Jimmy Fox - Nick Herald 02 - Lineages and Lies (21 page)

A man who knows how to take care of his back—and his ass, too, Nowell thought. He stared at the shimmering case to hide an unexpected onrush of contempt for these two old men.

Having laid the large bundle on the table, Joscelyn motioned to Nowell to do the honors. Nowell lifted the flap, which was secured by a band of the same material and a small circle of Velcro, and then he eased the large book out. It was bound in tough leather over board, with three parallel straps of metal-studded leather across the spine; gold designs once stamped into the cover had mostly flaked away.

The book showed evidence of much use, past submersions, and arrested rot, possibly of some singeing, too. D’Hiver, with
his heightened sense of smell, inhaled deeply of the familiar odor; a religious rapture pried open his usually tightly closed lips.

“Let us all join together in the watchwords of our ancestry,” Joscelyn intoned.

“
En Foi, Invincible!
”

“In faith, invincible. This is what it’s all about, Preston,” D’Hiver said in a hoarse, fervent whisper. “Faith, sacrifice, loyalty, reverence for our heritage of common suffering, and the strength to vanquish our foes.” He stamped his cane on the thick carpet with each word of his admonition: “
You must not allow our ship to founder!
”

Nowell, feeling sorry for himself, said: “easy for you two to say.”

Joscelyn sat down again. He slid forward in his chair, making the rich leather creak. “Our hands are not clean, either. Every generation dwells upon its own woes, as if no one else has faced crises. But I assure you, Preston, we have each in our term as Captain-Director had to enforce discipline. Both Arthur and I have rather ugly memories of things that caused us much pain when we were your age.”

Nowell found it hard to believe that either of them had been troubled by even the slightest twinge of conscience; but he kept silent.

“There will always be heretics, my dear boy,” Joscelyn said.

“Wherever you find them,” D’Hiver growled, “burn them!”

“I will do what I have to do, Arthur, Conrad—as I promised to do, as I have always done.”

CHAPTER 18

N
elson Plumlaw rubbed sunscreen on Preston Nowell’s broad shoulders and muscular back.

“You smell like a banana in a bowl of coconut shavings,” Nelson said.

It was Sunday afternoon, and the two men were sitting on the starboard cushioned bench seat of Nowell’s sailboat,
Allégorie Deux
.

“Are you implying that I’m a fruit?” Preston asked, in a playful huff.

“Absolutely,” said Nelson. He slapped Nowell on the back. “Keep still, you thing, you.”

“Oww! I like that… . It’s been a wonderful day, hasn’t it?” Precisely what Nowell had needed to take his mind off the horrible events of the past dreadful week, to release the tension that had built up inside him to really quite an intolerable level.

“Yes,” Nelson replied.

“The wind was just right, the lake wasn’t too choppy. I really do believe you would make a good sailor, Nelson.”

“I’ve made some seamen, on occasion.”

They laughed at Nelson’s wordplay.

“Shall we have a cocktail? I can’t wait to break into the Beefeater you brought. It’s not too early, do you think?”

“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” Nelson said, now finished with the application of the lotion. “Why the hell not! Let’s live dangerously. We always have, you and I.” To protect his own more sensitive skin from the sun he wore an unbuttoned long-sleeve shirt, sleeves rolled up, shirttail tied around the waist of his shorts. “You always did mix a deadly martini, Preston.”

They had furled and secured the sails. After dinner, they would motor back to the marina. Sunset would be late over the vast expanse of Lake Pontchartrain.

Nowell pushed off the cushion to stand up. In the late sunlight, Nelson regarded his friend’s bronzed, muscled limbs and the skimpy Speedo that left very little to the imagination. He took a deep breath and exhaled, admiration evident on his face. “How’s the knee, Preston?”

Nowell made his way carefully through the cockpit of the boat, back to the cabin, where the booze was. His left knee was encased in a flexible brace; he tried to keep the leg straight as he descended the four-rung ladder into the teak-lined cabin. Parts of old scars showed under the brace.

“Feeling no pain,” he said, raising his voice to be heard. “I picked up a wonderful prescription on the way out here. It’s almost too good to be legal.”

In the galley corner of the small cabin, he added gin, vermouth, and lemon to the stainless-steel container of ice, and shook it vigorously for a few seconds. “Shaken, not stirred, I hope you notice… . So, Agent Bond, are you ready to tell me
what this big secret is? You’ve been so damn coy all day, I can scarcely stand it any longer. As usual, you’re such a big tease.”

He again peeked in the refrigerator to check the speckled trout bathed in a zesty batter and the crabmeat marinating with artichoke hearts. The lovely smell of melted butter pervaded the cabin. Earlier, Nelson had prepared his famous Creole meunière sauce; Nowell had mixed at home the balsamic vinaigrette salad of greens, apples, hazelnuts, and Roquefort. Now he placed a pot of water for fettuccine on the gentle flame provided by one of the two burners of his new non-pressurized alcohol stove.

“Trout Plumlaw,” Nowell called out with cheerful expectation. “Galatoire’s, eat your heart out!” All served with fresh crusty bread, a splendid cold French white—a truly memorable meal.

Now content that everything was proceeding nicely, he took up the martinis and turned toward the deck hatch.

“I’m afraid the
Allégorie
is sinking,” Nelson declared.

Nowell scurried up the ladder, sloshing the contents of the two stemmed glasses he held.

“That’s a terrible joke!” he said, equally miffed and relieved. “You don’t say that to the captain of a ship, for God’s sake. I rushed out here to see if you were serious.” He handed Nelson his depleted martini.

“I am,” said Nelson. “Prepare yourself, my friend: I’ve uncovered the deep, dark secret of your Society.”

“What in the world are you talking about?”

“Here, sit. It’s time to be outed.” Nelson sipped and began: “I know that an English ship called the
True Faith
, bound for Barbados, but actually Maryland, was taken over by desperate
transported convicts and part of the crew. That the ship was then ravaged by a hurricane, but rescued by a Spanish warship, which believed it to be a hapless French vessel, and therefore an ally of sorts. This stratagem had been cooked up by two mutinous crewmembers who, strangely enough, spoke excellent French and Spanish.

“I know that this same ship received repairs in Havana, and showed up in New Orleans on the fabled day, a few months later, as the French vessel
l’Allégorie
—a very droll rechristening, if you ask me. This impostor ship, the
Allégorie
, now carried—
voilà
—God-fearing
French
colonists and crew. People of quality. My dear Preston, I know that a massive lie has been constructed to bolster this fraudulent version of history.”

Nowell had long since lost his false smile of jaunty dismissal. He looked at his friend for a silent moment. “That’s the kookiest story I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Unruffled, Nelson continued: “The two trilingual gents were English spies who had been sent, disguised as crewmen of the
True Faith
, to sniff around the increasingly restive eastern colonies. Afraid of having their cover blown, they acquiesced in the mutiny, even took the lead. They succeeded in getting the captain and the loyal crewmembers set adrift, instead of killed; alas, none of these men survived. But the spies did, their mission now improvised to meet the surprising turn of events. What
cojones
! They sent reports from Louisiana as they could to England. Anyway, that’s merely a bare outline. Am I far off ?”

Nowell was stunned. He had to force the words past his lips: “How did you find out?” He recalled with dismay his own
words to Joscelyn and D’Hiver the night before:
a buffer period of some weeks
.

Nelson looked pleased that Nowell had as much as admitted the deception. “Through friends of friends. It seems that a batch of records has turned up in England. I had heard of the new stuff, but didn’t make the connection until Bristol and the two ships came up in a chance conversation the other day. The real issue, though, Preston, is that if
I
know, anyone can. There are people who have some of the facts, but as far as I can tell, no one has put the whole thing together. Well, there
is
a fellow I know who’s coming close, but for the wrong reasons. Anyway, I have some thoughts on turning this really quite fascinating story to your advantage.” Nelson set his drink down on the cushion behind him and put his hands on Nowell’s shoulders. “I do care about you, Preston.”

Nowell downed his martini. “I need another drink, after
that
. How about you?”

“Sure.” Nelson finished his own drink and handed Nowell his glass.

In the cabin, Nowell felt that he really was sinking. After all he’d done—the years of work, the precautions, the assurances he’d given to Joscelyn and D’Hiver, the violence. And now, these words Nelson had just uttered, like some kind of deadly contagion killing off the things Nowell loved, some plague aboard his ship! He held on to the overhead storage bins on each side of the cabin, his eyes closed, tears seeping out.

It wasn’t over yet; there was still a chance. He had never given up in anything, and wasn’t about to start now. Bluemantle had taken him by surprise, but he’d handled the situation the best way
he could manage at the moment. This unforeseen development was no different. He had to make a decision.

He collected himself; then he picked up the bottle of gin.

“This other person you mentioned, can we persuade him to remain silent? I mean, until we figure something out.” Nowell peered out of the cabin. Nelson, now at the rear port corner of the cockpit, seemed mesmerized by the tiny cars on the distant Causeway, astern of them.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about him,” Nelson replied. “He’s a relatively inexperienced genealogist by the name of Nick Herald. Nice enough fellow, but more interested in chasing skirts and lining his pockets than in taking on a lineage society. Former academic. Liberal arts, head in the clouds. Here’s what I’ve been thinking. Can you hear me?”

“Oh yes, I read you loud and clear.” Nowell left the cabin and began silently to cross the cockpit. The wheel moved with the current and the rigging whistled in the light breeze. Nelson still sat with his back to the cabin, waiting for his new drink; he rested his forearms on a chrome winch.

“Get the Society a very good PR firm,” Nelson said, laying out his plan, “and go public with the story. Paint it as a bold discovery that’s surfaced from ongoing Society research. You’ll preempt any suspicion, and come off a defender of historical accuracy. Politicians do it all the time: get in front of the bad news, and then reshape it, massage it, control it. You could phrase it this way—”

Nowell hit him just behind the right ear. He felt the skull give way like a coconut.

Nelson Plumlaw fell back on the green cushions, somewhat on his left side, his eyes wide in astonishment, his pupils suddenly almost invisible. Blood began to seep from his nose and right ear. The right pupil then rapidly dilated, eclipsing the green of the iris. A blown pupil. Nowell had seen it plenty of times in Vietnam. If Nelson wasn’t dead already, he soon would be.

“I am sorry, Nelson.
God, I am sorry
.”

He dropped the bottle, which was smeared with hair and blood. There were no boats close enough to see what had happened, unless someone was using binoculars.

He had to do something with the body, get the boat cleaned up. No one knew they had been together that day; Nelson was like that, secretive about his relationships. And if anyone found out, Nowell would say he’d dropped Nelson off at the marina. There would be time to move his car before he was reported missing.

The anchor! Maybe that would work. He reached into the cabin for a knife—a heavy-duty serrated one—and began to make his way to the front of the boat, his bad knee slowing him down. Would the fifteen-pound aluminum anchor and few feet of chain keep the body underwater? he wondered. On the rivers and in the paddies of Vietnam, he’d seen hundreds, thousands of bloated corpses floating like corks from the gas of decomposing body tissues. Well, this was all he could think of at the moment. He very much preferred to plan such things beforehand.

At the bow, he unrolled what he believed would be enough chain and nylon rope above it to secure the anchor to Nelson’s
body. He paused and examined the knife, one of those that could supposedly cut through just about anything. He thought of field dressing big game, which he had observed and done often enough as a gentleman hunter. He did have an ax onboard … yes, perhaps a better idea … it would be messy and disgusting, but—

A gut-wrenching scream froze his hands.

Nelson, an animal fear on his uncomprehending bloody face, lurched and thrashed around the cockpit, hitting his demolished skull on the boom.

“Christ!” Nowell said. This was simply too much!

He dropped the anchor on deck and began to scamper back toward the raging man. He lost his footing, almost falling into the lake; then he banged his head against a chrome handrail, drawing blood.

He saw Nelson trip headlong into the cabin. As Nowell crawled across the cabin roof, he heard more anguished howls, and the sounds of things breaking and being flung about. A pot slammed against a wall. Nowell remembered the boiling water for the pasta. Poor Nelson.

Nowell reached the cockpit and lifted the knife to strike as he prepared to step into the cabin.

Nelson’s shirt was on fire. He flailed about the cabin, spreading the flames, the styling mousse in his hair flaring up like a tiki torch. His screaming stopped abruptly, and for a moment Nelson just stood there, motionless, aflame, his arms rigid at his side, like a Buddhist monk Nowell had once seen in Saigon, immolating himself in protest on a crowded street. Then Nelson fell.