The answer was presumably no.
After the reception, Jack and Sam’s mother retired to her bedroom, locked the door behind her, and stayed there for a year, overcome, the town assumed, by grief. Sam told the cleaning lady, who “did the house” once a week, that she was never to bother Grandee, that Sam would clean her room herself. But the cleaning lady later told Kim that she’d once seen the judge’s widow crouched on her brass bed, eating a live mouse, her lips smeared shining red. Grandee would still be loose in Emerald, a certifiable madwoman, if she hadn’t stabbed Sam with scissors and the sheriff hadn’t talked Sam into signing her mother into a home.
In fact, said Kim, not to mince words, over the centuries the whole Peregrine family had gone bat-shit crazy.
Annie had no reason to doubt the truth of these sad stories; she knew far less about her family than Georgette’s mother did; in fact she knew only what Mrs. Nickerson told her. And, given these sagas of dementia and sudden death, of lost wealth and lost love, of a house filled with such sorrow, she could easily understand why her father had called Pilgrim’s Rest a pit of snakes, a cage of tigers, and had told his young daughter that he’d never go back there; why Aunt Sam—although insisting that her own childhood at Pilgrim’s Rest had been “just fine”—had such sad eyes and why she declined to talk about any family but the one she and Clark and Annie had made for themselves.
Chapter 7
The Smiling Lieutenant
Racing the storm home to Pilgrim’s Rest in her convertible Porsche, Annie outdrove the memories that had unexpectedly jumped out at her because of Miami Detective Daniel Hart’s phone call.
Thunder rolled across the tobacco fields and a fat drop of rain splashed her knuckles as she downshifted to turn onto the gravel road that wound to the top of River Hill. Speeding up the drive, she parked efficiently in the open barn.
Above the porch of Pilgrim’s Rest a banner flapped loudly from the overhang, its letters spelling Happy Birthday Annie. 26!!!
Aunt Sam, tall and nutmeg-tan, ran onto the porch. The storm blew the door from her hand, slapping it against the house. Sam’s cropped hair was prematurely white now, but she still played tennis every day and she still looked trim in her shorts and purple T-shirt with the logo of her movie rental store Now Voyager across it. She was waving a FedEx envelope. Annie had the irrational feeling that her aunt was gesturing “Back up,” as if she were trying to warn her to turn around.
Clark’s Volvo drove slowly into view behind her. He backed into the barn beside the Porsche and emerged carrying the two large plant cones. “You win,” he called. “You beat me.”
Malpy ran into the yard from the side of the house and raced in circles around Annie. Wind blew back the Maltese’s white fur from his face.
Sam, running toward them, stopped suddenly. Then she shouted, “Phone,” turned around, and hurried back inside the house.
“Gonna let loose!” Clark yelled. As if to prove his point, rain poured suddenly down; a twisting gust yanked his hat off and spun it like a top across the yard. Dropping the cones, the long-legged doctor loped after it. Up on the porch steps, he shook his legs to unstick his rain-soaked khaki trousers. Behind him, his little white dog shook his short wet legs too.
“Hi Malpy.” Annie kissed the Maltese. “Teddy still bossing you around?”
Clark said, “Bosses everybody.” The Shih Tzu (who’d been chosen for Annie because they were the longest-lived of dogs) was now nearly twenty, blind, arthritic, self-important as ever; these days, Clark said, she never left the velvet poof in her pagoda except to reassert her supremacy over Malpy.
Annie stood with her uncle on the porch, looking out at the rain. On the horizon a black mass of clouds tinged with an eerie green twisted and swirled off to the east, like an old satin cloak dragged across the sky.
Clark rubbed water off his sandy hair. “Actually I got here only two minutes after you did. Just goes to show.”
“I had to pull off the road for a phone call. A weird cop from Miami, looking for Dad. I told him I had no idea.”
Clark nodded thoughtfully. “Why’d he call you?”
She shrugged. “Exactly.”
“You bring your cat?”
She told him that her friend Trevor was taking care of Amy Johnson back in Chesapeake Cove.
“That’s good.” Clark wiped his glasses on his shirt. “I just don’t see why you never ask that fellow down to meet us. Plenty of room at Pilgrim’s Rest.” Trevor, her condominium neighbor, was a single man her age.
“He wouldn’t take the time. Workaholic.”
Clark shrugged excessively and pointed at her.
“Don’t start,” she warned. She pointed at the house next door. “But Georgette would like Trevor.” Annie had been trying to fix up Georgette since high school.
Georgette now lived alone with a Siamese cat named Pitti Sing; her mother Kim had moved recently to a golf community in Southern Pines. Clark shook his head at his neighbor’s house. “You want to talk workaholic? Georgette’s at the hospital fourteen hours a day; at night, she watches television or she comes over here, watches movies with Sam and me. I want her to fall in love.”
Annie touched his face. “You want everybody to fall in love.”
“I tried it myself a couple of times. I enjoyed it.” Clark stepped back as wind blew the rain in on them. “It’s let loose. Told you.” He stretched his hand out into the downpour as if to test it. “My grandma used to say they would get rain so big one drop could drown a cat. So when I was little, whenever it rained, I hid our cat in a dresser drawer—”
Annie had heard this story before. “—and your cat had her first litter right on top of your blue crewneck. That’s why you went into pediatrics.”
“It’s sure why I never wore that blue crewneck again. So, go on in and happy birthday.” Gesturing at her Navy uniform, Clark held up the forefinger that meant a pun was coming. “You hear about the red ship that collided with the blue ship and all the sailors were marooned?”
“Top ten worst,” she said. She ranked most of his puns in the “top ten worst.”
He pushed on his glasses, bent to examine the service ribbons on her white jacket. “So, is that for sure, you’re getting divorced next week?”
She shrugged. “The lawyer swears.”
Clark nodded. “Good.”
She nodded back. “Yep.” They’d been able to talk to each other with nods since the day they’d met long ago in the Pilgrim’s Rest barn.
“About love?” he added. “Next time, go for the package. Looks, brains, job. Don’t settle.” He hugged her. “Or on the other hand, settle and be happy.”
“Got it, Clark.” She smiled at him, his favorite smile.
“You’re not planning on taking Brad back, are you? Don’t even think that.”
She raised her eyebrow at her uncle. “Aren’t you always telling me I move too fast?”
“That’s sure what I told you when you married Brad.”
Annie changed the subject. “Want to hear some good news? I can’t wait to tell D. K. He’ll love this.” She said she had been chosen to test pilot a new short-takeoff vertical-landing carrier jet they were testing for Navy purchase. An F-35. The Lightning II.
“Lightning II, that’s great. Sounds easygoing.”
“I think I can get it over 1200 miles per hour. That’ll be a speed record. So it’s July 14, five in the morning. Another pilot will do the same test.”
“How do you feel about this?”
“Don’t mind competing. Don’t like losing. There’re a couple of guys faster than I am. At flight school, Brad could always kick it over that extra point-whatever. But who knows, this could be my time.”
Clark patted her cheek softly. “I’m mystified as to why anybody would want to set a speed record at five in the morning; five in the evening either.” He rubbed her back. “But, hey, you like that dark blue world.”
“I do.” She looked at the roiling clouds. �
�I do like it up there.”
Aunt Sam stepped out to join them on the porch. She stared at her niece. “That was the phone. What’s wrong with you? Were you crying?”
“A little while ago. But I’m fine.” Annie looked carefully at her aunt; the vertical lines between Sam’s eyebrows were frowning more than usual. “What’s wrong with you?”
Sam squeezed Clark’s hands. “What’s the matter with Annie, Clark?”
“Nothing. Her divorce isn’t final yet.”
Sam reached out to her niece. “A FedEx just came for you, from Jack.”
Annie stepped away. “From Dad? I just got a weird phone call from Miami about Dad.”
Sam pointed back inside at the hallway. “This FedEx came just a little while ago with some balloons. Was the phone call from Miami a man named Rafael Rook?”
Annie shook her head. “Rafael Rook? No, it was from the Miami police. A Sgt. Daniel Hart. He’s looking for Dad. For ‘fraud.’”
Clark said he wasn’t surprised. “The police were always looking for Jack for fraud. But balloons? That’s a first.”
“Happy Birthday to me,” Annie said flatly. “I’m twenty-six. I haven’t heard a word in a decade. Now it’s a FedEx card and balloons. Sweet.”
“So, who’s Rafael Rook?” Clark asked Sam.
“A good friend of Jack’s. He wanted to talk to Annie.”
The porch door slapped again, loudly, flung against the house by the strong wind. Clark pulled it shut. “Sam and Georgette have been working on your party for a week. But we better cancel. This could be the big one. A real twister.”
“That’s what you always say.” Annie pulled her aunt closer. “Okay, Sam, what’s the problem? Something’s wrong with you, and it’s not my birthday party getting rained out. What’s this about?”
Frowning, Sam put her hands on Annie’s shoulders. “It’s Jack.”
“What’s he done now?”
“He wants you to come to St. Louis right away, Annie. He’s dying.”
Chapter 8
The Man from Yesterday
The storm had darkened the sky and in the hall Annie had to turn on a light. Carefully she read the small grubby wrinkled sheet of writing paper that was all there was in the FedEx envelope. Its letterhead showed a gold sun either rising or setting on a gold horizon line. Below the sun was an address: Golden Days Center for Active Living on Ficus Avenue in Miami, Florida. The penciled handwriting slanting up across the note was unsteady and smeared.
Annie,
Meet me in St. Louis where we stayed before. Fly the King. Crucial. Sam says she kept my flight jacket. I need it. Did you hang onto your pink cap? Bring it. I hear you’re brilliant and beautiful. Always were. If something happens to me, remember, Queen, King, Sam. I love you. Come fast.
Dad (Jack Peregrine)
PS Lindbergh
Nothing else was written under PS. Instead, pinned to the paper by the minuscule hook of a fuzzy dry fishing fly was a small key. A key to what, she had no idea, although it looked like a file cabinet or maybe a lawnmower key.
For a long time, Annie stood there in the hall of the house, turning the letter in her hands, caught between rage and distress. A dozen helium Happy Birthday! balloons floated on the ceiling.
Wet through, Clark and Sam returned from the yard, where they’d done what they could to protect their gardens from the storm—stake the hollyhocks, secure the cone protectors over the roses, wrap the peonies and shrubs and borders. Malpy shook rain at Teddy, who growled at him.
Sam, running a towel through her short hair, watched Annie.
Her niece held out the FedEx. “And this was it?”
Sam dried her arms. “No…Well, yesterday Jack calls and tells me he’s dying and to give you this FedEx that was coming today…I guess I must have told him you always come home on your birthday.”
“Good God, Sam, how much do you talk to Dad? According to this Sergeant Hart, he had my goddamn new cell-phone number written on the back of a photo.” Annie jerked loose her white Navy shirt.
“Sit down, you’re upset,” Sam told her.
“I sure am.”
Sam looked defensive. “I don’t talk to him much. Not all that much. Lately twice a month, he calls.”
“Twice a month?”
“Lately. He just asks me how you are, then he hangs up.” Sam took Jack’s letter from her niece, studied it. “But yesterday, out of the blue, he calls, says how he’s really sick, asks me if you still fly the King of the Sky. Then today this FedEx comes. He says he’s dying, but well, you know Jack.”
“Not very well.” Annie shrugged.
“All I can hope is,” sighed Sam, “he’s lying. He usually is. That’s all I can hope.”
“What’s the fraud they’re after him for?” asked Clark, returning downstairs in dry shorts and T-shirt.
“False pretenses,” said Annie. “Ha-ha.”
“And a Miami detective called you about it?”
She summarized her conversation with the pleasant-voiced Detective Hart about the gold relic, the Queen of the Sea.
Sam gave a sympathetic squeeze to her niece’s arm. “Cuba thinks Jack’s got something that’s real?”
“Stupid Cuba,” Clark muttered. “Sam, you ought to change out of those wet clothes.”
Sam hushed him. “Don’t be a doctor. The other thing is—this guy’s been calling all afternoon—”
“Sergeant Hart?” asked Annie.
“No. Rafael Rook. A weird-talking guy. He’s in Miami too. He says Jack’s really ‘going fast.’”
Annie raised her eyebrow in a way she’d copied from old Claudette Colbert movies. “Jack was always going fast. With Jack, it was always the back of that leather flight jacket you were looking at. Dumps me for nearly twenty years and now a FedEx message he’s dying, lend him my plane, and rush him his flight jacket to St. Louis? I don’t think so.” She unbuttoned her shirt, fanning herself. “I’m going to go put on some shorts. First it’s pouring rain, now the air’s dead. I’ll hurry.”
“Everything will be okay,” said Clark, shaking his head, watching Annie race up the stairs two at a time. “No hurry.”
***
When Annie thought of her father, it was always scenes of perpetual motion and precipitate change. A measureless highway of mildewed motels.
It was not until she was flying jets for the Navy that memories of those road trips rushed out of the past at her as if they’d been waiting in the sky. The scenes were underscored with fragments of old songs.
“Meet Me in St. Lou-ee, Lou-ee,” he’d sung to her when they’d gone to that city once and had almost gotten killed in a motel there.
“Happy, Happy Birthday, Baby,” he’d sung in a white and gold hotel suite, marching in from the bathroom, carrying a cake with five sparkling candles, with a crowd of strangers in loud-colored clothes around her bed, laughing so loudly so close to her that she’d burst into tears.
“La Bamba” he’d sung in the shiny plastic booth of a Taco Bell while carefully cutting a burrito into small pieces. “This is all we’ve got for supper, Captain Kid, we’re busted. If money mattered, we’d need to ‘go back and get a shitload of dimes.’” She’d laughed with him at the reference to Blazing Saddles. That time they’d driven all night and then had slept in the red Mustang at a rest stop with the doors locked and with a can of Mace nearby. “Just spray it in their face,” he told her.
“Whose face?”
“Anybody that gets in this car.”
When she asked him why they were always speeding down the road, he made his arms into wings and glided around her in the parking lot. “Because we’re Peregrines! The peregrine falcon is the fastest bird in the world, Annie. It can do a 45-degree dive at 217 miles per hour! Imagine that. Lindbergh in the Spirit of St. Louis could only go 117 miles per hour. So that little Peregrine bird is going 100 miles per hour faster than Lindbergh!” Years later, to her amazement, she was to discover that this fact about the di
ving speed of a peregrine hawk was one of the few true things he’d told her.
When she’d asked her father to identify the shadowy men from whom they were running so fast, and who’d occasionally almost caught them, he’d exasperatingly offer her cartoon names, like “Snidely Whiplash” or “The Penguin” or “The Man from Yesterday” or “The Man from U.N.C.L.E.”
Whenever she wanted to know who her mother was, he made up some romantic story: Her mother was a circus acrobat, her mother had the highest IQ ever recorded in her hometown, her mother was the heir in exile to the throne of some small country whose name he would change from one nonsense word to another.
Even as a child she’d noticed inconsistencies. He was a compulsive liar, in fact a professional one. The only constant in his remarks about her mother was the claim that this woman had always said how much she loved Annie and how wonderful she thought Annie was. But the truth was hard to avoid: It did not appear that her mother had wanted a daughter in her life, however wonderful she might have thought her. And when Annie asked why her mother had left them, the answer was always that she’d thought her child would be better off with her father. Even at five and six, Annie found this assumption, if true, culpably naïve on her mother’s part.
Whenever she asked Jack Peregrine about his own work (fathers on television had jobs), he told her that he “lived a Life of Art.” By five, she had decided that what he called “a Life of Art” was in fact a life of crime. With her small solemn face she had watched him with a skepticism that time only increased. He was always on the phone, sometimes in a language she didn’t understand—he said it was Shangri-lang—always meeting strangers in peculiar places, sending cryptic messages, getting envelopes in return. Packages got left on his car seat or atop a restaurant table or even inside a trashcan in a city park once. Envelopes often had cash in them.
Just before they’d driven suddenly to Emerald that last time together, she’d sneaked a look at an unstamped mailer that had been slipped under their motel room door; inside it she’d found an Irish passport with a picture of her father but with a different name. Folded in the passport was a street map of Havana, Cuba.
The Four Corners of the Sky Page 6