Vineyard Chill (22 page)

“The sooner the better, but it's up to you. You're the one they're interested in.”

He stared out a window at the ocean. Its far horizon was dark against the pale winter sky. “It would probably save everybody a lot of grief if I just moved on.”

“It wouldn't save Eleanor any grief, but it's your decision. I think we should end it here and now.”

“You'll be taking a chance you probably shouldn't take.”

“I don't like those guys prowling around my island.”

“It's not your island. Tell you what. If you can bring Dom Agganis in on this, I'll do it. You need a license to carry in Massachusetts and I doubt if Jack and Mickey have the paper. He can nail them for that if for nothing else. Come to think of it, I can't carry, either.”

“That's one problem. Another is if we bring Dom in, you'll have to tell him why you're here.”

Clay frowned. “I take it back. Let's not bring Dom in.” He looked around. “You sure your friend won't mind us using his place?”

“What he doesn't know won't hurt him.”

“That being the case, let's take another look around so I'll know the battlefield.”

So we walked and looked and talked and when we were back in the truck Clay said, “You're sure you want to do this?”

“It's my idea but it's your decision.”

He nodded. “Okay, let's do it.”

The next morning I ate breakfast early, then phoned the Harbor View Hotel and asked to speak with Mr. Jack Blume. A voice answered sleepily on the fourth ring.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Blume?”

“Yes?”

“This is J. W. Jackson. Remember me?”

“Yes?”

“When you came by my place, you were looking for Clay Stockton. I ran into him yesterday and he told me where he's working.”

“Ah,” said Jack, thus proving he had more than a one-word vocabulary.

“If you're still interested in seeing him, I think he'll still be there today.”

“Nice of you to call. Yes, I'm still interested. Like I said, he's an old friend.”

“He's working alone on a house up near Abel's Hill. Do you know where that is?”

“No, I don't. Is the place hard to find?”

“It's up in Chilmark. I can tell you how to get to Abel's Hill, but the house is on a side road.”

Jack seemed to be waking up. “Did you find out where he's living?”

“He told me but I'm not sure I got the directions right. Turns out I know the guy who owns the house he's working on, though, so I know where that is. You go up to the top of Abel's Hill and…Do you know where the graveyard is?”

“No.”

“Okay. Well, you go up through West Tisbury and take South Road to Chilmark…. You have a map of the island?”

“I have a map, but…”

“Okay, you look at your map and you'll see the Edgartown–West Tisbury road. You see that?”

“Wait a minute! I have to get the map.” His voice became more distant. “Mickey, where's the map of this island? Where? Damn!” The voice returned to the phone. “The map is in the car.”

“Oh. Well, maybe you don't need it. You have a pencil and paper? All right, when you drive out of town, you take the Edgartown–West Tisbury road right there by Cannonball Park. When you pass the mill pond in West Tisbury, you go left on South Road. When you get to the Chilmark line you keep going until you come to that curve where people used to walk down to Lucy Vincent Beach—maybe they still do, for all I know. Anyway, you go up the hill and—”

“Wait a minute!”

“What?”

“I can't keep up with all that.”

“I'm probably talking too fast. You know how it is when you know something; you think everybody else must know it, too. Okay, I'll slow down. Let's start over. This time I'll start from your hotel. First—”

“Wait!” he interrupted. “This isn't going to work, I—”

I interrupted back. “Tell you what. Why don't you go down and get your map and you call me back when you get it. Clay's not going to be up there this early anyway, so there's no rush.”

“Now, just hold on, Mr. Jackson,” said Blume, in a voice of reason. “I've got a better idea. Why don't you show us how to get there? You come here, and then we'll follow you there.”

“Well, I don't know. I've got some work I'm supposed to be doing…” I let my voice fade off as though I were thinking.

“Can't it wait? It can't take too long to get where we're going. This island is only twenty miles or so long. You show us where the house is and you can be on your way.”

“Well…”

“You'll sure be helping us out. Hate to miss old Clay when we're so close to getting in touch.”

“Well, all right, then,” I said. “I'll be down right after breakfast. Say nine o'clock in the hotel parking lot? That'll give you time to eat before we go.”

“We'll see you there.”

So far so good. Jack even figured it was his idea for me to lead the way to Clay.

I got my old Smith & Wesson .38 out of the gun cabinet, loaded it, put some extra bullets in my pocket, and stuck the weapon in my belt. I'd carried it when I'd been a cop, before the time when the police started carrying higher-powered semiautomatics, and it was still good enough for me. Then I took my father's old Browning double-barreled 12-gauge, loaded it with buckshot, and carried it and a box of shells out to the Land Cruiser.

I drove to John Skye's farm, told Clay about my conversation with Jack, and gave him the Browning and its extra shells. He took the gun and said, “How come you've brought out this old blunderbuss now when a Remington pump was good enough for me before?”

“Because we have a plan now but didn't before,” I said, “and because this one is scarier. Like you said when you talked about stagecoach guards, nobody likes to be at the business end of a double-barreled shotgun. I want you to stand this behind the front door, so it'll be hidden when you open it and we go in. I'll snag it as soon as we get inside and we'll take it from there.”

“Just make sure they don't snag it first.”

“We'll probably get there about nine-thirty. You be up on the balcony like we planned and then you'll come down and open the door.”

He looked at his watch. “I'd better be on my way, then, so I can get things squared away.” He looked at me, smiled a crooked smile, and put out a hand. “I hope this works.”

I took the hand. “It'll work. If it doesn't, run as fast as you can. I'll be right behind you.”

We put both shotguns and their ammunition into the Bronco and he drove away. I had a few minutes to spare so I walked around and checked out the place. Everything was fine. Clay was a neat housekeeper, as many sailors are, because on a small boat you have to be if you're going to live comfortably. There's no room to be sloppy.

When the time was right, I drove to the Harbor View Hotel and into its parking lot. Jack and Mickey were waiting in their idling yellow Mercedes. I guessed that their heat had been on for a while and wished that my own worked better.

I pulled alongside them and rolled down my window as Jack rolled down his. “Good morning,” I said. “Just follow me. I'll drive slow so you won't lose me.”

“Drive as fast as you want,” said Jack. “I won't lose you.”

“I'm going to take you all the way to the house,” I said.

“You don't need to do that,” said Jack, frowning. “Just get us close and point the way.”

“It's no problem,” I said. “Besides, you can't really see the place until you get there.”

Before he could argue some more, I fluttered my fingers in a good-bye gesture and drove out the back entrance to Fuller Street, leaving him no choice but to follow me.

I led the way at a steady forty miles an hour, which is about as fast as my old truck likes to go, and the speedy Mercedes was obliged to dawdle in my wake.

On Abel's Hill I turned down the proper driveway and soon fetched the cottage. I could see Clay on the balcony. He had turned from whatever he was pretending to do and was looking at us as we parked our cars in the yard. I was pleased to see that he had a hammer in his hand. It was one of those small details that make a scene believable.

We got out of the cars and Clay waved his hammer and called, “J.W.! I'll be right down!” He disappeared from view.

“Thanks for playing guide,” said Jack. “We can take it from here.” Mickey said nothing, but stood with his hands in his coat pockets.

“I'll go in with you,” I said. “While I'm here I'm going to find out where he lives.”

Turning my back on them, I led the way to the front door, unzipping my coat as I went, and when Clay opened it I led the way in, shook his hand, and stepped aside so Blume and Monroe could follow. “Brought a couple of your old friends with me,” I said.

“We're not exactly old friends,” said Jack as he and Mickey entered and Clay moved back toward the middle of the room. “More like we have friends in common.” He and Mickey stepped apart, glanced at me, then looked back at Clay. I reached behind the door and brought out the Browning. When I kicked the door shut behind them, both of the Californians turned and saw the leveled shotgun. Their faces changed.

“Take your hands out of your pockets,” I said. “Right now.”

They hesitated but by then Clay had moved to the right and come up with the Remington that he'd stashed behind a handsome sideboard holding summer chinaware. The sound of him jacking a shell into the firing chamber whipped Jack's and Mickey's heads back toward him.

“Last chance,” I said. “Get your hands out of your pockets.”

“What the hell's going on?” snapped Jack, feigning innocence but not surprise.

“You got your warning,” I said. “Shoot them, Clay.”

“Wait!” yelled Jack, and he and Mickey jerked their hands out of their pockets. Clay tried not to look astonished at my command to shoot.

“Take off your coats and drop them on the floor,” I said. “Be very careful.”

“What is this?” Jack blustered as he and Mickey unzipped their new winter coats and let them fall. Mickey's thumped as it hit.

“Shut up,” I said. “Both of you get over against that wall and spread your legs. I think you know the routine. If you don't it's too late to learn.”

They knew. They spread their hands against the wall and spread their legs. I kicked their feet farther back like I'd done a time or two, long ago, when I'd been a uniformed cop, and frisked them, coming up with two pistols, two pocketknives, and two wallets.

“Stay right there,” I said, stepping away and taking a look at the contents of the wallets. They didn't have much money, just as I'd guessed, but I took what they had and took their credit cards and driver's licenses, too. I got a third pistol out of one pocket of Mickey's winter coat and a switchblade out of another. I gave the pistol to Clay, then kicked the coats toward their owners and threw the empty wallets after them.

“I don't want you to catch your death of cold, so put those coats on and sit down over there.”

They sat in overstuffed chairs and looked into their wallets.

“What the hell are you doing?” asked Jack. “What do you want?”

“You talk again before I tell you to and I'll knock your teeth out the back of your head,” I said. “You own that car, or is it a rental?”

“It's mine.” His voice was sullen.

“You have the title with you?”

“It's in the glove compartment.”

“You're lucky. You're broke, but at least you can sell the car.”

“What!”

“Shut up.” I looked at Clay, who was listening to this exchange with interest. “Go out and bring in that title.”

He frowned. “You'll be all right here alone with them?”

“I have a barrel of buckshot for each of them. That should be enough. If it isn't, I have all these pistols.”

The shotgun was enough. Clay went out and came back, title in hand. It was, as I expected, one of those titles that allow a transfer of ownership to be recorded.

I took the credit cards and cut them in two with Mickey's switchblade.

“Hey!” cried Jack.

“I told you to be quiet,” I said and started toward him, lifting the shotgun like an ax. Jack cowered back into his chair and lifted defensive arms.

“Hold on, hold on,” said Clay. “I don't want any blood here if we can help it. Take it easy, J.W.”

I stopped and looked daggers at Jack, then shrugged and stepped back. I took a deep breath as though to calm myself, then glared at Jack again. “You say another word before I tell you to, it'll be your last, Clay or no Clay.”

Jack stayed sunk in his chair, staring at me with large eyes. Mickey hadn't changed expression or pose.

“Here's your situation,” I said. “Your boss, Lewis Farquahar, is dead and you two don't have jobs anymore, so you thought you'd find Clay and get the money Lewis paid to Mark Briggs. You knew Clay didn't turn it in at the bank in San Diego because Clay contacted Mark and Mark contacted Lewis and Lewis told somebody who told you, so you figured Clay still had it and you traced him here.

“You drove because you already had the Mercedes and you were low on cash. It was cheaper to drive than to fly, and besides, if you flew there'd be a record of it and you didn't want that if you could help it. Am I about right so far?”

Jack started to say something but instead just nodded.

“Fine,” I said. “I just emptied your wallets and you don't have much cash, which means you've been living on credit cards. I just took your cash and destroyed your credit cards so now you're really broke. You have a hotel bill you can run out on, but you still need money to get home, which is where you're going, starting today.

“You're going for two reasons: Because I don't like you and I don't want you on this island any longer, and because you made a big mistake.” I lifted the shotgun and sighted down the barrels at Jack's face. He lifted his hands as though they could stop the buckshot.

“Don't!” His voice was shrill.