Death on a Vineyard Beach (33 page)

No one was in the car. I exhaled. There's a little path that leads through the trees and undergrowth out onto the marsh that lies along the southwest shore of the Eel Pond. You take that path when you want to go clamming,
stepping over drainage ditches and sending the little crabs that live there scuttling into their holes. If you turn to the east once you get out onto the marshlands, you can cross to Little Beach.

I walked along the path until I was clear of the undergrowth, and looked both ways. Where would a couple of city kids go while they waited to make their next moves? To the beach, of course. I walked back to the Land Cruiser.

“We need some help,” I said. “If they didn't just abandon the car, I think they're out there on the beach. But there's too much of it for us to cover alone. They could be out on the point, or they could be clear down to the lighthouse. Or any place in between. Time to call the cops.”

Zee ran a map through her head. “If they're on the beach, they can only get off it in three places. Here, down at the lighthouse, and at the end of Fuller Street. I'll find a phone. You stay here and make sure they don't get away in the Cherokee.”

She went to the nearest house and knocked on the door. It opened and she spoke to the woman there, then went in. I went back to the Cherokee, opened the driver's door, popped the hood, and pulled a few wires loose. Zee came out of the house as I moved the Land Cruiser to the side of the street.

“They're on their way,” she said. “A couple of the guys will start working their way up from the lighthouse, and some others will be here right away. They said for us to wait.”

“You wait,” I said. “I'm going to cut around to the end of Fuller Street to make sure they don't slip out that way while we're waiting here.” I pulled the .38 out of my waistband. “Here. I know you won't shoot anybody, but if they happen to come out this way, shoot into the air or something. That should stop them.”

“And what will you do to stop them, if they come out at Fuller Street? You keep that old revolver of yours.” She made a sort of strange face, reached into her purse, and
brought out her Beretta .380. “If I have to shoot into the air, I have a better chance at hitting it with this. Go on, now.”

I wondered what my own face looked like when I saw her pistol. I put the 38 back under my shirt, turned, and trotted to Fuller Street.

Where Fuller Street ends, there is a path that leads over a short bridge to Little Beach. I've gotten scallops in the shallows beyond the beach, although it's not my favorite scalloping ground. Sometimes, though, after a wicked nor'easter, the scallops are piled two feet high along the beach and the fish wardens abandon all regulations about limits, so that Edgartownians can salvage as many of the shellfish as possible before they die and become food for only the gulls.

In August, though, we were still two months away from scallop season, and were in the sunning season instead. I crossed the bridge and went out on the beach. Looking to my right I could see Edgartown Light, around which were crowded the brown-skinned all-summer people, and the pale August people who were working to become brown themselves in spite of medical warnings that it was bad for their health. Between me and the light was a scattering of towels, blankets, and umbrellas.

I saw neither Vinnie nor Benny. I turned and looked the other way, toward the Eel Pond, and saw fewer sunbathers, including two pale young men in shorts, seated on beach towels. There was a gym bag sitting on the sand beside them.

Vinnie. And a friend. Benny White, without a doubt.

They were looking in the other direction, at a water-skier leaving the beach behind a noisy motorboat filled with laughing young people. The boat pulled away, and the skier rose from the water.

As I looked at Vinnie and Benny, their heads turned and they looked at me. I turned casually and looked back toward the lighthouse. When I turned back, they were still looking at me. I sat down on the sand and pretended to look out to sea. When I glanced at them again, they were
walking away from me to the north, toward the towels belonging to the water-skiers.

It seemed certain that Vinnie had recognized me, but in case he hadn't, I pulled off my tee-shirt and hid the pistol inside it, then pulled off my shorts. Wearing my manly bikini, and carrying my bundle of pistol and clothes, I strolled along the beach behind them. Maybe when they next checked behind them, my change of costume would deceive them. Probably it wouldn't.

In not too long a time, they turned off the beach toward the spot where they'd left their car. I felt a little rush of adrenaline, as I thought of Zee waiting there. I slid my hand into my bundle of clothes and got hold of the .38. I began to trot. But at that moment Vinnie and Benny saw something in front of them, and turned back to the beach.

I looked, too, and saw a policeman come down the path by the Cherokee, and out onto the marsh. I looked back at Vinnie and Benny, and saw them looking at me. Then they turned and trotted along the beach to the north, passing the spot where the water-skiers had left their gear. I heard a rush of footsteps behind me, and whirled to find Zee at my back.

“They've got themselves into a trap,” said Zee. “Once they get out there on the point, they're stuck.”

It was true. Little Beach hooks around the outside of the Eel pond, where I do some of my clamming and most of my musseling, and then ends, leaving a wide opening for boats to enter the pond and moor.

“They're stuck unless they want to swim,” I said. “If they don't want to swim, they have to come back this way again. What are you doing here? You were supposed to stay on Gaines Way.”

“The police are there.” Zee didn't break stride. “You didn't think I was just going to stand there while you were out here, did you? You know, I'll bet these guys don't know where they've gotten themselves. I'll bet they think that they can get out of town along this beach, all the way to Oak Bluffs, if necessary. I'll bet they've never looked at a map of this town.”

That made sense to me. Nobody on the run would deliberately
get himself trapped on a spit of sand that led nowhere, but neither Vinnie nor Benny knew where they were. I wondered if Vinnie had a gun, too. I had to presume that he did. I wondered how good he was with it, and whether Zee and I would need the pistols we were carrying.

“Look,” I said. “We don't both need to trail along after him like this. Why don't you stop here and make sure the chief and the others are coming along. I'll go ahead and keep an eye on them.”

“You're not a really champion patronizer like some men I know,” said Zee, “but you do have your moments.”

“If a woman patronized a guy, is that matronizing?”

Far ahead, Vinnie and Benny walked on. When they paused and glanced back, Zee and I stopped and pretended to be watching seagulls, just in case they really didn't know yet who we were. When they went on, we followed. The more they looked back, the longer they looked. Every other look or so, Zee and I kept walking, so they wouldn't wonder why we stopped every time they stopped.

“I don't think we're fooling them,” I said. “I really think you should go back.”

“They haven't got much farther to go,” said Zee. “They're about out of sand.”

It was true. Vinnie and Benny had come nearly to the end of Little Beach and could now see that it ended with a last bit of sand covered with gulls, terns, and cormorants. Across the pond several small boats, both sail and power, were moored. But they were a long swim, almost as far as the other shore.

We stopped and looked at Vinnie and Benny. What would they do? They were looking across the pond at the houses there, and looking at the boats. There were several catboats on moorings, ready to go, if you knew how to sail. Did either of them know how to sail? It would be ironic if they escaped in a slow-moving catboat.

Then at the top of the launching ramp across the way, where I park the Land Cruiser when I'm shell fishing, a police car appeared. Then another one pulled alongside of the first. People got out and looked across the pond toward
Vinnie and Benny. The sun glinted on a badge or two and what looked like some long guns.

So much for swimming across to the land or to a boat. Vinnie and Benny turned back and saw us standing there, watching them. Benny made his decision and started toward us, his free hand slipping into the gym bag. Vinnie hesitated. I looked behind us and saw that the motorboat had come ashore, its crew clowning and laughing on the beach. There were police officers coming toward us along the sand, but they were quite far back, well beyond the boat. Benny was much closer.

I read part of his mind. He'd take the motorboat, if he could get to it. But at what cost? What else, in this tight place, would he do? Would he be willing to shoot us, if we stood between him and the boat?

Or would he, thinking that he could not escape, decide to shoot us anyway, before surrendering? Just for laughs? Massachusetts has no death penalty, so he wouldn't be risking his life if he decided to take ours. Or would he decide to go out in a blaze of gunfire and glory, shooting until the cops shot him? Or, since nobody had yet proved he'd ever actually killed anyone, would he just surrender peaceably, knowing that he stood a good chance of walking away pretty untouched by the judicial system?

Unless Vinnie Cecilio talked, in which case Benny was looking at long jail time. I thought of Roger the Dodger, who might also have talked.

Vinnie lacked Benny's toughness. I heard his voice say, “They got us, Benny. We gotta give up.”

Benny's face registered contempt. His hand appeared, holding a pistol. He turned and shot Vinnie in the chest. Vinnie went over backward. Benny let his gun hand swing by his side, turned, and came running toward us.

“I think it's retreat time,” said Zee, touching my sleeve.

That seemed like a good plan, but since I didn't fancy turning my back to Benny, I turned half away and shuffled sideways, like a pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas, trying to watch Benny and the beach under my feet at the same time, a hopeless effort that only
resulted in my tripping and banging a knee on a rock. The pain was like a knife.

Zee, faster than I was, looked back. “Get up! Come on, come on!”

I looked beyond her and was surprised to note that the water-skiers apparently hadn't even heard the shot. Rather, they were looking the other way, watching the policemen coming toward them.

Zee's eyes widened, and I looked back toward Benny and saw him racing over the sand, closing the distance between us with breathtaking speed. I was filled with a terrible fear for Zee. I got up.

I cried, “Run!” and started toward her. But I already knew that the pain in my knee would not let me move fast enough. As she turned and fled down the beach, I stopped and turned and got the .38 in my hand. I sat on the sand, resting my elbows on my knees. I cocked the pistol and pointed it at Benny, as he came fast along the beach.

When he was twenty yards away, I shouted, “Stop!”

To my amazement, he did.

“Toss away the gun,” I said.

Instead, he lifted his pistol and fired.

But he was panting from his run and his aim was off. The bullet kicked up sand to my right. I took cold and careful aim as he started walking toward me, firing again, and again missing.

Then, as my finger tightened on the trigger, but before I could shoot, he spun around, staggered, and collapsed, the pistol dropping from his hand.

From across the pond came the sound of the rifle shot that had felled him.

I stood up and looked across the pond and waved my hand. In reply, someone over there lifted a long gun overhead. I thought the man looked like the chief, and the long gun looked like the new 30.06 he'd gotten for deer hunting in Maine.

I limped to where Benny lay, his blood seeping into the sand. His pale face was peculiarly peaceful, the splinted little finger of his right hand looked oddly innocent in spite
of the pistol that lay near it. I put a finger to his throat, but could feel no pulse.

Then Zee was by my side, tucking away her little .380. Her hands were on Benny's chest, working in vain to get him breathing again, as the police came running toward us.

  
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