“One.”

  “Well, it’s spring break.”

  “I don’t want to sit by myself, Bobby.”

  “You won’t, Andy. We’ll all sit together.”

  “We need five chairs, Bobby. One for you, one for me, one for Donny, and—”

  “They’re called seats, Andy. Not chairs.”

  “We need five.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “All right, I’ve got five left in economy, sir. How old is your granddaughter?”

  “She’s not my granddaughter.”

  “I’m six.”

  “Andy, be quiet.”

  “Sorry, Donny.”

  “She’s three.”

  “Then you’ll need five seats, sir.”

  “Tell the lady I don’t want to sit by myself, Bobby.”

  “She knows, Andy.”

  “Sir?”

  “Five seats together, economy, Toronto to Maui.”

  “Together?”

  “Together.”

  “You may have to change planes a few times.”

  “Fine.”

  They left Toronto on Thursday morning, five seats together, on a flight to Winnipeg via Thunder Bay, where they changed planes and flew to Calgary via Saskatoon. Delayed by de-icing issues in Saskatoon, they arrived later than expected in Calgary and missed the connecting flight to Vancouver when Andy threw up on Stafford’s Berluti shoes after running the length of the airport on a full stomach of warm Sprite. They were delayed another two hours in Calgary until five seats together came up on a flight to Kelowna, which connected them to a charter flight to Maui populated by vacationers already drunk from preflight mai tais in the departure lounge. Flying west and into the sun, Stafford felt suspended somewhere between daylight and darkness, reclaiming hours already lived. It was, he said later, a long trip.

  “This is nice,” Andy said when they found their seats in the last row of the plane where seats could not be pushed back and the sound of toilets flushing in the rear washrooms could be heard even over the sound of the engines and the merriment of travelers not ready, as Agnes would say, to shut the fuck up.

  “This is nice,” Andy said again and leaned into Stafford’s shoulder, at which point Lucy dropped her pacifier and began to cry.

  Stafford had never flown with a child before, and now he had four of them. When Callie was small and they took her with them on holidays, Agnes invariably went ahead with one or two of the nannies and Callie would travel first class surrounded by women whose sole function was to ensure that she was appropriately stimulated and calmed. Stafford would arrive a few days later, held up by business matters he always said, by which time Agnes would have forgotten the many irritations of traveling with their daughter.

  So Stafford had never walked the aisles of a plane with a three-year-old in his arms. He had never been stopped at the entrance to business class and asked to return to the economy cabin. He had never changed a diaper in an airplane washroom. He had never crawled under the seat in front of him looking for the keys he dropped when a child batted them out of his hand. He had never had a flight attendant say, “Sorry, one each,” when he asked for a clean blanket or an extra pillow. He had never had to listen to queries from strangers stuffed into their economy seats asking if “the kid” was tired or hungry or just planning to cry all the way to Maui. He had never been head-butted.

  But five hours into the last flight, he was past caring. Lucy lay heavily against his chest, stirring only when he moved. The boys were asleep, Andy lying on Bobby’s lap, Bobby leaning into Donny, who sat on the aisle, as far away from Stafford Hopkins as he could get. It had not escaped anyone’s notice that Donny Shepherd had not said a single word to Stafford since they left Napanee.

  The Shepherds’ will had safeguarded their right to appoint a guardian and trustee of their choice. It did not ensure it was the right choice or even a good one, and Stafford found himself fluctuating between horror and elation that he had said yes. Yes, to both roles. Yes, he would protect and manage the Shepherds’ estate. Yes, he understood the responsibilities. And yes, he would take them. He would take this angry teenager and his younger brothers who were doing their best to be brave and the little girl who never slept. He would take them from their shabby little home in Napanee, Ontario, to his beautiful house on Maui and there they would decide what to do next. They would figure it out together, and if there was a miracle prior to their arrival, Agnes would be there to welcome them. The public guardian and trustee appointed by the Ministry of the Attorney General had signed off. Roger Nuland had done his job, and it was Stafford’s turn to do his.

  He would stay an additional three days in Napanee, he said, and meet with as many local advisers as possible within that time frame. He would then take the children to Maui, where they would make plans for the future.

  “Three days!” Tammy Bell had said. “How about three weeks?”

  But Stafford knew if he stayed three weeks in Napanee, he would lose whatever courage or stupidity he seemed to have found there. He would fly home on Thursday, he said, and he would take the Shepherd children with him. There was no way around it. It had to be done, and dragging the process out for another month would only make things worse. But he would meet with whomever Roger lined up in the meantime. The rest would have to wait.

  Under Roger’s guidance, then, he had met with realtors, insurance agents, and property lawyers on Monday afternoon. He would purchase the house outright, he decided, and hold it in trust for Bobby’s grandchildren until they were old enough to decide what to do with it. There would be no need to sell anything. The contents would be put into storage. The house would be managed by an agency recommended by Tammy Bell. The insurance would be increased. Nothing would be sold.

  He had met with the Shepherds’ family doctor on Tuesday morning who told him Andy Shepherd had asthma, Lucy was overdue for her next round of vaccinations, Bobby was allergic to penicillin, and Donny’s broken collarbone would need to be reset if he dislocated his shoulder again.

  “How did he—?” Stafford asked.

  “Fast pitch.”

  “Is he any—?”

  “Second place, regional champions.”

  “Who—?

  “Pickering, 4–3. You’ll need these.”

  “What—?”

  “Record release forms. One each. Sign, date, and have your doctor send them back here. We can’t forward the files to Maui until we have the releases.”

  “I don’t have a doctor on Maui.”

  “I thought you lived in Hawaii.”

  “I do, but my doctors are in LA.”

  “Oh, that’ll be handy.”

  He had met with teachers, principals, and school guidance counselors on Tuesday afternoon, all of whom cautioned him about the danger of pulling children out of school following a traumatic event. The Shepherd boys had already missed too much school. Bobby would likely catch up without too much intervention. He was a good student, independent and reasonably organized for a twelve-year-old boy, which was to say, not much. But Donny was behind in English and math even before the accident and he might not make the year if he missed any more school. He needed to get back into the classroom, back into his normal routine. A troubled teenager without a routine was a recipe for disaster. And Donny Shepherd was troubled.

  Andy Shepherd was in a category of his own. He was not going to pass grade one and it was unlikely he would ever be classified as a mainstream student. There were signs of significant learning disabilities and he needed to be assessed. His parents had been reluctant to accept that there was anything wrong with their youngest son other than an excess of affection for others. They did not want him tested. But he was floundering, and the other children were not always kind to him. He couldn’t read. He didn’t know the alphabet. He had boundary issues. He hugged the other children and kissed them. It was inappropriate, and the children had complained to their parents, who had complained to the principal, who had told the teacher to do something about it. But Andy was oblivious to social signals. He couldn’t transition smoothly between activities. He wet his pants. He fell asleep in class. He had poor hand-eye coordination. He couldn’t remember his teacher’s name. He sucked his thumb. He had trouble counting. He didn’t recognize pattern numbers. He drooled.

  “Well, what can he do?” Stafford had finally asked when the long list of Andy’s failings had been presented to him by the guidance counselor.

  “Do?”

  “Is he good at anything?”

  “Well, he hasn’t been assessed. That’s the problem. I mean, there are so many learning disabilities now. This is a very complex area, Mr. Hopkins. There are no simple answers.”

  “I’m asking for your assessment.”

  “Mine?”

  “Yes, yours. Is there anything this little boy does well?”

  “Well—he’s hopeful. I’ll give him that.”

  He had met with the elderly couple who lived next door to the Shepherds’ house on Tuesday evening. They wanted a private meeting, they said, preferably with a lawyer present. The Shepherds’ cat had moved in with them and needed to be dewormed and would Mr. Hopkins want that done before they sent the cat to Hawaii, and would he be covering the expenses?

  He had met with the Shepherds’ bank manager on Wednesday morning who went through the accounts and told him Donald Shepherd took a hit when the factory downsized and never made up the losses.

  “It’s a mess,” he said, “but I expect you know that. Not enough time. Not enough money. I never saw a man try that hard.”

  He had met with a girl named Dakota who stopped him on the street outside the bank. She had something for Donny, she said, a T-shirt he had left at her house.

  “Trust me,” she said, as if Stafford might decline the item she twisted in her hands. “He’ll want it back.”

  He had met with the family dentist on Wednesday afternoon who gave him a box of dental records and two additional retainers for Donny, who had a tendency, he said, to lose them.

  “Bobby’s missing a lateral incisor and Andy has an OMD. These are great kids, by the way. I hope you know that. Great kids. I’ve known them all their lives. I knew their dad before he met Marilyn.”

  “A what?”

  “Orofacial myofunctional disorder. He’s a tongue thruster. I’m not a fan of the new appliances, not for a boy like Andy. Speech therapy is a better option. Your family dentist will have an opinion, but in Andy’s case, and Lucy’s, you might want to find a pediatric dentist. Between Lucy’s pacifier and Andy’s thumb, things could go south in a hurry. And watch the apple juice. That stuff is lethal.”

  “You knew their dad?”

  “Twenty-three years. We met at Queen’s.”

  “I didn’t know he went to Queen’s.”

  “He didn’t. He worked on the maintenance crew. I was in first-year science. I didn’t make the Queen’s hockey team, so I joined a beer league. Don was a right-winger.”

  “Good player?”

  “Better than some, but we’re talking beer league here.”

  “Why didn’t he go to university?”

  “You know, I used to ask him that all the time. Not so much after he met Marilyn, though. He was nuts about her, and when he got the job at the Alcan factory, they got married and moved to Napanee. I was his best man.”

  “What did he say?”

  “About what?”

  “When you asked him why he didn’t go to university—why he shoveled snow and fixed toilets instead of going to class.”

  “He said it wouldn’t change anything. He knew what he wanted.”

  “To work on a maintenance crew.”

  “Don Shepherd wanted to get married and have a bunch of kids. He didn’t want to be lonely. He never said that directly, but that’s what I think now, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot since the accident. You know, Stafford—you don’t mind if I call you Stafford, do you?”

  “Please do.”

  “I’ve been divorced twice. My first wife is suing me for a fifty percent share in a cottage I bought after the divorce, which is now owned by my second wife. Ex-wife, I should say. My son goes to a private school in Toronto. He’s in grade seven. He’s busy. His mother tells me he’s gifted, but I wouldn’t know because I never see him, and when I do, he tells me he’s bored. I think he’s boring. Don and Marilyn were happy, and their kids were happy because their parents were happy. I don’t know why but they were, and I’ll miss seeing that. Here, don’t forget the retainers. And good luck. Keep in touch.”

  And last, and in some ways against his better judgment, he had met with the minister who had married Donny and Marilyn, baptized their children—and presided over their parents’ funerals.

  “There are a lot of people praying for them right now,” he said, ushering Stafford into the church office. “Would you like to hear about the funeral? Here, let me get you some coffee. It’s decaf.”

  “Keep in touch,” the dentist said. But what would that look like? Stafford asked himself now, sitting upright in the last row of a charter flight to Maui, Lucy fast asleep in his arms as the plane commenced its final descent into Kahului Airport.

  It had been six days since he left Maui. His car would be in the parking lot. There were no car seats and not enough room in the trunk for the luggage. Andy could manage without a car seat. Donny could hold Lucy on his lap. It was late and the roads would be clear. They would be home by midnight if nothing went wrong. Six days, he thought.

  CHAPTER 22

  Fear

  Fear is pain arising from the anticipation of evil.

  —Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics

  Thursday, March 13, 2003

  Maui

  SIX FUCKING DAYS, SHE thought. Six fucking days of Stafford fucking Hopkins bullshit.

  And she couldn’t tell anyone. It was too humiliating. She couldn’t tell her tennis pro. She couldn’t tell her friends. And she certainly couldn’t tell the idiot standing in her front hallway trying to figure out why the new security system still wasn’t fucking working that her husband, the brilliant and infamous Stafford fucking Hopkins, didn’t think his wife was important enough to tell her where he was.

  “Okay, Mrs. Hopkins, so you’re sure you’re not deactivating the zone light when the memory light is flashing? Because that will disarm the system if you use the four-digit access code instead of the six-digit master code or—or—if the memory light is on and an alarm has occurred during the last alarm period.”

  “Or—or—it just doesn’t fucking work!”

  “Mrs. Hopkins, I appreciate that you’re upset, but it’s getting late and I’ve been working on this since noon.”

  “I do apologize. We fired the other security company for a reason. We had a break-in and the alarm didn’t go off. Kind of a failure, I’d say. So we need to make this work, preferably before the next break-in.”

  “You’ll have to change the codes.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, because you fired the other company.”

  “Right.”

  “Pick something you’ll remember. Your anniversary. Your birthday. Your mother’s birthday.”

  “September 1, 1930.”

  “You’re not supposed to tell me, Mrs. Hopkins.”

  But there had been another break-in. Not her house again, thank God! One of the unoccupied houses on the far side of the complex. There were three houses on that side and two of them were for sale. They were not prime lots, and the homes built there were smaller and shared a pool. The third house was in a rental pool managed by the owners’ association, which disliked renters almost as much as it did property owners who needed the extra income. Don’t buy here if you can’t afford it was the general consensus among the other owners. Buy a condo. Go to Florida.

  So everyone was understandably jittery. Tense! The police had been by twice that day. They were questioning everyone. Cheryl told her Jim lost it—just totally and completely lost it—when the police tramped across his new lawn, but Agnes was conciliatory, appreciative even of what the police could or could not do if they felt like it.

  No, they told her. No, they didn’t think there was a connection between the two break-ins. Yes, they were concerned. Very concerned. Tighten up security, they told her, until we make an arrest. Keep your doors and windows locked at night and don’t open your door to anyone unless they’ve been cleared by gatehouse security.

  Yes, she would do that, she told them. She would lock everything up and set the new alarm system on loud. And if anyone came through her front door without her knowledge or consent, she would lock herself in the bathroom and call 911.

  In truth, Agnes was afraid. She hadn’t slept for days. The old nightmares had returned, and when the trade winds came up in the afternoons, rattling the umbrellas and stirring up the water in the swimming pool, she roamed the house like a ghost looking for a familiar chair. How could Stafford leave her here in this great dark house all by herself? There was no long sunset in Hawaii. Just the steady descent of a sun into the sea, and after that, nothing.

  She would take one of Cheryl’s sleeping pills, she decided. She would lock up, set the new code, and take a pill. Stafford wouldn’t be home that night. All the regular flights from the mainland arrived before ten. A few charters came later, but nothing, she thought, nothing in this world or the next would put Stafford Hopkins on a charter flight to Maui. The pill would knock her out, the alarm would wake her up, and if the shit hit the fan, well, she had a gun now, didn’t she.

  Even Donny smiles when they land, a brief lapse of teenage judgment that he corrects when he sees Stafford watching him.

  “Aloha,” the flight attendants are saying. “Welcome to Maui.”

  “I can’t talk Hawaii,” Andy says. “Can you talk any Hawaii, Bobby?”

  “We’re in the USA, Andy. Americans talk English.”

  “What kind of English?”

  “They’re just saying hello and stuff,” Donny says. “Aloha is ‘hello’ in Hawaiian.”