“You must be J.W. Jackson,” he said, with a smile. “I’m Roland Nunes.”
We shook hands. His was thin and strong, the hand of a worker.
“Your sister has given me a job,” I said.
“Yes, so she tells me. I hope her plan works, but even if nobody shows up tonight I’ll be able to get some sleep that I need.”
“I’ll try to keep the peace.”
“Have you eaten? I have bread and fresh vegetables.” He gestured back toward the woods. “And I’ve just found mushrooms enough for two.”
His voice was gentle but rich and his bottomless eyes were impossible for me to read. He seemed totally at ease.
“I’ve eaten,” I said, “but you go on with your meal. I’ll try not to intrude on you while I’m here.”
“It’s no intrusion,” he replied. “I rarely have guests but I’m glad to have one when it happens. I don’t have much here in the way of creature comforts, I’m afraid, but you’re welcome to what there is.”
“What I’d like to do is walk the circumference of your property to get a better notion of where this prowler might be coming from. Then I want to find the best spot to wait for him.”
He made a slight bow. “Very good. It would please me to talk with you when you return from your explorations.” He pointed a hand to the east. “There’s an old stone wall just inside the woods there beyond the stream. It leads down yonder around the mill pond and it marks the end of my land in that direction.” He pointed north and south. “There are new fences there and there, built by my neighbors, and the paved road is my western border. It’s almost seven acres, all told.” He gave me an amused, crooked smile. “It was cheap when my aunt got it, but it’s valuable real estate these days. No wonder people covet it.”
“I have a few acres of my own. My father bought them when nobody wanted to live in that part of the woods. Now I pay a lot of taxes just for owning it.”
“Yes, taxes,” he said with no resentment in his voice. “I’m fortunate in that my land is in trust and the trust pays the taxes. If I had to pay them, I might have to move and let my cousin sell the place.”
“I can’t do anything about my taxes,” I said, “but maybe I can help out with your prowler.”
Another small bow. “I hope you’ll have tea with me when you finish your reconnaissance.”
I could feel his eyes on my back as I walked back toward the paved road.
There was an old stone wall paralleling the road. It was low and gray and covered with lichen, and it was greatly fallen down, unlike many of the island’s other walls which were now being built and rebuilt at great cost by the many stone workers whose craft had become fashionable among the wealthier islanders. When I was a boy, a good stone wall builder was rare, but now there were dozens of them, some working for the same rich employer for years as his stone fences stretched farther and farther around his land and between his fields.
There was so much stone work being done on the Vineyard that they had to import the rock. I knew because I’d talked with a local guy who also owned a farm in New Hampshire that produced only stone. He had a contract with a big outfit to mine it, and every time a truck full of rock left the farm, the guy made a few dollars; and once, he said, while he was waiting in line in Woods Hole, to catch the ferry to the Vineyard, he’d seen one of those very trucks boarding ahead of him. The island was a rocky place, but not rocky enough to supply the demand of the stone workers.
I followed the wall until I came to—what else?—a new stone wall defining the property line of Nunes’s neighbor. The new wall was high and beautifully constructed, a far cry from the old, rough, utilitarian one I’d been following.
It was possible but unlikely, I thought, that the prowler came in from the road. If he parked a vehicle, it would be seen; if he walked from some far parking area, he’d still have to avoid being seen by some night driver.
I walked east along the new wall, admiring its workmanship while looking for any indication that someone had come over it. I saw no such suggestion, and though I am no Abraham Mahsimba I can cut a little sign if required.
The stream bubbled out from under the wall through a nicely shaped stone arch as it entered Nunes’s land. I crossed it with the help of a fallen log and went into the woods on the far side until I came to the old wall Nunes had mentioned. Here it was harder to tell just where an intruder might have entered since the wall was so old and broken that it offered no interference to any traveler, coming or going, and because much of the ground was covered with leaves and needles that could hide the footprints of any careful walker.
But what walker could be so careful at night, when he could show no light to guide his way and could only guess when he disturbed the earth with his step? We’d had recent rain, and I saw no spoor as I walked between the trees and around patches of undergrowth, stopping often to study the ground and look around me for whatever the prowler might have seen had he come this way.
When I came to the ancient way I noted no tracks. Even had there been some, I’d not have known whether they were those of the prowler or of some innocent walker of old trails.
I crossed the path and worked my way south, moving slowly, seeing no sign, until I came to the old mill pond. A pair of ducks watched me, then paddled across to the far side of the pond.
Evening was approaching, and birdsongs were beginning. As I listened I thought of Bonzo, my brain-damaged friend, who loved fishing and birdsong above all things, and of friends who had returned from Africa with stories of their wonder at the night sounds of the bush: the chatter and cheep and howls of monkeys and birds, the cowlike moo of hyenas, the bass grunts of hippos and the occasional trumpet of an elephant, the splash of crocs near the riverbank.
Circling the pond, I studied the soft soil surrounding it and finally, after recrossing the stream over the old mill gates in the dam, I found the sign I’d been seeking. The prowler had come onto Nunes’s land from the woods to the south, along a path that followed the stream and led through the state forest behind the fenced land belonging to Nunes’s southern neighbor. He’d then gone up through the meadow behind Nunes’s outbuilding, done his work, and returned whence he’d come. Behind him, in a small patch of dirt he’d left a clear print of a medium-sized, low-heeled shoe that could have belonged to either a man or a woman. The soil was soft but the print wasn’t too deep, which suggested someone of little weight. No matter, since small people could be as dangerous as large ones.
I followed his trail by the edge of the stream, along the old path that had probably originally led to the mill, and noted that the farther the intruder was from Nunes’s land, the more careless he’d been with his track. A half mile or so to the south I came to the Edgartown–West Tisbury Road, where the stream flowed through a culvert and bubbled on toward the Tisbury Great Pond.
There were houses in sight both ways along the road, and there were driveways leading off it to unseen homes. There was also room to park a car beside the stream, and there were hiding places for a moped or a bike.
It would be a good spot to wait for the intruder, and I wished I had a helper, someone to stay here with a walkie-talkie while I watched and waited with another one back at Nunes’s place, but I didn’t.
So I walked back along the path, listening to the tinkle and gurgle of the brook beside me, until I was again on Nunes’s land. There I worked my way west along the new stone wall marking his southern neighbor’s boundary and wondered if this neighbor was somehow engaged in a stone fence duel with the neighbor to the north, because this wall was even higher than the one I’d followed earlier. I imagined Frost looking at the walls with pixie grin and ironic eyes.
I found no sign that anyone had come over this new wall or over the old one paralleling the paved road, when I followed it back to the ancient way where I’d begun my circumnavigation of Nunes’s land.
The only sign I’d cut was on that path along the brook. Unless I’d missed my guess, the prowler had always
come in along that path and, since habit is strong and success leads to repetition of action, it was reasonable to presume he’d come that way again. As I walked to the house I thought of what I’d seen and not seen.
Nunes was seated on a mat in front of his house. He looked like pictures I’d seen of mystics seeking nirvana. He turned his head toward me as I approached and flowed to his feet, smiling.
“I’m about to have tea. Will you join me?”
“Tea sounds good.”
He went into the house. I was double-checking the grounds when he came back out, carrying his single chair.
“Use this,” he said. “Unless you’re used to sitting on a mat, the ground can be uncomfortable.”
He gave me the chair and went back inside. Moments later he returned carrying a pot and cups.
“It’s green tea,” he said. “I have no milk or sugar, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t need either, thanks.”
He poured for both of us and then sank easily down onto his mat. The tea was mild and refreshing.
“Your face says you found something,” he said.
No wonder I have so much trouble winning at poker.
“Yes,” I said, and told him of my wandering and discovery.
“Ah,” he said. “I’ve followed that path myself, more than once. It’s a good back entrance to this place, as is the ancient way that goes east into the forest.”
“The ancient way was clean of tracks. It’s rained since your last walkers came through from there.”
“Yes. It’s been a few days, and we’ve had rains since. Have you decided where to wait for my visitor?”
“Yes.” I pointed to the southern edge of the meadow. “That oak tree yonder will give me cover and a good view of your whole place, including the mill pond. If he comes I should see him and he shouldn’t see me. If he gets close to the buildings I’ll be able to get photos of him before he can do any damage, then I can do one of two things: I can make a racket and scare him off or I can take him down. Which do you prefer?”
The Monk didn’t have to think that one over. “Make a racket,” he said. “I’ve had enough of taking people down.”
“Good,” I said. “Me too.”
“It can be chilly at night,” said Nunes. “Do you want a blanket?”
“No,” I said. “I’d rather be cold and awake than warm and asleep.”
He nodded. “It’s the choice I’d make.” Then he smiled. “I plan to take advantage of you and sleep deep and warm.”
“I won’t mind. It’s what I’d do in your place.”
An hour later, as the sun disappeared, I took my spy gear and walked up to the oak tree.
4
The darkness came slowly and the birdsong gradually lessened and was replaced by the sounds of night creatures. When it was dark enough, I experimented with the glasses and camera and thought I could handle them.
I wondered who the prowler was and what his motives were. Was he just a vandal bent on terrorizing a lonely man in the woods, or was he, as Carole Cohen suspected, the agent of unscrupulous people after the Monk’s land? Or was he someone else with an agenda as yet unknown to Carole or me? I wondered how much it would take to persuade him to take his business elsewhere.
I remembered an impeccable response to a threat. A large, young, and powerful lawyer, had, in the security of his own office, threatened a visitor with both lawsuits and physical mayhem. The visitor was a tiny, frail old man, without apparent resources, but in response to the lawyer’s threats, he produced a small pistol and pointed it at the lawyer, saying that if any suit was filed or if he experienced any damage of any sort, he would immediately kill the lawyer. He pointed out that he was an old man without much longer to live anyway, so he wasn’t afraid of the police or of a trial or of jail. The lawyer, rightly, believed him and never took action of any sort against him.
Too bad I didn’t know who the prowler was and that that fearless old man wasn’t with me.
I directed my glasses to the mill pond and thought of Grendel, descendant of Cain, cursed by God, who haunted the moors and wild marshes and came to Herot seeking blood. But I saw no one in the infrared night, and swept my eyes over all of the empty meadow before settling down for a long wait.
Above me the sky was filled with diamonds, but it was the dark of the moon and not even the light of many stars could brighten the landscape in front of me. In the darker darkness of the oak’s shadow, I sat back against the tree, and listened to the music of the night: the hoot of an owl, the scurry of little creatures hurrying through the grass and leaves, the distant laughter of the stream.
Then a circle of light came dancing down the pathway leading to the house from the west. I lifted my glasses and saw that it was a woman with a flashlight making no effort to avoid being seen. She went to the cabin and knocked. A moment later Nunes opened the door and stepped out. She spoke and he replied. She gestured toward the open door and they went in. Some time later, they reappeared. They spoke and after a bit she touched his arm and walked up the path, following the circle of light back toward the highway. He looked after her, then glanced my way, then went back into the house.
So that explained the fragrance of lavender.
The woman definitely was not the prowler, but it was still a good night for a prowler to prowl and it was therefore important for me not to get too comfortable; somehow, however, I managed to doze off anyway, because when I jerked awake and hurriedly put my night glasses to my eyes I saw Grendel coming, moving through the night, full of hate, up from the swampland, sliding silently toward the great hall where Beowulf’s men slept.
But of course it was not Grendel creeping toward Herot, it was a smaller creature, a human being, dressed in dark clothing as I was, moving confidently across the meadow behind the Monk’s house. Was it a man or a woman? I couldn’t tell, because the person’s face was smeared with black, and the individual wore a dark, hair-hiding, stocking cap.
In one hand the prowler was carrying an infrared flashlight that accounted for his or her assured movement over the dark meadow. In the other was a small canvas case. As the prowler came closer, I set my glasses aside and took up the camera. I began snapping pictures as the person knelt near the spirit house and took a flat, round tin from the canvas bag. The figure removed a tight-fitting plastic cover, and then swiftly rose and hurried the last few yards to the corner of the house and placed the open tin on the ground. As the prowler turned and started back whence he’d come I took more pictures, then put down the camera, rose to my feet, flicked on my flashlight so he’d know I was there, and shouted, “You! Stop! You’re under arrest!”
But the prowler did not stop. Instead, with the speed of a deer, he fled toward the mill pond, flicking his light in my direction as he did, but never losing a step.
Shouting loudly, I ran after him, following the bouncing circle of light from my flashlight, but he was fast and I had legs scarred with shrapnel and he pulled away. Down across the meadow we flew, past the mill pond and into the darker darkness of the path beside the stream, where I lost sight of him completely.
Was I up to a half-mile run? Was he? My breath was already short and my adrenaline was lessening, but I ran on, slower but still fairly well, and the dark trees flowed by me on either side. I was in a coal mine, an endless long barrow, a tunnel leading down to the center of the earth. I pounded on.
Why was I doing this? I’d done my job already. I had the pictures and I’d given the prowler a scare that should keep him from coming back very soon, if at all.
Enough of this running. I decided to stop. But my decision was seconds too late. As I pulled up, panting, a dark figure appeared at the rim of my flashlight’s beam and I looked up in time to see an arm pointed at me just before I felt a powerful blow to my chest.
The blow melted me. I was turned to liquid and flowed down onto the ground unable to control any part of my body. My mind, too, turned to mush. I knew I’d been shot.
I he
ard a sound like distant surf and wondered what it was. Gradually the surf turned into voices speaking words I could understand. I listened to them as though from afar, as though they had to do with someone distant from me, floating in space.
“Got the son of a bitch,” said one satisfied voice. “Maybe we should finish him off right here while we have the chance.”
“Nobody’s said anything about finishing anybody off,” said another voice.
“You’ll kill a cat, but not a man, eh?” said the first voice. “At least not until you get paid for it.”
“We didn’t get hired to kill anybody.”
“Not yet, anyway.”
“Wait a minute. Look at him. This isn’t Nunes, it’s somebody else.”
“What the hell? You saw the woman at the house; why didn’t you see this guy? Who is he?”
“Lemme get his wallet.” I felt hands turning me but I neither wanted nor was able to do anything about it. I was disconnected from all things. “Here. Here’s his ID. Name’s Jackson. Lives in Edgartown. You know anything about him?”
“No. Jesus. What’s he doing here?”
“He must be working for Nunes. Damn! What are we going to do with him?”
Voice One had lost its bravado. “We’re not going to do anything with him. We’re going to get out of here. He’ll be all right.”
“I don’t like this,” said Two. “Some people die when they get hit with one of these guns, you know. They have heart attacks.”
“If he has a heart attack, we’ll be long gone. Besides, he’ll be O.K. Look. He’s breathing. Come on. I’ll buy you a beer.”
The voices ceased and I lay there in pieces until, slowly, my parts began to be reattached to one another and my mind began to work more coherently. After a while I sat up. It was black as the pit from pole to pole.
I put out a hand and it found my flashlight. I pushed the switch and the light went on. I was confused but finally realized that my attackers had turned it off. I wondered fuzzily about that, then, as my mind got clearer, guessed that it was because they could see very well with their infrared flashlights and didn’t want my white beam to attract attention.
Vineyard Stalker Page 3
