Second Sight
Page 26
“Absolutely,” I said.
He peered at me for a moment, then nodded. “That night—the night she died, the night after you showed her Christa Doyle’s picture—she showed up at Duval’s place. The princess and the guru knew each other. What led her there, I don’t know. Second sight, maybe. She was hellbent on rescuing the girl, thought all she had to do was ask Duval and he’d let her go. Anyway, she was stopped in the driveway by a couple of Simon Peters, including Sullivan—the one you shot—and they took her to Frank Dyer instead of Duval. The princess didn’t know any better. Told Dyer she wanted to take Christa with her. Said she was having these terrible visions. Dyer promised her he’d talk with Duval about it, see what he could do. Told her to check back with him tomorrow. So she left, and Dyer sent Sullivan after her in one of those Range Rovers. We found it in Duval’s garage. Had a big scrape and paint from that Pinto on the side.”
“But why kill her?”
Spitz shrugged. “Simple solution to a complicated problem. If the princess had asked Duval, he probably would’ve let Christa go. He didn’t keep people against their will. Dyer couldn’t afford to lose Christa. She was a key player in his plan.”
“So Duval had nothing to do with it.”
Spitz shook his head. “Nope. It was Dyer.”
I thought about all that. “It was my fault, then.”
“You could look at it that way, I guess. But Frank Dyer was the bad guy. Don’t forget that.”
I looked at him. “Was he?”
“What to you mean?”
“Was Dyer the only bad guy?” I said.
He gazed out the side window of his car for a minute. Then he turned to me. “You’re thinking about international terrorism,” he said. “Al Qaeda or something.”
“Logical thing to think, isn’t it?”
“Sure,” he said. “No evidence of it, though.”
“Dyer was on his own?”
“He and his Simon Peters,” he said. “They were loyal to Dyer, but as far as we can tell, none of them really knew what he was up to. Frank Dyer was just another damn fanatical assassin. Except on a grand scale.”
“That’s a profound relief,” I said.
I started to slide out of the car, but Spitz grabbed my arm. “One more thing,” he said.
“I’m pretty damn tired,” I said. “You kept me up way past my bedtime.”
“You shot a man dead,” he said. “What the hell did you expect?”
“He was a bad man. He was about to murder me.”
“Listen,” he said. “This is a big story. It’s bound to get out.”
“As it should,” I said.
He nodded. “As it will. But we want to get it right. We don’t want wild rumors flying around. Do you understand?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know much.”
“You know a lot,” he said.
“The truth will come out sooner or later.”
“Yes,” said Spitz. “It will, and it should. We just want to be sure it is the truth. Not pieces of the truth, not one man’s version of the truth. The whole truth. We haven’t got the whole truth yet. But we will get it. When we do, you’ll read it in the newspapers, I promise you.”
“And meanwhile?”
“Meanwhile, you’ll probably see stories that you know are inaccurate. Trust us. And don’t, for Christ’s sake, breathe a word to anybody about those damn claymores.”
I shrugged. “All I want to do is get Christa home to her dying father.”
Spitz nodded. “Well, good. I hope it goes well.” He reached over and held out his hand. “We’ll be in touch.”
I shook his hand. “If we’re not, that’ll be okay by me.”
He held on to my hand and grabbed my eyes with his. “Believe me,” he said, “we will be in touch.”
I decided that Jake Spitz was a scary man.
When I went into the house, Zee put her finger to her lips. “Christa’s asleep in the guest room,” she whispered.
“Already?”
She nodded. “Out like a light.”
“What about me?”
“Use the sofa. We’ll take the kids to the beach for the afternoon so you can sleep.”
That sounded good to me. I went into the living room, picked up the phone, and rang Neddie and Mike’s number in Hancock, New Hampshire. When Neddie answered, I said, “It’s Brady. Christa’s with me. We’ll be home tomorrow.”
She hesitated. “Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
Neddie didn’t speak for a long time. Finally, she said, “Oh, Brady. I can’t believe it.”
“How’s Mike?”
“He’s…he’s hanging in there. Every day, waiting to hear from you.”
“I didn’t want to call you earlier, give you false hopes.”
“I understand. Thank you.” She hesitated. “How is she? Can I talk to her?”
“Christa’s fine, Neddie. She’s been through a lot. She’s sleeping right now.”
“I want to know all about it.”
“I think that should be up to Christa. She’s ready to go home.”
“I’ve got to go tell Mike right now. I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
“Tomorrow, yes. Sometime in the afternoon.”
“Thank you, Brady.”
“It’s truly my pleasure,” I said.
A little before three o’clock on Monday afternoon, I turned onto the long, dirt driveway that led through the woods to Mike and Neddie Doyle’s house on the hilltop in southwestern New Hampshire.
“We’re here,” I announced redundantly.
Christa had been silent during the two-hour drive from my apartment on the Boston waterfront. She fiddled with the car radio now and then and kept her gaze out the side window. She had a lot on her mind. I didn’t try to make conversation.
When the Doyles’ house appeared through the trees at the top of the driveway, she said, “Please stop here, Uncle Brady.”
I stopped.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she said. She turned and looked at me, and I saw the apprehension in her eyes. “I’m not the same person. They don’t know me at all. I don’t know what they expect.”
“I’m sure it will be hard for all of you.”
“I’ve been so awful to them.”
“What’s done is done,” I said. “They’re desperate to see you again.”
“They really hired you to find me?”
I nodded.
She cocked her head, looked at me for a moment, then smiled. “You did a good job.”
“Thank you.”
She leaned toward me and kissed my cheek. “Okay,” she said. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. I think I’ll walk the rest of the way. Do you mind?”
“You’re not going to skip out now, are you?”
“No. I promise.”
“Tell your parents I’ll call them sometime this week,” I said.
She nodded, then opened the door and slid out. She came around to my side of the car. “Thank you, Uncle Brady. You rescued me.”
I waved my hand. “You’re welcome, Christa. Any time you need rescuing, let me know.”
She smiled, turned, and walked toward the house.
I sat there and watched. Christa was still thirty yards away when the front door opened and Neddie came running out. Christa hesitated, then ran toward her.
The two women hugged each other, and I could hear them both squealing and crying and laughing. After a minute or two, they linked arms and went into the house.
I smiled, then turned my car around and headed back to Boston.
RECIPES
BRADY’S BAKED STRIPED BASS
(Serves four)
Brady loves to fish for striped bass with the fly rod. To J.W.’s consternation, he returns most of those that he catches. But once in a while he lands a “keeper” and actually keeps it, because he believes (though Zee disagrees) that freshly caught striped bass is the best-eating fish in the sea.
&n
bsp; You need a fresh bass fillet. Brush both sides of the fillet with olive oil and lay it in a shallow baking dish. Sprinkle the fillet with crushed Ritz cracker crumbs. Cover with very thin lemon slices. Dot generously with hunks of butter. Add salt and fresh-ground pepper. Bake in a preheated 375-degree oven for 25 minutes. Serve with a robust white wine, a fresh seasonal green vegetable, and boiled baby red potatoes sprinkled with parsley. Delish.
BLUEFISH WITH MUSTARD/HORSERADISH SAUCE
(Serves four)
J.W. cooks this in Cliff Hanger (reissued as Vineyard Fear).
2 lbs. bluefish fillets
¼ c. mayonnaise
¼ c. Dijon-style mustard
1 tsp. prepared horseradish
Place fillets skin-side down on greased foil in baking pan. Mix remaining ingredients together and spread on fillets. Bake in preheated 400-degree oven for about 20 minutes or until fish is opaque and flakes easily. Remove fish to heated platter. Garnish with dill sprigs if desired.
Fish may also be cooked in broiler. Place about 4 inches from broiler unit and broil 7 to 10 minutes (depending on thickness of fillets) or until fish is done.
NEIL’S CRISPY ONION CHICKEN
(Serves four)
Like many excellent recipes, this one is amazingly simple. Try it!
½ c. melted butter (or oleo)
1 tbsp. Worcestershire sauce
1 tsp. ground mustard
½ tsp. garlic powder
¼ tsp. pepper
4 chicken breast halves, skinned and boned
1 (6 oz.) can regular or Cheddar-flavored French-fried onions, crushed
In a shallow bowl, mix together first five ingredients. Dip chicken in mixture then coat with crushed onions. Place in a greased 9-inch-square baking pan and top with any remaining onions. Drizzle with any remaining butter mixture and bake, uncovered, in a preheated 350-degree oven for 30 to 35 minutes or until juices run clear.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Philip R. Craig grew up on a small cattle ranch near Durango, Colorado, before going off to college at Boston University, where he was an all-American fencer. He earned his MFA at the University of Iowa Writers’ Workshop. A professor emeritus of English at Wheelock College in Boston, he and his wife, Shirley, now live year-round on Martha’s Vineyard. His novel A Vineyard Killing was named a Good Morning America Bookclub selection in 2003. Other titles include Murder at a Vineyard Mansion, Vineyard Enigma, Vineyard Shadows, and Vineyard Blues.
William G. Tapply is professor of English at Clark University. The author of more than thirty books, among them twenty-one Brady Coyne novels, he is also a contributing editor to Field and Stream magazine. He lives with his wife, novelist Vicki Stiefel, in Hancock, New Hampshire.