The Backyard
The rest of the morning unfolded in an orderly way, with Reese alternating with Vivienne in giving out the orders.
Fusco drove Allison and Reese to town. In the spanking new clinic just off the main road, a nurse re-stitched her earlobe and wrote out a prescription for antibiotics without asking more than the bare insurance necessities. Either the nurse was just unnaturally polite, or the Nix sisters were such frequent fliers at the clinic that questions were beside the point.
Reese didn't enter the building, hovering just outside for a few minutes while Allison signed documents, then disappearing to retrieve his car.
Fusco and Allison walked hand in hand through the leafy back streets of the little town. They didn't really have a destination in mind, just looking for a chance to exhale and regroup out of the family spotlight.
Allison picked out a coffee shop where the dry sandwiches were mostly stuffed with bean sprouts and the beverages were named for capitals of Asian countries. But they ate enough and got a chance to talk about something other than her father, so Fusco counted the meal a success.
When they met up with the others again at Ionia Plaisance after two, it turned out Fusco and Allison had missed the group lunch. Ondine's hand-crafted soup and toasted cheese sandwiches were pronounced the best of the summer, but Fusco was glad for the brief hours away from the farm.
As they all chattered about the miracle soup, he could see Allison's shoulder sag. Catching his eye as if apologizing for abandoning him, she told her sisters she wanted to take a nap before starting dinner. So she kissed him in front of the others and disappeared up the stairs.
Fusco wanted to check in with Reese, find out what information Finch might have dug up, but Vivienne had other plans for them.
"Megan is showing next weekend at a new gallery in the Meatpacking district. Maybe you've heard of it – Les Halles? It was featured in the Times Arts section last Sunday."
She raised her eyebrows like she didn't expect either man to have a clue as to what she was talking about. She ran her hand over her cropped gray hair and sighed in pre-exasperation.
So they shrugged to confirm her suspicions and waited for her command.
"I need you two to help load up the truck with her canvases. She's got the ones she wants to bring leaning over against the wall in her studio under a tarp. Just carry them out, stack them upright in the flatbed. We'll lash them down later."
No thank you or by your leave. Just orders like she was the shift sergeant or something.
As Vivienne had said, the paintings were in clear sight in Megan's gigantic studio. What she hadn't said was how big each canvas was.
Megan's imagination was huge it seemed, although her color palette was narrow.
She worked in primary colors, using broad strokes to deliver rough bands of alternating vertical stripes. Some paintings were mostly green, others mostly blue. Every once in a while she threw a curve and went for red or orange stripes. Each canvas was stretched over a frame more than ten feet square.
Fusco and Reese found it took all of their combined strength to wrestle a single piece through the door and into the truck so the process of transferring all twenty artworks was lengthy.
"Let's take a break."
Fusco was ready to call it quits after fifteen canvases were stowed in the flatbed.
Reese didn't object. So shoulder to shoulder they leaned against the cab door of the old pickup, puffing slightly as they looked across the back yard toward the farmhouse's rear porch. The looming roof of Anthony Nix's barn extended shade over the truck, the paintings, and the sweaty laborers.
Their t-shirts were damp and clinging to their backs and their fingers ached from all the clenching; Fusco could feel his biceps trembling and he figured that his own face was as red and grime-streaked as his friend's.
After learning that Finch had supplied nothing new in the way of warnings or intel about the Nix sisters, Fusco let the talk dwindle into nothing.
Reese seemed winded and subdued. Maybe he was still thinking about last night's bloodshed and the murky twists of the unfolding case.
Drawing the back of his hand across his forehead, Reese threw out a question.
"You ever give Allison anything. Gifts, I mean?"
Odd question, but Fusco was glad to roll with it, looking to see where this lead went.
"No jewelry, that's for damn sure." He chuckled at the coals-to-Newcastle thought.
"But I take her places, when I can. Try to show her things she never saw before."
"Like what?"
"Well, I took her to the fights last month."
Fusco hurried on, ignoring Reese's puzzled frown.
"You remember that welterweight bout, Kid Carrano versus Jens Ragnarsson?"
The way Reese's mouth pursed up like he tasted something foul irritated the hell out of Fusco. So did his next words:
"Yeah, but it wasn't much of a fight, as I remember. The Kid KO'd the Wrecker from Reykjavik in the fourth."
Fusco shrugged as Reese lowered his head, shaking it like he was trying to erase the sorry memory.
"You took Allison to see that? What did she say?"
"Not much at the time. Sorta quiet while we was at the ring. But she turned plenty frisky when we got home. So I figure she enjoyed it well enough."
Fusco spoke quickly again to cut off any smart ass remark Reese might have been about to sling.
"So, you ever give Carter anything"
He figured the personal question was fair game. Time to knock down a brick or two from that mile-high wall. But the slight huff of in-drawn breath let him know Reese was reluctant to answer.
"Yeah, sometimes."
That was a start, a single brick. But not near enough.
"Well, O.K. Like what? I'm looking for ideas here."
"I gave her earrings: diamond studs once and little gold hoops once."
"Yeah, I seen those on her. Nice."
With his eyes focused on the weathervane up on the barn roof, the sunlight bleached Reese's blue eyes almost gray. He ran his hand over his mouth slowly.
"And once I gave her a scarf too. She seemed to like it."
"You mean that dark red one? With the gold threads in it? Real beautiful. Yeah, she liked it alright, I could tell."
Reese smiled and Fusco felt good, like he had done some kind of service for his friend.
Then Reese reached into the pocket of his jeans and withdrew a small pouch made of turquoise blue cloth. He worked open the drawstring and turned its contents out onto his palm.
Fusco could see a simple ring, white metal with a faint shimmer of warmth.
"Beautiful. Silver, hunh?"
He didn't know what else to say, didn't want to ask too many questions and risk shattering the intimate mood.
"Platinum. It looked nice."
Though he sounded shy, Reese said this with a conviction that sent a shiver along Fusco's spine.
"I got it three weeks ago."
Fusco looked again at the ring shining in Reese's hand like a frozen drop of mercury escaped from a thermometer.
"Yeah, it's beautiful, John. She'll like it just fine."
The two men studied the ring for several more breaths. Fusco thought Reese was about to elaborate.
But whatever remark he was going to make next was interrupted by the arrival of Megan carrying two tall glasses of icy pink stuff. Fusco saw him quickly stuff the blue pouch into his left pocket and the ring into his right.
Megan explained that the drinks were strawberries and gin mashed up with sugar and topped off with ginger ale. It tasted refreshing, like some kind of fancy lemonade.
"I thought you two looked like you could use a break. And a cold adult beverage. It's after four, in case you're fussy about that sort of thing."
Since she was smiling up at Reese even as she handed a sweating tumbler to Fusco, Megan accidently dribbled some of the strawberry smash on the ground. She stubbed out the wet spot with her bare toe.
When she lowered her head, Fusco could see her pink scalp winking through the soft bristles of her blonde hair.
Surprisingly, the three sisters made the buzz-cut look good, he decided. But he was glad Allison kept her hair in long ringlets.
"Thank you."
Reese's unwavering manners seemed like they were bred in that same parochial school Fusco had attended: rules, rulers, and a whole lot of quality time with Sister Michael Agnes.
"No! Thank you! I was never going to get this truck packed up if I had to count on my sisters to help out. Five years' worth of work right there, can you believe it?"
Reese extended his hand and drew an index finger along Megan's pale forearm. A network of little red scratches reached almost up to the elbow.
"What happened here?" Reese's voice was soft, unexpectedly pleading.
But Megan threw out her answer in a bright bouncy tone.
"While you two were lollygagging here in the backyard we were out picking blueberries in the patch along the south end of the property. Scratchy work in that thicket, I'll tell you."
He was gripping her right hand now, so she waved the other one vaguely across the whole southern sky to show where the sisters had spent the afternoon.
Reese turned her hand over, cradling it in his large palm.
He didn't say anything more. All three of them looked at the raised scar running in a jagged trail across her right wrist. The scar was dulled to a silver sheen now, tough and healed over, a relic from a desperate old gesture.
Megan jerked her hand away. She held it against her little breasts like it was a wounded baby animal or a bird.
"Yeah, well I got quite a collection of those, as you can see."
There wasn't anything else to say, so they stayed silent together for some minutes. The deep blue shadow cast by the barn stretched almost to the porch now.
The backyard was so quiet that after a while they could hear the wheezing of Anthony's old dog, Shep.
He was sitting in the dark of the open barn door next to two rusty pitch forks. When they turned their heads to look in his direction Shep thumped his plumed tail twice on the dirt floor, but made no move to join them.
"You're being watched. Always."
Megan offered this in a whisper, her chin tucked under, touching her t-shirt collar. "Just so you know."
Reese tipped his head back to guzzle down the last of the spiked strawberry stuff.
"Break time's over, Lionel. Let's get this job done." He just never seemed to tire of giving orders.
They pushed off of the truck's running rail and turned in the direction of Megan's studio. She carried the empty glasses back to the house, letting the screen door slam as she entered the kitchen.
From the gloom of the barn's broad door an inky shadow thickened into human form, then slid forward into the sunlight.