Trolls in the Hamptons (15 page)

Van returned my voice mail in ten minutes. I knew he was working, I said, and I did not want to disturb him, but I thought he ought to know that I was leaving town for a few days. That way, if anything happened to me, I'd decided, someone would know who to blame.

He asked about Susan, which made me feel better about calling him. He cared enough to remember she was going to Sloan this morning. So I invited him out to Paumanok Harbor. “If you have time off, a long weekend or anything. You said you'd never been. I can show you the Montauk Lighthouse and the docks and the fancy estates in East Hampton. I'll be staying at one of them, but there's plenty of room at my mother's.” Then I explained about my father and the poodles and the pregnant cousin.

He didn't say anything for a minute, so I naturally assumed he was seeing someone else. “That's okay. I'll be busy with the dogs anyway. And helping my grandmother.”

“I'd love to visit,” he finally said. “A bunch of cops are renting a place on the beach next week for them and their families. All they're talking about is fishing and golf and barbeques. I didn't want to go because I'd be the only single guy there. It would be great to be nearby, and with you, but I can't.”

I waited again. His grandmother needed him, he didn't have vacation time, he didn't want to hang out with white folk?

“I'm not supposed to see you. Or talk to you. I'm off your case, and out of the loop.”

“But I'm asking you as a friend. Not police business.”

I could hear him mutter something a cop shouldn't say. “I've got orders. The Feds have taken over. They don't want anyone local involved. Very need-to-know only. I shouldn't even have answered your call.”

“Especially since my phones are likely still tapped.”

Now he didn't bother to mutter. “Shit.”

“Yeah. That's what I thought, too. I'm going to go buy a new cell phone in the morning. One of those where you pay for the time up front.”

“They still ask for a credit card.”

“I'll pay cash.” I made a note to get to an ATM first thing in the morning.

“I think they ask for your social security number.”

“Even the sleazy, going-out-of-business electronics places around Broadway?”

Silence.

“Okay, you're not going to aid and abet, or whatever you call it. I understand. I really do. I wouldn't do anything to jeopardize your job.”

“Thanks. Maybe we can get together when this is over?”

“I'd like that. You take care.”

“You, too. You're in good hands, at least.”

Yeah, my own.

I'd lost my peace of mind and my privacy. Now I couldn't even have a friend. I was too angry to sleep, not to mention the itch of sexual frustration I would
not
take into my own hands, so I packed my clothes and books and supplies and a box of Mallomars for the almost three-hour bus trip, and for facing my mother.

 

I never got to buy that new cell phone. My mother decided, without consulting me or my schedule, that we should be on the early Jitney bus so we'd get out to the Harbor by midday. She was leaving for Florida the next morning, when my father should be out of recovery, and wanted me to get acquainted with the dogs before she left. Which meant hours of instructions and dinner with Grandma Eve. I put my hidden stash of emergency chocolate in my bag. Besides, I remembered that half of Paumanok Harbor was in a dead zone for cell reception.

I had to call Don to tell him I'd be out of town.

“You'll keep working on the new story?”

I was not sure how wise that was, just in case my pen actually was mightier than some sworn magical oath. I saw no reason to ruin Don's day, too, so I assured him I'd be working. “What else do I have to do while dog sitting?”

“Good. Send me chapters and a sketch so we can start on the cover. I thought a troll coming out of a waterfall. Very graphic, colorful.”

Very likely, knowing Fafhrd. Only I'd draw him going back into the place behind the water, leaving, just in case I did have any influence over his motions. I couldn't recall any waterfalls around the Hamptons; the land was too flat. But I thought there was one at Splish-Splash, the big water park in Riverhead. The panic he could cause appearing at the top of a plume ride or a wave pool would get a lot of people, kids, especially, trampled or drowned. Nope, not a waterfall. Which meant, damn it, I was buying into the DUE theory after all. I tried to convince myself I was just taking precautions, playing the what-if card, without believing the woo-woo stuff. On the other hand, I would not dare go to Atlantis, the aquarium that was also in Riverhead. Fafhrd and all those huge glass tanks? Sharks getting loose? No thanks.

“How about him in a lonely salt marsh,” I suggested, “with the moon rising behind?” I know tons of isolated places where no one goes except for clamming during the day. “I'll be right there at the shore to get it right. Big yellow moon, big reddish creature, nice reflections in the still water.”

“Eh.” That was New York for “I like my idea better, but I'll look at yours.”

“I'll do a couple of sketches for you to see. I don't know if Mom's got a scanner, and mine's too big to schlepp, but I'm bringing my camera so I can email a picture for you to look at.”

“Good, good. Oh, and I hope your father's okay, Willy. And the rest of your family.”

“Thanks. You have a good time while I'm gone. Don't work too hard. You don't want to end up with a heart attack like my father.”

“What, playing golf all day, playing with the ladies all night? That doesn't sound half bad to me.”

“You'd die of boredom. And your wife would get mad.”

“Maybe. Call me in a couple of days, all right, so I know how you're doing?”

“Sure. Thanks for caring.”

“You bet I care. The Willy Tate name sells more books than half the hacks I have on staff.”

Next I got Dad on the phone before his surgery. He sounded tired, or tranquilized. If I were going to have people messing with my heart, I'd need a lot of meds, too. He told me not to worry, he'd be fine. But I was to watch out for all kinds of danger. My father always saw threats everywhere, and I usually ignored his worries. But now I wasn't so sure. He'd been to Royce, too, where he'd met my mother. His family came from Paumanok Harbor originally, breeding grounds for espers, according to Grant, although Dad was born and raised in Manhattan. If I could animate a troll, maybe my father had some trace of psychic talent. Maybe he was clairvoyant.

And maybe he'd been warning me away from those phantom kidnappers. I should have paid more attention.

“What kind of danger, Dad?”

“Mmm, everywhere. Everybody.” He yawned. “My head's kind of foggy. Just be careful, baby girl. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Dad. Don't let Mom aggravate you.”

“Maybe she's out of practice.”

“Don't count on it. I'll come right down if you need me.”

“I know you will, whippoorwill. I'll come visit as soon as I feel better. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too, Dad.” And now I felt guilty I hadn't visited since Thanksgiving. Damn, what if he didn't get better? What if—

I ate the emergency chocolate while Susan was saying good-bye to Toby, in my old bedroom.

Next was Mrs. Abbottini, though I needn't have bothered. My mother had already called her.

As soon as we left, my old neighbor was on her way to church to light a candle for my father, Susan's father, and Cousin Lily's pregnant daughter. She'd been lighting one every day for Susan, and it had worked, hadn't it?

Who was I to argue?

Of course, she said, she'd get my mail. And read it, too, I supposed. And water my plants. She overwatered two African violets to death when I went to Florida in the fall, but I had no idea how long I'd be gone this time, so I had no choice.

“Oh, and if anyone comes asking for me, could you say you don't know where I am, or when I'll be back?”

“Heaven knows I have no idea when you'll come home. Your mother couldn't say. But I know exactly where you'll be. Rose gave me the number for that fancy mansion.”

“Yes, but I'd prefer not to have unexpected guests or too many phone calls. I'll be, ah, working whenever I'm not out with the dogs. Thinking about my next book, you know, so I don't lose my train of thought while I'm away.”

Her dark eyes narrowed. “You're not getting up to any hanky-panky your mother won't like, are you? In someone else's house?”

I jumped on that. “Not at all. I don't want my friends dropping in there, once they find out I'm house-sitting at a place overlooking the beach. It's got a pool and a sauna and a tennis court. You know how people push themselves for an invitation to summer houses.”

She ought to. She'd been coming out to my mother's place for a week every summer since my parents split up.

“What about that nice man you had to dinner?”

I wanted to ask which nice man, but I just said, “He knows where I'll be.”

“Maybe he plays tennis?” she hinted.

“I don't.” And I wouldn't play with him anyway. Tennis or hanky-panky.

T
HE HAMPTON JITNEY IS TO a Manhattan crosstown bus what Maidstone Beach in East Hampton is to Coney Island in Queens: another world. The big city weekend wanderer's transport of choice has a bathroom, a hostess, free water or juice,
The New York Times
. They even take reservations. There are fancier ways of getting to the Hamptons: helicopter, private car, limo, or the pricier Luxury Liner bus that has reclining bucket seats. There are less comfortable rides, too, like the Long Island Rail Road, which leaves from chaotic Penn Station, involves a change of trains, and often has standing room only, broken air conditioning, and erratic schedules.

People with their own cars, of course, choose to drive, making the already inadequate Long Island Expressway the La Brea Tar Pits of the East coast, and that's without the horrifying length of the Queens Midtown Tunnel. Tunnels being only slightly less scary than bridges, and Manhattan being an island accessible via one or the other, I do not own a car. I could not afford to garage it, or afford the time to find alternate side of the street parking every day.

Best of all, the Jitney's last pickup is just a few blocks from my apartment. Susan and I got to Fortieth Street early, despite our reservations, and hoped the bus wasn't filled when it arrived from uptown so we could sit together. Not that it was going to matter; Susan hadn't taken her iPod out of her ears, so I guess she was still mad at me.

I was still mad, too. Mad enough to resent the six other people at the corner before us.

In the true summer season, especially late afternoons after work, the Jitney had to put on extra buses and divide up the routes, which caused scrambling around on the sidewalk, and a lot of grumbling. Today was early June, and a Tuesday, so we had no trouble getting on. Susan went ahead of me, while I handed my bags to the driver to stow under the bus. She picked two seats together near the back, which was not my favorite place because you could smell the bus exhaust from there.

Susan didn't seem to care. She pulled out her ticket and tucked it in the slot in front of our seats without a word. The Jitney gave free rides to needy medical passengers, showing there was still some heart left in the East End. Susan had claimed the window seat, without asking me, so she could lean her head against the glass, cushioned by her sweater. She shut her eyes, ignoring me, the people trying to stuff their carry-ons in the overhead racks, and the couple in the seat across the aisle who were eating something that reeked of sausage and peppers.

I guess she needed the rest after her night with Toby. I was exhausted, too, but I could never sleep on the bus, especially not until we were through the tunnel, which might cave in if I wasn't watching. After that, the first part of the Long Island Expressway was too stop-and-go for a nap, with construction here, a fender-bender there, too many cars and trucks everywhere.

I tried to sketch, but the ride wasn't smooth enough. The beach grass I penciled in the salt flats looked like lightning, which was too eerie for the story I wanted to write. I wondered if Fafhrd liked rain.

Once we cleared most of the city traffic, I leaned back and shut my eyes and tried to shut my mind down, too, with the steady engine noise and motion. I'd just about nodded off when the hostess came to collect tickets and money. So much for my rest.

Past Mineola, the highway was half empty and the bus seemed to be flying. I flipped the page on my sketch-book and drew my troll with his hands out, standing in a downpour, looking up and smiling. The scene wasn't dramatic enough for the cover, but not bad for a first pencil drawing. And not dangerous to anyone else.