She's Not There (30 page)

A lot of nodding heads agreed. The campers had found themselves in the same position for too long—on the receiving end of lectures instead of help.

Fitzy said, “First, girls, I'm sorry to condescend. That's what people do once they pass thirty, and all of you will do it someday. The way it is. In any case, no matter what your parents have decided, I am going to see to it that an inspector from the state comes out here and looks around, closes the camp, and orders you home. In a couple of days, the minute the ban ends.” He turned to Irwin. “I'm done.”

The girls applauded.

Fitzy came down the steps and over to me. He said, “Soon as I can get out of here, I'm heading over to the
Providence Journal
, where I plan to dump a jar of canned beef stew on the newsroom desk. That stew will contain highly visible mouse droppings, bat droppings, and dog shit besides. I'll tell them it's food from the camp on Block Island.” Then he calmed himself. “Seriously—” he gestured toward Irwin—“our boy knows the party's over.”

“I'd say so. Small consolation.”

“Yeah.”

*   *   *

At nine o'clock that night, I was out back on Joe's slate terrace once again, sitting on the chaise, contemplating the black sky dotted with stars, the moon gone, the swath of the Milky Way visible. The air was clear, but we hadn't gotten the line of showers Mick figured we would. So I could see Orion distinctly, the Three Sisters and the Big Dipper and the little one too. I was lulled by the cicadas again, but not so lulled I wasn't also aware of crickets chirping, frogs peeping, and owls whooing. The gulls are calm at night, thank God. And there were no footsteps in the dark, no Jake coming to sit on the edge of the cliff.

I closed my eyes, and the second I did someone started pounding on the front door, hard and furiously, using both hands, I was sure. I got up. What had brought Fitzy out; why hadn't he called me first this time; why was he in such a panic? Drunk, is what I thought because I would not believe someone had gotten to one of those girls. Not now. A shiver ran up my spine.

I went through the cottage and could see Jim Lane's kid—not Fitzy—outside the window. I opened the door. He was completely out of breath, standing there huffing and puffing. His bike lay on the grass where he'd let it drop. I got him inside and sat him in a chair, and he tried to tell me why he'd pedaled ninety miles an hour across the island to summon me. But he couldn't get any words out. His eyes were dilated. He was shocked but he wasn't
in
shock; his skin wasn't dry. He was, in fact, sweating bullets. I said, “Take a couple of really good deep breaths,” and went for a Coke.

The boy emptied the can in several gulps. Then he looked up at me, stricken, but making eye contact, which helped to steady his vocal cords. He said, “I had to go see the state cop, but he's asleep. I could hear him snoring from the road. I don't like him. Then I remembered about you, so I came here.”

I said, “He's a good cop, he's just got a few problems. What's wrong?”

The boy didn't move. He said, “My dad says you can't judge a book by its cover.”

“Your dad's right. Where is your dad?”

“Boston. Got caught up in the ban.”

“You have to tell me why you wanted to see the police officer.”

He swallowed. His Adam's apple went down and up. He said, “I saw a skeleton out on Sandy Point.”

“A skeleton.”

It wasn't a question; I was just making sure the words he'd spoken registered with me. I didn't even think I said
a
skeleton
out loud. But I had, and he heard me and thought it was a question and he answered. “Yes. A skeleton. It's almost to the lighthouse just about where the rookery starts.”

“It could have been animal bones.”

“No, it couldn't. It was a person. We have the skeleton of a person at school in our bio lab. Those weren't animal bones.”

I got the keys to the ragtop. I said, “Let's go.” He didn't move. So then I said, “What's your name?”

He said, “I'm Jim Lane's kid.”

“I know who you are. But you must have a name of your own.”

“Jim.”

He still wasn't moving. His hands gripped the arms of the chair.

“Jim, I know you're scared, who wouldn't be? But we have to go to the police station now. If the two of us have to sober the officer up, we'll sober him up. It shouldn't be too difficult once you tell him what you told me. Ready?”

He stood, but he wasn't steady on his feet. So I said, “Joe's cat is lost. Have you seen a big furry orange cat around?”

“Joe's cat? Spike?”

“Yes.”

“Nope.”

“Will you help me look for him? Tomorrow, maybe?”

He was sufficiently distracted. His legs worked. “I can come tomorrow, sure. Got no customers because of the ban. What time?”

“In the morning. Before breakfast or right after. Whichever you'd rather.”

“Before.”

We went out to the ragtop and when we pulled up in front of Fitzy's, I told Jim to sit tight. When I needed him, I'd call him. I went up the porch steps. I didn't knock on Fitzy's door; it was unlocked. The barracks for the girls at camp didn't have locks until last night, when Ernie went out and put dead bolts on their doors.

I didn't know what condition I'd find Fitzy in. I went inside and peeked in the bedroom. He was in bed in his clothes. He even had his shoes on. I stepped away from the door and called out, “Fitzy,” a couple of times. I heard him roll over. He came out of his bedroom as disheveled as the first time I'd had to rouse him, the morning I'd discovered the body of Dana Ganzi. He looked at me and he said, “Shit.” And then, “I'm afraid to ask. Now what?”

“Fitzy, we've got to check on something. Something Jim Lane needs to see you about. He's outside in the jeep.”

Fitzy said, “The mayor's in your jeep?”

“No. His kid. The boy's name is Jim, too.”

“If that wimp of a kid admits to killing anybody, I'm going to quit this job for sure.”

We heard a shuffle. Jim was standing on the porch just outside the screen. He said, “I got scared out there. I am a wimp.”

I said, “You're not a wimp. The officer has something nasty to say about everyone.”

Jim said, “I'm a wimp.”

Fitzy said, “Get in here, kid. I don't much like talking through a screen door.”

First Fitzy had to use the bathroom and Jim and I got to listen while Fitzy peed a gallon.

When he came out, he said, “Okay, Lane, you got something to tell us that you don't want your old man to find out about, isn't that right?”

“He's going to kill me.”

Fitzy looked at me. “Poppy, those are the words of a good kid. Bad kids don't give a damn whether their father might kill them.” He turned back to Jim. “Okay, so now that we've established you're a good kid instead of a delinquent, what's the problem?”

“My dad says people should mind their own business. Well, I was minding my own business. Maybe when he gets back you could tell him that.”

“His dad's stuck in Boston.” I didn't know if Fitzy was quite with us. I said, “Fitzy, it's worse than whatever you're thinking. But Jim needs to be the one to tell you. He needs to say it again. A couple of times.” With maybe a few more details than he was able to give me. There was no hurry. Not with a skeleton.

Fitzy said, “I already know it's bad. I can tell it has to be bad by the hour and, to tell you the truth, your face. Both of you come on in my office and let's sit down.” We did. He said to Jim, “So what business of yours were you minding and what happened while you were minding it? Start right at the beginning.”

Jim Lane's kid chose to look at the ceiling while he described what happened. That way he was able to keep the images his words conjured up out of his field of vision. “I was digging for night crawlers out on Sandy Point. Me and Rusty.”

“Who's Rusty and where's he at?”

Jim stopped staring at the ceiling and his gaze went to Fitzy. “My dog. I told him to stay there till I got back. He's waiting for me.”

Fitzy ran his hand through his hair. I'd wondered when he would. “Okay, you're out digging for night crawlers. Planning to fish at midnight?”

“No. I sell night crawlers. Thought I'd stock up for when the ban gets lifted.” He began rubbing his pant leg. “If it gets lifted.”

“Thought you sold postcards.”

“I do. But sometimes day-trippers want to fish, so they come to my stand and ask where they can buy some bait and—”

“You sell drugs?”

“No. I told you, I'm a wimp. My father would kill me if I got caught selling pot. The guy who rents the kayaks is the one who sells pot. Don't tell him who told you.”

“I won't. And Poppy here is right. You're not a wimp, you're an entrepreneur. Go back to what happened with you and the dog.”

“Rusty got bored, so he took to walking in the sea grass, sniffing around the rookery, and—”

“The who?”

“Gull rookery. When the gulls took over the old lighthouse, the state made it an official rookery so they could raise their young.”

“You mean that old shack out there covered with bird shit is some kind of state park?”

I said, “It's a preserve. I've been there.”

“This country's nuts. You're still on, Lane.”

Jim said, very quietly, “Officer, there's a skeleton in the grass.”

Fitzy mumbled something. He'd chosen not to curse aloud in front of the kid. I said, “I already asked him if it could have been an animal.”

“I'll bet you asked him that. Well, look, it's not one of the girls. There isn't another one missing. This skeleton might have been there for years for all we know.”

Jim said, “If it was, Rusty would have found it. One of the places we go regular for crawlers. When we went just before the season started, toward the end of June, it wasn't there. I think it's one of the girls. It wasn't laying straight out. I mean, the arms were all—” And with that, the image appeared before him and he started to shake.

Fitzy stood up. “Your mom here?”

“She's with my dad.”

“Who's watching you?”

“I'm watching me.”

“Okay, then. You and Poppy go out and get some fresh air while I wash my face.”

Jim stood up and I put my arm around his shoulder. I realized how big he was when I did. Wide shoulders, muscled. I led him out onto the porch. “Jim, when this is over you can call a friend. Stay at a friend's house.”

“It's okay. My two brothers are around.”

Fitzy came out with wet hair. “We can take my car.”

Jim said, “We'll need that jeep unless you want to walk halfway up the spit.”

“Jeep it is.”

But Fitzy went first to his own car and came back with a roll of yellow tape. As we drove Jim gave us more details, said he was putting the worms in a plastic bag when Rusty started to growl a few feet in front of him. “Then, like, all of a sudden, he went crazy. I mean, totally crazy, barking louder than anything. I shined my flashlight over where he was and saw it. I ran. Rusty ran too. But I told Rusty he had to stay. To guard her.” Jim looked down at his hands. “I left the worms, I guess.”

The tide was out and the sea was calm. A fine, invisible mist had settled in, wetting the cobbles that lined the high tide mark. Gulls were circling the old North Light. There were hundreds of them. A cawing set in as six or seven birds rose higher than the rest and headed toward us. A foghorn on the nearby shoal moaned across the water, fifty yards from where the point of the spit disappeared into the sea. The sandbar that took out the
Palatine
.

Jim told me to stop. I braked. “It was right around here.” We got out and he hollered, “Rusty!”

A short-legged mutt came running out of the grass.

The dog ran around us, sniffing. Then he looked back toward the grass and growled. The arriving gulls reacted, their low cries turning to sharp squawks. More of them were joining the first wave. A few began diving just in front of us, maybe the ones I'd watched kill their offspring one bright and beautiful morning just a week ago. It seemed like years.

Fitzy said, “These goddamn birds gonna attack us?”

Jim said, “Not in the summer.”

“They got nicer personalities in the summer?”

“In the spring, when the eggs hatch, they'll dive right into your head. But not now.” He looked up. “They're afraid of dogs besides.”

Fitzy switched on his searchlight. “Okay, kid. Where?”

Jim said, “Go, Rusty!”

The dog made a beeline toward the grass, ran through it for several yards. Only his tail showed, the way Spike's would have. When the tail stopped, the dog lifted his head and growled again, a much deeper growl than the first one. This time, the gulls backed off. Jim said, “They're
really
afraid of dogs.”

Fitzy mumbled, “Saves me from having to take a few shots at them.”

We walked into the grass. Jim told us the skeleton was a few feet ahead. The dog looked over his shoulder and bared his teeth. Big teeth, not anything like the sight of Pal trying to bare his.

Jim said, “He's guarding it just like I told him to.” Then, to his dog, “It's all right now, Rusty. Good boy. C'mere.”

Fitzy said, “Thought I was going to have to shoot Rusty too.”

Jim bent to the dog and put both hands around his muzzle.

Fitzy only half believed Jim. He didn't want to believe him. Neither did I. The beam of the flash swung through the grass just the way it had when we were halfway down into Rodman's Hollow. But this time, it didn't pass over a wide patch of flesh, it passed over a white stick, slid past, stopped, and glided back. The stick was a shinbone. The skeleton's arms and legs were twisted around its ribs, the skull thrown back, the jaw wide. The bones were so white they looked as though they must have lain there since the
Palatine
rammed into the shoal. The gulls had picked the body immaculately clean of any and all flesh. Remnants of clothes had been pulled away and dropped. Gulls are finicky—they separate out what they don't want.