Gravesend

by J. L. Abramo

  It was a medical bracelet, one of those things that had the red caduceus on one side and the information on the other, in case there was an accident and you were unable to tell the medics you had a condition—diabetes or something—so their treatment wouldn't kill you. Phone number they could call to find out who you were, your doctor or close relative.

  Somebody who might pay to get it back.

  Lannie tried to see what it said on it, but the streetlight was uneven and his dash lights had burned out a summer ago, some short in the system. Thinking he'd check it out later, he pitched it in the ashtray and goosed the Kombi, hoping to beat the morning crew to the developer, see what kind of shots he had. Maybe use them to land a permanent job or something. Make Mom-o proud.

  ONE

  Waipio Valley, Island of Hawaii, Present

  They were out there, all right—the Night Marchers, ghosts that stalked the valley floor on their way back to the netherworld through the secret doorway down by the beach. He'd seen them before and knew they must have seen him, but they didn't bother him. One ghost to another, so to speak.

  Still, it was nothing he took for granted.

  Roy Voelker knocked back a slug of dark rum, picked at a mosquito-bite scab, the fucker still itching like crazy, probably half-infected. Like himself, he thought. Rain dripped off the big mango out behind his shack, made hollow sounds on the rusting tin and curled plywood. Light from the hissing Coleman bounced a gleam off the plastic bags that served as interior decor, his Purple Heart tacked to a stud, the .45 ammo looking like little warheads as he loaded them into the clips.

  The evening air gave off damp smells: earth and outhouse, sweet decay from the compost Voelker applied to the taro patch revived while claiming the abandoned shack as his own. There hadn't been even a front door on the one-room ruin then, but he'd made one. Palm fronds tacked over a frame of two-by-fours scrounged up on the road to Honokaa; the plastic bags out of a topside dumpster.

  Home sweet home.

  Luckily it never got cold enough to be a problem. Like the winters in Lansing, his other lifelong filed away, this old dead letter at a post office. Quite the opposite: As in Nam, here the problem was growing mold—jungle rot. And right now the air felt like it: close and dank in the hooch, the inside of a car at the drive-in with the windows rolled up. Humidity putting a wet shine on his skin.

  Outside the rain was finally letting up, steady drip tailing off into free-form rhythms, a grumble of retreating thunder.

  Voelker took a last swig, wiped ninety-proof from his beard, and stuck the cheap cigar back in his mouth, his right eye squinting against the smoke. He eased a clip into the .45, worked the slide and the safety, wiped excess gun oil on his T-shirt and fatigue pants. Keep it oiled or kiss it off: Echo Company drill—his own admonishment still loud in his ears.

  Ex-Marine First Sergeant Roy Voelker stepped out into the clearing.

  It was still light enough to see, the clouds breaking up now, and Voelker set about checking the perimeter, the monofilament trip line strung with corned-beef-hash and refried-bean cans. Following the line as it dipped under croton and pandanus, wild ginger and thimbleberry. Wiggling it occasionally for the reassuring sound it gave—old habits, permanently imprinted. Like the spitting glare from a phosphorus shell.

  Not that he slept much anyway. But just knowing the line was on duty helped. Peace of mind of a sort.

  Voelker smiled at the thought. Fat fucking chance; hell, not even the VA medication helped anymore. All that seemed to work was the smoke he grew and the ever-increasing slugs of cheap booze, now over half his disability check. Not an encouraging scenario. Unless you took into consideration what he had riding: all the booze and dope he'd ever want before long. The check in the mail, so to speak.

  Finished with the line, Voelker brought out dry wood from the shack and made a fire in the ring of stones. Light from the flames flickered around the now dim clearing, casting shadows on the shack and the jungle foliage behind, ghosts passing by like flotsam around a rock. Kamehameha kills, most likely, their heads bashed in by the big man's war clubs—regulars out here for two hundred years.

  He saluted them with rum, opened another fifth.

  Ten klicks down the valley, a few lights came on as the darkness deepened. Not much there, he knew, several houses, some beach campers. Outsiders—more than enough to suit him; hell, blowing up the damn one-lane in'd be fine by him.

  Voelker reached in, pulled out a burnt twig. Letting it cool, he lined the char under his eyes, smeared his forehead and cheeks; felt it coming on. Felt them out there—small men in NVA uniforms just beyond the light. He thumbed the safety off, pointed the .45 at the jungle, and fired. A phantom went down and he spun and fired again; one reaching the perimeter jerked back into the blackness. More rounds and more imaginary targets blown away. Reload and fire, firing until the slide locked open—the targets all down now, gone in a mad minute of blue haze and near-erotic release.

  All but one.

  It was as though a shadow had materialized, emerged against the green, shifting and undulating now in the breeze that had sprung up. It stood there as Voelker blinked, the empty gun at his side.

  "Hey, Top, how's it hanging? Nice wire, by the way."

  Voelker felt his throat constrict, fingers of ice on his sac. The figure with the blackened face held a K-Bar lightly, its eight-inch stainless-steel blade catching the firelight. Without seeming to move, the apparition came closer.

  "Not too chatty, huh? Funny, that's not what I heard."

  From someplace far off, Voelker heard the rum bottle drop from his hand. "Stay back, goddamnit. I'm warning—"

  "They can kill you but they can't eat you—remember that one? Quang Tri, I think it was." Closer now.

  "Get away from me. You're not real."

  It shook its head. "Guess that makes two major fuckups in the same month, Top. I look like some ghost to you?"

  Everything in Roy Voelker screamed get out of there—survive—but he couldn't. His legs were bad-dream-leaden. He was vaguely aware of hard eyes, black pullover and pants, and the feeling he'd just been hit by lightning—even though the storm had left the valley.

  TWO

  As it turned out, the guy who'd snaked his wave, then made a big issue of it when Wil Hardesty protested the drop-in, was all mouth. Even so, they'd almost gotten into it on the beach, the guy coming on as if he'd been wronged, freaking locals thinking they owned the world, on and on until Wil left the argument to the younger dudes who'd picked up on it, shouts and curses and testosterone rising all around until a gem set arrived that had everybody scrambling back out for position.

  Everybody but him.

  Since the trouble with Lisa, all of it was an effort, just getting through the day most days. Let alone tilt at what the Rincon was becoming—regular zoo when the big winter swells made it the prize of California surf spots. Perfect right point break that sometimes let you rip down the entire length, wind raising spray off the lip like the smoke from a prairie fire.

  Still, even the occasional forays into Hollister Ranch—gated turf with no lineups and often jacking breaks, courtesy of a property-owner friend—lately were leaving him deflated. As though he had a slow leak in his thirty-year passion for the sport, flaccidity now where tumescence had once reigned undisputed.

  Hard to remember a time when he hadn't surfed. First at The Wedge, this skinny squirt who had to be fished out gasping and upchucking, but who'd left his heart out there and soon was eclipsing his dawn-patrol pals with wild rides under the Newport Beach pier. There'd been seconds and thirds at Huntington then, La Jolla and Santa Cruz, the setup to turn pro and run the circuit before he'd pulled the plug, realizing it was somebody else's ambition. That it was he and the water—nobody else. Juice surging in there like a private tide in his veins, tremolo chord on a surf guitar.

  Until now. Until the divorce.

  Since he was close by, Wil made a Viennese run to the Coffee Grinder, couple of scon
es and a loaf of herb bread for later, then hit the road for home. Past the Rincon, around the two-mile sweep of coastline that led to Mussel Shoals and Ventura, left across the northbound traffic heading for Santa Barbara's red-tiled coziness, and into La Conchita.

  Oil roughnecks had lived here in the twenties, rumrunners in the thirties, drug smugglers, surfers, and retirees since then, La Conchita now about four hundred souls. Plus California's only banana plantation, its Javas, Brazilians, and Ladyfingers ripening in blue plastic bags encasing the green clusters. And that sweet curve of beach just beyond the highway. Worth the price alone.

  But La Conchita lay just under a coastal bluff that nearly ate it a season ago—as it was, devouring an unlucky line of homes when rains turned the substrata into wet soap. For days, national media and locals maintained a twenty-four-hour vigil, flooding the area at night with a cold eerie illumination.

  This time, the bluff held.

  Warning tape and wire fencing still marked affected structures; mud lingered in berms and piles. Residents backed cars into their driveways, quick getaway in case of further slippage. Sandbags and legal wrangle over the cleanup were further legacy.

  Life in a geologic hazard area.

  Wil parked his '66 Bonneville, repainted now with some of Holly Pfeiffer's expense money—Holly of the urban terrorists and the secrets from hell; woman-child Holly; pang-in-the-heart Holly. He retrieved the Southern Cross—his longboard—from the port he'd cut in the back seat, and stowed it. Climbed the stairs to the kitchen, started the Viennese going; thought how little he even thought about the mud anymore. Partly because his house was closer to the beach, out of range unless the slide decided next time to stop at the islands. But more because he'd been flattened by another force.

  Lisa's little tsunami.

  The divorce left him a long swim back to the surface and serious doubts about making the payments on the house. He'd refinanced, needing the equity just to take up the slack. But reality lay as close and hungry as the unstable mass up the street, and the investigations business was sporadic: accident reconstructions, occasional insurance work, some under-the-table stuff, legacy of the garbage he used to take in after Dev's dying. Devin Kyle Hardesty, child of water and to water returned—eight years now, the time like thin gauze. As for the work, lucky to get it these days.

  But it wasn't enough. Even though Lisa had given him the house minus her share of the equity, her accounting practice still expanding. She'd taken next to nothing. Clean break, she called it, fresh start—hoping her spin would infuse him. They still spoke, Lisa helping him sort out the finances she'd handled for the two of them. Adjunct of her work now.

  Politeness was the operative mode. But it was more a scab over the wound, masking the torn root holes still bleeding inside. Sometimes they'd see each other in Santa Barbara, awkward at first then more routine. They'd smile, have dinner when more came up than they could handle by phone. Each time he swore it would be the last, her almond eyes and black hair cut short since the split searing holes in his carefully applied exterior—delaminating it, making him want her back. Knowing it wasn't going to happen.

  Typical conversation—him: "How're your folks, the orchid business, your new place, accounting." Her: "Fine, thanks—the house okay? Surfing? Your work?" Scripted stuff, like the football coach who wrote out his first plays from scrimmage. Nothing from either of them about who you're seeing, Devin memories, what's it like without me—anything of real importance. Just ice skating: smiles without warmth, nonengagement. Bullshit he'd seen so many of their friends perfect.

  The big empty.

  He'd been out once—twice if you counted Claire from the gym, where he signed up for an off-peak-hours membership. Forcing himself out there as much as anything. The other had been a disaster, all self-conscious talk and gestures, edgy glances. Perfunctory sex he finally called off, as much to her relief as his.

  Some life, Hardesty. Possibilities galore.

  Feeling the need for something in which to lose himself, he settled on building a telescope—a big astrological scope like the one his father constructed when Wil was in grade school. Looking at the faraway stars and planets, he and his father became close: visited Griffith Observatory, charted the heavens by season. Created something that still resonated.

  So he read up, scrounged a five-foot piece of ten-inch cardboard tubing, a pair of eight-inch glass portholes, and started in. First task was fashioning the primary mirror. Which meant grinding one porthole against the other, using wax to fix the increasingly fine grit to the grinder as the headphones torqued out Beach Boys and Beethoven, Sheryl Crow and Branford Marsalis, Roy Orbison—CDs impulse-bought or borrowed from friends.

  Poorman's therapy.

  Five months later, after getting the glass to the required convex mirror shape, he had it aluminized. He secured the mirror, set the focal length, fastened an eyepiece purchased from an enthusiasts' journal. Finally he took the monster up to the top of Camino Cielo—renewed an old acquaintance with the stars in Orion's belt, saw the rings of Jupiter, peered into the Milky Way. Remembered the way it was before his mother veered drunkenly into a busload of El Toro recruits in 1967, taking the telescope man with her.

  After two trips, he stowed the scope in the basement.

  Then there were the well-meaning invitations that finally stopped coming: western-dance classes, adult ed, fixer-uppers, fun-runs, organized mixers—parallel universes as remote feeling as the craters on the moon.

  The gym was an exception. At least something positive came from that, the chance to work off some of the flab accrued from his post-split torpors. And nonthreatening human contact—hi's and hellos from the morning workouters who simply vanished into another dimension after ten A.M.

  Day tight compartments. Damage control.

  And then the call.

  It was late, after eleven, and he was getting ready for bed, last scan of the horizon with the living-room scope, quick look at the news. He let it ring, heard his own voice say, "Leave a message, I'll phone you back." Giving him a chance to work up to responding, avoid those wanting to get too close.

  Hesitation: the caller thinking it over, a salesman deciding to call back when the occupant might pick up, set the hook before the fish had a chance to wriggle off. Wrong time, though. Salespeople invariably called at dinner.

  Finally a deep breath, a female voice, heavy and deliberate—drugged if he had to guess, maybe plastered. "I was hoping this is the Wil Hardesty who knew my son, Denny." Pause: "Denny Van Zant? I'll call back when someone's—"

  Wil had the receiver up by then, little echos reverberating. "Maeve?" All he could say.

  "Wil? It's good to hear your voice."

  He'd never have recognized her if she hadn't said the name, so different was the voice. Foggy and uncertain, a 45 played at 33. Not the Maeve Van Zant he remembered: quick and vivacious, a slim blond woman seemingly just off a fashion runway, never a hair out of place.

  Denny's mom. Denny Van Zant.

  Lord.

  Trying to recall how many years now: fifteen since the military funeral at Westwood, the long lines of black limousines and white crosses. Twenty-eight or thirty beyond that.

  "How are you, Maeve? It's been too long."

  "So it has," she said with sadness—or maybe it was the filter it was coming through. "Wil, I can't talk right now, but I need to see you. I'd heard that you…looked into things for people. Something we could keep between us." Pause. "You always were like family. You know that, don't you?"

  "Sure, Maeve. You still living down in Newport?"

  "Oh my, not for years. We're in Malibu now." She gave him the address, 114 Ocean View Terrace.

  He asked for directions, wrote them down.

  "How's Mr. Van Zant?"

  "He's fine." Not much there in her tone. "Wil, I hate to trouble you, but can you make it tomorrow afternoon? That way we can take our time. Catch up a little."

  "How's two? And it's no trouble, Maeve
."

  "Two o'clock, then. I'm glad."

  "Me, too," he said, finally giving in to where his thoughts had spun off. "How's Trina?" he asked. "Still married to the—" But by then Maeve Van Zant had hung up and he was left holding the receiver and looking out at distant lights.

  Back to TOC

  Here is a preview of David Housewright’s young adult novel of suspense Finders Keepers…

  PROLOGUE

  Tuesday, March 31

  About twenty people actually saw the robbery take place, although hundreds more would later brag that they saw it, too. James Richard McNulty was one of the twenty. He was sitting on a bench at the time, waiting for the bus that would take him home. He had come downtown directly after school to buy a birthday present for his mother. Not just any gift, either. It was a silver music box that played the George Gershwin song Summertime when you opened the lid, his mother's favorite tune. James Richard had to order the box special and the cost nearly exhausted his savings. Yet he decided it would be a small price to pay if the gift made his mother smile just once the bright, dazzling smile that used to fill him with such joy and comfort. Lately, James Richard's mother never smiled. There was trouble at home.

  Sheila McNulty's husband, James Richard's father, had never been a happy man. Nothing pleased him; he shouted all the time. But in the last year his mood had grown increasingly worse. Even violent. He had been passed over for a promotion and in his anger and frustration; he blamed the failure on his wife and son. He claimed that being married and becoming a father had ruined his life. James Richard was tired of hearing it. He wished that his father would go away and his parents would get a divorce. Then it would be just him and his mother. He tightly gripped the bag that held the music box and smiled at the thought.