Then there were the Ordinary Summer People, hardworking folks who scraped together enough money to buy cottages and houses and who helped pay their mortgages by renting their places when they weren’t around.
There were also the Rich Summer People, who didn’t need to scrape for their money and didn’t need to rent out their places.
And then there were the Truly Rich Summer People, the filthy, disgustingly rich—the CEOs and Manhattan psychiatrists and State Street law partners and oil tycoons and high-tech moguls and movie stars and bestselling authors and old-money Boston Brahmins, the people who didn’t care—didn’t even notice—what things cost. They bought up multiacre tracts of land with ocean views and built their mansions and installed their security systems and erected their tall gates and commuted by yacht and entertained presidents and foreign heads of state.
J.W. was acquainted with some of the Truly Rich Summer People. A few were my clients. Even when they wore T-shirts and baggy shorts and rubber flip-flops and neglected to shave and rode around on old bicycles, you’d never mistake them for clam diggers or bartenders or schoolteachers.
I wasn’t jealous. Not even a little bit. I never knew a Truly Rich Person who was truly happy.
There were two uniformed men standing at the entrance to the airport, and a little farther on, where the road ran alongside the state forest, a couple of Edgartown cruisers were pulled to the side of the road. Two more uniformed officers were standing there talking to a cluster of young people.
I was getting the impression that Martha’s Vineyard was under siege.
Around a bend I came upon what I assumed was the scene of Princess Ishewa’s fatal crash. Still another police cruiser plus an unmarked gray sedan were parked there, and the area was fenced in with yellow police-scene tape. I slowed to a crawl and looked. A jagged white scar had been gouged into the trunk of a big oak just off the shoulder of the road, and I could see where deep furrows had been plowed into the sandy earth when the princess’s little Pinto slewed off the road and smashed into the tree.
I pulled onto the shoulder and stopped, but a uniformed officer stepped into the road and waved me along.
Well, okay. Fine with me. I was no gawker. I had lots of curiosity, but none of it was morbid.
As I continued my circuit of the island, the accident scene kept playing in my imagination—the princess, tooling down the empty night road in her old Pinto, yawning, maybe, eager to get home to her warm bed, then headlights appearing suddenly in her rearview mirror, the vehicle pulling alongside her, moving fast, apparently in a hurry to pass her, then suddenly swerving, slamming against the side of her car, angling her off the road, and the princess skidding, fighting the wheel, standing on the brakes, out of control now, and then the big oak tree looming square in her headlights…
I wondered what kind of visions the fortune-teller had in those last few seconds of her life.
I found I had lost whatever enthusiasm for sleuthing I’d started the day with. My search for Christa Doyle would have to wait till tomorrow. Princess Ishewa was dead. It weighed heavily on my heart.
Chapter Thirteen
J.W.
I looked hard at Spitz. “You want me to be your inside man? Me? I’ve been on this job for three days and you want me to—?”
He held up a hand that stopped my words. “Evangeline knows you. She agreed to spend last night with the Skyes, so she apparently trusts you. So do I. I don’t have time to find somebody else she trusts. I need you until Saturday. After that, she’ll be gone and you can go back to your wife and kids.”
He’d gotten my attention. “Saturday is five days away. You’re saying that this bad thing you’ve been getting wind of—the end of the world, or whatever—is going to happen in the next five days?”
He frowned. “I didn’t say that.”
“You haven’t said a lot about anything. I’m in a coal mine with no lights. If I’m going to be any good to you, I have to know what’s going on and what I’m supposed to be doing.”
He brightened slightly. “Does that mean you’ll do it? It’s important, J.W.”
I felt that little tingle you get sometimes just before you do something irrational, but I tried to ignore it. “You talk first and then I’ll decide. People are getting killed at a pretty fast pace around here. First that director, Ogden Warner, now Hale Drummand. I don’t want Evangeline or Janie or me to be the next corpse. So either talk or don’t. I won’t go any farther blindfolded.”
Spitz stared south as though he could see through the trees to where the restless blue Atlantic was rolling toward us from Hispaniola, far beyond the curve of the earth. While he made up his mind, he put his hands on his hips and in doing so brushed back his jacket and revealed the holstered pistol on his belt.
“You know the old joke about intelligence agencies being oxymorons,” he said, making his decision. “One of our problems is that we keep tabs on so many organizations and individuals that we have trouble sorting everything out. We’ve got people watching foreign terrorist groups, local right-wing militias, neo-Nazis, environmental extremists, militant pacifists, racists of all hues, religious fanatics, you name it.
“We get bad information, good information, rumors, contradictory information, out-and-out lies, hints, whole scenarios, fantasies, slanders, and innuendoes. We have counterintelligence groups sending us fake info. We have agencies that won’t cooperate with us or with each other. Our computers and people are working twenty-four hours a day trying to sort the wheat from the chaff.”
“Give me the wheat,” I said.
He nodded. “Such as it is. Several months ago we began to intercept some cryptic communications that seemed to be early discussions of plans for a major anti-American incident of some sort. Most of the communications seemed to be between people here in the United States, but some were international. Do you know much about terrorism?”
“Only what I read.”
“That’s enough for you to know that one guy’s terrorist is another guy’s heroic freedom fighter, so the terrorist you think everybody should hate is actually somebody with a lot of friends who’ll hide him and help him if they can.”
“Every scumbag has a mother who thinks he’s just misunderstood.”
“Yeah. And you also know that these guys, whatever you call them, are very interested in symbols. They like to display their own and they like to destroy their enemy’s. The nine-eleven incident was an immensely symbolic attack. It used commercial airplanes, one symbol of Western technology and wealth, to attack the World Trade Center towers and the Pentagon, which were symbols of capitalism and American military power. When the towers fell down, Bin Laden was astonished but delighted, and when Americans panicked, he was even happier because it meant that his decadent Western enemies attached the same significance to all those symbols as he did. He’d hit them hard, right where they lived.”
I mouthed a truism: “People often attach more significance to symbols than to what they symbolize.”
“Exactly. A guy will go into debt to buy an expensive car so he can impress people with his wealth.”
“Or invade Grenada to symbolize our resolve to save the world from communism.”
“You could make that argument. Anyway, from the beginning we figured that whatever was being planned would have some major symbolic significance to it, and that whoever was planning it probably had associates who’d be on their side and would aid and abet when possible. We worked on dates that might be significant: April nineteenth, the Fourth of July, that sort of thing. We wondered if Boulder Dam might be a target, or maybe Mount Rushmore.”
“Somebody might blow Washington’s nose with some dynamite?”
“You get the idea. We worked hard but we didn’t make a lot of progress until one of our bright young people who’s a big fan of Evangeline and thinks the Celebration for Humanity is the most important cultural event since Woodstock noticed that the messages about a possible incident started just after initial
plans were made to hold the Celebration.”
“Aha, as the detectives say.” In the distance I could hear the sound of cars coming down the sandy road.
“Aha, indeed,” said Spitz, looking toward the sound. “With that new bird in our cage, we may have begun to crack the code in the messages, and we think the incident involves someone who will be at the Celebration. Have you heard enough to take the job?”
“Is Evangeline the somebody?”
“Her name has been mentioned a lot.”
My mouth seemed to speak of its own accord. “I guess I’ll take the job, then.”
“Good. You can begin by going out to our car and bringing the police back this way. I’ll wait for them.” He looked somberly down at the hand sticking out of the sandy earth.
I got out to the road just as the state police cruiser, an Edgartown cruiser, and the sheriff’s SUV came into view. Dom Agganis led a collection of police, and Dr. Feeney, the local ME, over to where I stood.
Dom shook his head. “What is it about you and bodies? Are you part vulture or something?”
“Almost,” I said. “I’m working for the government, so you could say I’m a scavenger. Come on. I’ll take you to the scene of the crime and you can talk to my boss.”
“Spitz is your boss?”
“Only temporarily.”
Back in the woods, I waited while Spitz talked, photographs were snapped, Feeney carefully uncovered the corpse, and tape went up around the site. When that was done, Spitz came to me.
“I’ll get a ride with these guys. You take the car and go find Evangeline. Stay with her. Talk with her. Find out if she knows something. Call me this evening.”
“Will I get you or your answering machine?”
“You’ll get me. Try to talk Evangeline into staying with the Skyes for at least another night.”
“I already did that.”
“Good. Keep your eyes open for a tail, in case somebody thinks he can find her by following you.”
On my way to the Explorer I paused at the site where the watcher had spied on the Carberg house. The house was about a thousand yards away, I guessed. Not a hard shot for a good sniper.
I went on to the car and drove to Katama. There I deflated my tires down to sixteen pounds of pressure, got into four-wheel drive, and headed east over the barrier beach to Chappaquiddick.
For most of the summer the beach had been closed to SUV traffic, as part of the Fish and Wildlife Department’s futile effort to protect piping plovers. Since piping plover chicks and eggs were destroyed by skunks, gulls, and other predators rather than by SUVs, the policy of banning cars made no sense at all. But car banning was dogma to the Fish and Wildlife people, who, like the pope, claimed infallibility on certain matters. Maddening.
To my right were parked Jeeps and bathers playing in the Atlantic surf, and to my left was Katama Bay. There were small sailboats on the bay, and through the narrows at its north end I could see the white buildings of Edgartown. Above me the August sun blazed in a pale blue sky. It was a lovely scene that gave no hint of the violence I’d left behind me, for nature is always innocent.
It cost me the price of a beach sticker to get onto East Beach, but I figured I’d get my money back from Spitz as a business expense. Maybe if I cooked my books I could make some money on the deal. Nah! I was no Arthur Andersen.
I found the Skyes and their guests on the beach just south of Cape Pogue. John was having a try at catching fish, but his gear was too heavy for bonito and there are few bluefish near the shore in August. Still, like most fishermen, he made his casts anyway, since fishing and catching fish are two different games and the former is far more important than the latter.
The three children, Janie well smeared with sunscreen, were playing at the edge of the water, and the women, Mattie and Evangeline, were seated on blankets under a large umbrella. Evangeline, I immediately noticed, wore a bikini bathing suit and wore it very well. I took off my shirt, wrapped it around my pistol, and stuck the shirt under my arm.
“Well, hello,” said Mattie as I strolled up. “I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought you were working.”
“I am working.” I put down my shirt, took off my Tevas, and unrolled my beach towel. “On Martha’s Vineyard,” I explained to Evangeline, “going to the beach is as much work as a lot of people ever do.”
“It’s a tough job, but you’re the man for it,” said Mattie, reaching for a picnic basket. “Would you like a beer? I know it’s not noon here, but it is somewhere.”
“I think I’ll take a walk first.” I looked at Evangeline. “You two want to come along? It will do worlds for my reputation if I’m seen with two of the three most beautiful women on the East Coast.”
“No thanks,” said Mattie, who like Evangeline had seen my eyes. “John’s had a chance to sit with us and he’s abandoned us for fishing. You’ll probably be just as faithless. I’m staying right here so my heart won’t be broken twice in one day.”
“I’ll go,” said Evangeline, flowing up from her blanket. Then she paused and looked toward the children.
“I’ll keep an eye on them,” said Mattie.
I left the Tevas on my towel, but carried my rolled-up shirt. “Come along, Mrs. Price. I’ll show you where the old lighthouse used to stand before the cliff wore away.”
She was golden in the late-morning sun. We walked north toward the point under the cliff. I told her about my morning. When I was through we were standing near a broken brick wall that had once been part of the lighthouse’s foundation, before the tower had been picked up by a helicopter and moved inland from the crumbling cliff.
“Do you know anything about this business?” I asked.
Instead of answering she asked, “Is Hale Drummand really dead?”
“Yes. Do you know anything about this business, this incident the FBI has been trying to prevent?”
“No, nothing.” She turned abruptly back. “I don’t want Janie back there alone.” She started down the beach.
I caught up with her. “Janie’s fine. Nobody knows where she is. Or where you are. I want it to stay that way. That’s why I want you to stay longer with John and Mattie. You’ll be safe.”
“If I’m there, they’ll be in danger, too. I can’t put them in harm’s way.”
“Why do you think you’re in danger?”
She made an angry gesture. “People like me are always in danger. From fans and freaks of all kinds. Everywhere we go. It’s the price we pay for being who we are and doing what we do.”
“It seems a high one.”
“Too high,” she snapped. “I’m tired of it!” Then she became almost wistful. “I’ve been thinking of retiring after this concert or maybe after a farewell tour. I have plenty of money. I don’t have to work this way any longer. I’d like to spend time with Janie. I’d like a normal life like John and Mattie’s or yours and Zee’s.”
“If nobody knows you’re with John and Mattie, they’ll be in no danger and neither will you.”
Her anger came back. “I can’t hide. I have to rehearse more than once with Flurge and the Bristol Tars. I have to make sure the lights and sound system are the way I want.”
I walked beside her. “Stay with John and Mattie at least for the time being. When it’s time to rehearse, I’ll take you where you want to go when you want to go there. Nobody not directly involved will know where you came from. We can get whatever you need from the Carberg house. You can wear one of your fancy wigs when we go out.”
She said nothing for several paces, then nodded and turned toward me. When she did I saw the tattoo on her left hip and realized that by some quirk I’d been on her right side ever since arriving at the beach.
“All right,” she said. “If John and Mattie will have us, we’ll be glad to stay. But they have to let me pay for our food, at least.”
“You can fight that out with them. The twins will think they’ve died and gone to heaven. This fall, when they go back to Wes
tstock and tell their friends that they lived with Evangeline for almost a week, they’ll be the envy of every kid at the college.”
She smiled ironically. “I remember when I felt that way about some superstars. It was before I knew what the life was really like.”
“I’ve seen your tattoo before,” I said. “What is it?”
Her smile went away and she tugged her bikini bottom down an inch or so, but it was too small to cover the tattoo.
Her voice became cool. “It’s called the Eye of Horus. When I got it I thought tattoos were romantic. I should have it removed.”
“Not many people will see it and most of them will be polite enough not to mention it.”
“You mentioned it.”
“I’m not as mannerly as some. Besides, I noticed the hip first. I’m a leg man and you have the second-best hips I’ve seen lately. Zee has you beat, but not by much.”
“Do you always ogle women?”
“Only the ones worth ogling. When did you get the tattoo?”
“A few years ago. I’d rather forget that it happened.”
“It’s forgotten,” I lied. “And I’ll forsake ogling you, too, if you want,” I lied again.
But she suddenly relaxed and laughed. “Ogle away, but don’t expect much in return. My heart’s in the highlands.”
“Is it now? Does its object wear a kilt?”
“Both genders wear skirts in Scotland. Didn’t you know that?”
I felt a smile grow on my face.
By the time I got home that night we were almost friends.
I was having a martini on the balcony and telling Zee about my day, except for the ogling part, when I heard my old Land Cruiser rattling down the driveway. Brady Coyne parked and got out. We waved to him. He fixed himself a drink and joined us.
“Long day?” I said as he eased into a deck chair.
“You don’t know the half,” said Brady.
Chapter Fourteen
Brady
Second Sight Page 13
