Trolls in the Hamptons (31 page)

The rest of the afternoon was nice. We went back to the beach in town, in front of the motel where his friends were staying. The other cops were friendly, the wives pleasant and patient about the jokes and horseplay. I didn't feel like such an outsider with them, until they started talking about kids, summer camps, and cooking.

Van and I went for a walk. He held my hand.

“I can see what the natives dislike about the tourists,” he said. “Why they call them trolls.” He gestured toward the blobs wearing too little fabric to cover what should stay behind closed doors, much less get sunburned; the slobs who came to one of the most beautiful places in the world, then left their garbage; loudmouthed jerks who needed blasting radios and raucous volleyball games that drowned out the sound of the surf.

“Oh, they're not so bad. Most are just ordinary, decent people having a good time. And we need them to keep the local economy running.”

“ ʽWe'? You've changed your attitude, along with your hair.”

“That just slipped out.”

He squeezed my hand and smiled. “Any luck finding the boy?”

“I thought we weren't going to talk about that?”

“No, what we aren't going to talk about is the mayhem in Manhattan that you seemed to gravitate toward, or vice versa.”

He must mean like that log rolling toward shore and all the swimmers, the one Fafhrd was standing on, arms outstretched, riding the waves.

“Oh, my God, people will get killed.”

Van looked. “It's nothing but a big roller. And see, there's a shoal that'll keep the wave offshore. The kids are having a grand time scooping up crabs and shells.”

“I've had too much sun, I suppose. I better get back. The dogs, you know.”

I left him with his friends, who yelled out, “Stay out of trouble, you hear?”

If they only knew. I told them to enjoy their vacation, and headed back toward the car.

“Call when you get back to the city?” Van asked.

“Yes, I will. Thanks for a nice afternoon.” Where I'd almost forgotten about Fafhrd and Nicky. And Grant.

G
RANT CALLED FROM THE AIRPORT in Georgia late that afternoon. I told him about the book signing and the wedding and the surfing beach—without mentioning Van Gregory. He laughed at Fafhrd's antics, that warm, deep laugh that I felt down to my toes. “Man, I wish I could have seen all that through your eyes.”

“I'm still not used to no one else seeing what I do.”

“I guess you never do get accustomed to it.” Then he turned serious. “Your friend seems to be sticking closer to you. Appearing more, whether you are drawing or not.”

“I noticed that, too. He thinks I am going to help find Nicky for him.”

“That's what I'm thinking. He has no idea where?”

“Near water, that's all I've been able to get from him. I think he might act differently if the boy was close, though. He seems really attached, however that happened.”

“That's a plus for our side. All the projections are for late this week for a showdown.”

“That's what the messages say.” I told him about the calls, including new ones about the weather—good through the weekend. And the crank ones.

“Lou's got that covered. A kid who wasn't accepted to the Institute. He had no talent, and bad attitude. He's joining the Navy as soon as the papers get processed, like tomorrow.”

“Voluntarily?”

“Let's just say he had a choice. You've met Lou. The other options weren't half as appealing. Were there any other messages that might be a help?”

“Susan's mother told me to carry a safety pin with me.”

He thought about that for a minute. “She's the one good with kids, isn't she? It's not much of a weapon, but it can't hurt, I suppose.”

“I already pinned one to my bra.”

He thought about that, too, judging from the silence at the other end of the line. “It's pink.”

“The safety pin?”

“No, the bra.”

“Are you trying to drive me crazy? This is business, serious business . . . Uh, what color are your panties?”

“Pink, too. With lace.”

“Shite.”

I assumed that was British for I want you too, babe. “So when are you coming in?”

“As soon as this bloody plane takes off. Until then, the entire department is on alert; we'll be ready for anything. You're not worried, are you?”

Who, me? Just because a madman was out there killing people to further his plans to conquer the world? “Nah, not much. I'll sleep better tonight when you're here, though.”

I heard that sexy smile in his voice. “Sweetheart, you won't sleep at all when I get there.”

My toes curled. He could do that, with just his voice. “I'm counting on it.”

“You know I won't let anything happen to you, don't you?”

I didn't know if he could stop all the gathering forces. He was good, but this was big, as big as Fafhrd. “I know you'll try.”

“Bet on it. Will you wait up for me tonight?”

Why else did I buy that expensive lingerie on my way out of Montauk Saturday? “I'll leave the lights on.”

“And your clothes off?”

There went the pricy negligee. And my pulse rate, and my intentions to play it cool tonight instead of jumping on him the second he walked through the door.

Cool was all I got, because he called later. A plane was waiting for him at Kennedy Airport, to whisk him to Washington, DC.

“US One?”

“No, but close.” He had to brief the Secretary of Homeland Security, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the British ambassador, and the Vice President.

How could I lo—No, change that. How could I dream about someone who chatted with world leaders? Hell, he likely had lunch with the Queen on a regular basis. I had lunch with three dogs

The only thing I could do was make light of it. “You mean the welfare of the universe comes ahead of me?”

“Only if I want to keep my job. I thought about it, Willy, if that matters.”

Not really. We were still worlds apart. And I was on my own. As usual.

Early Tuesday morning I took the dogs for a long walk. Colin came with us, back from wherever he went over the weekend. He wasn't talking, so I stopped asking.

Afterward, I checked in with my mother. Dad was getting released from the hospital in a day or two, if he had no complications.

“Great. Then you'll be flying home soon?”

“He'll need me more once he's at the condo. He's not supposed to drive for weeks. You know the jerk. He'll drive anyway and open up his sutures. Likely bleed to death on these ten-lane roads. I've never seen so many lights and turning lanes and—”

“I can't stay here forever, you know.”

“Why not? Your family is there, people who love you. I'm trying to convince your father to come north when he's recovered more.”

“That's nice, Mom. I'd like it if he were nearer. But my publisher is in New York, and my apartment. My friends.”

“What friends? The ones too busy with their own lives to call you?”

I didn't know how she knew that none of my city friends had phoned since I got to Paumanok Harbor; I thought the guesthouse agents were the only ones monitoring my calls. “They're busy, Mom.”

“And all the neighbors aren't? I hear they keep leaving messages. They care about you.”

“Safety pins and weather forecasts, Mom. Listen, I think I saw a sign at the post office for a dog-sitting service. Maybe I'll call them about the poodles.”

The only sound was my mother inhaling.

“I got your book signed.”

“I hope you didn't pay for it. Dawn promised me a free one for all the work I did on it.”

I got shafted again, by that charitable female, a friend of the family, no less. You couldn't trust anyone, could you? “I've got to go, Mom. The dogs are scratching their ears.”

“You didn't take them to the beach, did you, Willy? I told you—”

“Bye, Mom. Love you. Love Dad. Talk to you later.”

 

Kenneth followed me to Louisa's house, but he drove off afterward, knowing I'd be safe there.

The house was spectacular, the views awesome, her young son well behaved, her little girl adorable. Her gorgeous husband was charming, her job exciting, her face luminous with happiness, despite the swollen ankles of late pregnancy. Even the lunch she served was delicious and healthy. Damn.

Why couldn't my life be so . . . so tidy? Everything in its place, a place for everything, not like my being uprooted, my family scattered, my career on hiatus, and a troll depending on me to find another missing soul.

I left Louisa's house before I turned green with envy.

I went back and fetched the dogs, told Colin that I was driving to Paumanok Harbor's actual harbor. I didn't need to tell him, I suppose, because they had a GPS locator in my car, and another on my cell phone, but I felt better knowing someone knew my plans.

The village had private docks tucked here and there along the shoreline, but the more protected bay basin held two fancy marinas with ship's stores and amenities, one town dock for commercial lobstermen, draggers, and charter boats, and a rowboat and kayak rental service. A few sailboats were anchored in deeper water, along with a bunch of small craft bobbing at their moorings. Not many pleasure boats were out on a Tuesday afternoon, waiting for the weekend or after work. The price to fuel up a boat was so high, ordinary people thought twice about cruising around Gardiner's Island, or sailing to Shelter Island for lunch.

One fancy yacht was tied at the end of Rick Stamfield's Boat Basin, where Rick kept boats too big to turn into the narrow slips along the dock. I took the dogs down there and waved to Rick, whom I'd known since I was a kid when my father kept an outboard here for times he wanted to get away from my mother. I found a bench to sit on, one that cast shade for the dogs. I unfolded the printout of Borsack's boat, but nothing about this one looked like the
Painted Lady
. I saw no teak trim, no dinghy up on davits on the foredeck, no swivel fighting chairs in the stern where avid fishermen could be strapped in to wrestle with whatever poor fish was on their hooks.

Those were things someone could easily change, like dying your hair or shaving a mustache. Borsack couldn't alter the sharper point to the prow, though, or the wider windows for the cabin, not since leaving Montauk. Besides, this one had its canvas cover all zipped up, its windows closed tight, so no one was aboard. No other boat in the harbor was big enough, or luxurious enough.

I leaned back on the bench, Red next to me, the big dogs at my feet. The sun felt good on my face, even though I knew better, and the seagulls' cawing reminded me of past summers. Maybe I drowsed off, because I was startled by Red's barking, a loud thumping, the bench shaking under me. “What the . . . ?”

Fafhrd. I tried to hold up the picture of the
Painted Lady
, but his broad red back was to me as he clomped past and down the pier. I held my breath lest he crash through the old wood dock, but it held. The fancy yacht at the end didn't, not when a one-ton troll jumped onto it.

The boat seemed to fold in half, with the middle going down under Fafhrd's weight. Both bow and stern slowly canted upward.

Rick was running past me, then other dockhands and some fishermen, but they had nothing to do but watch the two halves gently sink into the shallow water. Both sides hit bottom and stayed up, pointing to the sky. The seagulls were gone.

“Where'd that effing trawler go?” Rick shouted.