“You were right. But he can count months and I’m in the news every time I sneeze, so he’s probably guessed she’s his daughter. God knows the tabloids and magazines have speculated enough about who fathered her, and he’s on their list of suspects.”
“Do I need to know the names of the other contenders they’ve considered?”
“I think Prince Charles and our beloved former president Joe Callahan are two of the names you might recognize.”
“That probably helped sell some papers.”
“My groundskeepers tell me that for several weeks there’ve been more people than usual asking questions in Cragmoor village, but there are always reporters and paparazzi doing that. A couple of them tried to get into the local clinic this spring when Janie fell off her pony and lost some skin from her arm.”
“Did they succeed?”
“One of them stole her riding gloves before the security people got them out the door. Maybe they auctioned them off. I don’t know what a pair of Janie’s bloody gloves would go for on the fan market.”
An idea occurred to me: “Alain Duval might have been willing to shell out quite a bit for a good DNA sample.”
Her actress’s smile went away. “My God! I never thought of that!”
I raised a hand to calm her. “He doesn’t know where she is. This little island is a pretty big place when you’re looking for one small girl.”
“I’ve got to get her home to Scotland! I can protect her there!”
I felt sorry for her, but like Margaret I may have been mourning for myself. “That’s what castles are built for,” I said gently, “but you won’t be able to get her there today. Listen. She and Diana are hitting it off pretty well. Let Janie sleep over with Diana tonight. Duval will never think of looking for her at our place. You can make plans to ship her home tomorrow, if that’s still what you want to do.”
“I don’t know…”
“While you were looking at the photographs on our wall, did you notice the pistol shooting trophies on our mantel? Those belong to Zee. She’s what people out West used to call a heller with a gun. No kidnappers will come through our door while Zee’s there. And I’m like Scarlett O’Hara: I can shoot pretty well if I don’t have to shoot too far. I think Janie will be quite safe. We’d better go ashore. People will start to talk.”
“All right,” said Evangeline as we sloshed toward the beach, “we’ll do it your way. I can take Janie home first thing tomorrow.”
We reached shore and Evangeline lay down on her beach towel beside Zee. “Your husband has persuaded me to let my daughter sleep over with Diana, but I know enough about these kinds of plans to clear them with the wives and mothers first.”
“I think Diana and Joshua would love it,” said Zee with a smile, “so consider it a done deal. That is, of course, if the children approve.”
The children approved.
“In that case,” I said to Zee, toweling myself dry, “I’ll leave Mrs. Price and Janie to ride home with you while I attend to some other business with what’s left of the afternoon. You have those items I mentioned earlier, I presume.”
Zee patted her canvas beach bag. “Of course. Wasn’t it Mrs. Swiss Family Robinson who had a bag with absolutely everything in it that you’d ever need to survive on a desert island? I’m just like her.”
I blew her a kiss, got into the white Explorer, and drove away down the beach. When I was out of her sight I stopped and called Jake Spitz.
Jake turned out to be at the Edgartown police station, coordinating security and murder investigations with the state and island cops, so I drove there. The station was surrounded by parked cruisers and other cop cars. I parked behind the firehouse next door and walked back.
The chief’s office was crowded with uniformed and plainclothes police. The first one who saw me was Olive Otero, who immediately got up to close the door but was stopped by the long arm of Dom Agganis.
Olive bent and scowled at me from under that arm. “We don’t need you here, Jackson. This is a professional meeting.”
“Mind your manners,” I said. “You’re forgetting that my taxes pay your salary.”
I have no idea why Olive and I rub each other wrong, but the poet had gotten our feelings down pat when he wrote:
I do not love thee, Doctor Fell.
The reason why I cannot tell;
But this alone I know full well:
I do not love thee, Doctor Fell.
“All right, you two, knock it off.” Dom put Olive back in her chair and stepped between us. “What brings you here, J.W.?”
“I’m looking for my boss.”
Jake Spitz said, “What’s up?”
“I want to know more about Hale Drummand.”
All eyes and ears turned toward me. Spitz, being FBI, naturally didn’t want to share information with the others until he was sure they needed to know. A lot of police officers and organizations are like that, much to the benefit of criminals who otherwise would have shorter careers.
“Let’s step into the next office,” said Jake.
It was empty, and Jake shut its door behind us. “What about Drummand?”
“Was he ever stationed on the West Coast?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Jake, did you ever notice that you answer questions with other questions?”
He smiled. “Yeah. It’s a professional thing. I get paid to ask but I don’t get paid to answer. Why do you want to know about Hale Drummand?”
“It’s my turn to answer a question with another one. Did you know that Alain Duval is the father of Evangeline’s daughter, Janie?”
“I’ve heard that rumor along with some others. Is it true?”
“Yes, and I think he knows it, although Evangeline never told him. Tell me something: Has the FBI ever investigated Duval’s organization?”
“We investigate a lot of oganizations,” said Spitz tonelessly.
“Was Drummand involved in that investigation?”
“Maybe.”
I liked him but not enough to spend all afternoon trying to get him to talk to me. “Come on, Jake, I’m not wired. Nobody is going to hear what you say. Besides, I’m working for you, remember? Was Drummand involved or not?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because if Duval knows that Janie is his kid, he may want her back, and if he does he may be the guy whose spies were watching Evangeline’s house, and because Drummand went over there and now he’s dead.”
“That’s two ‘ifs’ and one fact. Keep going if you’ve got anyplace to go.”
“Drummand was a trained agent and he was armed, but he didn’t hesitate to go across to the point, where he got himself killed by whoever was over there. How did that happen?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t have to tell you, Jake. You already know. He went over there because he saw somebody he recognized and apparently trusted enough to let down his guard. If he was involved in the investigation of Duval’s organization, he may have made a friend or two with some of Duval’s people. It wouldn’t be the first time a cop befriended a criminal he’s investigating. Well, was he involved in that earlier investigation or not?”
Spitz gave some thought to what he’d say, then nodded. “I guess it doesn’t matter now, because Hale’s dead, but I don’t want this going any further. You understand?”
“I don’t work for NBC.”
“Okay, then. Hale infiltrated the Followers of Light. He was just the kind of guy Duval liked to have as a Simon Peter. You know what a Simon Peter is?”
“I do.”
“Hale was a marine when he was a kid and he still looked the part. And he could act slightly wacko when he needed to. He became a Follower after passing himself off as a religious militant in need of a leader and an organization. Hale was inside the ashram for almost a year before they started to look at him funny and we took him out for his own safety.”
“Was he in real danger?”
&
nbsp; “He thought he might be, so we took him out before anything could really happen. The point is that while he was a Follower he hung out with some of the Simon Peters and made friends of one or two.”
“Are they here on the island?”
Spitz frowned. “There are Simon Peters here, but I don’t know if any of them were Hale’s pals.”
“How did Drummand die?”
“Actually, probably pretty painlessly. Somebody caved in the back of his head and then cut his throat. He turned his back on somebody.”
“Did he still have his piece?”
“Right on his belt, as if he was meeting someone he knew and trusted. Smart of whoever did him in to leave the gun. If it had been taken and we found it later, it could tie the thief to the killing.”
“What do you think of my theory?”
“It’s a theory. I don’t have a better one. Knowing that Duval is the girl’s father gives it more credence than some of the others we’re kicking around. You have any more questions?”
“No. Do you?”
“A lot, but none you can answer.”
“What happened to the Duval investigation?”
“Lots of smoke but not enough fire to bring charges. Unofficially, Duval is making a lot of money and has a lot of ambition for a man of purely spiritual interests.”
“Are there any men with purely spiritual interests these days?”
“Only you and me, J.W.”
Chapter Eighteen
Brady
I didn’t have a chance to talk to J.W. privately until after the sun had gone down and Zee and Evangeline were putting the kids to bed.
We were sitting out on the balcony. I was sipping coffee, and J.W. had a beer in his hand. I told him about my visit to Alain Duval’s estate and my conversation with the guy. “I’m sure he was lying,” I said. “I’d bet a million bucks that Christa is there.”
J.W. nodded. “Me, too. The more I think about it, I’m sure I saw her. So what do you want to do?”
“I want to go back there. I’ve got to get ahold of Christa and tell her about her father.”
J.W. gazed up to the star-filled sky. “Duval,” he said slowly, “is Janie’s father. We think he knows it and will try to snatch her.”
“So that’s why she’s here? You’re hiding her from Duval?”
“Yep.”
I slapped my forehead. “Oh, this is great. I gave him one of those pictures of Christa. Wrote your phone number on the back of it.”
He turned to me. “You what?”
“I’m sorry,” I said.J.W. gazed off toward the ocean, which was a glimmery silver line on the horizon. “It doesn’t matter,” he said after a minute.
“Of course it does,” I said. “Now you and I and Evangeline and Janie and Christa, we’re all neatly connected for him. Everything leads him here.”
“You’ve already papered the damn island with Christa’s picture and your name and my phone number,” he said. “And he knows about me and Evangeline. I doubt this was any news to anybody.”
“You’re trying to make me feel better.”
He shrugged.
“J.W.,” I said, “what the hell is going on?”
“I haven’t put it together,” he said. “But here’s one thing I do know. I know there are more damn cops and FBI agents on this island than any concert would justify, no matter who was performing and who was planning to attend. When the president and his family used to come here on their vacations, there were nowhere near as many law-enforcement types around.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that after nine-eleven everything gets extra attention.” He shook his head. “Jake Spitz admitted that they’re worried about terrorists. And we’ve had three murders in the past few days that we know of. Your fortuneteller. Ogden Warner. Hale Drummand. It’s hard to see how all that is explained by Alain Duval wanting to snatch his daughter from Evangeline, or by his wanting to keep Christa Doyle from knowing that her father’s dying.”
“It all comes back to Duval,” I said.
“Yes,” he said, “it seems to.” He stood up. “Let’s go fishing.”
“Fishing? Hell, the fishing was lousy last night. You got a secret spot?”
He rolled his eyes. “We’re gonna go spy on Duval. For Zee’s sake, let’s just say we’re going fishing.”
I grinned. “You don’t dare tell her what you’re doing? Afraid she won’t let you go?”
“I just don’t want to worry her, dummy.”
Twenty minutes later we were pulling out of J.W.’s driveway in the old Land Cruiser with a bundle of rods clamped on the roof rack. I held a thermos of coffee and my binoculars on my lap. We were wearing blue jeans, dark Windbreakers, dark caps, and sneakers such as we might wear for an evening of surf casting—or for skulking through the woods.
J.W., as usual, followed a maze of back roads, and when we turned onto Indian Hill Road, I told him to go slow. When I spotted the break in the stone wall, I pointed. He turned into it, and with all the considerable four-wheel-drive power of the big Land Cruiser, he plowed through the weeds and saplings and tucked the truck behind a stand of pine trees.
We got out, walked back to the road, and looked at where we’d gone in.
J.W. shook his head. “Tire marks,” he said. “Bent-over weeds. Broken saplings.”
“It’s dark,” I said. “Who’ll be looking?”
“Yeah, I guess. Can’t see the car, anyway. As long as we get out of here before daylight…”
“If we don’t,” I said, “we’re in deep shit anyway.”
“Valid point.”
“Look,” I said. “Why don’t you get in the car and drive home? I can do this alone. No sense both of us getting in trouble.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Fat chance.”
“No, really,” I said.
He laughed. “I go back without you, Zee’ll never forgive me. Let’s see what we can see.”
The sky was an inverted bowlful of stars with a half-moon rising on the horizon to light our way, and we crept through the woods easily. After about ten minutes, we came to the top of a rise, and below us in the silvery night light lay the rambling white building with its sweep of lawn. Orange lights glowed from the windows, and floodlights lit the perimeter. Sounds of guitar music and singing voices filtered up to us.
“Gimme them binocs,” hissed J.W.
I handed him my binoculars.
He scanned the area. “Looks like a party. I see some people sitting on the lawn. A couple of Simon Peters at the front of the house. A couple out back. Others, probably, that I can’t see.”
“Gimme a look.”
He handed me the binoculars. I scanned the rear lawn. There were about a dozen people, most of them clad all in white, sitting cross-legged in a circle. One of them was playing a guitar. The others were singing. Gospel music, it sounded like. I was too far away and the light was too dim to distinguish their faces. I scanned them slowly. One of them made me pause. She had straight black hair. Her face was shadowy, but in my imagination, at least, she looked like Christa.
I panned the rest of the area with the glasses. Outside the circle, beyond the glow of the floodlights, stood a couple of shadowy, watchful figures dressed in black. Simon Peters. I moved the binoculars over the beach, but it was too dark and distant to see if anybody was there.
“I don’t see the great guru,” I whispered to J.W.
“Me, neither.”
“I think one of those people sitting on the lawn is Christa. Let’s try to get closer.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “We’ll figure it out when we get there.”
“My kind of plan,” said J.W. “I’ll go first. You stay right behind me.”
We worked our way down the slope. We stayed low and skulked from tree to tree until we got near the front of the house, where we ran out of woods. We stopped about twenty yards from the side of the garage, just beyond the reach of
the floodlights, and crouched behind a stand of rhododendrons.
J.W., who was right in front of me, held up his hand, then pointed. I looked. A black-clad Simon Peter appeared from the back of the house and came straight toward us, strolling along the edge of the lawn. His head kept darting from side to side. He stopped on the other side of the shrubs from where we were hiding. I could have reached out and untied his shoe.
A minute later another Simon Peter came over and stood beside him. “Gimme a light,” he said.
A lighter snapped and flickered, and I could see two faces bent to it with cigarettes in their mouths. One of them was the guy who’d stopped me in the driveway.
“You believe this shit?” said one of them.
The other one laughed. “Jesus loves us. Sure he does.”
After a minute, they both wandered away.
J.W. jerked his thumb off to the right, and we crept along the edge of the bushes until we could see the back of the house. I lifted the binoculars to my eyes, swept them around the half-circle of young people singing on the lawn, and this time I was positive: One of the women was Christa Doyle. She was singing her heart out, the picture of evangelical ecstasy.
Sitting close beside her was a guy who, unlike the others, was dressed in Simon Peter black. He was not a kid—early thirties, I guessed. He wore glasses, and his hair was in a ponytail. He had his arm slung possessively around Christa’s shoulders. She was leaning against him, and as I watched, she tilted her face up and he kissed her sweetly.
I touched J.W.’s shoulder and pointed. “That’s Christa,” I whispered.
He nodded and held out his hand. I gave him the binoculars.
He put them to his eyes, and a moment later I saw his shoulders tense. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered.
“What do you see?” I hissed.
He was peering intensely through the binoculars. I started to edge up beside him…and that’s when the night suddenly went black.
In the movies when a bad guy hits a good guy on the head, the good guy remains unconscious for as long as it suits the filmmaker’s purpose. Sometimes for hours. Then, when the time is right for the story to work, our hero wakes up clearheaded and ready to go kickboxing.
Second Sight Page 17