Linda Hall - Shadows On The River

Most of the time, I can follow my mother’s advice when she says, “Some things, Alicia, are best left buried.” But tonight, it all came back to me. I aimed the remote at the television screen and cranked up the volume.

There had been a death. His personal accountant or lawyer, someone named Paul Ashton. Somehow I knew in my soul that Larry Fremont had killed that man. And if I would admit it to myself, I knew my insomnia, this locking of all my doors and windows, this habitual looking over my shoulder, went back twenty-five years to when I watched Larry Fremont throw my best friend off a bridge. And then laugh about it.

He had killed once and had gotten away with it. He has killed since. He would kill again. And I was terrified of him.

When people ask award-winning author Linda Hall when it was that she got the “bug” for writing, she answers that she was probably in fact born with a pencil in her hand. Linda has always loved reading and would read far into the night, way past when she was supposed to turn her lights out. She still enjoys reading and probably reads a novel a week.

She also loved to write, and drove her childhood friends crazy wanting to spend summer afternoons making up group stories. She’s carried that love into adulthood with twelve novels.

Linda has been married for thirty-five years to a wonderful and supportive husband who reads everything she writes and who is always her first editor. The Halls have two children and three grandchildren.

Growing up in New Jersey, her love of the ocean was nurtured during many trips to the shore. When she’s not writing, she and her husband enjoy sailing the St. John River system and the coast of Maine in their 28-foot sailboat, Gypsy Rover II.

Linda loves to hear from her readers and can be contacted at Linda@writerhall.com. She invites her readers to her Web site, which includes her blog and pictures of her sailboat: http://writerhall.com.

Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother when he sins against me? Up to seven times? Jesus answered, I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.

—Matthew 18:21–22

A special thank-you to Pamela Benoit Scott for all the information on ASL sign language and deafness and for great insights into the deaf culture.

A second thank-you goes to Jan Donovan-Downs for all of the information on childhood deafness.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother when he sins against me? Up to seven times?” Jesus answered, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.”

Matthew 18:21–22

The girl checked the time on her pink wristwatch and looked back at the front door of the school. Tracy, her best friend, should have been here by now. The girl sat down on the stone embankment and swung her legs hard, hitting the backs of her calves against the rock in a steady rhythm. No. She was wrong. Tracy wasn’t her best friend. She used to be. Then Tracy got to be friends with the popular girls.

And then today happened.

“I have a secret to tell you,” Tracy had whispered to her after lunch.

So surprised, all she could manage was a quick “Okay.”

“I’ll get my mother to pick us up. We’ll go to my house and I’ll tell you. I’ll even show you my diary.”

“Okay.” The girl tried to keep the eagerness out of her voice.

“We can be friends again.” Tracy had smiled at her, that big, broad smile of hers and the girl dared hope that they could go back to being the kind of friends they were in elementary school, best friends, sharing secrets, knowing everything about each other.

“Don’t take the bus home. Just wait out front by the rock.”

“Okay.”

But Tracy hadn’t shown up. It was late by now. All of the school buses had long since pulled out and she was alone in the front of the deserted school. It was hot and clammy and she was beginning to feel sick to her stomach.

From her perch on the rocks she watched two teachers leave, figures in the distance who didn’t see her, the woman holding her skirt down against the warm breeze as she carried an armful of papers. She could hear them laugh from here. There were only two more days of school left before summer vacation and it looked as if the teachers were just as happy to be free as the students.

She looked back at the door. Maybe she should go inside and phone Tracy’s house. She checked her wallet for dimes. But what if during the time she was inside making the call, Tracy’s mother came?

So she waited.

A little while later she wondered if she should go into the school and see if anyone was still in the office. Maybe she should call her mother.

But her mother wasn’t expecting her and probably wasn’t even home. She’d phoned her mother at lunch to ask if she could go to Tracy’s and her mother had seemed pleased. Even though she had never told her mother her problems with Tracy, her mother knew.

“You go,” she had said on the phone. “Go and have a good time. I’ll use the time to run some errands.”

The girl spent the rest of the afternoon smiling. Tracy would soon be back in her life. And in a couple of weeks there would be church camp. With Tracy as her best friend again, it would be fun.

As she sat and sat in the blistering sun, her shirt stuck to her back in the heat, she finally came to the only conclusion she could—Tracy had played a trick on her. Tracy was probably at home with the popular girls and they were all laughing at her. She could imagine them, even now, sitting cross-legged on the wooden slats of Tracy’s sundeck drinking lemonade and calling her a loser.

The girl jumped down from the embankment and felt a tear at the edge of an eye. Angrily she wiped it away. She looked down the empty street for a long time deciding whether to walk home. That meant about a mile along the hot road until the main part of town with its stores and the drugstore her father owned. She could stop there, she thought, and wait for him and get a ride home, but she’d have to hang around in the back until closing time. And that would be like forever.

No, what she would have to do would be to walk right through town, turn left for half a mile until she came to her street. She’d have to walk fast past Tracy’s house. She didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. She let out a sigh, shifted her book bag, and started walking, the black pavement hot through the bottom of her sneakers.

A quarter of a mile later she decided to take the shortcut. Maybe it would be cooler. She turned down the gravel road, which would become a dirt path winding past the church and through the graveyard beside it down to the river. Then it would be across the footbridge. A few steps later, she would be at the edge of her subdivision.

She wouldn’t worry about that bridge. She knew what people said—that it was unsafe. She’d climb across the logs they put in the way and then hurry across it without looking down. A few minutes later she would be at her own house. She and Tracy had taken this way lots of times.

But it wasn’t cooler on the path. If anything, it was hotter. She walked faster, a cloud of insects beside her. Perhaps when she got to the graveyard she could climb down the bank and get a drink of water from the river.

Her head felt hot, her legs heavy. She shifted her book bag. This wasn’t such a great idea, she thought as she swatted away the bugs. Up ahead on the horizon was the church steeple. Good. Now it wasn’t too far. A big drink of river water and she’d feel a whole lot better. Maybe her mother would even be at the church. Sometimes she went there for Bible studies and things. Or maybe somebody she knew would be there, Pastor Arnold, or the funny fat guy who mowed the lawns. Because the nearer she got to the footbridge, the more afraid she was feeling.

She began to run, and as she did she thought about Tracy. They hadn’t spoken to each other in months. The notes she’d left in Tracy’s locker were ignored and when she tried to phone her, Tracy was always not home. So why today? Did it have something to do with Larry Fremont? All of the popular girls were in love with him. Sure, he was sorta cute, but he was a lot older. Sixteen and Tracy was only thirteen, although Tracy was quick to point out that she would be turning fourteen in a month. Lots of fourteen-year-old girls go out with sixteen-year-old boys.

But there was something else she didn’t like about Larry. That his family was the richest family in town, that they practically owned the town, had nothing to do with it. His mother owned the town’s coal mine, which was where just about everyone’s father she knew worked. No, it wasn’t that. There was something about Larry that was just plain creepy. Maybe that’s when she and Tracy stopped being friends, when she told Tracy what she thought of Larry.

She ran faster. She was running against the hot wind now, anger propelling her forward. She made her plans. This was the end of her trying to be friends with Tracy. Once she got home, she would act like she hadn’t been waiting in front of the school for hours. She would pretend like nothing had happened.

If Tracy said something like, “Were you waiting a long time? We forgot all about you.” Her answer would be, “Well, that makes two of us, because I completely forgot about going to your house. I got a ride home with my mom like always.”

Angry tears coursed down her cheeks. How could she have been so stupid? How could she think Tracy really wanted to be her friend?

The path brought her behind the Fremont Mansion, and from that vantage point she could glimpse the blue ocean, frothy with whitecaps. A bit farther down this path and she would be at the church.

No cars were there. Maybe she could get in and cool off. She tried the doors. Locked.

Then she heard the voices, looked down toward the footbridge and saw them. Tracy and Larry. She put a hand to her mouth and slunk close to the side of the church. They hadn’t seen her. Good.

She didn’t quite know why, maybe it was something in their demeanor, but she decided to stay hidden. So this is why Tracy wasn’t there to pick her up. She was with Larry!

She stole quietly to the graveyard where she hid behind a huge black gravestone under a pine tree. From here she could watch them.

They appeared to be arguing. She could hear their voices, high and loud, but not the words. At one point Larry placed his palm firmly on Tracy’s chest as if to push her backward. She shouted something, flung his hand away and backed into the railing.

She wanted to call out, to warn Tracy that the railing wasn’t safe. There were already parts of it that were broken, slats and boards that had fallen onto the rocks far below, but there she was, leaning against the railing with her whole weight. Larry put his hand on Tracy, only this time he was choking her.

The girl was about to call out. She didn’t. For years afterward she would wonder if she could have somehow changed the outcome of everything in her future—her parents having to leave the church, her dad losing his business, her mother being ostracized—if she had only called out. Instead, she knelt in the hot buggy grass and put her head between her knees for a few moments and watched an ant crawl on her shoe while the voices on the bridge grew louder, angrier, more frantic.