The Water's Edge

by Daniel Judson

  They moved quickly. The cab was sideways on the bank of the ditch, at the start of a curve in the road. Towing it out would be a simple matter of Bechet backing up straight along the shoulder. He maneuvered the Jeep till it was lined up directly behind the cab, then climbed out and released the cable from the motorized winch mounted to his front bumper, handed the heavy metal hook at the cable’s end to Falcetti. Bechet fed the line as Falcetti reached under the back end of the cab and attached the hook to the frame. Locking the winch, Bechet then hurried to his Jeep. He looked back, saw that Falcetti was still standing by the cab’s rear. He seemed to Bechet to be preoccupied. No, more than that. Bothered.

  “Hey,” Bechet said. “You sure you’re okay?”

  Falcetti snapped out of it, looked at Bechet, nodded. “Yeah.” There was, though, still something of an absent look in his eyes. “I’m just a little shaky still, that’s all.”

  “I need you alert for this.”

  “I’m okay. Really.”

  “Get in and start her up then.”

  Bechet climbed in behind the wheel. His clothes were soaked, he was cold. All he could think about was Gabrielle’s warm bed. He waited till Falcetti was in the cab and he heard its engine start and saw its bright lights come on, then flipped his lights off and on. Falcetti returned the signal, and Bechet eased out the clutch, backing slowly till he felt the tug of the cable going taut. The cab didn’t move at first, then finally began to pull free. Bechet maintained a straight line along the shoulder till the cab was out of the ditch and on the pavement. When the red glow of the cab’s brake lights lit his smeared windshield, Bechet kicked in the clutch and shifted into neutral. He got back out into the rain and met Falcetti by the cab’s rear bumper.

  Falcetti disconnected the cable from the frame and Bechet switched on the winch till the cable was fully retracted. After that Bechet hurried around to the front of the cab to have a look at the damage.

  He checked all sides, saw nothing, not even a scratch. The engine was running smoothly, He crouched down by the front bumper. Nothing was leaking, no radiator fluid or oil. He shined the light underneath. The tire rods and shocks looked fine. The only question that remained was if the front end had been knocked out of alignment. But there would be no way of knowing that till the cab was in motion.

  Bechet stood, switched off his flashlight. Falcetti hadn’t followed him on the inspection, was in fact still standing by the rear of the cab, his hands in the pockets of his peacoat, his gaze fixed toward the curve in the road he had missed. But he wasn’t distracted this time, he was listening to something, listening intently.

  “What?” Bechet said.

  “Do you hear that?”

  “What?”

  Falcetti didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Bechet turned his head, looked in the direction Falcetti was already facing. He could hear then what it was that had stopped Falcetti in his tracks.

  Sirens.

  Faint, barely audible at first over the sound of the rain and the cab’s running engine, but clearly approaching. It took a moment for Bechet to identify the actual direction from which the sirens were coming. From the west, he decided. Southampton.

  “Cops,” Falcetti said.

  Bechet nodded, said softly, “Don’t panic.”

  “What do we do?”

  There wasn’t time to do anything. The curve ahead was one of many in this part of the road, but by the rate the sirens increased in volume, it was obvious that the cops were moving at high speeds. So, then, something bad. The first cop car appeared suddenly, passed Bechet and Falcetti in the blur, churning the wet air into a frantic swirl. The second cop car was mere seconds behind the first, added a kick to the swirl as it sped through it, whipping cold, stinging drops at Bechet and Falcetti. The two watched as the cars disappeared around the curve to the west of them.

  South Valley Road was of course only a half mile beyond that curve. Bechet in the next few seconds listened for any indication that the cops cars were slowing to make the turn. It was foolish of him to think that something could have happened to Gabrielle in the moments since he’d left her, he knew that, but all things were possible, and he was protective—of her, the life they had built out of their respective ruins.

  He walked the length of the cab, passed Falcetti, stopped beside the driver’s door of his Jeep, all the time listening. The sirens faded as the two cruisers moved farther west but remained audible for the time it would have taken them to reach South Valley Road. To Bechet’s relief the sounds continued on till they were finally lost altogether to distance and the hard rain.

  “Jesus, that was close,” Falcetti said.

  “It’s time to get going, Bobby.”

  “I wonder what’s going on.”

  Bechet said nothing. Falcetti was looking toward the western curve now. He seemed suddenly focused, as if the scare had startled him from his confusion and into a real clarity.

  “You know, I bet you Eddie can tell us,” he said.

  Falcetti hurried toward the cab then. Everything about him had changed. Bechet knew right away what was on his friend’s mind. Videotape of celebrity hijinks was potentially worth a lot of money these days, so Falcetti had begun to carry a videocamera with him, in case ever he found himself in the position to catch some famous person misbehaving. It wasn’t altogether unreasonable, Bechet supposed, to expect that videotape of a crime scene might be worth something to someone. Still, it was dangerous stuff, he thought, tailing the cops, recording them at work. Southampton police were known to be a secretive bunch. But there was no point in telling his friend that. This was a chance at free money, and Falcetti never passed up a chance at that.

  “You coming?” Falcetti said.

  Bechet shook his head.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. You know, your front end might be out of alignment.”

  “If there’s a problem with it, I’ll pull over before your road. If not, I’ll keep going. I’ve got a feeling about this, man. Something’s up.”

  Again, Bechet said nothing.

  “Thanks for the tow, man. I owe you.”

  Falcetti tugged the heavy door closed. The cab made a wide U-turn, headed west. Bechet knew that Falcetti was probably already on the dispatch radio, finding out from Eddie where the cops were going. Eddie monitored the police scanner, day and night, always had.

  Back in his Jeep, Bechet wiped his face, then shook his large hands dry, or as dry as they were going to get. He gripped the steering wheel with one hand and the gearshift with the other, made a U-turn of his own, rounding the curve and heading back toward South Valley Road. There was no sign of Falcetti, on the road ahead or parked alongside it. The front end must be fine. Either that, or Falcetti simply didn’t care.

  As he slowed for the turn onto Gabrielle’s road, Bechet heard even more sirens in the distance, out on Old North Highway, by the sound of them, though it was difficult to tell in which direction they were headed. Still, Montauk Highway and Old North Highway converged at a particular place that was of interest to Bechet. He stopped short of the side road, pulled onto the shoulder and waited a moment. He took a breath, then another. He didn’t care one way or another what was going on, it was none of his business. But if something was up, and in that part of town, then he’d probably be better off knowing about it. He’d be better off, too, keeping Falcetti—in a cab with the name of a company he co-owned in large letters on the driver’s door—out of there.

  He dug his cell phone out of his pocket, dialed Eddie’s number. A dispatch radio was mounted under his dashboard, but he didn’t want to use that; it was an open channel, and anyone, including Falcetti, could easily listen in on their conversation.

  Eddie answered on the second ring.

  “It’s me,” Bechet said. “What’s going on?”

  “In Southampton?” Though he had lived on the East End for close to forty years, Eddie’s Jamaican accent was still present, as heavy, Bechet had been told, as it had been the
day he arrived.

  “Yeah.”

  “Someone found two bodies.”

  “Where?”

  “The canal.”

  Bechet nodded, though of course Eddie couldn’t see that. He waited, then said, “An accident?” The canal was a dangerous waterway, and this was, with the heavy rain and growing fog, a dangerous night. Bechet kept all hint of hope from his voice, though. Not that he wished an accident on anyone, he simply wanted the news of two bodies being found at the canal to mean something other than the only thing it could mean.

  “Doesn’t sound like it,” Eddie said.

  Bechet nodded again. “Bobby knows about this?”

  “Yeah. He just radioed in. Where are you?”

  “At the bottom of her road.”

  “Good night to stay in.”

  “Yeah.”

  “No one’s going to be able to see a thing in an hour or so, according to the weather.”

  Bechet checked his watch. It wasn’t yet eight o’clock. He looked through the blurred windshield. The road ahead was a straightaway that ran along the edge of the bay for about a half mile. Bechet could see stray strands of fog coming in off the shallow water. He said nothing for a moment, just listened to the background static coming from his phone and the crashing of the rain on his Jeep’s fiberglass top.

  “You there?” Eddie said.

  “Yeah. Listen, I need Bobby to get out of there right now.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.”

  “Do you want me to call him?”

  A cell phone call wouldn’t be any better than radio chatter. For right now, even more caution that usual.

  “No, I’m right here,” Bechet said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I’ll see you, Eddie.”

  “Get home safe, my friend.”

  Bechet returned the cell phone to his pocket. The sirens on Old North Highway were louder now, definitely heading in the direction of the canal. Bechet waited a moment more, then steered back out onto the rain-swept road, headed toward the one part of town he did his best to avoid.

  The canal was brightly lit, as always, glowing gray-white under the low ceiling of gathering fog, sparkling in the falling rain like something brand-new. He’d seen this sight often, but there was an added element now: the frantic flashing of police lights, throbbing like a quickened pulse.

  There wouldn’t be a lot of people out and about tonight to witness who came and who went. No fishermen along the length of the canal, no pleasure boats drifting through, no diners on the deck of that restaurant on the eastern bank. Bechet could then roll in and out again without anyone knowing he had even been there. He approached the bridge, and for a second time tonight Falcetti wasn’t where Bechet had expected him to be. Bechet was certain the cab would have been parked there. The Montauk Highway bridge spanned the southern end of the canal. From it Falcetti would easily have been able to record the newly arrived police, wherever they may have gathered along the canal below.

  Bechet stopped just shy of the halfway point, switched on his emergency flashers. He looked to his right, saw through the dotted glass of his passenger door window the cop cars gathered below, on the western side of the canal. Four of them, parked at haphazard angles directly beneath the train bridge, the center of the three bridges, on the access road that ran alongside the waterway. It all looked to Bechet, at first glance, like chaos, nothing less. He checked the rearview mirror once more, then got out for a better look. He moved around the back of his Jeep, so as to not cross the headlights, and stood at the metal railing. He saw now the cops, in bright orange slickers, standing along the canal’s western edge. They stood together, all in a row, looking upward and aiming their flashlights, the beams visible in the sodden air, at the underbelly of the bridge.

  Bechet followed the lights to their destination, saw what it was these cops were staring at.

  “Christ,” he muttered.

  He’d seen horrible things in his life, terrible things, some up close, too close, but he still wasn’t prepared for this, not by a long shot. He stared at the two bodies hanging side by side at the end of ten or so feet of rope, twisting slowly in the wind, their arms stiff at their sides. Dead. The whole thing looked surreal, like some bad dream being acted out. He could see no details, the bridge wasn’t close enough for that, and the lights from the cops’ flashlights came up from below and behind, making silhouettes out of the two bodies. Still, this was enough. More than enough. Bechet checked his surroundings, quickly but carefully, saw everything there was but nothing he didn’t want to see, then hurried back inside his Jeep. He was reaching for the gearshift when his cell phone rang.

  The number on the display was Falcetti’s number. Bechet pressed the TALK button, spoke as he drove. A concrete divider separated the east and westbound lanes of the bridge. He couldn’t make a U-turn till he had crossed over to the Hampton Bay side.

  “Where are you?” Bechet said.

  “I saw you on the bridge.”

  “Where are you, Bobby?”

  “I’ll tell you, someone’s going to pay big money for this footage.”

  “You’ve got to listen to me, Bobby. Wherever you are, you need to get out of there, right now.”

  “It’s cool, man. There’s no business tonight anyway—”

  “Where are you?”

  “The cops can’t see me, if that’s what you’re worried about—”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at Tide Runner’s.”

  The restaurant on the eastern edge of the canal, Bechet thought, the one with the outer deck. He made a U-turn, headed back across the bridge. He didn’t want to go there if he didn’t have to. He had risked enough already.

  “Get out of there, Bobby. Now.”

  “It’s okay. I’m here with the owner. He’s a buddy of mine. He saw the whole freaking thing. Can you believe that—”

  Bechet snapped the phone shut, tossed it onto the passenger seat. There was no point in arguing. Falcetti was a pain in the ass, but he was also a friend. Bechet didn’t have too many of those. Friends were a luxury he couldn’t quite afford these past few years. But that was the way it had to be.

  Once he was clear of the bridge, Bechet made the left-hand turn onto North Road, spotted the cab right away next to a pickup in the restaurant’s dark lot, steered through the mud toward it.

  His Jeep was leaving tire tracks alongside the cab’s tire tracks, but there was nothing he could do about that.

  The front door was ajar. Bechet stepped through it and into a dimly lit restaurant, saw Falcetti across a large, empty dining room, standing by a row of ceiling-to-floor windows that overlooked the narrow outside deck. Beyond the deck was the canal. The only light source, Bechet noted, aside from the canal lights outside, was a row of long fluorescent bulbs mounted above the sinks beneath the long bar to his right. These bulbs gave this part of the room, farthest from the windows, the dull, almost pale glow of the last moments of dusk.

  Not far from Falcetti stood another man. Falcetti’s buddy, the owner, Bechet assumed. This other man didn’t hear Bechet at first, was on his cell phone, talking, his back toward the door. He turned, though, when Bechet had moved close enough for his footsteps to be heard. The man looked at Bechet for a moment, uncertainly, but Bechet was used to that. Then the man glanced at Falcetti before turning away to continue talking. By the content of the side of the conversation Bechet could hear, it was clear the owner—thirty, tops, longish dark hair and a slight frame, dirty jeans—was talking to a girlfriend or wife. He kept repeating that he was okay, that he had to wait for a detective to come talk to him before he could leave.

  Bechet reached the center of the empty dining room, remained there for a moment to take a look around. The place was obviously being renovated—stacks of tables and chairs lined the wall to his left, cans of paint on top of a spread-out paint-spattered canvas,
a stepladder and carpenter’s box not far from that.

  Falcetti was standing at the window nearest to the right-hand corner of the room. It was the window that would offer him the best view of the foot of the train bridge. He was holding the camera up, level with his face, watching the small video screen. It had his full attention. Bechet doubted Falcetti had even heard him enter. After a moment, Bechet walked to Falcetti, the floor planks creaking beneath his weight. Falcetti didn’t even hear this—or, if he did heard the noise, he didn’t pay any attention to it. Bechet stepped to Falcetti’s side, kept a few feet between them. The last thing he wanted was to be seen on that videotape.

  “Turn off the camera, Bobby,” he said. He spoke softly, calmly, tried to keep his voice as neutral-sounding as possible. The voice of any man. He didn’t want to be heard on that tape, either. Still, calm and neutral, he made his seriousness clear. “Turn off the camera,” he said again.

  Falcetti was too caught up in what he was seeing to respond. Bechet waited a moment, giving Falcetti a chance, but when that moment was up, Bechet moved, crossing the distance between them with two quick, determined strides. There was no point in courtesy now. He yanked the camera from Falcetti’s hands, searched for the power button as he took a step back, found it and switched the camera off. Falcetti, startled, turned and faced Bechet. For a moment it looked as if he was going to reach out and grab the camera back. But he caught himself, stayed where he was with his empty hands hanging at his sides.

  “What the hell, man,” he said.

  Bechet moved away from the large window, gestured toward the owner. Still on the phone, the owner had stopped talking when things had suddenly grown heated.

  “What’s your name?” Bechet said.

  The owner said into the phone, “I have to call you back. No, I’m fine, I just have to call you back. I will, I promise.” He closed the phone, glanced at Falcetti, then back at Bechet. “I’m Dennis,” he said.