by Jon Loomis
“Nah,” Coffin said. “That thing would definitely scare the baby. We should get rid of that moth-eaten goat, too. Seriously.”
“The goat stays,” Jamie said, yawning. “It’s bad luck to sell your father.”
“I wonder what I could get for my mother.”
“Uh-oh. What now?”
Coffin shook his head. “Who knows? It’s some new disaster every week now. Next she’ll be running a geriatric prostitution ring, or sneaking Ex-Lax into Mrs. Pickerel’s scrambled eggs. I’m going to see her tomorrow. The acting director wants me to drop by.”
Jamie propped herself on an elbow. “Sorry,” she said, “it’s funny but it’s also really not funny.”
“And then there’s Tony.”
“I can’t believe he just walked out of the psych ward.”
“He may be losing his mind, but he’s not as dumb as he looks.” Coffin sipped his scotch. “Not quite.”
Jamie kissed Coffin’s neck, slid a hand down his belly. “Frank,” she said.
He caught her wrist, gently, and set his drink on the floor.
“No?” she said.
“You,” he said, rolling over, lifting her nightgown—a short, hot pink item with black lace at the hem. She wore nothing underneath.
“No, Frank—I feel bad.”
Coffin stopped. “You do?”
“Not bad bad, just bad for you.” She stroked his hair. “I haven’t been that much fun lately, I don’t think.”
Coffin kissed her thigh, her hip, the slight crease where they met. “You’ve been fine,” he said. “I’m fine.”
“Really? Because fine isn’t exactly fantastic. Fine isn’t great. Fine is just okay.”
Jamie’s pubic hair was dark and lush below the curve of her belly. Coffin kissed around its border, nuzzled into the soft nest of it, breathed its salt musk. He found her clitoris with his tongue, felt her thighs open, her hips lift.
“Frank,” she sighed. “What about you?”
“I’m fine,” Coffin said.
“Not me,” Jamie said, groaning a little.
“No?”
“I’m great,” Jamie said. “I’m fantastic.”
“Great. Fantastic.”
“Frank?”
“Yeah.”
“That thing you’re doing with your finger?”
“Yeah.”
“Do it with two fingers.”
* * *
Later, Jamie pulled the covers over her breasts and looked at Coffin with hooded eyes. “Frank?”
“Yes.”
“That was sublime.”
“Good. I was going for sublime.”
“But now I’m hungry.”
“Ah.”
“Starving.”
“What can I get you?”
“A malted.”
“A malted?”
“Chocolate. From Arnold’s.”
“Arnold’s? In Eastham? What time is it?”
Coffin checked his watch—almost nine thirty. Arnold’s closed at ten. He could make it if he hurried. He swung his legs out of bed, found his pants.
“God,” Jamie said. “You’re so nice.”
Coffin yawned. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
Chapter 17
Thick cloud cover; no stars, no moon. A wet fog crouched across Route 6. Coffin cranked the Fiesta’s wipers and defogger, but they failed to keep the windshield clear. The Fiesta chugged tentatively past the dunes and Pilgrim Lake, struggled up the hill at Mayflower Heights, past Branstool’s house, Truro center, and Head of the Meadow beach, past the exit for the Highland Light and the sandy little nine-hole golf course that more or less surrounded the old lighthouse, which had been moved away from the crumbling Cliffside a few years before—a delicate operation that had taken months.
Coffin had driven the stretch of highway between Provincetown and Eastham two or three times a week for most of his adult life, and he always felt the same tug of nostalgia as he passed North Truro, the same surge of elation on the way back, cresting the ridge at Pilgrim Heights and looking northeast at the long curve of Provincetown, the sweep of tawny beach, the waterfront with its crowd of white buildings, the Pilgrim Monument looming over everything, casting its long shadow.
Like a sentry, Coffin thought. Like a sundial. Like one of those big stone heads on Easter Island.
The Fiesta backfired weakly and the front end shuddered as Coffin steered down the long hill past Gull Pond Road and Truro’s Fire and Rescue headquarters. Coffin was concentrating on keeping the Fiesta on the road—the steering wheel felt loose in his hands, and when he pumped the brakes they barely responded, the pedal going almost all the way to the floorboards—when he passed a hitchhiker going the other way. Coffin didn’t see the man’s face, but from the back he appeared to be heavyset and was dressed in hospital scrubs.
“Tony,” Coffin said, the Fiesta’s front end shimmying wildly as it rattled down the hill in near free-fall. “Fucking Tony!” He pumped the brakes again, downshifted after a struggle with the clutch, brought the Fiesta to a gradual stop at the bottom of the hill, and turned around in the parking lot of a little roadside liquor store. It seemed very dark, and Coffin wondered if his one functioning headlight had gone out. He pulled onto Route 6, heading the other way—back toward Provincetown. Tony seemed oblivious—he was sure now that it was Tony—standing in the same spot, thumb out, smoking a cigarette.
“Yo, Frankie,” Tony said, when Coffin had pulled up beside him and reached across to roll the passenger window down.
“Tony,” Coffin said, “for Christ’s sake, what are you doing out here?”
“I gotta get to Highland Light.” Tony climbed into the Fiesta, which sagged noticeably under his weight. “Jesus, what a piece of shit this car is.”
“What’s at Highland Light?” Coffin said.
“You’ll see.”
Coffin shifted the Fiesta into first, stepped on the gas. The little car picked up speed so listlessly on the hill that Coffin felt the urge to pedal. “I’ve got to go to Arnold’s,” he said. “I’m turning around.”
“Arnold’s? For what?”
“Jamie wants a malted.”
“Don’t turn around, Frankie,” Tony said, looking intently at Coffin’s face. The Fiesta’s interior was very dark, but Tony’s eyes seemed to gleam for a moment. Jesus, Coffin thought. He really is crazy.
“You have to tell me why you need to get to Highland Light, Tony,” Coffin said. “Tell me why, and I’ll take you.”
Tony shook his head. “I can’t.”
Coffin swung the Fiesta hard left, into the Truro Fire and Rescue lot. The tires squealed dramatically and the brakes seemed even softer than before—he had to pump them again to keep from running into the bright yellow fire truck that was parked outside one of the bays. The station looked deserted, though he knew it wasn’t—the dispatcher would be sitting at her desk, playing computer solitaire, listening to the scanner.
“Can’t, or don’t want to?” Coffin said, both feet on the brake, engine idling, out of synch—missing on at least one cylinder.
“It’ll sound too crazy,” Tony said.
“Everything you’ve said to me in the last week has sounded crazy. Just tell me.”
“I’m supposed to meet them there.”
“Them.”
“Yep. Them.” Tony rubbed his hands over his big, rubbery face. He needed a shave. His hair was wild—he looked like he’d stuck his head in a blender. “Frankie, I swear—this is the last thing. They promised. Just drive me out to the lighthouse and then we’re done. Tell Jamie you found me and had to take me home. She’ll understand.”
“She’s pregnant, Tony. She wants a malted. If I come home without one, she will not understand.”
“Frankie, come on. Seriously. You’ll see—it’ll blow your mind. There’s more to heaven and earth than you ever dreamed of, Horace.”
“Horatio,” Coffin said.
“Who?”
�
��All right, I’ll take you,” Coffin said, pulling back onto the highway. “But if they’re not out there we’re leaving, and I’m taking you home. If Doris has to call me again after I drop you off, I will personally drive out to your place, cuff you, and drive you back to the psych ward in Hyannis, where they will have every reason to keep you sedated and in restraints. Got it?”
“Got it. You’re aces, Frankie,” Tony said, punching Coffin in the shoulder.
“Jesus fuck, Tony,” Coffin said, swerving the Fiesta half onto the narrow shoulder, a hot stinger shooting down his forearm. “Don’t do that.”
* * *
Town Hall was mostly dark—only the police department was lit up; three windows on the west side of the main floor. It had stopped raining, but the clouds were thick. Only a slight silvering at the edges showed the moon’s position behind them—high in the sky over the harbor.
Loverboy had parked the Lincoln in the official lot behind Town Hall, in the space reserved for the chief of police. He and Rudy slipped in through the same side door that Filson had used, to which Rudy happened to have a key; it opened directly onto a dank stairwell that hardly anyone used. Until the renovations had begun, the stairwell’s exterior wall had been inhabited by a large colony of bats, and the smell of hamster cage was still powerful months after the flying rodents had been driven out.
On the second floor, Rudy checked his watch: 10:07. They’d have maybe three or four minutes to get into the assessor’s office, open the safe, grab the bag, and get the hell out. Plenty of time. No one was around; all the lights were out.
“You know the great part about this?” Rudy said, using another key to open the door to the assessor’s office.
“Aside from what it’s going to do for my portfolio?” Loverboy said.
“The great part is that once they get over being surprised, they’ll all be relieved it’s gone. I’m doing them a favor, really. I just love helping people out like that.”
“You’re a humanitarian. A liberator of the human spirit.”
“Exactly,” Rudy said, slipping into the dark office, finding the safe’s square bulk in the corner. “Now let’s liberate some smack and get the fuck out of here.”
* * *
The current Highland Light was built in 1857. It consisted of a modest light keeper’s cottage—now a museum and gift shop—attached to a sixty-six-foot tower, which was in turn outfitted with a two-way beacon that emitted a very bright pulse of white light every five seconds. In 1996 the lighthouse had been moved a hundred and fifty yards to the southwest, away from the edge of a cliff that had been considered remarkable for its tendency to erode since Thoreau made note of it in his nineteenth-century tourist memoir, Cape Cod. Had the light not been moved, it would have eventually tumbled into the surging Atlantic, a hundred feet below. From its new, safer location, the Highland Light kept watch over a long, treacherous stretch of the Atlantic coast, aquatic graveyard to dozens of ships, still notorious for its shifting sandbars and unpredictable currents.
At night the lighthouse stood in black silhouette against the horizon—like a big middle finger, Coffin thought, raised to the dark and rumpled sea as it ground away at the cliff base. The clouds were beginning to break up, passing slowly overhead like rush-hour traffic on a celestial freeway. Coffin parked the Fiesta in the gravel lot just on the cliff side of the lighthouse, nose pointed east, toward the ocean. There was a slight downward incline, so he gave the emergency brake an extra-firm yank after double-clutching the gearshift into reverse.
“Okay,” Coffin said, climbing out. “Where are they?”
“What time is it?” Tony said, rummaging in the Fiesta’s glove box. “The hospital took my watch.”
“Five ’til ten. What are you looking for?”
“Cigarettes. I’m out.”
“Good luck. I’m still not smoking.”
“I’ve been smoking like a freaking chimney,” Tony said, ducking down to check under the seats.
“When was the last time you ate?”
“I don’t know. Yesterday? I haven’t been very hungry. Plus, I’m pretty sure the hospital tried to drug my food.”
“Of course you are.”
“Eureka!” Tony said, emerging from the Fiesta’s grungy interior. “Look what I found.” He held up a single, badly bent cigarette. “It was stuck behind the gas pedal. I always say, if you keep trying, good things happen. Got a light?”
“Nope.” Coffin patted his pockets. “Sorry. I don’t carry a lighter anymore.”
Tony stuck his upper body back into the Fiesta, pushed the lighter into its socket. “Man—I’m fuckin’ dying here. This thing work?”
“I don’t think so,” Coffin said.
“What time is it now?”
“Straight up ten, give or take. Which is when Arnold’s closes, by the way.”
“Here we go,” Tony said, holding up the glowing lighter. “My lucky day.” He puffed the rumpled cigarette to life.
“I’m giving this maybe one more minute, then I’m taking you home. I’ve had a hell of a long day.”
“They’ll be here, Frankie,” Tony said, puffing happily. “They always show up. Very reliable.”
Coffin shook his head. With any luck, Jamie would be asleep when he got home. He shoved his hands into his pockets, walked down the sloping gravel path that led from the lighthouse to a small, circular observation area near the cliff—the golf course’s elevated eighth green to his right, the ninth tee and fairway to his left, five or six good-sized boulders straight ahead, arranged in a neat line maybe three feet apart, to prevent potential suicides from driving over the edge.
Coffin stood for a moment gazing out at the dark water, the slow whitecaps rolling in to the beach below, endlessly, one after another. He wanted a cigarette. He wanted to go home, crawl into bed, and go to sleep.
A minute passed. Coffin turned, started to walk back. Tony was leaning on the Fiesta’s trunk, smoking. Coffin could guess what it would be like now, for Tony and his family—month upon month of hope and disappointment, slow improvement and crushing setback. He’d be on his meds, then off them, then back on again. Tough on everybody, Coffin thought. Tough all around.
“Come on, Tony,” Coffin said, walking up the gravel path, the ocean at his back. “Time to go home.” He had to raise his voice to be heard above the dull roar of the surf, and something else—in the background at first—a rushing, thwonking sound, coming from behind him, growing louder. There was a sudden wind, leaves and sand blowing, then white and orange lights flashing overhead.
“Holy shit,” Tony shouted, pointing at the sky. “They’re here!”
For a moment Coffin could see only flashing lights amid the swirl of sand and debris. There was a great, hectic roaring overhead, then a single blinding spotlight sizzled out of the night sky. It probed the Fiesta for a moment or two, then found Tony, who stood with his arms raised, exulted, like a TV preacher about to speak in tongues. He shouted something. I’m here, maybe. Take me!
Coffin visored his eyes with one hand, still nearly blinded by sand and light, hair on the back of his neck prickling. Jesus Christ, he thought. Seriously? But then, as his eyes adjusted to the glare, he could make out the dim silhouette of a helicopter, hovering overhead like a huge metallic dragonfly. He squinted—Coast Guard—white with red markings, one of the big MH-60 Jayhawks the Coasties used for search and rescue.
A woman’s voice boomed out of the chopper—probably the co-pilot, Coffin guessed, speaking over the PA system—“Get back in your vehicle. The park is closed. Repeat: the park is closed. Get back in your vehicle and leave at once.”
Coffin held up his shield, tried to wave the chopper off, but the Coasties kept the searchlight on Tony, who was waving his arms and yelling something Coffin couldn’t quite make out. It sounded like, “It’s me, it’s me!”
“This is your last warning,” the voice from the chopper said. “The park is closed. We will contact law enforcement in two minutes.�
�
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Coffin said. “Tony! Get in the car!”
The spotlight went dark, and Tony stood blinking next to the Fiesta. The helicopter gained altitude, then swiveled and headed out to sea.
“Wait!” Tony yelled, waving his arms wildly, the red coal of his cigarette weaving bright, frantic trails. “Come back!”
“Tony, it’s a fucking helicopter!” Coffin yelled, as the chopper took a hard right and roared along the coastline heading south, toward Chatham, taking its noise and rotor-wash with it.
“Oh, shit,” Tony said, arms limp at his sides. “It’s a fuckin’ helicopter.” He sat down heavily on the Fiesta’s blunt rear-end, which produced a sharp crumpling sound. And then the Fiesta started to roll.
“Tony—” Coffin said.
“Whoa, fuck!” Tony said, losing his balance as the little car rolled away from him, tires crunching slowly across the gravel lot, nose pointed straight for the footpath. Tony staggered a few steps after the wayward Fiesta, stepped in a pothole, and fell hard on his side.
Coffin stood for a moment, the Fiesta’s blunt snout slowly bearing down on him. The little car had picked up a bit of speed on the footpath’s downhill slope: It was rolling at six or seven miles an hour, Coffin guessed—too fast to simply jump into its path and stop its momentum. He could open the driver’s side door, jump in, and pull the handbrake (but hadn’t he pulled the handbrake when he parked it?)—easy in the movies, maybe, easy for James Bond.
He took three quick steps to his right, out of the Fiesta’s path, and started to jog, matching the little car’s pace as it rolled toward the barricade of boulders at the path’s end. He reached for the door handle, caught it, pressed the latch button.
“Come on, you rotten little piece of shit,” he hissed. “Open!” The door was locked or stuck—he couldn’t budge it. He tried digging his boot heels in, leaning his weight up the hill, hanging onto the handle with both hands, but the Fiesta dragged him down the path, closer now to the boulders than he cared to be. He let go, jumped clear, landing without much grace on all fours, scraping his palms on the gravel. At least, he thought, it won’t go over the edge—the boulders will stop it.