The Caretaker

by A. X. Ahmad

  There is a long silence, and then she speaks reluctantly, as though she has opened a door that was closed for a long time.

  “Jojo was … always smiling … she trusted people.” The car goes faster as memories crowd Anna’s mind. “She would toddle up to dogs and want to pet them … She was fearless. She would climb onto the back of the sofa, spread her arms, pretend she was flying, and jump off. She would shout, Look at me.”

  Anna’s eyes are shining now. Ranjit knows that her little girl is alive for a few seconds, moving and jumping.

  “She liked to play with that old doll?” he prompts. “Betsy?”

  “Clayton was always bringing her back dolls from his trips. She’d get excited, dress them up, but then, the next morning, she’d be back to playing with that old thing. She loved something about it. I had grown older and forgotten about that doll, but Jojo discovered its magic.”

  “Mr. Singh. Enough of your amateur psychology. Shut up and let Anna drive.”

  What is Kohonen going to do to him? Shoot him for talking? “Anna, why are you doing this? You don’t need the money. Ten million is nothing.”

  She looks straight ahead and waves a hand toward the window. A flock of small birds is settling into a bare tree, swarming around it with quick strokes of their wings.

  “What do you mean? Because of the birds?”

  “Loons,” she says. “And that’s not all. Plovers, grackles, terns, ospreys.”

  She has lost her mind. “What are you talking about?”

  The land is climbing now, and the car engine growls as she changes gears.

  She continues. “Daddy must have shot hundreds of birds over the years. In the old days, people used to hunt osprey for their feathers, shoot grackles for grackle pie. But Daddy just killed them for sport, and a few years before he died, the birds stopped coming. Right at the end, he realized what he’d done.”

  “Anna, the birds are back. I saw an osprey just this afternoon—”

  She ignores him and gestures outside. They are passing through old farmland, now covered with trees. “Daddy used to own all this land, all the way to the ocean. It would be worth how much now? Hundreds of millions? Maybe more?”

  She laughs, her eyes emotionless. “I told you, he died up here, alone, in the shack. I think that he’d been searching the skies through his binoculars, waiting for the birds to return.” A shiver runs through her slim shoulders. “And after the funeral, I found out what he’d done. He’d changed his will and left all the land—my land—to a nature preserve. All of it, in perpetuity.”

  “But you’re not poor, you have the house here, the town house in Boston—”

  She shakes her head. “Oh, my father left me an inheritance, but that all went on Clayton’s political campaigns. The house in Rutland Square is rented, and we took out a large loan to build the house here. They would have foreclosed on us long ago if Clayton hadn’t been a Senator. You see, Ranjit…” Her hands tighten on the wheel. “Clayton took my daughter, and my money. And now I need money to get away. I’m going far away from this wretched island.”

  She turns down Lighthouse Road, and the entrance to the driveway appears. With a twist of her wrist, she enters the driveway, and Ranjit’s seat belt tightens as the Mercedes swings wildly through the first hairpin turn. Soon the gray-black ocean curves into sight, its sullen waves receding in lines all the way to the horizon.

  * * *

  Kohonen jumps lightly out of the car, the shotgun in his hand. He has buttoned up his green padded jacket, and his long hair flutters in the wind.

  Ranjit stands on the gravel driveway, looking at the tall brown shrubbery. He remembers the evening when he’d driven here with Shanti. The Senator’s gray sweatshirt was soaked with sweat, and close to the shrubbery was the deep hole.

  “Okay, Mr. Singh. Lead the way. Where is it?”

  Ranjit points to a spot downhill from the shrubbery. “I buried it there.”

  “Anna, is he telling the truth?” Kohonen turns to where she leans shivering against the car. “Anna. Did you hear me?”

  She stares down the hill at the kidney-shaped outline of the swimming pool, its blue canvas cover rippling in the wind. Her voice is faint. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, Mr. Singh, let’s get going. We don’t have much time. The Koreans are sending someone to Woods Hole. We need to leave on the last ferry.”

  “I have to dig it out.”

  “You stay put. Anna, please get Mr. Singh a shovel from the garage.”

  She moves slowly toward the house. A stiff wind begins to gust, but Kohonen does not even blink. He holds the heavy shotgun uneasily, the weight of it clearly straining his injured shoulder.

  Anna comes back with the Senator’s metal shovel, hands it to Ranjit, and backs away. He hefts it in his hands, feeling the shaft of solid wood, the wide blade as sharp as a knife. If only Kohonen would come closer …

  But Kohonen turns and walks about ten feet away up the slope, the shotgun resting in the crook of his elbow. The executioner’s position. Anna stands listlessly beside him, the cuffs of her oversized trousers flapping in the wind.

  The shrubbery casts a long shadow. Ranjit closes his eyes and tries to remember where the hole was—four, no five feet from the gnarled roots. He slowly paces out the distance and rams the shovel into the frozen earth, pushing down with his foot. A sharp pain travels up his side, and he feels a slick wetness under his jacket. He prays that it is sweat, not blood from his wound.

  The first few inches of earth are as hard as concrete, but after he breaks through the crust, the soil below crumbles easily. Further inland the ground is frozen solid, but the ocean moderates the temperatures along the coast.

  He gasps as he digs deeper, the pain in his side worsening. How far down does he have to go?

  The pale, sandy soil slowly grows into a mound. Ranjit is up to his calves in the hole, conscious that in another few minutes it will be completely dark. The sky is already dimming at its far edges; Kohonen’s pale hair glows in the twilight, as do the whites of Anna’s eyes.

  The shock from each shovelful of dirt travels into Ranjit’s arms and into his right side, translating into red-hot pain. He blanks his mind and concentrates on the motion.

  Step on the edge of the shovel.

  Feel it sink down.

  Throw the earth to the side of the hole.

  Repeat.

  As the light fades, Ranjit can barely see his hands. What if it’s the wrong spot? Kohonen is constantly turning his wrist and looking at his watch, anxious about meeting the North Koreans on the mainland.

  The shovel clunks against something. Farther up the slope, Kohonen doesn’t react. With his hearing aids, he probably can’t hear over the howling of the wind—but Anna hears it, and tenses.

  Ranjit crouches in the hole and pulls out a plastic-wrapped package the size of a shoebox. He digs his fingernails into the clear plastic and tears it open, revealing a polished wood box. It is sturdily made, its corners mortised together, and a deep scratch in the lid releases the pungent odor of cedar.

  “What is it? Did you find it?” Kohonen aims the shotgun.

  Ranjit pries open the wooden lid, expecting to find the Senator’s slush fund, maybe a couple of hundred thousand. Certainly not enough to keep Kohonen happy—not when the microfilm is worth millions—but maybe enough to cause a distraction.

  He stares down at a box full of photographs. A stack of faded color photographs, some with inscriptions on their backs. Useless.

  He is dead now, unless he can lure Kohonen closer.

  Climbing out of the hole, he holds out the open box. “Kohonen, here’s the microfilm. Take it.”

  But Kohonen only smiles and cocks the shotgun. “You think I’m that stupid, Mr. Singh? Put the box down, next to the shovel. Anna, please bring me the box.” The gusting wind clips the ends off his words.

  That is it, then. Kohonen will probably shoot him first, then Anna. He imagines their bodies tumbling ove
r the cliff, the cold ocean bubbling around them.

  Ranjit places the box at his feet, inches away from the shovel.

  “Anna.” Kohonen shouts to be heard above the wind. “Get the box.”

  She walks shivering toward Ranjit, her hair blowing into her face. When she sees the box, she stops abruptly, a flicker of recognition in her eyes. She looks transfixed, reaches into it and pats the photographs gently.

  “Anna! Is the microfilm there?”

  Ranjit is inches away. “Anna,” he whispers, “answer him. Tell him that it’s there. Please. Or else he’ll kill us both.”

  Kohonen’s eyes narrow, trying to hear them above the howling of the wind.

  Anna’s eyes are shining brightly as she turns toward Kohonen. She nods. “It’s here, it’s in here,” she says, in a loud voice.

  “Good. Bring it over.”

  “Get him closer,” Ranjit whispers. “Closer.”

  Anna doesn’t move. A strange smile is on her lips as she looks into the box.

  Kohonen steps toward them, his shotgun extended. “Anna! Give the box to me!” He takes another two steps and grabs for it.

  Anna cries out and jerks the box away, and it tilts. A massive gust of wind blows just then, and the photographs scatter, swirling into the air.

  “No!” Anna drops the box and reaches upward, her hands scrabbling. She slams into Kohonen, and for a second the shotgun tilts toward the sky.

  Ranjit is a blur, reaching for the shovel.

  Kohonen frantically elbows Anna aside, trying to get a clear shot.

  Ranjit lunges forward. The shovel’s wide blade clangs against the barrels of the shotgun, pushing it away just as it fires.

  The retort is deafening and buckshot spews into the sky.

  Ranjit reverses the shovel and slams its wooden handle deep into Kohonen’s midriff. The man gasps and doubles over, trying to aim the shotgun, but Ranjit wrenches it away. Grabbing Kohonen’s injured arm, he twists it, and keeps on twisting till he feels it snap.

  Kohonen screams and slumps to the ground, grasping his arm, and Ranjit kicks twice at his head, hearing the crunch of cartilage. Kohonen doesn’t move again. He lies sprawled out, blood staining his face, his arm lying at a strange angle, like a chicken with a broken wing.

  The gust of wind dies down. When Ranjit turns, Anna is scrabbling in the snow, gathering up the photographs. Then she turns and runs up the hill.

  “Anna, wait. Wait!”

  He tries to run, the pain shooting into his side. When he reaches the shrubbery, she is already in the Mercedes, the engine growling into life.

  “Anna, stop … it’s all over…”

  Her face is a pale blur as the silver-gray car speeds up the driveway, faster and faster, cresting the hill.

  Kohonen moans, and Ranjit walks toward him, hearing a muffled ringing noise. He searches through the man’s pockets and finds a bulky cell phone that flashes as it rings.

  He is about to turn the phone off, but then decides to answer it. The wind twists and distorts the voice at the other end, but it is unmistakably Asian, clipped and precise.

  “We are meeting at the ferry terminal at Woods Hole, yes? You have it?”

  Ranjit says nothing.

  “Hello? Kohonen? Have you procured the microfilm? Hello?”

  Ranjit makes a decision and talks into the phone, slurring his words slightly. “Yes,” he says. “I have it. But I want more money.”

  “The line is bad. I can’t hear you.” The voice fades in and out.

  “The deal is off. I want more money.”

  “We had a deal, Kohonen. Stick to it.” Even distorted by static, Ranjit can hear the anger bubbling through the man’s clipped accent.

  “Sorry, the price has just gone up. Another ten million.”

  “We have already paid you, and you delivered a useless set of microfilm.”

  “Ten more. Or I burn it.”

  “You are dead, Kohonen.”

  There is a click, followed by the sound of static. Ranjit stares at the phone for an instant, then dials nine-one-one.

  “There has been a shooting at the Red Heron Estate,” he says. “A gunshot victim is in the main house. The gate is locked, you’ll need to break in.” An excited voice at the other end begins to ask questions, but he hangs up.

  It has been close to forty minutes. The Senator must be dead in a pool of blood. Damn it. Ranjit feels an enormous weight settle on his chest. He has to go back to the Red Heron and see this through, no matter what.

  Kohonen moans again, still unconscious, the blood drying on his face. He doesn’t know it, but when he wakes up, he’s finished. Ranjit retrieves the Colt from Kohonen’s waistband and throws it over the edge of the cliff, along with the shotgun.

  Where has Anna run to? He thinks of how her eyes came alive, and picks up the empty box, smelling the fresh scent of cedar. The photographs in it have all been carried away by the wind or scooped up by her.

  His old truck is still hidden under the stand of trees by the driveway. He brushes snow off the windshield; the engine is cold, but it coughs to life after six tries. He drives up the hill, the pain jabbing into his side, praying under his breath that the Senator is somehow, miraculously, still alive.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Anna.

  As the truck curves up the driveway and pulls out onto Lighthouse Road, he cannot stop thinking of her, alone somewhere out there in the darkness. The flare of anger that led her to pull the trigger will have worn off, and the full horror of what she has done will now unfold in infinitesimal moments, each leading up to the final second when the Senator rose up on his toes, then fell, pierced through and bleeding.

  Where will she run to now? All the men in her life are gone, betrayers and potential saviors. Now he knows that she needs a man to be one or the other.

  He drives along the top of the cliff, thoughts clouding his brain, the ocean roaring far below.

  Seeing car headlights by the side of the road, he slows, thinking of Anna, but it is a red SUV, doors open, a blond teenage boy standing by the road with his arm around a long-haired girl. They must have broken down. He is about to speed up when he sees that their headlights illuminate the edge of the cliff: an entire section of the guardrail is missing, the gap framed in splintered white wood.

  Feeling a sudden chill, he screeches to a halt, jumps out of the truck, and runs over. The teenagers hear his footfalls and turn, their faces white and staring. The boy wears a thin sweatshirt, and the girl’s lipstick is smudged, her red sweater unbuttoned.

  Ranjit stops when he’s in the beam of their headlights. “What happened here?”

  “We called the cops already, mister. Nothing we can do.”

  He looks over the edge of the cliff. There, four hundred feet below, lying overturned on the rocks, wheels still spinning, is the long shape of Anna’s Mercedes.

  No. Not this, Guru, not this.

  The boy is behind him. “Someone moved in there. They’re still alive.”

  He finds himself shouting. “When did this happen?”

  “About five minutes ago? We were just parked here. We saw the headlights, saw the car swerve and go over the edge. Driver must be drunk.”

  The boy smirks, and the girl shivers dramatically. Ranjit wants to grab them and shake them.

  He strains to see in the darkness. The car lies upside down on a thin strip of rocks, and the waves behind it move higher up with each ebb and flow. The tide is coming in.

  The figure inside the car twitches. Anna is still alive, hanging upside down in the front seat.

  “Who did you call?”

  “The cops. But there’s a delay. All the ambulances are in Menemsha. Some kind of accident at the Red Heron Estate.”

  “Call them again. Tell them she’s trapped in the car and the tide is coming in. The Coast Guard needs to send a rescue boat. Got any rope?”

  The boy shakes his head. The girl next to him whimpers as a wave below slaps against
the car.

  Ranjit walks back to the guardrail, seeing the tire tracks ending in midair, the soil at the cliff edge gouged deeply. He drops to his knees and looks down at the cliff face, its wet clay made slippery by the ocean spray.

  No ropes. No one to belay him. If he falls, he falls right onto the rocks.

  No choice. He rubs his hands in the dry, powdery dirt, turns, and swings his legs over the edge.

  “Hey, mister. You can’t go down there. That’s crazy!”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m a professional climber. Call. Now.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, he is spread-eagled against the cliff face, his arms quivering to maintain their hold. He’s gone forty, maybe fifty feet down, the slick clay climb getting worse and worse. Now he holds on with every last ounce of strength.

  He’s losing circulation in his hands, and in another minute or so his fingers will be completely numb. He looks down to see the silver Mercedes lying on the rocks, the incoming tide lapping at it. Anna will drown. She will die, as all the others did.

  The numbness sets into his hands. He closes his eyes tightly and prays. Khandelkar, help me. Never again will I call you back. Please.

  He closes his eyes and crows hover in a cloudless sky above a landscape of powdery white. Sergeant, tell me what to do. Help me.

  He hangs in the darkness, waiting for the priestlike face to appear. Minutes pass, and his arms are trembling violently, are about to give way. Nothing.

  There are shouts from above. He raises his head, and is blinded.

  The police have arrived and are shining a searchlight down the cliff face. The light sweeps past him, continuing its erratic journey across the cliff face, and he sees the colors hidden by the darkness, bands of purple and white and red clay that gleam for a second.

  Then he sees it: fifteen feet to his right, the bright light illuminates a jagged shadow in the cliff face. He looks harder, seeing a deep crack running downward: there is a chimney in the cliff, hidden all this time by the darkness. If he can get to it, it might take him down.

  He slowly moves one foot, searching for a toehold, then the next. He moves sideways like a crab, the waves thundering below him.