"I can't prove anything. Once... after things had been very bad-Cal was drunk and he beat me-Jason came to me and said that there were ways Cal could be killed that nobody would ever know. I made him be still. I knew he was going to say he'd do it for me. And he would have. He's a strange boy. He can't stand any kind of cruelty. He was a battered child. He nearly died of it. And he has been... a little bit in love with me, I think."
"It showed, after Cal knocked you out."
She settled slowly back down again, cheek against my chest, arm heavy across me. "I thought I saw him at the hospital the evening Cal died. I was going out to eat. I thought I saw Jason riding his bike toward the hospital at the far end of the parking lot. I didn't think any more about it until now. When I came back from eating, all those people were working on Cal so frantically. What it probably was was a piece of stiff leader wire. Cal was in one of those security rooms, single rooms, but he wasn't guarded. But I don't really know. So I don't have to go and tell anyone, do I?"
"Are you angry at Jason?"
"I don't know. Cal was killing himself in any case. They'd told him his liver was going bad and he shouldn't drink at all. I can understand why Jason did it. If he did it. Trav, help me."
"Captain Scorf will ask questions of you, sooner or later. It would look better if you went to him. Ask him if your husband died of natural causes. If he levels with you, register shock and then tell your suspicions. It will have to be your choice as to whether you tell Jason you're going to see Scorf and, if Jason runs, how much lead time you give him."
"Okay. I'll do it that way. But I wish you hadn't told me anything, dear."
"Why did you get upset tonight when we were looking at the stars and the storm?"
"Upset? Oh, I just remembered a nightmare Cal had, about a week before he died. He woke up roaring. I couldn't seem to make him wake up. I looked up at the dark sky and remembered. He had a nightmare about something falling toward him out of the sky that was going to kill him, that was going to land on him and kill him, and he couldn't get out from underneath it. He was so really terrified that I guess it left a mark on me. Half nightmare and half delirium, I guess it was. His mind had. gone all warped and nasty from the drinking. Then he didn't want me to tell anybody about his nightmare! As if anybody in the world would give a damn! Tonight I remembered, and it made me feel weird and crawly."
The rain stopped. Another pod formed and came grumbling toward us through the night. She talked in a slumbrous, murmurous voice, and then the voice ended and her breathing changed, slow, deep, and warm against my throat. I watched the flashes against the window and against the ceiling. The new storm moved closer, and at last the thunder became loud enough to awaken her. She started, then settled back. "I was dreaming," she said.
"Pleasant dreams?"
"Not really. I was in front of a judge's bench. It was very high, so high I couldn't see him at all. They wouldn't let me move back to where I could see him, and it made me angry. I knew he would never believe me unless I could see him and he could see me. I was accused of something about Jason, doing something wrong."
"Such as?"
"I don't know. I guess I was guilty of something, all right. I mean when somebody is attracted to you, you know about it. And it feels good to be admired that way. So you... respond to it. Do you know what I mean? It changes the way you look at the other person, and the way you walk when you walk away from them, and it changes the pitch of your voice when you laugh. So I guess... those little things would add up, and maybe that's why he did what he did. If he did it."
"Don't go around looking for guilt."
"I miss Cal. I miss him every single day of my life. It had gotten to be a rotten marriage, and I miss him terribly."
"Involvement doesn't have to be good or bad. It just is. It exists. And when it stops, it leaves emptiness."
"Something happens, and I think how I'll have to tell Cal about that. Then I know I can't. Oh, hell."
She began to weep, without particular emphasis. Gentle tears for a rainy night. When they subsided she began an imitation of need, a faking of desire. But the textures of her mouth were unconvincing. The storm time had worn us both out. I was glad she did not persist, as male pride would have made the responsive effort obligatory. The second storm was upon us, the wet wind blowing across weary bodies. I covered us with the sheet. The lightning once again took still pictures of the room, of her head on the pillow beside me. After the crashing downpour turned to a diminishing rain, she slept. When the rain stopped I slipped out of the bed, closed the draperies, groped my way into my clothes, and left without awakening her, testing the door to be sure it had locked behind me.
The storm had knocked the power out. There were stars in half the sky. My eyes were accustomed to darkness. I found the path without difficulty and walked between the black shapes of shrubbery, down the slope past the office, and out onto the dock.
Meyer had locked the Flush and gone to bed. I found the right key by touch. In the darkness of the lounge I gave my left shin a nasty rap against the new coffee table. I limped to the head and, by darkness, took a long hot sudsy shower. The great bed swallowed me up like a toad flicking a fly into the black belly.
Fifteen
BY THE time I came out to fix my breakfast, Meyer was having his second cup of coffee. "You are running for office?" he asked.
"I thought you knew I owned a white shirt and a tie."
"I guess I'd forgotten."
"I want to look safe and plausible."
"To whom?"
I poured my orange juice and selected a handful of eggs.
"Five eggs?" he asked.
"These are the super supreme extra large eggs, which means they are just a little bit bigger than robin eggs. Stop all this idle criticism and take a look at the back of my head, please. I took the dressing off."
I sat on my heels. He came from the booth and stood behind me and turned my head toward the light. "Mmm. Looks sort of like the stitching on a baseball. Nice and clean, though. No redness that I can see."
He went back to his coffee. I broke the eggs into the small skillet, sliced some sharp cheddar and dropped it in, chopped some mild onion and dropped it in, folded that stuff in with a fork, took a couple of stirs, and in a couple of minutes it was done.
When I sat down to my breakfast Meyer said, "You were saying?"
"I'm saying something new now. We've been playing with a short deck. With a card missing, the tricks won't work. Maybe it is a variation of your invisible planet theory. I'll describe the missing card to you. The Van Harn airplane comes winging through the blue, and in the late afternoon it spots the Bertram off the north shore of Grand Bahama, as before. There are eight or nine bags of gage, plastic-wrapped to keep the water out. They are about a hundred pounds each. Van Harn makes a big circle at an altitude of a couple of hundred feet. The circle is big so that each time he comes around, Carrie has time to pull and tug and wrestle one of the bags to the passenger door and shove it out on his signal. That would be the way to do it, right? Nine passes. They hope to drop them close enough so they can be picked up quickly with a little maneuvering and a boat hook. Cal Birdsong and Jack Omaha are busily and happily hooking the bags aboard. Probably Birdsong is running the boat and Omaha is doing the stevedore job. Van Harn and Carrie are having a dandy time too. A little bit of adventure, a nice piece of money, and all the bugs have been worked out of the system. The payoff is big. Have you got the picture?"
"It seems plausible. What are you getting at?"
"Cindy told me that a week before he died Cal had a nightmare about something falling out of the sky and killing him."
I saw Meyer's face change. I saw the comprehension, the nod, the pursing of lips.
"One drop was too good," he said.
"And Jack Omaha was careless. He wasn't watching. He was maybe leaning to get the boat hook into a floating bag. There would be a hell of a lot of impact. A good guess would be that it hit him in the back
of the head and snapped his neck. And all of a sudden it wasn't a party any more. It wasn't fun any more."
Nodding, Meyer spoke in an introspective monotone. "So Birdsong wired weights to the body and dropped it into the deeps, after dark. Van Harn flew back to the ranch with Carrie. When Birdsong was due in, she was waiting here at the marina with one of the little panel trucks. Birdsong loaded the sacks into the truck. They got their stories straight. She drove to Fifteen Hundred where the truck was unloaded and Walter J. Demos paid her off. She drove the truck down to Superior Building Supplies. She had probably left her car there. She put the money into the safe and took her share, because she knew the game was over. And she brought her share to you to hold. Travis, how do you read Van Harn's reaction?"
"Sudden total terror. I don't think the money mattered one damn to him any more. Marrying Jane Schermer would take care of the money problem forevermore. He knew he had been taking a stupid chance, perhaps rebelling against a career of fronting for Uncle Jake and his good old boys. He would know that if it all came out, it would finish him. It wasn't a prank. He was involved in the death of a prominent local man while committing a felony. Good old Jack Omaha of Rotary, Kiwanis, and the Junior Chamber. He wouldn't even keep his ticket to practice law. So I think that all of a sudden he was very anxious to please Uncle Jake."
"The eyewitnesses were Carrie Milligan and Cal Birdsong."
"Exactly, Meyer. A hustling lady and a drunk. I just thought of something else: Freddy's matinee with Chris Omaha. There probably isn't a better way of finding out how much the lady knows about anything. He wanted to know how much Jack had told her about the smuggling, or if he had told her anything at all. He evidently hadn't."
"And the burgled apartment?" Meyer said.
"Same reason. Find and remove any written evidence."
"What about Joanna and the bomb?"
"That won't make any sense until we know more."
"If you can ever make sense out of a bomb. The Irish tried it. Except for the people getting killed, it's turned into a farce to amuse the world. The Irish have forgotten why they set off bombs, if indeed they ever knew. It's probably because there's so damned little else to do in that dreary land."
"You won't be popular in Ireland."
"I've never had any urge to go back, thank you."
"Joanna came aboard bearing goodies. A little feast left off at the cottage for her. Meyer, we were both moving toward her as she started to open the box. If she had been a string-saver, a careful untier of knots, we'd both be dead. But she was the rip and tear type. God, I can still smell the stink of explosion in here."
"I know. It's a little less every day."
After I finished off the eggs, I answered his first question. "I am going to visit the brilliant young attorney at his place of business. And I may have to see Judge Schermer. And I may have to see the Judge's niece."
"With what objective?"
"Application of pressure."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Be right here where I can get you if and when I need you."
Cindy Birdsong was alone in the office when I walked up there from the docks. She got up from the desk and came around the end of the counter quickly, then glanced guiltily out of each of the windows before tiptoeing to be kissed. A brief kiss, but very personal and empathic. "You sneaked away," she said.
"Like a thief in the night."
"I slept like dead. I woke up and didn't know where I was or who I was, darling."
"I'll try to keep track."
She became more brisk and businesslike as she backed away from me. "Something strange, Travis. Jason was supposed to tend the office this morning. Ollie says he isn't around. And Ritchie has got some kind of a bug."
"Where does Jason stay?"
"He and Ollie have been living aboard the Wanderer. Over there at the end. It's ours... mine, I mean. But she needs new engines and an awful lot of other things."
I could see that the Wanderer was an old Egg Harbor fly bridge sedan, white hull and a rather unhappy shade of green topsides, something under forty feet in length.
Ollie came into the office, round, brown, and sweat-shiny, and gave me a good morning and gave Cindy a dock slip and said, "I put that Jacksonville Hatteras in Thirty-three instead of Twenty-six. It's new and he can't handle it worth a damn. It's easier to get in and out of Thirty-three. Okay?"
"Of course."
"They'll sign in personally when they get it hosed down. They're very fat people, both of them. Not real old. Just fat."
"Oliver," I said, "do you think Jason took off for good?"
He stared at me. "Why would he do that?"
"I don't know. He's missing. That's one possibility, isn't it?"
"I didn't think of him exactly as being missing, Mr. McGee."
"Did you notice if his personal gear was gone?"
"I didn't even think to look."
"Could we take a look right now?"
He looked at Cindy and when she nodded he said, "Why not?"
We both stepped aboard the Wanderer at the same moment, making it rub and creak against the fenders. As we went below Oliver said, "We slept here in the main cabin, Jason in the port bunk and me over here. If anybody was entertaining anybody, the other person slept up in the bow. There's two bunks up there. You can see that he slept in his bunk at least for a while and... you know something? I don't see his guitar anyplace."
We checked the locker and stowage area. His personal gear was gone.
"What kind of car does he have?"
"No car. A bicycle. Ten speed. Schwinn Sports Tourer. Blue. He keeps it chained to a post behind the office under the overhang. His duffel bags are the kind that hang off the back rack on a bike. Panniers, they call them. The guitar has a long strap so that he can sling it around his shoulder so it hangs down his back. He loves that bike. He does the whole bit. Toe straps. Racing saddle. Hundred miles a day. That's how come those fantastic leg muscles."
I sat on Jason's bunk and said, "I don't even know his last name."
"Breen. Jason Breen," he said, sitting facing me.
"Okay to work with?"
"Sure. Why?" He looked defiant.
"How much do you really know about him?"
"What business is it of yours?"
"The boss lady has had enough trouble, don't you think?"
He looked uncertain. "I know. But what has that-?"
"Jason could have done something very bad and very stupid, because he thought he was helping Mrs. Birdsong. I want to get a reading from you about his capacities. You strike me as being very bright and observant, Ollie."
He blushed. "Well, not as bright as Jason. He reads very heavy things and he has very heavy thoughts."
"About what?"
"Free will, destiny, reincarnation. Stuff like that."
"What kind of person is he?"
Oliver pondered, his forehead wrinkling. "Well, he's a mixture. He likes to be with people. People like him. When there's a group, people end up doing what he wants to do without him having to push. When he's having a good time, everybody Is having a good time, and when he isn't, nobody is. At the same time he's a loner. You never really know what he's thinking. He does nice things for people without making a big fuss about it. The ladies really like him a lot. You saw how he sort of stepped in and took care of Carrie's sister, Susan. Got her on the plane and everything. About doing anything wrong, I don't think he'd do anything he thought was wrong. But there would be no way in God's world of stopping him from doing something if he thought it was right."
"Did he have a thing about Mrs. Birdsong?"
Oliver blushed more deeply. "No more than... anybody. I mean she's a very decent person. And she looks... so great. And Cal was such a son of a bitch to her. Really dirty mean. He's no loss to anybody."
"Except to her. She misses him."
"That's her, all right. She's the kind of a person who could even forgive that rotten bastard. Look, I know what'
s going on with you two. If you give her a hard time, I'm going to take my best shot."
"I think you really would."
"Believe it."
"What do you think is going on, anyway?"
"Jason told me. He's never wrong about things like that. He sleeps a couple of hours at a time. He prowls around a lot. He always knows what's going on over at the cottage and on the boats and in the motel and the whole neighborhood."
"How did he act about it when he told you? Just how did he tell you? Can you remember the words?"
"Close enough. I came in the other night and he was in the bunk reading and he looked over and said, 'McGee is screwing Cindy.' It was just a statement of fact. It stung me, you know. I said you were a bastard to be laying her so soon after Cal died, and he told me that was a sentimental and stupid attitude. I couldn't tell what he thought about it."
John D MacDonald - Travis McGee 16 - The Dreadful Lemon Sky Page 18
