A Matter of Time (27 page)

Pushing the now empty cart, he reversed direction and came back towards the cut—and Bartholomew, who again flattened himself
against the rock wall. This time the cart-man passed by without stopping. Letting him get a few paces ahead, Bartholomew followed.

Why? He demanded of himself. Why was he doing this? This was insane! He’d seen what he needed to see. He could bring the police
back here. There was no point in doing any more!

Everything in him wanted to run, get as far away from here as possible! Yet, if that was a body—Eric’s body (he forced himself
to think it)—then he needed to see who this man was.

So—he followed as closely as he dared. Just before Sound View Road, the man stopped. Bartholomew stopped. The man pushed the
cart into the brush by the east side of the trail, as if some shopper had “borrowed” the cart to get her groceries home, then
abandoned it here.

Bartholomew was perhaps a dozen feet from him, when to his horror the streetlight chose that instant to sputter on. In that
frozen moment, both men were transfixed.

Then Bartholomew ran back into the cut, as if the Hounds of Hell were after him. But there was only one set of footfalls echoing
off the walls of the cut. The cart-man had chosen not to follow him.

Bartholomew had seen—and recognized—the face of the murderer.

And the murderer had seen the face of the witness.

33
  
  
our turn

Still shaking when he reached the Quarry Cottage, Bartholomew was in turmoil. Thoughts, emotions, belief, perceptions—all
crashed like roaring surf against the rocks of what he had just witnessed.

He should call the police. His cell phone was on the desk. Picking it up, he discovered that he’d forgotten to charge it.
He could walk down to the main house, wake them up, and ask to use their telephone—and unnecessarily alarm the entire household.

He checked his watch: one o’clock in the morning. Plugging in the charger, which would have the phone usable soon enough,
he sat down to pull himself together.

And realized that he was angry with God.

Snatching up his clipboard and pad he wrote:

Why did you let it happen? Why did Eric—if that was Eric—have to die?

It was not my will
.

Is that what you say when people ask you about the Holocaust?

That was not my will, either
.

But isn’t that just a massive cop-out? I mean, you’re God! You can do anything you want!

Not when it conflicts with man’s will
.

I don’t get it! You are love, but you let hatred triumph. Where’s the justice in that?

My son, why did I create man?

We’ve been through that: To be your companion, for time and eternity.

Correct. For man to be that, I had to give him free will. He had to
want
to be with me. He had to
choose
to set aside his will for mine
.

You were taking quite a risk, weren’t you? What if no one wanted to do it your way? Put down their will for yours?

Many didn’t. You have no idea how much it hurt when some, for whom I had great love, turned away. But once I had set the machinery
in motion, I could not change the rules just because I did not like the way it was working out
.

Bartholomew smiled. You came close a few times. The Flood, the plagues, all those years of drought and famine.… But you do
intervene, when we ask. Sometimes.

It is always my will for you to ask. It is not always in accordance with my will for me to answer in the manner you have requested
.

Bartholomew was calmer now, but he still wanted answers.

What about Eric? He was so young.…

He was old enough to make choices. The day you saw him in the cathedral, he nearly chose me
.

Oh, God! I almost prayed for him at that moment. If I had, would it have—made a difference?

Silence.

Bartholomew shuddered. Earlier, he’d sensed he’d somehow assumed Dan’s burden for the boy. Now he knew it.

I wish there were some way of rewinding the tape.

The next time you have an impulse to pray for someone, do so
.

What should I do now?

Call Dan
.

He checked the cell phone; it had built up a sufficient charge. On the desk he found the piece of paper with the number of
Sandys House on it and made the call.

The night manager sounded like he might have been catching a few winks himself. Bartholomew apologized for disturbing him,
but said it was an emergency. A police emergency.

In a few moments Dan’s groggy voice came on the line.

He told Dan what he’d seen.

“I’ll call Cochrane.”

Half an hour later, Sergeant Tuttle collected him and took him and Dan, who was in back, to the Somerset police station, where
the duty sergeant showed them into the situation room. On the wall was an enlarged map of Bermuda, with a red grease pencil
arrow to the reef in Sandys Cove where the body had been found. Next to it were posted several lists—the snorkelers, the guests
at Sandys House and the Red Lion, and suspected drug dealers. There was a profile of Vincennes, provided by Interpol, and
a timetable of events—the last being the scheduled interview with Eric.

Dan inspected Vincennes’ curriculum vitae. “A pretty rough customer,” he murmured.

“Who seems to have met his match,” added Bartholomew.

The Chief turned to him. “You know, you took quite a chance out there. What if he’d come after you?”

“I had my feet in the running position,” the latter said, with an apologetic smile. “I felt it was worth it, to find out who
killed Eric—if that was him.”

Sergeant Tuttle came in and offered them coffee, which they gratefully accepted. “Have to be black, I’m afraid. Milk’s run
out.”

At that moment, Inspector Harry Cochrane arrived and went straight to the coffee maker, which was now empty. Opening the cupboard
above it, he discovered that the coffee tin was also empty.

“Sergeant,” he muttered, “do you suppose that in this entire establishment, there is one scrap of coffee left?”

Tuttle shook his head. “The day shift will be bringing some, no doubt. Along with fresh milk.”

“Have mine,” Bartholomew offered, extending the cup to him. “I haven’t touched it. Just waiting for it to cool down.”

Cochrane looked at him and smiled. “Decent of you. I should insist you have it, but my craving insists I take you up on it.
Halves?”

“Put mine in the pot, too,” Dan offered. “I haven’t touched it, either.”

Cochrane brightened. “Two-thirds of a cup is certainly better than none.” He turned to Bartholomew. “So you’re Chief Burke’s
monk friend. Tell me what you saw. Long version, please. Let me decide what’s important and what isn’t.”

Bartholomew gave him the long version.

When he’d finished, Cochrane rubbed his eyes. “And
you think the body—if it
was
a body—might be one of the boys we’re looking for?” He turned to Dan. “We went by to pick up Jonesy. He never came home from
school.”

Dan was stunned.

“I don’t know for sure, Inspector,” said Bartholomew. “I’ve a feeling it might be.”

“Well,” said the latter, getting up, “we’d best go and see. Sergeant Tuttle? Ask the duty sergeant if we might borrow his
clerk, and bring the portable floodlights.”

In a few minutes there were two patrol cars parked on the trail where Bartholomew had seen—whatever it was—thrown down the
gully. Tuttle and Officer Ellis set up the floodlights on their tripod, but bright as they were, they could not penetrate
the dense foliage below.

“I’ll go down there, sir,” said Tuttle, before Cochrane could ask.

Armed with high-powered flashlights, he and the clerk ducked under the old wooden railing and prepared to descend. Before
he did, he glanced at Bartholomew and smiled. “This better not be someone’s old mattress.”

From the trail, Cochrane, Dan, and Bartholomew watched the beams of the flashlights disappear in the underbrush, as the officers
slowly made their way down. Before long, they could see only occasional brief flashes.

Then the inspector’s hand-held two-way talker crackled. “It’s no mattress,” said the sergeant. “We’ll bring him up.”

Bartholomew fought the urge to ask which boy it was, and looked over at Dan. His friend said nothing, but he could tell from
his eyes; he was hoping it wasn’t Eric.

It took them more than a few minutes to bring the body up to the trail. When they had, Bartholomew could
see it wasn’t Eric. He looked at Dan. He had averted his gaze, a hand over his eyes.

The eastern sky was starting to lighten when they got back to the station. At the inspector’s request, Sergeant Tuttle had
taken the body to the hospital for an immediate autopsy. From the dilated pupils it looked like an overdose, probably heroin,
but they had to be certain.

When Cochrane, Dan, and Bartholomew were back in the situation room, the inspector turned to the monk. “You said the streetlight
came on, and you caught a glimpse of the man with the cart. Describe him.”

Bartholomew did his best. When he’d finished, Cochrane smiled sadly and said, “You’ve just described a third of the adult
male Caucasian population of Bermuda.”

The Chief, lost in thought, now looked at Bartholomew. “Was his nose thin on the bridge and sharp-looking?”

His friend nodded.

“Narrow face, high cheekbones?”

Another nod.

“Dark hair, receding here and here?” He gestured to his forehead.

Nod.

“I know who it is,” said Dan quietly but with great force. He turned to Cochrane. “And so do you. He’s just described Laurent
Devereux. At least, that’s the name he goes by. He’s a guest at Sandys House. I sat next to him at dinner Saturday night.”

“
Was
a guest,” corrected Cochrane. “He checked out yesterday morning. I know, because I wanted another word with Monsieur Devereux
about the business conference he was supposed to be attending next week. The
Princess did have that event scheduled, but after September 11, too many registrants dropped out, and they canceled it. But
they did have a list of presenters and seminar leaders. No Devereux; in fact, he wasn’t even registered.”

“So now what?” asked Dan.

“Yes, that’s the question, isn’t it,” said Cochrane with a dour smile. “I’m curious, Chief; if this was your investigation,
what would
you
do now?”

Dan thought for a moment. “Well, there are three of us who know what this guy looks like. I’d get a police artist in here,
ASAP, to work up a sketch of him.”

Cochrane nodded. “She’s already on her way. Should be here about the same time as the coffee.” He turned to a yawning Bartholomew.
“That is, if you can stay awake that long. You’re the only one who didn’t get any sleep at all last night.”

“I’ll be all right,” said Bartholomew, hoping he would.

“I have to say what I’m thinking,” said Dan, obviously reluctant to, as if uttering the words might give them power. “Why
hasn’t he killed Eric?”

Cochrane nodded. “I’ve been wondering the same thing. The man kills easily, with no compunction. In fact, it would seem he
derives a certain pleasure from it. So why spare the Bennett boy?”

“Bargaining chip,” murmured Bartholomew, gazing at the wall map of the island. The other two turned to him. “He must be thinking
the boy might be of more use to him alive than dead.”

“How?” asked the inspector.

“I’ve no idea,” said Bartholomew, shaking his head. Then he frowned. “You mentioned earlier there were only two ways off the
island. What about a power boat?”

“Cape Hatteras is 631 miles from here. There are only
thirteen boats on the island’s registry with that kind of range. And only three are still here. This time of year, the rest
are all down in the islands, where the charters are. We’ve alerted the three captains to get in touch immediately if they’re
approached for any long-range charter.”

Bartholomew was still frowning. “He’s thinking that Eric might prove useful to him in getting off the island.”

“How do you know that?” asked Cochrane.

Bartholomew shrugged. “A hunch.”

Dan spoke up. “We’ve worked together on the Cape in the past. I’ve, urn, found his hunches helpful.”

“Right,” said Cochrane, unimpressed. “Look, while we’re waiting for the artist, would you mind going back with Officer Ellis
and showing him where the perpetrator disposed of the shopping cart? A good print or two would be a great help. With that,
and the artist’s sketch, Interpol may be able to give us a hand.”

He stood up and pointed at the open manila folder on the table. “I’m tired of being on the defensive with this Devereux, or
whatever his name is. Tired of keeping personnel at the airport and the terminals with nothing more to go on than to watch
for someone ‘suspicious-looking.’ Now it’s our side’s turn!” he declared. “And we’re going to give him a taste of what our
batsmen can do!”

“Amen!” exclaimed Bartholomew, who didn’t even like cricket.