It took her a while to stand up again. Her feet were swollen and her toe throbbed. She brushed off her leaf covering, picked up her stick, and made her way back to the road, discouraged for the first time. Rescue had been so close. Ten steps, count of ten. She heard the car go into the valley and up the other side, and then could hear it no more. Ten steps. Then she thought again. What was that car? It was heading for the camp. Was it her captors returning in a different car? Perhaps she had been wise to hide. This spurred her on. Suppose they returned, though. Victoria remembered to drop another shell. There were not many left on the string. She had to save a few to mark the turnoff from the main road.
She heard the vehicle again, and dodged into the brush, much thinner here. She hid as best she could. The steady walking had been an effort; the hiding was exhausting. This time she would stay hidden no matter what, and she would rest. She scooped leaves over her and lay as flat as she could. Headlights lit up the trees above her. She heard the engine, saw two dots of headlights. The vehicle slowed. Victoria held her breath. Surely she couldn’t be seen. She pressed herself flat into the soft ground. The car stopped. The door opened. Slammed shut.
“My friend!”
Victoria tried to sit up, and couldn’t.
Dojan tore through the underbrush. “Did they hurt you? Oh, my friend!” He scooped her up. She tried to pull her gown down modestly over her legs and brushed at the leaves.
He opened the front door of his van with one hand, still holding her in the other, and deposited her on the front seat.
“I will kill them!”
“No, no, no,” said Victoria weakly.
Dojan slid open the side door of his van and brought out a fishy- smelling blanket, which he wrapped around her with great tenderness.
“Thank you,” Victoria said, looking into Dojan’s dark eyes. “How did you ever, ever find me?”
“I have spent all night searching. I saw them in your house and entered.”
“I heard you.” Victoria wrapped the blanket tightly around herself. She couldn’t stop shivering.
“Someone hit me.” Dojan gripped the steering wheel tensely. “When I came to, you were gone.”
“Then what happened?”
“I was not out long. I heard the Jeep go up-Island. So I searched the roads between your house and Aquinnah.”
“There must be dozens of them.”
“Some had not been used lately. Those I did not follow. I followed roads that led nowhere. I saw summer cabins that were closed for the winter. I saw places with lights and people. Then I saw sandy tire tracks leading out from this road and I followed them, as I had followed a dozen others. The tracks led to the camp. There, I saw two shells, shells from the necklace my cousin gave you. I saw where you must have lain on the sofa, saw an empty cup and spoon next to it. I feared they had taken you away. Then I thought of the shells by the steps. So I found your footprints and I tracked you. I saw shells you had dropped. Where the footprints stopped, I stopped. And I found you, my friend.”
It was the longest speech Victoria had ever heard from Dojan.
The night sky was lightening. Victoria could make out the horizon below a pale line of gray dawn. Dojan drove slowly so the van rocked Victoria like a cradle.
“They may come back, Dojan.”
He grunted. He’d said enough.
He turned onto the paved road. Ahead of her, Victoria could see clouds emerge from the darkness, lit up with gold and silver. The van headed directly into the dawn, and Victoria’s heart lifted at the beauty of it all.
CHAPTER 25
“If you don’t mind, Patience, I’m on the phone.” Peter covered the mouthpiece with his hand.
“I’ll wait.” Patience sat down on the couch Peter had insisted upon having in his office.
“This is a private call,” Peter hissed.
“There are no private calls here. Business calls are not private. You may make personal calls from the phone booth in the corridor.” Patience looked around his office. A large colored map of Aquinnah covered one wall. It was a combination topographic map that showed every hill and valley, and a soils map that showed where sand and clay predominated. It was overlaid with an enlarged assessor’s map that gave every map and lot number, and showed every building. Patience couldn’t help staring at the map and the detail it showed. She’d seen that map every time she’d come into his office, but had never looked at it so closely. She could see the three lots that were hers now, her property. Almost thirty acres. She thought of her grandmother’s drumbeat: “Money is power.” Land is power, Patience added.
Peter took his hand away from the mouthpiece and spoke into it. “Sorry. I’ll have to get back to you later.”
Patience waited while the person at the other end of the line said a great deal more to Peter.
“I realize that. I’ll explain later. I’ll call you back in a half hour.” Peter stretched out his left arm so his watch emerged from under the cuff of his black silk shirt.
Patience folded her arms over her bosom and stared at the wall map. Peter had added colored map tacks in certain places, for some reason. One of the tacks was on her land. She couldn’t tell what the tacks signified. Archaeological sites? She turned away from the map.
Peter was beginning to perspire. Patience handed him a tissue from her pocket. He took the tissue from her and wiped his forehead. The voice on the phone was a man’s, but Patience could make out only a few emphatic words. “Don’t you hang up on me,” she heard, and “You agreed.”
Peter said over the still-talking voice, “I’ve got to go. I’ll explain later.” He replaced the receiver, and the phone rang immediately. Patience reached across his desk, ignoring the look on Peter’s face, and picked up the phone. She said nothing. The voice at the other end said, “Little, you fucker, don’t you ever hang up on me again.” Patience knew that voice. It belonged to a man she had thrown out of her office three months before, George Philipopoulos, a man full of his own charm.
“Thank you, Mr. Philipopoulos. He won’t hang up on you again.” She replaced the phone on Peter’s desk.
“Would you care to discuss this with me, Peter?” She made herself comfortable on his couch, patted the soft cushions. “Nice. Leather and eiderdown. Very executive. Expensive.” She paused. He squirmed. “Perhaps you have a logical reason for doing business with Mr. Philipopoulos? Or perhaps you were not doing business with him at all. Perhaps he was harassing you? In which case, I will put a stop to it for you, if you would like. Perhaps he believed he could get what he wanted by going after the weakest link?”
Peter stared at his tidy desk. He moved a letter opener to one side so it lined up with a matching silver pen. He put his hands on his desk and looked at his manicured nails.
“Do you wish to say something, Peter? Or do you choose to remain silent and let me think what I will? That you are trying to enrich yourself at the expense of the tribe?”
At that, Peter stood up. “Who’s enriching whose self?” He smiled. “I don’t have to listen to you.”
“No, you don’t. Perhaps you would like to clear out your desk. Remove your furniture to a more appreciative employer.”
“You can’t fire me. The tribe voted me in.”
“Would you care to challenge that?” Patience smiled brightly from the soft couch, stretched her plump arm across the smooth leather back.
A hawk cried high above them. The wind riffled the bayberry leaves on the other side of the parking lot. Peter stood in front of the window, hands behind his back, staring out at the parking lot and the rolling hills beyond it. Peter’s MG was parked next to Chief Hawkbill’s Cadillac, Patience’s battered red Ford pickup was next to his MG.
“I’ve got my supporters,” he said finally.
“I’m sure you do.” Patience melted further into the soft leather. “Shall we see who has more? And do you think yours will still support you when they learn the source of your wealth? That your connections have nothing to
do with tribal advancement, but everything to do with the advancement of Peter Little?”
Peter swiveled around. “Sounds like the pot calling the kettle black.”
“Let me number the votes. On your side are Littles and Minnow- fish. Can you count on support from them? Dojan is a Minnowfish. He is, what, third or fourth cousin?”
Peter shifted in his chair.
“On my side are VanDykes and Hawkbills. Also on my side are the off-Island Wampanoags who know nothing about Peter Little. Shall I demand a recall vote?”
Peter’s voice was tightly controlled. “I’m sure your supporters will be interested in hearing about the land you’ve somehow managed to acquire. Secretly. Looks great for someone who’s always crying poor-mouth. You planning to build trophy houses? Or will your land be suitable for the casino you want so badly? That would explain a lot of things, wouldn’t it?”
Patience looked up, surprised.
“Bought by the Quahog Trust, not by poor Patience VanDyke, who drives a fifteen-year-old pickup.” Peter laughed. “You thought you could keep a secret like that on this Island?”
Patience sat up straight. “I like a challenge, Peter. You against me isn’t much of a challenge. Gather your supporters. See how far your tactics will get you. The Wampanoags have been led by strong women for generations. Do you think they will trust a silk-shirted boy with a fancy sports car? And silver desk ornaments? They understand land, Peter, and I understand them.”
Peter stared at her for long moments. He turned toward the parking lot, his MG and her pickup. He turned back, folded his hands on his desktop, and smiled. “All right,” he said. “What do you want of me?”
“I do not need you working against me, Peter. Why don’t you tell me what you and Mr. Philipopoulos were concocting between you.”
Peter bowed his head and examined his fingernails.
“As I recall, he represents a shipping firm, right?”
Peter said nothing. His back was to the window, his face in shadow. The light reflecting from the hood of Chief Hawkbill’s Cadillac flickered in Patience’s eyes. She moved to the other side of the couch and settled herself again.
Patience lifted herself slightly to straighten her skirt under her. Her heavy breasts swayed under her gauzy cotton blouse. She smoothed her skirt over her knees, bent and tugged the fabric around her ankles. She wore clogs with thick soles and thick heels on bare feet. She couldn’t see Peter’s expression but suspected it was one of distaste.
She sat up and spoke sharply. “Well, Peter, how much are they paying you?”
Peter swiveled his chair so he faced the parking lot again, and said nothing.
“How much are they paying you? Or do we ask the federal government to look into your income and the taxes you pay? I assume you pay federal income taxes. How do you afford leather office furniture and silver desk appointments on the salary I pay you? Inherited from the Little side of the family? No. Certainly not the Minnowfish side.”
Peter still said nothing.
“I suppose it’s too much to ask that you cooperate with me in getting a government grant?”
Peter stood and faced Patience. “Federal funding is not the way to go,” he said.
“Because you won’t get your rake-off?” Patience laughed. “It is easy to see through you, Peter. Mr. Philipopoulos’s bosses want a floating casino, and are paying you well to lobby for it, aren’t they?”
“A floating casino makes sense. It will wipe out Islanders’ greatest argument against a gambling casino. It would not be built on the land. No worries about traffic, ferry tie-ups, liquor, noise, children going astray.” He laughed. “Tribal members will captain vessels, not spin red and black wheels.”
“Your points are well taken, Peter. Why have you not discussed this freely with me and with the tribal council?” When he started to answer, she held up a plump hand with rings on each of her fingers. “We know why, don’t we? You like the good things, don’t you, Peter? Mr. Philipopoulos is able, through his employer, to provide you with the stipend, or, shall I say, bribe, that allows you to indulge yourself. You do not want to see that source of money dry up, do you, Peter? Which it would if you cooperated with me.” She sat forward on the couch. “You were working with Mr. Burkhardt, too, weren’t you? To slow the granting of permits. Was Mr. Burkhardt also getting money from Mr. Philipopoulos?”
Peter toyed with his paperweight, a heavy glass dome containing a chunk of clay from the cliffs.
“Mr. Philipopoulos is a fool. However, he does not work for fools. Has the money and its power corrupted you so much? Was it your cohorts, Peter, who kidnapped Mrs. Trumbull last night?”
Peter dropped the paperweight on his desk with a thump. “What about Mrs. Trumbull?”
“You needn’t pretend to be astonished. Everyone on this Island, with the possible exception of Mrs. Trumbull, has a scanner. You included. Where were you last night, Peter?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“You’re right, where you go at night does not concern me. However, the police are likely to be interested. I suggest you think up a credible alibi.”
Victoria refused to go to bed, but Elizabeth ran a warm bath for her. When Victoria emerged, pink and herbal-scented, wearing her gray corduroy trousers and a moss-colored turtleneck, Dojan helped her lift her feet up onto the couch. Within seconds she was snoring softly.
Elizabeth covered her grandmother with a blanket, and tiptoed into the kitchen, where Casey was stacking papers and Howland was rinsing dishes.
“Who would have kidnapped her?” Elizabeth was wiping the dishes. “Why my grandmother? They said they wanted Burkhardt’s computer. How many people are after it?”
“A lot.” Howland wiped his hands on a dish towel and put clean cups in the cupboard above the sink.
Dojan was sitting in the captain’s chair by the door, his eyes half- shut.
Casey, rumpled and tired-looking, her hair disheveled, stepped up from the cookroom. “I’m beat, you guys. I’m going home to bed. I’ll talk to you later.” Chuck shrugged into his linen jacket, and gathered up his notes. “Anything I can do before I leave?”
Elizabeth smiled at him. “Thank you for a nice evening.”
Dojan sat up abruptly and hooted. “First date?”
In the dining room, Victoria slept soundly, and Elizabeth, How- land, and Dojan tiptoed into the cookroom.
Howland scratched his unshaven chin. “An earthquake wouldn’t disturb her.”
“The kidnapping has to be tied to Burkhardt,” Elizabeth said. “Were they the killers? Were they bikers? Wampanoags? Casino financiers? Maybe Linda’s buddies?”
“Where is Linda, by the way?” Howland asked.
“I haven’t seen her since yesterday. I have no idea where she is.” Elizabeth looked around. “She didn’t come home last night. Did she?”
Dojan had moved from the captain’s chair in the kitchen to the bentwood armchair in the cookroom. He sat stolidly at the head of the table, his arms crossed over his chest, his bare feet flat on the floor, his eyes closed.
Howland took a pen and a lined pad of paper from the table below the wall phone. “I’ll make a list of facts and assumptions.” He drew two vertical lines on the paper and wrote in the first column.
“I’m too tired to think,” said Elizabeth.
“Right.” Howland tossed the pen aside and yawned.
Elizabeth pushed her chair away from the table. “Is anyone else hungry? I feel as if we’ve been eating all night, but I’m starved.”
Dojan opened his eyes and stood. “I will fix food. You talk.” He went into the kitchen, and Elizabeth heard the refrigerator door open. Soon she smelled bacon frying.
She sat back again, put her elbows on the table, and rested her chin in her hands. “You know the weeder my grandmother and Do- jan found?”
Howland nodded.
“My grandmother has one just like it. I tried breaking up quahog shells with it yesterday. Qu
ahog shells are really, really heavy.”
Howland nodded again.
“I smashed the shells as though they were eggs.” Elizabeth shuddered. “It wouldn’t take a strong person to crush a skull.”
Howland leaned back in his chair and yawned again.
“Don’t let Victoria see you lean back like that.”
Howland set the chair down on all four legs.
In the kitchen, Dojan clattered dishes and utensils, and soon after, came in with a dish of Indian pudding—a kind of cornmeal spoon bread—a platter of bacon and sausage, and fried green tomatoes.
“I put some in the oven for my friend,” Dojan said. Elizabeth reached into her back pocket, took out pieces of broken clamshell, and set them on the table. “I was wondering what felt so uncomfortable.”
CHAPTER 26
Howland was still yawning over the notes he was writing when Victoria awoke a little before noon. Elizabeth had set her grandfather’s slippers next to the couch, and Victoria eased her sore feet into the soft lamb’s wool.
“I must have fallen asleep,” she said to Elizabeth, who had been sitting in the cookroom with Howland. “I didn’t mean to. Where’s Dojan?”
“Here, my friend.” Dojan rose from the captain’s chair, where he had been dozing.
“Something smells good.” Victoria’s eyes brightened when she saw what was on the plate Dojan set out for her. “I haven’t had Indian pudding for years.”
INDIAN PIPES Page 18