Vineyard Blues

by Philip R. Craig

  “It’s just that there might be trouble, and if there is, I’d prefer you weren’t in it.”

  “And I’d prefer you weren’t in it, but that won’t stop you.” She leaned on the door frame, lean and lithe. “We can take a couple of flashlights and a couple of pistols, too, if you think we might need them. Susanna’s my friend, and I don’t like this happening to her.”

  She pleased me. I said, “I have the impression that I’d have to tie you to the bed to keep you from going with me.”

  “Mr. Black’s the guy who seems to want to tie somebody up. I don’t think you’re the type.”

  It was something of a surprise to me that there was actually no one I’d rather have with me than Zee, in spite of the possibility of danger. “We’d better find us a baby-sitter, then,” I said. “We want to get up there early, before Mr. Black does. He knows the territory, apparently, and we don’t, so we’ll need to scout the area and hunker down out of sight before he shows up.” I felt the corner of my mouth turn up. “I love you.”

  “And I love you,” she said, reaching for the phone.

  “Whatcha doing, Pa?” asked Joshua, as I gathered sandwich makings on the kitchen table. His sister stood beside him, a teddy bear under her arm.

  “Making supper for your mom and me.”

  “Are we going on a picnic, Pa?” Both Diana the Huntress and Joshua were fond of picnics. Of course Diana, especially, was fond of food at all times in all forms.

  “No, Joshua,” I said. “Just your mom and I are going to have the picnic. A twin is going to come and stay with you and your sister and fix your supper.”

  A twin was at least as good as a picnic. “Which one, Pa? Which one is coming?”

  An unfair question, since I can’t tell the twins apart.

  “Your mom is making the arrangements,” I said, avoiding another revelation of paternal ignorance.

  “Can I help make the sandwiches?”

  Why not? “You can spread the mayonnaise,” I said.

  So Josh and Diana climbed up and smeared bread slices, themselves, and the tabletop with mayonnaise. When they were through, I put ham and cheese, sprouts, pesto, and lettuce between the bread slices. Sandwiches deluxe.

  I got our little collapsible cooler and put the sandwiches, some half-sour pickles, some chips, and a couple of bottles of Sam Adams inside it. Then I filled a thermos with ice cubes and water, and we were provisioned for the night.

  Zee came back from the phone. “Jill is going up to sit for Susanna, and Jen is coming here in an hour. I got Marcia Simpson to take my shift at work. Joshua and Diana, your faces are a mess. Come on. We’re going to wash off that mayo so you don’t disgrace the family when Jen comes.”

  The three of them headed for the bathroom, and while I collected a five-cell flashlight for me and a smaller plastic model for Zee, and put some bug lotion in my pocket, I thought about the contents of the gun cabinet.

  Manny Fonseca, who loved guns beyond all things but his family, when asked why he toted one on peaceful Martha’s Vineyard, inevitably replied, “It’s better to have one and not need it than need one and not have it.” It was a view I rarely shared, but tonight struck me as an exception, so I got out my old police .38, loaded it up and put it in its holster, and put both in a canvas backpack with the flashlights.

  Soon Zee and her shiny-faced kidlings reappeared and I told her what was in the backpack.

  A frown appeared on her face. “Guns are dangerous.”

  “Yes. I doubt if I’ll need it, but . . .” I shrugged.

  Zee had two pistols: the Beretta .380, which she had started with but didn’t use much anymore, and the customized .45, which she now used in shooting competitions. Being a talented shootist who didn’t approve of guns, she occasionally teetered on the rim of paradox and indecision.

  “I wish I knew who was going to be up there.”

  I was no help. “Me, too,” I said.

  “I can’t really imagine needing one.”

  “You’re probably right. Probably all we’ll need is the flashlights. Once we ID this guy, he’ll know it’s all over for him, and he’ll leave Susanna alone because he won’t want his name known.”

  Zee nodded. “I wouldn’t want mine known.”

  I said nothing.

  “I’m going to take the three-eighty,” said Zee, giving me an almost-but-not-quite-apologetic look.

  “Fine. You know what Manny always says.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Two hours later we were in West Tisbury, hiking up a narrow, sandy driveway. The Land Cruiser was parked a half mile back, just off Lambert’s Cove Road, where Mr. Black was not apt to see it. The driveway wound through trees that almost touched overhead, toward the top of a hill that promised a nice view of Vineyard Sound. The promise was fulfilled when we came to the house and barn. They stood in a small meadow surrounded by forest that fell away on every side and gave an especially fine view of the Elizabeth Islands.

  We stood in the trees for some time, looking for signs of life. There were none. We walked out across the meadow and I knocked at the door of the large white farmhouse. No one responded. We knocked on the back door. Nothing. We went to the barn. A door was open, and we went in. No one was there, but there were well-maintained machines in storage: a small tractor with plows, harrows, and a wagon that went with it; a riding mower; a handsomely maintained De Soto sedan supported by blocks, the object of some collector’s eye.

  “He told her to come to the front of the house,” I said. “I don’t know where he’ll be waiting, but I want to be close to her, so we should probably be in the house.”

  “But it’s locked.”

  I revealed my picks.

  “Oh,” said Zee. “But isn’t it illegal to pick locks?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  She raised a brow. “Oh, well.”

  We went in through the rear door of the house and locked it again behind us, and then went to the front of the house. We had a good view from the living room windows on either side of the front door.

  “We can wait for him here,” said Zee. “When he comes to meet her, we can just step out and confront him.”

  “We can if he comes from somewhere else, but I think he’ll come from in here.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because there are beds in here and not out there. I think he’ll be inside when she comes and that he’ll want her inside, too.”

  Zee thought, then nodded. “Take off your backpack.” I did, and she got out her flashlight and the Beretta and tucked them into her pockets. “He must have a key,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’d he get it?”

  “Maybe he’s the guy who owns this place.”

  “Would he have her come here? Would he do this in his own place?”

  I thought of the serial killers who used their own homes as cemeteries for their victims. “I wouldn’t,” I said, “but people do strange things.”

  She looked around. “We’d better find a place to hide out.”

  We went through the house. It was filled with antiques mixed with simple, functional furniture. Whoever owned it had good taste, I thought. Also money.

  “I think the pantry is a good place,” said Zee. “We can hunker down behind the counter out of sight until he gets in, then catch him before he can get out. I’m starving. Let’s eat.”

  All armies, even very small ones like ours, travel on their bellies. So we went out behind the house and ate our food and drank our beer, so there’d be no food smells in the house to rouse Mr. Black’s curiosity when he got there.

  If he got there. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d be lying in ambush along the driveway to catch Oriona, and any friends she might have, unawares. I didn’t mention such imaginings to Zee as we sat uncomfortably on the pantry floor and watched the darkness gather.

  I was glad I didn’t when, just after nine o’clock, a key turned in the back door of the house, and someone came
in.

  — 28 —

  I heard Zee inhale and felt the touch of her hand on my arm. Footsteps moved from the back door, through the kitchen, and past the pantry, following a light we glimpsed beneath the pantry door, toward the living room in the front of the house. Zee started to get up, but I touched her shoulder and whispered in her ear.

  “We’ll wait and see if he gets any reinforcements.”

  We sat. No one else came in. We sat some more and listened while the person I presumed was Mr. Black moved confidently through the house. Apparently he knew his way around and just wanted to be sure everything was as it should be. Twice more we saw light under the pantry door as he and his flashlight went through the kitchen. Then footsteps and the light came toward the pantry, and we squidged back as close as we could against the wall on the far side of the counter. I found the switch on my five-cell in case he spotted us. The door opened and his light flashed in and around. But it was only a cursory look, and then the door was shut and the light and footsteps moved away.

  I pressed a button on my wristwatch and the face lighted. Nine-thirty. I released the button and the watch went dark. I liked my watch. It had cost me nine dollars and was shockproof, water resistant, multipurposed, and affordable if I lost it. You should never pay more than nine dollars for a watch.

  My rump was not too well padded and was getting sore. On the bright side, I was now pretty sure that Mr. Black was alone. I got slowly to my feet and flexed a few joints. I sensed Zee flow up beside me. The pantry was darker than the inside of a black cat. I flicked my flashlight on and off and located both the door and Zee’s ear. I bent and whispered again.

  “He’ll be listening when she comes up the driveway so he can hear if she stops along the way to maybe let somebody out. If he hears her do that, he’ll be ready to scoot out the back door. She won’t do that, of course, but will drive right up to the front of the house. He’ll be inside, watching. When she opens the car door, he’ll be able to see that she’s alone. She’ll stand there, waiting. Then he’ll have to decide whether to go through with his plan or to skip out the back door.

  “I want you back in the kitchen in case he decides to run. You put your light in his eyes and yell ‘Police!’ That should stop him. If it doesn’t, delay him if you can do it without getting hurt. Don’t use the gun unless he comes at you with one of his own or a knife. If he does that, shoot him. Otherwise, let him go.”

  “All right.” Good old Zee. No arguments when the chips were down.

  “I figure he’ll open the front door and have her come in,” I said. “When she gets inside and the door is shut again, I’ll put my light in his face and tell him the jig is up and get between him and the door. When you hear my voice, turn on your light and come to the living room making a lot of noise so he’ll think there are several of you. Between us, we should nail him cold.”

  “All right. Be careful.”

  It was very good advice, but guaranteed nothing. Many a person has been killed while being careful.

  I leaned down and gave my wife a kiss. Then I led her to the door of the pantry and slowly opened it.

  Faint sounds came from the living room, where Mr. Black was apparently taking his stand. Stars and a half-moon cast light through the windows. Zee moved like a shadow toward the back door and disappeared. I turned toward the living room and tried to walk like a cat. Mr. Black would be nervous and any odd sound might spook him. I didn’t make any odd sound, although I could hear the beat of my own heart. I eased up to the door of the living room and peered around the frame.

  The window-light faintly illuminated the room, but for a moment I couldn’t see Mr. Black. Then, a deeper darkness in the lesser darkness of the room, I saw him beside a window, looking out, motionless as an ebony statue.

  Why was he so dark? Why so black? Then I remembered the picture Susanna had showed me of Oriona in distress. The figure distressing her had been a man in a black mask and hood, wearing a black cloak over a black shirt and tights. Mr. Black was dressed for the role of the distresser, and as such was apparently planning to again abuse the hapless Oriona.

  Life imitating art, such as it was. It has long been noted that many criminals are childish in spite of their grown-up bodies. Although they age physically and even intellectually, they somehow remain eternal adolescents in their emotions and morality. Their sexual fantasies are those of pubescent teenagers who are driven by forces that are mysterious, threatening, thrilling, and irresistible. I didn’t think that there was any cure for it, in spite of the claims of some psychologists.

  The figure in the window moved, and I heard the faint sound of an automobile engine climbing up the driveway. Then, looking through that same window, I saw headlights through the trees. Then a car came across the meadow and stopped in front of the house.

  The driver’s door opened and a woman got out and stood in the pale glow cast by the dome light. She was wearing an outfit that belonged to Peter Pan. She held the door open for several seconds, then closed it and stood in the star- and moonlight.

  Mr. Black stood looking at her for a while, then suddenly moved to the door and opened it. He flashed his light into her eyes, and I saw that she was wearing a mask and was dressed in green. Oriona garb, more or less. She put up her hand to shield her eyes.

  He spoke. “Come here.” It was a rough but somehow artificial voice. She hesitated, then came up onto the porch. He backed away and she came into the room.

  “Sit there.” His flashlight flicked to a stout wooden chair he’d brought from somewhere. She walked in the circle of light to the chair. He crossed around her and shut the door. Then he pulled the blinds and the room was lit only by his flashlight.

  “Put your hands behind you and your knees together.”

  She was very trusting of me. She put her hands behind her and her knees together, and sat there as if bound by invisible ropes. Mr. Black’s light lingered on her, and I thought I could hear him take in deep breaths. Then he walked behind the chair and put his hands on her shoulders. She shuddered. I thought that was enough.

  I aimed my flashlight at his eyes and flicked it on. “Keep your hands in sight and don’t move!” I said in as authoritative a voice as I could muster. “And don’t try to run. The house is surrounded.”

  He froze, like a deer in the headlights of a car, his eyes wide behind the black mask he wore, his mouth agape. Behind me footsteps came running and a dancing light came into the room.

  Mr. Black made a small sound, and Susanna flew out of the chair and across to me.

  “Turn on the house lights,” I said to Zee, “and let’s see who we have here.”

  The room blossomed with light. Mr. Black’s eyes went from me to Zee to Susanna and then to the door.

  “Don’t even think of it,” I said, pulling up my T-shirt and revealing the holster clipped to my belt. “Sit down in that chair, and keep your hands in sight.”

  “Oh my,” said Mr. Black. He sat down.

  “Take off that mask and hood and let us have a look at you,” I said.

  He bowed his head, then slowly put up his hands and removed the black mask and hood.

  Like Lawrence looking at the golden snake drinking at his watering trough, we stared with fascination.

  Susanna was the first to speak.

  “Warren! What are you doing in that costume? What’s going on here?”

  Warren Quick spread his arms, his face wide-eyed and miserable. “I don’t know what to say. I wasn’t going to do anything. I just wanted . . . want—” He shot to his feet, tore off his black cloak and spun around in a circle. “Look, honey! I don’t have any ropes or handcuffs or anything. I wasn’t really going to tie you up or . . . I just wanted to . . . to see you, to see Oriona. I . . .”

  Susanna seemed more curious than upset. “You’re the one who’s been making all those phone calls! Why?”

  Warren Quick’s voice rushed out of his mouth. “I wanted to, you know, to have you . . . I mean, to have you dr
essed up like her, Oriona, like you did before I met you. I saw you by accident on the Internet, and I knew it was you. I recognized your eyes even though you were wearing that mask she wears. It was exciting! I knew it was all pretend, but I wanted to pretend, too!” He pressed the sides of his head with his hands, as words failed him.

  “Why, Warren,” said his wife in a voice full of pity and affection as she went to him, “if I’d known you wanted to play Oriona and Man in Black, you should have just told me. I’ll be glad to do it.” She put her arms around him.

  “I know it’s a sin,” said Warren, “but I can’t help it. I saw you in that costume and I had to have you.”

  “You’re my husband,” said Susanna, “and I’m your wife. It’s not a sin for us to love each other any way we want.”

  “You don’t think I’m crazy? I went to the library in Edgartown and tried to find out what was wrong with me, but I couldn’t.”

  “You’re not crazy,” said Susanna. “We can try it out and see if we like it. If we do, that’ll be fine; if we don’t, we won’t do it anymore.”

  “Oh, Susanna.” He put his arms around her.

  I looked at Zee and she looked at me. She beckoned me into the kitchen.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “I was afraid for a minute he was going to burst into song.”

  “Not that,” she said. “I mean, what do you think about him and her? Should we get out of here and leave them alone?”

  “I think that’s up to Susanna.”

  We went back into the living room. The Quicks were still wrapped in each other’s arms.

  “Excuse us,” said Zee. “Susanna, we’re thinking of going home. How does that notion strike you?”

  Susanna didn’t let go of Warren. “That’ll be fine. Thanks for everything. I’ll talk with you later.”

  Warren looked at us with his teary eyes and said something I couldn’t understand. Maybe it was another thankyou.

  Zee and I collected our backpack and cooler, and walked out into the night, leaving Oriona and the Man in Black alone.

  The beams from our flashlights danced in front of us as we walked down the dark, sandy driveway.