15
Mack drove back to the mother in law apartment above the barn at Edna’s house. In the cupboard under the kitchen island, he found a bottle of rye, took down a glass, and pulled an armchair around so he could look out the window at the traffic passing on Route 33. He hated whiskey and so, on the rare occasion he decided to get drunk, he preferred to do it in the least pleasant way possible. He knew he owned a gene for addictive behavior and he did not want to accumulate any more bad habits than he had.
Tonight he was getting drunk because he was a coward, as much of one as he’d accused Raymond of being. He’d shoved the decision over what to do about Karin’s possible role in the fire onto Raymond first, and then onto the Armitrages, and they’d stymied him by refusing to hear it. He’d avoided the decision out of some tattered loyalty to his wife—he still loved her, but not so much he could absolve her of what she might have done. He needed to do the right thing. But not tonight.
The neck of the bottle chimed against the glass as he poured.
He certainly wasn’t going to protect Raymond, who’d lied to everyone in the first place, or Arthur, who’d caused the whole mess in a way. Mack was the outsider, unconnected by blood. He wasn’t bound to look out for them.
He shot back a third drink and coughed. Beyond not wanting to expose Karin, he felt he’d be ripping the scab off what healing the town had done, allowing the pain to well up again. And to what end? Justice? The children would still be dead.
The next time he poured, the whiskey slopped onto the table. Good. It was doing its work. In a little while, he’d either pass out or fall asleep, leaving all decision for another day.
It was well into the evening when the whine of a siren dragged him awake, not full dark, but dusky enough that the red and white lights of the EMT van flashed harshly as they passed. As he stretched his eyes wide trying to wake up, the truck signaled a left and turned out onto Shore Road. Heart attack, probably, out there among the rich folks in their seaside mansions.
He lay back in the recliner, fog-headed with a mouthful of fuzz, and eased toward sleep again. Tomorrow. Soon enough to know what to do.
And he was dead asleep again when the landline phone rang, rattling the glass on the side table. He would have let it go if Raymond’s name hadn’t appeared on the display. No doubt he was worried about what Mack intended to do.
“I didn’t tell anyone,” Mack barked into the phone. “Not yet, anyway. You don’t have to worry.”
“That’s where you’d be wrong, Macklin.” Raymond’s bleak tone sobered Mack instantly. “We’ve got plenty to worry about.”
“What, Raymond? What are you talking about?”
“Karin.” Raymond’s voice cracked. “She’s dead.”