In a booth across the room he thought he recognized an old classmate, although she was about thirty pounds heavier and had three children, the youngest of whom kept running away from the table. She glanced once at Falk with a quizzical look, a hint of recognition, and he overcame his jitters long enough to nod and smile. But she was distracted by the boy, who was now behind the cash register, helping himself to a fistful of mints.
“Jeffrey! Get back over here. Now!” Jeffrey received a brisk pop across the seat of his pants. Then he shot back across the room toward the coatrack by the door.
After dinner Falk walked the town streets and passed a busy ice cream shop, but all the customers seemed to be from out of town. Maybe he would feel more welcome here in the morning, when the community of fishermen and others who made their living from the sea were back on the job.
As his dinner settled, exhaustion crept in. In preparing for bed he threw open the window of his room to a briny chill that he had not felt on a summer night for what seemed like a lifetime. As he pulled up the sheets and listened to the night bugs and the lapping of the water, he was overcome by a strong sense of his father’s presence, as if he could hear the man’s breathing in the next room.
Next morning, after a huge breakfast and three cups of strong coffee, he set out for the docks of the co-op. A bell jangled as he opened the door to the office, and an older man looked up from the counter. It was Bob Holman, who recognized Falk right away.
“Revere? Revere Falk?”
“Howdy, Mr. Holman.”
“Good Lord.”
The old man stepped from behind the counter and gave Falk an awkward slap on the back. It felt good to be recognized, even if it imperiled his safety. For now, at least, he remained confident that he was isolated enough to still be invisible to those who might do him harm.
“Your dad must be thrilled you’re home.”
So he was alive. Falk’s heart beat faster, and his face flushed.
“Just got in, actually. Hadn’t even had time to see him.”
“Then I guess you’ve heard the news.”
“The news?”
Holman looked at the floor, shuffling his feet back toward the counter.
“It’s nothing much, really, though I’d expect he’ll be wanting to tell you ’bout it.”
“Sure. Soon as I get over there.” Wherever there was. He hoped Mr. Holman would mention a location without him having to ask.
“You been treating yourself okay? Living abroad, your father says. Doing work for the government?”
It was a little too close for comfort.
“He’s been telling you about all that, has he?”
“Oh, yeah. Mentions all your letters from Europe. Diplomacy or something?”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
Mr. Holman laughed, loosening up again.
“You sound just like him. Same way he always describes it, so maybe we’ll think there’s more to it. More secretive kind of work. But don’t worry. I won’t ask anything more.”
“Right. Well, you know how parents are. Especially my dad.”
“Says you still aren’t married, though. Just haven’t found the right girl.”
Falk gulped. It was too uncanny, the man’s intuitive knowledge. They’d been apart for two decades, and all that time his father had been weaving a history out of nothing, yet had nearly divined the complete picture. Like one of those forensic sculptors who could reconstruct an entire face from a few fragments of a skull. As a boy, Falk had always assumed that the old man had tuned out his family completely, thinking only of himself and his thirst. Yet he must have been paying some attention. It was instead the son who had withdrawn completely from the field.
“I stopped by the old trailer,” Falk said.
Mr. Holman looked puzzled a moment, and then the light of recognition dawned.
“Your dad’s old place, you mean. I’d forgotten you lived there, too, it’s been so long. Had to give it up when he moved out to the nursing home, of course. But it’s better for him there. Gets all his meals. Hell, I expect half his fishing buddies must be there by now. Give me a few more years and who knows?” Then he laughed a little too loud. “But he’ll tell you all about it, I expect.”
“Right. I’m sure of it.”
There was only one nursing home on the island, and it was less than half a mile from their old house, just off the highway. The bell jingled as another person came in through the door, a tourist asking when the day’s catch would be available for sale. Falk seized the opportunity to begin his retreat.
“See you later, Mr. Holman.”
“Come back and see us, Revere.”
But he realized he had no way to get there unless he wanted to ride seven miles on the bike. So he waited awkwardly by the door while Mr. Holman told the tourist to come back later, when the boats were unloading at the dockside scales.
“By the way, Mr. Holman, hate to ask a favor of you, but my rental car’s acting up this morning, and I had to catch a ride into town. Do you think maybe I could … ?”
“Absolutely, son. Take my truck. She’s right outside.”
He tossed Falk the keys.
“Don’t need her ’til four.”
And by the way he said it, Falk wondered if Mr. Holman had ever believed a word of the tall tales about the glamorous overseas career of Revere Falk.
He climbed in and turned the key, and of course the sound of the engine was like the roar of a small factory, the muffler shot to hell by salt air and hard winters. No wonder everyone here over the age of fifty shouted, after a lifetime of talking over this kind of noise. The throb of the engine worked its way up his spine like Morse code, tapping out a message from all those predawn mornings of his past, chill hours when he had blown on his hands until the engine warmed during their ride down to the harbor.
Falk pulled out of the lot and headed back into town, then turned north on Highway 15. So this was it, he supposed, his stomach feeling light and fluttery, the blood rushing to his fingertips. A meeting for the ages. But what in the hell would he say?
He accelerated, engine grumbling. As he headed north he was so raptly attuned to the unfolding sights that he didn’t even notice the dark blue Ford that tucked in behind him just as he was leaving the town.
The Ford soon dropped back, keeping a healthy distance but never quite losing touch.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
JUST KNOWING THAT the old man was alive lightened Falk’s burden, if only by taking his mind off Gitmo.
Part of him had always figured that by the time he worked up the nerve to return he would find only a headstone. Instead, his father was at this very moment only a few miles up Highway 15, perhaps cackling among old friends in a game room, checking the cards in his hand while awaiting the next deal. Sober, no less.
It was the unspoken implications of Bob Holman’s news that were troubling, as if he had been tiptoeing around the edge of something catastrophic. Falk supposed it was possible his father was hooked up to tubes and monitors, with a glazed stare that would comprehend nothing, his son long forgotten.
He pulled into the parking lot beneath a canopy of young trees. The Blue Cove Nursing Home was a one-story brick building with only thirty beds, nonprofit and nothing fancy. Falk presumed that some sort of government money was paying the tab.
He approached a receptionist behind a long counter. At first glance the young woman reminded him of his sister, whom he had last seen when he was eleven and she was eighteen. He gave his father’s name, and the woman typed it into a computer while eyeing a blinking screen. When she looked back up, the resemblance was gone and she seemed like any other young woman with dark hair and brown eyes.
“Your name?”
A twinge of doubt. What if the networks started broadcasting his name in this afternoon’s newscasts?
“Revere Falk. I’m his son.”
“Oh.” She brightened. “I wasn’t aware he had any … well, anyone.”
So his dad hadn’t continued weaving his little fictions here, apparently. Falk wondered if there would be any photos in the room. She pointed him down a hallway to the right.
“If he’s not awake, just ask a nurse to help. Or you can always just wait in the room.”
“Thanks.”
The hall smelled like medicine and half-finished breakfasts, unwashed bedpans and antiseptic cleaners. A wheezing cough came from one doorway, a moan from another. A television seemed to be turned to top volume in every room. The air was stuffy here, as if the heat was on. All these old bones, so easily chilled. By the time he found the room he was back to the precipice of dread.
The door was ajar, so he knocked lightly, and heard sheets stir. An old voice croaked.
“Yes?”
Falk ducked inside and saw a face, vaguely familiar but winnowed to its essentials, skin translucent. He recognized the eyes first—china blue and a little watery—and as he moved closer they bloomed with recognition. Color rose in the old man’s cheeks, and the difference was dramatic, as if someone had just boosted his energy by fifty thousand watts.
“Dad?”
The man actually smiled, and a tear formed at the corner of each eye. Or was his father just trying to clear the filmy haze from his field of vision?
“Son? Revere?”
There was a catch in Falk’s throat as he spoke again.
“Yeah, Dad. It’s me.”
He crossed the linoleum floor on rubber legs, approaching the aluminum rails of the bed. A breathing tube led to the man’s nostrils, a second tube dripped clear liquid into his right arm from a suspended bag, and a third tube snaked from beneath the sheets into a plastic bag that was half filled with yellow fluid.
“Son,” his father said, the voice more familiar now. “You must have heard, then.”
“Haven’t heard anything, actually. Just decided it was time. Past time, really.”
“Well, I’ll be damned, then. I’ll be damned.” That weak smile again. His father raised a bony white hand and tried to reach across to him, but couldn’t quite clear the railing, so Falk met him halfway, clasping it near the wrist as they grasped awkwardly. The palm was warm, the back of the hand chilly. The skin seemed as brittle as rice paper, as if it might crumble under pressure. At the wrist Falk felt the tiny bounce of his father’s pulse. He squeezed at the palm and his father squeezed back. Falk cleared his throat.
“Saw Bob Holman at the co-op. Borrowed his truck to get out here.”
“What? Big fella like you don’t own his own car? And to think of all the junk I’ve been telling ’em.”
“Mr. Holman told me. Living in Europe. Working for the government. Actually you weren’t that far off.”
He nodded, as if of course that would be the case.
“You got children?”
“Not married. Like you figured.”
“Where you living?”
“Washington.”
Gitmo was too complicated to explain. Besides, he didn’t want to say the word aloud, as if it might make him detectable on some radar.
“Government job?”
“Yeah. FBI.” He had already said too much for his own good. But the old man had earned at least that much of the truth. “I’m a special agent, Dad. I speak Arabic, do a lot of interrogations. I’m pretty much in demand these days.”
“Knew it.” He beamed. “Damn well knew all that reading would pay off. You were too smart to keep going out on the water ’til you drowned.”
If he only knew. But that was a story for later.
“I take it you’re not doing much fishing anymore.”
The old man wheezed, the laugh shortly turning to a cough, which he was able to master by bending slightly forward, subduing a rattle deep in his chest.
“Not in years.” He was hoarse again. “You seen the boat?”
“Yesterday, when I got in. Grass is growing up through the hull.”
He nodded, not surprised.
“She hasn’t been out since ’98. You were right to leave like that, you know, taking off when you did. I was a mess, no help to anybody. I just wish you’d told me later. Just an address, you know? A note to let me know you were okay.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“No. I’m sorry.” Then his dad nodded again, an acceptance of the way things were, an absolution, done with a grace and dignity that had always resided in the man, but that Falk had forgotten after witnessing so many moments of rage or stupor.
“So where are Henry and Lucy?” Falk asked. It felt strange saying the names of his brother and sister, as if they were speaking of the long dead, or quoting some tale of ancient history. His father shook his head, and the tears came in earnest now, rolling slowly down the stretched cheeks.
“Don’t know, son. All of ’em’s gone. Your brother, your sister, your ma. Drove ’em all away, me and my drinking. You’re the only one that’s ever come back.”
“It’s okay, Dad. I’m not leaving again. Not for good anymore.”
Falk reached across the railing and took hold of his hand again. The old man seemed to settle back against his pillow.
“I tried. I know you never thought I did, but I did try. Just never hard enough.”
“I know, Dad. It’s okay. All that’s over now.”
His father nodded, sinking deeper into the pillow, now that they were both absolved. A certain ease crept into his features. He squeezed Falk’s hand, then relaxed his grip.
“So how long have you been in this place?”
“Oh. Three years, a little longer. They’d know for sure out front. Wasn’t so bad for a while. But once I stopped walking, well … things haven’t been too good lately, is all. And the weight, I’m practically down to nothing.” Then he grinned inexplicably. “You know, when I was born, the doctor out here used to charge for his deliveries by the pound. My mother always used to complain about it, because she said I was an eight-pounder, so I was extra. Maybe if they charged by the pound here I could save the state some money?”
The laugh returned, and with it the slight wheeze. But he never took his eyes off Falk, and Falk was pretty sure he knew why.
“You’re dying, aren’t you?”
He nodded, no tears this time, the mariner facing the storm head on.
“Bob tell you that?”
“Didn’t need to.”
“Cancer. They say it’s moving pretty fast. They don’t figure it will be too much longer.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Falk.” They both looked up in answer to the nurse’s voice, but she had come for his dad, strolling into the room with a rustle of white cotton.
“Oh, you’ve got a visitor today! How nice. Sorry to interrupt, but it’s time for your bath and your medication.”
“This is my son, Revere. Works for the FBI, so watch yourself.”
Falk smiled, glad to have supplied him with one little boast for the day.
“I’ll come back later,” he said, as the nurse wheeled the bed from the room while an orderly towed the IV stands. Entering the hallway they looked like attendants to a barge headed slowly down a river.
“Make it tomorrow,” his father said. “I won’t be worth too much by the time they’re done with me.”
The nurse nodded knowingly from the opposite side of the bed, affirming the wisdom of his father’s advice.
“Okay, then,” he answered. But by that time the wheels of the bed were clattering down the hall.
Falk strolled numbly back to the reception desk, not quite convinced the moment was real. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see the bed disappear around the far corner. Then he swallowed hard, collecting himself. He was already wondering how he would pass the time until tomorrow morning, and he stopped at the desk to leave the name of his B&B in case they needed to reach him. The receptionist looked up, as if she’d almost forgotten something, and said, “Oh, and Mr. Falk, there’s a man here in the lobby to see you.”
“To see me?”
&nb
sp; “Yes, sir, right over there.” She pointed shyly, as if it were impolite, keeping her hand below the counter, but Falk didn’t dare turn around. Maybe he should say he’d forgotten something and head straight back down the hallway. Climb out the window of his father’s empty room. Peel back yet another screen to dash off into the woods. Steal yet another boat to strike out for God knows where. Isle au Haut, maybe, or Swans Island. But what would be the point, now that they had him in their sights?
So instead he took a deep breath, turned, and saw the round face of Paco looking up from a magazine, smiling like a mischievous old friend.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
WE ARE BOTH, AS they say in your military, absent without leave, yes?”
“I can only speak for myself,” Falk said. “But how did you know where to … ?”
“Please.” Paco thrust out a hand like a traffic cop. “Don’t ask me to reveal trade secrets. And let’s order some food. It would be uncivilized to discuss these matters on an empty stomach.”
They were seated in a corner booth at the Fisherman’s Friend. Paco had insisted on buying lunch before “doing any business,” as he put it. He had then climbed into his rented Ford and followed Bob Holman’s noisy truck back into Stonington.
On the way Falk decided that Harry must have tipped the Cubans to his escape. So much for keeping a lid on gossip at the base. But how had Paco known he would come here? And if a Cuban in Miami could figure it out, then surely the Americans would.
They were sprawled across the booth’s vinyl seats like two laborers on lunch hour when a waitress approached with pen and pad.
“Aren’t fried clams supposed to be good?” Paco asked, chattering away as if he did this all the time. His mood was contagious, and Falk decided to enjoy it while he could.
“That or the lobster roll. Can’t miss, either way.”
“The clams, then.” Paco snapped shut the menu.
“Make it two.”
The Prisoner of Guantanamo Page 35