Chapter
29
His house was at the top, where the street dead-ended, a
pale blue cottage with a full ocean view, hugged by pink
oleander and yellow hibiscus. A Volkswagen bug sat at the
end of a shattered-stone driveway. Much of the surrounding
property was overrun by ivy and flowering vines. The nearest
house was a hundred feet away, separated by a splintering
wooden fence.
Inside was a different story: freshly painted white
walls, black leather couches, oriental rugs that made the
vinyl floor look better than it was, limited-edition posters,
teak and lacquer furniture. In the
closet-kitchen next to the dining area, a cast-iron ceiling
rack bore expensive copper pots. German cutlery in a wooden
case adorned a counter. All the appliances were European
and they looked brand-new.
“Let me fix you a drink,” said Creedman, heading for a
portable brass-and-glass bar.
“Just a Coke.”
He poured the soda and fixed a double scotch for
himself. Johnnie Black. Ice from a small, chrome-faced
Swedish freezer.
I looked around. The main space was an office–living
room. Computer and printer, thousand-watt battery pack,
brass reflector telescope, stereo set, CD
rack, German twenty-inch TV hooked up to a beefy cable that
ran up through the ceiling.
“Had a dish,” he said, “but a wind blew it down.”
“Looks like you’ve settled in for the long run.”
“I like to live well. Lime with that?”
“Sure.”
He brought the drinks and we sat down. The ocean was
framed beautifully through a wide window.
“Best revenge,” he said, sipping. “Living well.”
“Revenge against who?”
“Whoever deserves it.” He took a long, slow swallow and
emptied his glass. Sucking in an ice cube, he moved it
around his mouth.
“So what can I do for you?” I said.
“Nothing, Alex. Just trying to be friendly. Fellow ugly
Americans, and all that. Too bad we didn’t get much time
together before you left.”
“Who said I’m leaving?”
He smiled. “Aren’t you?”
“Eventually. How about you?”
“I’ve got no schedule—one advantage of
freelancing.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It is.”
We drank and he emptied his glass. “Can I get you
another one?”
“No, thanks.”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
He poured himself a taller scotch and returned.
“It’s really something, isn’t it, this blood fest.
Guess I am on the crime beat now. Back in D.C. it never
appealed to me because the vast majority of criminals were
total shit-for-brains. The police and the prosecutors were no
rocket scientists, either.”
“Are politicians smart?”
“Some of them.” He laughed. “A few.”
“Nicholas Hoffman?”
He took a long, slow sip. “Smart enough, from what I
hear. So when are you packing out?”
“I’m not sure yet, Tom.”
“So what happens to your project with Moreland?”
“There isn’t much of a project.”
“What was it all about, anyway?”
“Reviewing his files to see if we could find themes.”
“Themes?”
“Patterns of disease.”
“Mental disease?”
“All kinds.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s as far as it got.”
“And if you found patterns, then what?”
“We’d write it up for a medical journal. Maybe a book
of our own. How’s your own book going?”
“Great.”
“Going to add a chapter on the murders?”
“You better believe it. . . . So how’s
Robin?”
“Fine.”
“Doggy okay, too?”
“Great.”
“Any chance Moreland put Ben up to killing those girls?”
I exaggerated my surprise. “Why would he?”
He put the drink down, uncrossed his legs, scooted
forward. “Let’s face it, Alex, the guy’s strange.”
“He’s a little different.”
“Like Norman Bates was different. That place—those
bugs. And what the hell does he do all day in that lab? It
sure ain’t medicine, ’cause Ben handles most of the medical
situations—or at least he used to till Pam came over.
So what’s the old guy up to all day?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, you’ve been working with him.”
“In separate buildings.”
“What’s he hiding?”
“I don’t know that he’s hiding anything.”
His mustache turned down. The black line was as flat as
a grease-pencil scrawl, but he smoothed it anyway.
“He probably told you about the hassle Ben gave me.
Probably made me out to be a thief.”
“He said you were looking for something. Were you?”
“Sure. Reporter’s instincts. Because the minute I got to
that place I started having a strange feeling.”
“About what?”
“Just general weirdness. And obviously I was right.
All that do-gooding and his best boy’s a serial killer.
People are pissed, Alex. If you care about that pretty lady
and that cute little pooch, you’ll head back to lala land
pronto.”
His voice had stayed low and even, but his eyes were
holes burnt in linen.
“That sounds almost like a warning, Tom.”
“Word to the wise, Alex. Strategic assessment based
upon the data at hand.”
I smiled. “And
that
sounds kind of corporate. Almost
like a quarterly report.”
He reached for the scotch. Missed, groped, got hold of
it, drank. When he lowered the glass, his lower lip was wet
and shiny. “Guess I’d better be taking you back to Weird
Castle.”
“Guess so.”
We left the house and he walked ahead of me and got into
the VW. The engine squealed but it wouldn’t turn over.
“Damn,” he said, without a trace of regret. “Battery
must have gone dead. I’d call Harry or Skip for a jump, but
they’re back in town with everyone else.”
“I’ll walk.” I started down the road.
“I feel terrible,” he called after me. When I looked
over my shoulder he was smiling.
The clouds had moved directly over the shoreline, and the
air was warm and sticky.
I encountered no one on my way to the harbor, but a
stray yellow mutt with a gray muzzle heeled for a while,
then ran off as I reached Front Street. A group of young men
standing near the intersection watched me over their
cigarettes, grumbling as I passed and ignoring my “good
morning.”
Dennis’s police car was still parked in front of the
municipal center. He wouldn’t want to play taxi.
I’d accepted Creedman’s invitation in order to check him
out. He’d wanted me there for the same reason.
Pumping me and warning me off.
Then stranding me.
His decor said someone was paying him well. His
reaction to my crack about quarterly reports said it was
probably Stasher-Layman.
Had it been a mistake to let him know I was onto that?
No matter, I’d be gone soon.
I walked along the docks, ignoring stares. The
municipal center’s door opened and Dennis came out, followed
by three small men, one middle-aged, the others in their
twenties. They all wore thin shirts and jeans and talked
wildly as Dennis tried to appease them.
The middle-aged man stamped a foot, waved a fist, and
shouted. Dennis said something and the fist waved again.
The man pointed and touched his heart. Dennis put a hand on
his shoulder. The man shook it off angrily.
People started to move in from the street.
Dennis glared and they dispersed, very slowly.
The older man stamped and touched his heart again. One
of the younger men turned and I got a look at his face:
plain, round, acned.
Unmistakable resemblance to Betty Aguilar.
Dennis ushered them back inside and I continued south. I
hadn’t gone far before I heard footsteps behind me. A quick
look back: some of the youths I’d passed at the
intersection. Four of them, hands in pockets, advancing
quickly.
I stopped, looked at them blankly and when that didn’t
stop them, tried to stare them down.
They kept coming.
I crossed the street, ending up in front of the Trading
Post. The structure was sealed with yellow crime-scene tape.
Some things were the same everywhere.
Slim’s Bar was closed now too, but several beer swillers
loitered in the gravel bed that served as the tavern’s
parking lot.
The four men behind me hesitated, then jogged across.
I reversed direction and headed back toward the center.
The youths picked up speed. One of them had something
in his hand. A short wooden club—like a cop’s billy,
but sawn-off.
I ran.
They did, too. Their mouths were open and their eyes
were fixed.
The police station wasn’t far, but the hangers-on at
Slim’s could be a problem.
As I got closer, they closed rank, forming a human wall.
Skip Amalfi among them, flushed, his lips pursed in an
attempted belch. Anders Haygood, next to him, stolid and
sober, the gray eyes amused.
The boys to my back shouted something.
The Slim’s crowd moved forward.
Caught in the middle.
More shouts, loud murmuring, then someone’s voice above
it all:
“Idiots!”
Jacqui Laurent had burst through the Slim’s crowd.
Taller than most of the men, she wore a grease-specked apron
over her flowered dress and was waving something.
Big cast-iron frypan.
One of the Slim’s crowd said something.
She cut him off: “Shut up, you
moron
! What do you
think you’re
doing
?”
The four young men were close enough for me to hear
their panting.
I whipped around.
The one with the club came forward, making small circles
with the weapon. He had a feather beard and long hair. Some
of his shirt buttons were missing, exposing a hairless chest.
Jacqui was at my side.
“Ignacio!”
She grabbed for the club. Ignacio held on. She tugged.
Someone laughed.
She curled her lip. “
Big
shots. Big
heroes.
Ganging up on an innocent guy.”
“Who says he’s innocent?” said one of the Slim’s crowd.
“He lives up
there.
”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, motherfu—”
“So?” said Jacqui. “So
what
?”
“So he’s . . .”
“What?”
“A—”
“
What, Henry?
So he’s a guest up at the castle? So
what does that mean? That we act like animals?”
“
Someone’s
been acting like an animal,” said Skip,
“and it ain’t—”
“You
shut up—
look who’s
talking.
”
Skip’s nostrils opened. “Hey—”
“Hey,
yourself.
Shut up and
listen. You’re
an animal—and that animal’s a
pig.
”
Skip moved forward. Haygood held him back, thick
arms taut.
“Come on, big man,” said Jacqui, jerking the club. “You
going to
attack
me? A woman with a
frypan
?
That
how you get your jollies? Or is
peeing
at women your only
thing?”
Skip’s chinless face paled and he struggled in Haygood’s
grip.
Haygood said something and Skip made the sound of a
hungry kid refused supper.
“
Big
shot,” said Jacqui. “Big shot with your
bladder.
Every time a woman goes on the beach you follow her
and pee near her blanket. Like a dog marking. Very brave.”
Skip lunged. Haygood restrained him, and some of the
other men joined in holding him back.
“Easy, man,” said one of them.
“Come on,” said Jacqui, suddenly wresting the billy from
Ignacio’s grip and waving it along with the skillet.
“Go
at
me, Skip. You like to get tough with women, right? Maybe
you
had something to do with Betty, tough guy.”
Skip snarled and Haygood did something to his shoulder
that made his face go limp.
“Like a dog,” said Jacqui. “Following every new woman
around, peeing—you think that’s funny?”
She ran her eyes over the other men: “Any of
you
think that’s funny? Peeing on the beach near a woman’s blanket?
Did it happen to any of your sisters? Or your mamas? ’Cause
he did it to me when he first came over—remember that,
Skip?”
Back to the others:
“That
your idea of brave, boys?
Peeing on women and beating up on innocent men?”
Silence.
“
Big tough macho-men.
Gang up on a
guest—what’s his crime? Visiting? How do you think this island
will ever get anywhere, you treat people like this?”
The men avoided her eyes.
Skip was rubbing his shoulder. Haygood turned him
around and tried to move him away. Skip shoved Haygood’s arm
away but walked.
Jacqui stared at the Slim’s crowd until it began to fall
apart. Soon no one was left but the four youths who’d
stalked me. The one named Ignacio stared at the billy in
Jacqui’s hand. She pointed the frypan at them.
“You should be ashamed of yourself. I have a good mind
to tell your mothers.”
One of the youths started to smirk.
“Think that’s
funny,
Duane? I’ll tell
your
mama
first.
”
“Go ahea—”
“Want me to? Really, Duane? First I’ll tell her about
what I saw on North Beach.”
Duane’s mouth slammed shut. The other boys stared at
him.
“Yeah, so?” he said.
“Yeah, so.” Jacqui tapped a firm thigh with the skillet.
“You really want me to do that, Duane?”
“Whu—?” said one of the other boys, giggling.
“Whud you do, Duane?”
“Nuthin’.”
“Sure
was
nothing,” said Jacqui, and Duane’s nose
twitched.
“Ah, fuck,” he said. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“Good idea,” said Jacqui. “All of you—scoot.”
They slunk away, the other boys surrounding Duane as he
cursed them. When they were well past the center, Jacqui
faced me.