Friday's Harbor (24 page)

Truman smiled. “And this would be one of those times. But is there any other way—and by other, I mean legal—to gather enough information to implicate these people?”

Ruminatively, Matthew chewed the stem of his unlit pipe. Truman was used to these lengthy pauses; as a boy, he’d been astounded when, at friends’ houses, conversations unfolded at what seemed like warp speed. Finally Matthew said, “It’s all a matter of momentum. You don’t need to wire anybody—all you need is to dangle a carrot tasty enough to make them bite, and make sure there are witnesses present when they do.”

“All right,” said Truman carefully. “Do you have some ideas about where I might find such a carrot?”

“Here’s a hint: what’s black, white, and loved all over?”

“Friday?”

“Absolutely. Invite these people to come see him. And bring the media along.”

“By which you mean Martin Choi.”

Matthew nodded. “By which I mean Martin Choi. Though if you have anyone else, you can certainly use him or her.”

“There can’t possibly be two reporters like Martin.”

“I wouldn’t think so,” said Matthew. “But I always try to keep an open mind.”

“I could ask Libertine to invite them to the pool, I suppose,” Truman said, thinking out loud. “That wouldn’t arouse their suspicions.”

“You might also show them what’s happened—or failed to happen—to the poor creature.”

“He’s going to live.”

“Exactly. Bad news, indeed.” Matthew smiled a little impish smile.

Each was quiet for several minutes, thinking, until Truman said, “This has great possibilities.”

“Of course it does. It’s a shame you won’t be doing any lawyering. You’re a quick study.”

“On my best day, I couldn’t hold a candle to you,” Truman said.

“Yes,” Matthew agreed, “but I’ve had the benefit of a good many more years on the job.”

Truman stood up and pressed Matthew’s shoulder fondly. “I’m going to go to the Oat Maiden for a piece of pizza. I scheme better on a full stomach. Care to come along?”

“Thank you, but in my experience, scheming is an activity best done in solitude. Of course the value of a good cookie isn’t to be sniffed at, either.”

T
HREE O’CLOCK IN
the afternoon was always a quiet time at the Oat Maiden. Truman chose the table that was his personal favorite, Johnson Johnson’s creation in honor of Hannah and Max Biedelman. High jungle grass ringed the outside of the tabletop, with Hannah walking through it, high on her feet, trunk extended in front of her, proudly reaching toward whatever lay in her future. Striding ahead of her was Max Biedelman in safari gear. Truman felt the table captured all that was good and admirable about the zoo’s eccentric founder and the animal she’d loved most.

Lost in thought, he was startled to find Libertine bringing him a menu. “Do you work here, too?” he asked.

She blushed. “I’ve been helping out when it gets busy, so. . . .” They both looked at the one other table that was occupied, hardly the sign of a busy café. Truman saw her blush deepen. “It helps him sometimes to have me around.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” Truman said. “I want to run something by you.”

“I’d be honored. Let me just check on this other table, and then I’ll be right back.”

Truman watched her cross the restaurant. He wasn’t proud of the way he’d forced her to leave the zoo yesterday. She’d been treated as guilty until proven innocent, and he, of all people, should have upheld a higher standard. Plus he’d known she wasn’t capable of such a heinous act. They all knew it, even Neva, once Friday had rallied and she’d had time to calm down.

When Libertine came back, she brought along two slices of pizza, two cookies, and a couple of cups of coffee, which she divided between them before sitting down.

“Carbs, caffeine, and sugar—life’s essential stimulants,” Truman said, smiling.

“I don’t think any of us are sleeping well right now. I thought they might help.”

“Absolutely,” said Truman, taking a bite of pizza. He couldn’t remember when he’d eaten last—yesterday, he thought, before he got the call about Friday. “Okay,” he said with his mouth full, and then, remembering his manners, held up a finger and waited to say more until he’d chewed and swallowed. “Here’s what I’m thinking.” He laid out his plan. “And I’d like to do it tomorrow morning. Want to help?”

Libertine gave a small, sad smile. “Of course.”

“Good,” said Truman. “When you’ve lined it up, please let me know, and Gabriel, too. I’m going to alert the police chief, so we can have an officer on standby just in case.”

“Have you talked this over with him?”

“Not yet—you’re the key player.”

Libertine nodded and pressed up a few cookie crumbs from the tabletop with a finger. “May I tell you something?”

“Absolutely.”

“Friday trusts you—all of you. I think it’s why he hasn’t needed me.”

“But you knew he was sick—that came to you.”

She waved that away. “It was like overhearing a scream. It wasn’t meant for me—I just happened to intercept it.”

“Which makes all this just that much worse,” said Truman. “He deserves much better than he’s gotten. We’ll try everything we can to compensate for what we can’t give him.”

“I’m sure he knows that.”

Truman nodded. “Then let’s make this right. If you’d make the call and then let me know what time they’ll arrive, we’ll get the rest worked out. And thank you again for this.”

“Believe me,” Libertine said firmly, “it’s my pleasure.”

F
OR AS LONG
as she could remember, Libertine had always thought one of her faults was her compulsive honesty. Hardly anyone else was honest, she’d noticed. She had asked her mother about this and her mother had said, “Oh, grow up. Of course no one’s completely truthful. Can you imagine telling Mrs. Brubaker that her mole repulses everyone who sees her?” Mrs. Brubaker, Libertine’s babysitter, had a mole on her left cheekbone the size of a pea. It was all Libertine—and, she assumed, nearly everyone else—could think about when they looked at her.

“But maybe if we did tell her, she’d have it taken off,” Libertine had argued.

“No, she’d just rethink every single face-to-face encounter she’d ever had as far back as she could remember.”

“So you don’t really mean it when you say not to lie?”

Her mother had snapped at her, “For god’s sake, don’t be so literal. Of course I meant it—except for the little lies that spare people’s feelings. Little lies make the world go round. There’s a difference between lies and
lies
.” But Libertine had never been able to see the difference. Until now. Now, driving away from the Oat Maiden to make her call, she would have to give the performance of a lifetime, based on the lie that she agreed philosophically with Trina Beemer and her followers that animals were better dead than captive. And yet her conscience would be crystal clear. As soon as she was inside, she rang a small bell she’d begun to use to tell Chocolate and Chip that she was home, and took a strengthening deep breath or two. Then she pulled her phone from her pocket and punched in Trina Beemer’s number.

Chip popped out of the cat-tube, elegant as ever in his neat black morning coat. He wound around her legs as she paced, waiting for her to give him her lap. She sat and he jumped up, allowing her to run her fingers absently through his silky fur. Libertine gave a silent prayer that her blood pressure would go down because of his presence. Her heart was pounding so hard she was light-headed.

When she got Trina on the line she said, “I guess you know that it didn’t work—he’s actually getting better. They think he wasn’t given enough—either that, or he could have vomited. Anyway, he’s definitely not going to die.”

“I know,” said Trina, whose voice sounded nasal, as though she’d been crying. “We heard. That poor, poor animal.”

“But here’s the thing.” Libertine lowered her voice to what she hoped was a conspiratorial level. “I’ve asked if I can bring you in for a VIP tour.”

“And?”

“They said yes!”

“Really?” Trina said excitedly. “My god, how stupid can they be? Still, that’s great, Libby. Absolutely great. So when can we do this—how soon?”

“I think the sooner, the better, don’t you? He’s still in relatively bad shape, so it won’t, ah, take as much.”

They made the necessary arrangements, and as soon as they disconnected, Libertine called Truman. “Two o’clock this afternoon. Do you want me to call Martin or will you?”

“Me,” said Truman. “Oh, let it be me.”

M
ARTIN
C
HOI WAS
beside himself with excitement. This could very easily be the story of a lifetime: militant animal rights wingding meets captive-care pioneer, with animal psychic on hand.

The wingding arrived first. She was a big, big woman with a voice that was weirdly flat while at the same time being loud enough to penetrate a concrete bunker. Her teeth were gray—he was not making this up—from, what, a vitamin deficiency when she was a kid? Scarlet fever? Poor dental hygiene? She wore a flowing skirt and rubber boots, and carried an enormous purse. He couldn’t imagine what was in there—a phone book? Several extra meals? A seal pup? Not that it mattered. He subscribed to the to-each-his-own approach to life.

Libertine was the next one upstairs, hailing the wingding. They embraced—Jesus, it was like watching a walrus hug a penguin—and together they approached the pool. Neither one of them acknowledged him. He’d noticed a long time ago that if you were behind a camera, people seemed to think you were on some other astral plane.

The wingding headed for the wet walk, toting her enormous bag.

“You know, you can leave that on the deck if you want,” Libertine told her.

“What’s the matter with you? Isn’t this what we came for?” Martin overheard her hiss to Libertine without even looking back. For a big woman, the wingding moved fast.

Gabriel Jump arrived on the pool top silently and moving fast, wet-suited and handsome in an older-guy kind of way. He reached the wingding just as she stepped into the wet walk near Friday, who was awaiting them, his chin on the edge of the pool. When he opened wide, Martin almost dropped his camera. Jesus—the whole inside of his mouth, which had always been a nice light pink like the belly of a puppy, was now dotted with thousands and thousands of little, dark red dots.

Then he caught Libertine shooting Gabriel a look. His acute reporter instincts homed in: something was about to go down. Martin had kicked on his auto-winder and started shooting, watching it all through his lens, when he saw the wingding pull from her tote a string bag holding four or five fish.
Fish
. What the hell?

From then on, at least from what he remembered later, things happened at lightning speed. The wingding leaned in to feed Friday the first fish; Gabriel vaulted forward to stop her, inadvertently throwing an elbow directly into Libertine’s diaphragm; Libertine flew into the icy pool with the wind knocked out of her; Gabriel took the wingding down in the wet walk, wrestling away the fish and then the tote; and Martin snapped photo after photo after photo:
What a story!
This was the stuff Pulitzers were made of. Hello, HuffPost; hello national byline.

And then, as abruptly as it began, the whole mess was over. The wingding was sitting in the wet walk on her fat ass weeping; Gabriel was throwing her confiscated fish into a cooler and locking it with a padlock; Friday was nowhere to be seen. Martin lowered his camera, scanning the pool top. Where was Libertine? He’d seen her fall into the water, but come to think of it, he hadn’t seen her since. Could she still be in the pool?
Holy crap!
There wasn’t so much as a ripple on the surface, so if she’d gone down, it had been a while ago, maybe a minute, minute and a half. Enough time to drown.

But before he could even yell, he heard a chuff, loud and deep, as Friday surfaced. Libertine was sprawled across his back and one outstretched pectoral flipper like wet laundry. The whale swam to the side of the pool and gently tipped until she’d rolled onto the concrete. She retched, vomited water, coughed explosively. Gabriel ran over. Friday stayed nearby, his mouth closed, eyes inscrutable.

And Martin had gotten it all—the weeping wingding, the gasping psychic, the weird stuff with the fish. What was the deal with those fish?

“They were poisoned,” Gabriel was saying over his shoulder, though Martin hadn’t been aware of speaking out loud. “Did you get pictures of all of it? Because you’ll be a key witness, and the photos will be evidence.” In the distance he could hear police sirens, growing closer. Silently he uttered his thanks to God for dropping this überopportunity upon him.

“H
OW DO YOU
think he knew you were drowning?” Neva asked Libertine. Swimsuited, they sat on one of the teak benches in the shower. Neva sat behind Libertine, chafing her arms to try and warm her up.

“He must have heard me,” Libertine said, her teeth chattering violently.

“But none of the rest of us did.”

“Not heard me;
heard
me. In his head. I remember him swimming up to me and picking me off the bottom with his teeth. He had ahold of my sweater, the hem of it. After that there was nothing but a white light. There really is one.”

“Gabriel’s said the same thing.”

Libertine nodded. “Next thing I knew, I was on the deck with his pectoral flipper under me. And I could feel him saying.
Don’t
. That’s all it was, over and over:
Don’t
.”

“Don’t what?” Neva asked.

“I don’t know. He was vocalizing like crazy, too. Did Gabriel say anything about hearing him?”

Neva shook her head. “I think he was focused on stopping her from giving him those fish.”

They heard a knock on the door and Truman called, “Is she okay?”

“I’m fine,” Libertine called weakly.

“She’s fine,” Neva hollered. “Just cold. What’s going on out there? Did the police come?”

“Right on schedule. They took her with them. You’ll be a witness, you know.”

“Me?” Neva asked.

“Libertine.”

“Go ahead and open the door so we can hear you,” Neva yelled over the sound of the shower. “We’re decent.”