Amagansett

Thirty-Four

The man glanced at his watch but was unable to read off the time in the darkness. Almost ten o’clock, he guessed. With any luck he’d be back in his cottage and asleep by two a.m., maybe three. The call to New York could wait till the next morning. Nobody would want to be dragged from their bed at that time of the night.
He tried to picture the face that went with the voice at the other end of the telephone line, but failed. He wasn’t well spoken, just well connected with those who were, that was clear from the kind of jobs he handed out. Who else had there been? The lawyer, the Chicago banker, the square-jawed young polo player who’d pissed himself at the last moment. Establishment types. He never knew why they’d been singled out for his attentions, never even thought to ask. Best to just do the job and clear out.
This one was different though, intriguing—first the rich girl, now the big fisherman with the crappy truck. What was the connection between them? Something to do with the document, but he couldn’t see what exactly. He might have to break with tradition on this one and ask the guy before doing the deed.
He got to his feet and wandered over to the window. He could still see lightning scything the night sky way out at sea. The storm had stayed offshore, heading east. That was good. Rain was problematic. It meant mud on the shoes, it meant tire tracks, it meant a big pain in the ass.
He froze. His first thought was that the wind buffeting the fisherman’s house must have drowned out the noise of the truck. His second thought was that he’d been spotted. He hadn’t been. The darkened figure moving across the deck outside didn’t alter its course.
The man skipped lightly across the boards and took up his position.
The fisherman entered warily, but didn’t think to look behind the door.
The cosh was already raised, and he brought it down on the back of his skull.
Not too hard, not too soft—just right, he thought—as the fisherman crumpled to the floor.
Conrad came at the house from the beach, the gun in his hand brushing against his thigh as he walked. The breakers were building, booming as they collapsed—snatches of thunder stolen from the storm that had given them life.
He peered over the crest of the frontal dune and thought at first he was seeing things. There appeared to be light coming from the barn. He wasn’t mistaken. He could just make out the sound of the generator above the noise of the warm wind whistling through the beach grass.
He made straight for the house, skirting it, only approaching to examine the corner where the telephone cable entered the building. It hadn’t been cut. He waited in the darkness a while, listening for noises from inside the house, then he headed for the whaleboat house. It was deserted. He tucked a gutting knife into his boot before leaving.
He approached the barn with caution, glancing around him as he went. Ideally he would have checked the interior from one of the high windows, but the ladder he required was inside the barn.
He made two tours, drawing progressively closer. There was no way of entering unnoticed, no loose cladding to be gently prized aside, he knew that, he’d nailed the boards in place himself not even a year before.
This only left the main doors, slightly ajar, the tall crack of inviting light. He made his way over, alert, strongly suspecting he was treading a path expected of him.
Nothing, though, prepared him for what he saw through the gap in the doors.
Rollo was lashed to a chair near the base of one of the main supports. He was gagged and his chin rested on his chest. For a terrible moment Conrad thought he was dead, but Rollo raised his head and glanced around, wild-eyed, struggling with his bonds, only to slump again in defeat.
Whoever was present must be somewhere behind Rollo, lurking in the shadows. This didn’t help Conrad much. He would have to enter regardless.
He tucked the handgun into the back of his waistband, pulling his shirt down over it, then eased the doors open a fraction.
‘Come in, Mr Labarde.’
Rollo’s head snapped up, his desperate eyes fixing on Conrad. Conrad fought to stay calm: mustn’t let his anger cloud his actions.
‘I haven’t got all night,’ said the voice from the shadows.
Conrad pulled open the doors and stepped inside.
‘Move to the other end of the barn.’
Conrad did as instructed, skirting the long workbench that ran down the center of the building beneath the whaleboat suspended in the rafters.
‘Put your gun on the table.’
‘I’m not armed.’
‘Then you won’t mind stripping down.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
Conrad began unbuttoning his shirt.
‘You should know I have a gun aimed at the back of your friend’s head.’
As he eased the shirt off his shoulders and down his arms, Conrad pulled the gun from his waistband, letting it fall to the ground in the shirt.
‘Turn around,’ said the voice. ‘Now the pants.’
Conrad loosened his belt and dropped his pants.
‘And the underwear.’
Conrad did as instructed. ‘Like I said, I’m not armed.’
‘Take off your shoes.’
Conrad undid the laces and pulled off his boots, concealing the gutting knife in his pants as he stepped out of them.
‘Now toss everything over there by the door.’
Conrad bundled the clothes and boots up tightly so the weapons wouldn’t spill out. Not that it would have mattered. At that distance, they’d play no further part in what was about to happen.
‘Turn around.’
Conrad stood naked, facing Rollo down the other end of the workbench. ‘It’ll be all right,’ he said to his friend, only starting to believe his words as his eyes settled on a hand ax lying within reach on the workbench.
There was movement in the shadows behind Rollo, and a man stepped into the light. It was the same man who had followed him to Sag Harbor, though somehow he had looked taller behind the wheel of the black sedan. The long-barreled handgun was leveled at the center of Conrad’s chest.
‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ said the man. ‘You’ve got something I want, and I’ve got something you want.’ He rested a hand on Rollo’s shoulder.
‘Who are you?’
‘It doesn’t matter. What matters is the document, the one you went to the lawyer about.’
‘What lawyer?’
The man placed the end of the barrel in Rollo’s ear.
‘Don’t mess with me.’
Conrad stared into Rollo’s terrified eyes. Then it came to him—one slender chance.
‘Well, I guess this is what you call a Nantucket sleigh ride,’ he said.
‘A what?’
‘Rollo knows what I mean, don’t you, Rollo?’ said Conrad, willing him to understand. There was a flicker of confusion in Rollo’s eyes, then he raised them to the whaleboat overhead.
The man cocked the hammer of the gun. ‘Say goodbye to the half-wit.’
‘Don’t. You don’t understand. I know you followed me to Sag Harbor.’
‘That’s clear now, isn’t it?’
‘I know you carried on down to the waterfront when I turned into Union Street. I know you then drove up Main Street. And I know I crossed right in front of your car.’
It was enough to unsettle the man. ‘It’s a good try,’ he said.
‘I knew you were coming here.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Tell that to the two cops waiting outside.’
The man’s eyes narrowed almost to a squint.
‘I’m here to offer you a deal,’ said Conrad.
‘No.’ The man shook his head. ‘You’re bluffing.’
‘Deputy Chief Hollis,’ shouted Conrad, ‘I think it’s time you showed yourself.’
The man’s eyes flicked involuntarily to the barn doors.
Conrad made his move, lunging at the ax on the workbench, spinning back and burying the head in the wood of the support behind him, cutting the rope and rolling aside in the same movement.
He had expected the man to fire; he hadn’t expected him to miss. As the severed rope whipped through the block and tackle supporting the whaleboat, Rollo toppled his chair to the left.
The whaleboat crashed on to the workbench, its bow poleaxing the man. Conrad didn’t wait to assess the damage. He came out of the roll, seized a lance from among the clutter of whaling gear stacked against the wall and spun back.
Remarkably, the man was getting to his feet. His right arm hung limp and useless from its shoulder joint, but his left hand was already bringing the gun to bear on Conrad.
Conrad let fly with the lance—his stance, the action, those of their boyhood games, the endless whale rallies enacted with Rollo and Billy. He didn’t have to think, the past came willingly to his aid.
The lance caught the man in the midriff, low down and to the side, the steel point passing straight through him. Both his hands instinctively went to the wooden shaft protruding from his belly and the gun fell to the floor. He recognized his mistake almost immediately, lunging for the gun.
Conrad kicked him in the side of the head as his fingers closed around the butt.
Recovering the gun, he backed away towards Rollo, who was struggling on the ground, twisting his head vainly to see what was happening.
‘It’s me,’ said Conrad. He pulled the gag down over Rollo’s chin. ‘You okay?’
Rollo nodded. Conrad bounded over to his clothes, recovered the gutting knife and cut the ropes binding Rollo’s arms and ankles to the chair.
‘Conrad…’
‘Shhhh, it’s okay, it’s over.’ Rollo was shaking as Conrad helped him to his feet, and Conrad held him tight in case his legs buckled beneath him. They stared at the man lying skewered on the floor.
‘Here.’ He led Rollo to the workbench and leaned him against it for support. ‘I have to do this now.’
He checked the man’s heartbeat, the entry wound, the exit wound. There was bleeding, but no pulse of imminent death. The lance would have to stay put though. He dragged the man over to the upright and sat him against it. Then he ran a length of rope beneath his arms and lashed him in place.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Rollo. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry—’
‘Hey,’ said Conrad.
‘He promised, he said he wouldn’t say nothin’. But he did, he lied to me.’
It took Conrad a moment to figure that Rollo was talking about his father. Ned had extracted the information about Lillian from Rollo, then used it when he said he wouldn’t, banning Rollo from seeing Conrad.
‘He did it for you, Rollo, to protect you. And he was right. Look—’ He turned to the man.
‘He still lied to me.’
That Rollo placed his father’s betrayal above his own brush with death came as little surprise to Conrad. It was the way Rollo’s mind worked. It also offered an opportunity. Conrad tried not to think too hard about what he was about to do.
‘It’s true,’ he said, ‘he lied to you.’
‘He did.’
‘And now I need you to do the same for me, Rollo. I need you to lie for me—to your father.’
Rollo frowned.
‘It’s not for ever, just till I can work this all out.’
‘Lie?’
A cardinal sin in Rollo’s book, one for which he’d have to account to God himself.
‘It’s not even a lie,’ said Conrad. ‘I just need you to keep quiet about this for a couple of days. Can you do that for me?’
‘I…’
‘They killed my friend, Rollo. I think that man there killed her. But I need to know a bit more, I need a bit more time. Only you can give that to me.’
Rollo nodded gravely. ‘I won’t tell no one,’ he said. ‘No one.’
‘Let’s get you cleaned up.’
Conrad led Rollo towards the doors, stopping to gather up his clothes and his boots as he went.
The man came round slowly to find the fisherman seated on the floor in front of him, dressed now and smoking a cigarette. A gun rested in his lap.
It felt like someone had cleaved away the right side of his body. Then he remembered and he looked down.
‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Christ.’
‘You’ll live,’ said the fisherman.
‘There’s a f*cking pole in me!’
‘It’s a killing lance—for whales.’
‘Whales!?’
‘Shut up.’
‘I need a doctor.’
‘Shut up and listen. I’m going to say this once. I’ve got some questions. If you lie to me, I’ll kill you. There are no second chances. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Look at me. I said look at me.’
He looked up into the two pockets of shadow cast by the overhead light.
‘I want you to know that I hope you lie to me.’
‘I won’t.’
‘When did you first meet Manfred Wallace?’
‘Never heard of him. It’s the truth, I swear it.’
‘Who are you working for?’
‘I don’t know his name. He calls me with jobs, I don’t know who he is.’
‘What were you going to do, kill me after you’d got the document?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘Make it look like a suicide.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then nothing. You’re dead, I get my money.’
‘How?’
‘How what?’
‘How do you get your money?’
‘He leaves it. In places. Hotels usually.’
‘How much did he pay you to kill Lillian Wallace?’
He was too slow. He’d hesitated just that little bit too long for it to be convincing.
‘I want to know,’ insisted the fisherman. ‘How much was her life worth to you?’
He realized then that he had the answer to his riddle, written in the fisherman’s face, buried in his voice. It was suddenly clear to him that he was sitting across from the dead girl’s lover. And for one of the few times in his life he felt the cold touch of fear on his heart.
‘Eight hundred dollars,’ he said.
It took a while for the fisherman to absorb the news. ‘The price of a second-hand car?’
‘That’s what I got. I don’t know what the guy who did it got.’
He congratulated himself. He’d slipped it in nicely, naturally.
‘There were two of you?’
‘I was only there to help move the body. I didn’t do it. He did. I swear to God, it’s the truth.’
‘He drowned her in the swimming pool?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you both put her in the ocean?’
‘Yes.’
How the hell did he know so much?
‘Where?’ asked the fisherman.
‘Wiborg’s Beach. It’s—’
‘I know where it is.’
The fisherman tossed his cigarette aside, then used the workbench to help himself to his feet, his left knee stiff and straightened out.
‘Where’s your car, the black sedan?’
‘Why?’
‘Where’s the car?’
‘Down the highway. There’s a track.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘The Sea Spray Inn.’
‘Room number?’
‘It’s a cottage—number four. Why?’
‘Is this the key?’
He recognized the signs; the fisherman was making plans for his disappearance.
‘Look, I’ve been straight with you, I can help you, I can finger the guy who did it.’
‘Is this the key?’
‘Yes, it’s the key.’
The fisherman took a couple of steps towards him. ‘I was at Wiborg’s Beach,’ he said. ‘You carried her through the bushes on the right and up the dune. You stopped for a rest then you dragged her backwards down on to the beach.’
How in the hell did he know so much? Flattery suddenly seemed like a good idea.
‘I’m impressed.’
‘I’m not,’ said the fisherman. ‘There was only one set of footprints in the sand.’
It took the man a moment to realize that he’d been led by the hand to his own doom, that there was never going to be any other outcome.
‘F*ck you and f*ck your half-wit friend,’ he said.
The fisherman stepped on the end of the pole. The dull pain in the man’s side exploded into life and he screamed.
‘Go on, do it,’ he spat. ‘You’re no better than me, you just don’t know it.’
‘You’re wrong,’ said the fisherman as the gun came up. ‘I do know it.’