A Matter of Time (24 page)

“All right!” cried Kerry, as the others grinned, believing.

“Kerry, you’re smooth, man! And Alex? Just remember to breathe!”

They all laughed.

He turned to Colin. “You’ve got it now! The Beater’s back! Don’t ask me how I know, but I do. And pretty soon, you’re going
to know it, too!”

“I know it now,” Colin declared. “Anson, Søren’s been crowding the committee boat at the start. I know the Race Director.
He doesn’t appreciate that particular tactic. Watch what he does. If I’m right, he’ll angle the start line. If we start at
the other end, we should get a ten-foot lead.”

“You sure?”

“Trust me.”

“All right, Beater.”

Colin was right. The boats crossed the line together, one second after the shotgun. But the red spinnaker was just a little
ahead.

And Colin found he could read the wind again—the
next
wind. “When we round the buoy,” he shouted to Anson, “hold off on the spinnaker. They’ll raise theirs, but let them. Just
use the jib. The wind’s going to be coming from over there,” and he pointed to the southwest.

As they came off the buoy, only the blue spinnaker ballooned out—and then, as the wind suddenly gusted across the course,
the Danish boat started rolling from side to side uncontrollably, and there was nothing they could do to stop it.

Anson got ahead—and stayed ahead. “We’re zoned, boys!” he cried, as they crossed the line nearly a minute ahead.

Just before the next race, as they circled tight to the start
line, Anson shouted across to the other boat, “Hey, Søren-ski! Concede now, and we can start drinking early!”

“Big talk for someone who’s got to win two in a row!” the Dane shouted back. “You want to put a grand on it?”

“Absolutely!”

They crossed the start line side by side, working a fickle, shifting headwind. But all Colin’s old instincts were back. He
knew what the wind was going to do, before the first telltale sign. As his confidence rose, Søren’s waned, until he paid the
Marblehead boat the supreme compliment: Whatever tack they took, he copied them.

That technique worked fine, up until the last buoy, when Anson wound up with the starboard tack, forcing Søren to give way.

Now they were even at two up, and Anson, was ecstatic. As they circled in the final countdown, he called out, “Sørenski! I’ve
got a bungee cord, a long one—you need it?”

Colin winced, throwing a look at Anson, who just laughed. “I’m gaming him,” he murmured. “Get him angry enough, he’ll start
doing stupid things.”

He turned to the other boat and cupped his hands. “Yo, Sørenski! You’re looking really good today, man! I hope someone’s videotaping
you! Highlights at eleven!”

“Anson, you—“and he called him a Danish expletive.

“Wait a minute,” shouted Anson back, thumbing through an imaginary Danish-English dictionary. “Hey, man, that’s not in here!
But I think I got it from the context!”

That elicited a more vehement response. At the end of which Søren called to him: “You want to double?”

“Absolutely!”

This time, during the dance, Colin took them close to
the committee boat—a little too close. They actually brushed it, which earned them a penalty. It could have cost them the
race—and the match—except that Søren was laughing so hard, he forgot to watch where he was going and sailed out of the box.
Another penalty. The race was even again.

And it stayed even, with neither boat gaining an advantage. But at the final buoy, Colin sensed that the wind was about to
lighten. “Anson, drop the jib—
now
—and when we’re halfway round, start the spinnaker up.”

“You
sure
, man?” It was a risky maneuver. If Colin was wrong, if the wind stayed up, the spinnaker would blow out.

“I’m sure. Do it!”

As they rounded the buoy, Alex hauled the red spinnaker up. In the other boat, Søren grinned, convinced they’d gotten greedy
and blown it.

And then the wind dropped—just enough. Like a big red umbrella popping open, the spinnaker ballooned out—eight seconds before
the blue one.

With that slenderest of leads, Anson gave Colin the con. The latter anticipated each of Søren’s increasingly desperate maneuvers,
so deftly it was as if he were inside the Dane’s head.

The two boats sailed in tandem down the final leg, like skaters waltzing. The wind was steady now, and in the cerulean sky
above them, two Bermuda longtails soared as one.

“This is why we do this, guys!” exulted Anson at the top of his lungs. “This is the way we always dreamed it would be!”

They were ahead by eight seconds, as they approached the finish line—and roared with laughter. On the committee
boat, the Race Director and crew, in the event of another too close encounter with the Marblehead boat, had all donned their
yellow life vests!

When they’d tied up and turned over the sails and the boat to the yacht club staff, they walked four abreast down the long
dock to the club. In their red sailing shirts, with a certain swagger to their gait, they arrived, looking like resplendent
matadors.

And were showered with praise. Charlie Thompson’s friend was so excited, he was already talking about the second boat they
would need. And one of Neil and Marcia Carrington’s friends wondered if it was too late to join the Marblehead syndicate.

Towards the end of the evening, Anson, feeling no pain, took Colin aside. At the same table at which they’d sat at a few days
before, he said, “Listen, Beater, it looks like the second boat’s a lock. I want you at its wheel, man, and when we go for
the Auld Mug, I want you right next to me, strategizing.”

It was a perfect evening, thought Colin, as he drove the old Hillman home. Well, almost perfect. Perfect would have been to
have Amy there to share it.

When he got back to the apartment, there was a FedEx waiting for him. Opening it, he started reading, and all his euphoria
drained away. It was the decision from the divorce court hearing. The judge had awarded custody of their son to Amy, with
once-a-year visitation rights. And there would be a lump-sum settlement for child support: $50,000. It was due in thirty days,
or his property would be sold at auction.

He had no money, and the only piece of his property that was worth anything was
Care Away
.

29
  
  
tying up loose ends

A weather front was moving in. Dark clouds roiled over Bermuda’s low hills. Against them the white houses seemed stark and
ghostly. It would rain soon.

The two men sitting on the blue tile terrace were not enjoying the view. They were not enjoying anything this morning—least
of all, this hastily arranged meeting.

“We have a problem,” said the owner in clipped, precise tones. “Let me rephrase:
You
have a problem.”

Dupré waited.

“Remember that potential ‘loose end’ you told me about?”

“The boy Eric?”

The owner nodded. “Well, it seems there are two loose ends! And they are about to unravel.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you also have a young associate named Darryl Jones? Goes by the name of Jonesy?”

Dupré nodded. “He’s in the Somerset Church’s youth group.”

“It would seem that, despite your precautions, your activities Saturday night
were
observed. Through a loose
slat in the bathroom shutter. By Jonesy, who told Eric, who is scheduled to appear at the Somerset police station at four
o’clock this afternoon.”

“
What?
”

“To meet with Cochrane.”

“
Mercredi!
You’re certain?”

The owner did not bother to answer what they both knew was a foolish question.

The Frenchman reflected on the evening in question. “I did check the shutters from the outside of the house. Though I was
not expecting to use the bathroom—in that fashion. The boy must have come up to the house, even though the post light was
off. Must have nosed about, perhaps heard something….” He looked at the owner. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“Yes!” declared the latter with biting sarcasm. “Concerning something
else
you should have told
me
.” His colleague looked surprised; the owner had never taken this tone with him before. “Who’s this policeman from Cape Cod?
Staying at Sandys House, like yourself?”

“What, Burke? He’s nothing!” He gave a dismissive flicking gesture. “I didn’t tell you about him, because there’s nothing
to tell. He’s a cipher.”

The owner frowned at him over the tips of his tapping fingers. “Well, it seems that your cipher is going to accompany the
boy to the police station. He has apparently gained the boy’s trust and has persuaded him to talk to Cochrane.”

Dupré stared at him, speechless.

Thoroughly disgusted with the whole turn of events, the owner looked up at the gathering storm. “We should go in now. In five
minutes, we’ll wish we had.”

Dupré, deep in thought, followed him in to the solarium.
“Has the boy talked to Burke? Told him about—me?”

“If he had, you’d be in custody. But I gather he’s about to tell Cochrane everything.”

The Frenchman sighed. “Time to tie up loose ends.”

“I should think so! Clearly it should have been done before now.”

“There’s still time,” said Dupré calmly. “I’ve provided Jonesy with a pager. I’ll use it to summon him to the house after
dark. He will be too frightened not to come. And Eric I will see this noon.”

“Won’t he be in school?”

The Frenchman nodded. “They have a recess after lunch. We have a system: Every Thursday, I drive past the school at 12:40.
He sees me, and we rendezvous at a corner four blocks away, as quickly as he can get there. I supply him with what he needs,
and he’s back in school by one o’clock.” Dupré smiled. “Today is Thursday.”

“He won’t be—apprehensive?”

“Why should he be? He has no knowledge that we’re aware of his intent. And he’s undoubtedly been advised to act as if nothing
is different. I’ll wait at the corner for him, as always. He’ll get in the car, as always, and I’ll drive around the block,
as always, while he tells me what he needs.”

It grew darker. Rain started to pelt the tall windows, and Dupré stood and went to the nearest one. He studied the pattern
the drops made as they ran together, joining into miniature rivers.

“One thing will not be as always,” he concluded. “Instead of goods, I will have a syringe for him. When he wakes up, he will
find himself in a predicament similar to Vincennes’.”

The owner winced at the prospect of another liquidation, especially of someone he knew. “Is that really necessary?”

Dupré ignored him. “Except,” he mused, “I may have to do Jonesy first. To ascertain if he’s told anyone other than Eric.”

He turned back to the rivulets. “Actually, I doubt I’ll have to use the tub. The memory of it should be enough to loosen both
boys’ tongues. Then I will simply administer lethal doses of heroin, and,” he smiled and raised his hands, “
voilà
.”

Again the owner asked, “Is it—necessary?”

Dupré looked at him, not bothering to hide his fraying patience. “Since it is my neck in the guillotine,
comme il faut
, you will have to let me decide what is necessary.”

He tracked one of the descending streams with his finger. “I must know if anyone else knows.”

“I very much doubt it,” said the owner, “or we would have heard.”

Dupré nodded. “Even so, I must be sure.”

The owner got up, signaling that their meeting was about to come to a close. “Perhaps, under the circumstances, it might be
advisable to find somewhere else to dispose of—the evidence.”

“Thank you,” replied the Frenchman, bowing with exaggerated
politesse
. “Your advice is, as always, deeply appreciated.” He thought for a moment. “I’ll dispose of the bodies tonight. In a gully
off the Railway Trail. The terrain is steep there, and dense. When they’re found, OD’d on heroin—
if
they’re found—the police will assume it was a drug party gone bad.”

“Cochrane will know,” the owner observed.

“No,” Dupré clarified, “he will
suspect
. He won’t know for certain.”

The owner led his guest to the door. “Have you arranged your—departure?”

“I’m getting closer. I learned of an interesting possibility this morning, out at St. George’s. In that regard, I’d appreciate
you arranging an introduction for me with Neil and Marcia Carrington. Through them I would like to meet one of the Gold Cup
captains, Anson Phelps, and through him—”

“Out of the question!” snapped the owner. “You know that your world and mine can never mingle!”

Dupré shrugged. “It would have saved me time, that’s all.” Then, annoyed at the owner’s annoyance, he added, “Don’t worry,
I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.”

“It can’t be too soon,” replied the owner, not caring for the Frenchman’s tone. “The police are confident that though they
don’t know the murderer’s identity, they have him trapped. There are only two ways off the island—and the airport and cruise
ship terminals are covered. They’re saying it’s only a matter of time.”