Night Songs (21 page)

    Gran. A dead man leaving fingerprints on a wallet. Shit and damnation.

    The only good thing about this will be when Garve gets on the horn and chews those bastards out, or calls the chief at home and raises holy hell. That'd really be something else to hear, really something else. They wouldn't be so damned snotty if
they'd
seen Warren there under that tree.

    He almost braked then when the headlights began picking out islands and swirls of stones and twigs scattered over the state forest road, and when he switched on the floodlight on the dash and directed it at the twisted trees along the verge, he wondered how the hell he'd managed to miss the hurricane. That goddamn Screamer wasn't due until tomorrow.

    Suddenly he felt uncomfortably warm.

    The night was too black, the dashboard light too green, the whine and thump of the tires too loud by half. Without thinking he turned on the overhead red-and-blues, switched the beams to high and snapped on the radio. It didn't matter that all he heard was static; what mattered was the sound, and the light, and the feel of the wheel sweating beneath his hands.

    A large branch clawed at the side of the car. A rock bleached gray jerked him to the right. The dark ahead refused to give ground, and by the time he reached the landing his shirt was soaking wet, his hair dripping sweat down the run of his back. He braked and stared at the low-wave water grayed by the headlights. He stared at the canted shack, willing Sterling to appear. He honked the horn. He stared at the ferry. He honked the horn again.

    Sterling came out, one hand buried large in his peacoat pocket, the other gesturing at him to be silent for crying out loud, he weren't deaf and he weren't a goddamned servant that he had to jump like a freak just because a cop blowed his horn.

    El didn't care what the old man thought. He drummed on the dash until the chain was pulled away. Then he drove the cruiser over the steel lip and onto the boat, stopping it dead center. Sterling hobbled into the cabin and coughed the engines into grinding. The ferry shuddered and rocked and slipped away from the shore.

    At length, he could see the island. At length-and none too soon for his oddly jangled nerves-the engines reversed, and the bow dipped toward the bay. An adjustment to swing the lip and landing into line, and the ungainly boat coasted into place. Smooth, easy, so expertly done El didn't realize what had happened until Sterling crossed through the beams with the guard chain in his hand. El nodded and fired the ignition, hesitated a moment when he remembered what he had to do, then tore off the boat with a screech and stench of rubber.

    Sterling watched him bump up to the road, spat disgustedly over the side and dragged the chain back. Ground fog drifted into the glaring light. He waited for a moment, thinking it would be just his luck tonight that another car would come screaming down to the landing just as he'd shoved off. Then he'd have to coax the ferry in again, unhook the chain, and pray the driver didn't dive off the far end.

    He had had enough trouble as it was this weekend. Goddamned folks spooked at the storm, and he was going to have to spend practically all day tomorrow making sure the ferry was secure enough not to be dumped halfway across the goddamned state. Good God, when it all went friggin' wrong…

    He spat again and wiped a rough sleeve over his chin, had half turned to head for the cabin when he thought he saw something moving, out there just beyond the reach of the floods. A dark thing, undefined, perhaps a tree shadow or a break in the fog. He frowned, and waited, his hand curling around the target pistol in his pocket. The margin of the floodlights' reach formed a white wall on the landing, and now that he took a good look he knew damned well someone was standing there. He would have called out, but that had been Stu's job. Little brother Stu was the friendly one, always hanging back and screwing up the schedule to be sure they weren't leaving anyone behind.

    He sighed, startling himself with the sudden and brief touch of loneliness that brought an even briefer burning to his eyes.

    Then he shook it off and frowned, stepped over the chain and peered into the light.

    "Hey!" he called, in memory of Stu.

    The figure moved closer, and he could see now it was a short man. Or a boy.

    "My God," he whispered. "Stu? Stu?"

    And he cursed soundly and viciously when he saw Frankie Adams walking arrogantly toward him. What the hell right did that damned kid have, fooling him like that? It wasn't nice. It was cruel. The dumb-

    Frankie walked through the white wall, and Wally's eye widened. The front of the kid's shirt was covered with blood.

    "Jesus, kid, you all right?" he said, hurrying off the boat and wondering what he was going to do now. Frankie looked like he'd been hit by a truck, for God's sake. Maybe that wind, he thought suddenly, A branch came down and clobbered him maybe.

    "Kid, listen, didn't you see Nichols go by just now? You should've flagged him down. I ain't got no car, for Pete's sake. Listen, I'll-"

    He stopped abruptly.

    Frankie raised his head and opened his eyes.

    "Oh my God," Wally said. "Oh my
God!"
And he yanked out the target pistol and started firing. The reports were echoed, confined within the reach of the light and slammed back.

    Frankie's shirt rippled, but Frankie didn't stop.

    

    

    With Harcourt tucked back into his plastic sack, and placed in the large refrigeration unit kept in the office basement, Hugh Montgomery decided it would be the gallant and prudent thing to do to walk Annalee home. She protested, as always, but this time he managed to override her by pointing out bluntly that whoever killed Warren might still be on the island. It may be only an isolated episode, but you never knew about the kinds of nuts running around the world these days. He was pleased when he realized she was relieved, and he even kept his hand on her elbow the entire way. With luck, Garve would have finished whatever it was he was doing, pass by and see them. He might get jealous. He might even stop and grab Annalee, throw her into the car and put an end to everyone's agony, for once and all time.

    Fat chance, he thought then, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

    Annalee, though a full head taller, stayed close to him until they reached her porch. Then, while he waited patiently, staring puzzledly across the street at the darkened police station, she fished her keys out of her purse and unlocked the door.

    "You want some coffee?" she asked, and gave him a smile.

    Beautiful. God, she was beautiful! There were times when he wanted nothing more than to bury his hands in all that lovely hair, bury his face between those uncommonly lovely breasts; but there were also times when he knew he'd win the state lottery and retire a millionaire.

    "Thanks, no, Lee," he said. "Feels like fog coming in again, and I want to get back." He rubbed the back of his neck, and sighed shyly. "I'm tired, too."

    "You going to be able to sleep?"

    "You mean with Warren keeping me company?"

    She nodded, looking over his head, across the street.

    "I've done it before. It doesn't bother me. Besides, if I get the insomnia, I can always call Hattie and let her tell me all about Greek gods or Egyptian burial practices or the mythology of the Manitoba back-country."

    Annalee laughed quietly. "She does go on, I guess."

    "The world's leading expert on-" He stopped, realized he didn't have her full attention. "Well, don't worry, anyway. If Hattie isn't home, I'll take a pill or something."

    She nodded again, absently, and opened the door. "See you tomorrow morning."

    "Sure thing," he said, and was alone on the porch.

    The blinking amber light over the intersection, the night sound of the ocean tearing at the island, and the fog. The lamp just extinguished in Annalee's window, Warren on the table, and the fog outside his bedroom.

    He shuddered the images away and decided maybe home wasn't exactly where he should be right now. The idea of listening to Hattie Mills fill him in on the latest mythological gossip was absolutely more than he could bear tonight. He had just put his hand to the driftwood door of the Inn when he heard a speeding car. He turned and saw the patrol car, lights whirling, hit the intersection and squeal into a sharp turn to race down Neptune. He wasn't quick enough to see who was driving, but knew it was probably Nichols. Even in an earthquake Garve would take his time.

    He shrugged and went in, blinked at the dim lighting from the lanterns on the rough walls, and took a stool at the corner of the deserted bar. A glance, and he frowned; he was the only one in the place. But he said nothing to the bartender, only ordered Bloody Marys to be served in formation-when one was half-finished there should be another one waiting.

    There was, each one perfect, and he stared at his hands and thought of Annalee and her breasts.

    An hour later his knuckles were slightly blurred.

    Poor old Warren. What a jackass.

    An hour after that he was trying to figure out why the glasses were so slippery.

    Poor old Warren. Leave it to the lush to get his throat cut when guys like Carter Naughton walked around still alive.

    He blinked at the vicious thought, and felt a chill that disturbed him. He wasn't drunk; he knew that. He knew, and the bartender knew, his capacity, and he was still four drinks away from being barely able to walk home. What he felt was a gentle, and not unpleasant, buzzing in his right ear, a hydrogen cloud in his head, and a tingling in his left foot. So why be so maudlin about a dumb drunken lawyer, and so damnably cold about a miserable teenaged kid?

    He shrugged, and nibbled at the celery stick plucked from his glass. Such philosophical musings were best left to daylight.

    The door opened then, and before he could turn around, Garve Tabor slammed onto the stool beside him and ordered a triple bourbon. As Hugh watched, mouth agape, Tabor downed it in a swallow and ordered two more.

    "Jesus," he said, "you want to slice up your liver?"

    Garve looked at him and scowled. "I've had a bad night."

    Hugh nodded, knowing exactly what bad nights were. "You wanna… do you want to talk about it?"

    "Nope."

    Two more glasses emptied, two more in line.

    "You're gonna get drunk."

    "Yup."

    Hugh sniffed, and pulled at the ends of his mustache. "You shouldn't, y'know. You have duties to perform."

    "I tried," Garve said. Two gone; two more. "Goddamn it, I tried."

    He waited for an explanation, and when none came he sipped from his last drink and looked in the mirror rising behind the bottles opposite his seat. It was obvious the man needed something, and that something wasn't liquor. Garve was, in fact, very much like himself twenty years ago. He had practiced on the mainland, was successful (except with women), and didn't quite know what the hell was wrong with his life. Then a friend had called, and would Hugh mind covering his office while he was in Barbados? Hugh asked where, asked where again, and decided what the hell. He came, he saw, the island conquered and his friend gladly stayed away because Haven's End was no place to make a million.

    Fate, perhaps, but Hugh never questioned it. If he was, as his father had put it just before he died, a rabbit afraid of a little hard living, then this was the perfect burrow for his soul.

    Garve groaned, and his elbow slipped off the bar.

    "My friend," Hugh said, "I'm going to write you a prescription."

    Garve nodded slowly, as if his head were threatening to come loose.

    "In fact, I'm even going to fill it for you."

    Garve nodded again and glowered at his reflection.

    Hugh gripped the leather edge of the bar and slipped himself off the stool. When he was positive the door wouldn't move away, he headed for it, heard Garve shout behind him and ignored him. Outside, he shivered, angled to his left and aimed straight for Annalee Covey's.

    

    

    Five minutes later Garve realized he was alone. He squinted at the stool beside him, rubbed the heel of his right hand over his eyes, and squinted again. Son of a bitch, he thought, the doc's a magician. Wish to hell I could make myself disappear.

    He hadn't been kidding about "one of those nights."

    He'd found Lombard at Cameron's house out at the Estates and had come on like some simpleminded refugee from the worst episode of "Dragnet." Warren Harcourt's had his throat slit just down the road and all I want is the facts. Just the facts, mac, and don't give me no crap. And they hadn't. They'd sat there in that cushy living room at least as big as his own place, and offered him Glenlivet neat or on the rocks, and smiled and talked and just about got him down on his knees so they could pat his head and call him a good dog.

    Well, maybe not that bad. Cameron had had the sense to be scared out of his mind. Lombard, however, was oily and smooth and quiet and maddening, and when neither of them admitted to knowing where Theo Vincent was, he'd actually lost his temper. Something inside burst like a stoppered pipe, filling him with a bile he could only get rid of by yelling. He reared up and read them his own version of the riot act and stormed out as if he'd just whipped them to within an inch of their miserable lives. The door had slammed behind him. He had driven away so recklessly fast he'd jounced over three curbs before he regained control.

    And he knew as he headed back into town that he'd made an absolute jackass of himself. After that speech to Colin and Peg in Hugh's office, after all he'd tried to teach Eliot about the difference between the law and justice and the tightrope between them, he'd forgotten himself.