When Churchyards Yawn

By Cathy Vasas-Brown

Come and play in India ...

In Cypress Village, Oregon, a serial arsonist holds the residents hostage. Too afraid to leave their homes or fall asleep at night, citizens are frantic for a swift end to the crimes that threaten their tourism, properties, livelihoods and lives. With the advent of a long, dry summer, Lieutenant Carolyn Latham desperately strives to capture a malicious criminal who is always one step ahead of the law.
Across the globe, in isolated villages in India, people struggle to cope with the woes befalling them: illness, drought, crushing debt. Panchayats, assemblies of wise elders, are held to address the mounting fears of the community. The villagers agree to use the methods they know best to rout out what they believe to be witches in their midst.
When Carolyn receives a series of terrifying e-mails detailing unthinkable abominations in India, she recognizes the deft, diabolical hand of a persistent and ruthless nemesis. His invitation to come and play in India may be impossible to resist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cathy Vasas-Brown
• Release date: Nov 2, 2015

Cathy Vasas-Brown

After teaching elementary school for several years, Cathy Vasas-Brown's thoughts drifted to murder and in 2001, her first novel, Every Wickedness, was published by Doubleday, Canada. It was nominated for an Arthur Ellis Award for best first crime novel and had people who take blood thinners very worried. Cathy's second thriller, Some Reason in Madness, was published in 2004. In 2013, Vasas-Brown ventured into the world of independent publishing, and she released Safe as Churches, a grisly tale involving a diabolical villain who stalks women working in the phone-sex industry. It was selected as a top favorite on Indies Unlimited and introduced readers to a tenacious heroine, Carolyn Latham. This was followed by The Monitor, a dark tale about a manipulative puppet master who uses the Internet to cajole the depressed and disillusioned into forming suicide pacts. Sympathy for the Devil was released in early 2015, and When Churchyards Yawn in November that same year. Critics have claimed that Cathy "writes a slick, straightforward tale" with a "sinuous plot as her stories gallop to a climax." Though Cathy has been described as a writer who "shows a talent for great gore," she has a very soft spot for animals (and she like people, too). When not writing, she enjoys traveling, in-line skating, playing cards, cooking and going to concerts. She has been known to dance as if no one is watching. Her joie de vivre has led her to hot-air ballooning in the Napa Valley, parasailing in Tahiti, riding the Olympic bobsled in Lake Placid, and snorkeling on the Great Barrier Reef. Cathy looks forward to many more adventures and to thrilling readers with her fertile, if somewhat twisted, imagination.

Book preview

1

Bihar State, India. 2011

The jungle closes in. It bears down on the rural Indian village with the full weight of its suffocating heat. Banana leaves and massive creepers choke off the daylight. At night, green-eyed leopards prowl through the undergrowth, ravenous for fresh meat. Spiders, the size of a human face, search for blood. Snakes slither and spit and squeeze and devour.

There is no electricity. No safe drinking water. No roads in, no easy way out. The police never come. Neither do the doctors. The gravely ill are transported to understaffed clinics miles away by handcart or bicycle, bumping along rutted trails through dense bamboo groves and forests. Many die en route. Those who can’t afford medical care take their chances at home, surrendering their fate to the village ojha, or sorcerer. A few herbs, some mantras and the ideal planetary alignment might quiet a colicky child, ease an aching back, banish a throbbing headache. Some ohjas claim to hold the remedies for jaundice and poisonous snakebite. For a price. In exchange for a goat, some chickens, or a supply of rice beer, a cure can be bought. Some ojhas live quite well indeed.

An ojha’s life is not without its challenges. In this remote corner of Bihar state, a dozen villagers complain of nausea, sore muscles. They refuse to eat. They burn up with fever then feel chilled. For the malaria that is gripping the people, the ojha has no cure. This he will not admit.

Many of the Adivasi villagers are illiterate. Superstitious. Terrified.

And gullible.

On the outskirts of the village, Somra Kumari lives alone, her late husband’s land confiscated by her son-in-law. The widow has spent the day repairing the roof of her mud-thatched hut, a tribal taboo. Roof repair is the work of men, but none had been willing to help her. After a simple supper using edible roots from her kitchen garden, she retires, exhausted. In the hushed quiet of deepest night, the villagers creep stealthily closer.

Then chaos. A frenzied chorus of cries, the crowd fueled by alcohol and ignorance.

Daayan! Daayan!

Witch. Witch.

Hands are upon her. Six. Eight. Impossible to count. Somra screams. Pleads. Denies their accusations. They strip her, taunt her, beat her. In the mercy of darkness, she cannot see the glint of the machete’s blade.

They drag her, half dead already, blood streaming from the gaping hole where her right breast had once been, into the center of the village. A mob had already gathered near a sandalwood tree; circling the tree’s base is a network of twigs. By the time her son-in-law strikes the match, Somra has stopped screaming.

In the midst of the wild-eyed throng, Dr. Gideon Blake watches as the pyre consumes its latest victim, the rank smell of burning flesh seeping down his throat, clinging to his clothes. The witch has been routed out, her dark powers destroyed. The anopheles mosquito, the true villain in the malaria outbreak, has gotten off scot-free.

Irony of ironies, in the pocket of his jacket, Blake has enough quinine to administer to the sick. Tomorrow he will do just that, create a medical miracle.

The ojha’s wisdom will be proven correct. The revered sorcerer has spotted the witch, all right. For the ojha, this is a two-goat night.

For Blake, it is much more.

In Jharkhand, Uttar Pradesh, Chhattisgarh, Orissa, it is the same. Tales of beatings, rape, throats slit with sickles and families being hacked to death make the papers, the perpetrators rarely brought to justice, the witnesses to the crimes as guilty as the executioners.

Everywhere, the threat of torture hangs in the fetid air, death as close as the next breath.

Yes, rural India is a most suitable playground. Next weekend, Blake will visit Jharkhand.

2

Cypress Village, Oregon

Carolyn Latham wiped condensation from her bathroom mirror. Naked glory? Well, naked anyway. She forced her shoulders back and took a hard, appraising look. Her breasts, thanks to a regimen of push-ups and weight training, were still where they should be, the left one a fraction of an inch lower, one of God’s little jokes. Her stomach was flat, her thighs and calves well shaped and muscular, but not rock hard. If she squinted, she could just make out a fading, puckered rosette that marked the spot where a madman’s bullet had once slammed into her shoulder. A slightly darker scar decorated her back. At times she half-heartedly debated covering one of the scars with a tattoo, perhaps something floral then she realized the wound was a more accurate reflection of who she was—a trooper, a fighter, a survivor. She didn’t need a daisy or a rosebud to prettify that.

Still, this was the body she would soon be pressing against the bare skin of Simon Travers, the FBI agent she’d met a few months earlier. The air between them had been electric, even as they despaired over ever finding seven-year-old Abby Merrick, now in the temporary custody of Dale and Jeanne Lawton, a mid-fifties couple of empty nesters who delighted at the sound of a child’s footfall around their house once again, and who stood ready to hush away Abby’s nightmares, which came often.

Carolyn’s twin brother, Joshua, had just landed in Dhaka, Bangladesh, where he would be lending his counselling expertise to a charity working with casualties of violence. His fiancée, Paige, was holding down the home front with their dog, Parker. Carolyn’s suitcase was packed, too, for three carefree days—what were those like again?—in Yosemite with Simon.

She reached for her bathrobe, thinking that while her body might look darn good, she didn’t have a clue what to do with it. Carolyn had only been with one man, her ex-husband and high-school sweetheart, and though the physical part of her marriage to Gregg had been dynamite, their union had shattered on the sourest of notes. Since learning of Gregg’s affair with a co-worker, Carolyn had positioned herself firmly on the celibacy shelf, most of her time spent duking it out with serial killers and kidnappers and monsters that lurked on the Net. Leaping from that solitary perch to reignite her sexual self with someone new felt as strange as wearing a bikini to church, but most of the time, it was an exciting kind of strange. She was plagued with the typical doubts. Would he like her body? Would she please him? Would he please her? Would they awaken the next day cloaked in the realization that they’d made a colossal mistake? She cast her mind back to the few steamy sessions they’d had on her sofa, kissing each other breathless, blissful weightless moments where the rest of the criminal world faded away. While she couldn’t quite extend her fantasy to imagine herself as seducer and vamp slinking around their room at the inn, she had no trouble envisioning a rousing frolic between the sheets and Simon’s skilled mouth working its magic. The underwear she’d purchased for the occasion cost as much as her father’s first car.

She leaned closer to the glass. You are a piece of work.

Heavily lidded eyes stared back.

In the kitchen, Carolyn brewed green tea which she hated, but she’d heard on some health show that it lessened the chance of having a stroke. Her mother, now living somewhere in South Carolina with her dance instructor, had just suffered a mild one. She took her tea into the living room, clicked on a table lamp and booted up her laptop. Perhaps twinkle-toed George, whom Carolyn had only met once, had sent word about her mother’s progress.

There was no message from George, only an e-mail from Jokhim. Carolyn didn’t have a clue who Jokhim was, but he or she had sent her two e-mails the previous week, the first being an advertisement about luxury train travel in India. She knew better than to open mail from a stranger—Ziggy Takacs, the closest thing the Cypress Village police department had to a computer expert, had warned her often enough about viruses and scams—but in a fit of fatigue, Carolyn clicked on the message before she could catch herself. She had to admit the excursion aboard the Royal Rajasthan on Wheels looked fascinating, with its stops at the Taj Mahal and Ranthambore National Park, but at over four thousand dollars a pop, plus airfare, Carolyn reasoned she could see a tiger at the Portland Zoo for a fraction of the price. This Jokhim must have confused her with another Carolyn, one with money.

Jokhim’s second e-mail had nothing to do with exotic travel. An article, sent from hindustantimes.com, told of the mysterious disappearance of a woman from a village in Bihar state. She wouldn’t have opened the attachment, but the title had caught her eye. The Disappearing Dalit Women.

Now Jokhim was here again, and Carolyn’s curiosity was peaked. This time when she opened the e-mail, she saw an article from the Ranchi Express.

Ten Arrested in Witch-Hunt Death

Police made their way into the northern forested region of Chatra, hundreds of miles from Jharkhand’s capital, Ranchi, amid a swirl of reports of the slaughter of a trio of sisters. Sonkunwar, Santosh, and Swati Patil were lured by friends to an open field, believing they would be taken to a nearby railway construction site to earn a few rupees. Instead, they were set upon by fellow villagers who drove nails through their heads, tied them in sacks and threw them into the Damodar River. One of the arrested, Jainath Patra, the husband of Santosh, stated that the savage attack arose following the death of his only son from dysentery. The sisters had reputedly been practitioners of Dakini Vidya, and it was believed that this secretive alliance to the Mother Goddess brought about the child’s illness.

People throughout India continue to be outraged at reports of such brutality and are urging lawmakers in the state of Jharkhand to apply the stiffest penalty to the offenders. These heinous crimes do not accurately represent the attitudes of the Indian people at large, said Himanshi Dhotre, a member of the government’s National Commission for Women. Women in outlying, inaccessible areas need to have their voices heard. They need to know there is help for them.

Others are quick to blame law enforcement for its indifferent and haphazard approach to resolving the problem. In past incidents of witch-hunting, some perpetrators of violence against women have been sentenced to a year in prison and a fine of one thousand rupees, the punishment similar to that meted out for slapping someone. Other cases have been dismissed with no charges laid, citing the unreliability of witness statements. These acts are an abomination, Dhotre said. But police often dismiss the crimes as a social evil committed by a backward culture. The prejudice toward the Adivasi and its women is the true social evil.

Soon, it will be mid-summer in Jharkhand and the starvation period will begin. As the drought continues and more villagers die from hunger, some fear that more so-called witches will be blamed for the people’s inability to sustain themselves and that the Damodar River will once again be known as the River of Sorrows.

Carolyn’s stomach lurched. Try as she might, she could not blot out the excruciating agony those women must have suffered and how, imprisoned in those sacks, they must have prayed for a swift death. Sickening images flashed before her and for long minutes, she heard their deafening screams in her head.

Thanks, Jokhim, whoever the hell you are. Abby Merrick wouldn’t be the only one having nightmares.

What was the article doing on her computer? Moments later she concluded that in a few days, she would probably get a plea for funds from some bogus charity to aid the plight of persecuted Indian women.

She shut down her laptop, drank her tea, now lukewarm and revolting, and shook away the uncanny sensation of ghostly feet tiptoeing across her grave.

3

One billion people. Four thousand psychiatrists. No matter how you worked the math, a scary number of mentally ill men and women were walking around India without treatment. For Dr. Gideon Blake, the situation couldn’t have been more perfect. The three-hundred-percent shortfall of experts in his field meant that no one checked his forged credentials too closely, especially once he indicated his willingness—no, his calling —to serve the impoverished Dalit and reach out to those that others had forgotten.

For the urban upper classes in Delhi, going to a shrink was the new In Thing, as India began to crane its neck toward the West as a model to manage its economic transition. Blake worked four days a week at a hospital a short commute from his apartment, sometimes seeing close to forty patients a day to keep up with demand, counseling those complaining of panic attacks, job-related anxiety, and sexual disorders. They bemoaned their lazy servants and their inadequate partners. Blake bandaged the upper-class boo-boos.

He spent his Fridays running a street clinic in a vermin-infested slum, his office consisting of two folding chairs set precariously in the dirt in front of a cluster of corrugated tin huts. Flies buzzed and swarmed. Pigs rutted in the garbage. Rats scuttled everywhere, but rats were a sign of good luck. If there were rats, there was food.

The air reeked of acrid urine. Of excrement. Of despair.

After a rain, the unpaved laneways between the huts became rivulets of mud and raw sewage. Blake removed his shoes and put them in his knapsack. He rolled up his pant legs and waded through the worms and shit until he came to the spot where he usually set up. A line had already formed. When the people saw him, the harijans, still considered untouchable by some, smiled.

Amid the stench and the squalor, Blake was known as ach-cha dāktar, the good doctor.

He opened his chairs and reached out a hand to the first person standing before him. The man was as thin and fragile as a sapling, and hunched over, though he was no more than forty. His hands were filthy, his dry skin split open in places, his fingernails long and thick and yellowed. Blake grabbed hold of his hand and leaned close to listen, not flinching when he noticed the colony of lice squirming their way through his eyebrows.

It is hopeless, the man said. His name was Avinash Munda. He had come to the end of a construction job on a shopping mall in Gurgaon, a thriving new community just south of the city. We live on the construction site with the other workers. It is hell. Unsafe for the children. Every day they walk barefoot to the temporary school on ground littered with broken chunks of concrete and stacks of rebar.

Blake was well aware of the plight of migrant workers. Classed as unskilled, they earned the equivalent of fifty cents a day and worked well past sunset under the stark glare of fluorescent lights, with no helmets, no first-aid kits, no latrines. Demolition of existing buildings was carried out, not by wrecking balls or dynamite, but with sledgehammers and broken backs.

You need to provide for your family, Blake said. There is honor in all work.

Honor? Munda said. I have not known an honorable day since I was born. What kind of life is this? My wife has been approached by many, told she can earn extra money for the family by sleeping with some of the workers. And the way some of the men look at my daughter… We keep a pickax beside us when we sleep. We have been robbed once already, my daughter’s school supplies, the lentils we were going to cook for supper. We have nothing, and still they steal from us.

And soon your work will be done. The money will run out …

Tomorrow we will have to move. Look for another construction site, find someone who is hiring. Meanwhile, my baby son is shitting water.

Cholera, Blake thought. It was rampant in the shanty towns. Without medical intervention, the baby didn’t have much time before chronic dehydration would begin shutting down his organs. Then Munda would have something else to be profoundly depressed about.

You’re right to come and see me. You need help. Don’t feel you’ve been abandoned, my friend.

I need for my mind to be quiet. Just for a while. I don’t sleep. There is no joy. Only more pain. I think of death all the time. My own. How it would be better for everyone.

Blake was acutely attuned to the thoughts of the suicidal. For a few years it had been a little hobby of his to nudge those who complained of wanting to die to put up or shut up. Once, when he’d met with resistance, he’d had to be more forceful and took the matter into his own hands. Now he wandered the globe, losing himself in countries that God and Allah and all other deities had forsaken. A mind-blowing paradox. It was among the poor that he found fulfillment. But it was among the rich that he wanted to dwell.

But would your death really be better for everyone? Blake asked. Your wife? What would she do without you? Fall into the greedy arms of those other men for a few rupees so she can feed her children? And what about your daughter? What lies ahead for her, with no father to protect her from the leering gazes of the workers?

Munda hung his head, the hump between his shoulder blades standing out in sharp relief against the colorful sari of the woman next in line. Perhaps we should all die.

The ach-cha dāktar leaned closer, smelled the pungent odor of sweat and soiled clothing and desperation. What was that you said?

They spoke for a while longer, Blake taking some antibacterial soap from his knapsack and cleansing the man’s hands. He applied salve to the cracks and massaged the rough skin. He used a nit comb to remove the lice from his eyebrows. The ach-cha dāktar was indeed a caring man.

He wondered about the extent and duration of Munda’s illness. He could administer a round of Prozac and hope that Munda could wait for the anti-depressant’s effects to kick in. But Avinash Munda didn’t look like he had weeks left in him. For Munda to be at peace, Blake would prescribe a more immediate cure.

4

The Ahwahnee hotel was a magnificent lodge nestled in the middle of Yosemite. Though Carolyn had checked out its website, nothing could have prepared her for the awesome sight of the place as it rose majestically amid a forest of trees. Once inside, Carolyn’s jaw dropped again at the massive stone fireplaces, soaring ceilings and giant stenciled beams. For a brief, quavery moment, the Arts and Crafts architecture reminding her of The Aerie, a gracious home in Cypress Village where unspeakable horror had once occurred.

So many demons. Carolyn needed to forget about the Aerie and the four who died there. She needed to forget about the torment Abby had suffered, too, and she absolutely needed to forget about her cyber nemesis, the Monitor, and the heinous way he had manipulated so many to end their lives. She had ended his crime spree in Oregon, but her self congratulations had been short-lived. Just shy of a year into his incarceration, Dr. Samuel J. Risk had engineered an ingenious, if messy, escape. The man who had come to call himself the Monitor had left the wet work to another con, a psychopath serving six consecutive sentences who had nothing to lose. In order for Risk to stroll undetected out of the prison disguised as an orderly from the infirmary, someone needed to create a distraction. His accomplice, in exchange for Risk’s promise to settle his sister’s gambling debt, cheerfully obliged by gouging out a guard’s eye with a spoon.

Samuel Risk was the one that got away. The monster was still out there, and Carolyn knew he wouldn’t stop until he was caught. Or dead.

But this was a time to forget. To forge happy memories for a change. To try to let go of all racing thoughts, dark moments, frantic worries. Carolyn had confessed to Paige that she hadn’t been sleeping well, that even in the middle of packing her lacy undies in anticipation of reconnecting with her vagina, she still obsessed about the Monitor. What was he doing? To how many? Paige gently suggested anti-depressants, just to ease Carolyn over the hurdle, dull the pain. Paige had banished her own pain, crediting her rejuvenation to what she called her Zoloft year.

But, Paige said when she heard about Carolyn’s getaway with Simon, try orgasm therapy first.

Carolyn loved her future sister-in-law. Joshua better marry you quick, she told her, or I will.

Carolyn checked in, not expecting Simon to arrive for another hour. She gawked at the view of the park from the balcony then unpacked her suitcase, feeling strange about the ritual. This was the first vacation she’d had in years, and the very first with someone other than a husband. Tucking clothes into a dresser drawer and leaving plenty of room for Simon’s things, she tried to imagine scenarios of how their time together would play out. Would Simon walk into the room, take one look at her and jump her bones? Would it be so bad if he did? Was she kidding?

She told herself not to overthink it, just go with the flow, which she stunk at.

By the time Simon turned his key in the lock, Carolyn had freshened up and was wearing a crisp white shirt and khakis, all outdoorsy and practical on the outside, all lacey and perfumey underneath. She found herself running at him, every pretense of being breezy and cool flung out the window. Their bodies collided in a gleeful spinning embrace, Carolyn’s legs wrapped tightly around Simon’s waist. Amid simultaneous proclamations of it’s so good to see you’s and I missed you’s they kissed and laughed and when their kisses deepened, Simon murmured against her mouth, How long can we hold out? His lips traced a soft line down her neck. I wouldn’t want to seem over-eager.

No, Carolyn whispered. That would be presumptuous. How about ten seconds?

They counted together, got as far as four, then raced toward the bed, clothes coming away in a mad jumble of denim and silk.

Simon wasn’t Gregg. His body was taut and lean where her ex’s had been softer; his lovemaking was more urgent, while Gregg had been an unhurried lover, his foreplay an art form. But this was nice. Very nice. And long overdue.

They nestled together afterwards in tangle of sheets, the rhythmic pulse of Simon’s heartbeat lulling Carolyn into half-sleep.

Mid-cuddle, Simon’s stomach growled.

I know my timing couldn’t be worse, but mind if we grab a bite to eat? I only had a cup of bitter coffee and some stale cookies at the airport.

They got dressed quickly and made their way to the hotel lounge where they ordered beer and burgers then followed the meal with a two-hour horseback ride through the park, their first official date. Back in the room, they kicked off their shoes and settled in on the sofa to admire the view from their window. Talk turned to the subject of Abby, who had brought them together in the first place.

How’s she doing?

She’s working things out. Joshua’s been a big help.

Simon, an agent with the FBI’s Child Abduction Rapid Deployment team, had lent his expertise to the search for Abby and knew full well the trauma she would be experiencing in the aftermath of her enforced confinement. This wasn’t the time to discuss Abby’s panic attacks, how without warning she would bolt for the Lawtons’ front door and rush outside to assure herself that she was truly free. She didn’t talk about Abby’s exhaustion, borne from being hyperalert to danger at all hours, nor her vigilante behavior on the schoolyard, chasing down bullies until she became something of a bully herself.

She’ll get better, Carolyn added.

It’ll take time.

It always does.

Simon gently stroked her hair. Landed a soft kiss on her cheek. Now that we’re officially a couple, his husky voice rippled against her skin, I hope you don’t mind a little honesty.

Sure, Carolyn said. What is it?

We both smell like horse. How about you grab the first shower, and I’ll see if I can rustle up some respectable wine?

You got it, cowboy. Oh, hell. I can’t believe I just said that.

No worries. Every guy wants to be a cowboy at least once in his life. Now go wash your hide.

When she rose, he gave her an affectionate swat. Carolyn headed for the bedroom, grabbed her bag of toiletries then moved into the adjoining bathroom. She wondered whether she should lock the door or leave it open—here I am again, and I’m all yours. In the end, she closed the door but didn’t engage the lock. The decision to enter or not would be Simon’s. Clearly, while in her doctor’s and dentist’s waiting rooms, Carolyn hadn’t paid close enough attention to magazine articles on how to begin an affair. She was no Cosmo girl.

Toweling off, she was faced with another dilemma. Emerge from the room in a bathrobe with nothing underneath? Dazzle him with a saucy glimpse of her lacy lingerie? In the end, she decided on a combination—frilly underwear on, then the bathrobe. She poked her head into the room and was about to announce shower’s free but stopped short. Simon was on his cell phone.

Come on, he was saying, his tone firm, you know our agreement.

Carolyn pulled back into the bathroom, but Simon’s voice was loud enough for her to hear anyway.

I’ve been reasonable, and I’ve been flexible, he continued. But you’re not going to do this to me. Not again. I’ve booked time off work. I’ve made plans.

There was a pause as Simon paced before the window, his mouth set in a straight, angry line. Then, Put Ben on the phone.

Ben. Simon’s son. The result of a brief affair had produced a child, one he didn’t get to see often enough. Ben’s mother, according to Simon, would have been happier if he’d just disappeared from his son’s life, but Simon wasn’t built that way. He saw his son for a week during Christmas and for a month in the summer. For the long times in between, Simon had to be content with being a telephone dad. He spoke to Ben every other night, listening wistfully to his stories about what was happening in school, how tall he was getting, and his latest favorite video game. Last week, Simon told her Ben had extoled the educational merits of Scene Memory and that he was getting pretty good at Level four.

What do you mean, you can’t?

Another pause. What? When? And you weren’t going to tell me? Where is he?

Then Simon was scribbling furiously on the pad of paper the hotel had placed inside a leather folder on the desk. Moments later he ended the call and tucked the phone into his pants pocket.

Carolyn tiptoed into the room, robe cinched tightly around her. She waited, her breath caught in her throat.

Simon turned toward her.

Everything all right? she asked when too much quiet time had elapsed.

He shook his head. It’s Ben.

He’s supposed to come and stay with you starting next week, right? Change of plans?

He’s in Children’s Hospital Boston.

Carolyn went to him. What happened?

Underage teen joyriding in a stolen car. It jumped the curb, came barreling up onto the front lawn where Ben was playing …

She saw the pain in Simon’s eyes and knew he was picturing his son, hurt and vulnerable, and at the same time trying not to picture it. How bad? she asked.

Broken leg. Some broken ribs. He fought for composure. They don’t think there’s been any brain damage.

He’s conscious?

Yes.

Get your things together. I’ll see about getting you a flight to Boston.

There was a flight leaving Fresno at seven thirty. Simon would arrive in Boston the early the next morning, be there to share breakfast with his son when he awoke.

Carolyn … Simon emerged from the bedroom, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. I don’t know what to say. I’d really hoped …

She stopped him with a brief kiss. Don’t you dare apologize. Just call and let me know how Ben is doing. And how you’re doing.

Another short kiss and Simon was gone.

Carolyn exchanged her lacy underwear for baggy sweats and dialed room service. She ordered a Caesar salad and apple pie. Yes, she’d love chicken on her salad. Yes, she still wanted the bottle of pinot gris Mr. Travers had ordered. Sitting around in her fat pants and getting very drunk seemed like a divine way to spend the first night of her vacation in Yosemite. Perhaps under the influence of too much wine, she could forget that she didn’t come first in anyone’s life.

Tomorrow she would treat herself to a carb-loaded breakfast downstairs then take a hike around the property before catching a flight back to Portland. Maybe she’d bunk in with Paige, just two carefree girls having a pajama party. With a chocolate lab. Yippee.

She uncorked the wine when it came, tried to turn her bachelor dinner into a leisurely affair, but somehow lingering over a salad for one while admiring the view from the window didn’t hold much cachet. The long night stretched ahead. Carolyn crawled into the king-sized bed and set up camp on the right side with a book she’d packed but was sure she’d never crack open, and her laptop. A third glass of wine provided the requisite buzz.

She clicked on the television for company. Glum news spoke of a street gang shooting in L.A., an end-of-the-school-year party gone wrong closer to home in Salem. On the international front, things were bleak as well, with a Maoist uprising in Andhra Pradesh. The rebels attacked an outlying police outpost, seized the weapons and killed thirty-three officers. The mention of violence in India reminded her of the mysterious Jokhim. She hoped he or she had found someone else to share bad tidings with.

Carolyn flipped open her laptop and logged on. There was already an e-mail from Simon, who avoided texting when communicating with her, the short forms and clipped style too impersonal for his liking.

Carolyn, hi—I’m at the airport, just waiting to board. Miss you already and promise I’ll make this up to you in a big way. Thanks for being so understanding—you know Boston’s where I’ve got to be right now … talk soon. Love, Simon.

Love, Simon,