He heard voices back at the fire house. The town ambulance was kept there. Maybe the EMTs were coming for it.
Something screeched above him. Or was it the sound of sirens rushing to the scene? Sweat trickled down his back. Tree branches were rubbing together in the wind.
He’d walked almost halfway to Mrs. Trumbull’s. Why had he been so stupid as to think of feeding poisonous mushrooms to Samantha? Dumb, dumb, dumb.
He stumbled over a shadow and caught himself. Weird how a shadow can trip you up. He bent down to catch his breath and when he did he thought he heard footsteps in the dry leaves beside the path.
Was someone following him? Maybe it was a deer. Or a skunk. This Island was full of things that lurked in the dark. He walked faster, stepping high over the shadows that might hide roots and stones.
Did he really have to go back for his clothes and stuff? All the money he owned was in his wallet, a hundred bucks or so. That would get him off-Island and on his way to freedom. He could write to Mrs. Trumbull. Have her send his things to him.
He turned back toward the ball field and his car. He couldn’t spare the time to pick up his stuff. Mrs. Trumbull could keep his TV. She didn’t have one.
Heading back, he hurried. He was moving pretty fast by the time he came to the swale. He wasn’t watching where he stepped and he skidded down the slope. He tumbled into the small valley, his feet slipped in a damp spot, and he fell, facedown. He lay still. Didn’t try to get up. Gasped for breath. He would lie here forever. Maybe it was all a bad dream.
* * *
The dinner party broke up amid compliments on the food and requests for the cook’s recipe.
“Delightful young man, sorry he had to leave early,” said the buxom blonde to Samantha’s father. She kissed him wetly, full on the lips. “I hope whatever he’s got isn’t catching.”
“A fine fellow.” Daddy pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket. “He certainly didn’t look well.”
The last car pulled away and he returned to the dining room. The cook had already cleared away the remains of the meal.
Isabella approached, holding a phone out to him. She wore her dark hair loose, brushed back so it hung partway down her back in soft waves. She’d changed into a loose silk dressing gown, green, printed with bright red hibiscus flowers. “Darling, don’t you want to call your daughter to report in? Here’s your phone.”
He took it from her, pulled out a dining room chair, punched in Samantha’s number. He turned the chair and sat facing one of the windows with his feet up on the sill.
Sammy’s ringtone ended and a robotic voice said she wasn’t available. He smiled and disconnected.
“No answer, darling?” Isabella put her hand on his shoulder.
“She’s off-Island for a few days. Probably having a night out with the girls.”
“You mean boys,” said Isabella. “Correction, any old males.”
He lowered his feet from the windowsill and stood. “Watch yourself. That’s my daughter you’re talking about.”
“A chip off the old block.”
“What d’ya mean by that?”
“She’s like you, darling.” Isabella laughed. “A slut.”
“God damn you!” He drew his arm back and slapped her. “Shut your mouth.”
Isabella put her hand up to her cheek and backed away from him. “A slut! Slut!”
He took a step toward her. She turned. He snatched at her gown and grabbed a handful of silk. She wrenched herself free. The gown ripped and she ran.
He looked at his watch, reached for his black suede jacket, and headed for the garage. Chose the green Jaguar, backed out, and headed down his long driveway to North Road.
“That bitch,” he muttered. “She’ll be sorry.”
* * *
“Zack couldn’t have had a better dinner than ours.” Victoria folded her napkin and set it beside her empty plate.
“He probably didn’t have much appetite,” said Elizabeth. “I guess Samantha’s father is enough to terrify anyone.”
Victoria glanced out the window. “Junior Norton is here with a copy of the arson report.”
The police car stopped and Junior got out.
He came in and took off his hat. “Evening, Elizabeth. Evening, Mrs. Trumbull.” He looked at the empty plates still on the table. “Looks like I missed another great Trumbull meal.”
“We’ve got leftovers,” offered Elizabeth.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve got to run. Here’s the copy of the report the chief wants you to have. The parsonage fire was deliberately set.” He handed a manila envelope to Victoria.
Victoria took it. “Do they know how it started?”
“Not yet. But it’s amazing what the arson team can do with nothing but ashes.”
Junior had left, and Elizabeth had finished carrying dishes to the sink when a car door slammed and a tall, thick-set man came up the steps. He was about to knock when Elizabeth opened the door.
He might have been nice looking with his close cropped silver hair and tan, but at the moment his jaw was set and he looked, to Elizabeth, as though he was in very tight control of himself. She backed away.
“May I help you?” she asked.
The man stepped up into the kitchen. “Would you mind telling me where he is?”
“I beg your pardon?” said Elizabeth.
“I’m looking for Zack, or whatever his name is.”
Victoria stepped up into the kitchen, still holding her napkin. “Good evening. I don’t believe we know you, do we?”
“I beg your pardon.” He turned. “I’m Bruno Eberhardt. I need to talk to Zack.” He glanced at Elizabeth. “Can you tell me where he is?”
“Would you be Samantha’s father?” asked Victoria. “If so, I believe he was planning to have dinner at your house this evening.”
The man’s clenched hands were down by his sides. “That’s right.”
Victoria was at a loss. She set her napkin on the table. “Won’t you sit down? Didn’t he show up?”
“I beg your pardon. I’m upset.” He sat, but immediately stood again. “Do I understand correctly that he lives here?”
“He rents an upstairs room.” Victoria sat at the kitchen table. “He was heading for your house a little before seven. That’s the last time we saw him.”
Eberhardt nodded. “He arrived but left as dinner was served.”
“May I ask what this is all about?”
Eberhardt sat again and sighed. “It has to do with mushrooms that he intended for my daughter. She brought them to me.”
Victoria sat forward. “Mushrooms?”
“Black trumpets.”
“Zack gave them to your daughter? They’re quite a delicacy.”
“I know, I know,” said Eberhardt.
“He and I went on a walk earlier this week, and I pointed them out to him. I told him they were rare and we don’t pick them,” she said with some asperity. “It seems he went back and did just that.”
“When the cook brought in the dish, black trumpets in a cream sauce over wild rice, Zack left in a hurry.”
“I know he wasn’t feeling well,” said Victoria.
Eberhardt sat still for a moment. “Am I doing him an injustice?”
“I don’t understand,” said Victoria.
“Did he know they were edible?” Eberhardt asked.
“I assume so,” said Victoria. “I simply showed him a patch of them I’d found. He’d never seen them before.”
“You told him they were black trumpets?”
“Black trumpets, yes,” said Victoria. “Black trumpets of death.”
“Ah,” murmured Eberhardt.
“He told me the only mushrooms he’d ever eaten were the white button kind that come in blue pasteboard boxes in the grocery store.”
“You told him they were a delicacy?”
Victoria thought. “I told him they are rare, and I recall telling him they are expensive if you can find them in a
specialty store.”
Eberhardt shook his head.
“Just what is the trouble?” asked Victoria.
“I’d been led to believe he thought they were poisonous.”
“By whom?” asked Victoria. “I didn’t indicate any such thing.”
“The ‘whom’ is someone who can be overly dramatic on occasion.” Eberhardt turned to her. “Do you know where he might be?”
Elizabeth exchanged glances with Victoria and shrugged.
“I must say, when I came here looking for him, I was upset. Is it possible I am misjudging him?”
“I’m sorry we can’t help,” said Victoria. “Give me your phone number.” She handed him a notepad. “We’ll call if he shows up.”
Eberhardt scrawled his name and phone number. He stood. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
They listened to his footsteps on the stone steps. Headlights flashed on. The car door shut with an expensive thunk, and the car headed out of Victoria’s drive.
After silence returned, Victoria said, “What do you suppose that was all about?”
“I can’t imagine,” said Elizabeth. “But I’d never have believed I’d feel sorry for Zack.”
CHAPTER 10
Zack, stunned by his fall, wasn’t sure at first what had happened. He was cold. He lay still for a few minutes and recalled sliding down the slope, tripping in mud, and falling. He sat up. His head hurt. He ran his hands up and down his legs, felt his arms, gently fingered his head. No obvious injuries. He got to his feet slowly. The night’s darkness had closed in and a chill dew had settled. His shirt was muddy.
His flashlight. Must have rolled off to the side of the path when he fell. He had to find it. He bent down to look, holding his throbbing head, and saw a faint glow under a heap of fallen leaves. He had to get that light. Needed it to get back to his car, and fast.
He glanced over at the pile of leaves. The pile seemed large. It was faintly illuminated by the glow from his flashlight. Somebody must have raked it up here. Maybe the wind had piled the leaves up. As he reached his hand toward the leaves he thought of snakes nesting there. Snakes terrified him. Everybody said there were no poisonous snakes on Martha’s Vineyard, but the idea of a cold, clammy, slithery body, or worse, a whole nest of snakes …
This Island was full of poisons—ivy, jellyfish, and mushrooms.
He had to stop thinking like this. He had to get back to his car. First he had to retrieve his flashlight to see where he was going. He thrust his hand into the leaves and touched something soft, yielding, and cold. He withdrew his hand with a startled yelp.
Snakes!
He had to get outta here, now. He could picture a nest full of aroused snakes coming after him, coiling and sidewinding and hissing.
The light. Snakes or no snakes, he had to get that light.
Despite the chilly night air, he was sweating profusely. He approached the glow under the leaf pile again, kicked the light out from under, and headed back to his car.
He reached it out of breath, stinking of sweat.
Voices. A campfire. Shadows dancing around it.
What was going on? A gathering of witches. Who were all these people?
A tall lanky guy loomed out of the darkness. “How’re you doing?”
Zack gulped.
“That your car?”
“Yeah. Is there some problem?”
“Not for us. The team’s about to have a cookout and we saw your lights were on. Turned them off.”
“Thanks. Thanks a lot.” Zack wiped the sweat off his forehead with his forearm. “Appreciate it.”
A small boy ran up to them, backlit by the bonfire so Zack could only see a black silhouette.
The man tousled the boy’s hair. “This is Robin, the guy who noticed your lights were on.”
Zack put his hand up to his aching head. “Thanks, Robin.”
“Don’t know how long they were on,” said the man. “Hope your battery’s still got juice in it.”
“Thanks,” said Zack, again. “Thanks a lot.”
“We’re having a pep rally, really, really late,” said Robin. “That’s how come I saw your car lights.”
“Thanks,” said Zack.
The boy darted around the car and went back to the fire.
The man stuck around. “You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. I’m fine.”
“If you haven’t eaten, we’ve got the fire going and we’ll be putting hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill.” The guy’s face was hard to see. “Join us if you want. Rally for the softball game tomorrow.”
“Thanks. Really nice of you.” Zack wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Think I might be coming down with something. Don’t want to give it to the kids. But thanks again. See you.”
“I’ll wait. See if you need a jump start.”
Zack got into his car, the engine caught after a few feeble coughs, as it normally did, he gave the man a wave, and headed out.
His dashboard clock read nine o’clock. Maybe he could make the last ferry. Nine thirty, he thought. He had to hurry.
He drove as fast as he dared, not wanting to invite the attention of either West Tisbury or Vineyard Haven police, and made it to the Steamship Authority dock as cars were being directed onto the boat. He parked at the end of the standby line and dashed into the waiting room where the ticket counter was. Sweat poured down his forehead, down his back, and down from under his arms. He was covered with mud from his fall. I must stink, he thought.
“Can I get my car on this boat?” He was out of breath.
“Passengers only,” said the man behind the glass window. His badge read STEP. “No cars.” He peered at Zack over the top of his glasses.
“I have to get my car over,” said Zack.
“Best we can do is give you a reservation on the eight a.m. boat tomorrow morning.” Step checked something on his computer. “The six and seven o’clock boats are booked.”
Zack peered out the window at the cars still driving onto the ferry. “Can I go standby?”
The guy shook his head. “Not a chance. They’re lining up standby for tomorrow’s boats.”
“I’ve got to get off-Island now.”
“You can go as a passenger, but you better hurry.” Step leaned over and looked out the window. “Nope. They’ve closed the doors. Too late.”
Zack set both hands on the ticket counter and lowered his head.
“I can sell you a reservation for eight a.m. tomorrow.” He glanced at Zack. “You better get a good night’s sleep, buddy. Looks like you could use it.”
Zack paid for his reservation and put the receipt in his pocket.
“You can try standby tomorrow morning for an earlier boat, six or seven. But you’re all set for the eight a.m. for sure.”
“Thanks,” said Zack. He made his way back to his car. Three vehicles had parked behind him and the drivers had left. Gone someplace for a night’s sleep. Maybe he should crash here. He thought about that. No, he’d better park someplace else and sleep in the car. Try for an earlier boat, but definitely get on the eight o’clock.
Where, though? Not Mrs. Trumbull’s. Not the ball field. Once he found a place to park he’d think about what to do then.
There was only about two feet of clearance between his car and the one in back and the same for the one in front. He had to inch backward and forward several times before finally getting out of the line.
What now?
The Park and Ride lot. That would be a safe place to spend the night. The lot was at the top of a hill only a short drive from the ticket office.
South Boston was a sanctuary. No one would find him there.
He drove up the hill and turned into the first row, where he found a parking slot midway down the line of parked cars. He backed in to get a quick start in the morning.
He padded the space in the middle of the front seat with a beach towel from the backseat and curled up around the gear shift.
; In the early part of the evening cars drove into the lot, slowing as they passed his car. He had an awful feeling they were looking for him. The front seat was not designed for a comfortable night’s sleep, but he wanted to be ready to take off at daybreak and he didn’t intend to do more than just rest.
He pulled his jacket over his head to block out the light from the lot’s illumination. The chill night air and terror kept him awake.
He’d try to make one of the earlier boats. At least he had a confirmed reservation for eight o’clock. Once he was on the boat, he’d be home free. His breath steamed up the windows. A gusty wind arose. Loose duct tape flattered against the convertible top. He must stay awake. He had to get off the Island.
* * *
Robin arrived at Victoria’s house shortly after eight o’clock on Saturday morning, more than an hour before he was to report to the ball field. He leaned his bicycle against the railing and bounded up the steps. He was wearing a long-sleeved jersey with wide purple and white stripes, his name in large block letters across the back, and he carried a new-looking bat and an equally new-looking glove.
“Good morning, Robin. You’re awfully early.”
He thumped his bat on the floor. “Yeah. I guess.” He shifted from one foot to another.
“Are you nervous about the game?”
“Nah.” Thump, thump. His red baseball cap was on backward as usual. His glasses had slipped down his nose and he pushed them back into place with a finger.
Victoria indicated the bat and glove. “It looks as though you have brand-new equipment.”
He nodded. “My grandfather got it for me.”
“That’s sure to bring you good luck.”
“I thought, you know, since we’re walking we better go early.”
“Of course,” said Victoria. “We’re likely to get there first.” She saw his anxious expression. “But it’s a nice day for a walk.”
“It might take us a long time to walk there.”
“Well, I’ve packed a snack in case we get hungry.” She held up a brown paper bag. “Shall we head for the ball field?”
They crossed the road and started off along the bicycle path. The ball field was about a half mile from Victoria’s. The morning was clear and crisp, a perfect day for the game. They walked slowly, Victoria swinging her lilac wood stick and Robin swishing his bat at the underbrush. They’d been friends since he was in third grade, a long time ago, and didn’t need to talk, at least not much.
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