“Same way, Mike. They fed him drugs. Good, bad, I don't know, but Parker overdosed him and he died.”
“Where's Parker? Do you know?”
“He'll keep. Trust me.”
Michael looked at the list he'd picked up. “Johnny, what are these names?”
“Drug company execs. Aaronson called them for Doyle. We think that's why Parker snatched him.”
Johnny got to his feet. He pulled Michael up with him and steered him back toward Doyle. Doyle had been watching them. His chin was up and his hands were balled into fists.
“That,” said Johnny G., “is his I've-taken-enough-of-your-crap look. Go tell him you're sorry or go duke it out. Either way, put this behind you, Mike. The three of us have work to do.”
“What work? Except nailing Rast.”
“We're going to bring this down. You're going to help us figure how.”
Michael folded the list.
”I already know how,” he said.
Moon had finally been unplugged.
He was given a bed in a four-room ward and served cod cakes and Jell-O for dinner. Only one other bed was occupied, a man with a bleeding ulcer who seemed less than pleased at having him for a roommate.
Moon waited until his tray was collected. He gathered his clothing and went into the bathroom to dress. The puncture in his arm began to seep from the effort. He packed it with another gauze pad and taped it.
He told his roommate that he thought he'd scout the day rooms, find a good jigsaw puzzle to work on. The ulcer patient ignored him. Moon said then he'd drop by the office, see about getting a different room. Wouldn't want to aggravate an ulcer, he said. The man still ignored him. But he looked up at the ceiling as if to say, “Thank you, God.”
For his sake, God'd better be white.
He was out of the hospital five minutes later. He saw a bus stop nearby but decided he'd better walk a while, get his legs back, give those cod cakes a chance to settle. He walked down into Oak Bluffs where he found a taxi. He was back in Edgartown before dark.
Chapter 43
Lena Mayfield was loving it.
She had this whole big room to herself. A four-poster bed with a goosedown comforter. Oriental rugs. An upholstered rocker. Thick velvet drapes and chintz curtains. All this and a bathroom to die for.
In fact, with everyone gone to dinner she had this whole big house to herself. Except, just now, for Megan. Megan had stopped by to leave that sick man's car and was downstairs gathering up some extra pillows and blankets. Two more friends of Michael's, she said, would be sleeping on her boat.
Lena, meanwhile, had undressed down to her slip, put on a big soft terry robe, and started filling the tub. She had brought up a tray from the kitchen with a bottle of wine, some crackers, and three kinds of cheese and set them on a chair next to the Jacuzzi. She had wheeled the TV in, lit a scented candle, and turned off all the lights. In about ten minutes, she would be in heaven.
“Mrs. Mayfield?” Megan's voice from below. “Are you sure you're okay here alone?”
“It's Lena, child. And you just scoot.”
“We'll go sailing tomorrow. How's that?”
“Sounds pretty. Now git.”
She heard the front door slam. Lena crossed to her window and saw Megan, a bundle of linens flung over her shoulder, starting down the hill. The bundle was bigger than she was. But suddenly Megan slowed in the middle of the street. She looked around. She seemed puzzled by something, cocked her head like a dog. Lena saw no one else. After a moment, she looked up at the window and waved. That must have been it, thought Lena. Megan must have felt a pair of eyes on her. But now, satisfied, she hitched up her bundle and went on.
A sail might be nice, thought Lena. She'd never been on a real sailboat. Been on a cruise ship though. Cruised to Nassau with her husband the year before he died. Right now, though, the only water she's interested in is what she's going to soak in once she figures out how to get that Jacuzzi swirling.
Candlelight and wine, she thought. And a big bubbly tub. The only thing missing is a man. And isn't it just her luck that the only black man her age on this whole island is laid up over in that hospital.
Megan says it's not true he's the only one. She says Myra knows a bunch more. One runs the hardware store in Tisbury—he's a bachelor—and another is a retired State Trooper—he's a widower. She says Myra's already offered to fix her up with either one.
But this Moon sounds more interesting, mostly because when Megan talks about him she gets all smiley and girly. She says he's sweet and kind. She says he's loyal and true. Lena teased her some about that.
“You got your cap set for him, white girl?”
”I could do worse.”
“Old buck like him? What's he got over Michael?”
She thought for a second. She said, “Michael makes me feel good. Moon makes me feel safe.”
She wasn't done yet either. She went through about six more adjectives, all with her head cocked the way she does, as if someone's calling them in to her from another part of the house. Like “strong.” Like “rugged.” Like hands that could crush a full beer can. She didn't mention a thick head of hair but she said he's “sort of rich” which made up for that failing real nicely.
Lena noticed Michael's big brass telescope, the one Myra gave him. It was propped up in a corner doing no earthly good. Michael hadn't had a chance to try it out. Maybe the bath would keep. Maybe she'd set it up in that window and watch the other rich folks cavort on their yachts.
Lena set up the tripod.
It was mostly dark out now. Lena tried the telescope first on a lighted window across the street. She could see a bedside table with books underneath and, turning the eyepiece, she could read the titles on the books clear as day. But she didn't feel right snooping on a bedroom. Lena turned it to the harbor.
She focused in on a big motor yacht that had a living room in the back. A real, regular living room with a rug and couches and a TV. It seemed to her that a boat should be a boat and not a floating apartment but the man had paid his money and she supposed he had a right. A steward in a white coat was serving drinks. She couldn't quite see who to because a tree across the street blocked that part of the view. A blurry shadow moved. The shadow seemed to be within that tree.
She adjusted the eyepiece. Sure enough, she realized, someone had climbed it. The shadow was sharper but it was still a shadow. The man—or a boy maybe—had no features at all. And something was covering his face. A cat burglar? She didn't think so. No house could be reached from the limbs of that tree. A peeping Tom? Maybe. But from where he sat, there didn't seem much to peep at except this house over here.
Lena stepped around the telescope and peeked through the edge of the drapes. She glanced up and down the street. She was hoping, she supposed, to see a policeman but there was only a man riding up on a bike. A tall skinny man in a black hooded slicker.
She looked back at the tree and noticed, for the first time, still another man standing at its base. He was in deep shadow. The man on the bike slowed. Now he's looking up at this house. He stopped and stood straddling his bike.
What is it, she wondered that's so interesting about this house? But now his head snapped back toward that tree like he heard a noise. The man at the base of the tree was moving. He was tugging at his trouser leg as if it got caught in some brambles. Now he sees the man on the bike watching him. The man on the bike's getting off. He put down his kickstand; he's walking over. Man by the tree tries to wave him off. He jerks his thumb as if to say, “Keep moving.”
Skinny man is pointing back over his shoulder, pointing at this house, acts like he's asking a question. Tree man tries again to get rid of him. Skinny man's in no hurry. He looks like he wants to chat and the subject, from his gestures, is this here Taylor House. This goes on for a while. Finally, the tree man moves out of the shadows.
He's dressed in a jogging suit and a white floppy hat. He steps forward, looks back down the street, then up,
then down again. Lena could only see part of his face. He's got one hand on the bike man's shoulder. Bike man's trying to show him what looks like a business card. Tree man takes it, crumples it, throws it away.
He raised his free hand like you do to say, “Wait,” but he's looking down toward the waterfront. He waves that hand slow-like to say, “Not yet . . . not yet” and the skinny man's wondering what he's doing. But suddenly, the hand came down. It came down sharply like when you say, “Now.”
That other shadow dropped down from the tree. The peeping Tom darted straight out. He's wearing all black and has a cloth wrapped around his face. They both grab the bike man, they drag him toward the tree. Now there's just one big tossing shadow back by the trunk of that tree. It goes kind of stiff. The tossing stops.
Lena knew that she'd just watched a mugging. She was about to back away, get to the phone and call 911, when the tree man came back out for that bike. He had lost his hat in the tussle.
Something about that man. Something familiar.
He reached to grab the bike but he was watching down the street. He bumped it, knocked it over. It fell with a crash. Lena tried to open the window. It was stuck. She yelled, ”Hey” through the glass as loud as she could. He heard her. He looked up and around, wondering where it came from. Lena got her first good look at his face.
”Wha . . . well, I'll be damned,” she sputtered. ”I know that little worm.”
The bus from Oak Bluffs let Moon off on Kelly Street, a short block from Edgartown's waterfront. He made his way to the main landing, a long gray concrete structure with an observation deck on top. It offered clear views of the entire waterfront area and of the harbor beyond. The three-block length of Dock Street was brightly lit, every shop was open and busy, the side streets were thick with strolling tourists.
One of them, Moon knew, just might be a man named Parker. And here he was without a weapon. He had considered asking Michael to leave his gun where he could find it but that would have been foolish. It would have been the same as telling him that he wasn't going to stay in that hospital. Michael would have gone straight to that doctor and, next thing Moon knew, a nurse would have been pumping his butt full of sedatives.
He climbed the stairs to the promenade level where several coin-operated viewers were mounted on swivels. He fed a dime into one of them and scanned the harbor area. He found Megan's boat where she told him it would be. It was one of perhaps two dozen pleasure boats tied up at slips. Some were dark, their owners ashore. Others were aswarm with partying sailors.
He saw Megan through the viewer. She was rigging a blue canopy over the cockpit and she seemed to be alone on her boat. Just beyond those slips and a few yards inland was a white wooden building. The signs on it offered facilities for boaters. Toilets, showers, and such. There was a laundry and a chandlery, and two public phones on the outside wall. Young girls, dressed for the evening, were talking on both of them. He saw a man there, pacing, glancing at his watch as if impatient to use one of the phones. Moon swung the viewer back to Megan's boat.
He was disappointed not to see Michael. Michael, he thought, should be long since back from the airport by now. Likely he's sitting on a roadside somewhere getting an earful from Johnny and Doyle. Things they didn't want to say in front of Megan.
Still, Moon had been hoping they'd come straight to that boat. Michael would be safest there. No one would look for him on a boat. They would look for him, wait for him, up at the Taylor House. Moon, meanwhile, could watch him from here.
The viewer clicked off. Moon fed it another coin. He swung it toward Dock Street and began scanning the crowds of tourists, looking for anyone who doesn't quite fit.
Moon realized that this could be a waste of time. Doyle might or might not have told Aaronson where Michael is. If he did, Parker might or might not have gotten it out of him. The assumption, however, has to be that Parker knows. That he'd track him to the Taylor House. If so, Moon felt sure, Parker would be coming himself. Not alone, but he'd come. After three blown attempts at Michael, this time he'd want to make sure.
The trouble was that Moon had never seen Parker or heard him described. Even Parker's age was just a guess. All Moon knew was that Parker, if he's here, would check the Taylor House first. Finding that Michael's not there, he might wait outside but more likely he'll start looking through the town. He'll be peering at faces just like this, looking through restaurant windows, keeping an eye out for Michael's car. That's how Moon hoped to spot him.
Moon did not know what he looked like but he knew enough about him to pick out likely candidates. Parker, and anyone he brought, would not show up here in pinstriped suits and fedoras. They would know to blend in but they can't keep themselves from looking watchful.
They'll be armed. That would rule out anyone in shorts and a T-shirt unless he's carrying a shopping bag. They won't be with women, or with kids, or college age or getting drunk. So far, that ruled out just about everyone.
Cab drivers, thought Moon.
Parker likes to use cabs and that might be smart. Parker could keep cruising around with his shooters, they'd look like passengers. The thing was, he'd have to steal one of those island mini-vans, do so in a way that the theft would not be reported too soon—like killing the driver—and then later he'd have to get away with it. But get away where? How, Moon wondered, do you make a hit on an island where one phone call from the police would stop the ferries from running?
Damn, he thought. They'll come by boat is how.
They'll come in, hit fast, and get back out before the harbor gets too quiet.
Another thought stabbed at Moon. If Michael's not here, and he's back from the airport, they might have gone to that house after all.
Moon swung the viewer in that direction. It was useless. Too many big trees in the way. But he could be up there inside a minute. Steeling himself to walk, not run, Moon turned back to the stairs.
Parker saw the middle-aged black man crossing Dock Street at an angle, taking long measured strides toward North Water Street. He reached for the pay phone but stopped.
He could not ring Hector's cellular, giving his position away, every time he saw a spade who might be Moon. Hector would call if that one, or anyone, goes into the Taylor House.
Moon, if Parker had to guess, was probably in New York hanging around the Pierre. Or maybe he got Hobbs by now. If he's here, however, it would be lovely to catch Moon and Fallon together. Two Polaroids. A million each. He'd pour gasoline over Moon. Light him and let him run through the Taylor House, setting the whole place on fire. That would be a nice touch. Rast would probably—
Parker saw the black Mercedes creeping down through the crowd. It did not have New York plates but that could still be Fallon's car. He's a resident here now. He'd have Massachusetts plates. Parker couldn't see the driver clearly but he could very well be Fallon. One ... no ... two other heads in there with him. It's Fallon all right, with his guests from the airport. But the car wasn't turning. It was heading this way.
Oh ...
Oh, God damn them.
The low moan that started in Parker's chest came when the Mercedes stopped at the dock. His first thought was that they'd made him. There they were, it was definitely Fallon, and his headlights are aimed straight at Childress's boat. Somehow Fallon knows. And there's Yahya, totally oblivious, his head still down between his knees.
Parker froze. His instinct was to wait, let Fallon make his move, then come in behind him, put a bullet through his ear. Then he could pop a few caps at the crowd, get them yelling and screaming, get away in the confusion.
He sucked in a breath because now, climbing out the other side, was a small man with wavy red hair. From the photographs he'd seen, it could only be Doyle. He left his wife to fly up here? What for? Doyle's no shooter and he's damned sure not here to serve papers. The third man in the car must be their muscle, maybe even a cop.
Parker realized that he couldn't get them all. He needed a plan that had some chance
of working. His brain was so busy groping for options, try to sort smart from stupid, he almost didn't notice that the girl on that sailboat was waving a greeting at Fallon.
Parker forced himself to breathe slowly. The girl, the young blond he'd admired, is being introduced to Doyle. She's reaching down to shake his hand ... no, to help him climb on board. But suddenly she freezes. She lets go of his hand and backs away from him as if she just found out he has AIDS.
Doyle doesn't want to board anyway. He's gesturing back toward the car where the third man, the muscle, is out and has popped the trunk. Parker couldn't see him yet. But now Doyle is pointing this way. Right at me, thought Parker. He's turning and walking right at me.
Parker had nowhere to hide. He could only wait. He watched as the girl hopped down from the boat and put both her hands against Fallon's chest. Her expression is...he didn't know . . . sympathetic? How're you doing? I missed you? Whatever it was, it was not, “Glad you're back. Let's start blasting the fuckers in the boat behind mine.” Maybe they don't know after all.
Parker lit a cigarette. It's good for looking casual. Doyle glanced toward the glow of his lighter but no more than that. No hesitation, no recognition, no interest. He seemed to be heading toward one of the phones. Parker fished for a quarter. He would take one of the phones, fake a call of his own, listen to whatever Doyle was saying.
The Shadow Box Page 35