Creature Discomforts

consciousness on the mountain. When Malcolm Fairley had spoken, I’d known instantly. Could Malcolm’s companion on the mountain have been Anita? But Anita hadn’t been on the island this afternoon, had she? She and Steve Delaney, my Steve Delaney, had been elsewhere. Headed here. Or had they started from here and taken a day trip? Had someone said? I couldn’t remember. My hands made fists of themselves. I wanted to pound them hard on almost anything. My eyes teared up. I had to disappear before I made an utter fool of myself.
    With what I recognized as freakish formality, I said to Steve Delaney, “You’re going to have to excuse me. It’s time for me to leave.” Catching sight of Gabrielle, I led Rowdy to her and uttered some sort of formula for thanking hostesses for lovely evenings.
    Instead of replying with another formula, she said, “Holly, you’re woozy from that fall you took today. Do you want someone to walk you back to the guest cottage? Or help you with the dogs? Tiffany would be glad to go with you. Or you could stay here. I think maybe staying here’s the best thing.”
    “A crack on the head is nothing to fool around with,” Malcolm Fairley agreed. “I learned the hard way. No pun intended! Gabbi will—”
    “It’s just cuts and bruises,” I insisted. “Strictly superficial. I’ll be fine. Thank you for the offer, Gabrielle, that’s really kind, but I’ll be fine on my own.” Looking around, I saw no sign of Steve or Anita. Good! There’d be no need to wish them a pleasant evening or, worse, say that I hoped they slept well.
    I retrieved Kimi from Tiffany, thanked her for her help, and, with a sense of tremendous relief, followed my dogs up the rocks, onto the lawn, and around Gabrielle’s house to the parking area at the back. I would recover, I told myself, if I could just get away from all these people, get some sleep, and spend some time with my dogs. When it came to healing, one dog was worth a million doctors. Sleep was the second great healer. In the morning, I’d be myself again. When I was, everything would explain itself. The horrible sense of responsibility would shrink to a normal, perhaps even trivial, sense of minor obligation.
    Amid the sport-utility vehicles parked behind Gabrielle’s house was an old van that hadn’t been there when I’d arrived. A panel door on the side stood open. By the door, almost stage-lit by the floods on Gabrielle’s house and garage, was Anita Fairley. I could, of course, see her more clearly than had been possible on the dark beach. The illumination made everything worse, which is to say that she was even more striking than I’d realized. With her long, pale hair, rich green sweater, tan trekking pants, and fashionable boots, she belonged in an ad in an expensive sporting-goods catalog. What really made her look like a model was that she posed, catalog fashion, with a dog on lead, a liver-and-white-ticked pointer bitch whose attention was directed toward the inside of the van. The pointer was, in fact, spoiling the shot. Instead of lovingly eyeing Anita or gazing self-confidently around in apparent search of upland game birds, the poor thing was trembling and issuing a soft, pitiful whine.
    From inside the van came Steve Delaney’s voice. “I’m ready for Lady now, Anita. Could you...?”
    Anita reached into the dark interior of the van with the hand that held the pointer’s lead. Her hand emerged empty. The pointer started to climb into the van. Her tail was now whipping nervously back and forth. Anita was almost motionless. She could have given the animal a soothing pat. But she didn’t. She didn’t even bother to look around in case anyone was watching. In one swift, graceful, almost imperceptible movement, she swung a handsomely booted foot at the pointer’s hindquarters. The pointer did not cry out. Anita hadn’t exactly kicked her. She’d delivered a nudge, I suppose, a push, a poke, or a little prod. But she’d done it in a sneaky way. With her foot. And I don’t like to see people use their damned booted feet on dogs.
    “There you go, Lady!” Anita crooned. “There you go, sweetheart!“
    I felt frozen in place. You bitch, I thought. You insufferable bitch.
     

Chapter Thirteen
     
    AFTER LURKING IN THE SHADOWS until the van drove off, the dogs and I followed its route down the road to the guest cottage. As we approached the door that led to the little kitchen, the dogs’ hackles and ears rose. A fat,