Buried Dreams (38 page)

Dinner was a chicken dish that was actually fairly good, and I settled back into the routine of being in the hospital. The stiff bed, the clean sheets and blankets, the constant mutter of voices and people walking by. The nursing staff was cheerful and efficient, and I half-watched the television, my leg starting to throb, and I refused to think of anything that had happened last hour, last day, last week.

There was an announcement that visiting hours were coming to a close, and I shifted my leg, trying to find a place that didn't hurt as much, when somebody came in with a smile and said, "Hey, welcome to the club."

I couldn't believe what I saw. Felix Tinios, well dressed and grinning, was shaking my hand, his other hand still bandaged from the burn he had received when we had gone a-visiting to Ray Ericson.

"Club?" I asked. "What club is that?"

He took the chair vacated by Paula and said, "The club of those on the receiving end of speeding bullets. That's when it comes to you, that you're not quite Superman. That you're not as fast as a speeding bullet, nor as strong. Where were you hit?"

"Lower shin."

"With what?"

"Twenty-two long rifle, I think. Went in the front and right out the back. Doc says I'll be out tomorrow."

Felix nodded. ''I'll pick you up then, get your ass home. What happened?"

So I told the story for the third time that evening --- Diane, Paula, and now Felix --- and when I was through, I said, "And excuse me for changing the subject, but what in hell are you doing here?"

He looked hurt. "That's not a very nice thing to say."

"You know what I mean. When I got out of court yesterday, your lawyer wasn't sure how many days it would take for you to gel out. I didn't think it would take just one."

He leaned back in the chair, one big hand behind his head, the bandaged one in his lap. "Thing is, Lewis, I went to the bank."

'What bank is that?"

"First National Bank of Felix Tinios," he said. "Best bank there is.”

I thought for a second and said, "I guess this bank doesn’t have much in the way of funds but has a lot in the way of information.”

"Exactly, my injured friend. You see, in all my years of wok, here and there, I've come across interesting bits of information about certain events. I suppose I should have done my good civic duty and reported them to the proper authorities but… see, I never got around to it. And when I was in serious discussions with the attorney general's offices of both Maine and New Hampshire, I decided it was time. I offered them some very interesting information that led to certain arrangements. I won't bore you with the details. Let's just say any and all charges against you have been dropped. I might have a couple of court dates ahead of me, but nothing to worry about. Oh. And I decided to clean up one more loose item."

I don't know if it was the painkillers or just the soothing tone of Felix's voice, but I was definitely beginning to feel better. "Seems like you've already had a busy day. What else, then?"

"Ray Ericson."

"Oh."

"C'mon, don't get all mushy about it, Lewis. I came to him and worked out a deal. He'll stay out of your way, he forgets about doing anything to you in return, and I've set him up someplace where he can get suntanned and meet interesting women."

"St. Pete?"

"The same." The smile on his face was quite wide and said, "Yeah, a hell of a day. Anything else you need?"

I said, "Hate to do this to you, Felix, but yeah, there's one more thing you can do for me."

"Not to worry. You're an injured lad, and I take pity on injured lads. Go ahead. What else do you want?"

I told him. He pondered it for a moment and said, "Yeah. Doable. Tomorrow morning okay?"

"That will be fine."

He let his chair fall forward with a bang. "I've got to get going on it. And then, Lewis, let's stop worrying about favors for friends and deceased friends. All right?"

"I'll try."

The last thing he said as he left was "The hell you will."

Brian stood there, glowering like a student brought before his high school principal. Both hands were in the pockets of his coat.

I said, "How did you convince him to come along?"

Felix just smiled. "I made him an offer he couldn't refuse." He laughed and headed out the door, and said, "Jesus, I love saying that line. Look, I'll be outside, in case you need anything."

Felix stepped out and I said to Brian, "This won't take long."

"Good."

"You weren't straight with me up in North Conway."

He shrugged. "So?"

"So why didn't you tell me that the Russells had contacted you about their artifacts? And that you had given them Jon's name?"

Brian said, "You're a smart fella. I'm sure you can figure it out."

"That's what I've been doing, all night. I guess maybe you gave the Russells the name of Jon as a joke. All the grief and heartache he caused you, maybe you thought you'd get a little bit of revenge, get Jon all spun up about possible artifacts, and then see him get disappointed again. A good guess?"

He said, "Yeah. Not a bad guess at all. Only thing I got wrong was that the artifacts were real. That's what the papers said today."

I moved some and winced as a bolt of pain rippled up my leg.

"But after he was killed? What was the difference then? Why keep it a secret? Why not tell me? Or the cops?"

The glowering look in his face returned, and he spat out the words. "Why? I'll tell you why. That damn fool chased me out of town and my home because of his dreams about those damn Vikings. That's why! And do you think I was going to give him the satisfaction of being right? Even from the grave? To have the people in Tyler talk about him, years from now, as being a guy who eventually was right about the history of Tyler? Him and not me? The hell I would." His face was red and his lips trembled. "The hell I would."

I lay there and suddenly wanted him gone. "You can leave, now."

He looked defiant. "Suppose I don't? Suppose I want to stay here and give you a piece of my mind?"

"Then I'll ask the large gentleman standing outside to come in and assist you."

He stared at me, called me a variety of names, and then left. After a bit, Felix came in, sat next to me.

The night went all right, fitful and passing with naps and long dozes, and after a breakfast of a cheese omelet and coffee and toast, Felix came back, looking tired, and bringing along a very unhappy Brian Mulligan. Felix said to me, "He was a reluctant cuss at first, but here he is. As promised."

“So," he said. "Got what you needed?" "I suppose I did. Whore's Brian?"

"Gave him cab fare, bus fare. I imagine he'll be home by tonight." Felix looked at my leg. "You ready to head home?"

"In a few hours, I'm told."

"Good, I'll stick around."

"That would be nice," I said.

He pulled his chair closer to me and said, "How are you doing?"

"Me? I'm doing all right."

He shook his head, patted me on the shoulder, an usual gesture from someone like Felix. "Maybe so, but listen to your Uncle Felix. You're still high on survival and painkillers. You'll go home today and you'll be so happy and energetic, you think you'll have enough energy to run the Boston Marathon. But soon enough, you're going to crash, and you're going to crash hard. You've been shot, my friend, you've been violated in a very obscene way. And when you realize that, that old black dog of depression is going to jump on your back and sink its claws into you. Remember that."

"I will."

Felix sighed, sat back in the chair. "No, you won't. But when that black dog comes visiting, give me a call. I'll get you out."

"You will?"

"I will."

“Thanks," I said.

"Don't mention it," Felix said.

"I'll try not to," I said, and then we both changed the subject, and talked about the World Series and Halloween and what kind of winter we might have, all the time up to when the nice people from the hospital came to my room and sent me on my way.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The day of the accident, I found myself thinking not only of what Felix had told me, but one of the stories Jon had passed along during the short time I had known him. "History doesn't just live in books and old documents," he had said one night over beers. "It lives around us. Just look at what's about you, and look at it through their eyes. Not your eyes."

Sure. I had thought about that during the nights I had been home alone, in my old house. I thought of all the ghosts that had lived in these timbers, wondered about their lives and their deaths, and I guess I was focused on the death aspect, for as Felix had predicted, the dark dog was now square on my back, jaws and paws firmly clenched. I was still limping some, the stitches pulling and tugging, and the days were long and dark, filled with reading books I didn't care to read, and watching television I didn't want to see. The nights had been restless ones, filled with dreams where an old determined lady with a pistol was a better or a quicker shot. Those usually woke me up, breathing hard, the sheets soaked through with sweat. There had been phone calls here and there from my friends, checking up on me, but no visitors came, none at all. For the past several days it had been just me, alone, wounded and in my old house.

The accident wasn't much. I was washing the dishes from a meager lunch, and a slippery drinking glass flew out of my hand and to the floor. The glass shattered into pieces that seemed to fly into every corner of the kitchen, and in cleaning up the mess, I twice banged my wounded leg on a table --- leading to some quite colorful and profane language --- and once got a shard of glass stuck in my skin, a shard the size of a rice grain, and it hurt like hell. And when the broken glass had been swept up and put into a paper bag, I opened up the counter under the sink, noted that the trash can there was overflowing. Time for a dump run today, and if I was lucky, I'd get rained on while unloading my car. I looked out my kitchen window, at the gathering storm clouds, and wished it was summer. If it was summer, I could open the window and in a very non-PC way, just toss the damn bag out there.

Why not? I was sure that the people who had lived here once had - --

Once had done what? Well.

I'll be damned.

I carefully put the broken glass on top of the trash, and then hobbled out to the front door, where my homemade archaeological gear was waiting. I picked up the bucket and spoon and colander, and went outside, not even bothering with a coat, though I started shivering by the time I had rounded the house and was on the rocky shoreline. Near the support timbers of my outside deck, I stretched out on the rocks and dirt, gauged the distance underneath my kitchen window, and started to dig.

And it didn't take long. By God and by Jon, it didn't take long. After just a handful of minutes, I uncovered a brown piece of glass. And another. And then the neck to an old bottle, a light, translucent green. I lined all of the pieces up on a large flat stone, and continued to dig, ignoring the pain in my leg, ignoring the shivering in my arms and legs. Then pieces of pottery came up, some of them glazed white and with blue flowers on them. Then two old clay pipes, their stems broken, and my hands were shaking and I was breathing with excitement. Was this it, I thought, as I widened the hole, was this how it was like, Jon, just over a week ago, when you finally held those Viking treasures in your hands? After all those years of dreaming and waiting and digging? This sweet taste of joy and victory in your mouth, the weight of the old treasure in your hands? Was this what it was like?

The digging went on for a while longer, until raindrops started splattering the back of my hand, and then there was an odd scrape as my spoon struck metal. I dug around and at first thought I had found a coin, but the object didn't seem to be the right size or shape. I made careful scrapings around the round piece of metal, and then popped it out. I held it my hands and gently rubbed the dirt free, using some of my own saliva, and then it was exposed. A metal button, with an eagle and U.S. inscribed in the center.

An old army uniform button, from when this place had been home to a coastal artillery unit.

I carefully put the button in my pocket, winced again as I stood up, and I got into the house before the heavy rain started.

But I didn't let the rain hold me back. I had a place to go.

Back at the High Street Cemetery I went, driving slow through the narrow lanes, and it was easy to spot the fresh grave. The dirt still looked fresh and the headstone looked new and shiny. I got out of my Explorer and slowly limped across the slick grass to Jon's final resting place, and I stood there in the cold and the rain, just looking at the simple headstone, with his name and his birth and death dates inscribed.

I wondered what to say over the grave and over the dirt, and all I could say was, "Good job, Jon. You did it. You really did it."

And then I took the old army button, placed it gently on top of his headstone, and went home.