Vineyard Fear (10 page)

“Eyes like a cat,” I said. I made my farewells and walked carefully down into the music. A drummer was working his way through a
Caravan
solo. It took him almost ten minutes. After the other players got back into the song and wound it up to justifiable applause, I headed home. When I crossed the street I was quite wary, but no blue cars came at me out of the dark.

The warm night air cleared some of the cobwebs from my brain, but after I let myself into the house and got to
my room, I was suddenly weary again. Beer fatigue. I took two aspirin, the Jackson wisdom for helping to ward off a hangover, got out of my clothes, turned out the light, and hit the sack. I think I must have gone to sleep instantly.

I had strange dreams. I was sick. Someone was shouting in a tongue I could not understand. Great wailing noises and roaring sounds beat into my ears. Then there were slapping sounds. Slippity-slap, slippity-slap, slippity-slap. I didn't like any of it. Then someone started to whack my face. I tried to get my hands up to stop the blows. Slippity-slap! Slippity-slap! Slap! Slap! Slap!

“Stop that!” I said. “You stop that slapping! I didn't do anything to you!”

But the slapper didn't stop and the roaring didn't go away, so I tried to turn my head and get away, but I couldn't, so I tried to hit the slapper. “Get away from me!” I said.

Then the roar became words. “Wake up! Wake up! That's it, my boy! That's it!” I got my eyes open just as a hand lightly slapped my cheek. John Skye's face floated out in front of me. “That's it,” he said. “Can you see me, J.W.?”

I nodded. His floating face smiled and became more three-dimensional. Then I saw that it was attached to his body, as was the hand that presumably had just slapped me.

“You're okay,” said John. “Just lie there and breathe deeply.”

I lay there and breathed deeply. I didn't feel well, at all. After a while I noticed that I was lying outside, looking up at stars in a black sky. I turned my head and looked around. I was on John's front lawn. There were firemen coming out of the house. John was sitting on his heels, looking at me. The lights from his front room windows touched his face.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

“I never should have let you come home alone. You were drunker than I thought.”

“How did I get out here? I thought I went to bed.” I looked down at my body. It was covered with a light blanket. I lifted the blanket. It was me, all right. I don't wear nightclothes. “I really must have been drunk,” I said. “Are you telling me that I stripped and went to sleep right here?”

“No, no. You made it to bed all right. But when you were kicking off your sandals, you kicked one clear across the room and hit the valve on the fireplace. The whole house smelled of gas when I got home. It was coming out from under your door. I got in there and closed the valve and dragged you out here. Then I went in and opened up your window and every other window in the house and came out here with you. I figured the whole place might go up any second.”

I looked at the house. My mind was pretty fuzzy. “Still there,” I said.

He nodded. “Yeah. All aired out now, too. No damage done, after all.” He stood up and went to talk to a fireman. The fireman looked at me, shook his head, and walked to the street where other firemen waited by a fire truck with a red, swirling light. They got in the truck, turned off the light, and drove away. People in other houses stood on porches and looked at us. John waved to them and came back to me. “I told them you were fine,” he said. “Are you?”

I sat up. My head ached. “I owe you one,” I said. “Glad your game didn't last any longer.”

John smiled grimly. “I see now why they keep you chained up on that island. You're a danger to yourself up here in the real world. I'm not going to let you wander around alone after this.”

“It's not been my best day,” I said. I wrapped the sheet around me and put up my hand. John pulled me to
my feet and we walked into the house and down the hall to my room. The window was open, and warm night air was blowing in.

“I suppose I should get rid of that antique fireplace,” said John. One of my sandals was lying by the valve. “I don't think you could hit that valve again if you tried,' he said. “And why you didn't have the window open on a warm night like this beats me. It only shows you the power of booze, I suppose. Maybe God is giving you a message about your drinking habits.”

It wasn't the first time I'd had too much to drink, but it was the first time I couldn't remember what I'd done. I couldn't believe it.

“The window was open,” I said. “And my sandals were right there by the bed.”

John smiled. He went over to the fireplace and got the sandal and put it with its mate beside the bed. “Now they are,” he said. “Get some sleep. I think you need it.”

It was good advice, I thought. I looked at my watch. It was well past midnight. A new day. The previous one had been hard on me. I was glad it was gone.

The next morning I got up feeling not too bad. I went to the window and leaned out, breathing in the cool, clean air. In the soft soil of the flower garden below the window were the prints of shoes. At the time I thought they belonged to some fireman who had been checking things out the night before. I was wrong.

I was stiff and thickheaded, and my scratches and abrasions were sore. But I was alive, so things could have been worse. The aroma of breakfast floated down the hall from the kitchen and I followed my nose to juice, coffee, toast, sausages, and eggs. Your classic high-cholesterol American breakfast. I wolfed it down and after another couple of cups of coffee felt better.

“Some fireman squashed a few of your flowers,” I said.

“Hey,” said John, “I'm out of this state this afternoon on the two-thirty plane. By the time I get back, a lot of my flowers will probably be in that great greenhouse in the sky.” He squinted at me. “You have any plans after you drop me off at Logan? You sticking around up here for a while, or heading right back for the Vineyard?”

“I thought I might drive up to New Hampshire, but I've changed my mind.”

“Zee?”

“Yeah. She didn't go up there to be with me. I guess I'll head back for the island. With stops at various stores on the way, of course, to load up on stuff at mainland prices.”

“But of course. Tell you what. I haven't exactly lied about it, mind you, but I've dropped a few hints that I'm going back down there myself. This Colorado trip is a little secret of mine. I don't want any phone calls from the college telling me I have to be back early because of some crisis or other. If they call the Vineyard, they'll get no answer.” He shoved a paper across to me. “Here's my mother's address and telephone number. If you really have to get in touch with me, you can do it there. Pick
up my Vineyard mail, if you will, and forward anything that looks important.”

“Your secret is safe with me. And I'll keep an eye on your place and your car.”

We washed the breakfast dishes, made the beds, and closed the windows. John gave me the rest of the eggs, juice, bacon, and bread. Then we put our gear in the Wagoneer and I drove us over to 95 South and on into Logan International.

We shook hands and John got out with his bag and headed inside the terminal. I drove to Boston through the tunnel and found the hospital where Geraldine Miles was being treated. I went in only to be told that Geraldine was in the operating room having some part of her put back together again. I left a note, then got onto the Expressway South, and headed for the Cape.

By the time I got to Woods Hole and found a place in the standby line to the Vineyard, John's Wagoneer was bulging with booze, food, and other goodies I'd purchased on the way. I'd saved myself a pretty penny. A man might be able to make a living by contracting with Vineyarders to go to the mainland in a van every now and then and buy them stuff that was overpriced on the island. What island stuff wasn't overpriced, after all? He could charge a pretty good fee and the islanders would still get their stuff cheaper than they could buy it on the Vineyard. I ran this old idea through my head for a while and discarded it. I didn't like shopping that much. Besides, somebody was probably already doing it. Enough people had thought about it, certainly. People were always trying to figure out ways to live cheaply on the Vineyard, and there weren't many new ideas left.

I got on the last boat. Last car on, last car off. Perfect timing. I drove to my place through the night and unloaded my treasures, stuffing the freezer and filling shelves. I thawed some of last winter's scallops and got some rice going. Then I chopped some veggies, including plenty of
onions (since onions improve any dish except dessert), and some green peppers, stir-fried the veggies and scallops, and poured the mixture over a plate of rice. A bit of soy sauce and . . . Delish! I found a bottle of Rhine wine in the fridge and had a few glasses while I ate my late night supper. Some lingering scent of Zee was in the air and the house felt lonely, but I'd been lonely before. I went to bed and read until I got so sleepy that my eyes hurt. Then I went to sleep.

In the morning I discovered a dilemma: I wanted to leave John's Wagoneer at his house, but I didn't have a ride home. I thought of Manny Fonseca, who always went home for lunch. I phoned him at his shop.

“Hey, Red Cloud, how about swinging by John Skye's place at noon and giving me a ride home?”

“Us noble Native Americans are always willing to lend a hand to strangers in our land even though it gets us nothing but trouble. I'll be by about twelve-fifteen.”

“May your tribe increase.”

It was almost eighty degrees, hot by Vineyard standards, and the wind hadn't come up, so it was sticky. I weeded the garden for a while, before it got even hotter, then stripped and lay in the morning sun with the first beer of the day, perfecting my tan. If a low-flying plane filled with beautiful women flew over, would it circle before going on? Would anyone parachute out? The plane didn't show up.

At eleven-thirty I climbed into shorts, sandals, and a tee shirt that said Ban Mopeds on Martha's Vineyard, and drove the Wagoneer to John's farm. I parked the Jeep on the east side of the house, away from the prevailing southwesterlies, and checked things out. Barn and corrals were okay, so I walked around the house. The windows were locked and nobody had tried to get in the doors. I unlocked the front door and walked through the house. Everything was fine. I went back outside. The foundation of John's house was made of large granite slabs. The outside
door to the basement was one you got to by opening wooden doors that slanted against the foundation and going down some steps made of smaller granite slabs to the basement door. I opened the outer door and started down the steps, thinking that Manny Fonseca would be arriving at any time.

I noticed an odd red dot on the door beside me as I stepped down. It seemed to move toward me and my heart jumped and I dived down the steps.

Wood exploded over my head. I dug out my set of John's keys and frantically tried to find the one for the basement door. I tried a wrong one, then the right one, and was inside in the darkness slamming the door behind me. My heart was thumping and I was gasping. I quieted myself down, groped for the stairwell, found it, and ran upstairs. I listened. No sounds in the house. I ran silently to John's bedroom, unlocked his closet, and got out his 12 gauge Savage. Shells were on a top shelf. I stuffed the magazine full and went to a window. I stood to one side and looked out. Nothing outside. I listened. Nothing inside. I went to the library and looked outside. Nothing. I moved from room to room, looking and listening. Nothing. The outside door to the basement was under a window in the dining room. I looked out and saw that a corner had been blown off the door. I looked beyond the lawn and into the trees. Someone had been there waiting for me with a weapon with a laser scope. If I hadn't been thinking of Manny Fonseca, I wouldn't have recognized the dot of red on the door. I felt light-headed and leaned against the wall.

No time to be scared. I looked out at the trees. Maple and oak and pine, with undergrowth that made good cover for someone who knew how to use it. I looked for what seemed a long time and saw nothing. Then I heard a car coming down the driveway.

Manny Fonseca was driving right into trouble he knew nothing about. If the shootist was just potting whomever
he saw, Manny might be next. On the other hand, maybe he was only after me. If I went outside to warn Manny, I'd be a target again. Maybe if I stayed put, I could get a shot at the guy before the guy got a shot at Manny. On the other hand, maybe I couldn't.

There was no right thing to do, but Manny was an innocent party. I glanced at the trees and saw nothing. I ran to the front door and threw it open and ran to meet Manny's Bronco as it came into the yard. As I ran, I waited for the bullets to come through my ribs.

No bullets came. Manny saw the shotgun in my hand and was quick on the uptake. He slammed on the brakes and threw open the passenger door as I came up. I was inside while he was still moving.

“Get us out of here, Crazy Horse!”

Manny spun the Bronco, sending grass and sand flying, and we roared back up the driveway between the trees. I looked for red dots, listened for bullets coming through breaking glass or thumping through steel. I stared ahead and on either side and through the back window, but saw nothing. I heard nothing but the scream of the Bronco's engine. Then we were on the pavement and Manny spun the wheel and sent us racing toward Edgartown.

Parked under the trees on the side of the road was a blue two-door sedan. No one was in it. I caught a glimpse of the license plate. New York. I got the last three digits.

As we passed it, I looked back and saw no rifleman leaping from the trees, no movement around the car, nothing. I looked some more. Still nothing.