Second Sight

by Philip R. Craig

  “I’ll give you the shorthand version,” said Begay. “Dyer is a California boy. Grew up near L.A. Average kid from a middle-of-the-road family. Dad was a Korean vet; mom stayed home with Frank and his sisters. Good student, played high school football, patriotic, idealistic. Went to a community college and majored in electronics.”

  Begay blew a smoke ring. It floated into the darkness. “Nothing unusual so far. Now it gets more interesting. He met a girl, got jilted, joined the army to forget her, trained in Special Forces, attended the Gulf War. Saw a lot of dead people, including civilians. Lost idealism and patriotism.

  “Came home, tried religion. Didn’t take. Hung out with militia types for a while. Joined Followers of the Light just about the time your boss Evangeline was Duval’s main squeeze. Made the grade as a Simon Peter. Earns outside money as an electrician and soundman for local shows. Came east and got work on the Celebration set.”

  He stopped talking.

  I looked at him. “That’s it?”

  “That’s the short version. What else do you want to know?”

  “How about what he did during the Gulf War,” said Brady.

  “Cleared mines, among other things. He didn’t get them all, of course. He saw some kids get blown apart. They were herding goats, according to the report I got. Did you know that there are still a lot of land mines in Zimbabwe, left over from when it was Rhodesia and the whites lolutionaries? Thirty years later people and elephants are still getting their legs blown off every now and then.”

  Nature is violent, but only man is vile.

  “Why did Dyer become a Follower of the Light?” I asked. “Did he decide to try religion again?”

  “I don’t know. Could be, I guess. Duval offers enlightenment and sex mixed together. After what he saw in Kuwait and Iraq, maybe that’s just what Dyer wants.”

  “While you’re guessing,” said Brady, “why do you think Duval has so many toughs working for him as Simon Peters? Why does he need guys like that?”

  Begay snubbed out his cigarette. “J.W. didn’t ask me about Duval, he asked me about Dyer. Right now I know the same things about Duval that everybody knows or thinks he knows: He’s charismatic, he preaches a religion that lets him and his people have lots of sex and call it a spiritual experience, he plays poor but lives rich, and he’s one of the people behind this Celebration for Humanity. You want more, I’ll look for it, but I doubt if there’s much that the tabloids haven’t dug up already.”

  “I think there’s a good chance he’s going to try to get his hands on his daughter,” I said, and told him who she was.

  “You and her mother didn’t mention the girl this morning,” said Begay, “but if he does try that, he won’t be the first father who snatches his own kid.” He paused. “I doubt if he’s going to do it, though.”

  I tried to think his thoughts, but failed. “Why not?”

  “Because he lives in this country and he’s a very public person. Usually when parents kidnap their own children they take them to another country or they try to disappear in their own. They change names and dye the kid’s hair. If Duval kidnaps the girl, he can’t hide. Ergo, I don’t think he’d kidnap her. I think it’s more likely he’d try to get legal rights to share custody of her.” He looked at Brady. “You’d know more about that than I would.”

  “It wouldn’t be easy,” said Brady. “He and her mother were never married, and he’d have to prove he’s her father and that the girl would be better off having a closer relationship with him. And that’s just for starters.”

  “Well, something’s going on,” I said. “Drummand is dead, and whoever killed him had his reasons.”

  Begay straightened in his chair. He projected a regal calm. “There’s a lot you haven’t mentioned to me, J.W. Who’s Drummand?”

  I told him what I knew and what I thought about what had happened to Drummand.

  When I finished, he was silent for a while, then said, “If Duval planned to kidnap his daughter, an overzealous Simon Peter might have killed Drummand to get the girl for his boss. But I can’t see Duval planning any such thing.”

  “Maybe Duval isn’t interested in kidnapping the girl,” said Brady thoughtfully. “Maybe somebody else is.” We looked at him and he returned our stares. “Why do people get kidnapped?” he asked rhetorically.

  “For starters, there’s sex, revenge, political pull, or money,” I said. “Evangeline is worth millions and she’d exchange it all for Janie.”

  Begay nodded. “If somebody is after the girl, he knows who her mother is, and maybe who her father is, and he knows one or both of them will pay through the nose to get her back. Could be that Drummand got in the way and got himself killed. Makes sense to me. But who’s the kidnapper?”

  “A Simon Peter,” said Brady. “Drummand made friends with some of them when he infiltrated the Followers out in California. One of those friends told him his shoelace was untied and when Drummand looked down, the guy hit him with a rock.”

  “More likely several Simon Peters,” I said. “There were a lot of footprints on the shore where Drummand beached his canoe. They were made by more than one man.”

  “Where’s the girl now?” asked Begay.

  “At my place,” I said. “Overnighting with Diana. Nobody knows she’s there. She’s safe enough.” But my words brought me worry even as I spoke them.

  “I’m not sure how much or little people know,” said Brady. “Earlier today someone was tailing me in a green Land Rover like I saw up at Duval’s place. I lost the tail by stopping at the state police station. I had the impression whoever it was could find me anytime they wanted.”

  Begay frowned and stood up. “I think you two had better go home right now.”

  Brady and I didn’t argue, but headed for the Land Cruiser. Above us the sky was full of stars, but below, on the island, it was black as the pit. My headlights lanced through the darkness as I drove fast toward Edgartown.

  “Did anyone follow you again after you left the station?” I asked.

  “Not that I saw.”

  But it was possible that he hadn’t seen what was really there. Maybe there were several cars involved, both in front and in back of him. The green Land Rovers could have been only a feint while the real trackers were in other cars, keeping in touch by phone and taking turns at following my old Land Cruiser. If you have the manpower, it isn’t too hard to tail people, especially if they don’t know they’re being tailed.

  Had the tailers seen Brady turn down my driveway? Had they looked at the name on my mailbox? Had they speculated? Had they watched Brady and me drive away to visit Joe Begay? Had they waited until they were sure we were really gone, and then…?

  For the first time in my life I wished the island’s narrow, winding roads were autobahns. I put the pedal closer to the floor. Beside me, Brady said not a word, but raised an arm and gripped the handle above his door.

  My headlights split the night, and the dark shapes of trees on either side of the road fled away behind us.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Brady

  I never realized that a Land Cruiser could be handled like a sports car, or that J.W. could drive like Mario Andretti in his prime…or so it seemed as we sped through the dark night over the narrow, twisting back roads of Martha’s Vineyard.

  “You trying to get us killed?” I said when we slewed around a sandy curve, barely missing a mailbox.

  “I know what I’m doing,” he grunted. “Your job is to hang on and shut up.”

  “We hit a tree or get stopped by the cops, we’re going to be a while getting home.”

  “You didn’t hear the shut-up part?”

  So I shut up, and it seemed to me J.W. stomped a little harder on the gas pedal.

  As we approached the long, sandy driveway that led to his house, he slowed way down and doused his headlights. We crept along by the ambient light of the stars, and when we were still about fifty yards from the end of the driveway, he pulled to th
e side and shut off the engine.

  “We go afoot from here,” he whispered.

  So we got out and shut the car doors carefully and began skulking along the side of the road.

  We turned down his driveway, and when we came to the last bend, we saw that every light in the Jackson house was blazing, and the floodlights on the corners were bathing the front and side yards in bright white light. Zee’s little red Jeep and the spiffy white Ford Explorer sat right where they had been sitting when we left for Joe Begay’s house. Nothing struck me as amiss.

  “That’s not like Zee,” whispered J.W. “She never leaves on lights she’s not using. She’d rather light a candle than waste electricity.” He pointed. “I’ll go around that way, come at it from the back. You wait a couple minutes, then sneak around to the front. Keep in the shadows. See what you can see, listen for what you can hear, and don’t do anything dumb.”

  I nodded, and in ten seconds J.W. had disappeared in the shadows.

  I waited until I figured J.W. had reached the rear of the house, then began slipping through the shadows beside the road until I was crouching behind a tree alongside the driveway. I stopped there and listened.

  I heard nothing but crickets.

  I waited another minute, then darted from the tree to the shadow of the Jeep. I knelt there…and then, from the direction of the screen porch, I heard a sharp click. I recognized that click. It was the unmistakable click of a cartridge being jacked into the chamber of an automatic pistol.

  “Hey!” Zee’s shout was a sudden explosion in the silence. “You, there, by the car. I see you. Come out of there with your hands on top of your head, goddamn it, or I will blow you away. I am a crack shot, and if you don’t believe me, you’ve got five seconds to find out.”

  “Zee,” I shouted. “It’s me. It’s Brady. For God’s sake, don’t shoot me.”

  There was a pause. “You don’t sound like Brady,” she said.

  “My voice is high because I’m trying not to pee my pants,” I said. “My hands are on my head. I’m stepping out now. Please don’t point that thing at me.”

  I stepped into the light and stood there with my hands on top of my head.

  I couldn’t see her, but from the porch came the sound of Zee chuckling. “Okay, you can put your hands down,” she said. “You look silly. Come on up and have a beer.”

  I went onto the porch. Zee was sitting in a chair against the inside wall. She had a big .45 automatic on her lap and a little smile on her face.

  “What are you doing?” I said. “You could’ve killed me.”

  “No,” she said, “what are you doing, sneaking around in the shadows?”

  “We were worried—”

  At that moment, J.W. stepped onto the porch from the inside door. “Is everybody okay?” he said.

  “I about had a heart attack,” I said.J.W. ignored me. He went over and hugged Zee. “What’s with the forty-five?”

  Zee looked at both of us. “First there were those phone calls,” she said. “Then there was a car with its headlights turned off. So I got my gun and turned on all the lights. I’ve been sitting here for about an hour. Nothing happened. Everything’s okay. I guess I was overreacting. Boy, it’s good to see you guys. You should’ve seen Brady, though. His eyes were as big as dinner plates.”

  “I know you’re a sharpshooter,” I said. “I know what a forty-five hollow point does to a man.”

  “Honey,” said Zee to J.W., “why don’t you fetch us all a beer?”

  J.W. nodded. He was back in a minute with three cold bottles. I drained half of mine in one long, delicious slug.

  “Okay,” said J.W. to Zee. “Now tell me about the car with its headlights turned off.”

  “The kids were all tucked in,” she said. “It had just gotten dark. I was inside reading and I heard a car coming down the driveway. I thought maybe it was you guys coming back, so I got up and looked out. It was coming toward the house real slow, and its headlights were turned off. That spooked me.”

  “As it should,” said J.W.

  “So I turned on the floodlights and got my gun, and when I looked again, the car had turned around and was leaving.” She shrugged. “I guess it was just somebody who made a wrong turn.”

  “Why would they shut off their headlights?” he said.

  “I don’t know. It sure spooked me. Anyway, they never came back. Probably if it hadn’t been for those phone calls—”

  “What phone calls?” said J.W.

  She shrugged. “Hang-ups. Three of them, about fifteen minutes apart. All before that car came by.”

  “They didn’t say anything?”

  “No. I answered, said hello, and there was a pause on the other end, as if they realized my voice was the wrong person, like they had the wrong number, and then they hung up.”

  “Did you hear anything in the background?” I said. “Voices, music, traffic?”

  Zee frowned. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Where’s your phone?”

  She picked up a portable phone from the table beside her. “I kept it here with me.”

  “Gimme,” I said.

  She handed me the phone. I dialed *-6-9, which is supposed to give you the number from which the last incoming call was made. The mechanical voice said: “The number you are trying to call cannot be reached by this method. Please hang up and try again.”

  I looked at Zee and J.W. and shook my head. “Pay phone or eight hundred number or cellular or blocked.”

  “Whatever,” said Zee. “There was somebody there. I could sense somebody on the other end.”

  J.W. sipped his beer and looked thoughtful. “I’m glad you had the gun,” he said after a minute. “I’m glad you’re a sharpshooter. I’m sorry we weren’t here.”

  She shrugged. “I’m sure it was nothing. But those calls and that car, together like that, and what’s been happening…”

  “You handled it well,” he said.

  “I’m glad you didn’t shoot me,” I added.

  Sometime in the middle of the night J.W. barged into my bedroom, turned on the lights, and shook me awake. “It’s for you,” he said, handing me the telephone.

  I put it to my ear and said hello.

  “Uncle Brady?” She was whispering.

  “Christa?” I said. “Where are you?”

  “I only got a minute. Please. I want to go home.”

  “Good. I’ll come get you. Are you—?”

  “Not now.” She paused. “I might have to hang up quickly. I called before but couldn’t talk. I stole a cell phone. I’ll have to put it back. The only time is the second night of the Celebration. Can you be there?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I’ll be at the sound truck right after the finale. Can you?”

  “I’ll find you,” I said. “But what about—?”

  At that moment, she disconnected.

  J.W. had remained standing there beside my bed. “Well?” he said.

  “It was Christa,” I said. “She’s ready to go home. She wants me to rescue her after the finale.”

  He cocked his head and looked at me. “You trust her?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” he said, “it could be some kind of trap.”

  “I don’t see that I’ve got any choice but to trust her,” I said.

  He nodded. “Valid point.”

  “So I’m going to try to rescue her,” I said. “Wanna help?”

  “You bet,” he said.

  The next morning after breakfast J.W. came out onto the balcony while I was having my second mug of coffee. He perched on the railing and looked at me. “You gonna tell her parents?”

  I shook my head. “I want to wait till it’s done. We do it right after the finale.”

  “Yeah? How?”

  “She’s going to be at the sound truck,” I said, “and one, or preferably both of us, have got to be there. There will be fireworks and everybody singing and celebrating humanit
y. Nobody will be paying attention. I figure the only thing standing in our way will be Frank Dyer. You handle him, and I’ll snatch Christa, and we’ll scoot the hell out of there before anybody notices.”

  J.W. rolled his eyes. “You got a plan, all right.”

  “What? You don’t think you can handle Dyer?”

  “That,” he said, “will be the least of our problems.”

  “What am I missing?” I said.

  “You’re missing about a dozen and a half other Simon Peters, not to mention Alain Duval. If Christa’s a prisoner at that place, she’s got lots of keepers.”

  I looked up at the sky for a minute. “I wonder…”

  J.W. waited for a minute, then said, “You wonder what?”

  “Duval’s the mystery man here,” I said. “After meeting him, and after what Joe Begay told us, I’m not so sure he’s a bad guy.”

  “Those Simon Peters?” he said.

  I nodded. “Remember what we heard those two saying when we were hiding in the bushes?”

  “They didn’t sound very spiritual, as I recall.”

  “They sounded downright cynical,” I said. “Duval didn’t strike me as cynical. I was looking for it, too. I mistrust all those spiritual guru types. I’m pretty cynical myself. But Duval seemed sincere. He didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d hire cynics as bodyguards, either. There are plenty of true believers who can do that work. I’d like to know more about him.”

  “According to Joe Begay, there’s not much to know that isn’t known.”

  “Maybe not,” I said. “But if there is, I know somebody who can find it out.”

  “Go for it, then.” J.W. looked at his watch. “Me, I’m outta here. See you at martini time.”

  After J.W. left, I refilled my mug, found the portable telephone, went back onto the balcony, and called Charlie McDevitt. Charlie was my oldest and best friend. We went to law school together, and afterward Charlie ended up prosecuting federal criminals from the Boston office of the Justice Department, an easy, fifteen-minute walk from my office in Copley Square. Charlie and I used to play golf together, back before I gave up golf, and we still did a lot of trout fishing, and whenever we could, we did favors for each other. The recipient of the favor bought the favor-doer lunch. That was our deal, regardless of the magnitude of the favor.