Vineyard Prey

by Philip R. Craig

  Brady Coyne had recently moved to a place on Beacon Hill, where he cohabited with his lady, Evie. I had never seen his new house, but from my days on the Boston PD I knew it to be a place where not many cops could afford to live.

  “Is this the same Brady Coyne who used to live a poverty-stricken life in an apartment looking out over Boston Harbor?” I asked when he answered on the first ring.

  “How’s fishing?” he asked in reply.

  “Scalloping is about all we have to offer right now.”

  “If you can catch those with a fly rod, I may come down this weekend.”

  “You’ll be happier if you wait for the bluefish to show up in May. The guest room is reserved in your name.”

  “I’ll be there. What’s happening down there in Eden?”

  I told him what was happening and what I wanted. “Zee thinks you may know somebody who can get me the information,” I said in conclusion.

  He thought for only a moment and then said, “I think I might. I understand you’ve finally entered the twenty-first century and gotten yourself a computer, so I’ll e-mail you the information in the morning. Now give me those names again. If you weren’t so cheap you could do all this yourself, you know.”

  Good old Brady.

  The next morning, after Zee and the kids had left for work and school, Brady’s e-mail arrived. I printed it out. There was a surprising amount of information about the people on my list, but most of it meant little to me. I took my time going over it and had about decided that I’d wasted Brady’s time when I noticed a small thing: Stephen Harkness, who’d gotten himself shot up on the trade mission, now worked for the FBI. I reread his file. He and his wife, Melanie, had three children and lived in Alexandria, Virginia. Melanie’s maiden name was Oakland.

  24

  The little cogs began to turn in my brain and then bigger ones began to move. I thought back over things I’d seen and heard since Joe Begay had stepped into the shack where I’d been opening scallops. Then I reached for the phone and called Jake Spitz.

  I got his assistant again. “You may remember me,” I said. “We spoke a few days ago. I want to talk with Jake Spitz. Same subject as before: the Easter Bunny.”

  “One moment, please.”

  When Jake came on the line I said, “Can you get on somebody else’s phone and call me back?” I gave him John Skye’s number.

  Jake said, “Yes,” and hung up. Good old Jake. No questions asked.

  Two minutes later John’s phone rang.

  “What’s this all about?” asked Jake.

  “Is your telephone assistant a guy named Stephen Harkness? Used to work for the DIA?”

  There was a short silence, then, “What about him?”

  “I think he listens in on your telephone calls.”

  “Does he, now? What makes you think so?”

  “Because whoever is trying to kill Kate MacLeod has known for days that she’s here on the island, and the only person who might have figured that out from my phone call was you, because you know where I live. Unless your assistant listened to our talk last week. If he did, and knew my name, it wouldn’t have been hard for him to learn I live on the Vineyard and to put two and two together. I figure he got interested when I mentioned the Easter Bunny.”

  “Why would he be interested in the Easter Bunny?”

  “Because he knows it’s not the Easter Bunny who wants to kill Kate MacLeod and Joe Begay. It’s Steve himself.”

  Jake’s voice was flat. “Why would Steve want to harm Kate and Joe?”

  “How about revenge and jealousy? They’ve always been good motives for killing people. Harkness was Kate’s lover, and even before he got hurt maybe he was jealous of her other lovers, including Edo and Joe Begay. Joe says he never slept with her and I believe him, but maybe Harkness thought he did. He was mad at Susan Bancroft, too, because she flipped him off when he tried to crawl into her bed.”

  “Go on.”

  “There’s more. Harkness may think that somebody on his last mission—Kate or Edo or Susan or Joe Begay—stole his papers and got him crippled at the border crossing. Nobody knows what really happened to the papers, but it’s easy to find new reasons to hate people you’re already mad at.”

  “In case you didn’t know,” said Jake, with a hint of impatience in his voice, “Steve Harkness is in a wheelchair and will be for the rest of his life. He doesn’t need legs to handle the phones, but he couldn’t kill anyone if he wanted to. Besides, he’s never missed a day of work here. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “I don’t think he’s the field agent,” I said. “I think that’s probably his brother-in-law, Stuart Oakland, who’s up here right now, staying in his family’s vacation house. Melanie, Harkness’s wife, is Oakland’s sister, and I think Oakland’s motive is revenge for what the shock of Harkness’s wounds did to her. When she learned what had happened to her husband, she apparently had a breakdown of some kind and had to be institutionalized. I think that Harkness blamed the mission crew and that Oakland believed Harkness.”

  I could hear Spitz breathing as he thought. Then he said, “I’ll do some checking.”

  “Maybe you can check three things I’d like to know,” I said. “Has Stuart Oakland had training that would make him proficient in the use of explosives and poisons? Did he know Sam Arbuckle? And what’s become of Melanie Harkness?”

  “I know what became of Melanie Harkness,” said Spitz in a tired voice. “It’s in our file on Steve. She got out of her room and up onto the roof of the sanatorium somehow and jumped before the nurses who were chasing her could stop her. The nurse who was closest to her heard her say, ‘I’m flying.’ But she wasn’t flying.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, and so said nothing. But I could imagine my own feelings if I were in Stephen Harkness’s or Stuart Oakland’s place and believed what they believed.

  Spitz’s voice floated into my consciousness. “While I nose around here, I think you should offer your theory to the island police. If Oakland is the killer, he might decide to cancel his plans if they talk to him, even though they can’t prove anything. Of course, they also might think you’re full of baloney and ignore him.”

  “How can they ignore somebody who has that much motive and opportunity? Oakland has his own house and car. He knows the island and he was the first person to show up at Joe Begay’s house after the explosion, maybe to check up on the results of his work. How can they ignore all that?”

  “They don’t know what you think you know. Besides, cops can ignore anything they want to ignore. If the police won’t listen to you, try the DIA guys. Maybe you’ll have better luck with them. They’re probably looking for somebody to shoot.”

  “Call me if you learn anything.”

  “If I learn anything, I’ll call Dom Agganis.”

  “Don’t use your own phone,” I said, annoyed. Nobody wanted to get close to me, to confide in me. Was it my breath? Had my deodorant failed?

  Walking to my car, I noted that the temperatures had risen well above freezing and that the snow was melting fast. It felt more like April than December. New England weather; if you don’t like it, wait a minute.

  I drove to the state police office in Oak Bluffs and went inside. There I had the misfortune to find, not Dom Agganis or even some DIA men, but my nemesis Officer Olive Otero. Ours had been one of those instant mutual enmities that had begun the first time we met and had never changed. She was my Dr. Fell and I was hers.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “Your boss,” I said.

  “He’s out. If you turn around and go out the door, you will be, too.”

  “I need to talk with him.”

  “If it’s something relevant to the police, talk with me. Otherwise, go talk to the trees.”

  “I’ll have to use some words with two or three syllables in them, and I don’t want to confuse you. Where’s Dom?”

  “Out. You have something to say, say it. Oth
erwise, good-bye. I have work to do.” She picked up a pen and slid a form under it. Since computers have become part of their office equipment, the cops have to fill out more forms than ever.

  “I’ve never been impressed by your memory, Olive, so dig out your tape recorder and try to turn it on. I want Dom to hear what I actually say, not what you think I said.”

  “Gladly. I’ll try to get some work done while you babble. When you’re through, just leave. Don’t bother saying good-bye.”

  She opened a desk drawer and brought out a tape recorder. “This is the microphone,” she said, picking it up. “You talk into it. Got that?” She pushed a button and stated her name, the date and time, the address, and my name as the speaker. Then she put the mike in my hand and pretended to ignore me.

  I told the tape recorder everything I’d told Jake Spitz and everything he’d told me. When I was done I put the mike on the desk. Olive turned off the recorder and waved at the door. “On your way, Jackson. We’ll take it from here. Not that there’s much to take.”

  “I hope for my country’s sake that you’re not the front line of national security,” I said as I headed toward the door. There, just as I was about to go through, I whipped around in time to see her reaching for her phone. She glared and yanked her hand back, and I feigned a laugh and went on out, feeling foolish as I always did after one of my childish exchanges with Olive. I knew she must be good at her job or else Dom would have long since gotten rid of her, but I couldn’t seem to prevent myself from deliberately rubbing her fur wrong. Perversity, thy name is Jackson.

  I wondered if Olive would be able to reach Dom and, if so, what she would tell him. I was uneasy and felt time sliding past me. I drove toward the hospital, took a left on Eastville Road and a right on County Road. Buford Oakland’s house was in one of the new developments off County. I turned in and drove to his house.

  The Mercedes SUV wasn’t in sight, but it could well be in the garage. I parked in the graveled circular driveway and knocked on the front door of the house. Nobody came to welcome me. I knocked again. Still nothing.

  I noticed that the curtains on the living room windows had been pulled back to let in some winter light, and I peeked through one of them.

  No lights were on.

  I knocked again, just to be sure.

  Nothing. Stuart Oakland was either out or wasn’t receiving visitors.

  I got out my key to the house and let myself in. I shut the door behind me and called out, announcing myself just in case somebody actually was home. Silence answered in the dusty way of empty houses.

  I went through the kitchen and breezeway to the garage. The Mercedes wasn’t there. I went back and walked through the house, not knowing what I expected to find.

  All the rooms were empty. Stuart Oakland was sleeping in a second-floor guest room rather than in his parents’ master bedroom. His bed was unmade and emitted a faint smell of sex. Was Stu making love to himself or to someone else?

  I found two suitcases on a shelf of the closet and some clothes on hangers and in the drawers of a bureau. There was nothing unusual in the suitcases or among the clothes.

  I went downstairs to the library. There were ashes in the fireplace. Apparently Stu sometimes spent an evening reading in front of a fire.

  I took a look at his father’s Civil War collection. Had Buford Oakland named his daughter Melanie after the character in Gone with the Wind? Had Melanie been raised as a delicate Southern belle? Was that why she’d become so unbalanced that she’d thought she could fly?

  The LeMat pistol was in a slightly different position than before. I opened the glass cover of the table and sniffed the weapon, detecting a hint of detonated black powder.

  As I sniffed again, I heard a muffled sound like tapping on a water pipe. I put the gun back on the table, closed the glass cover, and listened again. Sure enough, there was a tapping sound. Cold water pipes in the basement? I went to the stairs, flipped on the light, and walked down. At first everything seemed normal to me, then the sound came again. From a storage room on the far side of the basement.

  I crossed over to the door and found it locked. The sound was from the other side. I went to Buford Oakland’s workbench, found a pry bar, went back, and popped the padlock from the hasp.

  Beyond the door, the room was black as a pit. I groped for a switch, found it, and flicked on the light. The room was full of dusty boxes, odd pieces of furniture, rusty tools, and other items not ever used but too good to throw away. Kate, naked, tied, and gagged, lay against the opposite wall, with her bound, bloody feet raised against a water pipe. She looked at me with gigantic eyes. As I stepped toward her I heard the sound of a door closing and footsteps on the floor above.

  25

  I was opening my pocketknife as I crossed the room.

  Kate was bound tightly with what looked like clothesline, and was gagged with duct tape. I rolled her onto her belly and cut the ropes, glad that I hated dull knives and never carried one. Under my hands she was shivering from pain and the winter chill that had seeped into the basement. I saw that she was missing toe- and fingernails.

  I pulled the tape from her face as gently as I could, wrapped her in my coat, and whispered, “Can you walk?”

  She gritted her teeth to keep them from chattering. “I don’t know. I’m so cold.”

  I pulled her to her feet and she swayed against me. “We’ve got to get out of here,” I said.

  “Yes. I hear him. He’s got a gun.”

  I, too, could hear the footsteps on the floor above. Kate took a step toward the door and then collapsed against me.

  “I can’t feel my feet,” she said hoarsely “Leave me here and get away if you can.”

  I picked her up in my arms and went into the main room of the basement.

  The footsteps moved toward the door leading to the basement stairs. There was no escape for us in that direction.

  But I had been caring for this house for years and knew every inch of it. I crossed the room to the bulkhead door, let Kate’s feet fall to the floor, and with one hand quietly opened both the door and the metal bulkhead above. Behind us, I heard footsteps carefully descending the basement stairs. Glad for the time I gained because Oakland was being wary, I swung Kate back into my arms and hurried up the stairs and out into the yard beside the house.

  I didn’t bother closing the bulkhead door but instead trotted around the house to the circular driveway where the Mercedes SUV was parked behind my old Land Cruiser. I opened the driver’s door to my truck and literally threw Kate over into the passenger seat. Then I was behind the wheel, starting the truck and spinning gravel behind me.

  The roar of my engine drowned all other sounds as a small hole appeared in my windshield. A glance in my rearview mirror showed a shattered rear window and Stuart Oakland taking aim for another shot. I ducked low and floored the gas pedal as another hole appeared beside the first and cracks like lightning bolts spread across the glass.

  Then I was swerving out of the driveway and racing toward County Road, where a left turn would take me toward safety at either the state police station or the Oak Bluffs police station. But fate chose that moment to have a string of cars, headed by a slow-moving lady with gray hair and glasses, clog the far lane of the road, making a left turn impossible.

  So I careened to the right and headed for the Vineyard Haven-Edgartown Road as fast as the old Land Cruiser would take me.

  Beside me, Kate hugged herself and shivered, and I turned my heater as high as it would go, which wasn’t much. I wished for the cell phone, but it was with Zee, so I concentrated on driving.

  Our speed wasn’t much, either, when compared with what Oakland’s Mercedes could surely do, and it seemed certain that he would overtake us before I could reach either the Edgartown or Vineyard Haven police stations.

  I squinted through my cracked windshield and kept flicking glances at my rearview mirror.

  “Massage your wrists and ankles,” I said to Kate. �
�Get the blood circulating again. Besides your nails, are you badly hurt?”

  She began to rub the red rope burns on her wrists. Her voice was faint and filled with sorrow. “I’m hurt. I don’t know how badly. I’m not as tough as I thought. I told him everything he wanted to know. Jesus.”

  “What did he want to know?”

  “He wanted to know where to find Joe Begay.”

  “And you told him.”

  “Yes. I’d have told him anything. I’d have made up things. I’m a coward. I didn’t know anyone could hurt as much as I did. I’d read about torture but I never knew what it’s really like. I wanted to die but he wouldn’t let me.”

  “Don’t be hard on yourself,” I said. “No one can stand up to torture.” I was full of fear for Joe Begay. “Is that where he was when I found you? Out after Joe?”

  “Yes. I think he only left me alive in case I’d lied to him, so he could come back and get the truth. If he found Joe, he’d come back to kill me, too.”

  Topping a small hill behind me was what looked like the Mercedes. It was coming fast. I slowed but didn’t stop at the intersection with the Vineyard Haven-Edgartown Road, then took a left, cutting off a pickup that was trying a left turn of its own onto County Road. The honking of the pickup’s angry horn faded as I fled along the highway.

  “Listen,” I said. “I don’t think we can outrun him all the way to Edgartown, so I’m going to go to my house. When we get there, we’ll go inside as quick as we can. I’ve got guns there, and a phone. I don’t know how he’ll come at us, but I know he’ll come.”

  Her small, shaky voice said, “Give me a gun. I can shoot without fingernails.”

  “Let’s hope you won’t have to.”

  As we passed the entrance to the Felix Neck Wildlife Sanctuary I could see the Mercedes closing on us. My old Land Cruiser was no match for it, but we still had a lead when I slammed on the brakes and swerved into my driveway. The Mercedes was already in view behind us when I skidded to a stop in front of the house, jumped out, yanked Kate over the driver’s seat, and ran with her through the screened porch and on into the living room.