That Good Night

by Richard Probert

  Tired as I was, I lay awake wondering what the next step was going to be. Killing Roberts was not really an option and I was fairly certain that Bob was a bit blustery with all his talk on that subject. Nor was it an option taking Roberts along on Bob’s twilight cruise. I tossed and turned with little to show for it. I cuddled up to my stuffy which had now become a Lori-, and sometimes an Abigail-substitute. I wanted more than anything to see Abigail again and maybe, when all this was over, I’d make my way back to Boston. Why not dream?

  PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

  Adapted from the digital recorder of Private Investigator, Justin Roberts recorded July 28, 0215 hours.

  It’s damn humbling to be chained to a porch railing on an island in Maine by two men at least twenty years my senior. And forget about sleeping. One of the old guys has threatened to kill me. The other is on the verge of letting him do it. They’re sleeping as I dictate this. At least if something bad happens there will be a record of it, thanks to the BBDRD. I’ve never been so humiliated in my life. It all began with that damn Sunset Senior Citizen Village and Nursing Home. Finding a tracking device in a dog turd should have been a sign that this was not going to be good. Now I’m chained to a porch railing. I’ve really lost my edge.

  This Bob guy has this heavy rusty chain tight around my waist and padlocked behind my back. He called it an anchor rode, whatever the hell that is. Every time I move, the damn chain bites into my gut and clanks like something out of Ghostbusters. Doesn’t fit in with the sounds of a night in Maine. Escaping this is not an option. Even Houdini couldn’t get out of this. But maybe coming to my senses is. Outwit these guys. How hard could that be? I’m not so sure of this Bob character, but Lambert has a soft side. I’ll work on it.

  Last night Lambert lambasted me for hanging on to my career, or trying to. He’s got a point, but one doesn’t just walk away from thirty years of service. I had awards and citations for bringing down some pretty rough characters. But capturing rapists and murderers is one thing, tracking an old man is quite another. After retiring, Mary and I bought a motor home and for six months drove around the good old US of A. Once I got back home I went crazy with boredom. I tried golf and hated it. Bought a canoe and left it in the backyard. Watched Judge Judy for crying out loud! The wife, she kept making lists of what I could be doing. Guess I was driving her crazy too. I tried a stint as a security guard at the local mall. I was fired after I slapped some teenager for shoplifting. Then this job working for an insurance company came along. It got me away from the house, the pay’s good. And now I’m here.

  SATURDAY, JULY 28

  With my stuffy still cradled in my arms, I awoke to a soft light filtering through the hatch, the same hatch that Abigail and I counted stars through. Savoring the afterglow of pleasant dreams, I lingered in bed before rising to face so many unanswered questions.

  Before going up to the cabin, I called Ernie. From the grogginess in his voice, I suspected that I woke him up.

  “This better be good, waking me up so damn early,” he said. I apologized for calling before noon. After briefly catching him up on my travels, I told him about Bob having cancer, specifically asking him how I can help Bob deal with the pain. When. I mentioned morphine. Ernie was very clear that he would not risk trying to send me any morphine. “You think I want to spend my waning years in prison?” was his response.

  “I wouldn’t ask you to do that,” I said. “Just suppose I got my hands on some, tell me how much to give him and how.”

  Ernie settled into straight doctor talk. “First of all, I’m not prescribing anything, just giving you some facts. Are we talking about injection or pills?”

  I answered that I wasn’t sure.

  “Well in that case, I’ll go with injection, but call me if you wind up using pills. Of course, you’ll need a syringe. Anyway, I suggest starting with a low dose, say 4 mg every three to six hours. If that doesn’t work, increase the dosage a little, but 15 mg is the limit. At that dose, expect your friend to get some pretty deep sleep. Okay, that’s it. I don’t want to know anything else. Like I said before, you can call me back. One more thing, I strongly advise you to get your friend to his doctor for any treatment. You’re nuts if you try it on your own. Understand?” I told him that I did. He offered to talk to an oncologist friend of his for any other ideas and said that he would call me back.

  Roberts was in miserable shape all scrunched up against the porch railing with a heavy chain showing itself like a snake slithering out from under the old army blanket which was wrapped snuggly around him. I took no pity. Neither did Bob, who was laid back on an Adirondack drinking coffee. I tossed Roberts his now-dry clothes. He squirmed from underneath the blanket. The unforgiving heavy chain wrapped around his waist clunked and clanked as he pulled himself up, using the porch railing as leverage. He struggled to dress, finishing with putting his belt back on. “Mug’s waiting,” Bob said, gesturing to a steaming cup sitting on an end table. “Sleep well, did you?”

  “Probably the best sleep I’ve ever had,” I answered. “How about you?”

  “To tell you the truth, that crap last night gave me a hell of a headache. It’s getting so I’m just not up to all that much excitement anymore. This numbskull,” he said looking over to Roberts “is getting in the way of some good sailing.” Roberts grunted.

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “Let’s hike up to the lookout and talk it out.”

  Before we left, Bob gave Roberts a cup of coffee with two pieces of buttered toast. And an empty coffee can with the warning, “Piss on my flowers and you’ll be eating them.” Bob’s soft spot has a few barbs.

  We sat overlooking Casco Bay. The air was sweet with a slight ocean breeze, the sky a clear powder blue. An osprey glided by, its high chirps cutting through the still morning light. I began the conversation with an abrupt, “We can’t kill him.”

  “No, we can’t,” Bob readily agreed. “Sometimes I talk a bit too much. But, damn it, we both know that my days are precious and I don’t want to give them over to nurse-maiding that son-of-a-bitch. Any chance of reasoning with him? I mean, is he so damn thick-headed to think that you are going to go back to that place and just give all this up?”

  “I could do that if I have to,” I said. “Maybe I make a deal that we go sailing, come back here and then I go back with him.”

  “Over my dead body,” Bob shot back. “Maybe we ship him back to Stone Island with a few of my buddies to keep him comfy. I can arrange that with one phone call.” Catching himself, he said, “Did I just say over my dead body?”

  “Yes, you did, Bob. It’s not a cliché anymore and we need to talk about it.” I told Bob about my call to Ernie, about his suggestion that we see his doctor for pain killers. Maybe get some morphine and have it ready just in case. Bob argued that he wanted to fight to the bitter end and that taking painkillers would only dull his mind. I countered that pain would do that, too, and there was no sense to it. Bob quieted then looked up into the tree tops. Lowering his head, almost bowing, he said, “No more doctors. No more much of anything. I’m not trying to be stoic here, I just want to go sailing and get on with whatever life I have left. The morphine? Maybe, but not until we get back from sailing.”

  He was adamant that he would not leave his island and would not set foot on the mainland ever again. The lone exception to leaving his island was to jump on the boat. Regarding Roberts, we agreed that leaving him on Stone Island while we went sailing was the best option. Worst case scenario was me being hauled off; best case was Roberts dying of some rare disease while we enjoyed wind and wave.

  On our way back to the cabin my phone rang. It was Ernie. He reported that his talk with an oncologist suggested that, since the cancer has metastasized, it is likely that the brain is involved. Piercing headaches would be a clear sign. In any event, death was certain and it could come at any time. Hold off with the morphine as long as possible. Once you start that stuff, your friend’s life will get pretty f
oggy. Hospice would be the best place when the time comes.” Ernie ended the call with, “Be sure to look after yourself. What you’re into here can take its toll.”

  I asked Bob to hold up so we could talk. He directed me to a bench that overlooked the same clearing where I saw deer the day before. I talked with Bob about the possibility of hospice, but he was adamant that he would be in charge, no one else. I promised that I would be with him to the end and he seemed to accept that. We sat for some time looking over the field. Bob pointed out three deer that emerged from the woods. Watching them graze he began to cry. I put my arms around him and we wept together.

  When we came out of the woods, Roberts was stooped over in the unmistakable posture of a man taking a leak, his left hand holding the coffee can. Seizing the moment, Bob yelled, “Shake it more than three times and you’re playing with yourself.” Startled, Roberts swung around, giving Bob a full frontal. Bob finished the harangue with, “Not much to work with, I see.” Roberts uttered some indiscernible remark. We walked up to the porch. Bob was sweating like he’d just run the quarter mile. He went into the cabin, leaving me alone with Roberts who had sat down on the porch floor, his back against the railing. I remained standing.

  “Chasing you all over the place has put a crimp in my plans and I’m not sure what I can do about it. Last night I could have crushed you against the dock like a ripe tomato and that’d be that, a bad accident. Bob could have smashed your head with the maul, but he didn’t. I guess what I’m saying is we’re not cut out to be murderers. All Bob and I want to do is go sailing. We could take you along but that’d ruin the trip. Besides, we hate babysitting. We could just leave you chained to the porch for a few weeks. Would you like that?” Roberts shook his head. “I didn’t think so. That leaves the only one other option, which is to let you go. But that means we’re going to have to trust you and after you pulled that shitty little gun on me last night, that’s going to be a very hard thing to do.”

  “I apologize for that,” Roberts said. “It’s just that in training we were told when in doubt, show your weapon. Way overboard, I admit. So, I’ll just promise to you right now that if you release me, I’ll go on my way. As far as I’m concerned I was never here. You’re missing and that’s that. How about it?”

  This patronizing bastard really pissed me off. “You’re not in junior high school, you pathetic son-of-a-bitch, and I am certainly not your principal. You sound like some kid who’s been caught playing with himself in a stairwell. How about it, my ass. It doesn’t go like that. We just don’t shake your hand and send you on your way. And you know why, because as long as you’re still playing G-Man, you’re going to continue to bird dog us. Or worst yet, invite the local sheriff to haul us in. No sir, letting you go means taking you back to Stone Island, at least until we get back. Is that clear?”

  “Yes sir!” Roberts barked like he was a private in basic training speaking to an officer. Bob reappeared on the porch, steaming coffee mug in hand.

  “Another thing,” Bob chimed in. “If you are not there when we return, it’ll only mean you’re lobster bait. A few of my acquaintances will be enjoying some R&R on the island to keep you company. You’ll be picked up tomorrow morning to begin your exile while we go for a sail. When we get back, we’ll decide what to do with you. How about it?”

  Clanking the chain as he struggled to stand, Roberts shot back, “This is beyond ridiculous. You’re talking federal offense here. Kidnapping, holding a person against his will. Threatening murder. You guys will spend the rest of your life behind bars.”

  Bob began to laugh, a chuckle at first, then a hearty guttural laugh that tore off into the surrounding woods. He was still laughing when he turned and went back into the cabin. I stood for a moment staring at Roberts with utter contempt. I had a good mind to kick him in the teeth.

  PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

  Adapted from the digital recorder of Private Investigator, Justin Roberts recorded July 28, 1155 hours.

  They went into the woods. I’ve got to think through this. Lambert has a point. What good would it do to drag him back to Sunset? But that’s my sworn duty. You see, there I go. I’m not sworn to do anything other than to help the nursing home and the insurance company save a few bucks. Besides, Lambert’s got me thinking. Why am I doing this? I don’t need the money, I’m still healthy enough to do whatever I want to do. I’ve got grandkids. I shouldn’t have pulled the gun. I knew the minute I pointed it at Lambert that I was play acting. It didn’t feel real anymore. But this chain? That feels real. Still, being chained up like a dog, humiliated like some school kid, somebody’s got to pay for that.

  So what if I don’t return Lambert to Sunset. His sons certainly don’t seem to give a damn, except for the money. I wonder what the story is behind that relationship. Anyway, I need to make a decision. Either I let Lambert off the hook, or I get him back to Sunset..

  I’ve come to respect Lambert. I feel somewhat the same way about Bob, although he is unpredictable, headstrong and, I’m afraid, capable of carrying out his threats. After all, he chained me to the porch. Then again, he did feed me and just this morning gave me a cup of coffee and two slices of toast. Damn! I’m losing it. Can’t let my personal feelings get the better of me. That’s dangerous. First lesson at Quantico. I don’t have much time. Gotta think! Gotta think how to get to Lambert’s soft side!

  SATURDAY, JULY 28 (CONTINUED)

  Bob was sitting stooped at the table, head in hands. I put my hand on his shoulder.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. Bob shrugged his shoulder. “Pain?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Should I call your doctor or anybody else?”

  “No. And don’t let my friends know. I don’t want anybody to know. Promise me. The pain’ll pass. It usually does. I’ve got some pills; they’re in the cabinet above the sink. Get me three and screw the label.”

  I gave him my word and I did what he asked. The label read take two tablets every 3–4 hours when needed, not to exceed 8 tablets in 24 hours. I poured a glass of water and returned to Bob.

  He swallowed all three with a few sips of water. “I need to go to bed,” he said. “These should knock me out for awhile.”

  Once he was in bed, I returned to the kitchen. Without morphine, there’d be no sailing. No question that the pain would increase. But where to get it? I couldn’t leave him alone. And that idiot on the porch, what the hell would I do with him? Bob’s friends would take care of him in the morning, but then what? Maybe Bob’s buddies would know what to do. I heard Bob moan and went to his side. He was in a fetal position. Soft moans came with each breath, interspersed now and then with groans. Oh God, how helpless I felt.

  As I paced, I was hailed by Roberts. “Mr. Lambert, is everything okay in there?”

  That put me over the top. Maybe I should get the maul and finish this pathetic bastard. I came out of the door like a bull ready to gore. Roberts cowered.

  “Easy,” he said. “I didn’t mean to pry, but…”

  “But what?” I asked, trying hard to control myself.

  “Something’s wrong. I heard moaning.”

  “Mind your own fucking business,” I said.

  “Wait,” Roberts said. “I know what you think of me, but let me try to explain. Let me just try to turn the clock back with all this. I’m wrong. I’ve been wrong. I screwed up, I know it. You’re right. I can’t seem to let the past be the past. I want to, believe me. Pulling a gun on you, my God, I regretted it the moment I did it. I’m amazed you didn’t squash me against the dock. I’ll go to Stone Island, willingly. But right now, I give you my word: I will not try to return you to Sunset. As far as I’m concerned, you’re missing and that’s that. I’m sorry.”

  “All this because you heard a moan? You think I’m nuts enough to believe anything you say?”

  A heavy groan came from the cabin. I reached over and closed the door.

  “There,” Roberts said. “That’s what I’m talking about. I know
what that sound is. I know it because that’s how my grandfather sounded when he was dying. Come on, what’s going on here? Can I help? I’m no good to you chained up. How can I gain your trust?”

  I remained silent for some time. Roberts had been in his I’ll help mode before. I admit, his tone was different, but trust him? That was asking a lot. The thing of it is, with Bob suddenly going downhill, letting Roberts go might be a blessing. He’d rat me out, of that I was certain. But so what? If he showed up with the law, at least Bob might get some help and I would’ve kept my promise not to tell anyone. I wouldn’t go back to Sunset, I promised myself that much, but I’d figure it out. I’ve always been able to figure it out.

  “Years ago,” Roberts said calmly, “I tracked down this kid accused of killing his aunt and uncle along with two cousins. He was sixteen years old. I found him in Dubuque, Iowa working as a dishwasher at a local resort. He was living under an overpass. During my investigation, I became convinced that this kid was innocent. All of the evidence pointed to a vagrant who had wandered by this farmhouse in the middle of a Kansas cornfield. The district attorney, though, was not to be convinced. No matter what evidence I threw at him, he held fast. Get the kid, he told me. Let justice do its work. Well, I did. I took the kid in and you know what? He was convicted. I still wake up with that one. The kid was tried as an adult and executed. I should have let him go.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure, except that letting you off might somehow ease my guilt over that case. You know, watching you and Bob do your thing, I’m a bit jealous. You’re so damn free. Maybe it’s time for me to look out of the windshield instead of through the rearview mirror, as you said. Maybe things would go better. Do you remember saying that to me?” I nodded. “Well, it struck home. So did your comments about me someday being in a nursing home. Look, what I’m trying to say is, just let me help.”