The Glendower Legacy (28 page)

“I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I’m on my way to use a bush for a bathroom. I’m only human, you know.” She set off and he lay quietly on his back, her coat over him, the sheepskin up tight to his chin. It smelled like spring and the scent of the damp earth and grass and trees sent his mind going, racing off across the past. He remembered his boyhood in the little town of Oregon, Illinois, the melting of the snow and the wafers of ice coating the puddles like sugar frosting, and the cocker spaniel who’d romped madly at the season’s changing as they’d climbed Liberty Hill … It was so long ago and he couldn’t really remember the boy with the dog but there was the spiral of memory that got into the brain and waited. You could never really summon it up: it just came when the button was pushed or the right string pulled.

“The highway can’t be very far,” she said as they pushed out of the stand of pines and firs, into soggy grasses that sucked swamplike at their feet. She veered off toward a hump of path, sandy and wet. Highway One was an unprepossessing, narrow gray ribbon of concrete but it would take them as far as Ellsworth, according to the map, and that was all that was required. They both knew that someone was looking for them—and they were afraid of what might have happened to Prosser. But there was no going back: they had their orders. They pushed on in silence, the new day increasing in seriousness with each step. An hour after breaking camp, they found the highway stretching emptily away on either side, the golden glow of the rising sun giving it just a swipe of the alchemist’s wand.

“Pray for no red Pintos,” he said, plopping the bag down at the roadside. “We’re really sitting ducks out here …”

“How far are we from Ellsworth?” She’d combed her hair back with her fingers and her cheeks were flushed. He’d kissed her once, and he wanted to kiss her again.

“Let’s say, too far to walk.”

“Are we just going to wait?”

“Might as well
start
walking …” He picked up the bag. “Listen to the birds. In the spring, a young man’s fancy … you know.”

She put her arm through his and they started off along the shoulder trying to avoid the mud.

After two cars and a panel truck had passed, she said: “Wouldn’t this be a good time to tell me the history of the macguffin? I mean, if they find us, I wouldn’t want to die without knowing …”

“Come on—”

“And what about the brown car? It’s not exactly fit to return …”

“Good God, I hadn’t thought of that—”

“So tell me about the macguffin.”

“No, you’ll get spoiled.”

“Ha!” She kicked a stone across the quiet road. The golden glow was fading as the overcast thickened. “I am
really
hungry.”

By midmorning they reached Rockland where they stopped at a gas station and diner where a couple of trucks were gassing up. Fog was gusting across the highway. “Food,” she said, “food.”

While Chandler picked at a plate of scrambled eggs, Polly ate the ranch breakfast, the thought of which turned his stomach. It was the fear. It was back, a dark unreasoning thing he couldn’t ignore. They sat in the booth furthest from the door: he watched the highway for a first glimpse of the red Pinto, wondered what exactly he would do if he saw it. A police car pulled in and parked. Two cops got out and stretched, clumped into the diner where they were well known. Banter, laughter, a thermos being filled with hot coffee. It would have been such a pleasant, remote place, such a fine place to be with Polly … it would have been. “Oh Christ,” he whispered. A red car … Polly shook her head: “A Toyota,” she said. “Relax.” He leaned back: “Be still, my heart.” He wasn’t kidding and knew his smile was a poor, sickly thing.

The cops finished the snappy comedy routine and left. The locals subsided into their regular laconic conversation. Chandler got up and went to the counter where a well-thumbed copy of the morning’s Boston paper lay unattended. He brought it back and slid into the booth. Polly was still eating. “I’m worried about Ezzard,” she said.

“You said that.”

“I know but I’m going to have to do something about it. I’m going to call my next-door neighbor and get him to do something.”

“How will he get in?” He was unfolding the paper in search of the front page.

“He has a key.”

Chandler’s eyes snapped up: “He does, does he?”

“He’s a very sweet boy.
Very …
” She smiled. “He’s gay, if that makes you feel any better.”

“I’m sorry …” He folded the paper on the table and felt his stomach do something unpleasant. It was in the lower right-hand corner of the first page.

TV NEWSWOMAN MISSING:

WAS INVOLVED IN MURDER QUERY

Polly’s picture was particularly attractive: mouth open, teeth flashing, her head caught turning toward the camera, eyes bright.

“How the hell—”

“Listen,” he said. “Presumably you missed a show Sunday night … no, they called you, or you were supposed to call in …” He shook his head, ran his finger through the article. Polly watched, nibbling a fingertip. “Oh, here it is—” He was out of breath. “Ralph Stratton—the station manager—spent Sunday trying to get hold of you—”

“Damned busybody!”

“And when he couldn’t find you he went to your apartment and found the door unlocked and evidence of a search through the apartment by persons other than Ms. Bishop—some of our little friends, no doubt …”

“Does it say anything about Ezzard?”

“Polly, somebody has gone through your apartment! It doesn’t say anything about the cat, no, but look at it this way, if they’d killed the cat it would have been in the headline. But who did the going through?”

“McGonigle and Fennerty? Porkpie and Company? I guess it doesn’t really make much difference. What do you think they wanted? Oh, hell, that doesn’t make any difference either, does it?”

“No, I guess it doesn’t. Says here you’ve played the key media role in the Harvard murders—” He gave her a sour look.

“Colin, you missed something at the top of the page.”

HARVARD PROFESSOR TORTURED, KILLS ATTACKER, NEAR DEATH HIMSELF

The story was little different from what Prosser had told him but it was all new to Polly who read it with growing amazement. She finally looked up, wide-eyed. “Prosser told you about this?”

“He didn’t want to worry you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Brennan was conscious, told the police the story. The police got an anonymous tip … I don’t see where Prosser fits in. It’s pretty weird.”

“He has lots of connections,” Chandler said. “Who knows …”

“Well, it doesn’t all hang together, not in my book.” She turned to page three. “Here
you
are, my dear …

WHERE IS PROF. CHANDLER?

Says here that Department Chairman Bertram Prosser was unavailable for comment. Next they’ll be wondering if Harvard can stand the brain drain—Chandler, Prosser, and Brennan.” She finished her coffee and looked brightly around. “A few days ago this would have been amazing—”

“It’s still amazing. People are still trying to kill me, Prosser may be dead … Hugh could die at any moment, according to the stupid newspaper—and we’re wandering around the coast of Maine absolutely defenseless trying to get to Bar Harbor … believe me, it’s amazing. And the most amazing thing about it is the fact that I haven’t had a nervous breakdown.” He jabbed the paper with his forefinger: “Both of our pictures are in the papers—why, hell’s bells, we could be recognized at any moment!”

“Colin,” she said calmly, “so what? We’re not wanted for anything. It’s not Cary Grant in
North by Northwest.
We’re just running away. Somebody spots us, they say, hey, I know you two … and what are they supposed to do? That’s the really scary part—the only people who want us, want the document, and would probably rather kill us than not. Walk into a police station and they wouldn’t even know what to do with us …” She smiled.

“Okay. Let’s get going.”

“First, I’ve got to call about Ezzard. Go powder your nose and I’ll be done.” She went to the pay telephone hanging on the wall and took a credit card from a billfold in her coat pocket.

He went outside and asked a man with a station wagon bearing the words Down East TV Repair if he knew how they might get to Ellsworth.

“Well, you might get your thumb out,” he said, winking a blue eye buried beneath a reddish brow. “You might wait for the taxi. Quite a wait, though.” He turned and saw Polly coming out, her sheepskin coat open and spread back in the breeze. “Or, since I’m heading up Ellsworth way myself, you could come with me.” He smiled, looking at Polly, then back to Chandler.

They all crowded into the front seat and made small talk: what are you folks doing up here without a car, got business in Ellsworth? Damn, but you look familiar, miss, you sure we haven’t met somewhere? Positive? Well, I’d of bet on it … TV business, repairing them, that is, pretty interesting, some folks still have you come right into their homes, expensive as hell, but say you got your big console style TV, decorator cabinet, damn things weigh a ton, how the hell they gonna get ’em to the shop? That’s the problem with a console … that’s where I’m going right now, just like a doctor, doncha see, making a house call …

He prattled on, sneaking glances at Polly’s thighs and profile, while his passengers sat in silence. It was almost an hour later that he pulled over saying, “Well, folks, it’s been mighty interesting talking to you, but this is the end of the line—showplace of Ellsworth, the Holiday Inn.” Chandler hopped out, grabbed the bag out of the back seat, and pulled Polly after him. “Much obliged,” she cried over her shoulder. Chandler waved, muttered a cheerful obscenity, and headed across the parking lot into the motel. The clerk at the desk called a cab and they waited outside under the marquee. “He wasn’t that bad,” Polly said.

“He damned near drove off the road every time he sneaked a look at your thighs. Could have killed us and then where would we be, right? Rustic sex fiend.”

“You picked him, darling.” The cab arrived and Chandler told him to head for Bar Harbor.

“Bah Habah? Bah Habah is closed up tight as a drum, tighter.”

“Just go to Bar Harbor. Please … just go.”

Shaking his head the driver overcame his own better judgment, took a right leaving the Holiday Inn and drove to Bar Harbor without another word.

Kendrick’s Sporting Goods sat with its rear door hung out over the water of the gray, flat bay. The surface of the water merged indistinguishably with the fog, the golden sun now totally obscured. The smell of the water surrounded them as they stood alone in the deserted street. A couple of skinny-masted boats clung nervously to the weathered, heavy-timbered dock. A man in a plaid mackinaw jacket knelt at the end of the dock peering down into the water, a cap pulled low over his ears.

Bar Harbor, for all its fabled social history, appeared to be a damp-stained, weather-beaten, echoing ghost town. Chandler went to the front door of the sporting goods store and tried the knob which refused to give. A light glowed dimly in the very rear of the dark interior. It was past noon. The wind off the water licked at the moist wood. The large window was stacked high and deep with fishing and boating gear that was quite meaningless to Chandler. Dust lay undisturbed on what might once have been a display but had become, over what looked like decades, nothing other than a weary, dull jumble. A tennis racquet from Bill Tilden’s era leaned against an outboard motor: a broken string had curled up, died long ago. The archaeology of sport.

Chandler rapped on the door’s split, rotted wooden frame.

“Well, it figures,” he said. “Nobody home. Brother Kendrick is no doubt basking in the Florida sun. I knew I was going to regret this—”

“That’s not true,” Polly interrupted his wail. “You said that whatever Bert Prosser said was good enough for you. Now be honest with yourself.” She cupped her hands and peered into the store. “You’re just tired and sick of carrying the duffel bag. Here, kitty, kitty …” She tapped on the glass. “Kitty, kitty, kitty.”

Chandler dropped the bag, walked to the corner of the building, and looked out across a vacant lot overrun by dark brown, matted weeds. Sand filled the cracks in the broken sidewalk. Nothing moved. The man who had been crouching at the end of the dock appeared now on the beach, emerging from among the warped black pilings, walking with hands in mackinaw pockets, cigar jutting from beneath a hooked beak. Chandler watched him turn abruptly, felt the eyes seeking his own, felt the stare. The man began walking toward him, reached some ramshackle wooden stairs which rose from the beach to the sidewalk where Chandler stood.

He was a large, square-shouldered, square-jawed, deeply wind-burned man of sixty or so, red veins crisscrossing his face with its day-old gray stubble. The cap was a battered yachtsman’s that looked like it belonged in the window display. His eyes were deep-set and light gray and his voice had a strength Chandler had heard before in men who were used to solving their own problems in their own way. He had the steady gaze of a comic book hero, the same strong, obvious features.

“How are you?” he said, reaching the sidewalk. “Gloomy morning, gloomy day. Always puts me in a good mood. You looking for somebody?”

“Kendrick.”

“Ah, Kendrick.” He moved toward the store. “Old Kendrick … what could you want with an old duffer like him?”

“I’d better tell Kendrick about that.”

“A closemouthed man,” he chuckled. “I like a closemouthed man.” At the window he stopped: “You like the little kitties, miss? They’re such defenseless little mites.” Four kittens had appeared in the window, stumbling and falling and earnestly getting back up, nosing onward. “You care to say good-afternoon to these two fellows?” He withdrew huge hands from his jacket pockets: each fist held a kitten.

“Why, they’re just darling! Babies …”

“Ah, I always had a weakness for cats, everywhere I’ve gone, all over the world—a cat’s a cat.”

“Are those your cats, then?”

“Aye, seems I’ve got twenty or so.” He looked at Chandler. “I’m Kendrick, and who would you folks be?”

“Bert Prosser sent us here, to see you.” Chandler frowned, wondering why Kendrick had bothered with the charade over his name. “My name’s Chandler and this is Miss Bishop.”