Under Water

by Casey Barrett

  I refrained from pointing out the irony.

  “So you brought in Fred to do some digging, help you keep watch.”

  “He’s a good man. As fearless as any human being you’ll ever meet. He knows how to hunt things down . . . and to kill, when necessary.”

  “Coach, you switched from they to he—who are you referring to?”

  “What are you talking about? When?”

  “A second ago, you were saying how they were sending a message. Then, you said how he knows not to mess with you. Who’s the spineless bastard? Who do you suspect is behind this? Who’s working for these girls, who knows enough about your past?”

  Through the dim light of the study, I could see the soldier that he had once been. It was the look of a man willing and able to kill. A look that said he had killed before and did it without hesitation or remorse. There were some situations when that was what was required. His blackmailers had picked a dangerous target.

  “You remember John Kosta,” he said. “My former assistant.”

  “Of course. The Greek. We talked about him—I asked you why he left.”

  “Yes, I remember. And I told you the truth. Kosta wanted my job; he was tired of being called an assistant, thought he deserved more credit. The usual power struggle. He left on bad terms.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Little over a year.”

  “And you think he resurfaced, bent on revenge, after talking to those girls from your past?”

  “He is certainly the most likely enemy,” he said.

  “Have you tried to reach out to him?”

  “I did. Sent him an email early on, when this first started, tried to feel him out. Told him I’d like to make amends for the way things ended. Asked if he’d meet me for coffee. He declined.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I followed him. He lives out in Brooklyn, Fort Greene, works as a photographer now. Shoots weddings, family portraits, and such. Pathetic. Got married late, to a short, fat girl. Young kid.” He got up and returned to the bar and brought back the decanter. He topped mine off and filled his glass, long past the need for ice. “I let myself into his apartment one day last spring, had a look around. Didn’t find anything, but that doesn’t prove anything.” He took a drink, settled back down. “I’ve had Fred following him, waiting for the prick to slip up.”

  “You could go to the police, you know. With tapes of the calls, copies of the emails, the wire transfers. Proof of the blackmail. They might help.”

  He looked at me like we’d just met, and he’d decided this stranger was a fool upon shaking. “And turn myself in? Hell, Duck, I know you’re smarter than that.”

  “On second thought . . .”

  He laughed at that. Then he pushed himself up and took two unsteady strides toward me. He stood hovering over me and placed his hand on my shoulder. I looked up and met his watery eyes through the dim light. They were out of focus, and he swayed lightly before me on sea legs.

  “Listen. What do you say about coming to work for me? I could really use your help on this. You and Fred could work together and get this fucker. What do you say?”

  I considered the offer. Drank my drink. Looked at his hand on my shoulder until he removed it. “One job at a time,” I said.

  “I can respect that,” he said without respect.

  “There would also be the matter of my fee.”

  He looked around the room with a smug air of possession. The look said he wasn’t quite out of money after all. “I’m sure something can be arranged,” he said.

  “Speaking of which, when we spoke on the phone, you mentioned that there were no secrets between you and Margaret. Can I assume that wasn’t entirely true?”

  Marks looked down at me with those steely SEAL eyes. The watery drunkenness seemed to pass. He was suddenly sober, and determined to regain control. “I appreciated your discretion at dinner, when I gave you a bit of a challenge. And I would appreciate your continued discretion now. It would be wise. For all involved.”

  Chapter 21

  It was late morning when I woke in the guesthouse feeling worse than the day before. I thought of Madeline’s arrested bedroom, like the preserved space of a dead child. The girl was somewhere out there in a bad way. A murderer, maybe. Or perhaps she was next, as soon as yours truly flushed her out. Did Marks’s blackmailers have her? Was this his final warning—pay up or we kill her? The man had painted quite a picture of ancient sins he couldn’t quite bury. Or maybe they weren’t so ancient. I remembered the rehearsed sound of his denials about Madeline. His version of the “God’s honest truth” was filled with plenty of holy holes, I was sure of that.

  I looked around the room. Walls of light amber wainscoting; an oil painting of a seascape above the dresser; high standing mirror framed in rustic wood in one corner; my bed, cradled in a distressed wrought-iron frame. Through lace curtains, a cool fall breeze blew through a cracked window. Outside it was a gray and dreary day, the clouds low in the sky, considerations of rain.

  I climbed from bed, pulled the lace aside, and stood looking out for a time, my thoughts a disconnected mess. Across the lawn, a layer of steam hovered over the McKays’ heated pool. I pictured Charlie knifing into the still waters and swimming through the mist.

  Then I went over to the mirror and looked at myself with rare honesty. It was a grim sight. I was a big puffy-faced disaster with swollen whiskey cheeks and hollow eyes, on top of an overgrown body that had seen better days. I looked like one of those before shots in ads for the latest fitness regimen. I sucked in my stomach, stuck out my chest, and tried to flex. It wasn’t much, but it was an improvement. A tan and a week or two on the MX 5000 workout videos, and I’d be ready for my after shot. I told myself it was time to shape up and start flying right, the way I always did on mornings such as these. I got down on the ground and cranked out twenty pushups on the hardwood floor. Then I went and felt sorry for myself in the shower, before slipping back into my clothes and going off in search of coffee.

  I found Margaret alone in the kitchen setting flowers on the windowsill above the sink. She was wearing a blue knit dress with a cream cardigan around her shoulders. She turned her head and nodded toward a French press half filled with dark coffee. I gave silent thanks, found a mug, and filled it black. It was lukewarm, had been sitting out for some time. I drank it down fast.

  “Sleep well?” she asked.

  “I did.” I refilled my cup with the dregs from the press. “I had a good talk with Teddy last night,” I said.

  “So I heard.”

  Doubt you heard the half of it. I thought about coming out with all of it, vomiting up every last dirty detail until Margaret stood before me a shattered, shell-shocked woman. Maybe I would once I found her daughter, but to disclose any of that now would be beyond my capacity for cruelty.

  “Is he here?” I asked.

  “Teddy left at dawn. He said he needed to get back to the city for practice. He intended to stay the weekend, but any more than twenty-four hours away from the pool deck and the man starts to get restless.” Her expression was resigned, the look of a woman used to her man putting work first. “He asked me to thank you . . . for hearing him out last night. I have to say, he came to bed in better spirits than I’ve seen in a long time.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Just call me Father Darley, ready to hear your deep, dark confessions. Go say a thousand Hail Marys, and your soul will be freed, yes indeed.

  She motioned to a breakfast nook that looked out over green hills. The contours of the Catskills rolled across the horizon. It started to rain, a sad, silent drizzle that seemed to leak from the low clouds. “Could we sit?” she asked. She slid into a floral patterned banquette and regarded me with eyes that were aging faster than the rest of her. I took the chair across from her.

  “I know about Teddy’s past, with those girls, when he was just starting out.” She said it like it was a simple matter they’d disposed of long ago. She noticed the
look on my face. “You didn’t think I knew, did you?”

  I shook my head.

  “I understand how this has become a very serious issue, in today’s current . . . climate. There are coaches out there who have no business around these young athletes. But I am also able to distinguish between the regrettable behavior of a mature young woman and an immature young man, and, well, the evil behavior of men who prey on children.

  “Teddy has always beaten himself up about these ‘old indiscretions,’ as he refers to them. He knows how dangerous relationships can begin, without either party knowing what they’re getting into. I think that’s why he was always so protective of Madeline, always so forgiving. You know how he can be with his swimmers. He has little patience for those unable to show the commitment he demands. But with Madeline, there have always been endless second chances. He’s as worried about her as I am.”

  “She’s also Charlie’s sister. That has to count for a lot.”

  “Of course it does. Teddy has been a surrogate father to both of my children for some time now.” She touched her neck and fingered a thin gold chain hanging down over her dress. “I suppose it was inevitable that we would be together. A man that is good to your children can become very attractive.”

  “Did he mention anything else that we talked about last night?”

  “He said he told you about that stuff, that history, and that you discussed your progress last week. Lawrence, I want you to know, I do appreciate your efforts—and the violence you’ve encountered. Perhaps I was unfair to you, the morning after James Fealy’s murder. I know it wasn’t your fault we ended up in the tabloids.”

  “It’s an overwhelming time,” I told her. “So, is that all? I mean, that’s all Teddy told you about our talk?”

  “What else would he have mentioned?”

  Maybe that your son is convinced that the man is also sleeping with your daughter . . . Or maybe that he’s being blackmailed for those “old indiscretions”? The ones you don’t seem to care much about.

  “Nothing in particular,” I said. “We talked about Charlie too.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “He’s worried about him. He thinks he’s almost too good at being able to focus under stress. To the point of repression.”

  She nodded vigorously. Somehow that spontaneous load of shit had hit the mark. “He’s right, of course. It can be so effective—in sports, and now, in business. But it’s not healthy, is it?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I don’t know where it comes from. His father, I suppose. Steven was very skilled with that same compartmentalized focus. The building next door could be on fire, but if Steven was zoned in on work, he wouldn’t even smell the smoke. He was very proud of that. He taught his son to be the same way. Or, in any case, he passed down the genes that gave Charlie the same ability. But sometimes I wonder . . .”

  “If it’s too cold-blooded?”

  She bristled at the implication. She could find fault with her son, but that didn’t mean outsiders were allowed to do the same. “No,” she said. “It’s not cold-blooded. That would imply he lacks empathy for those around him. That’s not it at all. It’s that he’s been conditioned to think that extreme focus is a virtue. It makes him more of a man or something, to be able to rise above any external chaos and perform whatever task is at hand. Teddy is right, though—it’s a form of repression. A little worry and despair would be good for him once in a while.”

  “I’m sure he’s just as worried about Madeline as you are. He just expresses it differently.”

  “Expressed by going to work and earning millions of dollars?” She allowed a smile despite herself. “If only we could all cope so well.”

  “If only.”

  “When did you last see your father, Lawrence?”

  I wasn’t prepared for the hard right. A chill went up my spine.

  “Been years,” I said with a forced casualness.

  “Despite everything that happened, you really should go see him. When he’s gone, you’ll wish you had.”

  “He’s already been gone a long time.”

  She looked at me with something that must have been sympathy. She cupped her coffee mug in both hands and sat a little closer with her shoulders rolled forward. Despite the surgeries, she suddenly looked like a wistful grandmother. “I remember him at swim meets, when you and Charlie were boys,” she said. “He would always insist on being a timer in lane number four—so he could be behind the blocks in his son’s lane. He was such a presence back then. You both were.”

  “And then we weren’t.”

  “That was a terrible time, just terrible. How is your mother these days?”

  “Dead,” I said. “Died my senior year of high school.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t . . .”

  “How would you? We weren’t rich anymore.”

  She frowned into her mug and got up from the table. The grandma’s air vanished as I watched her walk to the sink. Her hips swayed like a woman half her age.

  “I should probably be getting back to the city myself,” I said.

  “Very well.”

  “Were you able to speak with Charlie this morning? I assume he won’t be making the trip to Rhinebeck.”

  “I did, yes. And no, he’s unable to get out of the city. However, he said that he’d like to speak with you when you get back to town. He asked that you stop by the house later. Have you been there?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “It’s something else. Wait till you see,” she said. “He’s very proud of it. He just bought it last spring. Thirteen Leroy Street in the Village.”

  “I’ll look forward to talking to him . . . and seeing the place.” The house, not the apartment. In the West Village. Do the math. Start at eight figures.

  At the door, Margaret gave me a lingering hug and a kiss just off the lips. The corners of our mouths touched, and I tasted a hint of what she must taste like to Marks: rich moisturizer and subtle fragrance and something else, something full of need beneath the carefully crafted shell. She placed a hand on my chest and looked me in the eye. “I look forward to the good news, when you find Madeline,” she said. “Do keep me posted.”

  I said I would and looked away and walked down the front steps.

  She had closed the front door before I started the Benz and guided it back toward the city.

  Chapter 22

  The steady drizzle turned to a driving rain with sheets splashing sideways against the windshield. The wipers panicked to keep up like a squeegee man at a changing light. Despite the poor visibility the Benz took the turns with low, casual confidence. I guided it down the backcountry roads until it found the Taconic. Google Maps had advised me it would be a faster route back. It was a fine scenic highway in blue skies; a narrow, shoulderless death stretch in night and bad weather. NPR was playing a weekend blues marathon. I turned up Muddy Waters, “Born Under a Bad Sign.” The radio gods were mocking me.

  Marks had provided his lover with the plea-bargained version of his sins. Admitting to old, previously confessed crimes, leaving out the more troubling present . . . I admired his ability to walk that line. He knew that I’d go right along with it, following his lead for the sake of Madeline’s worried mother. There was a reckoning coming between him and Charlie. I knew he hadn’t sped back to the city to return for swim practice; he was going back to confront his former champion.

  I tried to picture Charlie’s place. Would it be your classic West Village brownstone with the perfect redbrick façade, the original crown molding in the high-ceilinged parlor, with marble fireplaces in every room? Or would it be your modern gut job? Say a former carriage house, now converted to a minimalist masterpiece of floating stairs and design piece furniture? Based on the McKay country house, my money was on the former. It would be a restored gem, the former home of some turn-of-the-century tycoon. It would fit Charlie’s image of himself.

  A few miles onto the Taconic, I realized I was being f
ollowed. An old Jeep Wagoneer was tailing me two cars back, one lane over, huffing and puffing to keep up. Mid seventies model from the look of it, with the wood paneling and the big, boxy frame; the body was cream colored and maintained with care. The same car had been in my rainy rearview on the road from the McKays’. The Benz is a stylish, rugged machine, good for many things, but losing a tail is not one of them. It has little pickup left in its vegetable oil–fed engine, and it’s hardly inconspicuous. It sticks out in a crowd. So does a vintage Wagoneer. We were stuck with each other, so I figured I’d have a little fun.

  At the next sign for an exit, I put on my blinker a mile early and slowed to thirty miles an hour. It earned me some nasty looks from the on-rushing traffic, but the Wagoneer wasn’t quite sure what to do. It slowed too, until there was no use hiding. When he was right up on my bumper, I looked in the rearview and got a good look at my friend. An older man, thinning white hair, white beard, looked nervous, less than professional. I stuck my arm out the window, gave him a wave. He didn’t wave back.

  Then, right at the exit, I turned off the blinker and floored it. The Benz gave a grumbling roar of objection. It did what it could. I burned a few gallons of vegetable oil trying to get it back up to seventy. He labored to keep up, a couple of old folks playing tag, as we continued together on our merry way toward the city. Signs for the next exit appeared seventeen miles later. I repeated the process. His expression in the mirror wasn’t amused. He looked like a scolding grandfather who couldn’t wait to give the young folk a piece of his mind. I could tell he was bracing himself for another juvenile maneuver, but I was already bored with the game. I veered off the exit, and he followed. I found a Stewart’s station a half mile up the road and parked in the back. He pulled up alongside me and we got out.