The Audacity of Goats

by J. F. Riordan

  “Why? To whose advantage?”

  “I don’t know. Depends, I guess. But reason doesn’t always play a big role in conspiracy theories.”

  “True. Is it a conspiracy?”

  “I don’t know. I’m beginning to think everything is a conspiracy.”

  “Maybe everything is.” He smiled his engaging smile, and changed the subject to something more interesting to them both.

  After her first visit, Shay became a regular at Ground Zero’s morning practice. She had found that rising early made a useful and pleasant extension to her day, and she was always happy to expand her practice. The men did not seem to mind her presence, and not being overly familiar with the workings of the male mind, it never occurred to her that anyone might be uncomfortable about her being there.

  For Shay, the ability to sit and drink her morning coffee so comfortably and conveniently after practice was an added benefit she thoroughly enjoyed. A few of the group stayed on as well, and after the first few visits, their casual chats with her were a sign of their acceptance. The men would soon scatter to their various responsibilities, however, and a calm would descend on Ground Zero.

  Beautiful Joshua occasionally lingered nearby, and his easy banter was a sharp contrast to Roger, who simply went about his business, occasionally filling her cup, though rarely speaking. Seeing him in his native environment, Shay now could see that this was who he was, and no longer worried about how and whether she was communicating with her star pupil. He learned in his own way, she could certainly see that, so she inwardly shrugged at the many varieties of human personality and stopped thinking about it. Roger was Roger—whoever Roger actually was. Shay was intrigued, and, she had to admit, somewhat attracted.

  She had noticed the gold wedding band, and wondered about what kind of woman would make a match with this taciturn fellow. But Shay had noticed long ago that the attractions between people were mysterious. There was someone for everyone, she firmly believed. She would be interested at some point to meet his wife. “Not,” she thought to herself, “that it would make any difference.”

  Emily woke with a start to the sound of screaming. She was learning to adapt to the cries of coyotes running nearby. It was an unnerving experience, but a fact of island life. Now, she tried to reassure herself, but this was not the usual cacophony of voices yipping and crying in the distance as they ran. It was one voice. It was nearby. And she was pretty sure it was human. Emily dug her elbow into her husband’s ribs. “Jason! Wake up!”

  “What?” asked Jason irritably, pulling a pillow from his head.

  “Listen!”

  Together they listened for a few seconds. The bloodcurdling sound of a woman screaming was coming from somewhere near the pasture. Jason was city born and bred, and rural life was new to him. He had been thinking about getting a gun, but so far he hadn’t gotten around to it. He rolled over and grabbed the phone. “I’m not going out there.”

  He dialed 911.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Do you ever listen to opera?” Eddie was polishing the bar where there were no spots. Pali looked at him with mild curiosity.

  “Not often. Why?”

  “Well, I’ve been taking an audio course on it. One of those great ideas things. I’m really enjoying it.” He was interrupted by a request for a refill, and disappeared down the bar for a moment. Returning, he picked up a clean bar rag and began polishing glasses.

  “So anyway one of the operas is by Mozart. About the Don Juan legend.”

  “Don Giovanni,” said Pali, surprising himself. “I saw that once in Chicago.”

  “So you know that scene at the end when the demons drag him down to Hell?”

  Pali nodded, unable to see where this conversation was going.

  “That’s what I keep hoping for. That somehow, the demons will come for her, Stella will be dragged away, and the whole problem will be solved.”

  “Not for Stella.”

  “No. But I think you’re missing my point.”

  Pali laughed. “No. No, I see your point.”

  “I don’t think you do,” said Eddie quietly. “What I am saying is that we need a political equivalent.”

  “A political equivalent to Hell? Isn’t that kind of redundant?”

  “We need her to be taken out of the equation.”

  “We should assassinate her?” asked Pali cheerfully. “She’s not worth it. We’d all have to go to jail and she’d probably come back as a ghost. That woman has persistence.”

  Eddie laughed. “Well, it may come to that. But, no. What I’m saying is that we need—”

  Suddenly a light dawned on Pali’s face. “A deus ex machina,” he said slowly.

  Eddie looked at him with respect. “Exactly.”

  By the time the police arrived at Windsome Farm, the screaming had stopped. Emily and Jason Martin waited for Chief Yahr to get out of his car before venturing into the yard.

  The Chief had a look of stoic resolve as he directed his team of officers and volunteers in the methodical grid search that was by now a familiar exercise. Jason joined with some reluctance, uncomfortable with the thought of what he might find, but with a sense of obligation that he was learning from local custom.

  The eastern sky was pale when the volunteers returned to the kitchen yard. Emily had made coffee and served it in the Styrofoam cups she kept for Scout meetings. It was cold, and the visible breath of the little group, rising in the air, reminded Emily of her goat herds when she brought them out to pasture.

  “Well,” said the Chief, “Here we are again, and no better off.” He looked at the circle of grim faces around him. “If this is somebody’s idea of a joke…” he paused, at a loss. “I suppose we should be grateful that we haven’t found a body. We can reassure our neighbors about that much, at least: no bodies, and no victims.”

  He was silent again for a moment, thinking about whether to say what was on his mind. At last he spoke, looking at the expectant faces around him. “I’m starting to think that Lars is right: some crazy is living in the woods. We’re going to have to find him… or her… sooner or later. No one can hide on the Island for very long.” What he didn’t say was the rest of his thought: that they needed to find whoever it was before he… or she… decided to do something more than scream. Chief Yahr was beginning to wonder whether he should issue a warning in the interest of public safety.

  Emily and Jason expressed their thanks as the group dispersed, the sound of the volunteers’ voices drifting back as they walked down the long driveway to the road where their trucks were parked.

  Wearily returning to the house, Emily was grateful for her own particular blessing: the children had slept through the entire thing.

  Elisabeth had been doing some soul-searching. She had examined, in minute detail, her memories of her early relationship with Roger—she couldn’t call it courtship, exactly—and had come to a clearer understanding. Roger, she knew, had never been demonstrative. Most people—she also knew—couldn’t imagine why she had married him. But until recently, Elisabeth had always had an instinctive ability to empathize with Roger, to sense his moods, and she had known he loved her.

  For Elisabeth, this had always been the key point. She was not a hearts and flowers kind of person, nor was she interested in fireworks. She wanted connection and intellectual companionship. Roger’s ability to connect was flawed, of course, but the connection, once made, was deep. This Elisabeth could not doubt.

  These reflections had brought her a new calm, and a resolution to address what wasn’t working in her marriage. She recalled her mother’s counsel: “Marriage is about building habits,” she had often said. “Both the good and the bad. You must take care that the habits you build are good ones.”

  Her marriage was still new; this was the time. Elisabeth was determined to get it right.

  Buoyed by this decision, Elisabeth recalled how many mornings she had used to spend sitting at the counter of Ground Zero—then still unnamed—bas
king in the presence of Roger. There was no reason, she realized, that she shouldn’t continue to do so, and, in fact, she chided herself for having abandoned this rather core principle of their relationship. They had rarely spoken much, but they had been together, and this, she suddenly saw, was how he had known that she was interested in him. It was entirely possible, she thought, that he felt her absence there as neglect.

  Elisabeth did not mention to Roger that she would be coming to Ground Zero that morning. She wanted to surprise him. So she kissed him goodbye at his pre-dawn departure, planning to arrive later, as she had always done in the past. Pleased with her plan, she spent extra time on her preparations as she dressed, humming happily to herself. Rocco, alert to a change in routine, lay on his bed in the corner, watching to ensure that she could not leave without him.

  As she drove to Ephraim, Rocco happily ensconced in the back seat, Elisabeth felt a twinge of joyful nostalgia. It felt right to be returning to this old routine, to be going to sit at Ground Zero, to drink coffee and forget the outside world for a while.

  The sun was barely up on this dark winter morning as she pulled into the parking lot, but it was nearly 7:30. She left the engine running while she gathered her things: her gloves, her bag, Rocco’s leash. She mentally checked her list, and was about to switch off the car when she looked up.

  In the winter dawn, Ground Zero was lit up like a stage, its interior fully visible to the outside. She could not, at first, tell what was going on, the activities being so unexpected. Suddenly she realized that what she was seeing was two bodies, entwined and moving on the floor in front of the counter. Her heart stopped. It was Roger. Roger bent on all fours, his legs straight, his… behind… up high. And there was a woman, clearly slim and fit, as she lay, her back to Roger’s. Yes, she could see that the woman lay on top of him, a mass of blonde hair falling around them, falling around Roger’s shoulders and face.

  Fiona was mid-train of thought in her writing when the phone rang. Feeling slightly irritated, she answered in an unusually brusque tone.

  “Hey,” said Pete.

  “Hey.” Her tone changed instantly, and she leaned back in her chair with relief. “Where are you?”

  “Guess.”

  Fiona sighed deliberately and for effect. “I can’t imagine. Tell me.”

  “Nope. You have to guess.”

  “Is it someplace far away?”

  “Depends on where you are.”

  “You know where I am. Is it someplace dangerous?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “Is it someplace that will worry me?”

  “It may well be.”

  “Is it—”

  Pete interrupted impatiently. “You know, for a reporter, you’re really bad at asking questions.”

  Fiona laughed. “That’s because I don’t even want to try. You like teasing me too much.”

  Pete smiled to himself. “I do, actually. But you make it easy.”

  There was a long silence that Fiona was determined not to break. She could hear announcements in the background, and occasionally people talking.

  “You’re not going to ask?”

  “No. I’m not playing.”

  “Well, okay, then. But don’t be mad at me when your hair is messy, or you haven’t got anything to drink in the house.”

  Fiona’s heart stopped and started again. “How soon will you be here?”

  “About five or six hours. I’m driving up from Chicago.”

  “You’ll have to drive fast; the last ferry is at five. How long have you been in Chicago?”

  “I just walked out of customs. I have to rent a car, and then I’ll be on my way.”

  “I’d better go. I have a lot to do. I have an article to finish before you get here.”

  “Okay,” said Pete. “Don’t forget to brush your hair.”

  “You’ll be lucky.”

  “In any case.”

  After they hung up she wondered briefly, how he had meant that last remark, and then shifted her focus to her work. She switched off her Internet connection and turned off the phone. There was just barely enough time, and she needed to block all distractions.

  It was 5:43 when Fiona heard a car in the driveway. She watched him walk around to the porch, carrying a small overnight bag. She flung open the door, and he was there in the front hall, dropping the bag on the floor and kicking the door closed behind him. Their greeting lasted for some time before Fiona extricated herself.

  “I didn’t have time to get food. I only have a few slices of stale bread and some black bananas. I thought it was better to finish the article.”

  “Food is not on my list of priorities at the moment,” said Pete, his lips on her neck.

  “Nelsen’s serves until nine.”

  “We’ll see how it goes.”

  “I have scotch.”

  “Bring it along.”

  She went to the living room to get the scotch and returned. He took her hand and they went upstairs together.

  Elisabeth spent the rest of her day driving aimlessly around the peninsula, occasionally stopping to walk in the cold with Rocco. She could not think, or eat, or speak. She didn’t want to see anyone, and besides, there were not many places she could go with Rocco, and she didn’t want to leave him in the car. Roger had called her numerous times, but she didn’t feel like answering. She didn’t want to talk to him, or know what she should say. He might be worrying, but, she asked herself, what was worry compared to what she was feeling?

  If she had been able to reach Fiona, she would have gone there, but the ferry was on its winter schedule, and by the time she felt equal to it, it was too late. The last boat had gone.

  “Too cold to swim,” she told Rocco, and he looked at her with intelligent interest. He knew the word “swim,” and he liked it. Very much. Cold was a matter of complete indifference to him. He expressed his feelings with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

  But Elisabeth was too absorbed in her thoughts to pay attention to Rocco’s clear communications. She patted him absently on the head as she stared into the distance. She was not ready for a confrontation with Roger. She couldn’t face it. But she would go home. She had to go home. She would say she wasn’t well and go to bed early. In the guest room.

  It was dark when Fiona woke. As she stirred, Pete pulled her back to him.

  “How long can you stay?” she mumbled into his lips.

  “I have to be in China on Tuesday.”

  “So you leave…”

  “Saturday.”

  “I like China better than the other places lately.”

  “One of my colleagues was arrested there last year for espionage. But he was Taiwanese, so that probably was a contributing factor.”

  “Did he get out?”

  “Not yet.”

  Fiona peered at him reprovingly through the darkness. “Do you want me to worry?”

  Pete considered this for a moment. “Maybe I do, a little. But only a little.”

  “A little which?”

  “A little want you to; a little worry.”

  “Hrmph.”

  There was no talking for a while.

  Pete bestirred himself at last. “My priorities have suddenly shifted in the direction of food. What time is it? My watch is still on Dubai time.”

  Fiona twisted around to see the bedside clock. “7:11. Want to get up?”

  “I need to keep my strength up.”

  Fiona smiled at him. “Yes, you do.”

  They lingered.

  Some time later, Pete, having endeared himself to all and sundry on his past trips, was greeted at Nelsen’s like an old friend. Fiona and Pete ordered burgers, ate ravenously, shot some pool, were treated to several rounds, and then excused themselves.

  “Pete is still on Dubai time,” said Fiona. This was perfectly true, but no one supposed his exhaustion was the reason for their early departure.

  As they left, there were some glances exchanged between people
who were not among Fiona’s circle. Eddie noticed, but said nothing. Bartenders are used to knowing everything and saying only what they choose.

  Chapter Twenty

  Elisabeth woke in a calmer frame of mind, but not any clearer about a course of action. Roger had come in early before he left, stood for a few moments in the door as if to gauge whether she was awake, then tiptoed away. Elisabeth had pretended to sleep. She heard the door close, and his car start up and drive away. Rocco, who had followed him as far as the kitchen, now returned and leapt onto the bed, curling up at the foot and sighing deeply. Elisabeth sighed with him.

  When she went into the kitchen she found a note from Roger on the table. For a moment she thought it might be something meaningful and loving. She picked it up eagerly. It said: Gone to work.

  Basking in the sparkling brilliance of a winter morning’s sun, Pete and Fiona sat at her kitchen table drinking coffee. “I’m afraid I have to attend a fundraiser while you’re here,” she said in a tone of great regret. She had already developed a healthy distaste for fundraising. “You can come, if you like.”

  “Is it a fundraiser for you, or for some Island cause?”

  “I like to think that I am an Island cause.”

  “In that case, I’ll come.”

  She looked out the window. Stella’s red convertible was there in the driveway looking sinister. Fiona had a sudden, visceral memory of the day before the barn had burned down. She and Pete had been sitting here, just like this, and Robert had been there, in the barn.

  She was shaken out of her reverie by Pete’s voice. He had been watching her face as she looked out, seeing her moods clearly reflected there.

  “I don’t mean to be unduly pessimistic, but what will you do if you lose the election?”

  Fiona shrugged. “Sell the house and leave, I suppose.”

  “That might be good for me.”

  Fiona eyed him skeptically. “It might. But I would become a shadow of my former self.”