The Crimes of Jordan Wise

by Bill Pronzini

A week passed.

  Two weeks.

  Still no mention in the papers or on the radio of anything amiss at the old French cemetery. Or of a missing snowbird named Fred Cotler. No one called, or wrote, or came to see me except Bone.

  I moved out of the Quartz Gade villa the first week in December. If the cleaning crew noted the gouge in the floor tile or the blood spots on the chair fabric, they didn't report it; I heard nothing from the real estate agent or the absentee owners. A short time later, I received a check for the full amount of the cleaning deposit.

  By then I knew I was going to get away with the Cotler crime, too.

  ST. THOMAS

  1983-1984

  ITHOUGHT YOU'D ASK about my emotional state in the aftermath of the Cotler crime. Did I have nightmares about what I'd done? Daymares? Did I suffer remorse, guilt, any of the other so-called murderer's torments?

  The answers are all no.

  My emotional state, once the initial dose of blackmailer's poison had been flushed out, was no different than it had been before Cotler showed up on the island.

  I told you I'm not religious; I don't believe in mortal sin or any of the other biblical covenants, or in divine punishment. I do believe that morality, like love, is a private thing defined by and suited to each individual. I've freely admitted to my dark side, but like Bone, I also have my own code of ethics. I've always adhered to that code, and within its boundaries I was and still am a moral man.

  No, I don't consider myself a murderer. How many of those who have taken a human life, for any reason, ever look at themselves in the mirror and think that they've committed a mortal sin? Damn few. No man, unless he's a homicidal psychotic, ever thinks of himself as an evildoer. If you called him one to his face, chances are he'd be shocked. So would I.

  I killed Fred Cotler in a fit of blind rage, for a perfectly justifiable reason. It was an act of self-preservation, not one of murder. How can anyone be expected to feel sorry for having killed to save his own life?

  Yes, of course I know the law, the churches, many individuals would consider that a rationalization. Everyone who has killed in hot or cold blood has a reason or an excuse. The human mind is capable of bending and shaping any act to fit any preconceived set of beliefs, of justifying even the most heinous crime. But in most cases, that bending and shaping is the result of the mind's inability to cope with the magnitude of the act; it can continue to function only through a process of denial and self-delusion. I knew exactly what I'd done, and why. I was not self-deluded. I have a very clear understanding of the differences between right and wrong.

  I'm not a sociopath. Maybe you think so, but you're wrong. Sociopaths care about no one but themselves, have no empathy for others or capacity for love or belief in the sanctity of human life. I cared about others, good people like Bone; I'd loved Annalise with all my heart; I would never willingly harm anyone who was not a direct threat to my safety and well-being, and then only as a last resort.

  Murderer? Evildoer? Sociopath? No. Just a man with a dark side, nothing more and nothing less.

  I had to forget Annalise all over again. There was no other reasonable course of action.

  Oh, I gave some thought to flying up to New York, tracking her down, confronting her. I could have done that without too much difficulty, I think. But to what purpose? Threats were useless unless I told her what I'd done to Cotler, and that was out of the question. If she believed that I'd killed him, it would only give her a greater hold over me.

  Yes, I could have destroyed her as I'd destroyed her lover, but I told you, I couldn't harm anyone except as a last resort. Not even Annalise, as much as I hated her—from love to indifference to hate, full turn. It was a cold hate, locked away and shackled. I could no more have gone hunting her than I could have gone hunting an animal, even a loathsome animal. I'm not made that way.

  As I settled back into my day-to-day life, I was able to keep from dwelling on Annalise and her duplicity. With some difficulty at first, then more easily behind a wall of passing days. Only one thing continued to bother me, a nagging worry like a splinter that had worked itself in too deep for extraction.

  What if she hooked up with somebody else like Fred Cotler?

  What if another blue-eyed bastard showed up someday to bleed me dry?

  A complex man with simple tastes.

  If I had to describe myself in a single sentence, that would be it.

  I didn't realize it until I came to St. Thomas. The simple tastes, I mean. I thought the quiet life I'd led in San Francisco was a result of my job, of lack of funds and resources, of circumstances. What I wanted, I believed then, was what Annalise wanted: all the luxuries and material possessions money could buy. Not so. I didn't miss the Quartz Gade villa or the Royal Bay Club or the company of the elite white community or the parties and nightclubs and expensive restaurants or the dress-up clothes or the trips to far-flung places. The only material possession that really meant anything to me was Windrunner. If it hadn't been for Annalise and the misunderstanding of my needs, I wouldn't have had to steal $600,000 from Amthor Associates to finance a new life in the Virgin Islands; I could have done it on not much more than $100,000, and to hell with the stock portfolio and the Cayman Islands bank accounts.

  As it was, except for an occasional small draw, what was left of the initial bankroll, plus all the dividends, just sat over there accumulating interest. There was nothing I cared to spend money on other than the yawl, no place I cared to go that the yawl couldn't take me.

  I liked living on Windrunner. The major reason was that she was Annalise-free. The villa had had her taint in it, a faint residue of our life together trapped within its walls. I hadn't felt it so much while I was occupying the place, but once I moved out I realized how subtly oppressive it had been the past year. I was glad I hadn't given it up sooner, because of the nature of the Cotler crime, but to be rid of it finally was like the removal of a weight.

  The yawl's main cabin had never seemed cramped when I was out to sea, nor did it seem cramped in port. There was room enough for everything I owned, and it was easy to keep clean and tidy. I kept the galley well stocked and I didn't mind cooking, learned to enjoy it enough so that I ate most of my evening meals on board. Simple meals. West Indian dishes like chowders and bouillabaisses, fried fish, crab sandwiches, an occasional chicken or meat course. I slept better on her, too, than I ever had in the villa. You couldn't ask for a more soothing soporific than the movement of the harbor water, the creak of rigging and old timbers, the farniliar odors of salt and creosote.

  Once a week or so I took Windrunner out for a sail, sometimes on a day trip over by St. John or another nearby island, sometimes on longer cruises. Days when I was in port, I followed the same routine and enjoyed the same small pleasures as I had before the blackmailer's arrival. Evenings were the same, too—the best part of any day for me. Quiet time. Sunsets, Arundel, Calypso and Fungi rhythms, harbor sounds, the boom and cabin lights on the berthed boats like a bright jeweled chain around the marina's dark throat.

  I'd gotten to know some of the other residents and now and then one of them would drop by to socialize, or invite me over for a drink or a meal. Other evenings, Bone would show up and we'd drink rum and talk some while he perfumed the darkness with his molasses-sweet pipe tobacco. Or we'd just sit quiet together, absorbing the night. They were all the company I needed or wanted.

  Fred Cotler gradually faded out of my consciousness, until it was as if he'd never come to the island in the first place, never dirtied my hands with his blood. I couldn't entirely forget Annalise, but sometimes a full week would go by without a single thought of her entering my head. I felt I couldn't ask for any more than that.

  In May '83, shortly after Carnival, I had my fortieth birthday. Bone and I went out to celebrate. We nibbled a few drinks in the Bar, had dinner in a Creole restaurant on the Rue de St. Barthelemy, then set off on a Frenchtown and native-quarter pub crawl.

  Somewhere along the way we p
icked up a couple of women, or the women picked us up—I'm not sure which. They were both native West Indians. One—big, bawdy, skin the color of melted licorice—knew Bone and latched on to him. I can't remember her name. The other one, Pearl, was younger, slimmer, lighter skinned, shy until she took in enough rum to loosen her inhibitions. She was a singer, or wanted to be a singer, and in one of the clubs she joined a loud steel band and sang an old Calypso song called "Don't Stop the Carnival" in a husky Antilles patois.

  At some point after midnight we all piled into the Mini, four sardines in a can, and drove down to the Sub Base harbor marina so I could show off Windrunner. We partied on board, Pearl singing another song, to radio accompaniment this time, Bone and his woman joining in—the first time I'd heard Bone sing. He didn't have much of a voice, but he made up for it with energy and a high-stepping island dance. They got me up and dancing, something I would not have done if I'd been sober. The rum went down like water, very fast, and time got lost in a heady, rollicking swirl. We were all pretty drunk by then.

  I don't remember Bone and the big woman leaving. The four of us were dancing, laughing, drinking, and the next thing I knew, Pearl and I were alone on deck, snuggled together in the moonlight, and I was shaking the last bottle of Arundel and it was empty. She said, "We doan need any more," and kissed me, and murmured snatches of another song in my ear, something soft and intimate, and kissed me again, and pretty soon we were down in the cabin, naked on my bunk.

  Mistake.

  I wanted her, all right, and I wasn't too far gone, and she was willing and eager. She had a good body, hard and soft at the same time. And pubic hair that was sensuously abrasive, like a fine grade of steel wool. With her help I managed to get an erection, but it was only a three-quarters salute, and neither it nor I lasted very long. Thin, almost painful little spurts.

  Afterward I kept telling her how sorry I was, and she held me and said, "Doan worry, doan fret," in a crooning voice. More lost time. Then we were trying again, but it was no use, I was impotent. I apologized again and I think I might have gotten a little maudlin. The last words I remember her saying before I passed out were "It's all right, honey, it's all right." But it wasn't all right, for her or for me. In the morning, when I woke up, she was gone.

  I lay in the bunk with my head throbbing, berating myself for getting too drunk to do either of us any good. And not believing the Ue, even then. It wasn't the rum. It wasn't Pearl, and it wasn't me.

  It was Annalise.

  Windrunner was out of the water for more than two weeks that summer, for scraping and minor rudder repairs. I did some of the hull work myself to keep busy. Bone let me bunk with him for the duration, and helped out with painting and varnishing chores after the yawl was relaunched. By way of repayment, I talked him into joining me on a long cruise to the Turks and Caicos. It was an iffy time of year for that kind of sail on the Atlantic, but summer storm activity was light that season and the long-range forecast was favorable. Bone said we'd be all right. I trusted his instincts, with good cause as usual. Other than a couple of light squalls, we had fair weather and light-running seas.

  As usual we stood watch and watch, four on and four off, except when there was a weather helm to be held. On clear nights, when one or the other of us wasn't tired enough to sleep, we'd hang out on deck together. Bone still used words sparingly, but at sea he was a little more voluble than on land. Some subjects opened him up more than others. One was boats and sailing, another was the destructive effects on the Virgins of tourism and overpopulation.

  St. Thomas was becoming a shadow of the island it had been twenty years ago, he said, when he first came there. The changes were evident to me after just five years. More cruise ships clogging the harbor every season; big new resorts going up and more planned where once there had been quiet bays and pristine beachfront; fancy vilias springing up on the north shore and the mountainsides of the West End, to spoil undeveloped forests and fields. Crime, racial friction, environmental problems. The island was losing its appeal for Bone. One day he'd have his fill of the new St. Thomas and move away, he said. He could feel the time coming.

  "Where will you go?" I asked him. "Back to the Bahamas?"

  "Same things happening there."

  "Entire Caribbean's changing, they say. All the islands."

  "Not all yet. Some still pretty much the way they were."

  "Such as?"

  "St. Lucia. The Grenadines—Carriacou."

  "How long since you were down there?"

  "Two years," Bone said. "Going out again next summer."

  "Why next summer?"

  "Promised Isola a three-month cruise when her graduates from college. Just the two of us, get to know each other better."

  He'd told me once that his dalighter was studying to be a marine biologist. I said, "You must be proud of her, Bone."

  "Yeah, mon. Her mama be too, if she still here."

  I asked him how long it had been since his first wife passed away. He hadn't volunteered the information before.

  "Twenty years. Isola was a baby." He sat silent for a time. Then he said, "Dengue fever. Two days sick, that's all. Just two days."

  "Must've been hard to deal with," I said.

  "Real hard, Cap'n."

  "Is that why you left Nassau?"

  "Didn't leave then. I stayed two more years." Pain had come into his voice when he spoke of his first wife; now it was replaced by bitterness. "Seemed right for Isola to have a new mama."

  "Your second wife."

  "Yeah, mon. Bad mistake."

  "What happened with her?"

  It was a question I'd asked a couple of times without getting an answer. He took so long to respond I thought he was going to stonewall me again. But then he said quick and hard, spitting the words, "You ever see a coral snake? Pretty, mon, pretty snake. But underneath that pretty skin, full of poison."

  "She must have hurt you bad."

  "Never been hurt worse."

  "But you survived."

  "Poison don't get in deep enough, that's why."

  "I guess we're both lucky that way," I said. "So when you found out the truth about her, that's when you gave Isola to your sister to raise and left Nassau."

  "That's when."

  "What did you do about the woman?"

  "Nothing, Cap'n. What should I do?"

  "I don't know. Seems like there ought to be some way to keep a woman like that from hurting somebody else."

  "Snake bites you, what you gonna do? Beat on her or get away quick so you can suck out the poison?"

  "You could do both."

  "Too late then. You can't get all the poison out."

  "I suppose you're right."

  "Right enough," Bone said. "Only smart thing to do with a snake is stay out of her way, don't let her fangs get in you again."

  That was all he'd say about his second wife, then or at any time afterward. I never did find out exacdy what it was she'd done to him, and he never once spoke her name.

  From time to time I ran into one of the people I'd known when Annalise and I were together. On an island as small as St. Thomas, that kind of thing is unavoidable. Twice I encountered Royce Verriker, once near Emancipation Garden and once on Waterfront Drive during Carnival week. The first time, he spoke to me in his glad-handing way, making a snotty comment on my regrown beard and long hair, and I turned my back on him and walked away; the second time we made a point of ignoring each other. Maureen Verriker passed me without speaking in Market Square. I exchanged stiff hellos with Gavin Kyle in the Dronningens Gade liquor store, and with the Potters, the British rum connoisseurs, at the Yacht Club regatta.

  It happened again on a morning in late September, on the dock at the Sub Base harbor marina. I'd just returned from an errand and I didn't notice the sloppily dressed woman until she came up and blocked my way. "Richard Laidlaw? Is that you under all that hair?" She laughed at my blank look. "JoEllen Hall. Remember me?"

  I recognized her then.
Annalise's drinking buddy, the Red Hook divorcee and not very talented artist. She seemed thinner than the last time I'd seen her, more juiceless, her sun-darkened skin as lined and cracked as old leather. She was there sketching for a new series of paintings, she said. How was I and what was I up to these days? She'd heard I was living on my boat; how come I'd given up the villa? Was I seeing anyone now that I was single again? Nosy questions in her too-loud voice that I answered in monosyllables.

  After I made my escape, I didn't think any more about her. Just another chance meeting to be quickly forgotten. Only it wasn't. Hell no, it wasn't. JoEllen Hall hadn't been down there to sketch and running into her hadn't been accidental and her questions hadn't been casual. The whole thing was a put-up job—a goddamn scouting mission.