by Glen Carter
“What the hell is it?”
“I dunno.”
“Where’d you find it, Tommy?”
“Found it there.” Tommy pointed at a hole in the floor. “Whaddya figure it is?”
Jack moved closer to where Tommy was sitting. He placed the plate of sandwiches and beers on the dusty floor. “A box of some kind.”
“What’s it for ?”
“Holding stuff.”
Eyebrows were raised.
It reminded Jack of a cigar humidor. As high as it was wide and deep. It appeared to be made of several kinds of wood. Beautifully finished in elaborate geometric patterns.
Tommy shook it. Growing frustrated because it didn’t appear to have any kind of an opening. He turned it over in his hands, sniffed it.
“Whadda’ ya doin?”
“Dunno. Maybe it smells like something.”
“That’s the pastrami.”
“Let’s eat. Figure it out later,” Tommy said.
“I’ll second that,” Jack added.
For a moment they ate in silence, both of them staring at the box.
“Maybe old Gumb was hiding something,” Tommy said.
“Like what?”
“Who knows?” Tommy replied.
“How about diamonds? Or gold doubloons. A pirate treasure map.” Jack was grinning.
“D’ya think?”
“Naw.”
Tommy took a bite, and then washed the bolus down with a mouthful of beer. Burped. “Let’s smash it open.”
“What if it’s booby trapped ?”
“Never thought ’bout that.” Tommy brushed a callused hand through short blond hair. Blue eyes fixed on a wall. “One of our guys in Kuwait City. Got his hand blown off by a booby-trapped soccer ball. Fuckin’ Iraqis.” Tommy suddenly stopped chewing, nudged the box away with the toe of his boot. “Gumb. That an American name?”
“Probably not.”
Tommy and Jack finished their sandwiches and drank their beer. Then came the sound of the front door opening. They looked at each other in surprise. Kaitlin was home. Jack had promised the job would be done before she got back. She was going to freak.
“You’re in deep shit now, Jack boy.”
“Quick, help me clean this mess up.”
“I’m outta here.” Tommy jumped to his feet and stomped to the door. Then he stopped and turned. “You know what?” he grinned. “You look just like Morley when that soccer ball blew his hand off.”
6
Malloy pushed open the door and stepped onto the steel deck. He tasted cool salt air. It was the kind of weather you didn’t get this time of year back in Florida. He didn’t mind. Malloy zipped his windbreaker and walked to the ferry’s rail and in the distance spied the lighthouse of Bark Island.
Before leaving Odessa, he had offered his condolences. Then he was handed a small blue diary. Renalda said it was Helena’s and now it belonged to him. There was something final in her face. Like she was honouring a deathbed promise. Malloy was excited enough to hoot. Instead, he was shown the door. He began reading in the cab back to his hotel. Page after page, he strolled through Helena’s life, feeling occasionally guilty, sometimes embarrassed. The entries began soon after her arrival in the United States, and ended abruptly not long after she went to work for a man named Alvin Gumb. There were some pretty good drawings, which Malloy judged important. Most of what Helena wrote was of no interest, just the day-to-day stuff a young immigrant would jot down to practice her English. However, the same could not be said about November 22, 1963. Malloy read slowly, reliving a day that he had lived, only this time in the company of Helena. She was still in bed when she wrote in her journal that morning. It was her day off. She was taking the bus to Dealey Plaza and had already planned what to wear. She was excited about seeing the
President and his beautiful wife, Jackie. Malloy interrogated the journal like a coroner examined wounds, and even in death, Helena answered his questions. She was a sad woman. So much hope, dashed in a Dallas second. Alone and scared afterwards as a house servant to the miserable coot named Gumb. She was a long way from home, from everything that was important. Malloy gave her credit for having the guts to leave it all behind.
Vibrations from the ship’s huge engines rumbled across the deck. The water hissed as it cut through rolling phosphorescent waves. For a playful moment, Malloy imagined sailing the oceans in another life.
Before exiting his vehicle he’d turned on the dome light and thumbed through the diary. He had doubts, of course. Who wouldn’t? Dealey Plaza had spawned a world of liars and headline freaks. They were popping up still, but what would a dying woman care about headlines? Malloy fixed on the steady sweep of the lighthouse and drew his collar up. If only he’d known about this place back then. So much might have been different. Helena had revealed something in her little journal that was incredible. It made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Would it justify what he was about to do? Hell yes. That and more for an old hound tracking an unforgotten scent. Helena’s diary said there was a house, and in that house was something that had remained a secret far too long. Malloy gritted his teeth against a biting wind and returned to his vehicle.
What if? He repeated for the hundredth time since Odessa.
Candles flickered and Kaitlin hummed and now and then a trickle of water reached Jack as he waited for her to emerge. Rejuvenated by the hot bath she had been looking forward to since leaving New York. For a moment, he’d considered joining her, but the look in her eyes told him no. She was still peeved about the large hole in their bedroom.
Jack sipped his wine and wondered again why he couldn’t open the silly box. He rolled it in his hands and knocked on it. Something thudded softly inside. Not diamonds or a bomb. Damn box. Why would Gumb have hidden it? What was inside the bloody thing? Jack placed the box on the floor and shifted his attention to something he’d been looking forward to since Kaitlin shed her clothes and padded into the bathroom.
Then came the draining of her tub and the rattle of ancient plumbing.
It was quaint. Gingerbread-like with a steeply pitched black roof and windows that were shuttered in blue pine and underscored by yellow flowerboxes. Ed Malloy opened a small wooden gate and walked to the front door. There was a bell with a thin rope. He rang it, expecting Heidi, with golden locks and a pitcher of goat’smilk.
A moment later the door swung open.
Not Heidi. Her name was Adelita Ostheim and she extended her hand. Soft to the touch. Warm.
She smiled widely, showing a mouth full of perfect white teeth. Her dark hair was pulled tightly back, revealing high cheekbones and large eyes that made Malloy feel like nocturnal prey. She wore black pants and a beige silk blouse and even in the absence of heels she was nearly as tall as him.
“You are Malloy.”
“Ed. Please,” Malloy said.
“You will callme Adel.”
“Nice tomeet you, Adel.”
Introductions out of the way, he quickly caught the scent of home cooking. A mix of cabbage and something sweet. The moment lingered.
“You are hungry,” she said.
Malloy was famished.
Ten minutes after being given a tour of the house, Malloy was shown to his quarters. He plopped his suitcase on a chair and stared doubtfully at the small bed. There was a dresser with a narrow mirror, a closet, and a tiny bathroom. He unpacked quickly and went downstairs to dinner.
Between mouthfuls of broiled chicken and cabbage, Malloy smiled and made polite conversation. He’d decided the best way to avoid questions was to keep his mouth stuffed with her wonderful food.
“My grandfather first saw Bark Island through a periscope,”Adel said, watching him eat.
Malloy stopped chewing, raised his eyebrows.
Adel smiled upon a memory. “Unterseeboote 243 was chasing a convoy of merchant ships in the final months of the war. Right past our little island. Captain Ostheim actually surrendered his submarine here. After
repatriation,Wolfgang came again, built this house, and made a life. I visited during summers and fell in love with the place. Eventually I had no wish to return to Germany. I took over when Wolfgang died.”
Malloy listened intently.
“They still call me the Kraut Ostheim even though I am an American citizen for years now.”
He chuckled, reached for his stein. “Your grandfather must have seen plenty from that periscope.”
“More than anyone ever knew,”Adel replied. She leaned forward as if to share a secret. “Near the end of thewar, the final days, Captain Ostheim’s sonarman located one final target.Aferrymaking the same crossing you made this night.The U-boat had one torpedo left. The crew wanted onemore kill. Captain Ostheim refused to give the order to fire. Had the war not ended when it did, he would have been shot upon his return to Hamburg. By not using that last torpedo, he had spared some of the people who eventually became his friends.”
Malloy nodded thoughtfully.
“What about you, Mister Malloy. Any war stories?”
“Real estate,” he replied. “No war stories.
“And no surrender.”
“Nope,” Malloy chuckled. “Just here to scout out property for a client of mine.” He felt guilty because of the lie. She seemed like a good person. “I’ve heard the old Gumb house could be up for sale,” he said, innocently.
Adel frowned. “Oh, poor Malloy. The Gumb property has been sold.”
He already knew that. But it was a private deal, which meant no listing could be found when he’d called an old realtor friend to do some checking.
Adel was staring.
As if on cue, Malloy feigned disappointment. “That’s too bad. Heard it’s quite the property.”
“Newlyweds own it now. A wonderful couple.”Adel lowered her voice. “And famous too.”
“Famous? What, like movie star famous?”
“You would know them.”
“I would?”
“Jack Doyle and Kaitlin O’Rourke.”
Malloy coughed. Jesus Christ. He knew the names alright. Muck raking reporters. Nosy and suspicious. This might be a problem.
Adel smiled weakly. “Are you alright?”
Malloy reached for his beverage and swallowed. “Got something caught,” he lied, and then for the second time in a week he cursed his shitty timing.
Click-clak. Click-clak. Wood on wood—snapping and sliding. Clickclak.
Jack woke up.
Kaitlin’s bedside lamp burned through his eyelids,which he pried open. “Whaddya doin, babe?” He croaked.
“Hmmm?”
Jack stole a groggy look at the alarm clock. “It’s late. Go to sleep.”
She sat up, cradling something, tugging and pulling at it. Click-clak. Click-clak.
“Where’d you get this?”
“Get what?” Jack rose on one elbow.
“This.”
It was the box she had in her hands. “Tommy found it,” he said, flopping back on his pillow.
Kaitlin looked at the white sheet, which Jack had hung across the gaping maw in their bedroom.
Jack followed her gaze. “De-constructing a house is hard work. Guess I fell asleep while you were in the bath.”
“Guess you did,” she replied. “That’s OK, honey, I’ll forgive you…just this once.” Kaitlin smiled at him and returned her attention to the box. Eyebrows bunched. “Tommy found it, huh?”
“When we were ripping down the wall. It was stashed under a floorboard.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not kidding, and don’t waste your time trying to open it.” Jack looked at her smugly. “It’s impossible to crack.”
“Not impossible,” Kaitlin replied, hands a flurry across the box’s smooth surface. “All you have to do is figure out the puzzle.”
Jack pulled himself up again. “Like a Rubik’s Cube.”
“Right. Only harder.”
While Jack watched, Kaitlin slid a slender section of inlaid wood and then another. “It’s a Japanese puzzle box,” she announced, sliding out a piece of wood. “Argus gave me one for my fourteenth birthday. Brought it back with him from Japan. That’s where they’re made.”
“What’s it do?”
Kaitlin looked at him. “Go back to sleep.” She pulled on another part of the box and a rectangular slat came away. Pushing and tugging, two more slid loose.
Jack was fully awake now. Enthralled as she deftly swept around the complicated puzzle.
“The box Argus gave me took twenty-seven moves. I think it will take a lot more to open this one. You sure you wanna stay up?”
“You go, girl.”
Five minutes later, Jack was snoring.
Kaitlin was too wired to sleep. The box was something to occupy her mind. She hadn’t told Jack her big news yet. She’d tell him in the morning over coffee, ask his advice on how to handle the biggest story of her life. “You’ve earned it,” Carmichael had said. “But don’t screw up.”
Kaitlin was still trying to wrap her head around it. To beat back the stress. Jack was peacefully sleeping. How the hell did he do it? How was it that Jack Doyle could seem so bloody calm even when everything around him was going to hell? She’d seen him in action too many times to count. In New Orleans, the previous year, a stoned killer held a gun to Jack’s head on live TV. Jack handled it. And of course there was Colombia. That was another story altogether. Kaitlin loved her husband dearly, but her respect for Jack Doyle the journalist went just as deep. Wake up, Jack. Tell me not to worry. Everything will be fine.
Jack snorted and rolled over.
Five minutes later, Kaitlin put the box on her night table, turned off her light, and closed her eyes. She snuggled into Jack and eventually fell into a deep sleep. Not aware that the thread of a story dangled next to her, bigger and more dangerous than she could ever have imagined.
7
To Ed Malloy it looked exactly the way Helena had sketched it. It was impressively large and ornate with gables and fancy woodwork. He’d been a quick study on the subject of Victorian architecture, recognized immediately the Palladian window, offset turret, and a high tower with its exaggerated mansard roof. Malloy pressed binoculars to his face. It was possible they weren’t up yet. He reached for the thermos, which Frauline Ostheim had filled that morning. After a lousy night’s sleep, he needed another jolt of caffeine, but what he really wanted was two fingers of bourbon.
Malloy was in his car, parked near a straight gravel road that led to the old house. He’d been there for thirty minutes already. Watching. Practicing his big lie. His back ached and twice he had gotten out to stretch and to breathe the fresh salt air. Now he was fiddling with the radio, looking for a decent country station.
The mailbox still said Gumb. Malloy guessed it was because a house like this had a heritage that was too deep to be called anything else. Strange as it was, Alvin Gumb had played a key role in the events that took place decades ago. It was to his house that she had fled, and if the diary was to be believed, it was in this house that the secret was still hidden.
Jack looked at his watch and briefly wondered why that car was sitting there at the end of his road. He brought the hot mug to his lips and soaked in the sunshine, enjoying the fact that he was up, showered, and fed already. He wore a black shirt and beige trousers, which he would swap soon for work garb. The paint on the front of the house was flaking. There was stuff to do.
Jack decided to let Kaitlin sleep, even though it was her favourite part of the day. He walked to the side of the house and stared peacefully at the spectacular ocean view. It was one of the reasons they had fallen in love with the place.That and the fact the tiny saltbox house where Jack grew up simply wouldn’t do—especially when you were planning a family. No luck yet on the baby front, but hopefully soon. It was only months ago that he’d married her. Kaitlin O’Rourke, his producer. A woman he’d known since childhood and whom he’d nearly lost once. In Colombia. The bombing and Kaitlin’s
disappearance in a country torn apart by decades of cocaine violence. Kaitlin had found her Colombian mother. Had also been reunited with her twin sister, Mercedes Mendoza. As babies, Kaitlin and Mercedes had been ripped from one another by barbaric tribal customs. After a lifetime apart, they had found each other and the mother who had sacrificed somuch so they could live. Not a day went by that Jack didn’t think about what had happened, his own brush with death, and the betrayal of his friend, Dmitri Raspov. He brought a hand to his face and squeezed the bridge of his nose as if cutting the lifeblood from disturbing memories.
After Colombia, Jack could have had the network anchor chair. It was offered, and although his agent told him he was crazy, Jack decided it was no longer what he wanted. “Tell them thanks but no thanks,” he had said to his agent.
A week later, Lou Perlman came back with another network offer.
“Home on weekends, Ahab—lots of time for that boat of yours and you still get to play television. They’re also offering Kaitlin a new gig. She’s talented Jack, but frankly she won’t get the same star treatment as you.”
“That’s Kaitlin’s business, Lou. And she’ll need a good agent. Any recommendations?”
“Funny boy,” his rotund agent had laughed. “I’m going to sign her at eight percent.”
“You take ten fromme.”
“You’re harder to deal with Jack, and not nearly as pretty.”
“You’re a tough sonnofabitch Perlman—but that’swhy I love ya.”
“Funny. Kaitlin said the same thing.”
Kaitlin O’Rourke had quickly become one of the network’s best reporters and Jack took some of the credit for that. Though, not too much credit, out of respect for Kaitlin’s talent. He realized his wife was up. Jack swallowed another mouthful of coffee, and then headed into the house where he’d make breakfast for his beautiful young protégé.
It would never cease to amaze Jack how stunningly beautiful she was in that ratty housecoat with her long dark hair cascading around her shoulders. Rubbing large brown eyes like a little girl who had wanted nothing more than to stay in bed with her puppy.