A Matter of Time (5 page)

Reaching the Harris Property, they turned right, into the drive and up the hill. It struck Bartholomew how rare it was to
find such a large piece of undeveloped land on the island.

At the top of the hill was a tiny, whitewashed, three-pew chapel, with a breathtaking view of Great Sound and
Hamilton Harbour in the distance. It was so quaint, Bartholomew had to smile.

Adjacent to it was the ancient quarry, an area about the size of two tennis courts. The gray walls of hewn stone were eight
or ten feet tall, covered with dense underbrush. The quarry floor was flat and grassy, and in the center grew a huge old poinciana
tree, probably as old as the quarry itself.

The cottage at the west end was even smaller than he’d supposed. Square, squat, and blunt, it was Early Maginot Line. Grabbing
his duffel bag, he followed Father Francis to the door. The latter undid the padlock, opened it, and turned on the light.

“Here’s how it’s going to be,” he said. “We’re going to leave you completely alone. Your only contact with us will be at morning
Mass. And on Sunday mornings, you and I will take the bus into Hamilton, to attend Mass at the Cathedral. If you really need
to talk, I’ll be available.”

He opened the window to let in some fresh air. “I’ve talked to Brother Anselm, and he’s told me of your landscaping abilities.”
The old priest nodded appreciatively. “We can use some of that around here. You’ll find everything you need in the tool shed
by the main house. Do whatever you think needs doing, and the more, the better.”

He opened the refrigerator and checked it, then the cupboard above, checking to make sure the sisters had left Bartholomew
enough to get started. “Grocery store’s up the main road, about a half-hour walk from here.”

Taking out his wallet, he counted out three twenties. “This should keep you for the first week. But be careful; since everything
has to be shipped in, it’s twice as expensive
as at home. And keep your food covered, or you’ll have ants everywhere.”

He turned to leave. “Well, have a good retreat,” he said with a smile. “We’ll be praying for you.”

Bartholomew put a hand on his arm. “Wait, Father. You said ‘the first week’—how many weeks is it going to be?”

The latter just smiled. “As long as it takes, my son.” And with that, he left to join Brendan in the car.

As they pulled away, Brother Bartholomew imagined the great hollow
clang
of a cellblock door closing behind him.

5
  
  
laventura

As the late afternoon sun bathed Cap d’Antibes in liquid golden light, Neil and Marcia Carrington reclined in the cockpit
of their 82-foot schooner, sipping Bombay Sapphire gin and bitters and watching their crew, all in white, load the last of
the supplies for their three-week Atlantic crossing.

“We can’t wait any longer, darling,” said Marcia, her blond hair up under a gondolier’s hat. “We promised Anson we’d be there
to watch him in the Gold Cup. If he’s ever going to beat Dennis, he’ll need all the support he can get.”

She waited for her husband to respond, but his attention was given to the crew’s activities.

“That’s why I invited Tim and Lydia, and Stuart and Stacey to join us,” she went on, “I mean, it’s the least we can do.” She
peered at him over the top of her sunglasses. “Are you listening to a word I’m saying?”

“Anson needs all the support he can get, so you invited Tim and Lydia, and Stuart and Stacey to join us, because it’s the
least we can do.”

“I
hate
it when you do that!” Marcia exclaimed, standing up. “I might as well be talking to a tape recorder!”

Her husband, sensing that anything he might say now would be used against him, remained silent.

Which only irritated her more. “Well, we’ve simply got to get going! We’ve lost two days, as it is! We’ll be lucky to get
to Bermuda before the regatta begins.”

Her husband, dressed in a white polo shirt and white ducks like his crew (though twice their age and considerably thicker),
at last turned his Ray-Bans in her direction. “I just don’t feel right about leaving without knowing what’s happened to Sterling’s
boy. Sterling’s been my friend since London School of Economics.”

Marcia tapped the teak railing with impeccably lacquered nails. She tried reasoning. “What more can we do, darling? We’ve
told the local gendarmerie all we know. We even found a picture of Kevin for them in the ship scrapbook. And you
know
they’ve looked everywhere.”

He nodded and stared glumly at the brass binnacle.

Suddenly she brightened. “Darling! Why don’t you call Sterling! He may have even heard from Kevin by now!”

Neil rubbed his chin. “I was going to wait until we had something definite to tell him.”

His wife let her impatience creep into her voice. “But darling, we
do
have something definite! He picked up a woman. A local, older than him. He persuaded her to leave. They went to another place.
She left. He left. Now she’s gone. And so is her car. And so is Kevin. End of story!” She shrugged and smiled. “A happy ending,
I suspect, for both of them.”

Holding her smile, she waited. “Oh, come on, darling!”
she finally cried. “They’re probably in Paris by now—or halfway to Rome!”

With a sigh, Neil capitulated. “I’ll call Sterling.” He disappeared through the hatch and down the ship’s ladder.

When he emerged a few minutes later,
he
was smiling. “Well, darling, once again you were right.”

“I was? How wonderful! How?”

“Sterling was unfazed. Apparently Kevin is given to impulsive behavior. Has a history of suddenly dropping everything and
just taking off.” He laughed. “Sterling wished us bon voyage.”

“He did? Well then, I say anchors aweigh!”

Her husband put an arm around her. “You want some more good news? When I was below, Dieter informed me that the chef has a
cousin who’d come over from Marseilles to see him. According to the chef, the man’s had yacht experience and—just happens
to be ‘between boats,’ as it were. His passport’s current, and he’d be most happy to sail with us, so we won’t have to go
shorthanded. I gave my approval.”

Marcia’s brow furrowed. “I thought we made crew decisions together.”

“We do, darling. But as you pointed out, we’re a bit pressed for time. We can’t exactly spend a few days interviewing, now
can we?”

“I suppose not,” she allowed, still frowning. “Does Dieter like him?”

“Obviously.” Neil paused. “Although I suspect he also likes the prospect of not having to work himself and the others like
dogs. They’ll have a hard enough time as it is, making up the two days.”

“Then I take it, it’s a
fait accompli
.”

Her husband nodded. “The new man came aboard with that last load of supplies.”

“Well, I trust Dieter’s judgment,” she mused, studying the crew as they moved about the schooner, making ready to depart.
“Which one is he? These sunglasses aren’t prescription.”

“He’s that older one, there,” said Neil, pointing, “the one just going down the forward hatch.”

She squinted. “He’s a
lot
older, if you ask me. And frankly, darling, he looks a bit, well—rough.”

Now it was Neil who was losing patience. “Darling, it’s not as if we’re going to be photographed for
Town & Country
. We did that
last
year, remember?”

“No need to get snippy,” she countered, watching the new man disappear below. “I see Dieter was able to find an outfit for
him.”

Her husband nodded. “Everything but the white Topsiders, which fortunately he already had. A new pair, in fact.”

“Good. Let’s go; I’m bored with the Cap.”

Neil did not respond. Shading his eyes, he watched a launch coming towards them. “I’m afraid, darling, there’s going to be
one more delay. If I’m not mistaken, that’s the police.”

It was. In a few minutes Inspector Roland joined them in the cockpit.

Noting Marcia’s expression, he said, “I’m sure you’re anxious to sail, so I’ll keep this brief. I just wanted to make sure
that you’ll let us know if you hear
anything
of the boy’s whereabouts. If he contacts you, or you hear from his family—anything at all. Otherwise, we must keep his file
open.”

“As it happens, I spoke with his father just before you
came,” Neil informed him. “He hasn’t heard from him, but he’s not too surprised. Apparently the boy’s done this before.”

“Done what?”

“Taken off without telling anyone. He’s impulsive, it would seem.”

The inspector raised an eyebrow.

“Manic-depressive,” explained Marcia.

“Oh.” He took out a little notebook and made a note.

“Inspector,” Neil asked, “what about the woman?”

“Her name is Toni Remy. She fancies herself an artist and hangs around the Cap in the summertime. I think her family sends
her money from time to time.”

“What makes you say that?” queried Marcia, curious to know the policeman’s deductive process.

The inspector gave a Gallic shrug. “She does not sell many paintings and doesn’t seem to work.” He gazed at the setting sun,
now a blood-red orb, bisected by the western horizon. “Toni’s not a bad sort, though she has bad taste in men. She has
un penchant
for getting involved with some really
méchants
characters, the worst of whom it was my pleasure to put on ice six years ago.” He scowled. “Hector Vincennes—a dirty man
in a dirty business.”

“What business?” asked Marcia.

“Drugs. But he was a big fish, bigger than most. He’d set up a whole new trade route for heroin, through Algeria and Morocco.
Fancied himself the new French Connection.” He frowned at the recollection. “Nasty piece of work. He enjoyed the killing part
more than the dealing part. His victims died slowly, in as much pain as he could inflict.”

Marcia shivered deliciously, eyeing the inspector with new respect. “And you were the one who put him away?”

“I should have killed him. Our system is too lenient.”

The sun was gone now, and above them a mackerel sky was shading towards crimson, magenta, and purple.

“Well, I must go,” the inspector said, bowing to each of them. “Perhaps in this young man, Toni has finally found someone
decent.”

From his launch, he called, “Be sure to let me know if you hear anything.”

6
  
  
the impossible dream

Brother Bartholomew sat on the tiny porch of the Quarry Cottage, eating his supper and trying to enjoy the gathering twilight.
It was not easy because after a long day of clearing the walking paths, cutting back brush and hauling out the cuttings, he
was stiff and bone tired.

And steeped in self-pity.

Solitude had a way of clarifying things. At home in the friary with all the other brothers, he used to long for it. And sometimes,
when the sand flats came out at low tide, he would drift out on them for an hour or two, just to be alone.

But now his solitude was complete. And undisturbed. And unending.

And what it was clarifying surprised him; he needed people. Twenty years ago when he was a civilian, he used to go camping
up in New Hampshire just to get away from them. Until Laurel, he never took anyone with him. But then, Laurel wasn’t people.
She was—special.

And that book was closed, he firmly reminded himself, putting down his half-eaten supper and standing up.
Best not to even open it, let alone thumb through it, however casually.

In the gathering dusk, he slowly paced the perimeter of his open-air cloister. He’d been here only three days, but they had
taught him that while he might be a monk, he was not cut out to be a hermit. He missed his brothers—all of them, even Ambrose.
He missed the fun, the banter and clash of opinions at supper. He missed watching sports on television with them, cycling
with them, all the things they did together.

Most of all, he realized, he missed doing the services with them, filing into the basilica with them, chanting with them—good
grief, he missed Latin?

Down here, Mass was the thing he most looked forward to. Not for the Eucharist, though obviously that was the most important
part. Mass was the one time in the day when he had contact with others.