The Vanishing Expert

by David Movsesian

  On Sunday evening, the sun sank low behind the western hills, bathing Bar Harbor and Frenchman’s Bay, and the fishing boats and the big tour boats that anchored there, in a warm light. The rounded peak of Cadillac Mountain was a blue-gray silhouette against a clear evening sky that was briefly streaked with muted orange and yellow before dusk settled in over the town. The string of islands separating Bar Harbor from Frenchmen's Bay— Bar Island, Sheep Porcupine, Bald Porcupine and Long Porcupine— slowly faded from view as darkness descended upon them.

  On the far side of Burnt Porcupine Island, Joe Tibbits found himself alone, looking out at the vast open water of Frenchmen's Bay. He glanced at his watch— it was eight o’clock. Moments earlier, he’d climbed into his rented kayak and pushed away from the rocky shore where he’d spent the last few hours, and padded slowly out into the bay and the encroaching darkness. Now, drifting well off shore on a calm sea, he reached into his shirt pocket and removed the small flashlight James had given him. He clicked the flashlight on and off repeatedly— one short burst followed by two long, precisely as James had demonstrated. When he saw the boat approaching, he was to watch for that signal and then return it so James could find him in the dark. Trusting that the light worked, Joe slipped it back into his pocket and waited impatiently for James’s arrival.

  It was an evening that would have brought only the most tranquil of thoughts to anyone but Joe Tibbits, a man whose mind seemed incapable of such things. His own thoughts wandered back to the red-headed waitress he'd met in Brunswick two years earlier; a pretty woman, if a bit fleshy. But she had enormous breasts, which was what Joe Tibbits remembered most about her, and sometimes, he knew, that meant a soft ass came with the package. He tried to think of her name, but it eluded him. He could remember the feeling of her large breasts in his hands, gripping them too roughly. He vividly remembered the sensation of his fist striking her square in the face when she protested, and the sound of her dress tearing and the soft, almost inaudible, sobbing as he raped her and left her in a whimpering heap in a remote corner of the darkened beach. But for the life of him, he couldn’t remember her name. As he waited for James’s boat to appear, he considered paying that woman another visit on his way south.

  In all, there had been twenty-four women who'd known the sensation of Joe Tibbits’ fist crushing the bones in their faces, although he'd long since lost count. After a while, their faces all seemed to bleed into one. They all looked alike to him as he lay on top of them. They all sounded alike when they whimpered or gasped for breath or pleaded for him to stop. Their blood was all the same irritating shade of red. What did it matter, then, what their names were? In Joe Tibbits’ troubled mind their names were as insignificant as the women themselves. So what possible difference did it make how many there had been— or how many more would follow?

  These were the thoughts that swirled in Joe Tibbits’ mind as the boat appeared in the distance, emerging from the far side of Long Porcupine Island and making a wide arc before heading slowly in his direction. He looked nervously about him, making certain that no one was within view. They were alone. Anyone who’d been out on the water had long since gone ashore for the evening or was moored in Bar Harbor on the other side of the islands.

  In the failing light, it was difficult for him to make out the detail of the boat. He was uncertain whether it was James until he saw the signal, the small bursts of light— one short and two long— exactly as they had agreed. Joe reached into his pocket and produced the flashlight. He pointed it at the approaching boat, and returned the signal. Repeating it twice to make certain James could see him.

  The only sound he could hear was that of the rumbling of the boat’s engine and its wooden hull pushing over the waves as the boat changed course slightly and turned toward him. As it drew closer, the signal came again from the approaching boat, and Joe Tibbits returned it once again— one short, two long. Then he pointed the narrow beam of light at the boat, squinting at it as it drew closer.

  The frantic thoughts that raced through Joe Tibbits’ mind as the big wooden boat suddenly accelerated— the rumble of the engine pausing for a moment, as if drawing a breath, before surging forward— were not of the women he’d tormented and beaten, or even of escaping from the path of the heavy wooden hull that was suddenly bearing down upon him. What he felt in that final moment, as he sat motionless in his little plastic boat, was the same helpless terror that he’d instilled in all twenty-four of his victims. If their faces had all become one face to him, that was the face he saw at the wheel of the approaching boat as it roared ever closer. But the sound that emerged from his stricken throat was not a plea for help or even the name of any one of those women, whose names he’d long since forgotten, if he ever knew them at all. The last word he uttered was a deep guttural sound that exploded out of him almost involuntarily, as if it were the only word he could summon that could express his surprise and his terror and his rage at that final violent moment of his violent life.

  “MOODY!”

  Only one other person could have heard the anguished sound that rose out of Joe Tibbits’ chest and exploded from his throat, but he was piloting the boat with such a single-minded resolve directly at the tiny beacon clutched firmly in Joe Tibbits’ hand that the sound that came from Joe Tibbits did not register as a word at all. He was aware of only two sounds— the impact of the heavy wooden bow of his boat as it sliced effortlessly through the tiny kayak and its helpless occupant, and that of his own voice uttering, almost reverently, the name of his long departed wife: “Rose.”

  Then, but for the steady rumbling of Ben Jordan’s engine as he turned his boat and arced back around the island from which he’d come, there was only silence.

  31

  Goodnight, Rose

  As Ben Jordan rumbled up to his mooring in the calm waters of Northeast Harbor, the images of Joe Tibbits disappearing beneath the bow of his boat played out before him in the darkness. They were so vivid he imagined that everyone could see them, as if all of the occupants of the boats silently moored in the harbor were at that moment bearing witness to the violence he’d engineered only an hour before.

  He tied his boat to his mooring, and, reaching into a duffel bag, produced a tumbler and a bottle of twelve-year-old single malt scotch. His hand trembled as he poured the first shot, the neck of the bottle rattling against the rim of the glass. He quickly drank the contents of the glass without even tasting it, and poured himself another.

  When Ben Jordan awoke that morning, he had no way of anticipating the events of the day or how they would change him.

  It began as any other day. He awoke early and climbed slowly out of his bed, giving his legs an opportunity to become steady beneath him before wandering into the bathroom. It was often the most troublesome part of his morning ritual because the sullen old man who glared back at him while he shaved was a daily reminder of the void that had remained in him since Rose’s death. There were mornings when Ben looked right through the man in the mirror as if he wasn’t there at all, but more often he tensed at the sight of him. And on those mornings when the razor nicked the chin of the angry man glaring back at him, Ben took a perverse pleasure in watching him bleed.

  The stranger had arrived the day Rose was attacked, but that man was mostly sorrowful and helpless, filled with angst and anger, all of it always just beneath the surface. It took an extraordinary effort to push those emotions down so he could be there for Rose, so he could remain resolute in his task of bringing her back. The angry, bitter man, the one that stared back at him now— four decades older— he came later; after the attack, but before Rose swallowed the pills and left him forever. Rose was gone, but this unwelcome intruder remained as a daily reminder of what he’d once had— and what he’d lost.

  Those who saw Ben Jordan in public were unaware of the Angry Man; they met only the benevolent, yet private, millionaire who greeted them with a tip of his hat and a friendly smile. While they noted that there wa
s rarely any interruption of his quick measured strides, they always assumed a man of his stature was simply in a hurry to get where he was going; no one ever concluded he might be hurrying to put as much distance as possible between himself and his antagonist.

  On those days when Ben couldn’t separate himself from the Angry Man in the mirror— and there were many such days— he remained in his home, avoiding interactions with the locals and shunning any visitors, though visitors were sparse. There were days when only his scotch would dull his hatred of that man, but there were just as many days when the alcohol only made it worse.

  “Death by drowning” Ben would sometimes mutter to himself as he raised his glass. (He meant death to the Angry Man, not to himself.)

  It wasn’t how he’d once imagined his life. When he was a younger man, even before he'd met Rose, he imagined sharing his home with a beautiful woman and children who would fill the rooms with love and laughter. Now it was the emptiness of the house that most saddened him, the big empty rooms often echoing back Rose’s name.

  On that Sunday morning, however, Ben had avoided looking in the mirror before he descended the stairs and strolled slowly through his living room toward the back door. The sun was streaming in through his windows as it did every morning, casting long bands of light and shadow across his floor in a familiar pattern. He stepped out onto his porch overlooking the harbor, planning to greet the day as he did each morning; a ritual which always included a whispered greeting to his long-departed wife. He felt nearest to her at those quiet early hours and in that peaceful place overlooking the water, despite her never having been there. He could almost hear her whispering to him in the low hiss and tumble of the water reaching the shore.

  So Rose had been in his thoughts, as always, when he ventured out onto his porch and looked out beyond the rose and azalea hedge to see James standing on the rocks near the water’s edge. James was standing perfectly still on that same spot where Ben had so often stood on those occasions when he urged the sea to explain itself to him— to finally tell him what it had in store for him. He wondered if James was doing the same— standing still and silent and waiting for a reply that might never come.

  Ben had no way of knowing that this was the day he would finally get his answer.

  Stepping off the porch and down the steps, he followed the familiar path around the rose hedge and over the rocks until he found himself standing at James’s side.

  “Good morning, Ben,” James said softly without turning to look at him.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here this morning,” Ben remarked. His tone was upbeat; frankly, he was grateful for the visit.

  “I didn’t know I was coming,” James said. “I just sort of wound up here. Not sure why.”

  “It’s a good spot to think, isn’t it?” Ben replied.

  When James finally turned to him, Ben was startled by the darkness he saw in James’s expression. The resemblance to the face that posed as his own reflection for the last forty years made him shudder. Ben had managed to elude it that morning by foregoing his morning shave, only to encounter it in the one place he least expected to see it.

  “You look awful, my friend,” Ben said to him. “What’s happened?”

  James stood silently for some time, gazing out over the water, not finding any more answers upon that stubborn sea than Ben had found over the years.

  “Is everyone okay?” There was more urgency in Ben’s voice now. “Jean? The baby?” He thought for a moment. “Christina?”

  It was only at that moment, as Ben took inventory of those he loved, that it occurred to James why he’d come. He’d arrived on that spot without thinking, as if carried by an unseen current. After a sleepless night of pondering his options, and considering the life he’d made and what he stood to lose, he hadn’t set out that morning intending to visit Ben. He had barely any recollection of arriving at Ben’s house, or of walking down the path that was not a path to that flat rock he now shared with his friend, but when he turned to look at his companion, Ben’s face etched with anguish and worry, he suddenly realized why he’d come. As a boy, had he been troubled, he would have sought his father’s advice. Without realizing it, that same instinct had led him to Ben.

  “They’re all fine,” James finally said. He drew a deep breath. “But there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Alright,” Ben replied.

  “This could take a while,” James said. He pointed toward Ben’s house. “Let’s sit.”

  They didn’t speak as they turned and navigated their way across the rocks and around the rose hedge. James was lost in thought, contemplating what he was about to do, the secrets he was about to reveal to his friend who, until this moment, had trusted him like a son.

  James didn’t fully understand his sudden need to confess everything to Ben. Unburdening himself of his sins— if that’s what they were— would provide no resolution to his problem. It wouldn’t change the fact that his secrets would be exposed in just a few days, or that the life he’d built since coming to the island would come to an abrupt and heartbreaking end once the events of the weekend played themselves out.

  Once they ascended the stairs to the wide porch, James settled into one of the wicker chairs that allowed him to look out over the harbor. Ben chose a seat directly adjacent to him, the two chairs separated only by a low empty table that stood between them, and he waited for James to speak. When he did, his voice was low, his tone indecisive at first, as if he were walking gingerly out on a frozen pond, testing the ice with each tentative step, fully expecting it to give way beneath him.

  James began with his marriage, but moved quickly to his intolerably unhappy life, and his desperate, selfish, and reckless act of escaping it on that Sunday morning in May three years earlier when he set off in his boat as Edward Moody and began his new life as James Perkins.

  Ben frowned but resisted the urge to offer judgment. He had the sense that there was much more, that this was the least of it, but Ben couldn’t help but be reminded of his own father’s abandonment of his mother sixty years earlier.

  James described the months following his departure, his effort to make a new life for himself, and his chance meeting with Joe Tibbits.

  He shared his wish to create a new life on the island, a simple and uncomplicated life filled with hard work and a loving family. His passion for these things resonated with Ben who had wanted the same for himself, but was cheated out of it, he felt; it was stolen from him in the most violent of ways.

  James never mentioned his brief affair with Christina— that was a secret that wasn’t his alone to share— but when he spoke of his love for Jean and for their son, his voice failed him, and he had to pause for a moment before he continued.

  He shared the events of the previous summer when Joe Tibbits suddenly appeared in town after searching for James for nearly two years. He explained that Joe had threatened to expose his secret if James refused to help him create a new identity for himself, and how he’d reluctantly agreed, not knowing then the violence Joe Tibbits had left in his wake.

  James thought he was rid of him until the previous afternoon when his tormentor returned, insisting that James help him once again. There seemed to be no end to it, just as there might be no end to it now if he were to help him again.

  That was when James produced the news clipping he’d torn from the Bangor Daily News the previous morning and handed it to Ben. The sketch was undeniably Joe Tibbits and the accompanying photograph from Joe’s Maine driver’s license left no doubt. The story detailed the trail of violence Joe had left behind him over the past few years— the red-headed waitress in Brunswick, the girl from the bar in Lewiston, the Rockland townie who had dared mock him in a Bangor club and was later attacked in the parking lot, and several more that had preceded them.

  James paused while Ben read the news story, allowing the weight of it to register on Ben’s face. When Ben finished reading, he handed the clipp
ing to James.

  “He’s back,” James told him. “This time he wants me to help him disappear for good.”

  “And if you refuse he’ll tell everyone who you really are.”

  James told Ben about the two letters— one to Gloria, the other to the detective who’d been pursuing Joe Tibbits for years. That would be all it would take to put an end to the life he knew.

  “But it’s worse than that,” James said. “He threatened Jean and Christina if I don’t help him. He even threatened Gloria and my sister, Kate.” James became agitated, shifting in his chair and rubbing his hands over his hair and his unshaven face.

  “So, you’re going to help him?” Ben finally asked him.

  James shook his head. “I can’t!” he said. “You read the article. How could I live with myself?”

  Ben thought for a moment before he realized that James wasn’t wrestling with those two options— helping Joe Tibbits or not helping him. He wasn’t weighing the lesser of two evils. He had already dismissed both of them before he’d even started his story. It occurred to Ben that James was considering a third option— something he was reluctant to speak of even despite all he’d already revealed.

  “What are you thinking?” Ben asked him.

  James turned and looked at Ben for what seemed like a long time. His face was taught, his eyes despairing as he considered whether to share the last part of his plan with his friend. He looked out at the rose hedge and then beyond it to the harbor. By the time the sun came up on that tranquil setting tomorrow, his life will have changed forever, he thought, but this scene would remain intact. It made him realize how inconsequential he was, how the troubles he faced wouldn’t cause a ripple on that vast sea or displace a single petal of a single rose. Whatever came of him made no difference. The only thing that mattered was that the people he loved were safe, and that he could live with his choices, which made it obvious how the events must play out. That revelation finally gave him the courage to speak of his plan.