Vineyard Prey (10 page)

In my mind an image appeared of the wheels of
my truck turning on the turning earth. It was a hint that I was wasting time thinking shallow thoughts. Enough of that! I had most of the day left, so I'd do something useful for a change. I decided to go home, get keys for the houses I looked after during the winter, and put in a few hours of caretaking.

But, just in case, I was careful when I drove down our long, sandy driveway. I checked the woods on both sides, drove slowly, and eased into the yard. Nothing seemed unusual. Oliver Underfoot and Velcro ran to meet me, giving me their usual lectures. I studied the house, then got out and petted the cats.

The tape was still at the bases of the front and back doors, so I went inside and checked the rooms. Everything looked the same as when I'd left it earlier that morning.

I got the keys and was walking toward the front door when I heard a car coming down the driveway. I looked out a window. It was a black sedan.

I tossed the keys onto a table and trotted to the gun cabinet. I hurriedly opened it and loaded my old .38 revolver while listening for the silence that would follow the sedan's engine stopping and the sound of the driver's door shutting behind him.

But the engine didn't stop and the car door didn't close. I went back to the window. The car had stopped beside my truck. The man in the green coat was only partially out of the car and was sagging against the door as if he was too tired to go farther.

As I looked, he lurched to his feet and staggered toward the house, and I saw blood on the front of his coat and the hand that he held against his chest.

I shoved the pistol in my belt and ran out of the house to meet him. He put out his other hand, reaching toward me. His knees let go as I got to him, and I caught him as he fell.

“Take it easy,” I said. “I'll call nine-one-one!”

I started to rise, but he grasped my coat and stared into my face. His mouth was full of blood, and when he tried to speak the sound was lost in red bubbles. He turned his head and spat out the blood then again looked up at me. I put my ear near his mouth and he said in a very distant voice, “Not the Bunny. Tailgate.”

Just those four words, and then he left his body behind and went wherever the dead go next.

I looked down at him. His still-open eyes were blue, I now saw, and his hair was brown and cut fairly short. A nice-looking guy in an average sort of way. He wore a wedding ring and a gold wristwatch that had cost a lot more than mine. You should never pay more than nine dollars for a wristwatch. The expensive ones don't keep time any better and they get lost or broken just as often.

I unzipped his coat, then went into the house, washed the blood off my hands, and put on a pair of the disposable rubber gloves we keep in a box under the sink. Back at the body I avoided as much of the blood as possible while I found the man's wallet in a breast pocket and a flat black semiautomatic pistol in a belt holster. The wallet held money, credit cards, a photo of a young woman and two children, a driver's license, and some business cards. The license had his photo and his name and address. Samuel
Arbuckle had lived in Alexandria, just outside Washington. The business cards gave his name, phone number, e-mail address, and profession. According to the cards, Sam had worked for the Defense Intelligence Agency.

Hmmmmm.

I had read about the DIA. It was the Pentagon's private spy outfit, meant to provide it with better intelligence than it was getting from the CIA. It not only conducted its own analysis of data, it had its own agents, including spies, counterspies, and other human assets.

I went through Sam's pockets but found only the usual stuff. No magic decoding ring or cyanide pill. In an inside coat pocket I did find his official DIA ID card.

I kept one of the business cards but put everything else back where I found it. Then I zipped up Sam's coat and went to the car and shut off the engine. A window sticker identified it as a rental car from an island agency. There was a smear of blood on the side of the car just behind the driver's door.

I went inside the house, buried the gloves in the trash container under the sink, and called 911.

The EMs, the Edgartown Police, and an ambulance got there almost at the same time. Tony D'Agostine of the Edgartown PD spoke to me, looked at the body, and called Sergeant Dom Agganis of the state police, because in Massachusetts, except for Boston, which has its own homicide detectives, the state cops are in charge of all murder investigations.

Dom arrived with Officer Olive Otero, with whom I did not get along and who didn't like me either.

“I should have known you'd be involved,” she said as she looked at me. “Covered with blood and standing over a dead body. At least we don't have to figure out who did it. I'll take that pistol.”

I'd forgotten the pistol in my belt. I dug it out and handed it to her.

“My gun hasn't been fired, and the man died in my arms,” I said to Dom, ignoring Olive. “I'd like to take a shower and get into some clean clothes.”

“Later,” said Dom.

“We'll need the medical examiner to make it official,” said an EM, coming up to us, “but I'd say the deceased died from an acute case of lead poisoning.”

Dom nodded and looked at me. “Who is he?”

“I don't know,” I lied. “I was inside when he drove down here. He tried to make it into the house but this is as far as he got. He died pretty fast. I turned the car engine off and called nine-one-one. The car's a local rental, so he's probably from off-island.”

Another police car came down the driveway and parked. Policemen with cameras and evidence bags got out. They said hello to Dom and began to look around and take pictures.

“See if he's got any ID on him,” said Dom to Olive. “Wear a pair of rubber gloves.”

“Yes, sir,” said Olive.

“And put that gun in an evidence bag.”

“Yes, sir.” Olive was all business.

“Now,” said Dom, “if you don't know this guy, why do you suppose he drove down here so he could die in your front yard?”

  10 

“I don't know why he came here,” I said.

“He say anything?”

“Yes. Four words. He said, ‘Not the Bunny. Tailgate.'”

Dom stared at me. “That's all? ‘Not the Bunny. Tailgate.' What in hell does that mean?”

“It's what he said. He didn't tell me what it meant.”

“What's a tailgate got to do with anything?”

“I don't know that either.”

“You don't know much, do you?” said Olive. “Well, well. Look at this, Dom. Our man here was a Fed.” She turned and held out Sam's wallet and ID card. Agganis took them. I feigned a peek at them, but he frowned and waved me back.

“Come on,” I said. “He died in my arms. Who was he? Who'd he work for?”

“I guess it won't be a secret for long,” said Dom.

“His name was Samuel Arbuckle, and he worked for the DIA. You ever heard of the DIA?”

“It's one of those alphabet agencies in Washington. I've read about it. What was a DIA agent doing on Martha's Vineyard?”

“Better yet, who killed him and why did he choose your yard to die in?”

“Yeah,” said Olive, “how about that?”

“Maybe because he needed help and it was the first place he came to. Can I change out of these clothes now? I'm getting stickier by the minute.”

Agganis nodded. “Okay, but put them in an evidence bag, and let me get some pictures of you first. Hey, Wilber, bring that camera over here.”

Wilber took photos of me in my bloody clothes, and then more photos of my hands. He squinted at the hands.

“How come your hands aren't as bloody as the rest of you?”

“Because I washed them off before I called nine-one-one. I didn't want blood all over my phone.”

“Oh, yeah?” He glanced at Agganis, shrugged, and walked off.

“You know what, Dom?” said Olive, still kneeling beside the body. “I think our man, here, got himself killed with a shotgun. He didn't know it was coming, either, because his own piece is still on his belt and his coat was zipped.” She scowled at me. “Say, you probably have a shotgun. I think we'd better take a look at it. Maybe you blasted this guy yourself.”

“You're in a sweet mood, as usual,” I said to her. Then I turned to Dom. “Come on in with me and you can check out the gun cabinet while I clean up.”

“I'll do that.” He nodded at Olive. “Keep people away from the corpse and take a look in the guy's car.”

I took a big evidence bag with me when we went inside. I use the outdoor shower seven months of the year, but by November I'm back indoors. While
Dom poked through the gun cabinet I emptied my pockets, went into the bathroom, stripped, and put my bloody clothes in the bag. On the floor of the shower the water was pink for a while but finally cleared. I got into clean clothes and carried the evidence bag back out to the living room.

“Those long guns of yours are getting dusty,” said Agganis. “How long has it been since you fired them?”

“Years. I keep them out of habit and in case the kids want to be hunters when they grow up.”

“I thought your wife had a small pistol along with this forty-five she shoots in competition. It's not here.”

Dom had a long memory.

“She took it with her.”

He studied me. “Why? She doesn't usually pack iron. You're not telling me everything. Why is Zee carrying? Why were you carrying just now? What's going on? You lied when you said you didn't know that guy, didn't you?”

I put up my swearing hand. “I never met him until he died in my arms. I'll take an oath on it.”

“You ever talk to him? On the phone, maybe?”

“Not until he was dying. I told him I was going to call nine-one-one and he said those four words.”

He shut the gun cabinet doors and locked them. “Where do you keep the key?”

“Put it up there on top, so I'll know where to find it.”

“You're a burglar's best friend.” He put his face close to mine. “Now stop this bullshit. You know more
than you're telling me and I want it all. A man's been murdered. Worse yet, he's a Fed. This place will be swarming with his buddies within hours and they aren't going to be as nice to you as I am, so talk to me.”

I had been considering the certain arrival of federal agents once Sam's death came to their attention. I figured that they'd be pressing me pretty hard to find out what I had to do with Sam, but I wasn't willing yet to put Joe Begay's name in the picture.

Instead, I said, “Okay, I'll tell you everything I know about that guy. It's not much.” And I told him about Green Coat being in the Bunch of Grapes while I was there, then about seeing him across the street from the store, then about noticing the car following me and my effort to prevent the driver, who was Green Coat, from getting my license plate number.

“I think he got it anyway,” I said in conclusion. “Anyway, the next time I saw him was here, today. When the car came into my yard I recognized it and got my pistol before I saw that I wouldn't need it.”

“Why was he so interested in you?”

“I don't know.”

“What made you think you might need a gun when you saw it was him? Cars have driven down here before and you never pulled a gun on any of their drivers.”

“People don't usually follow me. I don't like it. Yesterday I moved my wife and kids out of here and over to John Skye's house till I can figure it out. That's why Zee has her Beretta.”

“But you never knew who the guy was?”

“Not until just now.”

“And you never talked to him?”

“Not until he was dying.”

“And you never shot him?”

“You sound like Olive Otero. No, I never shot him, and I don't know who did. I don't even know for sure that he was shot, although he sure looked that way.”

“You never heard a shot?”