. The authorities were convinced that no one could penetrate their secrecy and locate their witness in this wilderness.

Adam was hoping they were right. But he wasn’t about to let down his guard.

He walked outside, climbed into his Jeep and headed for town.

The afternoon was bathed in sunlight and warm enough to be sultry, but he wasn’t fooled. The nights had become increasingly cooler, with a hint of frost. And though the waters of Lake Michigan were placid enough today, he’d seen angry whitecaps whipping the waters into foam that sent a spray hundreds of feet into the air as the surge of water thrashed against the base of the lighthouse.

He followed the narrow trail that led to the highway, until he caught sight of a figure hauling a wagon and moving away from the water’s edge, trailed by a dog and cat. Just seeing Sidney had him frowning. He’d worked very hard these last couple of days to avoid going near the area where he’d first seen her sitting at her easel.

The authorities might believe he was safely hidden away here, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He had no right to involve an innocent bystander in the danger and chaos that had become his life.

At some other time, in some other place, it would have been an interesting challenge to get to know the sweet, pretty artist. As usual, the timing was all wrong.

He could certainly keep his distance for six months. After all, he’d managed to keep any serious commitments at bay for years now while he pursued this career that was as demanding as any mistress.

Sidney glanced at the lighthouse towering above the line of trees, before reluctantly heading toward her cabin. She found herself wondering, as she had all week, about the man who was now living there.

His brief visit had been an unexpected treat. Though she enjoyed her solitude and never tired of her own company, there was no denying that she’d been curious about Adam Morgan ever since their meeting.

It had been too long since she’d allowed anyone other than family to invade her privacy. Adam’s brief presence hadn’t felt like an invasion. He’d been oddly distant, but also quiet and respectful of her work. Being an artist himself, he understood her need for solitude and seemed to share her work ethic. That appealed to her on so many levels. She missed having someone to talk to about her work. Not the technique, which she’d mastered at a very young age, but the passionate love of the work itself. There were times, when a painting was finished, that it felt like pure magic. As though someone else had taken over her body and mind and soul, and had created something out of nothing. She had never been able to explain the feeling of transforming a blank canvas into color and form and the living, breathing creatures looking out at her from her paintings.

With Adam, she hadn’t needed to explain. She’d sensed that he knew exactly what it was she did and how she did it. What’s more, he shared that artist’s eye for the interesting and intriguing.

She shoved a tangle of hair from her eyes and paused to study the day’s work. She’d captured a pair of old-squaws that had flown into the shallows several days ago. There was no telling how long they would stay before continuing their southward migration. Their color wasn’t spectacular. Both male and female were dull brown and white. But the male’s bill was tinged with bright orange, and his tail a long wisp that fluttered like a ship’s sail in the breeze. They’d been delightful subjects for her canvas.

When Picasso had decided to cool off in the shallows, the pair of ducks, angry at this intrusion, took refuge on shore, giving Sidney a chance to see their feathers at closer range. Working quickly she’d added depth and texture to the painting. By the time the dog had returned to lie at her feet, and the ducks were safely back in the water, she’d been lost in her work, and had remained so for hours.

Now it was time to head home. She’d promised her grandparents a visit, and she would use the visit to town to stock up on some supplies, as well. As she followed the familiar trail, she was struck by the beauty of the day. Sunlight filtered through the branches of the trees, casting the ground in light and shadow. The air was so mild she’d been forced to remove her sweater and roll the sleeves of her shirt.