First Light (10 page)

I bent to the window, and she reached out with her hand, steered my face to hers, and kissed me hard on the mouth.

I hadn't been kissed like that in a while, and as I stood there in J.W.'s driveway watching Molly Wood's red taillights jouncing away into the gathering dusk, I rubbed my mouth with the back of my hand and let out a deep breath.

By the time J.W. and I parked his truck on the roadside by Squibnocket, it was dark. The clouds obscured whatever moon might've been up there, so we made our way down a long beach and over some dunes by flashlight. The water gathered the night light well enough for me to see that there was a long curving beach and a rocky point off to our right. The tide was coming in, and gentle breakers were rolling rhythmically against the sand.

Squibnocket Point is on the southwestern tip of the Vineyard, as far from Cape Pogue, which is on the northeastern tip, as you can get. J.W. had heard rumors that while Zee and I had failed to catch a Derby qualifier at Cape Pogue the previous night, other contestants had taken several at Squibnocket.

It was worth a try.

I could hear muffled voices on the beach around us and surmised that there were some other fishermen there, though they sounded distant and I couldn't see them. We seemed to have plenty of space to cast right there on the beach. J.W. stood on the wet sand in his bare feet with his pants rolled up to his knees and heaved his heavy lure way the hell out there. I, with my little fly rod and in my neoprene waders, sloshed out past the breakers, stood thigh-deep in the water, and began flailing away.

I had mixed feelings about the fact that there were no other fishermen crowding around us. On the one hand, I liked having some space to share only with my partner. On the other hand, I'm always convinced that other fishermen know what they're doing better than I know what I'm doing, so if I find a place where no one is fishing, I tend to assume that's because the fishing's no good there.

And when I cast in such a place for half an hour without a strike, I become convinced that it's barren.

J.W. seemed content to wait for the fish to come his way. But I got itchy and decided to go try and find some. I began to fish my way along the beach to the right, where the surf was beating against a jumble of rocks. On the incoming tide, I figured the fish might work their way into those rocks, where they could ambush some hapless baitfish.

There was no one fishing the rocks, either. I'd never fished Squibnocket before, so for all I knew, this was a lousy spot. But for lack of anything more promising, I decided to work it over.

I had to wade up to my hips to get my fly out
among the rocks. The currents were surging and swirling around them, and I imagined the baitfish and crabs and eels and squid being tossed around, easy pickin's for big, predatory striped bass.

I'd made a dozen or so casts when my fly stopped. I pulled straight back on my line, felt the hook bite. “Fish on!” I shouted to J.W. as I raised my rod. The fish bulled its way toward the rocks. If he got there, he'd wrap me or fray my leader, and either way I'd lose him, so I dropped my rod to horizontal and tried to turn his head. I had no idea how big he was. Not tiny, I knew that. I'd caught plenty of small stripers, and I knew what they felt like.

The fly held and the leader didn't break. I backed up toward the beach as I fought the fish, and a few minutes later it was sloshing around in the shallow water in front of me.

“Keeper?” It was J.W., who'd materialized beside me.

“I haven't seen him yet,” I said. “Shine your light out there.”

A moment later, J.W.'s light snapped on. The fish had lost its will and was holding quietly in front of me with its head just out of water against the bend of my rod.

“Might be a keeper,” I said.

“Nope,” he said. “Nice one. Thirty inches, I bet. But it's gotta be thirty-two. Steer him over here.”

I did, and J.W. measured the fish against some markings on his rod. “Twenty-nine inches,” he said. “In the old days, he'd make a good dinner for four.”

“These days, aside from the fact that he's not legal,
he's too precious to kill,” I said. I steered the fish to my side, tucked my rod under my arm, knelt in the shallow water, grabbed the fish's bottom lip between my thumb and forefinger, and used my other hand to back the hook out of its mouth. Then I waded out to my knees, held the fish with one hand gripping its tail and the other under its belly, and moved it slowly back and forth to force water through its gills until I felt its strength return. When I let go, it gave a powerful thrust of its big tail and disappeared into the dark water.

J.W. stuck out his hand and I shook it. “Nice fish, even so,” he said. “Go catch his grandmother, why don't you?”

“I'm gonna try,” I said.

He shut off his light and sloshed away, leaving me alone again on the beach. I checked the point of my hook, then waded back out to where I'd been standing when that fish had hit. The tide was still coming in, and in the few minutes I'd been fighting that fish, the water had risen from my hips to my waist. I made a couple of casts, but the rock I was aiming at was just a little beyond my range. As I edged closer, I was aware of the current pushing against my hips and the undertow surging in the opposite direction around my ankles.

I needed just a couple of more steps to reach that rock, and as I slid my foot forward, it came up against something hard. I stumbled, then lost my balance. I flailed around with my arms, but the undertow caught my legs and pulled them out from under me, and the surging tide pushed my upper body backward. I managed
to gulp a breath of air before I went under, and for an instant I felt myself churning around underwater at the mercy of the tidal rip with no idea of which way was up.

Okay, I thought. Relax. This has happened before. Remember. You float. Let yourself rise to the top… .

And that's what happened. I bobbed to the surface and floated there on my back, and the incoming tide carried me toward the beach until I was able to lower my legs and find sand under my feet.

I had not let go of my rod. My line was tangled around my waist and legs and my fly had somehow gotten hooked in the seat of my waders.

I staggered onto the beach. The tight-fitting neoprene waders had kept the bottom half of me fairly dry, but my top half was drenched, and I found myself shivering in the salty onshore breeze.

I shucked off my waders, got my line and fly untangled by flashlight, and stood there hugging myself. I thought of telling J.W. that I'd nearly drowned, that I was wet and cold, and that I wanted to go home and swallow a warm shot or two of bourbon.

Then I thought of that big striper I'd caught, and how the rush of adrenaline had heated me up instantly.

Go catch another fish, I thought. That's the ticket.

So I pulled my waders back on and waded out. But this time I didn't venture in over my hips. There were some rocks I couldn't reach, but the hell with them. I knew I'd never win my bet with Billy if I drowned.

*    *    *

We'd agreed to quit at midnight. I had meetings set up for the next morning, and the lawyer needed to be sharp. Plus I had a date—I was getting used to that word—with Molly, and I wanted to be reasonably bright-eyed, if not thoroughly bushy-tailed, for her.

J.W. and I had each landed a small bluefish, and I pretended to argue about keeping mine for his smoker. Actually, I had no philosophy against killing a fish now and then. But J.W. thought I did, and I didn't want to disappoint him. In the end I gave it to him.

When I told him about wading out too far and losing my footing and getting all tangled in my line and nearly drowning, he said, “Hell, they're only fish.”

As we drove back to the Fairchild house, I told him to tell Zee that I intended to borrow Sarah's car for my, um, date with Molly, and that I'd drive over all ready to go fishing. Zee should expect me around nine.

J.W. told me not to cut short my date. The later I was, the more fun Zee would assume we were probably having, and she would like that.

“Look for me at nine o'clock,” I told him. But I was remembering Molly Wood's last kiss, and I decided that I'd play it by ear.

I wondered if Molly would tempt me to forfeit my bet with Billy. It was an intriguing thought.

J.W. dropped me off at the Fairchild place a little after 1
A.M.
Two cars were parked there—Eliza's Saab and Sarah's Range Rover, but Nate's truck and Patrick's BMW were both gone and, except for the porch light, the house was dark.

A couple of golf bags rested against the rail on the
front porch. One was a big masculine bag that would make any caddy sweat, and the other had pink knitted head covers. Eliza and her partner, I figured. A pair of empty highball glasses sat on the steps.

Sarah was sleeping on the sunporch when I peeked in. Unless Eliza was asleep already, which would've been uncharacteristic, it looked like they'd all left the old woman alone for the night.

I went upstairs to get ready for bed, and I was just coming out of the bathroom when I heard car doors slam out front, then loud laughter. A minute later, the front door opened and shut. I heard Eliza's throaty voice from downstairs, then the rumble of a male voice.

That voice, if I wasn't mistaken, belonged to Phil Fredrickson.

After a minute or two, I didn't hear anything.

I went to bed.

Maybe it was the memory of how I'd nearly drowned. Maybe it was the fishing adrenaline still zinging through my veins. Maybe it was the anticipation of tomorrow's meeting with the golf-course developer's lawyer.

Molly Wood certainly had something to do with it. There was an intensity in the kiss through her car window that had surprised me.

Whatever it was, and in spite of feeling thoroughly exhausted, I couldn't get to sleep.

At 2
A.M.
I turned the light back on and read for a while. I'd brought my battered old copy of
Moby-Dick
with me. Usually, Melville put me right to sleep.

At two-thirty I turned the light off.

At three I turned it on again, read a few more pages, and realized I was wide-awake. So I slipped into some clothes and went outside. Maybe a cigarette and a few whiffs of sea air would do the job.

A car I didn't recognize was parked in the front turnaround. The two golf bags still rested against the porch railing.

I wandered out onto the back lawn. Clouds were skidding across the moon, and the ocean was a sort of platinum color. So far, J.W. and I had not pulled an all-nighter. Nor had we fished at first light. We weren't taking our competitive Derby responsibilities seriously enough.

On the other hand, I figured if I could manage a few hours of sleep every night, I might not be tempted to wimp out. Billy would never let me forget it if I did.

T
he morning after the Squibnocket trip, I phoned Kathy Bannerman's landlady. Her name was Elsie Cohen. I told her what I was doing and that I'd like to examine Kathy's possessions.

“I'm afraid you're about a year too late, unless you want a bottle of men's cologne,” said Elsie Cohen.

“Come again?”

“After those detectives came around looking for her last August, I waited a few weeks in case Kathy came back, then when she didn't I got in touch with Mr. Bannerman and packed everything of hers up and shipped it to him. I'd gotten his address from the detectives. A little later I found the cologne in the closet. I guess I should have sent it, too, but it didn't seem worth it, so I gave it to my husband. But Bill isn't a big cologne user, so we still have most of the bottle. Do you favor Enchanté?”

My ignorance of men's cologne was quite profound. I had never even heard of Enchanté. I wondered if James Bannerman used it and, if not, who did.

“Do you remember anything about her other possessions?
Anything that might give me some idea where she was going or who she might be seeing?”

“I didn't read her letters or her other papers,” said Elsie Cohen in a voice that was suddenly a bit prim, “and there was nothing special about anything else she had. No snowshoes or scuba gear or ice axes, if that's what you mean. Nothing exotic. Just ordinary things.”

“Did she ever talk with you about her life here on the island? People she knew or things she did? That sort of thing.”

“You mean like who wears Enchanté cologne? I'm sure I couldn't say. I told those detectives everything I knew, but it didn't seem to help them much. She worked with the local women's service group and did some socializing with people I really didn't know. Mostly down-island, I think.”

Down-island meant Oak Bluffs, Vineyard Haven, and Edgartown. Chilmark, West Tisbury, and Aquinnah were up-island, where there are no dance halls, clubs, liquor stores, or bars. Up-island people have to dissipate in private rather than in public places. Some of them only go down-island to buy liquor at the Edgartown and Oak Bluffs package stores, after which they flee home again, to peace and quiet.

Elsie Cohen didn't know the names of any men Kathy Bannerman might have dated. I wondered if Bill Cohen and Kathy might have sneaked out a night or two, and, if so, if Elsie knew about it. You never know what goes on inside a marriage.

“Pa, can we work on the tree house?”

They'd been waiting patiently. “Sure.”

So we did that until noon, because life does not stop
for major events, let alone small ones such as my search for Katherine Bannerman. We're gonna stay and we're gonna go, as Sweeney observed, and somebody's gotta pay the rent, but that's nothing to me and nothing to you.

After lunch, I got the kids into the Land Cruiser and headed for Edgartown, running various possibilities through my head as I drove.

When children or infirm adults go missing, it's cause for concern because they're often not mature or healthy enough to fend for themselves. Usually when healthy adults like Katherine Bannerman drop out of sight, they show up again and act surprised that anybody was worried. When that doesn't happen, it's often because they don't want to be found. They're fleeing debts or unwanted lovers or enemies or the cops, or they just want to leave their old lives behind and start again, and they're willing to abandon their houses and families and friends to do it. Sam Spade once dealt with that sort of missing person. The irony was that the guy abandoned one family and lifestyle, then moved up the coast and created a new one exactly like his old one. Sam was both amused and bemused by the case.