Authors: John R. Maxim
Lena noticed Michael's big brass telescope, the one
Myra gave him. It was propped up in a corner doing no
earthly good. Michael hadn't had a chance to try it out.
Maybe the bath would keep. Maybe she'd set it up in that
window and watch
the other rich folks cavort on their
yachts.
Lena set up the tripod.
It was mostly dark out now. Lena tried the telescope
first on a lighted window across the street. She could see
a bedside table with books underneath and, turning the
eyepiece, she could read the titles on the books clear as
day. But she didn't feel right snooping on a bedroom.
Lena turned it to the harbor.
She focused in on a big motor yacht that had a living room in the back. A real, regular living room with a rug
and couches and a TV. It seemed to her that a boat should
be a boat and not a floating apartment but the man had
paid his money and she supposed he had a right. A steward
in a white coat was serving drinks. She couldn't quite see
who to because a tree across the street blocked that part
of the view. A blurry shadow moved. The shadow seemed
to be within that tree.
She adjusted the eyepiece. Sure enough, she realized,
someone had climbed it. The shadow was sharper but it
was still a shadow. The man—or a boy maybe—had no
features at all. And something was covering his face. A
cat burglar? She didn't think so. No house could be
reached from the limbs of that tree. A peeping Tom? Maybe. But from where he sat, there didn't seem much
to peep at except this house over here.
Lena stepped around the telescope and peeked through
the edge of the drapes. She glanced up and down the
street. She was hoping, she supposed, to see a policeman
but there was only a man riding up on a bike. A tall
skinny man in a black hooded slicker.
She looked back at the tree and noticed, for the first
time, still another man standing at its base. He was in
deep shadow. The man on the bike slowed. Now
he's
looking up at this house. He stopped and stood straddling
his bike.
What is it, she wondered that's so interesting about this
house? But now his head snapped back toward that tree
like he heard a noise. The man at the base of the tree was
moving. He was tugging at his trouser leg as if it got caught in some brambles. Now he sees the man on the
bike watching him. The man on the bike's getting off. He
put down his kickstand; he's walking over. Man by the
tree tries to wave him off. He jerks his thumb as if to say,
“Keep moving.”
Skinny man is pointing back over his shoulder, pointing
at this house, acts like he's asking a question. Tree man
tries again to get rid of him. Skinny man's in no hurry.
He looks like he wants to chat and the subject, from his
gestures, is this here Taylor House. This goes on for a while. Finally,
the tree man moves out of the shadows.
He's dressed in a jogging suit and a white floppy hat.
He steps forward, looks back down the street, then up, then down again. Lena could only see part of his face.
He's got one hand on the bike man's shoulder. Bike man's
trying to show him what looks like a business card. Tree
man takes it, crumples it, throws it away.
He raised his free hand like you do to say, “Wait,” but he's looking down toward the waterfront. He waves that
hand slow-like to say, “Not yet . . . not yet” and the
skinny man's wondering what he's doing. But suddenly,
the hand came down. It came down sharply like when you
say, “Now.”
That other shadow dropped down from the tree. The
peeping Tom darted straight out. He's wearing all black
and has a cloth wrapped around his face. They both grab
the bike man, they drag him toward the tree. Now there's just one big tossing shadow back by the trunk of that tree. It goes kind of stiff. The tossing stops.
Lena knew that she'd just watched a mugging. She was
about to back away, get to the phone and call 911, when the tree man came back out for that bike. He had lost his hat in the tussle.
Something about that man. Something familiar.
He reached to grab the bike but he was watching down
the street. He bumped it, knocked it over. It fell with a
crash. Lena tried to open the window. It was stuck. She
yelled, ”Hey” through the glass as loud as she could. He
heard her. He looked up and around, wondering where it
came from. Lena got her first good look at his face.
”Wha . . . well, I'll be damned,” she sputtered. ”I
know that little worm.”
The bus from Oak Bluffs let Moon off on Kelly Street,
a short block from Edgartown's waterfront. He made his
way to the main landing, a long gray concrete structure
with an observation deck on top. It offered clear views of
the entire waterfront area and of the harbor beyond. The
three-block length of Dock Street was brightly lit, every
shop was open and busy, the side streets were thick with
strolling tourists.
One of them, Moon knew, just might be a man named
Parker. And here he was without a weapon. He had consid
ered asking Michael to leave his gun where he could find
it but that would have been foolish. It would have been
the same as telling him that he wasn't going to stay in
that hospital. Michael would have gone straight to that
doctor and, next thing Moon knew, a nurse would have been pumping his butt full of sedatives.
He climbed the stairs to the promenade level where
several coin-operated viewers were mounted on swivels.
He fed a dime into one of them and scanned the harbor
area. He found Megan's boat where she told him it would
be. It was one of perhaps two dozen pleasure boats tied
up at slips. Some were dark, their owners ashore. Others
were aswarm with partying sailors.
He saw Megan through the viewer. She was rigging a blue canopy over the cockpit and she seemed to be alone
on her boat. Just beyond those slips and a few yards inland
was a white wooden building. The signs on it offered
facilities for boaters. Toilets, showers, and such. There
was a laundry and a chandlery, and two public phones on
the outside wall. Young girls, dressed for the evening,
were talking on both of them. He saw a man there, pacing,
glancing at his watch as if impatient to use one of the
phones. Moon swung the viewer back to Megan's boat.
He was disappointed not to see Michael. Michael, he
thought, should be long since back from the airport by
now. Likely he's sitting on a roadside somewhere getting
an earful from Johnny and Doyle. Things they didn't want
to say in front of Megan.
Still, Moon had been hoping they'd come straight to
that boat. Michael would be safest there. No one would
look for him on a boat. They would look for him, wait
for him, up at the Taylor House. Moon, meanwhile, could
watch him from here.
The viewer clicked off. Moon fed it another coin. He
swung it toward Dock Street and began scanning the
crowds of tourists, looking for anyone who doesn't quite
fit.
Moon realized that this could be a waste of time. Doyle
might or might not have told Aaronson where Michael is. If he did, Parker might or might not have gotten it out of
him. The assumption, however, has to be that Parker
knows. That he'd track him to the Taylor House. If so,
Moon felt sure, Parker would be coming himself. Not
alone, but he'd come. After three blown attempts at Mi
chael, this time he'd want to make sure.
The trouble was that Moon had never seen Parker or
heard him described. Even Parker's age was just a guess.
All Moon knew was that Parker, if he's here, would check
the Taylor House first. Finding that Michael's not there,
he might wait outside but more likely he'll start looking
through the town. He'll be peering at faces just like this,
looking through restaurant windows, keeping an eye out
for Michael's car. That's how Moon hoped to spot him.
Moon did not know what he looked like but he knew
enough about him to pick out likely candidates. Parker,
and anyone he brought, would not show up here in pin
striped suits and fedoras. They would know to blend in
but they can't keep themselves from looking watchful.
They'll be armed. That would rule out anyone in shorts
and a T-shirt unless he's carrying a shopping bag. They
won't be with women, or with kids, or college age or
getting drunk. So far, that ruled out just about everyone.
Cab drivers, thought Moon.
Parker likes to use cabs and that might be smart. Parker
could keep cruising around with his shooters, they'd look
like passengers. The thing was, he'd have to steal one of
those island mini-vans, do so in a way that the theft would
not be reported too soon—like killing the driver—and then
later he'd have to get away with it. But get away where?
How, Moon wondered, do you make a hit on an island
where one phone call from the police would stop the fer
ries from running?
Damn, he thought. They'll come by boat is how.
They'll come in, hit fast, and get back out before the harbor gets too quiet.
Another thought stabbed at Moon. If Michael's not here,
and he's back from the airport, they might have gone to
that house after all.
Moon swung the viewer in that direction. It was useless.
Too many big trees in the way. But he could be up there
inside a minute. Steeling himself to walk, not run, Moon
turned back to the stairs.
Parker saw the middle-aged black man crossing Dock
Street at an angle, taking long measured strides toward North Water Street. He reached for the pay phone but
stopped.