A Matter of Time (7 page)

For years, Ron had enjoyed a unique arrangement with a Bermuda charter captain named Ian Bennett. They were old friends, their
boats were compatible, and the third week in October, when each of their seasons was pretty well over, the two captains would
take a busman’s holiday. They would swap boats for a week.

Usually they brought their wives, but this year the wives couldn’t go. Ron’s irascible mother-in-law had
come to live with them until his wife Bunny could find a suitable graduated-care facility for her. So far, nothing had suited
her, and Bunny pleaded with Ron to go down to Bermuda without her—anything to get him out of the house.

Nan Bennett, on the other hand, was staying home because she was worried about their son Eric, who was having serious trouble
in school. Ian was still planning to come up to the Cape, though for him it would not exactly be a holiday. He was bringing
four members of Bermuda’s Blue Water Anglers Club, who loved the striped bass that could be caught out of Eastport. Last year,
one had gotten his picture in the Cape Cod
Times
, holding up the largest striper ever caught in Cape Cod Bay.

For Ron, it was definitely going to be a vacation. He would go out when
he
felt like it, take what
he
wanted to eat and drink, and bait no one’s hook but his own. He invited Dan, and they would stay at Sandys House, a guesthouse
not far from Ely’s Harbour, where Ian kept his 15-ton, 42-foot powerboat,
Goodness
.

But Dan was not sure. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been away from the station for a whole week,” he said to his wife.

Peg sat down opposite. “It’s not like you’ve got anything going on right now,” she pointed out. “In fact, according to Leo
Bascomb, in all his years on the force, it’s never been as quiet as right now.” She laughed. “It’s finally behaving like a
village police department—where nothing ever happens.”

Dan grudgingly smiled. “It
is
kind of quiet. But what about my appointment with Dr. Alexander?” The surgeon
who had performed the by-pass wanted to see him annually for the next three years.

“I’ll reschedule it.”

“But—”

“Dan Burke! If he knew what you’d been invited to do, he’d be all for it!” She got up and started clearing the dishes. “Just
watch what you eat and keep up your walking.”

He laughed. “You’ve taken away all my reasons for not going.”

“Checkmate!” she replied, but from his expression she could tell he was not resolved.

Suddenly she turned to him. “You know what your problem is? You need to be needed. All these years, you’ve been like a mother
hen to that police department! And now—they don’t need you.”

“I don’t think I like that analogy,” he muttered, putting away the glasses.

“You don’t like it, because it’s true!” She came up behind him and hugged him around the middle. “You know, you really
are
getting thinner,” she said appreciatively.

“Well—maybe you’re right,” he capitulated.

“Oh, come on! Think how much fun you’ll have! You love to fish! And drink beer and tell war stories and go around with your
shirt hanging out!” She laughed, and he joined her.

“You’re amazing!” he said, shaking his head. “And you know what? Now that I’ve got my mind wrapped around it, I’m beginning
to look forward to it.”

“You should! You might even run into Brother Bartholomew down there.”

Dan shut the cupboard door and hung up the towel. “I’d forgotten he’s there. I called the friary to see if he
wanted to do some fishing, and they told me he was down there. Maybe we can get him out on the boat.” He paused. “No, probably
not.”

“Why?”

“They said he was on some kind of personal retreat or something.”

On Saturday afternoon, four days later, Dan and Ron got off the plane in Bermuda. It was 3:15 by the time they checked in
at Sandys House, overlooking Sandys Cove in Sandys Parish.

“That’s pronounced ‘Sands,’ by the way,” Ron explained, as he filled in the guest card for the day manager, “not the way you’d
think from its spelling.” He smiled. “The British enjoy doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Mangling pronunciations.”

“You mean, like Wooster, for Worcestershire?”

“Yeah,” replied Ron, “or Lester, for Leicestershire.”

“Aloowishus for Aloysius.”

Ron was stumped for a moment. “Chumley for Cholmondeley.”

Both men laughed.

The first thing they had to do, announced Ron, was line up motor scooters at Oleander Cycle. There were no rental cars on
Bermuda, only scooters. If you were going somewhere beyond walking distance, you took taxis or buses or ferries. Or rented
a scooter.

The manager called the cycle shop, which offered to bring two over on a truck. But Ron said no, they’d come over and pick
them out.

“The newer, the faster,” he explained to Dan on the way.

“Well, we certainly want the fastest,” the Chief agreed with a laugh.

“Oleander specializes in Ergons, from Taiwan. Young locals tell me they’re the best.”

Ron picked out two candy-apple-red Ergon doubles. They were made to carry two people, or one large man. Ron and Dan were both
in the latter category. There was a little practice track—a good thing, because Dan’s machine took some getting used to. But
once they got out on the road, he found he could keep up with Ron. The trick was getting used to staying on the left.

As they roared past Ely’s Harbour, his friend signaled for him to pull over. Dan pulled up alongside, and Ron pointed out
Goodness
at her mooring and then extended his arm to the sun, cupping his fingers.

“What are you doing?”

“Old Indian trick,” Ron explained. “There are still four fingers between the sun and the horizon. We’ve got about an hour
before it sets, and maybe twenty minutes of usable daylight after. Let’s go over to the Bennetts’ and see if we can take
Goodness
out. Just to check out her rig and tackle, you understand.”

“Of course,” said Dan, understanding.

They motored over, and found Nan expecting them. She gave Ron a hug and said, “It’s
good
to see you.”

Before he could mention the boat, she said, “I expect you’ll be wanting to take
Goodness
out.”

He grinned, and threw a knowing glance to Dan.

But Nan wasn’t finished. Lowering her voice, she asked, “Ron, would you mind taking Eric out with you? He’s the reason I’m
not up on the Cape with Ian.”

“What’s the problem?”

“That’s just it; we don’t know. His headmaster called us in a couple of weeks ago. Eric had been on track for an outstanding
senior year, after which Oxford was a possibility.”

She looked quickly around, to make sure her son was not within hearing distance. “Suddenly he’s not paying attention, dropped
off the football team, and has started having ‘unexplained absences’ in the middle of the school day.”

Ron looked concerned, but had nothing to offer. Dan shook his head. He had a hunch what it might be and did not want to pursue
it. They were down here on a vacation, he reminded himself.

“We’ve tried to talk to him,” Nan concluded. “It’s no use. It’s like he’s not even there.” Her voice broke, and she bit her
knuckle.

“Of course, we’ll take him, Nan. No problem.”

Actually it was Eric who took
them
out. The blond, blue-eyed, rail-thin seventeen-year-old handled the boat with consummate skill, though to Dan he did not
seem to be particularly enjoying himself. He had, in fact, a haunted look about him—a look Dan had seen from time to time
on other kids….

“Eric?” Ron called from the cabin, where he had taken the wheel, “help my partner understand the finer points of game-fishing.”

The boy came back to familiarize Dan with the finer points of a big ocean reel and fighting chair. “You hook a marlin, you’re
going to have your hands full,” he said with authority, as if he were a charter captain addressing a client. “You put the
brake on here, and you keep the tip of your rod elevated—
always
—up in the air, so it
bends. Like this,” and he demonstrated the rod’s extreme flexibility.

Pointing to the swiveling socket in the middle of the chair, he said, “And you keep the butt anchored here—
always
—and keep both hands on the rod, at all times. The last thing you want to do is lose a $1,500 rod and reel.”

“You got that right!”

Eric smiled—for the first time since they left the harbor. “Mom said you’re from Cape Cod—whereabouts, exactly?”

“Well,” said Dan, extending his arm and bending it up at the elbow, as if signaling for a right turn, “if my ear were Boston,
and this elbow’s Chatham, we’re right here on the inner crook—little village called Eastport.”

Eric nodded. “I know what he does,” he said, nodding toward Ron in the cabin. “What do you do?”

“I’m the chief of police.”

Eric froze. Then quickly unfroze, hoping that Dan hadn’t noticed.

But he had. “Don’t worry, son,” he said with a smile. “I couldn’t be more off duty. Anyway, Bermuda’s a little out of my jurisdiction.”

Eric didn’t smile and soon found a reason to go into the cabin.

“Hey, Dan,” Ron called back to him, “You want to try her?”

“You go ahead; you’re doing fine.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not getting a free ride here. You’re going to have to drive, while I’m landing the one that’s going over
my mantel. So you’d better get in here and see how she runs.”

Dan laughed and came in, taking the wheel. He tried a
few turns and was surprised at how responsive the boat was. “She seems awfully”—he sought the right word—“agile. And powerful.”

“She’s hot, all right,” Ron nodded. “Hotter’n
Lucinda
, my boat,” he explained. He paused and added ruefully, “Kinda makes me wish I had a spare hundred thou.”

Eric emerged from the hold and went quickly aft to stow the gear.

Watching him, Dan said quietly to Ron, “His mother’s right to be concerned.”

“I know,” Ron murmured, nodding. “What do you think’s the problem?”

“Tell you later.”

They stayed out till the sun went down, then headed back to Ely’s Harbour. As they approached, Eric took the helm and guided
them to the mooring, maneuvering adroitly to avoid two boats parked nearby. At the last moment, he reversed engine and backed
down, so they just glided in to the buoy.

“You know,” Ron said to him, as they got in the dinghy, “You’re probably the best driver your age I’ve ever seen. Your dad’s
taught you well. He must be proud of you. I don’t imagine it’ll be too long before he’ll have you taking your own charters
out on
Goodness
.”

The boy said nothing. But Dan noted the tears that came before he could turn away.

8
  
  
the white horse

As Saturday afternoon dissolved into Saturday evening in the harbor town of St. George at the other end of the island, Ian
Bennett’s younger brother Colin sat at the bar of the White Horse Tavern. He preferred the outside bar in back, but a cold
snap had brought everyone indoors.

Normally he would be at one of the small round tables, flanked by mates who were adding to the forest of empty green bottles
on the table. But on those rare occasions when he chose to be alone, he took the stool at the end of the long bar, with its
back to the front window. This afternoon—and evening—he preferred his own company and was working on his fourth “Dark ’n Stormy.”
Made with Bermuda’s Black Seal rum, it was the drink of choice among local sea-faring types, when they weren’t knocking back
Heinekens.

He cast an eye around the place. With the exception of the six guys over by the fireplace, it was quiet. They were the crew
of the big schooner that had come in earlier that afternoon,
Laventura
, out of Newport. All in white, right
down to their Topsiders, they seemed like decent sorts. No Rolexes, though. Gentleman sailors.

Except one. Even with four drinks in him Colin possessed a sailor’s eye—that could pick up the slightest hint in wind or weather
that might presage a sea change. One of the six was older than the rest. And didn’t seem really comfortable in their company.