First Light (25 page)

No Brady. No Nate.

In the dim predawn light I walked through the drizzle toward Fairchild Point, and as I did I finally saw another figure on the beach. I went toward it, and it came toward me.

“Brady? Is that you?”

“No, it's me, you son of a bitch. Get your ass off of my beach.”

Nate Fairchild was full of brimstone and the ethical certainty of all fanatics. He came up to me, tall, wide, and vitriolic. “Get off of my beach, Jackson, or by God I'll feed you to the fish!” He raised an arm and pointed a thick finger back up the road.

I felt a wild joy. “Your mother's not dead yet, Nate,” I said, “so this beach isn't yours. Make your casts where you want, but don't tell me where to make mine, and you better not cross my line.”

“Bastard!” He stepped closer. In the dim light I could see a devil's smile on his lips, and wondered if I had one on my own. Nate had lost no fights that I knew of and clearly didn't expect to lose this one. He was big and he was strong, but I didn't care.

“I'm looking for Brady Coyne,” I said. “Have you seen him?”

“I ain't seen Brady Coyne,” said Nate, “but I see you. You been stealing my fish for many a year but you won't do it no more, by God!” And so saying, he threw his rod aside and came at me.

Waders are cumbersome, which probably explains why boxers don't wear them in the ring. I was not the only one wearing them. Nate was also wearing his, which slowed him and allowed me to fade beyond the reach of his first big-fisted swing.

“You've got your reel full of sand, Nate,” I said.

“Fuck my reel,” he growled, plowing on toward me. His huge hands made huge fists, and those lumpy fists had beaten more than one man into the ground. He swung again, and again I faded beyond his reach. I felt lupine and sure.

He came on, slogging through the sand, fists swinging, strong as an ox. I put a hand to my belt, and when he swung again I tossed my rod away and stepped inside his blow. His arms surrounded me and tried to crush me. I brought the point of my fish knife up to the back of his neck, and his arms hesitated.

“You fight because you love it,” I said into his ear, “but I hate it, so if I have to fight, I fight to win any way I can.” I pricked his skin with the knife. “Get your hands off me.”

“A knife. You cowardly bastard!”

“You slashed the wrong man's tires,” I said.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Drop your arms, Nate.” I cut him deeper and felt something warm flow over my fingers.

He dropped his thick arms to his sides. Our eyes were level. I lifted my free hand and took off my official
Derby cap, which was adorned with my official Derby button. “Look at my face, Nate. What do you see?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you see?” I pricked his neck again.

“Ow! What do you mean, goddammit?”

“Do I look any different to you?”

“No, you look the same. What the hell are you getting at?”

“I'm the same person I've always been,” I said, “but you never knew what you were looking at. Now I'm going to take this knife away, and when I do I want you to take three steps back. I don't want any argument.” I brought my arm back and stepped away. Nate looked down at the knife. It was pointed at his belly. He took three steps back and put his hand on his own belt knife.

I said, “You've been a lucky man all of your life, Nate. You've beaten the shit out of people who didn't want to fight or know how to do it. I don't ever want to fight, but if somebody like you comes after me or mine, I'll do what I have to do. I'll only say this once, you tire-slashing son of a bitch, so you listen close. If you ever lay a hand on me or threaten my wife or kids, you'd better kill me when you do it, because if you don't, I'll kill you. You understand? No technical knockouts, no saying uncle, none of that. I'll kill you.”

He shook his head. “What in hell are you talking about? I ain't slashed no tires, and I don't threaten women and kids. What's got into you?”

He looked so puzzled that for the first time it
occurred to me that he might not have done it. But I couldn't bring myself to let the idea go. “You slashed my wife's tire in the hospital parking lot and you left a note threatening to do more. I know it was you, so don't deny it!”

He shook his head again. “I damn well do deny it. I never done any such thing!”

He looked so amazed that I suddenly knew I'd been wrong.

Nate wiped his mouth and put a hand to his neck. It came away red. His eyes were shadowed under the brim of his hat. “Jesus,” he said. “You cut me.”

“You came at me.”

“I came with my fists, not with a knife.”

“I don't fight to lose,” I said, sheathing my knife. “We're a sorry pair, Nate. We're supposed to be grown men.” I picked up my rod. “Have you seen Brady Coyne?” I brushed at the sand on my reel.

Nate seemed to me like some ancient creature from the past, primitive, resentful, fearful, and angry. Not unlike me, I thought.

“No,” he said. “I ain't seen anybody. I just got here a minute ago.”

“He's supposed to meet me here this morning. If he shows up, I don't want any trouble between you. Tell him I'll be over there, at the foot of Fairchild Point, just this side of the rocks.”

“I'm not your slave, Jackson.” He picked up his rod and stroked at his reel.

I felt a sudden, unexpected sympathy for him, based, no doubt, on my own sense of guilt. “There's
room for the two of us to fish down here,” I said. “First light should be perfect. Don't cross my line, I won't cross yours.”

“Fuck you.”

“Have it your way, but I mean what I say.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “All right, but don't crowd me.”

“You either.” I went down to the water, rinsed my reel, and then walked toward the point. My hands were shaking, and I made myself take deep, even breaths.

The rocks out in the sound at the end of the sandbar were dark against the dark water. Below the rocky point I made my cast. The big swimming lure arced out and splashed in the water. I reeled slowly in, feeling the pull of the swimmer. Off to my right another splash announced Nate's cast.

Come on, bass. Here, fishy, fishy, fishy. Bite my nice lure.

Nothing.

I made six casts.

Nothing.

Beyond the rocks at the far end of the sandbar the sky was reluctantly brightening, and the little memory again came dancing along the margins of my mind. Again I tried and failed to grasp it.

I got an eel out of the plastic bag on my belt, made him fast, and cast him. I felt a nibble, then a little tug, and I lifted the tip of the rod. A vibration came up the line to my fingers. I jerked back to set the hook, but the fish was gone. Damn!

Out at the rocks the light was increasing as the tide
was rising. An odd-looking rock was out there. It looked like a man's head barely poking out of the water.

I squinted.

Christ! It
was
a man's head!

A
fter my session with Sergeant Agganis, the state policeman, and my phone calls to the prospective buyers of the Fairchild property, I took another mug of coffee and the recent issue of the
Vineyard Gazette
out onto the patio. I slouched in one of the big wooden deck chairs, lit a cigarette, and gazed into the distance, where the ocean looked gray and angry. Fairchild Cove was off to my right a mile or so beyond the rolling meadow and the patches of scrubby pine. That's where J.W. and I would meet in—I looked at my watch and saw that it was nearly five in the afternoon—in twelve hours.

Whitecaps were skidding across the sea, and black clouds were building overhead, and the air tasted of seaweed. A sharp, damp breeze hissed in the pines. It was, I guessed, the leading edge of the hurricane. This “weather,” as Zee called it, might rile up the fish, drive them close to the rocks. On the other hand, it could push them out to sea beyond the reach of my fly rod. With fish, you could never be certain, which was one of the reasons I loved fishing. But whatever effect the weather had, I'd be there to find out firsthand.

I scanned the local newspaper. There were some letters to the editor debating presidential vacations, the health of the island water table, and the desirability of building another golf course on Martha's Vineyard. Word had gotten around. Four letters do not constitute a representative survey, but if they did, three quarters of the Vineyard population were all for the Fairchild Country Club. It meant jobs, simple as that.

The odd letter was signed by Edna Paul. It was long and rambling and surprisingly affecting. She wrote about what made Martha's Vineyard charming and special, and she pretty much convinced me that it wasn't golf courses.

I looked for a story about Molly Wood and found none. Either the paper had gone to press before word had gotten out or the police were being uncommunicative. Or maybe the Chamber of Commerce had convinced the editors to keep the lid on bad news.

After an hour or so, I realized I was shivering out there, so I went back inside. Patrick had finished his vacuuming. I found him perched on a kitchen stool sipping a cup of tea and watching a small portable television on the counter.

“Oprah?” I said.

He looked up, grinned, and shook his head. “The news.”

“What's the weather report?”

“Stormy. The island's expected to catch the backlash of Hurricane Elinore. Nothing to worry about.”

“Not unless you're going fishing,” I grumbled. “So what do you folks do about dinner here?”

He shrugged. “When Grandmother was here, we'd take trays out to the sunroom and eat with her.”

“We?”

“Me and my mother, anyway. Not Nate.”

“What about tonight?”

“I'll cook you something, if you want.”

I fished out my wallet and put a couple of twenties on the counter beside Patrick's elbow. “Why don't you go get us all some pizza or something. Let's see if we can get Eliza and Nate to join us. I need to talk with you guys again.”

Patrick looked up, arched his eyebrows, then nodded. He picked up the bills and disappeared in the direction of the front of the house.

An hour later, the four of us were sitting around the kitchen table eating pizza. Eliza looked fetching in tight black leggings and a butt-length yellow sweater. Patrick had changed out of his tennis shorts into a pair of pressed chino pants and a cotton polo shirt. He looked rather fetching himself. Nate wore baggy overalls and work boots and a sweat-stained cap bearing the legend
COOP'S BAIT AND TACKLE.
Decidedly unfetching.

“You're going to win the Derby, huh?” I said to Nate.

“Betcherass,” he mumbled around a mouthful of sausage pizza.

“You think that fifty-pounder will hold up?”

“It was fifty-six, actually.” He shrugged. “Three weeks to go. I'll get a bigger one.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Unless I get him first. I'm fishing the cove tonight.”

Nate turned and fixed me with a baleful stare. “The hell you are,” he said softly.

“The hell I'm not. There's plenty of room for both of us. Your mother would be disappointed if I didn't try it there at least once while I'm here, and I'm going to do it.”

He reached for the can of Coors by his elbow and lifted it to his mouth. His throat muscles clenched like a weight lifter's arm as he gulped it. Then he slammed it down and leaned across the table to me. “You got the whole fucking island,” he said.

I smiled. “You got a prizewinner from the cove. I want a prizewinner. That's how the Derby's played. I plan to be there at first light, and you better be prepared to share.”

“Or what?”

I shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance.

“I hear you were a Marine, huh?” said Nate.

“I don't like to talk about it,” I said.

He turned to Eliza. “Mr. Lawyer here was some kind of expert at killing people with his bare hands. You wouldn't know it, lookin' at him, but it's true. Wonder if he's still tough.”

“Oh, he's tough,” said Eliza. She flashed me a droopy-lidded smile. “Tough and dangerous.”

Patrick was watching us with a bemused smile on his face. “Bet he's tougher than you,” he said to Nate.

“Lay off,” I said to Patrick. “I'm just a mild-mannered city lawyer. I don't like violence.” I turned to Nate. “No problems, okay?”

He tugged at the bill of his cap, then glowered at me from under it. “You keep your distance from me.
You cross my line, I don't give a shit what kind of training you got in the Marines.”

“Fair enough,” I said. I turned to Patrick and Eliza. “I wanted you all to know that I intend to complete negotiations for the sale of the property this weekend. I've told representatives of both the Isle of Dreams golf people and the Marshall Lea Foundation to have their final offers to me on Sunday, and I'll take it from there.”

“Meaning what?” said Nate.

“Meaning, whichever offer is most consistent with your mother's wishes and is in her best interest is the one I'll accept.”

“Yeah, and what about us?”

I shrugged. “Sarah is my client. I've already explained that to you.”

“And you have Mother's power of attorney,” said Eliza.

I nodded.

“Meaning, you can do whatever you want,” said Patrick.

“You could put it that way,” I said. “Though I wouldn't say I'll do what I want. I'll do what I think Sarah wants. As long as she's unable to make her own decisions, I am empowered to make decisions for her. It's my job, whether I like it or not, and I'll do it.”

“You don't have to do anything, though, do you?” said Eliza.

“Doing nothing is a decision, too,” I said. “It's one I'll have to consider. We'll see what happens on Sunday.”