Tainted (18 page)

“Come on.” He cast again. “You know what shit. Billy bloody Madison poking his fucking nose into my business because he can't stand the fact that he mucked it up with Holly. He's so up himself, that man. He deserves to be—whoa—oh, my God—I got one. Look . . .”

Henry stood up and watched as Jack began to reel in the striped bass. Bass didn't fight as hard as bluefish, but that didn't mean they were easy to land. And it was immensely satisfying to catch a fish out of the blue like that; when the gulls were circling, you knew you stood a good chance, but casting into the rocks rarely yielded a fish.

When Jack had brought the fish up close to the boat, Henry went to get the net.

“OK, I'm here. Bring him to the surface again.”

Jack did, but the fish took one more deep dive before Jack reeled it back up, close enough for Henry to lean over and net it.

“Got it.”

Henry scooped it out of the water, into the boat.

“This one's too small to keep. I'll get the hook out and then throw it back in.”

He went down on one knee, put his hand on its head as its tail flapped wildly against the boat's bottom, steadying it so he could take the hook out.

As he wrenched it free, Jack came and knelt beside him.

“It's not too small,” he said. “Get back, Henry.” “What?”

Jack's hand was on his shoulder, pushing him away from the fish.

“It's not too small.”

“It is. Look—I'll get the tape measure and show you.”

Standing up, he went to the tackle box, and rooted around it for the tape; when he found it, he turned back—and saw Jack, bent over the fish, whacking its head with the club so ferociously Henry was momentarily stunned, speechless.

“What the fuck? Jack? Stop it, for Christ's sake!” The words finally exploded, furiously. The fish was long past dead, but Jack was still clubbing it, relentlessly. Time after time, the club went up in the air and came down on the fish head with a sickening thud.

He rushed to where Jack was kneeling and grabbed his wrist in mid-air.

“Stop it! It's dead, for fuck's sake.”

Jack's hand went limp; the club fell to the deck of the boat. Henry dropped Jack's arm and bent down to pick up the club.

“Oops. I guess I went a little overboard there, didn't I?” Jack laughed; a laugh Henry found offensive.

He straightened, tried to lock eyes with him, but Jack's eyes had floated off to the horizon.

“I thought you didn't like killing them. What the hell was that all about? I told you it was too small to keep.”

Jack shrugged, continued staring off into the distance. “I was pissed off. I took it out on the fish. Sorry. Next time I catch one I won't keep it even if it's a monster. I'll throw it back. That should even things out.”

Not really
, Henry wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut. “Sorry, Henry.” His eyes returned to Henry and he gave a quick, apologetic smile before zipping up his windbreaker, sweeping his hand through his hair, and going back to the bow. He poured himself the small amount of wine left in the bottle. “You should take a turn at casting now.”

“No. I'm ready to go back.” Henry went over to the steering wheel, turned the key and put the boat into forward. “I've had enough for the day.”

More than enough.

“Henry . . .” The glass was halfway to his mouth, but Jack clearly had decided against drinking it and put it back down. Once again he gave a brief, apologetic smile. “It was only a fish. I really am sorry if I upset you. It's just that the honeymoon was so amazing and coming back here, back to the whole Billy scenario—and then you saying I've frightened Katy. I didn't know she was afraid of me, honestly. I'll make sure it never happens again. She can cry as much as she likes, I won't be angry with her, I promise.”

“Good. That's good to hear.”

“Still friends, yes?” Jack extended his left hand.

Henry shook it with his left.

But it couldn't have felt further from his heart.

The Mill Pond Diner was classic. Anyone new to town would always marvel at its “authenticity,” how perfectly it matched their expectations of what a small-town diner should be. Booths with individual jukeboxes, waitresses with smudged lipstick and loud voices, the omnipresent smell of grease: all that was missing was cigarette smoke hanging heavy in the air. A decade ago, Billy had spent plenty of afternoons in it, hanging out with other Shoreham teenagers, including Holly, but he'd never been there at seven forty-five in the morning. And he'd never before had to think about what he was going to wear to go there. But then Henry had never called him at seven in the morning to summon him to a breakfast meeting.

He'd had to hunt to find an old plaid L.L. Bean shirt and a pair of worn khaki trousers, so he could fit in more with the Barrett look. Nothing new, nothing even remotely flashy. He even took off the Tiffany watch his parents had given him for his twenty-first birthday. When he walked through the Mill Pond Diner door, he saw immediately how different the early-morning clientele was from the afternoon teenage group. Older men hunched over the counter, intent on their eggs and bacon, all of them sporting baseball caps. Henry, whom he spotted over in a booth by the far wall, looked almost regal, sitting straight as a rod, a newspaper and cup of coffee in front of him. Henry glanced up, saw him, and waved him over.

Billy had no idea what had prompted Henry to call him and arrange this early-morning meeting, but he was determined not to go on a wild rant about Jack again. This time he would prove to Henry he could be a logical, mature and sober man.

As he slid into the booth, he remembered the times he and Holly had sat in the same one. Not that many years ago, but it felt like centuries.

“Thank you for coming,” Henry said. “Would you like some coffee or something to eat?”

“No, thank you. I wolfed down some instant coffee and a piece of toast before I got in the car.”

Henry then placed both hands on the table. He looked so much like a judge that Billy began to expect some sort of sentence to be handed down. Three weeks of community service for making a phone call while intoxicated?

“I'm trying to get something straight,” Henry stated. “I've been going over it in my mind and I can't figure something out. You said you looked at Jack's cellphone, yes?”

“Yes.”

Ten weeks in the slammer for stealing a look at someone else's cellphone?

“And Jack came in and saw you doing this?”

“No. No, he wasn't there. He came into the kitchen, but only after I'd put it back where it had been.”

“Then how does he know you looked?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he knows you looked at his phone. How? Are you
sure
he wasn't in the kitchen while you were looking at it?”

“Absolutely. I heard them come in and I put the phone back immediately—right where it had been. I was careful, Henry. The last thing I wanted was for him—or Holly—to know I'd done that.”

“Did you tell anyone besides me that you looked at it?”

“No. I was embarrassed that I had. I only told you because I'd had a few too many beers and was out of control.”

“You might have called someone else and not remembered.” A slight accusation in Henry's voice, but nothing close to what Billy had expected.

“I was drunk but not that drunk, Henry.”

“Are you positive about that?”

“Positive.”

“Well, somehow Jack knows you looked at his phone.”

Billy now wished he'd ordered a coffee. His brain cells needed more of a caffeine push. Could Jack possibly have seen him? No. He put the phone back before Jack came anywhere near the kitchen and he had made sure he'd replaced it in the same spot on the table.

“How could he know? The only way he could know—”

“Would be if the woman you spoke to called him to tell him.” Henry beat him to the conclusion. He'd obviously been mulling this over for a while.

“Which she couldn't do if—”

“She didn't know him.” Henry shook his head. “There must be an explanation. Are you sure she said she didn't know him?”

“Yes, Henry.” Billy turned around, caught a waitress's eye and asked her for a coffee. He swiveled back. “Twice. She said twice she'd never heard of him.”

His mind was racing with this information, but he was also aware it would be better if he allowed Henry to continue to lead the conversation. If he pushed too hard, Henry might retreat. So he sat, quietly, like a schoolboy, all the while yearning to wave his hand in the air and blurt out theories.

You're dressed like a Barrett, act like one. Don't draw attention to yourself.

When his coffee arrived, he poured some milk into it and waited.

“Jack also said you'd been asking Charlie Thurlow about him.”

“True.” He cradled the cup of coffee in his hands; was Henry going to give him a lecture about respecting privacy? No—right now, Henry was concentrating on Jack, not him. “I asked what was on his résumé. Charlie said he had good references from his other jobs, that everyone said how good he was at his work and how quiet he was.”

“Anything else?”

“I asked about his education. Charlie mentioned a school—Compton Hall. That's all I could get from him. He thought I was being way too inquisitive.”

“You were.”

“But now you are too, Henry.” He forced himself to remain calm, level. “Because something
is
wrong.”

“Something
might
be wrong. Did you check up on the school? Did you Google it?”

“No—Charlie made me feel like a jerk for asking. And then when that woman said she'd never heard of him, I assumed I had remembered the number wrong and I was on a wild goose chase. But I have a very good memory, Henry. It's part of the reason I did well on my Law Boards. I've always had a good memory.”

“Like Katy.”

“Katy?” Billy smiled. “She does? Really?”

“Pretty phenomenal, actually. She's a very smart little girl.”

“What else is she like? What does she like to do?”

Henry reached down, picked up his cap beside him on the booth and put it on his bald head.

“I need to get back home, Billy.”

It was eight in the morning. Why did he have to get back so quickly?

“You're going to Google the school, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

“I want to come with you. I'm involved in this too, Henry. That woman lied about knowing Jack. She could be his girlfriend, his wife even. They could be—”

“Slow down. You're jumping to conclusions far too fast.”

“But you'll let me come over?”

“All right.” He stood up. “I'll pay for your coffee and mine and I'll wait for you at my house. Walk over by the beach way, though. I don't want your car in my driveway. And when you get there, knock at the back kitchen door.”

“No problem. And thanks, Henry.”

“I very much doubt that we'll learn anything. And I'm not saying you're right in your distrust of Jack, you know.”

“I know.” Billy nodded.

But you're worried. Something has changed and I have a feeling it's not just the fact that Jack knows about me seeing the phone number. You're now saying “we,” as if we are on the same team. Finally I'm not the only one who's worried.

He did as Henry had told him: drove home, parked the car in his driveway and went down to the beach before climbing the path up to Henry's house. No one saw him because no one was on the beach: it was a rainy, miserable day. When he reached the house, he skirted around the back and knocked on the kitchen door. Henry opened it immediately.

“In forty minutes, they're all coming over for coffee, so we'd better get a move on. Come on.” He led him through the kitchen and into his living room where his computer sat on the desk. “I'm not proud of myself for all this secrecy,” he commented, and Billy could see his discomfort. Still nervous that if he said the wrong thing Henry might change his mind, he stayed silent. When Henry sat down and brought the Google page up and typed in “Compton Hall School England,” he felt a surge of relief. They were in this together now.

The results came quickly and Henry clicked on the top one, which was clearly the Compton Hall School web page; Billy peered over his shoulder as Henry began to read.

“OK—we have all the usual bunk about what a perfect school this is. Single sex—male—for boys between twelve and eighteen. A public—which means private to us—boarding school in Surrey. I wouldn't have thought Jack was a boarding school boy, although it does make sense, now that I think about it. The way he follows orders fits with that. So—boys there get good results, it does well in the league tables, whatever those are. Lots of athletics. Particularly rugby. Blahblahblah. Nothing out of the ordinary. Looks harmless to me.”

“But he didn't go to college, at least he doesn't have a college or university listed on his résumé.”

“Well, not everyone goes to college, do they?”

“I guess not. But at a school like that, you'd think they would. There's a phone number for the school at the top there. What about calling them?”

“And saying what?”

“You could ask for the headmaster; it might be the same one who was there when Jack was. It's a way of getting some information, at least possibly.”

“I don't know.”

“Henry, come on, we've come this far. It makes sense to keep going. And it's five hours ahead in England, isn't it? So someone should be there.”

“But it's summer. It's probably closed for the holidays.”

“It's worth a shot, isn't it?”

Leaning back in his chair, Henry appeared to be contemplating a personal dilemma. Then his hand reached out, picked up the phone from its cradle on the desk. “All right,” he sighed. “But I'll probably regret this morning forever.”

Billy started to pace around the room as Henry dialed. The odds were against anyone being at the school, much less anyone who might remember Jack as a student. In a way, he was more pleased at the fact that Henry was making the call than hopeful of a result coming from it. He stopped to stare at the rain pouring down, turned abruptly from the window as he heard Henry say hello and then pause before continuing with:

“I would like to speak to the headmaster if it's possible. . . . Oh, I'm fortunate to have caught you in, aren't I? . . . Yes, I was calling to inquire about one of your alumni, as it happens. I'm in Massachusetts and he's applying for a job here and I see on his résumé that he attended your school ten years ago. . . . Yes, near Boston. . . . Oh, really? And did you and your wife enjoy the trip? . . . It is, yes. The foliage at that time of year is spectacular. Yes. . . . Anyway, I was wondering if you might be able to give him a reference. His name is Jack Dane.”

Billy saw the pain in Henry's eyes as he continued the deceit. It was the first time, too, that he'd seen him slightly slouched. There was a long pause, during which Henry looked away from him, gazing up at the ceiling.

“I see. . . . Yes, of course. I'll wait.”

Putting his hand over the receiver, Henry said, “He's looking up the records. We're lucky to have found him in—he just happened to be there because he's about to interview a prospective teacher. He's very garrulous, which is also lucky for us. He didn't even ask me what job—Hello. Yes, I'm still here. . . . Fine. Of course. I understand. Did you happen to be headmaster at that time? . . . No, of course. I see. Thank you very much.”

Henry hung up the phone, stood up, took his pipe out of his pocket.

“He said that Jack Dane was a pupil at the school, that there is nothing in his records which would reflect on a job application and that it would be inappropriate to discuss his records or his time there further.”

He put the pipe in his mouth but didn't light it.

“Another brick wall.” Billy sighed.

“His tone changed.”

“What?”

“He was so genial at the beginning. Telling me about his and his wife's holiday here ten years ago, talking on as if he welcomed a distraction. But when he came back on the line, he was suddenly curt. Very abrupt.”

“What do you think that means?”

“I don't know. Probably nothing. It was odd, that's all. Noticeable.” He looked at his watch. “Do you still remember the number of the woman you called?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

Henry wrote down the number as Billy reeled it off, then punched it in.

I'm right. Something has happened. Something Henry hasn't told me about. There's no way Henry would be making calls like this if he didn't have serious doubts about Jack. And it's not just to do with his knowing I looked at his phone—I'm sure it isn't. So what is it? What has Jack done?

“Yes, hello. I'm very sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if I could speak to you about my son-in-law, Jack Dane. . . . Yes, I'm sor—”

Henry took the phone away from his ear, looked at it briefly before putting it back down.

“She hung up. She said this was the third call she'd had about this person she'd never heard of and she hung up. So we're back to square one.”

“Not exactly.” Billy leaned back against the window, crossed his arms over his chest and looked Henry straight in the eyes. “There's something you're not telling me. What has Jack done? I know it's more than his knowing I looked at the phone. Or that headmaster sounding abrupt. He's done something that worries you, hasn't he?”

Henry looked at his watch again.

“You have to go, Billy.”

“Why won't you tell me?”

“Because there's nothing concrete to tell.”

“But there
is
something.”

“I don't know if it even qualifies as something. You really do have to go, Billy.”