Flash tittered.
De Gier was waiting on Squid Island's dock. "You bed them all down for the night," Grijpstra said, "and give me the key to the Ford product, please."
"Phone the netherworld," de Gier asked. "Cross the final frontier. Call on the ogres. Release revenge."
Chapter 22
"Maybe we should do this," the commissaris said, tapping the table where he had spread his maps.
Katrien wasn't sure.
The commissaris rested his finger on Rogue Island. "But, Katrien. .."
"But they're dealing with the sheriff of Woodcock County," Katrien said, "with an elected official. Please, Jan, this is a civilized world now, there must be better ways. Tell them to have the villain arrested…"
"How?"
"The DEA," Katrien said.
"Ineffective," the commissaris said. "Remember that marijuana shipment?" His finger prodded the map. "Right here, onBar Island. Akihadthatallplannedoutfor them, there were agents behind every bush. The bad guys still won."
"America is a democracy, Jan."
"So is Holland," the commissaris said, "and little Jimmy next door got AIDS while prostituting himself to get cash to buy crack."
"You said there were no bad guys," Katrien said. "That things just happen."
"Let's happen along too." The commissaris rubbed his hands together. "Let's be sly, Katrien."
Katrien made a face.
"If only you could be a little bit more negative," the commissaris said gleefully. "You know what we have here, Katrien? Tribal warfare." He pointed. "Check that encyclopedia. Read up on Native American East Coast tribes. You'll find that the Iroquois were fierce and the Algonquins were sly. They had fun together."
"Scalping," Katrien said. "Torture. We're beyond that now."
"We're never beyond violence," the commissaris said. "This kind could be fun. Know your enemy, Katrien. Hairy Harry is a paranoid Iroquois. He firmly believes Grijpstra and de Gier will interfere with his drug operation, and all this stealing of yachts, hiding of corpses, shooting of airplanes, willful destruction of a little dog's obstacle course is his brand of defense. Fear makes him twist facts. He never knew about Lorraine's disappearance, never cared either. He sees Grijpstra the Algonquin telephone overseas, reporting to someone. To the Big Guy Back Home."
Katrien kissed his cheek. "Chiefjan of the Algonquin."
"De Gier was in Maine before," the commissaris said. "The state police flew him into Jameson. Maybe a legend started up then. Ishmael knew Jeremy. Jeremy the hermit knew me. I was chief of detectives."
The commissaris found his cane, limped to the porch, descended to the garden.
Katrien, by watching his lips, caught most of what the commissaris said to Turtle.
"Tribal warfare," the commissaris told Turtle. "Katrien is still an idealist. I'm not saying she isn't right, but we act on lower levels here, within desire and fear. Fierce warriors threaten us peaceful people.
"Rationalizing our interference, Turtle? Certainly. We need an excuse. The war on drugs? Well, maybe yes, although I'm all for pot myself. The weed of procrastination slowing down pollution. How about Sheriff Shoots Eagle?
"Okay? Okay.
"Turtle?
"No ordinary violence, Chieftain Katrien advises? Make use of the magic way, you say? Do I remember the shaman under the banyan tree, Milne Bay, New Guinea?
"Sure, sure, Turtle, we didn't send de Gier to the end of the world for nothing, did we now?
"Yes, Turtle, I do remember de Gier's report on the method of Pointing the Bone, oh yes, I do.
"How that works? Piece ofcake. Get a bone. Get some powerful minds to help. Point the bone at the paranoid Iroquois. Visualize effects. That sheriff dies.
"Yes?
"Have a tribal powwow first? Get a tribal mandate?
"Yes. Must follow proper protocol, Turtle. You're a good counselor. I thank you kindly."
"Oh dear," Katrien said, watching the commissaris climb the garden steps.
"Katrien?"
"Now what, Jan?"
"I wonder," the commissaris said. "That leg of lamb I saw in the freezer? How about cooking that up sometime, say tomorrow?"
"With Brussels endive, Jan?"
"Delicious," the commissaris said. "Isn't Nellie very fond ofBelgian endive? Why don't I ask her over? And while I'm at it, I'll put a call in to Beth's Diner too. Get things going again, my dear."
He limped to the phone, leaning on his cane, swinging his free arm martially.
Chapter 23
"Look what I made in therapy, folks," Lorraine said.
Lorraine had kayaked over from Bar Island and brought her war pipe, an artifact she had made herself, copied from a museum piece on view in Jameson's town hall.
Lorraine believed in using local materials to evoke local power. The pipe's stem was "moose wood," a type ofwillow, hollowed out with a stone awl dating back to a Penobscot village that preceded Jameson. She had found it on the beach. The pipe's bowl was birch she had cut herself. The raccoon-skin thong wrapped round the stem was part of a worn-out Seminole sandal, bought at an Indian road stall in the Florida Everglades. Five long feathers shed by Jameson Bay eagles, later dyed blood red with the juice of cranberries, had been found on the shore by Lorraine and Aki.
Bad George set the kitchen table in the pagoda. Flash baked biscuits and passed them out. Ishmael created a study in apple slices and grapefruit. Bad George had fried bacon dripping on paper napkins and an omelette puffing up on the stove.
They ate first, while the war pipe, a sinister presence in spite of their tribal banter, dangled from fishing thread attached to the kitchen lamp by de Gier.
Lorraine had brought tobacco too, Drum, in a plastic bag.
"Made in Holland," de Gier said, reading the plastic bag's print.
There was no shortage of omens.
"Beth?" Ishmael said into the CB radio's microphone. "Would you and Aki join us for coffee? I'll be picking you up at the dock at the Point."
Beth, being boss, got to untie the war pipe from the kitchen lamp. Lorraine stuffed the pipe's bowl with Drum shag tobacco. Aki lit the match.
The warriors puffed on the war pipe in turns.
"We condemn the accused?" Beth asked when the pipe passed back to her.
Bad George raised his hand. "For trying to kill Krip here by not picking him up when he was sucked east by the ocean in Little Max's dory."
"Humph," said the congregation.
"For sinking the Kathy Three by cutting her free and tapping her rotten bottom with a hammer."
"Humph."
"For willful destruction of Ishmael's Tailorcraft and of his collection of What."
"Humph."
"But that's okay," Ishmael said. "I'm going to do this new depth thing in the cannery now, with the colors. I still have those cans of yellow and orange paint and those sheets of old plywood. What I'm trying to achieve is some experiments with depth. You see…"
The group applied peer pressure by staring.
"I'll just humph on the Tailorcraft," Ishmael said. "Okay?"
"Killing loons?" Flash asked. "Mallards? That dolphin? Bears?"
"Humph."
Beth raised her hand. "For not taking the lady from the Macho Bandido to the hospital."
The group reflected.
"You think the lady might have been saved?" Bad George asked.
Beth had overheard Billy Boy talking to Hairy Harry in her diner, saying that he thought "she'd looked dead enough for burial."
"Humph."
"Humph what?" Beth asked.
Grijpstra thought that there didn't have to be action. Not on this side, he thought. Smoking the war pipe and humphing along might just do it.
"Do what?" Lorraine asked.
"Activate Shaman Otium Cum Dignitate."
"Out ofoffice with honor," former exchange-student-in-Viareggio-Italy Lorraine translated.
"They're more dangerous that way," Grijpstra said. "You know how it go
es. Doesn't he have a pretty name? So we're all agreed now?"
"Yes," Beth said.
Why Beth was boss was explained differently by different parties later. Bad George and Flash Famsworth attributed Beth's power to her great weight. Ishmael mentioned Beth's spirit: Beth had inspired him to start the collection of What, to help cleanse his spirit after his release from Eastern Maine Mental. Beth was in charge of laundry at Maine Mental at the time. As she wore a white coat, some inmates thought Beth was with the psychiatric department. Beth, after hearing Ishmael out, had pronounced him normal.
"Can you imagine that?" Ishmael asked. "Me? Normal, to fly free? I tell you that was helpful."
Aki said Beth was lovable, and Lorraine said Beth was decent. Grijpstra said Beth was great. De Gier revealed a New Guinea dream he'd had during earlier training, after participating in Papuan rites. "Earth," the dream voice said, "will be saved by Big Woman."
"That's it?" Flash asked, checking the tribe's fcces.
That was it.
Chapter 24
Grijpstxa and de Gier watched the sea from the pagoda's porch while discussing treasure.
"Correct me if I am wrong," de Gier said, "but salt melts in water, cocaine is a more profitable product than marijuana, and Hairy Harry already has a cash-flow problem." He spread his arms. "Where does it all go? How can we put it to use?"
"First explain the salt bags," Grijpstxa said.
De Gier had figured the salt out while puffing on the Algonquin war pipe. Flash had mentioned salt bags being dropped by an airplane ofTRogue Island. Rogue Island was the island on Jeremy Island's far side. De Gier had seen a plane flying near Rogue Island and had noticed the sheriffs patrol boat in the area, but never at the same time as the plane. After the plane flew off, the patrol boat would arrive some six hours later. Evidently, Kathy Three witnessed the plane dropping bags, got wise to their procedure, got sunk for her troubles.
"The bags sank too," Grijpstra said.
De Giers lecture continued. What happens if a bag filled with salt drops into the sea? That bag sinks. What happens once the salt melts? That bag pops up, provided contents are lighter than water. Cocaine, packed in airtight cans, is much lighter than water. If the weight ofsalt per bag and the speed of such weight dissolving into the ocean are given-and they are, de Gier assured the nonmathematical Grijpstra-the time that the bags, without salt, but still loaded with cocaine in airtight cans, require to surface can be figured out. Being around at that time ensures master smuggler Hairy Harry of being able to fish up the valuable cargo without being seen with the cargo-dropping plane.
"It always gets worse," Grijpstra said. "You start with a small thing, like allowing your pals to grow a little pot… and before you know it, you're into the big figures."
"How true," de Gier said. "Next you're destroying other people's property. Next you're destroying other people. Next you've destroyed yourself-the old Mafia merry-go-round."
"Better row me across to the diner," Grijpstra said.
"To make things enter a final stage?"
"All I ever make," Grijpstra said, "is phone calls. Maybe you know what comes next?"
"You don't want to know," de Gier said.
"Some bullshit again?" Grijpstra asked. "Some Papuan nonsense like what you reported on while you were out in New Guinea? The tribe gathers its strong spirits together and gets them to point a bone at some subject that endangers the tribe's social health, and no matter where the subject may be, once said strong spirits are done with sitting around their campfire while chanting a ditty…"
"Yep," de Gier said.
Grijpstra never believed that Nellie and Katrien-please, Nellie and Katrien-humming over a leftover lamb's bone, "pointing the bone," with the commissaris leading the chant-What the hell did he chant? The Dutch national anthem?-had anything to do with subsequent mishaps that happened to kill off some parties.
Mishaps happen on the coast ofMaine, especially in the Twilight Zone. Fishermen sail into the fog and stay there. Divers step into waterholes, lose their sense of direction, swim down instead of up. Hikers get eaten by blackflies in the woods. Boats burn. Seaplanes flip over. Hunters shoot each other.
Hairy Harry was shot because of Ishmael's bear mask. The foreseeable, hermit Jeremy used to say, usually doesn't occur but the unpredictable invariably happens. Aki had given the mask to Little Max. Little Max clowned around in the diner, caught the sheriff's attention, sold the mask to Hairy Harry for ten big ones. Hairy Harry andBilly Boy had a thousand-dollar bet (wagers held by Bildah Farnsworth) on who would shoot Mr. Bear. The sheriff, off duty, in his private speedboat, and Billy Boy, on duty, using the Sheriff's Office patrol boat, unbeknownst to each other, happened to choose Jeremy Island as common ground the same Sunday morning. Hairy Harry, wearing the mask and some expensive female bear scent that he had sent away for, showed his head above a rock to fool Mr. Bear and fooled Billy Boy instead. A. 308 bullet, fired from Billy Boy's scoped deer rifle, pierced the mask, then messed about in the head behind it.
Billy Boy, after checking out his kill, panicked. He died later that day, pushing the patrol boat's twin engines as he raced her home to Jameson Harbor. State police officers, alerted by Billy Boy's garbled radio call that mentioned a hunting accident with one man down, waited in vain on the Jameson town dock for the sheriff's patrol to return. While Mr. Bear humped the sheriff's body, Billy Boy's boat struck rocks.
When the patrol boat didn't show, the state police chartered Big Max's lobster boat. State police detectives working with Coast Guard experts, reconstructing the accident, eventually came up with an acceptable explanation: Freak winds-Maine's infamous "cat's paws" that suddenly reach down, create havoc, and are gone again-must have shifted channel markers. The patrol boat, driven by Billy Boy, upset by accidentally shooting the sheriff, hit a shoal. The boat's hull flew over the shoal but the twin Johnson outboards were held back by solid rock. The boat could only tip over backward, had no choice but to crush her driver's body.
Grijpstra and de Gier, after one last lobster dinner, said goodbye to their fellow Algonquins and drove the Ford product to Boston's Logan Airport. Nellie met the plane in Amsterdam.
"Rinus is moving in with us, Nellie, to help with the agency. Isn't that nice?"
"Isn't it," Nellie said.
De Gier stayed in Nellie's house at Straight Tree Canal, using the gable house's loft, which he furnished with an old bath tub on a platform, a Navy hammock, and a large Oriental carpet that he found at the flea market and that Grijpstra helped him clean. Tabriz moved up with his former companion, mostly because the Grijpstra household was joined by an overactive minimongrel, soon to be named Deneuve, who followed Grijpstra home one night and declared eternal love to Nellie.
De Gier, well above all this in his loft, liked to sit in his tub and practice jazz trumpet to amuse Tabriz. Instead of reading French literature, he now borrowed South American books from the university library, which he found fascinating as, again refusing to own a dictionary, he had to guess what the Spanish or Portuguese words meant. Nellie hardly saw her unwelcome tenant as de Gier, using professional skills, managed to avoid her awesome presence. He rigged up a kitchenette, and started off each day with a ceremonial meal, enjoyed while sitting down on the carpet or, weather permitting, squatting on his small balcony in the shadow of Nellie's rooftop stone angel, bravely and forever blowing the trumpet of eternal blessings. He had his other meals out, mostly in the Chinese restaurants of Amsterdam's inner city. Massive weeds, grown from seedlings found in city alleys and on speedway shoulders, tended carefully, grew from large pots in the loft and on the balcony, where they attracted songbirds.
Chapter 25
"When we pointed the bone," Katrien had asked the commissaris the evening before Grijpstra and de Gier returned, "the party the bone points at was supposed to die?"
"I'm afraid that's correct, Katrien."
"We weren't playing?"
"No, Katrien."
"Th
e party the bone points at dies straightaway?"
"Soon," the commissaris said.
"You really believe that?"
"Katrien," the commissaris said. "Of course I really believe that. Pointing the bone, if done properly, according to rules that de Gier left with me, is terminal magic. And we did it right. All conditions were met. We were serious. You and Nellie, in spite of what you two pretend to be sometimes, are evolved and powerful spirits. You assisted me voluntarily. The tribe requested our help and empowered our action by appropriate ritual. Of course Hairy Harry and Billy Boy terminated their temporal projections."
"How, Jan?"
"Quickly," the commissaris said.
"You sure?"
"That's what I asked for when I pointed the bone."
Katrien was knitting. The needles ticked peacefully. Sparrows chirpedin the garden. An ice cream truckplayedits chimes in the Queen'sBoulevard at the other side of the house.
"Why do you think I sent de Gier to New Guinea?" the commissaris asked.
Katrien put her knitting down. "You're arrogant, Jan. De Gier wanted to live with warriors, Papuans engaged in tribal warfare. He talked about it for years. Palm trees and jungle glades and naked women and tom-toms and hallucinogenic plants…"
"I nurtured de Gel's desire on my own behalf," the commissaris said. "I couldn't go myself I am getting too feeble."
"So de Gier is your extension?"
The commissaris sat quietly.
"I asked you a question. You're being rude."
"No," the commissaris said. "I'm too old to be rude. I want to tell you this, Katrien. I've often wondered whether there was anything we could do to make things happen a little bit better, and how far we should go once we learned how to use real power. For mutual benefit, of course."
"As defined by who?"
The commissaris sat straight in his chair, hands on his knees, eyes wide open.
"Jan?"
"Yes, Katrien."
Katrien was knitting again. Her voice was casual. "Tell me, where did Grijpstra and de Gier get all that money?"
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