Vineyard Stalker (9 page)

“I've been a few places, but I don't get off the island too often.”

“They say that Roland Nunes was in Vietnam, but that he hasn't left that place of his since he got back. I guess Vietnam got the wanderthirst out of his system.”

“I guess it did.” I finished my beer and got up. “If I think of anything you might know, I may come back and ask you about it. If you recall anything, I hope you'll give me a ring. I'm in the book.”

“Drop by any time. If I'm not off somewhere looking at an old pile of broken stone, I'll be here.”

“If you're gone so much, why are you interested in buying Roland Nunes's property?”

He walked me to his door. “Joanna was my second wife. I was a widower. I have two children by my first marriage. I don't necessarily want them living with me here, but I'd like to have them and my grandchildren nearby. If I had Nunes's land I'd build a couple of houses there and see if I could entice them to move to the island, or at least summer here.” He put out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Jackson. Glad you could stay for lunch.”

As I drove toward Vineyard Haven I wondered if I was getting sentimental in my old age, and if my liking the last three people I'd interviewed that morning was clouding my judgment. It's usually not wise to become fond of suspects in a case.

On the other hand, as Jung might agree, our emotions and intuitions are sometimes sounder than our pure reasoning.

I wondered if Nunes's old buddy, Jed Mullins, would be at home.

Jed Mullins was not at home, and thus my string of finding people where I wanted them to be was snapped at four. However, his wife told me where he was working so I drove there. Mullins was unloading lumber from the back of a sixteenwheel flatbed. He handled his big forklift as if it were a dancing partner and the two of them were alone on a spotlighted dance floor while a good orchestra played Strauss. When he backed away from the stacked lumber I got his attention and he turned off his engine.

He looked to be about Nunes's age and sported a huge, gray, waxed mustache that curled upward and compensated nicely for the lack of hair on the rest of his head. He was large in all directions and his arms and face were browned by the sun.

I told him my name and said, “Carole Cohen has hired me to see who's been vandalizing Roland Nunes's place up in West Tisbury. She says that you're Roland's friend. I'm hoping that you may be able to give me some idea about who might be behind the guys who have been doing the vandalizing.”

Mullins studied me with expressionless eyes, then said, “You say Carole hired you, eh?”

I had anticipated his carefulness, so I dug a scrap of paper out of my pocket and handed it to him. “You've got a cell phone there on your belt. Here's her number. Give her a call and check it out.”

He took the paper. “I'll do that.”

“I'll give you some privacy,” I said, and walked to the shade cast by the piled lumber. I leaned against the yellow boards, inhaled their sweet smell, and watched as he spoke into his phone. Everyone in the world had a cell phone these days. Even Zee and I shared one. Originally we'd gotten it to carry in the Land Cruiser when we were on the beaches, in case we got stuck out there somewhere and needed help; later we used it elsewhere because it was occasionally convenient; now one or the other of us seemed to use it regularly; as is often the case with gadgets, what had once been a luxury had now become a necessity.

When Mullins returned his phone to his belt, I walked back to him.

“When it comes to Roland, I'm careful about who I talk to,” he said.

“Carole told me about her brother going over the hill,” I said. “She said you were the only other person who knows about it. I'm hoping that if you know that much, you might know more. Maybe something that will give me a line on who's been giving him grief.”

He frowned. “I haven't seen Roland for a while. What kind of grief?”

I told him of my adventures, my intent to get the photos analyzed, and of my talks with Robert Chadwick and with Babs and Melissa Carson.

When I was through he gave a snort and said, “Jesus, Roland doesn't deserve that sort of crap, but I don't think I can steer you toward anybody who might be behind it. You say the guys who stun-gunned you didn't seem to have any problem with killing somebody if the money was right?”

“I was sort of dizzy at the time, but that's the way I got it.” I gave him my photo of the intruder. “You recognize this guy?”

He frowned at the picture and shook his head. “Damned camouflage hides a lot.” He handed the photo back to me. “That's pretty heavy stuff, killing somebody for money.”

“People have enemies sometimes. Can you think of any Roland Nunes might have? You know him from way back.”

He squinted at me. “Thirty years ago I might have been able to guess at a few. You know anything about Roland back then?”

“I know the gossip and what Carole Cohen told me: that he was some kind of major-league warrior who put in several tours in Vietnam before he decided he'd had enough and left without saying good-bye.”

He eyed me. “What do you think about that? About him going over the hill?”

I shrugged. “The whole command pulled out not much later. I don't fault people who've had their fill of war.”

“Were you over there?”

“Not for long. I got mortared on my first patrol.”

“Where were you?”

“I'm not even sure. Somewhere around Tay Ninh.”

He smiled slightly. “Get to see the Khmer ruins up there?”

“I didn't know they were there until I read about them later.”

“I spent a little time along the border. We bombed a lot of the temples and did some major damage, but that's where the Cong were hiding out, so they got a lot dropped on them. Roland and I mostly worked up north of there, out of Dakto and Ben Het.”

“You sound like you worked with him.”

“We did the same kind of work, but he was better at it. In fact, he was the best I ever saw. He liked his job better than being back on R & R at China Beach. He was testy back then and rubbed a lot of people wrong, but out in the field he was in his element. I think it took his mind off the Dear John letter from his girlfriend. I used to wonder if he became a sniper because he really wanted to kill the girl. Beer makes you think odd thoughts.”

“I've heard that he was a very gung ho, dedicated guy. They say his medals could sink a ship.”

Mullins rubbed his mustache and gave one end a twirl. “We'd been friends here on the island when we were kids and we did a lot of hell-raising together. The police suggested that it might be a good idea for us to join the army before they had to throw us in jail. Then, like I say, his girl dumped him for another guy, and that nearly killed him, so we enlisted together.” He shook his head. “Seems like a long time ago, but I guess things haven't changed too much. Kids are still raising hell.”

“Some of them,” I said. “I joined up when I was seventeen. I was bored and I thought being a warrior would be interesting.”

“Yeah. High adventure. Anyway, Roland and I ended up over there as snipers.” Mullins looked me in the eye. “Roland killed seventy-five people that I know of. Had a special rifle. He'd lie up there and pick people off as they came near our fire support base. One time he killed twenty people in one day. They came along and he shot the officer in front, then he shot the guy who tried to lead a retreat back up the trail. The patrol took cover and one by one he shot everybody who tried to make a break or showed himself any other way.”

“I've heard a few sniper stories. I don't know if I could have done it.”

“The two of us worked together sometimes. He was the best shot I ever saw. When they pulled us back for R & R he mostly lived in brothels. He was surly and had a bad mouth and just wanted to get back on duty so he could keep killing people. He was popular with the brass because he was so good at his work, but the grunts stayed away from him. I stuck with him, though.”

“What happened to change him?”

He shook his head. “I don't know. Maybe he just got tired. I know I did. In my case when I got tired I got careless and got myself shot.” His hand strayed to his massive chest. “Roland carried me out of there and saved my ass doing it. It took him two days and the Cong were looking for us all the way back. We'd hide and hear them going by, then move on and hide again. He got the Silver Star for that.

“Later he came to see me in the hospital and told me things were fine, but his eyes were different. Something had changed in him. When he left he said good-bye instead of see ya, which was what he usually said when we went different directions.

“Next time I saw him was years later right here on the island. He wasn't the same person at all. There wasn't any wildness in him. I kidded him about it. Told him he reminded me of a priest. He said he wasn't any kind of priest and told me about going over the hill. A separate peace he called it. He'd given up booze and only drank tea. He only ate vegetables. Said he was going to build himself a house up there on land his aunt had bought, get himself a job of some kind, and try to live a quiet life.

“Around here people treated him like a hero when he first got back, but he slipped away from them as quick as he could and built that little house of his. I go by sometimes and we talk. He may think I'm the only person who understands him because of what we did in 'Nam, but I don't think I really do. What I do is listen and make small talk.”

“That's probably quite a lot.”

He shrugged. “After forty years, it may have added up. Did you know there's a woman who's been waving herself at him, and that he seems interested in her?”

“Melissa Carson? I met her earlier today. She's a case. She says he's more interested in her than she is in him.”

Mullins frowned. “Can't say that sounds too good. She's a looker, though. I've seen her.”

“She is that, all right.” I switched gears. “Over the years you've never heard Roland mention anyone who might have it in for him? Never heard of any enemies of any kind?”

He shook his big, bald head. “Like I told you, forty years ago I could have named a few here on the island and over in 'Nam, too. But since he got back? No. Nobody. Although those neighbors and his cousin Sally Oliver would all be happy to see him sell out and move on.”

“Does anyone else know about his desertion?”

“Nobody that I know of. The only people who know are me and Carole Cohen and now you. Why?”

“I thought there might be an angry vet out there who'd think he was fair game.”

He considered that, then said, “I think a mad vet would probably just rat him out.”

“One may have decided that Roland might not give a damn if he was ratted out, and to try a little terrorism first.”

He shrugged. “I go to the VFW every now and then. I've never heard anybody bad-mouth him. He never goes there, and half the gang doesn't even remember him.”

“And as far as you know he hasn't left any angry women in his wake.”

“You mean that hell-hath-no-fury stuff? No, as far as I know, there haven't been any women until this Melissa Carson.”

“How about the places he works? Any trouble with anyone there?”

“Not that I've heard of. Maybe you should ask people who've worked with him. He's been framing with Milt Jorgensen for a couple of years. Ask Milt.”

“I will.” I told him I'd be back in touch if I thought of something he might know and asked him to call me if he remembered anything that had slipped his mind.

“I'll do that,” he said, putting out a beefy hand. “Roland saved my life and I owe him. Besides, he's a friend.”

I got back into the truck, wondering if I had learned anything new. If, perhaps, someone from long ago in the Monk's past was now reemerging to take revenge for a slight or crime forgotten by everyone else. I thought of the folklore that said Italians preferred their vengeance cold, and of the cask of amontillado.

At home I prepared a cream of fridge soup for supper, which is a meal that is always good but never quite the same, depending as it does on what you have in the way of leftovers in your refrigerator. I put the soup in the freezer to chill and had a Sam Adams while the cats and I socialized, agreeing that the place was empty without Zee and the children. When the soup was cold, I ate two bowls of it, each sprinkled with a few Herbes de Provence. Delish! Then I drove to West Tisbury, parked, and walked down the ancient way to the Monk's house.

He was seated on a mat on the western side of his house, taking in the rays of the setting sun. Mr. Mephistopheles was lying beside him, looking very comfortable and wise the way cats do.

I sat on my heels and told him most of what I'd done that day, who I'd seen, and what they'd said. When I was done, he smiled that gentle, amused smile of his and said, “I can think of no one I've offended at work. But ask Milt, if you wish; maybe he knows something I don't know.”

“You haven't exactly made a friend of Melissa Carson.”

The smile became broader and gentler. “So you found out about Melissa. She's charming, but I don't think she's interested in my kind of life. I really have nothing to offer a wife.” He waved a hand at his house. “What woman would choose this house when she could choose another?”

“A nun?”

He smiled. “Melissa is hardly a nun!”

“True. She's had a couple of husbands already and she's sporting a diamond from a guy named Alfred Cabot, but she isn't sure she wants to marry him, either. She seems to like you, though.”

He shook his head, and I heard tension in his voice. “I want that to be true. Your ring says you're married. When I think of Melissa, I think of marriage. But she keeps me at an emotional distance and I think she'll shortly give me up and go after better game.”

I thought he might be wrong about that, but only said, “I haven't decided whether or not to park myself out yonder again tonight. I doubt if those guys will be back so soon, after what happened last night. I think they'll want to talk to their boss and decide whether they even want to keep on hassling you. If one of the people I talked to today is the boss, they know I have those photos because I told everyone that I did. In any case, what happened last night should cause them pause for a day or two at least. Maybe for good, especially if the experts can clear away the camouflage from that one guy's face.”

“That makes sense to me,” said Nunes. “I think we can both get a night's sleep, and I'll keep Mr. Mephistopheles inside. We can talk again tomorrow if you wish, but I believe it's all over.”