by David Manuel
It was. In a few minutes Inspector Roland joined them in the cockpit.
Noting Marcia’s expression, he said, “I’m sure you’re anxious to sail, so I’ll keep this brief. I just wanted to make sure that you’ll let us know if you hear anything of the boy’s whereabouts. If he contacts you, or you hear from his family—anything at all. Otherwise, we must keep his file open.”
“As it happens, I spoke with his father just before you came,” Neil informed him. “He hasn’t heard from him, but he’s not too surprised. Apparently the boy’s done this before.”
“Done what?”
“Taken off without telling anyone. He’s impulsive, it would seem.”
The inspector raised an eyebrow.
“Manic-depressive,” explained Marcia.
“Oh.” He took out a little notebook and made a note.
“Inspector,” Neil asked, “what about the woman?”
“Her name is Toni Remy. She fancies herself an artist and hangs around the Cap in the summertime. I think her family sends her money from time to time.”
“What makes you say that?” queried Marcia, curious to know the policeman’s deductive process.
The inspector gave a Gallic shrug. “She does not sell many paintings and doesn’t seem to work.” He gazed at the setting sun, now a blood-red orb, bisected by the western horizon. “Toni’s not a bad sort, though she has bad taste in men. She has un penchant for getting involved with some really méchants characters, the worst of whom it was my pleasure to put on ice six years ago.” He scowled. “Hector Vincennes—a dirty man in a dirty business.”
“What business?” asked Marcia.
“Drugs. But he was a big fish, bigger than most. He’d set up a whole new trade route for heroin, through Algeria and Morocco. Fancied himself the new French Connection.” He frowned at the recollection. “Nasty piece of work. He enjoyed the killing part more than the dealing part. His victims died slowly, in as much pain as he could inflict.”
Marcia shivered deliciously, eyeing the inspector with new respect. “And you were the one who put him away?”
“I should have killed him. Our system is too lenient.”
The sun was gone now, and above them a mackerel sky was shading towards crimson, magenta, and purple.
“Well, I must go,” the inspector said, bowing to each of them. “Perhaps in this young man, Toni has finally found someone decent.”
From his launch, he called, “Be sure to let me know if you hear anything.”
6 the impossible dream
Brother Bartholomew sat on the tiny porch of the Quarry Cottage, eating his supper and trying to enjoy the gathering twilight. It was not easy because after a long day of clearing the walking paths, cutting back brush and hauling out the cuttings, he was stiff and bone tired.
And steeped in self-pity.
Solitude had a way of clarifying things. At home in the friary with all the other brothers, he used to long for it. And sometimes, when the sand flats came out at low tide, he would drift out on them for an hour or two, just to be alone.
But now his solitude was complete. And undisturbed. And unending.
And what it was clarifying surprised him; he needed people. Twenty years ago when he was a civilian, he used to go camping up in New Hampshire just to get away from them. Until Laurel, he never took anyone with him. But then, Laurel wasn’t people. She was—special.
And that book was closed, he firmly reminded himself, putting down his half-eaten supper and standing up. Best not to even open it, let alone thumb through it, however casually.
In the gathering dusk, he slowly paced the perimeter of his open-air cloister. He’d been here only three days, but they had taught him that while he might be a monk, he was not cut out to be a hermit. He missed his brothers—all of them, even Ambrose. He missed the fun, the banter and clash of opinions at supper. He missed watching sports on television with them, cycling with them, all the things they did together.
Most of all, he realized, he missed doing the services with them, filing into the basilica with them, chanting with them—good grief, he missed Latin?
Down here, Mass was the thing he most looked forward to. Not for the Eucharist, though obviously that was the most important part. Mass was the one time in the day when he had contact with others.
The first morning he had arrived at the chapel at one minute to seven, in true abbey fashion—only to find that he was three minutes late. (Patience was not Father Francis’s greatest virtue.) After that, Bartholomew arrived at the chapel ten minutes early. He didn’t mind; the sisters were there, setting up the altar.
When Mass was ended, Father Francis would wish him a good and productive day, and before the monk could strike up a conversation, the gray-haired priest would whirl away down the hill in his white cassock. The sisters stayed behind to do Lauds, to which he was not invited, so he went back to the cottage and had his bowl of cereal and went to work. And started looking forward to the next morning’s Mass.
Tomorrow was Sunday, he reminded himself. Which meant they would be going in to the Cathedral in Hamilton, the island’s one city. A really big day, he thought, mocking his anticipation.
It was almost dark now, but he decided to finish his supper, a bowl of chili and a sourdough baguette—out here, as he could not bear the thought of eating one more meal inside, staring at the wall. Now, sitting on the desk chair on the six-foot by nine-foot cement slab that served as a porch, he gradually became aware that he was being watched.
He kept spooning the chili, and without seeming to, scanned the confines of the quarry. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a slight movement—in the brush above the quarry’s north wall. There was a shadow there, darker than the shadow it was in. Frustrated by the absence of light, he could barely make it out. A cat—a small black one, with a white blaze on her chest.
Her chest? How did he know it was a female? He couldn’t say; he just knew. He named her Noire.
“We’ve got a cat at home,” he told her, keeping his voice low, so as not to startle her. “A big ring-tailed Maine Coon cat named Pangur Ban. He’s named that—I named him—because he’s the friary cat, and long ago in a medieval monastery, they had a cat named that.”
He frowned. I’m talking to a cat, he thought. Well, so what? It was good to hear someone’s voice, even if it was his own. And besides, Noire seemed interested—well, not disinterested.
“I’m a brother,” he went on. “You probably couldn’t tell that, because I’m not wearing a robe. Actually, this is our working habit—khaki pants, blue denim shirt. There’s a cross embroidered here,” and he showed the cat the small outline of a cross over his heart.
If anyone came by here now, he thought, they’d think I’d just been released from a mental ward—a little too soon. But it was nearly dark; no one would be walking up here now.
“Noire, you belong to anyone? Probably not, or you’d be home having your own supper now. You hungry? Maybe I can find something for you.”
He went in, and from the fridge retrieved a deli-pack of smoked turkey. Peeling off a slice, he tore it in little pieces, put it on a saucer, and went back out.
The cat was gone. He put the saucer on the ground in front of the poinciana tree and waited. It was pitch black by the time he gave up and went inside.
On the little, half-folded dining table next to the brown easy chair was a clipboard with a legal pad—his so-called spiritual journal. He’d not written a dozen lines since he’d arrived. Tired as he was, it was too early to go to bed. Sitting down in the chair, he took up the clipboard and stared at it.
Then he wrote:
Why haven’t I opened up a dialogue with God?
Because—I don’t have much to say to Him.
And don’t imagine He has much to say to me.
Or if He does, I’m not sure I want to hear it.
Because—I’ve got to do whatever He tells me.
I’m a monk, aren’t I? His obedient serva
nt.
He scratched that out and put:
His sometimes-obedient servant.
He sighed and put the pen down, then picked it up again. This journal was for his most honest thoughts. Ergo, he would pursue this, no matter how painful or where it led. He wrote:
I loved Him once.
I must have, to have taken such a vow.
And He must have loved me,
or He wouldn’t have let me take it.
Unless He really is a sadist,
as some would like to believe.
“Well, that’s enough of that!” he exclaimed aloud, setting the clipboard aside.
Every afternoon at four, he would knock off work, shower, pull on his black running shoes, and go for a long walk, five or six miles. He preferred cycling, as he did at home. But walking was not so bad, once you got into it. Cycling, you had to pay attention, but walking, you could let your mind go anywhere it wanted or just dome out. Kind of pleasant. And it certainly taught patience. You might not get where you were going quickly, but you’d get there eventually. So—relax and enjoy the trip.
There was a paved-over railway right-of-way adjacent to the property, and it quickly became one of his favorite routes. Built in the 1920s, the railroad had run the 21 miles, from one end to the other. But “Old Rattle & Shake,” as the locals called it, had been a disaster from the beginning, and with the coming of World War II, automobiles became a fixture on the island. The railroad was doomed, eventually becoming too expensive for the government to support.
The war ended another grand era, with the building of an airbase on St. George’s known as Kindley Field. Before the war, the great flying boats of BOAC and Pan American used to land here on their way across the Atlantic or up to New York. The ultimate in luxurious travel, the Pan American Clippers boasted separate lounges for dining and cocktails, gourmet meals prepared on board, and private, Pullman-style sleeping berths for forty passengers.
Speaking of luxurious travel, Bartholomew had begun to find that the Cunard Line’s famous slogan was right: Getting there (wherever “there” happened to be) was indeed half the fun.
It could be most of the fun, if you took the time to savor the medley of fragrances of the wildflowers growing along the way. Or note the amazing symmetry of a perfect spider web, diamondized by the early morning dew. Or engage a mockingbird in a dueling dialogue by imitating each of his calls. Or fill a mental photo album with images from the trip—close-ups and vistas, cloud-scapes and color clusters, sun shafts and shape-shifting shadow play….
This afternoon he had walked to the beach at Daniel’s Head. It was deserted, the sand glistening in the late sun. Taking off his shoes to enjoy its warmth between his toes, he strolled down to where the surf ran up. The foaming slide of blue water shooed a pair of sandpipers ahead of it; then the fast-walkers became the pursuers, as the wave receded.
Watching them at their endless game, he smiled. “We have you guys at home, too,” he softly informed them, “out on Coast Guard Beach.” Stretching out on the warm sand, he closed his eyes and imagined himself watching sandpipers on Cape Cod.
All at once he was aware that someone had come up behind him.
“Do you talk to the trees, too?”
He froze. He knew that voice, that gently teasing Irish lilt. Getting to his feet, he slowly turned. It was Laurel.
“What—are you doing here?” he stammered.
“Taking care of business,” she said with a half smile. “Unfinished business.”
“But you can’t be here! It’s—impossible!”
She chuckled. “Never underestimate the power of a determined woman.”
She looked around. “We’re even on a beach. How appropriate.”
“We settled this,” he managed, his voice shaking. “Four years ago.”
“Did we?” she said, gazing at him through lowered lashes. “I don’t feel very settled about it now. Do you?”
He shut his eyes, as he had that time before.
She reached out to him, as she had before.
But this time, instead of stopping short, she touched him. And let the back of her hand caress his cheek.
“Don’t,” he said, starting to tremble.
“Look at me, Andrew, and tell me you don’t want me.”
He opened his eyes and met hers. “I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can,” she whispered, taking his hand and placing it over her heart.
With a groan he gathered her in his arms and pressed her to him.
When he awoke, he was still trembling. And drenched in sweat. And guilt.
“Oh, God, what have I done? That was over! What—is happening to me?”
On the half-hour bus ride into Hamilton, sitting next to Father Francis, he could not bring himself to tell him about his all too vivid dream and the sleepless night that followed it. So they made small talk.
The old priest greeted several people as they got on the bus.
“You seem to know everyone,” Bartholomew observed.
Father Francis smiled. “I’ve been taking the Sunday 8:47 for many years.”
Gradually the bus filled to capacity. Bermudians were a polite people, however, so it was possible to carry on a very private conversation in their midst. Finally Bartholomew could no longer contain what was troubling him, and their two-seat pew on the bus became his confessional.
When he’d finished relating the dream, to his surprise Father Francis laughed.
“Welcome to Bermuda,” he said, keeping his voice low. “There’s great light here, but there’s great darkness, too. Voodoo, witchcraft—not for nothing was it called Devil’s Island before it got renamed.” He smiled at Bartholomew’s surprise. “The dark side knows you’re here, and that dream was their little welcoming present.”
The monk stared at him.
“People from home have the wildest dreams, really frightening, when they first get here,” the priest went on, unperturbed by the younger man’s reaction. “Then they learn to get serious about their prayer life.”
Bartholomew could not restrain his incredulity. “You mean, ‘Now I lay me down to sleep’—that sort of thing?”
“I wouldn’t take that attitude, if I were you. That little nursery prayer has kept an awful lot of people in sweet dreams.” He paused. “I’ll tell you something: Before I sleep, I request a guard of warrior angels around the property’s perimeter.”
“Father! You’ve got to be kidding, I mean, you’re beginning to sound medieval!”
The old priest looked at him and sighed. “You haven’t been praying, have you.” It was a statement, not a question.
The monk made no reply.
“Well, you’d better start, my son. Or you’re going to be in for some wild nights.”
7 busman’s holiday
“I think you should go,” said Peg cheerily, putting dessert in front of him. “It’ll do you a world of good.”
Dan Burke, Eastport’s Chief of Police, stared glumly at the grapefruit-and-rhubarb compote she had made for him. It was low-cal, low-fat, and—boring. Gone were the days of home-made apple pie with a slice of aged cheddar alongside—and a scoop of coffee ice cream. Gone forever, thanks to by-pass surgery two years ago.
He had just informed his wife that his old friend Ron Wallace, one of Eastport’s charter fishing boat captains, had invited him for a week’s deep-sea fishing. In Bermuda. And Peg was more excited about it than he was.
For years, Ron had enjoyed a unique arrangement with a Bermuda charter captain named Ian Bennett. They were old friends, their boats were compatible, and the third week in October, when each of their seasons was pretty well over, the two captains would take a busman’s holiday. They would swap boats for a week.
Usually they brought their wives, but this year the wives couldn’t go. Ron’s irascible mother-in-law had come to live with them until his wife Bunny could find a suitable graduated-care facility for her. So far, nothing had suited her, and Bunny pleaded with
Ron to go down to Bermuda without her—anything to get him out of the house.
Nan Bennett, on the other hand, was staying home because she was worried about their son Eric, who was having serious trouble in school. Ian was still planning to come up to the Cape, though for him it would not exactly be a holiday. He was bringing four members of Bermuda’s Blue Water Anglers Club, who loved the striped bass that could be caught out of Eastport. Last year, one had gotten his picture in the Cape Cod Times, holding up the largest striper ever caught in Cape Cod Bay.
For Ron, it was definitely going to be a vacation. He would go out when he felt like it, take what he wanted to eat and drink, and bait no one’s hook but his own. He invited Dan, and they would stay at Sandys House, a guesthouse not far from Ely’s Harbour, where Ian kept his 15-ton, 42-foot powerboat, Goodness.
But Dan was not sure. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been away from the station for a whole week,” he said to his wife.
Peg sat down opposite. “It’s not like you’ve got anything going on right now,” she pointed out. “In fact, according to Leo Bascomb, in all his years on the force, it’s never been as quiet as right now.” She laughed. “It’s finally behaving like a village police department—where nothing ever happens.”
Dan grudgingly smiled. “It is kind of quiet. But what about my appointment with Dr. Alexander?” The surgeon who had performed the by-pass wanted to see him annually for the next three years.
“I’ll reschedule it.”
“But—”
“Dan Burke! If he knew what you’d been invited to do, he’d be all for it!” She got up and started clearing the dishes. “Just watch what you eat and keep up your walking.”
He laughed. “You’ve taken away all my reasons for not going.”
“Checkmate!” she replied, but from his expression she could tell he was not resolved.
Suddenly she turned to him. “You know what your problem is? You need to be needed. All these years, you’ve been like a mother hen to that police department! And now—they don’t need you.”
“I don’t think I like that analogy,” he muttered, putting away the glasses.