I found myself in the trough of a swell, a valley surrounded by smooth mountains of water. I could neither see nor hear Gretel. Nor could I see land.
I trod water for a few minutes, resting and replenishing my oxygen supply. I picked out the few constellations I recognized—both dippers, the three stars of Orion. They didn’t help me get myself oriented at all.
I rode up onto the crest of a giant swell just in time to see Gretel coming straight at me. They had a spotlight, which they were playing around, first on one side then on the other. Since they hadn’t centered me in it, I assumed they hadn’t seen me.
I bobbed there for as long as I dared, waiting to see where the boat was going. It was about to pass just to the left of me when I let myself sink beneath the surface. From the way the sound moved under the water, I was able to determine when she had passed by, and I swam over to where her wake would be. It was, I figured, the last place they’d think to shine their light.
When I surfaced, I saw Gretel moving directly away from me. She was chugging along slowly. Cusick and O’Keefe were scanning the seas with the spotlight methodically. They’d probably turn soon and do another lap.
In the meantime, I realized I had other problems. I was an unknown but substantial distance from land. The water, while not frigid, was cold. I knew about hypothermia, and I knew that my allotted time to survive in the sea was limited. I probably had two hours. Three at the outside. Avoiding detection by the murderers aboard Gretel was one thing. But I also had to make it to land.
I floated to the top of another swell and found the glow of city lights in the night sky that located the coastline. I’d worry about the boat when it came near. But I had to start moving.
I set off, propelled by my inefficient crawl. Too much arm and shoulder, too little kick. I had never been completely comfortable in the water, and my lack of conditioning didn’t help. I tired quickly, so I switched to a smoother sidestroke. That moved me more slowly, but it allowed me to regulate my breathing. After a few minutes I paused and tugged off my pants and shoes and let them sink. I found I could move better after that.
I kept oriented toward the coastline, and every once in a while I stopped swimming to check my progress.
It was discouraging. I didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. The lights appeared to be as far away as they had when I started. I wondered if the tide was carrying me in the wrong direction, or if I was caught in a current.
And already I had begun to feel tired. My legs were growing numb from the cold water.
The good news was that Gretel had not made another appearance.
I realized that if I was to make it, I had to turn off my mind and put my body on automatic pilot. So I resumed my crawl stroke. After a few minutes I found a rhythm.
The rhythm came from an ancient work song I was taught in second-grade music class. “The Song of the Vulgar Boatman” was what I was certain old Miss Marselli named it. Something to do with big flat-bottomed barges on the Vulgar River somewhere in Europe, and it was several years before I learned that the river was in fact called the Volga.
But as a second-grader, the Vulgar Boatman had been a real, living presence. I pictured him vividly in my young imagination. He was tall, sinewy, and incredibly ugly. He had a scar on his cheek and rheumy red eyes. Long greasy hair, a scraggly beard, big, uneven, yellow-stained teeth. He poled that boat along, chanting his song, and interspersing it with all the colorful vulgarities my young ears had heard.
“Yo, ho, heave, ho,” sang the Vulgar Boatman in my ear. “Swim, you asshole,” he whispered.
“Yo, ho, heave, ho,” went the song, and I stroked on the word “heave.” Over and over again. “Yo, ho, heave, ho.” I imagined myself pushing a barge up the Vulgar River. It was big and heavy, and we seemed to be heaving against a current, and I was the only one on it. I was the Vulgar Boatman. “Heave, you old shithead,” I said to myself. I had a long pole, which I jammed onto the bottom and heaved, and that big old barge would inch forward a few feet before I had to plant the pole again.
And then my body was the barge, and setting that pole and heaving was my stroke, and the Vulgar Boatman had me moving. Right arm, heave. Deep breath. Heave.
I figured I had traveled all the way to the source of the Vulgar River before I lifted my head to check my progress.
It might have been my imagination, or exhaustion. But I seemed to be a little closer to land. But not much.
Yo, ho, heave, ho.
“Heave, shit-for-brains.”
Left arm. Right arm. Breathe.
The current seemed to fight me. The barge was growing broader and heavier and more awkward. My pole seemed flimsy. After a while there was a roaring in my ears and a distant part of my mind warned me not to go to sleep.
The roaring became louder. It was not inside my head.
Gretel was coming up fast from my right. She would pass just in front of me. Her spotlight was sweeping, sweeping. Overhead, the full moon still shone brightly.
My mind snapped back. I figured Cusick and O’Keefe would have been smarter to work without the spotlight. The moon was bright enough to see by. The effect of the spotlight would actually be to render darker that part of the sea not directly illuminated by it.
I remember staying out on remote lakes in Maine after dark and trying to find the dock. Even without a bright moon, my night vision would do the trick just fine. Once, Charlie McDevitt had helpfully turned on a flashlight. Instantly, everything went black except what his flashlight showed. I told him to shut the damn thing off, and we found our way back easily.
So I figured all I had to do was watch the spotlight. The rest would be darkness to the guys aboard Gretel.
But Gretel was moving up fast now, and my reflexes must have been slow, because suddenly the spotlight was sweeping toward me, and I wasn’t sure if I ducked under quickly enough. When I had to pop up for air, Gretel was making a big circle and heading back to me. I waited as long as I dared before I dipped under again.
If Cusick and O’Keefe had spotted me, it wouldn’t matter whether they blasted me with O’Keefe’s shotgun or not. By hanging around in the area, they would prevent me from making it to shore. My body temperature would fall. I would lapse into unconsciousness and eventually I’d slide under the surface of the sea and not pop up again. Ever.
I couldn’t stay out there much longer and survive. I was too tired. The water was too cold. My body was too heavy. I was on a leaky barge, and that ferryman was the hideous Charon, poling me across the treacherous swamp of Styx toward a resting place from which I would never return. A rational piece of my brain warred with the delirium I distantly recognized. “No,” it whispered. “Push on. Survive.” Charon, my own Vulgar Boatman, urged me on.
So I pointed myself toward shore and took up the refrain. The Vulgar Boatman leered at me. “Heave, you stupid cocksucker. Yo, ho, heave, ho.”
Yo, ho…
After what seemed like a long, long time I heard the roaring in my ears again, and someplace in my mind a warning bell rang for an instant. But I was too sleepy and too numb, and it was only when the roaring became louder and my body began to tumble that I realized it was the crash of the surf.
It lifted me and flipped me over. I gulped a mouthful of seawater and gagged. Back in the rational part of my brain that still operated, I thought how ironic it would be if I escaped all the bad guys and swam halfway across the Atlantic Ocean only to drown in the surf fifty yards from dry land.
I managed to get my legs under me. They felt like two hunks of driftwood, numb and useless. I stumbled and sprawled forward as a breaker knocked me down. But, by God, that was land underneath me.
I crawled up onto the beach until the surf couldn’t reach me. I maneuvered myself into a sitting position. I looked back over the sea. I saw no boats out there. Only the white line where the surf was breaking, and beyond that the gray sea. It looked tranquil from my spot on the beach.
The moon had moved a long way since
I had started. I glanced at my wrist. Somewhere along the way I had lost my watch. And, I remembered, my pants and shoes.
Then I began to shiver. Great racking convulsions came in waves, shaking me violently. I knew I couldn’t sit there on the beach on this chilly October night for very long.
I punched and pounded on my legs. I struggled into a kneeling position. After an awkward minute or two I managed to stand. I staggered and stumbled around, and after a bit of that I found myself able to hobble in roughly the direction I aimed myself.
Then I looked around.
I was on a small sandy beach, no more than fifty yards wide. Big boulders had been piled to form breakwaters on either side. They extended far into the ocean. Beyond my beach there were other beaches, each demarcated by rock breakwaters. Opposite the ocean rose a small sandy cliff, which was fighting a losing battle against erosion. Wooden stairs led up from the beach.
I climbed the stairs. It took me a long time, taking one step at a time and resting after every three or four. But I made it.
At the top of the stairs was a wide sweep of lawn, a deep purple-green in the waning moonlight. It appeared impeccably manicured. A bed of rust-colored mums bloomed against a stockade fence that ran from the top of the stairs along the edge of the lawn to the house.
It was a big old year-round place, painted white. A glassed-in porch ran along the entire back side of it. There were no lights on.
I made my way around to the front. A peastone drive circled under a portico at the front door. A late model Mercedes was parked there.
I found a doorbell, jabbed it with my unsteady forefinger, and kept it pushed in. My legs were twitching and quivering and I felt the painful beginnings of cramps form in my calves. I leaned against the doorjamb and kept my finger on the bell.
After several minutes I heard a window go up. “If that’s you, Peter, you can just turn around and go back to where you came from,” came a woman’s voice.
“It’s not Peter, ma’am,” I yelled hoarsely. “I need help.”
There was a long moment of silence.
“Who is there?”
“I fell into the sea. I washed up on your beach. Please…”
Another pause. Then, “I shall call the police.”
“Fine,” I said. “But please let me in. I’m freezing.”
“Are you drunk, young man?”
“No, ma’am. But I am nearly frozen to death. I can barely stand up.”
“Did Peter send you?”
“I don’t know Peter. Please, ma’am.”
“Well. Wait a minute, then.”
The window slammed. Then a light went on inside. Then there was the sound of somebody at the inside of the door.
The door opened a crack. “Uh, ma’am,” I said, “I don’t have any pants on.”
She stuck her face out to look at me. She was, I guessed, around seventy. She had a deeply tanned and liberally wrinkled face with snow-white hair in a long braid that fell over the front of her shoulder. She had steely blue eyes and a warm, knowing smile.
“I’ve seen plenty of men without their pants,” she said. “They all look pretty much the same to me. Mostly all shriveled up and vulnerable. Come on in here and get out of the cold.”
“I’m not actually sure I can,” I said. “My legs are cramping up pretty bad.”
She came out and wedged herself under my armpit. She was surprisingly strong. She helped me inside, and together we stumbled into the kitchen. It opened onto the glassed-in porch. Beyond the glass, the ocean looked dark and secretive.
She put a pot of water on the stove and found a blanket for me to wrap myself in. I shucked off my wet underwear from inside the blanket.
“I’m Mary Watson,” she said. “Who’re you?”
“Brady Coyne,” I stammered. I couldn’t stop shivering.
The teapot began to whistle. Mary Watson dropped two teabags into a big mug, filled it with scalding water, added about four spoonfuls of sugar and a big dollop from a rum bottle, and handed it to me. I tried to take it from her, but my hands refused to cooperate.
So Mary pulled a chair beside me and held the mug for me so I could sip from it. She insisted I sip fast and get it into me. When it was empty she refilled it the same way, and this time I was able to hold it myself.
“Now, Brady Coyne, you tell me exactly what in hell you are doing creeping around people’s houses at four o’clock in the morning without any pants on, or I will call the police for real.”
I made up a story about a party aboard a boat, having a few beers, slipping off the deck while trying to untangle some lines, no one noticing. It sounded thin, and Mary stared at me with her head cocked to the side as she listened, a crooked, skeptical grin playing on her lips. But when I finished my tale, she only nodded a few times, as if to say that it might not be the truth, but it was good enough for her.
“I’ll get you some clothes,” she said. “Peter is about your size.” I still had no clue who Peter was.
She disappeared from the kitchen. I sipped my tea. The rum formed a warm place in my gut, and I felt relaxed and tired. I yawned. The thick wool blanket scratched my bare skin, not an unpleasant sensation.
Mary returned a few minutes later with an armload. Corduroy pants (short in the leg, about right in the waist), flannel shirt (okay in the shoulders, arms a bit stingy), underwear, a wooly crew-neck sweater, and sneakers that were only half a size small. I dressed unashamedly in front of her, and she neither stared at me nor made a point of ignoring what I was doing, although I did turn my back to her out of principle.
“Seen plenty of men,” she reminded me. “Some of ’em are hung a little better than others, though I never put much stock in that.”
I was glad, nevertheless, that I had dressed with my back to her.
“What town am I in?” I asked.
“Why, this is Hampton.”
“New Hampshire?”
“It sure isn’t Wyoming.”
“May I use your phone?”
“Of course.”
There was a wall phone in the kitchen. Mary wandered out of the room. I called the Baron house.
On the third ring Joanie answered. “H’lo,” she mumbled.
“Joanie, it’s Brady. Is Tom there?”
“Juss minute.”
I heard Joanie speak and a muttered reply. Then Tom came on the line. “Brady, for Christ’s sake, do you have any idea what time it is?”
I checked the clock on the wall of Mary Watson’s kitchen. “Five twenty-six. Approximately.”
“Well, what the hell?”
“It’s a very long story. And a very interesting one. I need you to come and get me.”
“Right now?”
“Immediately.”
He must have heard something in my voice. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Hold on a second. I’ll get directions for you.” I called for Mary, and she came into the room. I told her what I wanted and put her on the phone. She told Tom how to find me. Then she handed the phone back to me.
“Now, Tom,” I said.
“She sounds like quite a dame.”
“Quite a dame, indeed,” I said, glancing at Mary, who had taken a seat at the kitchen table. She rolled her eyes.
“So what’s your hurry? You would seem to be in good hands.”
“Just move it, please. I’ll explain.”
I hung up. Mary was staring at me. “Was that Tom Baron?”
“How’d you know?”
“You called him Tom. I recognized his voice. Is he a friend of yours?”
“Uh huh.”
“If I lived in Massachusetts, I’d vote for him. Handsome fella.”
“Mary, I need to make another call.”
“Oh. Sure. I get it.” She left the room.
I called state police headquarters and asked for Horowitz. “He’s not here now. Wanna leave a message?” The desk man sounded bored at the end of a long night shift.
“I’ve
got to talk with him. Instantly. Can you patch me through to his house?”
“You kidding, Mister?”
“Look,” I said. “My name is Brady Coyne. I’m an attorney. I have witnessed a murder. It is connected to two other murders that Horowitz is investigating. While you’re sitting there arguing with me, the bad guys are getting away. It’s Horowitz’s case. I guarantee he’ll have your ass if you don’t find a way to connect me to him.”
“How about Leary? He’s right here.”
“You didn’t hear me, huh?”
“I heard you. Horowitz’ll have my ass if I wake him up at five-thirty, I know that. I don’t know about the other.”
He seemed to be wavering. I decided to press my case. “What is your name, officer?”
“Bergin. Francis Bergin. Sergeant Francis Bergin.”
“I assume, Sergeant, that you’d prefer not to become rookie Patrolman Bergin. So listen to me. I absolutely promise you that Detective Horowitz will thank you for waking him up. He will be very grateful. He may put you in for a promotion, or a citation, or a raise, or a shopping spree in the evidence locker. He will praise you for using excellent judgment in a crisis. And this, Sergeant Bergin, is a crisis. You could blow it. So come on. Be a hero. Connect me to Horowitz.”
He hesitated. “It would take a few minutes.”
“I’m not going away. Come on.”
It took almost five minutes, and when Horowitz came on the line, he didn’t sound in the mood for giving out citations. “What the fuck is this all about, Coyne?”
I gave him the chronology as concisely as I could. To his credit, he became instantly alert. He asked me the right questions at the right times. He made me repeat the directions to the cottage in Windsor Harbor where O’Keefe and Cusick kept Gretel moored. I told him to make sure that Christie Ayers was okay. He suggested I stay with Tom and Joanie Baron until he got in touch with me. “Keep out of sight. Don’t let anyone know you’re there.”
“Play dead, huh?”
“Right. Play dead,” he said.
When I hung up, Mary came back into the room. She looked at me out of the corner of her eye, and I knew she had been listening.
“Mary Watson,” I said, making my voice gruff and stern.
Vulgar Boatman Page 21
