Charlie’s computers gave him access to all the data that the FBI, CIA, IRS, INS, and every other federal agency had stored away, and best of all, Charlie was generally willing to overlook all those pesky government regulations that theoretically forbade him from sharing information with trusted friends like me.
His secretary, a grandmotherly woman named Shirley who was a dead ringer for Mrs. Paul, the woman on the fish-stick package, was happy to hear from me. I dutifully asked after her grandchildren, and she brought me up-to-date on each of them, one at a time. Then she asked when Evie and I were getting married, as she always did, and I had to tell her again that we were enjoying things just as they were too much to risk rocking the boat.
Shirley didn’t approve of unmarried folks having sleepovers, but all she said was, “Well, all in good time. I suppose you want to speak with the boss?”
I said I did, and a minute later Charlie came on the line. “Golf or fishing?” he said.
“I keep telling you,” I said, “I’ve given up golf permanently. Right now I’m on the Vineyard, and believe it or not, I’ve been here for several days and only been fishing once. Didn’t catch anything, either.”
“So what’s up?”
“You still willing to risk your career to check somebody out for me?”
“Since nine-eleven it’s a little trickier to do,” he said. “But on the other hand, there’s more information. Whattya need?”
“Guy by the name of Alain Duval.” I told him what I knew about Duval. “He’s got himself a small army of bodyguards he calls Simon Peters, and I’m wondering about them, too. One I’m particularly interested in is a guy named Frank Dyer.” I told him what Joe Begay had told J.W. and me about Dyer.
“Give me your number and a couple hours,” he said. “I’ll get back to you.”
“It’s worth a plate of that fried calamari at Marie’s,” I said.
“The hell it is,” he said. “It’s worth prime rib at Locke Ober, at least.”
“You drive a hard bargain,” I said. “But you’re on.”
I spent the next three and a half hours sitting in the sunshine on the Jacksons’ balcony, watching the birds and thinking about how good it would feel to drive up to Mike and Neddie Doyle’s house on the hilltop in Hancock, New Hampshire, with Christa beside me. I knew J.W. and I needed a plan, but I figured he’d seen the layout and would know what to do. J.W. was good at things like that.
When the phone finally rang, I answered it instantly.
“Okay,” said Charlie. “Here’s the gist of it. First, Duval appears to be a straight shooter. He makes piles of money, declares it all, and gives a lot of it away to legitimate charities, all of which we have thoroughly investigated. There was one case several years back when somebody accused him of brainwashing their kid and holding her prisoner, like you were wondering about, but that was dismissed when the kid turned out to be nineteen years old, not a kid at all. She convinced the judge she wasn’t brainwashed and made a convincing case that her father had sexually abused her and Duval had helped her finally find some peace in her life. It appears that Duval’s acolytes come and go freely. I don’t think we’re missing anything here, Brady. Duval’s on the up-and-up, and if your girl is being held against her will, it’s not his doing.”
“What about those Simon Peters of his?”
Charlie cleared his throat. “That’s more interesting. Last year he had eighteen of them on his payroll, and I ran ’em all. Then I went back for the past ten years and ran all of them, too. Up until a few years ago, those Simon Peters appear to have been just members of his flock, your average lost souls who’d been with him for a while. It’s like they became more-or-less-permanent members of his community, so he started paying them a small salary. They were helpers. Disciples, I guess you’d call them. Bodyguards, really.”
“He needed bodyguards?”
“I guess he thought he did. As far as I know there was never an actual assassination attempt or anything like that. Maybe it was just Duval’s way of making them feel useful.”
“But it changed?” I said.
“Over the past few years, the old Simon Peters have been dropping off the payroll and new ones taking their place. These new ones, they’re different. Ex-military, bikers, guys like that. Nobody with a record, but nobody you’d exactly think of as spiritual, either. Tough guys. Enforcers.”
“What about Dyer? Anything special about him?”
“Aside from what you already know, only that he was the first of his type to appear on Duval’s payroll, and his salary is bigger than the others. Otherwise, he fits that new profile.”
I thought about what Charlie had said. “So,” I said, “you’d think I was off base to suspect Duval of holding Christa prisoner for some devious scheme, or of planning to kidnap a child.”
“You know as well as I do, you never can tell what somebody might do. History doesn’t necessarily spell out the future. But there’s nothing in the man’s past to warrant that kind of suspicion, no.”
“Dyer, on the other hand…”
“I’d say he’s capable of anything,” said Charlie.
Chapter Twenty-five
J.W.
Sometimes, the day before a hurricane reaches the Vineyard there is an odd, yellowish color in the sky and a curious quieting of winds and normal sounds. It’s the famous calm before the storm.
Thursday was such a day. Compared with the earlier part of the week, things were abnormally quiet. It was as though the gods were napping before they awoke for the weekend activities. Janie and my children went off with Mattie and John to the beach and I took Evangeline to a rehearsal with Flurge and the Bristol Tars. I didn’t see Spitz or Dyer, and even the preparations at the site of the Celebration seemed muted. Nothing notable happened all day and that night Janie again stayed at our house.
I didn’t sleep well and imagined odd sounds all night long. But no boogeymen appeared, no Simon Peters came in through the windows. Beside me, Zee slept the sleep of the good. I awoke feeling oppressed. After breakfast I took Janie with me when I went to pick up her mother. As I drove, my eyes flicked between the road ahead, the sky above, and my rearview mirror. There were no planes or helicopters in sight, and though every car I saw got a serious look, none seemed to be following me when I turned into the driveway of the Skyes’ farm.
While Jill or Jen Skye—you’d think I could tell them apart by now—took Janie to the barn to admire the twins’ horses, I told Evangeline what Zee had seen and done the evening before.
“I think someone may know Janie’s been at my house,” I said. “I’m going to stay close to her today. Keep your own eyes open.”
Her eyes grew worried and hard. “I never should have brought her with me!”
“No one will get her if I’m with her,” I said, putting confidence in my voice even as I was thinking that there was only one of me just as there had been only one of Hale Drummand.
She ran a hand through her golden hair. “You stay close to her. Tomorrow night, when you’re watching the show, I’ll get someone to stay with her in my dressing room.”
“I can stay with her. Zee wouldn’t miss the show, but I can get along without it.”
“A musical snob to the very end, eh? Well, let’s collect Janie. Flurge and I have one last rehearsal this morning.”
We drove to the performance site, and while Evangeline was rehearsing behind the closed curtain, Janie and I strolled and took in the final preparations for the Celebration.
At the sound truck Harry and Frank Dyer were at work. Harry gave us printed programs for the two nights of song, dance, and speeches and introduced Dyer and Janie to each other.
Dyer said, “Your mother is a wonderful singer. I’m very happy to meet her daughter.”
His glasses prevented me from seeing if his smile reached his eyes.
Behind him was a panel filled with dials, buttons, and switches. Harry followed my gaze and grinned. “Frank’s taken on half my wo
rk and more. Won’t even let me touch that panel. Says I got more than enough to do handling my own. He’s right, too, and he’s done a great job with the mikes and speakers. We’ve tested every system and they couldn’t be better. I’m trying to talk him into going back to California with me when this gig is over. What do you say, Frank? You coming with me?”
“It’s tempting, but I don’t know,” said Dyer, grinning. “I like living here on the island.”
“He’s a tough guy to convince,” said Harry, “but I’m going to keep after him.”
“A good man is hard to find,” I said, trying and failing to catch a fleeting memory.
“You got that right,” said Harry.
Janie and I moved on. The field had been prepared for an audience of thousands. The cables and wires had been covered, the lights were up, the huge speakers surrounded the grounds, and the TV and camera platforms were already in use because, I guessed, some creative characters were filming the preparations for the show as part of a future film. Security was everywhere, both in civvies and uniforms.
By midafternoon lucky ticket holders would be coming in and spreading their blankets on the ground as near to the stage as they could get. They would bring food and drink and secreted booze and drugs, and in the morning it would take an army of workers to clean up in preparation for the Saturday performance.
When Evangeline’s rehearsal was over, she donned her wig and dark glasses and I took her and Janie to lunch at Nancy’s, where we could look at the Oak Bluffs harbor while we ate. Around us there was much talk of the upcoming Celebration by people who didn’t know that one of its stars was seated at the next table. You often don’t see what’s right under your nose.
That evening I hesitated before leaving them at the farm.
“We’ll be fine,” said Evangeline. “John, here, has shotguns for all, if we need them.”
John nodded. “Every spare cop on the island is working security for the Celebration, but I think we can handle anything that might come up here.”
Fortress Skye.
“I don’t think anyone knows that you and Janie are staying here,” I said to Evangeline, “but keep your eyes open and if anything unusual happens, call the cops and then call me. Don’t play hero, John.”
“I don’t play a hero,” said John, lifting his chin. “I am a hero.” Then he smiled and said, “Don’t worry. If I hear a single twig snap I’ll be on the phone.”
So I left and went home. At cocktail time on the balcony, Brady and I traded tales of our day and thought about what we’d seen and heard. I felt I should be doing something decisive and suspected that Brady felt the same. But thought, the cosmic foe of action, caused us pause.
That night, while Zee and Brady joined the thousands at the Celebration site, Joshua, Diana, and I watched a bit of the show on our little black-and-white TV. It was an event wrapped in the flag and full of sound and patriotic oratory. Washington notables ranging from ex-president Joe Callahan to the current vice president gave speeches between the acts of apparently famous musical groups and stars whose names I’d never heard of. The audience loved it all, but it wasn’t enough to keep me or my children from going to bed not much later than usual. I left all of the outside lights on and kept my pistol under my pillow, and was still awake when Zee slipped into bed beside me.
In the morning I was up at my usual time and was well into the Globe before Zee and Brady showed up at the breakfast table. I waited until they were halfway through their first cups of coffee, then said, “Well, are you both ready for round two tonight?”
“Damn right,” said red-eyed Zee, whose face lit up with caffeine and the promise of more fabulous music. “It was great! Evangeline’s tickets were for VIP chairs. Best seats in the house! Tonight’s show should be even better.”
“Not for me,” groaned Brady. “I’ve had as much of that kind of culture as I can stand. Those speakers will blow your ears off. I’m meeting Christa at the end of the show, but I’m staying out of earshot until then. Do you happen to have any aspirin?”
“What a pair of wimps you are,” said Zee, bringing aspirin from the bathroom and setting the bottle in front of Brady. “I’m going back tonight even if you guys aren’t. I’ve already arranged for Josh and Diana to spend the night with the Duncans. I’ll bet Madge Duncan will be glad to use our extra ticket and go with me while Frank babysits. Madge is a little more in tune with the musical times than some people I know.”
According to the Globe, the first night of the Celebration for Humanity had been a noisy success with only a few arrests of rowdy fans. Duval had been the first celebrity speaker. He’d welcomed the audience and had gotten them to observe a minute of silent meditation for peace before the Gits appeared onstage as the opening act and had blasted meditative silence into distant memory.
I wondered if Christa had been in the sound truck with Dyer last night. I thought about Charlie McDevitt’s comments about Duval and the changing character of the Simon Peters. I wondered why Dyer made more money than the other Simon Peters. Was Duval a straight shooter, as McDevitt suggested? A womanizing straight shooter, perhaps, but a straight shooter nonetheless?
McDevitt believed that Dyer, unlike Duval, was capable of anything.
Memories were dancing on the margins of my mind. I tried to capture them and almost succeeded.
Brady and I drove to the Skyes’ farm and took Evangeline and Janie to Menemsha Hills, where we walked down to the shore of Vineyard Sound. A gentle morning wind hushed through the trees, and the sun was climbing through a clear blue sky. We seemed far removed from evil, but I watched our backs anyway.
I thought about the dead fortune-teller. I thought about the late Ogden Warner. I thought about Hale Drummand. I thought again about Dyer.
We lunched on sandwiches and soft drinks at the Chilmark Store, then walked to Wascosim’s Rock.
Everyone I saw looked dangerous before I looked again and saw that they were not.
When we got back to the farm Evangeline spoke to Mattie Skye, then the two of them came to us and Evangeline said, “Go home, J.W. Have a drink and eat something. Mattie and John are going to stay with Janie in my dressing room while I’m onstage.”
I kept my voice calm. “I thought I was going to be in your dressing room.” Brady nodded.
“A car came into the yard this afternoon,” said Mattie. “The two guys seemed nice enough and as soon as they found out they weren’t where they thought they were, they left. But…”
“So plans have changed,” said Evangeline. “You two go have some supper, then come back here. Those men were probably innocent as doves, but if they weren’t and if they come again tonight, I want you here waiting for them. Janie will be with Mattie and John in my dressing room. They’ll keep the door locked and John will have his shotgun.”
I ran that plan through my head. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t have a better one, under the circumstances.
“All right,” I said. I took my .38 from my belt and gave it to Mattie, who looked at it with dismay. “Take this just in case John runs out of ammunition. If you need to shoot anybody, just point it at them and keep pulling the trigger as long as it keeps shooting.”
“Good grief!” said Mattie, but she kept the revolver.
At home, Zee kissed us both. “The kids are gone and there are leftovers in the fridge. I’m out of here. Madge and I are headed for the Celebration!”
We ate and I got Zee’s .380 Beretta 84F out of the gun cabinet. It had been her pistol of choice before she’d switched to the .45 Colt. It held thirteen slugs, which, I figured, should be enough. If I missed my target thirteen times, I probably wouldn’t hit it on the fourteenth try. I put the gun in my belt and we drove back to the Skyes’ farm.
No one was there. The Skyes’ SUV was gone and there was a note from John and Mattie on the kitchen table saying they’d give us a report of their adventures when they saw us next.
As the evening turned to night, no one came into the
yard. No twigs snapped under the trees. We watched the Celebration on TV. With the sound turned down it was tolerable. We took turns going out and circumnavigating the grounds. We didn’t talk very much.
“I don’t trust Dyer,” said Brady, out of the blue. “If Duval isn’t involved with the bad business that’s been going on, then Dyer is the guy who’s left.”
“There may be someone we don’t know exists,” I said.
He nodded, but stuck to his guns. “It’s guesswork, I admit, but it’s not all guesswork. Let’s add up what we know about Dyer.”
“All right,” I said, and I ticked off the bits of information I had.
“You left something out,” interrupted Brady. “Before he joined the Followers he tried other religions and he hung out with militia members.”
“Maybe he’s a true believer and he’s finally found his belief as a Follower.”
“Could be. We also know he makes more money than most of the Simon Peters and that since he became one himself, the old Simons have dropped out and a new bunch has taken their place. Military types who carry guns at least part of the time. What does that sound like to you?”
“Like Dyer’s got a gang of trained killers and Duval, though he may not even know it, is paying its freight.”
He nodded. “Something is rotten in the state of Denmark. Spitz is afraid of terrorists, three people are dead, somebody is apparently after Janie, you and I have been coshed and locked up, Christa wants to split but is afraid to do it openly, and everywhere I look, who do I see? Frank Dyer and the Simon Peters.”
He glanced at his watch and that caused me to look at my own. The Celebration was nearing its end and it was time for us to go to the site and help Christa liberate herself from the Followers so she could go home to her dying father and start life anew.
Second Sight Page 23