“Would you recognize any of the people who kidnapped you if you should see them again?” Howland asked after she had finished her late breakfast.
Victoria set her fork on the side of her plate. “I heard the driver call his boss ‘Mack.’ He had a voice I’d recognize.”
“The kidnappers worked together,” Howland said. “Were they tribal members?”
“I had no way of knowing. Mack was disguising his voice. He was tall and didn’t seem heavy, although it was hard to tell because of his loose clothing. The driver had muscular, hairy arms and was much shorter.” She thought some more. “One of the others was a woman. The fourth may also have been a woman or a smallish man.”
“Anything else you can recall?” Howland asked.
“When Mack leaned over me, he smelled of patchouli.”
“Patchouli?”
“It’s a perfume made from some East Indian plant,” Elizabeth explained. “It’s popular with touchy-feely types.”
“Could it have been his shaving lotion?”
Victoria shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Patchouli is a woman’s perfume,” said Elizabeth.
Victoria glanced around. “Where’s Linda? Did she come home last night?”
“Not while we were here,” said Howland, pushing his chair away from the table.
“I hope she’s all right.” Victoria frowned. “I was bothered by her reaction to her uncle’s death and the fire. Almost no reaction. Yet she was shocked, out of proportion, when she heard that we’d found a body in the house.”
“That is pretty shocking,” said Elizabeth.
“No more so than her uncle’s murder,” said Howland.
“She made quite a point of asking about the computer,” said Victoria. “She insists that it’s hers.”
“Burkhardt’s heir hasn’t been established yet,” said Howland. “The courts will have to establish whose it is. Unless, of course, someone finds a will.”
“Linda wants to see who gets the eighteen million. There’s bound to be a copy of his will on it. If her uncle didn’t leave his property to her…”
“She might do something about it?” Howland finished.
“Linda didn’t kill her uncle,” said Victoria.
Elizabeth snorted. “I wouldn’t put it past her. Money. Everything comes down to money.”
Victoria shifted her feet slightly and winced.
Elizabeth got up quickly. “Another footbath, Gram?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” said Victoria.
Elizabeth sat down again.
“What about Hiram’s friend?” Howland asked.
“Tad was more than just a friend,” said Victoria.
“I assumed so,” said Howland.
Victoria cleared her throat. “At some time in the past, before Tad came into the picture, Hiram and Jube Burkhardt were lovers.”
“Ah!” said Howland.
“You knew Burkhardt threatened to expose Tad if Hiram didn’t sign the phony noncompliance papers?”
“And Hiram went along with the scam,” said Howland. “Yes, I’d heard.”
“Where’s Tad now?” Elizabeth asked.
“On his way home to Nebraska,” Victoria replied. “He called Hiram on his cell phone from the ferry.”
“He could have been anywhere,” said Howland. “Tad had an excellent motive for killing Burkhardt. And opportunity, assuming he wasn’t calling from the ferry.”
“He was driving his car back to Nebraska,” said Victoria. “The Steamship Authority will have records.”
“Good point.” Howland jotted something in his notes.
“We told you about the ‘Fatal Error’ message on Burkhardt’s computer, didn’t we?”
“You did,” said Howland.
There was a loud snort from the end of the table, and all three looked at Dojan, who’d been so quiet they’d forgotten he was there. He had fallen asleep, his arms folded across his chest, his head bowed. The feather in his hair bobbed with his breathing.
“We should move into the other room,” Elizabeth whispered.
Howland yawned. “We’re not likely to disturb him.”
“Dojan had a rough night,” said Victoria.
Howland smiled. “So did almost everyone on the Island.”
Victoria continued in a low voice. “The morning after Jube’s murder the killer must have gone to Jube’s house to see what was on his computer.”
“Burkhardt’s computer was an antique,” said Howland. “If the killer tried to erase certain files, but didn’t know how, he would get that ‘Fatal Error’ message.”
“Hardly an antique,” said Victoria. “I don’t believe Jube had owned his computer for more than ten years.”
“Ten years!” muttered Howland. “Even a computer nerd might not understand codes that ancient.”
“Ancient!” said Victoria.
“I bet Hiram went to Jube’s for the same reason,” said Elizabeth. “To delete whatever he could from the computer.”
Victoria started to say something, then stopped.
“What were you about to say, Victoria?” Howland asked.
“The killer must have been in the house when Hiram got there.”
“Go on,” said Howland.
“Hiram saw the computer running and suspected something was wrong. Jube wouldn’t have left it on. That was when Hiram called me. The killer undoubtedly heard Hiram leave that message on my answering machine.”
Howland nodded. “Hiram may have seen the killer.”
“I guess it was hopeless to think we could recover anything from the computer,” said Elizabeth. “I wish we could have known what was on it.”
“Be right back.” Howland went out to his car and returned with a disk in a plastic case. “Here you are.”
“You got it?” Elizabeth shouted.
Dojan woke up with a start and shook his head.
“Most of it,” said Howland. “Once I pried the case off, the insides were intact. I removed the hard drive and installed it in my own computer.”
Elizabeth picked up the disk gently.
“I made four copies,” said Howland. “One’s at my house, one’s in my safe deposit box at the bank, I gave one to Chief O’Neill, and this is the fourth.”
“Have you seen what’s on it?” Elizabeth asked.
Howland nodded. “Everything. Just like his house. He kept everything. Financial records, every e-mail sent to him, a database I haven’t deciphered yet, and file after file of who knows what. It’s going to take weeks to go through Burkhardt’s files.”
“Fools!” rasped Bugs. “You fools! You stupid shits! What in hell possessed you to do that? What in hell did you think you were doing?” He pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose.
The four bikers stood silently before him, scowling, three men and a woman.
Bugs loomed over them, his large hands clenched in hammy fists, muttering something with his lips that never came out as words. He stalked away from the shade into the sunlit field and kicked at a clod of earth.
The four, all dressed in black leather trousers, jackets, and boots, glared at his back. The shortest man spat off to one side. Bugs walked into the field, sending a shower of dirt over goldenrod and Queen Anne’s lace. He circled back to them. The woman was cradling a black and white helmet. She lifted a tangle of hair off her neck with one hand.
“Sit!” Bugs ordered.
“Who you talking to?” said the redhead.
The girl snickered.
“Sit,” Bugs said again, much too quietly, and pointed to the bench attached to the picnic table.
They hesitated. Bugs moved a half step forward, and all three sat, backs to the picnic table. Bugs stood over them, working his mouth.
Finally he spoke. “I assume this was your idea, Mack?”
The three bikers looked at Mack.
“Yeah.”
“Why? Tell me why?”
“She surprised
us. We didn’t expect her to come downstairs.”
“What in hell were you doing in her house?” Bugs’s heavy glasses slipped down his nose, and he pushed them back.
“We needed to get that computer.”
“And why, may I ask?” Bugs’s voice was tight with sarcasm. “I suppose you think it’s got nasty comments on bikers? Burkhardt had a right to his opinions. First Amendment, after all.” He stabbed a finger at Mack. “Free speech, in case you don’t remember.”
The girl, at the end of the bench, moved her helmet into her lap, and looked down at it. The chunky redhead shifted something in his mouth and continued to chew. The smallest man gazed beyond Bugs into the field, where yellow butterflies flitted over a patch of budding asters. Mack looked down at his hands.
“You look at me, not your hands,” Bugs ordered. “All of you. And you answer me.”
They slowly raised their eyes to his.
Mack cleared his throat. “It wasn’t about his biker complaints. It was something else.”
“Well?”
The girl straightened the strap on her helmet. The redhead chewed. Mack opened his mouth as if to say something and shut it again.
Bugs moved a step forward, closing in on them. All four leaned back against the table. A breeze passed through the trees above them, a soft sigh of rustling pine needles. “It was personal,” Mack said finally. “Nobody else’s business.”
“It’s not personal when you break and enter with intent to burgle. That’s against the law, in case you didn’t know. Did you think of that? Did you?”
They looked down at the ground.
“You think it’s a game when you kidnap an old lady, a ninety- two-year-old lady, for Christsake, in her nightgown and bare feet and rough her up?”
“We didn’t treat her rough,” the redhead said.
Bugs swiveled on his heels and stalked a few paces away from the four, then swung back again.
“You know you go to jail for kidnapping. And they throw away the key. Did you think of that? Did you?”
Mack started to say something, but Bugs continued. “Prehistoric Neanderthals with undeveloped brains. Roaring around country roads on motorcycles, raping and pillaging. A bunch of assholes, that’s what you are.” He stopped for breath.
“Nobody was raping nobody,” said the redhead, sullenly staring at the ground.
“You look at me!” Bugs rasped.
He looked up.
“First the cute little race with the cops.”
“That wasn’t us,” said the smaller man.
Bugs swung around to face him, and the redhead leaned back against the picnic table.
Bugs turned on Mack again. “And now this, one hell of a lot more serious than playing tag with local cops. Personal, eh? Nobody else’s business, eh? In the next five minutes, you tell me what you had in mind, before I turn you over to that same local cop you thought was so cute. You’ll see how cute she is. Talk.” Without taking his eyes off them, Bugs reached over for one of the white resin chairs, pulled it under him and sat. He folded both arms over his chest.
Mack darted a glance at the other three, who were trying their best to look unconcerned.
Bugs glanced at his watch. “Four and one-half minutes.”
“Burkhardt had stuff on his computer,” Mack blurted out.
“Obviously,” Bugs said. “So what?”
Mack started to stand up.
“Sit!” Bugs pointed to the bench, and Mack sat again.
“His will and stuff.”
“What’s his will got to do with you?”
Mack was silent. A chickadee landed on a pine branch above them, showering the picnic table with brown needles. The bird called its mournful late summer pee-wee.
“Four minutes,” Bugs rasped.
“I’ve been seeing his niece.”
Bugs stood abruptly. “That goddamned two-timing bitch…”
“No, no,” Mack said. “Not Harley, Linda.”
Bugs thumped back into his chair, speechless.
“I been seeing Linda. She didn’t want her uncle to know she was dating a biker. Her uncle was leaving his place to her because of Harley dating a biker, and all?”
Bugs’s face reddened.
“She thought her uncle found out about her and me, you know?”
“So she killed him.” It was a statement.
Mack shook his head vigorously. “She didn’t kill him. She wouldn’t have killed anyone.”
Bugs’s eyes were fixed on Mack. “Well?”
“She wanted to find out what was on his computer, that’s all. If he changed his will again.”
“Money.” Bugs turned partway in the chair, faced away from the four on the picnic bench with a look of disgust.
“He was always changing his will, she said.”
Bugs stared at the others, who avoided his eyes. “Why the rest of you? Why’d you let him euchre you into this?”
The redhead said, “We didn’t know what it was all about.”
Bugs turned on him. “You didn’t, eh? You got black hoods, a getaway car, and a hideaway cabin at the end of a two-mile-long dirt road, and you thought this was fun and games?”
“We didn’t know we was going to take the old lady,” the redhead said.
Bugs stood again. He whacked the side of his head with his hand. He paced away from the four at the picnic table into the field of golden and white and purple flowers, and yellow butterflies. He paced back, passed the table, strode into the shadowy grove of pines, and stopped at the Indian pipes. Half of the waxy translucent plants had turned black.
“Corpse plants. You know that’s what they call them, corpse plants.” He laughed silently. “You got to take your medicine, all of you.” He came back to the white resin chair, and, still standing, put his hand on its back. “First of all, we go to see Mrs. Trumbull. You guys better take one huge bouquet of flowers. And apologize until the cows come home. Understand?” He stared at them and they looked away. “Get down on your knees and beg her pardon, understand? Grovel.”
The girl played with the strap on her helmet. The redhead chewed and stared steadily at Bugs. The smaller man took out a soiled handkerchief and blew his nose. Mack started to stand, apparently thought better of it, and settled back on the bench.
“Then you are going with me to the police chief, that local cop you think is so cute, and throw yourself on her mercy. You tell her everything, understand? I hope to hell she throws you in jail until you rot.” He put on his helmet and fastened the strap under his chin. “Get on your bikes, and follow me.”
CHAPTER 27
The day after her uncle died, Linda had gone to his house on the Great Pond with Mack, riding on the back of his Harley. Linda had a feeling of relief she couldn’t account for. Perhaps it was the brilliant day, the way sunlight flickered on the pond, the luminous golden light that took away some vague sinister quality of the house. Uncle Jube was dead. Should she feel sorry? When she got off the bike, she stretched her arms out wide and breathed the bright air in as deeply as she could.
“Nice spot,” Mack said.
“When I was little, it was like paradise,” she said. “But when I was twelve, the place began to seem creepy.” She shuddered.
“Someone walking on your grave?” Mack asked.
She smiled weakly. This was a day to exorcise evil spirits. The blue sky, the puffy white clouds, the green trees across the pond, the yellow barrier bar. The breeze, so soft it felt moist, the cry of gulls. The sound of water lapping sleepily on the shore.
“I might as well go inside,” she said. “See what the place looks like now.”
“You need me, I’m working on my bike,” Mack had said.
And then it happened.
When she stepped onto the sun-warmed granite stone outside the back entry, when she opened the door and the familiar smells of mildew and old rubber boots and oilskins washed over her, when she put her foot on the familiar worn linoleum, which crunched w
ith a sound she remembered from childhood, when she saw the same kayak paddle, the fishing rods, the same oilskins, the same boots with moldy laces, it flooded back to her, that last summer. She could still hear her mother’s raised voice, shouting at Uncle Jube. She could still feel the caned seat of the rocking chair sticking to the back of her bare legs in her sister’s attic room. She could see her sister’s scared face over the book she’d been reading to her. She remembered how the sky outside her sister’s window was full of fluffy white clouds, like today, lamb clouds, she and her sister had called them, dazzling white and clean in a dazzling summer sky.
The smothering blanket of time suddenly lifted. She hadn’t wanted to see what had been hidden for so long. But it flooded back anyway.
She rushed out of the entry, stumbled over the granite stone, and fell on her knees in the brittle grass, her arms straight in front of her, head down.
“Hey, girl, what’s with you?” Mack had been in the barn, crouched over his Harley, wiping it gently with an oily rag. He stood.
Linda’s mouth was open, her face twisted, her blue eyes wide and hazy.
“Hey, cool it! What happened in there?”
She couldn’t talk at first. She was shivering.
Mack stood with the oily rag in his hands, his booted feet apart, wiping his hands on the cloth. His face was a mixture of puzzlement and concern.
“It’s come back,” she said finally.
He finished wiping his hands, and put the rag in the saddlebag.
“What’s come back, hey?”
“I killed him.” Linda’s eyes focused on something beyond him.
Mack looked over his shoulder, then back at Linda. She continued to shiver.
“Let’s get outta here.” He had taken his leather coat off the hook in the barn where he had left it, and wrapped it around her. He wheeled the bike out of the barn, led her to it, helped her aboard, and fastened his extra helmet under her chin. He roared out of Uncle Jube’s place as if something was after them. Down bumpy dirt roads, down thinly paved tar roads, along the up-to-specs state road. White stripes whizzed below their feet. Linda had not seen the cars they passed.
When they reached the other side of the Island, ten miles away, he turned onto a narrow asphalt road that bordered the Sound, slowed going up a hill, stopped at the East Chop lighthouse gate, parked his bike beside the turnstile, and helped Linda off. She stumbled.
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