“I’m okay, though?”
“Yep. You’ll probably be sleepy and a bit disoriented for another day or so, and you may never remember what happened very clearly. But otherwise, you’re going to be fine.” He turned to Eliza, who was standing beside the bed smiling down at me. “Hot liquids for a while. He might have trouble keeping down his food, so nothing spicy. Chicken noodle soup, tea, like that. You know how to reach me if you need to. But I don’t think there’ll be any complications.”
She nodded.
He turned to me. “I’ll notify the police.”
I shrugged and closed my eyes.
The next time I woke up, I felt stiff and achy and a bit more clearheaded. I lay there in the darkness thinking about what had happened, and for the first time, I realized that someone had tried to kill me.
I pondered the two most obvious questions— who? and why?—without much luck.
After a while, my door creaked open, and Eliza was standing there in the doorway, silhouetted against the light in the hallway. She was wearing something transparent. Backlit as she was, it revealed the womanly shape of her body.
“Are you awake?” she whispered.
“Come on in.”
The silk of her gown hissed in the darkness. She left the door open a crack. The light from the hallway lit up the wall beside me, leaving the rest of the room dim.
Eliza sat on the edge of the bed. “The police were here,” she said. “I sent them away. They’ll be back tomorrow.” She smelled clean. I reached up and felt her hair. It was damp.
She touched my face. “How are you feeling now?”
“Worse,” I said. “Which means I’m better, I guess. Less fuzzy. More achy. It feels as if I’m battered and bruised all over.”
“The drug’s worn off,” she said. “Can I get you something? Soup? Hot tea?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure I could stomach anything just now.” I tried to hitch myself into a sitting position. It hurt all over to move, and I grunted with the effort.
“I’ve got an idea,” said Eliza. “How about a nice back rub?”
“A nice back rub sounds … nice.”
She got off the bed. “You’ve got to roll over,” she said.
I did. It hurt.
I bunched a pillow under my face, and I felt Eliza strip the sheet and blankets off me.
I was wearing a pair of boxer shorts and a T-shirt. She tugged at the shirt and helped me get it off. Then she slid my shorts off.
I felt her hands on me. She’d squeezed some kind of warm lotion on to them, and they moved over my shoulders and neck, softly at first, then more firmly. Her fingers poked and massaged the knots of muscle, and I groaned.
“Am I hurting you?” she said softly.
“It feels great.”
After a minute, she said, “This is awkward for me.” I felt her weight on the bed, and then she was straddling me, sitting lightly on the backs of my thighs, and I know I wasn’t mistaken—she was wearing nothing under that gown, and she’d hitched it up around her hips.
Her warm, slippery hands were moving in circles over my shoulders, tracing my spine, pushing back up along my sides. She was bending over me, her bare thighs clamped against mine, and I could feel her hair brushing my back as she reached up to massage the muscles in my neck.
I realized I was responding to her.
“Jesus, Eliza,” I whispered. “You’re—”
At that moment, the room was suddenly filled with light. I opened my eyes, turned my head, and looked at the doorway. A man’s shape was silhouetted there.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” It was Patrick.
“I’m just giving poor Brady a back rub,” said Eliza.
“Like hell you are,” he said. “You’re fucking him.”
“No, I’m not, honey,” she said.
Patrick came into the room, grabbed Eliza’s arm, and yanked her off me.
She tumbled off the bed and onto the floor.
Patrick loomed over her. “You’re a whore,” he growled. “You’ve always been a whore.”
Eliza pushed herself to her feet. She stood there for a moment, facing him. Then she reached out a hand to him.
He slapped it away. “Don’t try that,” he said.
“Oh, baby,” murmured Eliza. “Be nice to Mommy.” She stepped closer to him and reached out her hand again. “Come on, baby boy. Mommy loves you best.”
This time, Patrick did not slap her hand away. Eliza took his hand, and Patrick just stood there. She lifted his hand to her mouth, kissed his palm, and then slowly lowered it to her breast.
Patrick stood there motionless. Eliza was pressing his hand against her breast, smiling up at him, and Patrick’s eyes were closed. She slid closer to him. He didn’t move. She leaned her body against his, and I could see her hips moving rhythmically against him.
Patrick moaned softly.
Eliza lifted her hand to the back of her son’s neck and guided his mouth down to hers, and it was a long, deep, openmouthed kiss.
I was transfixed.
I was horrified.
Suddenly, Patrick shoved her away from him. She fell against the bed and crumpled onto the floor.
He stood over her. His face was twisted, and his fists were clenching and unclenching. “Whore,” he whispered.
Then he reached down, grabbed her arm, hauled her to her feet, and backhanded her on the side of her head, sending her toppling backward.
“Hey!” I said.
Patrick ignored me.
He went after Eliza, grabbed her hair, and yanked her onto her feet again. She fell against him and tried to hug him. She was moaning and crying. “Baby boy … Mommy loves you … be nice to Mommy … Mommy will keep you safe …”
Patrick swatted her away, and again she toppled down. Then he bent down and grabbed her throat in both hands and began throttling her. Eliza’s eyes bulged and her face was turning red and she was making gurgling noises in her throat.
“Patrick,” I said. “Jesus! Cut it out.”
He ignored me.
I scrambled out of the bed. A shaft of pain zinged up into the center of my brain, and I staggered, momentarily dizzy. Then I righted myself and went after Patrick. I grabbed his shoulder. He shoved Eliza away, turned, and punched me on the point of my chin.
Lights exploded in my head, and I stumbled backward, crashed against the wall, and slumped down.
I blinked. The room was spinning. Vaguely, I saw Patrick go back after Eliza. He knelt down, grabbed her throat, and started banging her head against the floor. It seemed to be happening in slow motion, and I couldn’t move, could only watch Patrick Fairchild kill his mother… .
And then I heard a growl, saw a fast shadowy movement in the doorway, and in an instant Nate had his forearm around Patrick’s throat. He hauled him off Eliza and clubbed him on the side of the head. Patrick crashed against the wall, and Nate went after him, picked him up by the front of his shirt, and clubbed him again, and Eliza was screaming and Patrick was slumped on the floor, moaning, and Nate was cursing, going after him again, and then Eliza threw herself onto Nate’s back and wrapped her arms around his throat. She was crying. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. “Leave my baby alone,” she kept saying. “Don’t hurt him. Don’t hurt my little boy.”
And then, abruptly, it was over. Nate shrugged his sister off his back, nodded a couple of times, sighed, and sat down on the edge of my bed. Eliza knelt beside Patrick. She bent close to him, stroked his face, kissed his eyelids, whispered to him.
Nate’s big chest was heaving, and his face was wet with sweat. He looked at me, shook his head, and muttered, “Jesus Christ.” Then he narrowed his eyes. “You okay?”
I nodded. “You better call the police.”
“Police?” Nate shook his head. “This is family business, Mr. Lawyer.”
“He was trying to kill her,” I said.
Nate laughed quickly. “Not hardly.”
I
looked over to where Eliza was tending to Patrick. She was helping him to his feet. He staggered for a moment and put his arm on Eliza’s shoulder for support. He looked at me and Nate, nodded to each of us as if he were seeing us for the first time, and gave us a quick, apologetic smile.
Then he looked at Eliza and shook his head sadly. “‘Frailty,’” he said, “‘thy name is woman.’” Then he walked out of the room.
Chapter Twenty-three
J.W.
I got the old Land Cruiser into four-wheel drive and slithered through the rain up the slope to the cottage. There, Nate and I loaded Brady aboard and took him up to the big house. Brady was semiconscious, articulating an occasional clear word, but mostly mumbling about things I couldn’t understand. I was worried about concussion and hypothermia.
Eliza met us as we carried Brady inside. Her hand flew to her mouth and she gave a cry, but then, almost instantly, she turned cool and efficient, the way many women behave when there’s no time for faint nerves. “This way. We’ll get him into his bed and call the doctor. What happened?”
We got Brady to his room and told Eliza what we knew and what Brady had been saying.
“He’s got needles on his brain,” said Nate. “A hit on the head can make you pretty wacky.”
His sister gave him an angry look. “You’re an angel of sympathy, as usual. The poor man’s hurt.”
“I saved his ass, sister dear, which is more than you could have managed. Do something useful for a change, and call a doctor while J.W. and I get Brady into bed. Or would you rather undress him yourself?”
“You’re hateful!” Eliza stomped out of the room, and Nate and I got Brady out of his clothes and into dry briefs and a T-shirt we found in his bureau drawer. We had him tucked under the covers when Eliza came back into the room.
“The doctor is on his way.” She went straight to the bed and looked down at Brady.
“Good,” I said. “When he gets here, tell him everything—where we found him, how he’s been mumbling, everything.”
“Where you gonna be?” asked Nate.
“I’m going home to change my clothes, then I have to visit some tennis courts.”
Eliza took her eyes off Brady long enough to look at me. “Tennis courts?”
“Molly Wood and another woman I’ve been looking for are both tennis players, and I want to find out if anybody remembers seeing them play or remembers their partners. If they do, I want to talk with the partners.” I had a thought. “You play, don’t you? Did you ever see Molly playing with anyone?”
Eliza lifted her chin just a bit. “I only play at the Chappaquonsett Club. I don’t think Molly Wood is a member.”
“No, probably not.” According to the local papers, the Chappaquonsett Club had once allowed the vacationing family of the President of the United States to play there, even though they weren’t members, but I doubted that they’d extend a similar invitation to a widowed visiting nurse from Scituate.
“I’ll be back later,” I said. “Call me if Brady takes a bad turn.”
Eliza nodded, but she was already back to eyeing Brady. As I went out, I thought she had a slightly predatory look on her face.
The heater of the Land Cruiser didn’t work too well, and I was wet and cold, but before going home I drove down to the beach and collected my rod and waders. I stood there in the wind and rain and looked out at the rocks. The waves now slapped above the spot where Brady’s head had been not long ago. He had come within a whisker of drowning.
That thought gave me another kind of shiver as I drove home.
Zee took one look at me as I came into the house and said, “What happened?”
I told her while I stripped, and then I climbed into the shower and let the warm water wash the chill from my bones. When I came out, Zee had clean clothes laid out on the bed. I got into them.
“Maybe I should go up to the Fairchild place,” said Zee, handing me a cup of coffee. “I have the day off, and Brady could probably use a nurse.”
“The doctor should be there soon, and Eliza acted like she was never going to leave Brady’s side again, so he should be in good hands. But I’ll take the kids with me if you want to go. I’m going out again as soon as I give Dom Agganis a call.” I told her about my recollection of Frankie Bannerman’s remarks about Kathy playing tennis.
“It’s another link between her and Molly, isn’t it?” She made up her mind. “You’re probably right about Brady having all the help he needs, so I’ll go with you. I played a little tennis when I first came down here. Maybe I can show you some courts you don’t know about. You make your call, then let’s take my car. It’s got a heater that works.”
“I don’t have high hopes that we’ll learn much.”
“A long shot is better than no shot at all,” said Zee.
So I made my telephone call, then we loaded Joshua and Diana into the backseat and, with Zee driving and me riding shotgun, we started the hunt.
There are a lot of tennis courts on Martha’s Vineyard, some open to the public, some belonging to clubs, and some belonging to individual families. I couldn’t guess where Kathy Bannerman had played— somewhere up-island, maybe, since that was where she’d lived—but it seemed most likely to me that both she and Molly had played on public courts and least likely that they’d played on family-owned ones, although that was always possible. At the club courts, members could bring guests. Molly and Kathy could very well have met somebody who belonged to a club and been invited to play there.
Since Molly lived in Edgartown, we started at Katama, and, with Zee as guide to the island’s tennis domains, we worked our way through Edgartown.
Our big problem was quickly established. The courts were generally empty of players that rainy day, and most of the pros who had given lessons all summer were, after Labor Day, now plying their trade in warmer climes.
Still, we visited every court we knew of, on the off chance that someone useful would be there.
The Katama courts were empty. There were two rainproof women playing between the puddles at the Edgartown public courts out by the Boys’ and Girls’ Club, but neither of them recognized Molly Wood or Kathy Bannerman when I showed them their pictures. Neither did the groundskeepers at the Edgartown Yacht Club courts. There were some family-owned courts in town, but not one of them was being used as we drove by.
Next we headed for Oak Bluffs. “Your forehead is wrinkled,” Zee said. “What are you thinking about?”
I unwrinkled. “I’m trying to remember something, and can’t. And when I’m not doing that, I’m thinking about everything else. Molly going missing, the tennis link, if there really is one, Brady almost drowning, Myrtle Eldridge’s drug-using friends, your slashed tire, the note. Everything. The problem is, all my thinking is doing no good for me or anybody else.”
“I’ve been thinking about Molly’s black bag,” said Zee.
“It could be anywhere,” I said. “In fact, it’s not a bad bet that one of the local druggies is involved with Molly’s disappearance. That black bag would have looked like a gift from the gods to him. Did Molly ever talk to you about any addicts she may have met while she’s been down here?”
“No, but I see a lot of the local users when I’m working in the ER. They’re a pretty forlorn bunch. I don’t think any of them would kill someone.”
“Anybody will kill under the right circumstances.”
“I don’t believe that. What about Gandhi? What about Jesus?”
Jesus had been pretty rough on those moneylenders, I thought. “Neither of them was a drug addict, as far as I know,” I said. “Anyway, the cops can investigate the drug users and pushers. They already know who they are and where they live.”
We drove along the road with Sengekontacket on our left and Nantucket Sound on our right. The rain was beginning to let up, and there was brighter sky over above Cape Cod. The morning was reaching toward noon.
The Oak Bluffs public courts were empty, and Molly Wood and Kath
y Bannerman were unknown to anyone at Farm Neck or at the other private courts where we found players. My voyage of discovery was a trip to nowhere.
“Pa.”
“I know. You’re hungry. Okay, we’ll stop and have lunch.”
“Oh, good! Can we have ice cream afterward?”
“Sure.”
Small arms circled my neck from behind. “Thanks, Pa.”
“Hey,” said Zee. “Don’t I get any hugs?”
She got two.
We ate beside Oak Bluffs Harbor and looked at the boats. The lovely little Folk Boat that I always admired was out there on her mooring. Several Folk Boats have circumnavigated the world, usually piloted by single-handers. Once I’d given thought to making such a trip, but I’d never gotten around to it. Now my mind was on other things.
We got ice cream, then climbed back into the Jeep. It was after one in the afternoon.
“You three don’t have to keep this up,” I said. “We can go home and I’ll keep going alone, if you’d rather.”
“We wouldn’t rather,” said Zee. “We still have four towns to go, and we have nothing better to do. Besides, we can go by the Fairchild place and see Brady when we start looking around up-island.”
In Vineyard Haven, we visited several courts in vain. Eventually we came to the Chappaquonsett Club courts, out toward the entrance to Lake Tashmoo, where some people were working in the office and on the grounds. One of the people in the office was an athletic man in whites who identified himself as the club pro.
“You’re just the guy we’re looking for,” I said, digging my photos out of my pocket.
“Your timing is right.” He grinned. “This is my last day here. Tomorrow I’ll be in Atlantic City for the fall season.”
I handed him the photos. “You ever see these women playing here?”
He looked first at Molly’s picture, but Eliza had been right about Molly not being a member of the Chappaquonsett Club. And she’d apparently not been a guest either, because the pro never hesitated. “Nope. Never saw her in my life.”
He looked at Kathy’s photo and shook his head again. “A year ago, you say? Well, maybe she was here a year ago, but if she was, I don’t remember her. Sorry.”
First Light Page 22