Black Swan (15 page)

T
he next morning was sharp and brilliant as the edge of a razor. At 7:00 am the sky was a deep blue, cloudless and unperturbed. For some reason, the wind had missed the memo, and was still blowing with unabated wrath. I'd seen this before with autumn storms, beautiful deceptive killers.

    I pulled myself out of the quarter berth and checked the instrument panel. Shore power was still out, but the batteries were barely tapped. I flicked on the gas valve and fired up the stove for coffee. When I poured the boiling water into the plastic French press, over a mound of Costa Rican select, Amanda stirred.

    "Could you pour some of that down my throat?" she asked.

    For Eddie, the smell of coffee portended a different experience. He waited patiently at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the companionway while I put on whatever clothes were within reach. Now familiar with his surroundings, he made a beeline to a cluster of hydrangea at the back of the Swan, into which he disappeared just long enough to take care of things, then ran back down the center dock.

    Back on board, I used the radio to check the NOAA weather report, which foretold a slow decline in wind speed during the day, with the promise of gentle winds tomorrow.

    The storm was all but over.

    We celebrated with a large breakfast, recklessly depleting our provisions on the assumption that we'd be shopping at the Southampton delis long before we ran out of food.

    I dug the dinghy and related equipment out of the deep lazarettes and put it all back together again. After that I took Eddie over to the pebble beach so he could run around for a while and get out the kinks. I brought my coffee with me, which I would have enjoyed more with a cigarette, but I'd quit, for the second time in my life. The first time was when I was around twenty-five, never having quite acquired the habit. In those days I was trying to sustain a career as a professional boxer, and the training was hard enough with clear lungs. I took up smoking again about twenty-three years later, the day I lost my job, left my home and wife, lost all my money and essentially burned my life to the ground. Adding a deadly habit didn't seem like such a big deal at the time.

    Things had improved since then. The route had been circuitous, but I was better for the trip. When I was living on the bottom of a ditch, self-reflection had seemed a meaningless endeavor, so I sought a blank calm, an unknowingness that would decouple waking consciousness from all that aching sadness and regret. To maintain this state of mind in the face of undeniably improved well-being seemed churlish and vain.

    Instead, I'd begun to count blessings the way I once catalogued guilt and remorse. While not what most people would consider an ideal romance, Amanda and I had found an equilibrium capable of sustaining the relationship. We lived together at the end of a peninsula, albeit in separate houses. We were both in the building trades, though in

separate ways—she a general contractor and me a journeyman carpenter and cabinetmaker. She tolerated the few friends I'd made (with the exception of Burton Lewis, whom she adored), and they tolerated her, but she never begrudged time spent with them and I never asked about times away from me, frequent occasions that were unannounced and rarely explained.

    I knew from my daughter Allison that some of these episodes involved the two of them cavorting around New York City. This constituted the greatest and most mysterious blessing of all. Allison had spent the first twelve years of her life trying to engage my attention, exerting the full force of her yearning will, and yielding the most meager of returns. She'd spent the next twelve, give or take, hating me for it, an inclination aided, abetted and reinforced at every opportunity by her mother. I got to it late, and only when there was almost nothing left of my life, but we'd more or less brought our relationship back from the dead. But then to have her magically connect with Amanda was astounding.

    And I'd lived to see it, an outcome that was far from an eventuality. In fact, on several occasions the odds were heavily weighted the other way. So whatever time I had left I decided to treat as a bonus, out of respect for which I'd make some effort to support the cause.

I
didn't have the heart to put Eddie back on the leash, but we were still in an untested environment. So I compromised by forcing him to heel, something he would do if convinced I really meant it. A few carefully chosen words were usually all it took.

    Thus configured, we were nearly at the boat when I heard someone running up from behind. It was Anika.

    She gripped my arm with both hands and said, "I'm not ready to panic yet."

    "Over what?"

    "I can't seem to locate Axel."

    "Does he like to disappear?" I asked.

    "No. That's sort of the point. He likes to cling."

    "What about your dad?"

    "He's pretending to be unconcerned, but he took off in the car a few minutes ago to search the roads. I've already looked all over the hotel and around the Harbor Club. I don't think Axel's been anywhere else on the island by himself."

    "It's not that big an island," I said.

    "Big enough. Though he can't get lost. He has a map of the place in his head."

    "We could report a missing kid, but there's no one to report to."

    "Technically, he's not a kid. He turned eighteen last month. Of course, if you say he's autistic, there's no problem. As if he's retarded or something, which he's anything but. I hate that label."

    I pulled her along to the boat as we talked so I could deliver Eddie to Amanda. I asked Anika to wait for me, and went below to explain things.

    "What's next?" said Amanda. "Are you going to lead the local militia against an invading horde?"

    "You remember how to start the engine and drive the boat?" I asked.

    "I do. Why?" she asked, stretching 'why' into two syllables.

    I pulled a detailed chart of Fishers Island out of the navigation table.

    "We're here," I said, pointing to the waterway beyond the breakwater. "Up here on the eastern shore of West Harbor, there's this little lagoon. The charts tell you it's too shallow for our draft, but that's not true if you follow this course."

    I used a pencil to draw a route from the Inner Harbor, through the breakwater, around a buoy and a cluster of rocks, and then through the narrow inlet, favoring the southern shore.

    "I've been there with Burton on a bigger boat than this. I've been tucking in there since I was a kid. It's part of a big estate and there's nothing on shore, no access roads or houses."

    "Why are you telling me all this?" she asked.

    "Unless I radio and say to head straight for New London, this is our best bet. Don't make a big deal of it, just start the engine, untie the lines and slip away. I'll tie the dinghy off on the dock before I go, and meet you there as soon as I can."

"You'll never stop scaring the hell out of me."

    "I'm just getting started," I said, pulling the shotgun out of the hanging closet. "Ever used one of these?"

    Before I gave her a lesson, I poked my head out of the companionway and reassured Anika I was coming. She had her arms clenched across her chest, holding herself. She said to meet her back at the hotel and to take my time, though she didn't mean that last part.

    Down below Amanda was staring incredulously at the Remington's long black barrel. As I loaded it, I gave her the essentials of safety and proper use. I don't like guns, and have never owned one. But as a young mechanical engineer, I'd made a study of their inner workings.

    "With a shotgun, you don't have to be a very good shot. Just aim the barrel in the general direction and pull the trigger. Try to stay on your feet. This model has a reduced recoil so a cop can get off a few shots at a time, but it still has plenty of kick."

    "You're saying this as if it's going to happen," she said.

    "Better to be ready."

    "For what?"

    "I don't know, but we're in the realm of three."

    "The realm of three?"

    "A term coined by a guy who taught me how to troubleshoot process applications. Two simultaneous coincident failures could easily be unrelated. The likelihood of coincidence drops dramatically after you hit three. Sanderfreud is killed. Poole beat up. Now Axel's missing. All in a short period of time. It's got my attention."

    Amanda and I had been through a lot together, so she wasn't completely unfamiliar with moments like these. Though past events never involved sailboats, hidden lagoons or pump-action shotguns. Or beautiful young artists.

    "This will make Anika happy, "said Amanda.

    "Her happiness isn't my concern," I said.

"It isn't?"

    We stood and looked at each other, stopped in our tracks by a topic neither of us had ever broached.

    "It's not like that," I said.

    "When you asked me what I thought was going on at the Swan, I almost told you that Anika was trying to seduce you, but thought better of it. You might realize it, or you might not. You can be pretty oblivious about that sort of thing."

    She was right about that, having little experience with the romantic dance. But this time, Anika had left little room for ambiguity. None, actually, which I shared with Amanda.

    "I've never asked you to be faithful," said Amanda, her voice stripped of inflection, "and I won't now. I just don't want to feel like a fool."

    "I have no intention," I started to say, but she stopped me by putting her fingertips on my lips.

    "Don't say it. I know your intentions are good. But things happen. Let's leave it there."

    I didn't want to, but she stuck the backpack in my hands and hustled me up the companionway. I knew her well enough to leave without further protest.

    I tied the dinghy off under the dock with a mixture of confidence and dread. There were no guarantees Amanda could drift off unnoticed, or that I hadn't been seen separating the dinghy, or that either of us wouldn't be followed, but since I had no reason to think any of these things would happen, it felt reasonable to ignore unsubstantiated fears, which I almost did.

    Christian Fey was pulling his Mercedes station wagon into the hotel parking area as we reached the end of the dock. The car jerked to a stop, a small cloud rising around the wheels where they dug into the sandy gravel. His normally placid face was alight with angry worry. I hung back when Anika approached him so I didn't hear what they said

to each other, but it was clear she was pushing him hard and he was fighting back. When he saw me standing there, he walked over.

    "I don't know why my daughter involved you in this," he said. "I appreciate your concern, but it's a simple family matter."

    "I sure get a lot of appreciation on this island and not much else," I said. "Has your son done this before?"

    Fey shook his head, then stopped himself.

    "Really, Mr. Acquillo," he said. "We don't need your help."

    "It's Sam, and yes you do. Where're the boys and girls from Subversive Technologies?"

    "They said they were going sightseeing."

    "That's a short morning's work. I don't suppose you'll tell me what's really going on," I said.

    Fey's quizzical look was almost convincing.

    "What do you mean?" he asked.

    "Quit the bullshit. Hammon and 't Hooft aren't here to go bird watching. Something's going on with Subversive that caused them to make a surprise visit. Something big enough to drag in Sanderfreud. They want something from you, but so far the trip hasn't paid off too well."

    Fey struck an imperious pose of a type only a European can achieve. Chin up, lips pursed, hauteur leaking out of every pore.

    "You seem to know an awful lot for a boat deliveryman," he said.

    "I watched you guys in the bar last night. My dog could have figured that one out."

    "Sam used to be senior vice president for R&D at Consolidated Global Energies. The third largest hydrocarbon processor in the world," said Anika, "before they imploded. Not his fault. He was long gone."

    To his credit, Fey shook that off, though the tenor of the conversation took a different turn.

    "Buyouts are always messy things," he said. "We're still haggling over silly details."

    "I don't believe you," I said. I could feel Anika stiffen, the reaction communicated across three feet of breezy Long Island Sound air. "Not that it's any of my business. But I might be able to help you out if you let me in on it."

    He glowered at me, his hands on his hips, his broad shoulders squared off. Anika reached out and took his forearm.

    "If you don't," she said to him, in a soft, firm voice, "I will."

    Suddenly distracted, Fey looked over my shoulder toward the Inner Harbor.

    "Isn't that your boat?" he asked.

    I didn't bother to turn around.

    "Amanda has to get back to Southampton. She's leaving
Carpe
in New London. I'll take the ferry over and pick up the boat when I can. Your daughter said I could have a room."