Nantucket Five-Spot (12 page)

I had to start thinking straight. Haden wasn't the only person who used Halls cough drops. And whatever else he was, he wasn't a litterbug. He ranted against the secret garbage dumps on Land Bank property and the beer cans floating in the harbor. Plus he was a policeman. If anyone knew the danger of a thoughtlessly discarded piece of evidence, it was him.

But he had been out here yesterday. We knew that from his own testimony. And the wrapper was fresh.

The wind shifted. I could smell the charred wood, hear the faint sounds of the investigative teams at the clubhouse, someone shouting orders, portable generators kicking on. I saw the sudden burst of light from the halogens reflecting over the rise in the moors, blotting out the stars. I was standing in the shadow of a low valley, hidden from everyone, alone with my find.

I knew my legal and moral obligations at that moment. I had to turn this new evidence over to Tornovitch. The wrapper needed to be dusted for prints, the rest of the area behind the club needed to be searched by a full JTTF team. But Jack still knew nothing about Franny's suspicions. If she cleared Haden as she fully expected to do, then this bit of random paper would mean nothing to anyone.

If Franny found something, that would be different. For now I had breathing space. I'd hang back and let Tornovitch carry the ball. He didn't want to hear from me, anyway.

I slipped the evidence bag into my pocket, picked up the flashlight, took in another raw gulp of the smoke-tainted air. Then I started crunching back toward the garish lights of civilization. The shock was wearing off. I was feeling better. I didn't have to fix this one myself. I had the whole Federal Government on my side, working the case. They had their number-one suspect back in custody by now. All I needed to do was cheer them on—police work as spectator sport.

With the proper attitude, I might even enjoy it.

Chapter Eleven

Fireworks

On the eve of the July Fourth holiday, the day after the worst crime ever perpetrated on Nantucket, with Billy Delavane in jail, the town on Orange Alert, the Steamship Authority terminal under repair by the Army Corps of Engineers, and the National Guard in full uniform roaming the town, my kids had only one question, and it concerned Billy's pug. “Who's taking care of Dervish?”

I had just picked them up from Murray Camp where they'd spent the day sailing, making clay bowls and doing yoga. We had barely pulled out of the slant parking at Children's Beach when the question came up. Fortunately I had the answer.

“Abby Folger is staying at the house.”

“We could help,” Caroline said.

I knew what was happening. The conversation would work its way around to my getting a dog myself, their second most pressing concern after my finding a bigger place to live. They preferred a beach house at Surfside and a pair of black Lab puppies.

To divert them I said, “I'll call Abby. I'm sure she'd love that.”

“We could take care of him if she goes off-island,” Tim added.

“Sure. That would be nice.”

We drove in silence for a while, jolting across the cobblestones toward Washington Street. We were immediately stopped behind a line of traffic. A group of tourists wandered across Main Street, stopping to take pictures. They would never stand oblivious in the middle of a busy intersection at home, but Nantucket was like Brigadoon to them—a magical place that came alive once a year, where normal rules didn't apply.

“Is Billy really the bomber?” Tim asked, abruptly.

“I don't know. There's a lot of evidence against him.”

“I don't think he is,” Caroline said. “Billy's nice.”

“But, if he isn't…” Tim started and trailed off.

I glanced over at him. It was his turn to ride shotgun. “What?”

“Then—it's just…forget it.”

“Come on, what?”

“Then…it's someone else and they don't know who, and…”

“There'll be more bombs,” Caroline finished for him.

I took a breath. “Everyone is working hard to make sure nothing bad happens. Not just me. There's the State Police and Homeland Security…and soldiers.” A pair of them trudged up the street, weighted down with guns and ammunition belts, eating ice-cream cones with the fierce concentration of ten-year-olds. The image was absurd and perfect—welcome to the Orange Alert Nantucket summer.

“Can we get ice-cream cones,” Caroline asked.

“Not now. Maybe we can go to the Juice Bar after dinner.”

Back home, Caroline IMed her friends and Tim worked on some summer school math homework, while I made a twenty-minute dinner: salad from packaged mescal greens and an olive oil vinaigrette; herb-crusted, pan-seared boneless chicken breast (That's sprinkled with dry basil and fried, to you); and boxed couscous.

I could feel the tension of the day releasing as I worked. The little apartment on York Street was my sanctuary, especially when it was filled with the buzzing hectic imperative life of my kids. Yes, I enjoyed my nights off, but I loved having them with me, too. Their silly jokes and passionate squabbling, the drama of their moment by moment existence was a lifeline and a tonic. The murder and mayhem churning through the town, the fear I saw in people's eyes—that was real, but so was this. The outside world stopped at the front door.

Or so I thought. Tim was quiet during the meal. “You okay?”

“I'm fine, Dad.”

“Because if it's about the bombs—”

“It's not.”

“Did something happen at camp?”

“Can we change the subject?”

I pounced. “So there is a subject! I thought so.”

“Shut up, okay?”

“Hey, don't be rude.”

He looked up at me, put his knife and fork down, pushed his chair out from the table. “You're being rude. You're being pushy and mean. Can I be excused? I have to do my reading.” This may have been the first time ever that Tim voluntarily took up his summer reading before the last week in August.

“Sorry.”

“That's okay. Sorry I said shut up.”

“Don't worry about it. I just wanted to help.”

“Well you can't.”

“Why not?”

“Dad—!”

Finally Caroline broke in. “There's a bully at camp. He was bothering Tim at school and now he's at camp, too—”

“Carrie!”

“I can't stand this! What difference does it make?”

“I'm going upstairs.”

Tim stood up and stalked out of the room.

I turned to Caroline. “Who is this bully?”

“Jake Sauter. He's a big fat ugly jerk. I think he was left back a few times. Timmy thought he was safe for the summer—Jake's family don't have much money. And it's mostly pretty rich kids at Murray Camp. But I guess someone died or something? Because Jake's parents inherited a big house in Wauwinet. And now Jake's at Murray Camp.”

I spoke slowly. “Has he actually—”

“No, no…he just sort of threatens him and pushes him around. Sometimes I wish he would do something. Then they'd throw him out of camp.”

“I'll be right back.”

Upstairs the door was open to the big room Tim shared with his sister. That was a good sign. Caroline's side was a mess, clothes, shoes, cell phone charger, books and magazines scattered all over the floor, the bed unmade. Tim's side—they had put down masking tape to make the division official—was aggressively neat. His bed was made with hospital corners. His clothes were hung up or folded, his books lined up on a small white book shelf, arranged alphabetically by author.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, working his PlayStation portable. So much for summer reading.

I knocked. “Can I come in?”

He tilted his head, but kept killing aliens on the little backlit screen.

“Tim, you know there's only one thing to do with a kid like Jake Sauter.”

“Have a mafia hit man come and kill him?”

I laughed. “Okay—two things. It's cheaper to stand up to him. Bullies are cowards. Everybody knows that.”

Tim put down the video game, twisted to face me. “I don't know that. Maybe he's a coward with some other big kid, but that just makes things worse for me. It makes him want to beat me up more.”

“Not if you fight back.”

“Come on, Dad. That'll just make him angry. Then he really has to beat me up or he looks like a wimp.”

“Maybe—but he'll think twice before he comes after you again.”

“Forget it.”

He picked up the PlayStation and resumed the game, thumbs flying, the master of a tiny electronic world.

I stepped to his side. “Tim—”

He spoke to the screen. “You always say a good parent remembers what it was like to be a kid. But you don't remember anything.”

I sat down on the bed.

“So what are you going to do?”

“Exactly what you did when you were my age. Keep my eyes open and stay out of his way.”

I watched him blow up a particularly spiky savage-looking alien.

“If only life was a videogame.”

He shrugged. “You'd need better graphics.”

***

The next night was the Fourth of July. I had to put in an appearance at the AIDS fundraiser on Lincoln Circle. I had asked Franny to attend and was hoping to meet her there. I picked the kids up from camp and dropped them off at Miranda's house on the way.

Tim must have talked to his mother during the day, thanks to the miracle of cell phone technology. She opened the door with her game face on, thick brown hair pulled back into a tight bun and the skin of her face stretched, too, by her latest ‘life style' facelift. She was forty years old, beautiful without plastic surgery. But I no longer had to argue that case.

The kids ran past her into the house, and she blocked the entrance as if I wanted to force my way in. I didn't.

“I can't believe you told Tim to fight with a bully.”

“Fine, thanks. How are you?”

“I mean it, Henry. How could you say that? Fighting won't solve anything.”

“Actually, fighting solves things all the time. World War II, for instance.”

“Really? Viet Nam is the war that comes to my mind.”

“Fighting solved Viet Nam. It doesn't feel that way to us, because we lost.”

She pressed her finger tips to her lips as if to physically prevent herself from speaking a devastating truth that she would only regret later. “Tim could get hurt.”

“That's true, whether he fights back or not.”

“I don't believe this.”

“What would you suggest?”

“How about talking? How about resolving issues verbally to avoid this kind of terrible situation?”

“There's only one issue, Miranda. This kid is bigger than Tim. Tim is afraid of him. The bully likes that. He's not a new-age, sensitive, politically correct bully. He's a plain, old-fashioned bully, and if Tim doesn't stand up to him he'll be dealing with the guy forever.”

Her cool green eyes used to pierce me like a piece of meat on a skewer, with the coals ashing over for the main event. But not anymore. I started back for the car.

She called, “If Tim gets injured in this pissing match, I'm holding you responsible.”

I waved. “Nice seeing you, too.”

***

That year's Nantucket AIDS network fund-raiser took place at Kathleen Lomax's new house on Sherburne turnpike, a lovely old pile perched on the cliff above the north shore, and perfectly situated for viewing the fireworks. A surf of blue hydrangeas surged against the brick foundation of the sprawling old house, offset by rows of day lilies. Roses climbed the walls, sweetening the air, and music spilled from the open windows. The driveway was crowded with cars and people, and the atmosphere was festive. Kathleen hadn't gutted and modernized the house when she bought it, so it remained a museum of the 1970s, from the baggy couches and bleached pine paneling and plate glass windows to the carved whales, ship-timber mantel piece and pickled floor boards. Kathleen had even kept the old rotary dial phones.

Inside she stood by the front door with David Trezize, greeting the guests. This party made it official. They had finally come out as a couple. They seemed like an odd one, but I was hardly in a position to judge.

“So great to see you,” Kathleen said, hugging me. David added, “Miranda is lurking around here somewhere. FYI.”

So she had gotten a babysitter, after all.

I pushed through the crowd in the foyer toward the comfortable, low-ceilinged living room with its panoramic view of Nantucket Sound. The space was thronged with the silk dresses and blue blazers of Nantucket's ruling class. Senator Kerry and his wife were in the center of a group, watched over by three Secret Service agents. I saw Gould watching them, talking to Tornovitch.

It was loud, the roar and rustle of conversation as dense as cigar smoke. Ecliff and The Swing Dogs were tuning up at one end of the room.

A few steps ahead of me, Miranda and her new boyfriend stood deep in conversation with her boss, the Queen of Nantucket real estate, Elaine Bailey. Dan Taylor and his wife hovered nearby. Dan nodded at me. I nodded back.

Elaine was saying, “It's fabulous—hide-hair and leather. It's an eight thousand dollar couch, but I got it on sale at Neiman's for sixty-two hundred. I couldn't believe that price! I just
snatched
it up!”

Miranda and Elaine, kindred spirits, sharing at least two essential beliefs: couches are sacred and nothing is expensive if you get it on sale.

I veered away to avoid Miranda's group and landed face to face with Pat Folger. The bullish little contractor had a bottle of beer in one hand and my arm in the other. “Chief, we have to talk.”

I scanned the room, but no sign of Franny. I knew what Pat wanted to talk about. “Could you come into the station next week? Because right now I'm just trying to—”

“We can get these guys, Chief. Have you seen the Oxy Kills posters all over town? I put them up. I didn't know what else to do.”

“Pat—”

“Come with me. Please. Just for a second.”

I let him lead me into a small den and shut the door behind us, sealing out the party noise. “I'm giving you these guys on a platter, Chief. You can take down the whole bunch of em.”

“Pat, listen…I've been meaning to talk to you about this. We're working this case but you're not helping. Stalking these drug dealers, taking pictures, bothering them…it's making them suspicious. If they get nervous enough they'll go underground and we could lose track of them for another year.”

“Then arrest them!”

I grabbed his shoulders. “Pat, stop yelling. We have no evidence against these guys. All right? We can't use the drug dog, they can't sniff oxy. It's not even illegal if you have a scrip for it. Anyone can bring a suitcase full of the stuff across on the boat and there's nothing we can do about it. We can't open everyone's luggage. Especially not this time of year. We have to catch them in the act, Pat, unless a user steps up and rats them out, which—c'mon, you're talking about drug addicts here, so…”

He fixed me with a tight little smile. For a second I thought he might break into tears, but his voice was steady.

“Doug will do it.”

I knew Pat's son had been in rehab down in North Carolina but had run away. The last I heard he was humping furniture at his brother Rick's antique store. So he was using oxy again? That would explain Pat's obsessive interest in the dealers.

“‘Doug will'—I'm not sure what you're saying, Pat.”

“Doug's been clean for a week. Rick's watching him like a hawk, letting him sleep on the couch. Doug got the insomnia and the sweating and the puking but he rode it out. It's like Rick says, you either want to get off the stuff or you don't and he does.”