Nobody's Hero. Carrie Alexander

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      MIDMORNING WAS TOO EARLY for lunch, but Sean had nothing else to do. He got out a can of ravioli and cranked the lid off with the handheld opener he’d found in a kitchen drawer. He took a plastic fork from a box and ate the pasta cold, straight out of the tin. Not cold, he decided after a deliberate culinary evaluation. Room temperature. Almost tasteless, too, but the effortless cleanup was worth the sacrifice.

      He threw out the can, the ravioli only half-eaten. His appetite had been lousy for a while now.

      The lid of the trash swung shut. So much for lunch. Now what? The day stretched before him, empty and endless, with nothing but his thoughts to fill in the silence.

      A long walk, he decided. The physical therapist had said walking would be good for working his leg muscles back into shape, as long as he didn’t overdo it and reopen the wound.

      “Not much chance of that,” he muttered, his hand going to the misshapen dent where a .32-caliber slug had torn through his thigh. The island was less than three miles long, from the southernmost ferry dock to Whitlock’s Arrow, a rocky outcropping that shot straight into the frothing surf of the Atlantic. He’d head north. The Potter cottage was halfway up the island, so a trip to Whitlock’s Arrow would be no more than a three-mile jaunt, round trip.

      Not an exceptionally long walk, but a good start. By the end of his two weeks, he’d be scaling cliffs.

      The sun wasn’t yet at its zenith, but it had grown hotter. Sean knotted a bandanna over his head, slid on a pair of sunglasses and took off down the lane. He followed the road north, moving at a clip that kept the occasional bikers or strollers from breaking his momentum with their cheery hellos.

      The view was impressive, even though the drop to the ocean wasn’t as steep on the western side of the island. Waves surged over the rocks; grass and wildflowers nodded in the breeze. He breathed the air—thick with brine and the pungent smell of evergreens—into the bottom of his lungs as he walked along Shore Road, coming to realize how grateful he was to be a long way from the job he’d previously lived for.

      Gulls spiraled above the rocks up ahead, dropping down, then alighting in a flapping cacophony. The laughter of a group of picnickers sent Sean off the lane and onto the dirt paths that wound around the heart of the island, leading in no discernible pattern to various woodland cottages.

      The hush was immediate. Towering pines closed ranks overhead, their interlaced branches blocking out all but intermittent patches of the vivid blue sky. Even the crash of the surf subsided until it was only background noise. The rhythmic pulse of the island.

      Sean slowed, testing his pulse. He was out of shape. Getting blasted at short range by a crazed ex-con tended to have that effect.

      A flash of reddish brown at the edge of a small meadow caught his eye. Too slow for a deer. Too tall for a fox.

      He took off his sunglasses and polished them on the hem of his plain white T-shirt, watching out of the corner of his eye as the same redheaded girl from that morning peeked out from behind a tree. Had she been following him the entire way?

      He walked on, not glancing back until he reached a fork in the path. “Right or left?” he called.

      After a short silence, the girl blew out a disgusted breath. “Whatsa matter? Are you lost?”

      He didn’t turn. “I’m taking you home.”

      A twig snapped as she stepped out onto the path. “I don’t want to go home.”

      “I can’t have you trailing me all over the island.”

      “How come?”

      “It’s dangerous.”

      She edged closer. “What’s dangerous?”

      He angled his head, taking a better look at her. She was short. Not abnormally, just kid-size. Genius observation.

      The girl had pale, freckled legs and a round body. She wore shorts and an untucked T-shirt with pit stains. The binoculars hung around her neck and a spiral notebook was clamped under one arm. Her hair was fuzzy, drawn into stubby braids that barely reached her shoulders. Behind a pair of wire-frame glasses, her hot, red face was squished into a frown.

      “You look like an angry tomato,” he said.

      Her mouth opened, then closed into an even tighter pucker. She shook off a few flecks of forest debris before shooting out her chin. “You look like a…a…peg-legged pirate!”

      He remembered the bandanna on his head and laughed. “Fair enough.”

      Her small, chubby hand clenched a pen. “How come it’s dangerous for me to follow you?”

      “Just because.” He moved off a couple of steps, but she kept pace. “Don’t you have parents? Shouldn’t you be at home?”

      “My mom’s working,” she blurted, then looked sorry she’d given that away. Still, she added, “I’d just be alone there.”

      “You shouldn’t tell that to a stranger.”

      She blinked. “I know.”

      He started off, taking the path to the left. “Don’t follow me anymore. Go home.”

      He listened to her moving behind him, relieved when she turned onto the path that led toward the more populated southern end of the island. He stopped and watched as she progressed slowly, kicking at pinecones, glancing over her shoulder.

      Her scowl deepened. “What are you doing?”

      “Watching to see that you really go.” He made a shooing motion.

      She stomped off, but he wasn’t convinced. He waited until she was out of sight, then followed, coming upon her almost immediately where the path twisted. She was scribbling inside her notebook, and looked up guiltily when he approached.

      “I thought you were going home.”

      She shrugged. “I didn’t say that. You did.”

      Spunky girl. “You can’t keep following me.”

      “I wasn’t. I was making—” She cut herself off by slapping shut the tablet.

      “What’s your name?” he asked.

      “I don’t tell strangers my name.”

      He nodded. “Do you live on the island?”

      “For now.”

      “Will you stop bothering me if I tell you my name?” She weighed the question, so he added an extra tidbit to tip the scales. “It’s not Potter.”

      Her СКАЧАТЬ