by John Chabot
"Well, sure. The place has been closed for months. Needed some air, didn't I? Just went down to the hardware store. Hell, I wasn't gone fifteen minutes."
The other man was Harry Chervenic. He was somewhere in his late fifties. He was shorter than average, and maybe weighed a bit more than he should. It wasn't round weight, though. He had been described as a tree stump, and that was probably as close as you could get. What hair he had was in a race to see who would fall out, and who would stick around long enough to go gray. So far it seemed to be a tie. His dark, bushy eyebrows seemed unaffected by it all.
He asked, "Find anything?"
"Yeah, I think so. I want to check something."
Curvy or not, both men watched as she went out through the screen door. Olsen said, "Women cops. Things sure change."
Harry nodded. "Yeah, they do. So, is that it? The TV and the VCR?"
"That and a six-pack I had in the fridge. Son of a bitch took that, too."
"How long are you planning to be here?"
"Planned to retire here. Now I don't know. My wife's going to throw a fit. We came down here to get away from the break-ins and the mugging. Hell, I could see it maybe in the summer, bunch of damn school kids around. But November?"
They moved out onto the porch, Harry saying, "We'll be in touch, Mr. Olsen."
"Yeah, I'll bet. Come on, give me a break here. What are the chances I'll ever see that stuff again?"
Harry started to answer, but was cut off. Olsen was staring at something up the street. He said, "What the hell is she doing over there?"
This was a typical beach road, running off from the main road and ending a hundred yards later in a barricade and a pile of sand. Summer cottages lined each side, most of them closed for the winter. Sidewalks ran down both sides, but were covered in places by drifting sand.
Harry crossed the street, watching Mickie a few houses up. She squatted by the side of the road, one hand lightly brushing the sand in front of her. She glanced up as he approached.
He asked, "Something there?"
"A little. He's twenty-six years old, drives a gray Chevy van. Smokes a lot. Filter tips. He parked here waiting for Olsen to leave. Then he went in."
Harry nodded, suspicious. "And I'll bet you even know his name."
Mickie stood up, brushing the sand from her fingers. "Vernon Abbott."
"And you see all that written in the sand?"
Mickie grinned. "Sherlock Holmes was a chump."
In the afternoon, Terry walked to the other pier, the one to the north. Coming back, the wind was in his face, making him duck his head, watering his eyes. It worked its way down his neck, making him wish he'd worn a scarf.
When he was nearly back, he noticed ahead of him a figure coming out of the dunes. It turned in the same way he was going, and he recognized it as the man he'd seen before. He couldn't see clearly because of the wind, but was sure it was him. The other man started walking briskly and then, after only a few steps, stopped. His arm came up behind him, pressing against his arched back. He straightened, took a few more tentative steps, then suddenly dropped to his knees. He knelt there, not moving, as Terry came up to him.
"You all right?" Dumb question, but what else do you say? There was no answer, so Terry moved around to face him. He was sitting back on his heels, his body rigid, his hands opening and closing into fists, eyes closed, head down. He didn't seem to be breathing. Terry knelt beside him, knowing the look of intense pain, but not knowing what to do about it. He looked around, up and down the beach, but there was no one close enough to be any help.
Then the man began to relax. His hands made one last set of fists, then opened as he suddenly exhaled and began to breathe again. His eyes opened and he seemed surprised to see Terry.
"Are you all right?" The question made more sense now.
"Yes, I think so."
He didn't look all right. His face was drained, and he made no effort to get up.
"Can I help you?"
"I'll be all right. It's gone now."
He took a few deep breaths, settled himself, and started to get up. Terry caught him before he fell, surprised at how light he was. Despite his big-boned stockiness, there seemed to be no meat on him. His clothes hung on him, as if he had borrowed them from someone bigger.
"Better take it easy."
The man's expression changed to one of annoyance. "What a pain in the ass. I hate this."
"Do you live nearby?"
"That white house with the blue roof." He nodded back over his shoulder, wincing a little as he did.
"Is there someone there who can help?"
"No, I live alone. Anyway, I'll be all right in a minute." He said it as if determination was all it took.
"Okay. When you're ready, just let me know, and we'll get you back to the house."
The man seemed ready to refuse this. He started to get up again, then thought better of it. "Yes, thank you."
This time he got up more slowly and made it. He stood for a moment, breathing evenly, concentrating. He was somewhat older than Terry, perhaps in his forties. He had a squarish face, with thinning sandy hair, and very green eyes.
He put a large, bony hand on Terry's shoulder, and together they started slowly back. As they moved, the man began to walk more easily. By the time they reached the house, he was moving on his own. He went up the steps cautiously, but without help.
It was a bigger house than most along the beach, two stories, with a barn-like roof and a wide porch that surrounded it like a moat. There were double doors that, during the heat of the summer, could be opened to let the ocean breeze flow through. Rocking chairs were scattered about the porch, facing the ocean. A set of bamboo chimes hung at one corner of the porch, turning the wind to a soft, mellow sound. It occurred to Terry that, in good weather, this would be a fine place to sit in the evening with someone you liked, to listen to the gulls, and smell the ocean breeze. A place to enjoy.
Terry had stopped at the bottom of the steps. As the other man reached the top, he turned and asked, "Would you like some tea?"
Connor Beach is an island, one of a long string that skirt the coast of North Carolina. It lies no more than a short bridge length from Wilford on the mainland, but considers itself in no way a part of that community. Being no more than three miles long and a few hundred yards wide, it's more of an overgrown sandbar than an island. One main road runs from tip to tip, with short side streets branching off toward the ocean on one side and the Intracoastal Waterway on the other.
Harry drove south along the main road, Mickie beside him. Between beach houses and condos, he caught glimpses of a slate gray ocean under a gray sky. Mickie was talking.
"People come down to open their beach houses. Of course, that's usually in the spring. They have a van or a pickup, or they're hauling a trailer full of stuff. TVs, computers, whatever. They're easy to spot."
"And Vernon spots them."
"Right."
"And they leave the windows open for him."
"Sure. First thing you do is air the place out. Take the next left. It's down at the end."
The few houses on the short, sandy street were old, most of them in need of paint and repair. In front of the last one on the left was parked a pathetic-looking gray van. Harry pulled in behind it.
Getting out, Harry said, "If it was me, I'd have fenced that stuff by now."
"He can't," said Mickie, "it's Thursday."
Harry cut her a look. "And?"
"There's only one reliable fence around here, and he goes up to Morehead every Thursday. It's the only day he gets to see his kids."
Harry shook his head in disbelief. "I've got a lot to learn about small town crime."
At the rear of the van, they cupped their hands to look through the windows. "Looks like it's all there," said Mickie.
"I don't see the six-pack. I'll bet he's half through it by now. By the way, what were you looking at on the ground back there at Olsen's? You just pulling my chain?
"
"Tobacco and cigarette filters. When Vernon finishes a butt, he doesn't just flip it away. He knocks off the head, breaks off the filter, then crumples the rest with his fingers. Does it with one hand. He thinks it's cool. I think he learned it in the army. About the only thing he learned before they booted him. Anyway, he smokes a lot. You can always tell where Vernon's been."
"You'd think he'd learn."
Mickie grinned. "Who's going to tell him?"
As she said it, they heard the muffled bang of a screen door slamming. Mickie listened for a second, then started running for the back of the house. Harry looked up at the house and saw a woman, gray hair in a tight bun, one hand to her mouth, looking at them fearfully. Then he took off after Mickie.
Vernon was heading for the beach, charging headlong through the sand, eyes wide, arms flailing. As he approached the water, it occurred to him that he had chosen the wrong direction. He skidded to a stop, started to head up the beach, then saw that Mickie had cut him off. Damn! This was just not his day. Harry came through the last of the dunes, breathing heavily, moving toward Vernon's other side.
Mickie said, "What are you going to do, Vernon, swim to Bermuda?"
Vernon looked desperately up and down the beach. He was young, but already going to paunch. Light hair hung just past his shoulders. Despite the excitement, his eyes moved slowly.
Mickie kept her voice calm. "There's no place to run. We're on an island, for God's sake. Besides, you smoke too much. Hell, even Harry here could catch you."
"It ain't fair." Vernon had decided it was over. "It just ain't fair." He plodded back to stand before them. As Mickie slipped on the cuffs, he turned to Harry. "You know what I mean? You go to school with a girl, you think you know her, and she turns into a cop. It ain't right." He stopped, looking at Harry more closely. "Mickie, who's he?"
"Vernon, this is Harry Chervenic. He's new."
Vernon checked him critically. "He don't look new."
"He is, though. He's a supercop, all the way from Baltimore. And he knows all about you, Vernon. He took one look at that break-in and knew it was you."
"Oh, Lordy." It was almost a moan. "People you go to school with turn into cops, and now you're bringing them in from Baltimore."
They started back to the car, Mickie and Vernon in front, Harry looking amused behind them. Mickie said, "I thought you were going to stop breaking into houses."
"I did. But the van needs a new transmission."
"Vernon, someday you're going to prison, you know that, don't you? What's your mama going to do then? How's she going to hold up her head in church, knowing you're doing hard time in Central?"
"Yeah, I know. It's like I said. It ain't fair."
CHAPTER 3
The question surprised him. It seemed out of place. "I'm sorry. Did you say tea?"
"Yes. I'm going to make some for myself, anyway."
"Maybe you ought to rest."
"No, I'm fine now. It's passed. Come on in."
He seemed genuinely to want Terry to stay. Was it because he was afraid he would have another attack, or did he want the company? A sudden gust of chill air down Terry's neck decided him.
"If you're sure you feel all right."
As they went through the double doors, the man stopped and took off his shoes. He set them just inside the doors, then turned and held out his hand. "I'm Matt Carlsberg. I guess we didn't get around to names."
"Terry Eason."
"Well, make yourself at home, Terry. You do like tea, don't you?"
"I guess so, on a day like this. Listen, I noticed you took your shoes off. I mean, should I . . .?"
"Oh, that's just a habit I picked up living in Japan. I like it. It's hard to be stuffy with your shoes off, but suit yourself."
Matt moved toward the kitchen stiffly, but steadily. Terry, feeling self-conscious, took off his shoes and set them by the others. Looking around the room, he saw it was sparely furnished, most of it the kind of stuff you'd expect to find in a house at the beach — inexpensive, utilitarian, a lot of plastic. Only in one corner was it different. There, against a window looking out to sea, was a desk of some dark wood. It was old and deeply polished, standing out as the one richly expensive piece in the room. Its surface was nearly bare, except for a rather fine-looking brass lamp in one corner. At the opposite corner lay a dagger with a thin, curved blade and a handle inlaid with multi-colored tiles. The metal of the blade looked too shiny to be steel. Terry picked it up and was surprised at how light it was. He tested the blade and found it had almost no edge at all. The point was almost rounded. Not really meant to be used, he thought.
In a built-in bookcase beside the desk were perhaps a dozen books of various sizes, their backs in a neat row and arranged by height. He saw one of selected English and American poetry, a small volume on the art of warfare, a book of plays in French and another in Italian. There were several on philosophy and one titled, "Religions of the World".
He felt someone near him and was startled to find Matt standing behind him.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to be nosey."
"For what? Everyone looks at books. It's like meeting old friends in unexpected places. Do you want anything with your tea?"
"Uh, no, not really."
"Good. Afternoon tea is a habit I picked up living in England. It's their chief contribution to civilization, probably something to do with their climate, but I never could get used to eating in the middle of the afternoon."
An ivory-colored teapot, decorated with a few small, blue flowers, sat on a glass-topped coffee table. Beside it were two matching cups without handles. They looked Chinese or Japanese.
They sat in chairs with plastic cushions that squeaked whenever they moved. Matt poured and said, "The furniture isn't mine. It came with the house. About the only thing I brought with me was that desk and the lamp."
"Yes, they don't seem to belong here."
"No, I guess they don't. I bought them from a friend in Italy. He needed the money and wouldn't take a loan. I tend to move a lot, so I usually travel light. The desk is an exception. I take it with me whenever I can. My symbol of stability, I suppose. It's one of the few things I can say is mine."
"Does the dagger go with it?"
"Oh, that." He laughed softly. "I guess it does."
"I thought it might be a ceremonial dagger, something like that."
"Oh, Lord no. They make them by the thousands. Strictly tourist junk. A friend of mine bought it in New Delhi. If she paid more than three dollars, she was robbed. Probably was, anyway. She bought it as a joke."
The first sip of the tea was a surprise. On the rare occasions when Terry made tea, it was a bag in a mug with hot water until the color looked about right. Its greatest asset was that it was hot. But this did more than warm him. There was taste, real taste. And aroma. A wonderful, heady fragrance that started at the roof of his mouth and seemed to work its way up. As it seeped through him, he could literally feel himself begin to relax.
The older man was watching him closely. "Do you live here year round, then?"
"No, I wish. I've never spent much time at the beach. Always working, I guess."
"And now?"
Terry turned the cup in his hands, uneasy at the thought of explaining. He looked at Matt and saw real interest, but didn't know if he could put it into words. Finally he said, "My father is an accountant."
That struck him as an asinine reason to be spending a month at the beach in winter. He went on. "Good times, bad times, he always had a job. He didn't get rich, but he took care of his family. I admired him. I still do. He meets his responsibilities, because that's how he is. I like my Dad. Part of me wanted to be like him — still does. I studied, got my CPA, got a job. My boss is a jerk, but the job is all right."
He stopped to take another sip. "The only problem is, after I got all this, I found out I'm not my father. Hell of a time to find out, when you're thirty-two."
Matt frowned at that. "We all fin
d out sooner or later. In my case, it was too soon."
Terry waited for him to go on, but he said nothing more.
Terry said, "He got a lot of satisfaction from making things come out even. I'm afraid it's not all that much of a thrill for me."
"So you're taking a break?"
"More than that. I've always been a closet writer. After school, then after work, on lunch breaks or weekends. It takes time to write, or to learn to write. I work in as much time as I can, but it's never on a regular schedule."
Matt nodded agreement. "To be good at anything, you have to do it with consistency."
"Right. Anyway, that's what I'm doing now. I have two weeks vacation and another two of extended leave, which means I don't get paid. It'll be tight when I get back. I borrowed the house, so at least I don't have to pay rent."
"And how's it going?"
Terry refused a refill and answered, "Not too badly, although sometimes I wonder what the hell I'm doing here. Actually, it was Kelly's idea. She's the one who owns the house. She talked me into it — or maybe she helped me talk myself into it."
"Good for her, if it's something you really want."
"It's more than wanting. It's become an obsession." He laughed self-consciously at using such a strong word, but also knew it was accurate.
"At first, it was like a hobby. An amusement. Then it got out of hand. I was afraid it would interfere with my work. Lately, I've started thinking of my work as something that interferes with the writing. I'm at the point where I have to decide, and frankly, trying to make a living at writing scares the hell out of me. I hear my father saying not to give up a sure thing. And Kelly keeps saying I should go for it."
"And how do you feel?"
"Like I'm stepping off the end of the pier, hoping the sharks aren't too hungry."
"What if you decide to chuck your job for writing, then later find you're tired of that, too?"
Terry looked up at that, saw the slow smile that went with it. He couldn't tell if the man was serious or not. "Then I guess I'll end up being a floater. It's the one kind of person my father looked down on. I think he classed them with the unfortunates of the world, like drunks and the insane."