Foursome (29 page)

“If he’s free.”

This time Willis did smile. “Try that joke on Shea himself. Might be he could use a belly laugh about now.”

He was three years more haggard than he’d been three days earlier.

The guard that looked like Higgs led Steven Shea to the same space we’d used last time. Same room at the inn, same guard, same room at the jail. A tradition throughout the culture.

Shea sank into his seat, the loss of another five pounds showing in his face and beneath his chin.

I said, “You feeling all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I’m just fucking ducky.”

“What’s the matter?”

Shea looked away, toward the guard outside the glass windows. “You were right.”

“About what?”

“About Rick.”

“Your cell mate?”

“Yeah. I kind of, you know, confronted the fucker about what you said. He fucking laughed, said we could be”—Shea looked farther away—“we could be asshole buddies anyway, I wanted to. I started yelling and didn’t stop till I had the fucking cell to myself.”

I thought about Shea’s remarking on his use of four-letter words and wondered if he still noticed it. “Probably would have happened anyway, so long as you didn’t give them anything through him.”

Shea came back to me. “John, how the fuck much longer am I going to have to be in here?”

“That’s more a question for your lawyer.”

“Yeah, well, I’m beginning to think my lawyer doesn’t know shit.”

“Steve—”

“I mean, Gil comes in to visit me, I tell him what you said about Rick, and he tells me, ‘Maybe Cuddy’s right, maybe he’s wrong. Either way, you play along, the worst thing that happens is you’ve got a good cell mate, and the prosecution doesn’t find out anything bad to use against you.’ I ask you, is that what my fucking lawyer’s supposed to be telling me?”

Probably. “Look, Steve, Lacouture might know about when the trial’s likely to be and all, but from what you told me before about no bail, you’re in here till then, at least.”

Shea reached an index finger up and started to pick his nose, then realized what he was doing and buried the finger in a crossed-arm gesture. “Shit, excuse me. I … I’ve been in here—what, two weeks now?—and already I’m becoming a barbarian. This jail stuff, John … and this is just the county lockup. What happens if Lacouture can’t persuade the jury that one of DRM’s competitors did this to me, huh? Then I’m in
real
jail, the state pen at Thomaston. Forever. For-fucking-
ev
-er, understand?”

“I understand, Steve.”

“I hope so. I really hope you fucking do, John.” A brightness came into his eyes, the salesman who desperately needs to close the current deal. “You went to DRM, spoke with Dwight about the competitor?”

“I saw them, Steve.”

“Them?”

“Everybody at DRM.”

“Anna-Pia, Mr. Davison?”

“Even Tyrone Xavier.”

Shea let that pass. “And?”

“And I don’t think we’re going to fly very far with the competitor theory.”

“What?”

“It just doesn’t—”

“What the fuck do you mean, you don’t think we can fly with it? That’s what happened!”

“I doubt it.”

“Man, the fuck is going on here? I’m framed for something I didn’t do, couldn’t ever fucking dream of doing, and first my fucking cell mate and then my fucking lawyer and now my fucking investigator turns against me?”

I didn’t want to lose him. “Steve—”

“What do I have to do, fucking break out of here through a tunnel?”

“Steve.”

Shea began breathing shallowly, one hand raking through his hair. He was choking back something, something like a sob.

I said his name again.

Shea looked up, but just shook his head.

“Steve, why didn’t you tell Lacouture about Hale and Sandy’s affair?”

All the animation, however negative, seemed to leave his face at once. “How did you find out about that?”

A way of phrasing the question that said Nicky Vandemeer had told me the truth, giving the state all the motive a prosecutor could ask for.

I said, “They were seen.”

“No.”

“And Nicky said he told you about it.”

“No, no.” The hand went back through the hair again. “Does that mean that DRM knows?”

“Steve, it means that the cops know that you knew about the affair. The ones in Calem told the ones up here, which gives you—”

“But does … does Mr. Davison …”

I couldn’t quite follow him. “Does Keck Davison know about your wife’s affair?”

Shea suddenly closed down. “Never mind.”

“Never mind?”

“Right. Forget it.”

“Steve—”

“Just fucking forget it, all right?”

“Steve, what are you holding back about DRM?”

“Nothing.”

“You are. You memorized Antonelli’s home number, which tells me you’d been confiding in her, and she’s the lawyer you called when you first got into trouble up here. I have to know what’s going on.”

“You don’t have to know shit. My fucking lawyer doesn’t have to know shit. Even my fucking cell mate doesn’t know shit because I don’t have one anymore.”

Shea laughed nervously, a man on the edge of hysteria, his hands shaking and his face twitching.

“Steve, I’m just trying to help you.”

Tears welled behind the twitching. “As long as Sandy was alive, it mattered, but it doesn’t anymore, so I can’t tell you. It’s my last chance, don’t you see that?”

“What’s your last chance, Steve?”

He stood up. “I’m sorry, I have to go back now.”

“Steve, please. Your last chance to do what?”

The nervous laugh. “Today’s Saturday. They do box lunches on Saturday, so the inmates can eat in the visitors’ area with their families.” Looking over to the guard, Shea cranked his head up and down. “With their families, John. I think I’ll just eat in my fucking room today, nobody minds.”

I sat for a minute in the little glass-walled space, watching Steven Shea walk unsteadily ahead of the guard back toward his “room.”

“You look like you could use a drink.”

“I could, Ralph, but I used a lot of them last night, and I used to use a lot more.”

Paine scratched his chin. “Well, then, how about that other way to relax?”

“If you tell me and I turn it down, I hope you won’t feel bad.”

“Not at all. The Marseilles Inn is a full-service resort, but that doesn’t mean you have to do everything you can do.”

“So what service are we talking about?”

Paine turned toward the lake, “Easier to show you.”

“Do I have to wear the life jacket?”

“No. She’s pretty calm this afternoon, John, and still too early in the season for most of the damned water-skiers. Just keep it handy by your seat there, case a warden decides to check you.”

“Ralph, I thought it took two people to paddle a canoe.”

“Nossir. You been in Dag Gates’s square-stern, right?”

“Yeah, but he uses a motor.”

“Same difference. I’m just going to put this sandbag up in the bow, centered under the seat like a person was sitting up over it.”

“Okay.”

“Ballast, you see?”

“I think so.”

“The sandbag, that’ll keep her nose down, so you can paddle into the wind. You’ve heard of Murphy’s Law.”

“Whatever can go wrong will go wrong?”

“Right. Well, Mona has a rule like that for canoeing.”

“What is it?”

“The wind is always in your face on the way home.”

“Okay, the sandbag keeps me stable that way, but I’ll still have to keep switching the paddle over to go in a straight line.”

“Nossir. Put your right hand on top of the handle, and your left hand just above the blade. A little further up. Perfect. Now put the blade in the water on the port side of the canoe.”

“The left side.”

“Right. I mean, correct. The left side.”

“Okay?”

“Good. Now just push your top hand down and your bottom hand back, like you were making a straight stroke through the water.”

I tried it. “Pushes the front of the canoe all the way over to the right.”

“Of course it does. Now do the same stroke, but finish it to the side, like you were making the letter ‘J’ and sweeping out the curved part at the bottom.”

I tried that. “Not as much to the right.”

“You’ll have to make allowances, depending on the wind, any current, and so on. But use the J-stroke, or the reverse of it on the starboard side, and you’ll be able to keep the paddle on one side as long as you have strength for it.”

“When should I get back?”

“You start back two hours after you head out.”

“Two hours?”

“Seems kind of long? It won’t be, believe me. And we’ll hold dinner for you, don’t worry about that. But you’ll want to be in before dusk, otherwise the skeeters’ll have you for dessert.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Head south, through the islands. See some things you might never have before.”

“Thanks, Ralph.”

“Enjoy. And relax.”

The canoe was yellow, with walnut caned seats mounted under the gunwales and the word GAZELLE on the side. Ralph had said the company manufactured the Fiberglass canoes nearby, so he was able to get a good price on them. Aluminum ones were more durable, but they made a hellish racket for a supposedly genteel sport. Mine was surprisingly stable with just me in it, though I didn’t try any barrel rolls to test it.

After a couple of hundred feet, I got the hang of the J-stroke, then changed to the right side and worked on my form there as well. The canoe hissed trough the water, the chop only a few inches of crest and trough dappling the surface in the afternoon sun. My paddle blade made little slurping sounds as I lifted it, the twin whirlpools from the stroke boloing backward and outward in a steady pattern. The physical resistance of the water felt good to and through my shoulders, like having an internal massage on muscles that were cramped from too much desk and too much driving and too little of everything else.

I approached the nearest island, a loon moving away from me. It began calling, and at first I thought I was hearing its echo from down the lake. Then I remembered what Ma Judson had said about each bird’s call being different, and I listened a little more carefully. After five repetitions by my bird, I was sure the “echo” was another loon returning the call, subtly different in note and tempo. Something, maybe me, spooked the loon. Instead of diving, though, it began to flail its wings to get its lowslung body enough out of the water to start walking across the surface, flailing harder now and actually running on the water, the webbed feet making a slapping sound as it mustered enough speed for a final, struggling takeoff.

At the island, something the size and color of a dark brown cocker spaniel scrambled down a bank and into the pond. As it began swimming, I could see only its head. I thought it might be an otter, or a muskrat, or even a beaver, but I couldn’t tell and didn’t want to risk scaring it more by chasing it.

After the first island, there was another and another, distributed about a hundred yards apart. Some were pretty sizable, a city block or more in area. Others were tiny, less than half a tennis court. All had trees reaching toward the sky, evergreens mostly. At the top of the tallest tree on one of the smallest islands I saw a big nest silhouetted by the sun. I shaded my eyes and heard a high, squeaky whistle, repeated three times. Swinging my head like an antiaircraft gun, I spotted a gray and white bird, larger than a hawk but not quite an eagle. It swooped past and then wobbled down toward the nest. The bird had a fish about a foot long clasped in its talons and began to use its beak to tear the fish apart, pausing after each head thrust to peer around, maybe making sure everything else was still below it.

In between the islands, I heard no noises, no motors, nothing but the sound of the
Gazelle
and the paddle and almost my own breathing, if I stretched things a bit. A bird I thought was a female mallard flew into a tree, landing on a lower limb and grunting instead of quacking. A couple of other birds, perhaps swallows, strafed the surface after insects. That’s when I noticed how long my shadow was on the water. I checked my watch.

I’d been out nearly two hours.

I pushed the envelope a little to go around one more island. Some minnows cleared the water in squadrons of three and four as a large wake followed behind them. On the near shore, two red squirrels ran along single file, the rear one never quite tagging the front one. A sudden hammering opened up above me. When I looked up, it was a woodpecker in a dead tree, only the thing was over a foot tall and had a red crown just like Woody the cartoon character.

Turning the canoe back toward the inn, I thought about that billboard just over the bridge into Maine and realized that I’d forgotten that life could be like this, and that at least a part of life should be. Then I thought about Steven Shea, and how he’d had all this but wasted it with a tasteless house and no regard for the land around it. Then I thought it was looking pretty certain that he’d never again have the chance to see even what he’d contributed to ruining. That he’d …

Catching myself, I realized also that a sport like canoeing can do that to you. It gives you time to think.

I picked up my pace and started to sprint just a little, before I thought about some other things the last few hours had helped banish for a while.

“Probably a muskrat, John.”

“And the fish hawk?”

“That’s an osprey. They’re very touchy about people coming near their nests.”

“How about the duck?”

“Probably a wood duck, maybe a merganser. Dag could tell you for sure, if you’re seeing him tomorrow.”

I looked over at Ralph. We were sitting on the inn’s screened porch again, dainty insects with schooner wings flitting toward the lights. I swirled a little after-dinner brandy around the bottom of a snifter while he sipped a Scotch on the rocks. His wicker chair rocked, the creaking from the frame a nice counterpoint to the flow of conversation.

I said, “You ever get tired of running an inn, Ralph?”

“Me? No. Oh, there’s headaches, sure. You’re on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. City people—no offense—come up here, expect you to be able to fix anything for them right away or call somebody who can. And you got to be able to run the business as well as coordinate the meals and turn down the beds. But hell, John, all the other things I ever did in my life, nothing compares to this.”