PART 2: WHICH OF THEM
Chapter 7
The Blue Whale, after sunset
Tisa Lundford sat tensely at a table in The Blue Whale, her fingers tightening and relaxing around the tall, frosty glass of beer before her.
The jukebox across the room purred out a tune. The lights in the bar were low. Couples danced. Water rings on Tisa's table gleamed dully where prior patrons had rested sweating beverages. She had quickly slipped over to this table just as a party of people, obviously friends, had gotten up to leave. She felt herself lucky; the place was crowded, and empty tables were becoming scarce. She eyed the bar that she had not had the courage to sit at. How could she claim a seat there? For all her swagger back at Collinwood, The Blue Whale's atmosphere had Tisa feeling quite timid.
Meeting Lars Castlewold this afternoon and having him react so positively to her had given her the courage to come downtown by herself for a night out. She was a normal young woman, after all! He had to be at the rink evenings, so he wasn't available. Well, she'd see what the nightlife in Collinsport was like. She admitted to herself that she needed a refresher course on how to act in public places among normal people. In a bar, for instance.
Bob the bartender had come to her table and taken her order. At the last moment, she had decided to have dinner along with the beer she wanted. After all, how could someone like herself just sit alone, swilling beer? Heart racing, she told herself that it was probably a wise and natural thing for a lone young woman to do, have food and beer together. And anyway, having a plate before her meant she could linger as long as she liked, without having to explain anything to anyone, if, that is, anyone approached her. She could just toy with her food, listen and observe, and enjoy her first time in a bar.
She thought of Sister Mary Jerome, who had hated her back at the convent. Wouldn't she wet herself if she could see Tisa tonight?
Her heart continued to pound in her chest. Why couldn't she just calm down and be easy? Why had she come out this evening?
Did the transition from death to life have to be so hard?
She had fought with all her might even to have come this far, and now, here she was. And it was all going to pay off.
Startling her, Bob appeared at her elbow and placed her dinner before her: a tuna sandwich on toast with tomato slices on the side, and half a corncob with little skewers screwed into its opposite sides so that the diner didn't have to touch the buttery corncob with her fingers. She smiled, wondering at the colorful little skewers. Such genial modern conveniences hadn't yet caught on at the Mother House, where most of the sisters liked to pretend it was still the fifteenth century.
The bartender left her with a touch of reluctance. He felt a little protective of this furtive young lady. He'd never seen her in here before, and her behavior was slightly odd. He couldn't exactly put his finger on it. The kid was motionless, staring around the place as though she'd never seen a crowd of humans before. It was after sunset and the factories had let out for the night, so The Blue Whale was beginning to fill up, and here was this kid all by herself. Bob decided to keep an eye on her. He knew she wasn't actually a child, since he'd asked to see her ID before bringing her the beer she'd asked for, and a girl with a body like that could hardly be mistaken for a kid. But Bob was observant, and had picked up a sense of otherworldliness in his customer. He hoped none of the wharf's rough guys would try to hit on her.
He shook his head and returned to the bar as the front doors banged open and six or seven cannery men, laughing and carousing, streamed in. He soon had his hands full.
The place was getting smoky from the lit cigarettes at multiple tables, and Tisa's lungs were beginning to suffer. A rough male voice from the jukebox was singing about an American woman, and Tisa felt her soul lift in identification. She would be a woman like that, commanding a man's attention and warm interest. She thought of Lars and felt a happy flush steal through her. Though the pace of the music was not fast, it was playing havoc with her pulse. She closed her eyes and told herself fiercely that she was enjoying her night out. She needed the practice.
For contrast, she remembered how she'd had to pretend for years to be numb and meek as a nun, while all the time panic had raged inside her chest. She remembered bland, watery dinners that mocked her craving taste buds. The unending parade of skirts, a dull faded black, swishing past as her sister nuns executed their pointless duties; the lusterless, unbeautiful shoes everyone had to wear. And she remembered herself mopping an unused corridor in an untenanted wing of the mother house one particular Saturday morning, sunlight and silence filling the hall as she worked. Nothing ahead in the long, brutally lonely day except more tasks that didn't need doing, scrubbing things that were already clean. If anyone ever asked her what loneliness was, what death felt like, she would answer just that.
Mopping an already clean floor in a room far removed from other humans, no reference to or awareness of time, as silence piled up in billows, surrounding, cushioning, suffocating, finally pushing against your eardrums and stealing inside your head to where it muffled your brain. And you could hear nothing, noise didn't exist, you heard no sound when you swished your mop in the sudsy bucket, nor when you began to hyperventilate harsh, scraping breaths that sawed in and out of your throat, and so you fell to hands and knees and began to shriek, and the cavernous silence absorbed that sound, too, every scream of it.
"Well, looky here!"
Violently surprised, Tisa nearly toppled backwards in her chair.
A man with light blue eyes and floppy blond hair brushed to one side stood over her, leaning both hands on the table to look into her face. A puff of his breath told her that he was intoxicated.
"You're new around town," he declared in too loud a voice. He slung himself into the chair opposite her, his bottom nearly missing the seat. His chair's legs made a screeking noise against the wood of the floor.
Tisa was silent, looking at him, then lowered her eyes to her plate.
"Hey!" he called abruptly, rapping his knuckles on the table across from her and ducking his head to catch her eyes. "Hey in there! Smile, I'm talking to you! I haven't seen you around here before. I came all the way across the room to invite you to come look at my boat. I'm heading down to the marina right now, and the boat is cozy, great for private parties. Sweet boat."
Tisa fought down embarrassment and a burning rage. Embarrassment, because here she had a situation she didn't want and there was no one she could appeal to for help; rage, because this buffoon had frightened her badly.
"I am waiting for someone," she heard herself say coolly. She took up her glass, and gulped.
The man gave a ripping snort as he lounged in the chair, his legs splayed out to their utmost length.
"We're all waiting for somebody," he told her, drawing a pack of Lucky Strikes from his breast pocket, "and some of us can't be too choosy. You're lucky I spotted you first. Come on, I really want to show you my boat, it's super. I promise I won't take it out on the water or anything. We'll just sit together on the deck and, you know, count the stars."
She lifted her glance to his face and saw, with unease, that he was greedily studying her chest as well as directing all his remarks to it.
She had read of this phenomenon in women's magazines. Never having experienced it, she had thought those who complained protested too much. Now that it was happening to her, however, she realized that it was not the compliment she had assumed it to be. It made her feel like nothing. Exactly the way she'd felt as a nun. The threat was different, but the resultant indignation the same.
Tisa fiddled with her silverware. "Leave me alone."
"Wha?"
She raised her voice, making it steely. "I said, go away."
He went very still, and she felt frightened.
"Don't act like that. We're both here to have a good time, right? So why not be friendly?" His eyes had hardened; they were now definitely fixed on her face. She felt a quick boil of anger.
Tisa had come here tonight in hopes of blending in, being accepted, and, yes, maybe catching a look of appreciation from a man or two. But she didn't want this sort of attention.
The man got up quickly, knocking over his chair. Tisa caught her breath.
"So c'mon, let's go out the back way. The boat's a cabin cruiser, and guess who has the keys? Technically, it's my brother's boat, but he's somewhere else tonight. Nobody'll bother us there. You'll like me when you get to know me." He gave an insipid smile, which did not hide the unkindness in his eyes.
Tisa clenched her corncob and stared up at him. "If you don't leave me alone," she said evenly, not knowing what gave her the courage to speak to him in this fashion, "I'm going to ... I'm going to do something."
He hesitated, then leaned down to her, putting both his hands on the tablecloth and pushing his face into hers.
"Gonna do something?" he whispered, and she could hear him clearly over the music and the conversation of the other patrons and even over the hissing inside her head, "you bet your sweet ass you're gonna do something, you're gonna accept the invitation I was nice enough to offer you, and stop trying to act like you can do better. Who the hell do you think you are? I came over here nice and friendly as a man can be, and you do the ice-princess thing. You're obviously looking for a man, and here I am, so let's see a little gratitude."
He drew back a little and watched as the color drained from the woman's face. He could feel Bob's eyes on him across the bar, and even see the bartender in his peripheral vision.
"Don't be a naughty bitch. Come with me nice like I asked you."
He took her by the arm. He saw Bob approaching quickly.
Tisa raised her eyes to her tormentor. Her fury swung all of her senses, the hissing in her head increased to aircraft takeoff decibel level, and everything before her eyes turned suddenly red.
Elliot had just sunk gratefully onto the sofa in the drawing room when someone began pounding on Collinwood's front door.
Roger's nerve had snapped. Moments before, he had mashed a hat upon his head and declared that he was going to the crypt to free Elizabeth. He (Elliot) and Barnabas had taken him up sharply, extolling the safety of the crypt and Elizabeth's continued protection there, but Roger had gotten a glazed look in his eyes and fought back. He'd finally told Elliot in that clipped British way of his (hilarious, since Roger had been born and bred in Collinsport) that Tisa must be immediately removed from the house. Before Elliot had fully realized it, he'd seized the other man by the throat. Barnabas had leapt between them, and Elliot, ashamed of himself, had let Barnabas accompany Roger on the long walk to the crypt, still attempting to reason with him.
Elliot was on an emotional hair-trigger where his niece was concerned, and he knew it. He also knew the ream of arguments clearing Tisa from being the beast they sought. It wasn't intellectually credible. Tisa was up in daylight hours, had lived for eight years in close quarters with rosaries and holy water, and was a sweet innocent besides. Yet his heart ached. A vampire could not have survived in a convent of nuns, true; but what if something had befallen Tisa just as she was leaving the order? What if she had only become a vampire last week?
Was it possible? Of course it was possible.
His heart bled for the solemn little girl he had once known. Tisa had loved her uncle when she was a child; today, he didn't know her anymore. What awful secrets was she holding in her heart? Could his niece actually be the monster that had bitten Elizabeth? Murdered a pair of children near Collinwood last Monday? But it was that afternoon he'd picked her up, himself, at the bus stop at the Inn, in broad daylight! And yet—
He heaved himself out of his seat and moved into the foyer to answer the door. Before touching the knob, he closed his eyes and calmed his spirit. He would get to the bottom of the mystery. In spite of his dawning fears for Tisa, perhaps all would yet turn out well.
Elliot opened the door to a stranger who blinked at him.
"I have come to speak to Roger Collins," Kim Jansing told him.
Elliot showed Kim into the drawing room. Barnabas was still out with Roger. Julia had gone to town, hoping to glean information from both the coroner and the Collinwood Hospital staff regarding the dead children.
He had no idea where David and Hallie were. He assumed Tisa was upstairs.
"I suppose I am acting as the Collinwood ambassador tonight," he chuckled. "Roger has stepped out, and Mrs. Stoddard is indisposed."
"She is?" asked the gentleman, and Elliot read disappointment in the man's face. And a sort of alertness which was perhaps alarm. The man gave Elliot a covert look that piqued him, but it was gone in a flash.
"My name is Kim Jansing. I rent studio space from Mr. Collins," Kim explained. The men shook hands.
Elliot felt a soft glance of satisfaction. So here at last was Jansing—and in daylight hours, too. He was keen to size up the artist.
Jansing was handsome, with a guileless face and heavily lashed eyes of clear blue. A good-looking young man with loose, blondish-brown curls. He was dressed after the fashion of Robert Browning. Elliot knew that this was a recent phenomenon imported by British youth in the last ten years. Kim wore plain dark trousers and a white cotton shirt with long, billowy sleeves. He looked like a compatriot of Vincent Van Gogh. Elliot tried to imagine the man working over a palette of sloppy oil paints in those sleeves.
"You will have a drink perhaps? This is Roger's good Amontillado."
Kim, who had lifted his fingers in refusal, hesitated. "Amontillado? If you don't mind, yes, I would like a taste."
"With pleasure," Elliot murmured, drawing two modest glasses.
The artist accepted the drink with a nod of thanks, and the men took seats.
"I am glad to meet you," Elliot confessed. "Roger is proud to be renting rooms to a painter of portraits. I wondered whether you would favor my students with a visit to our class one day. I understand that you were a student in Paris, and if you were there in '68 when the riots took place, my young people would be fascinated. I teach at Black Point College."
Kim studied him, frowning, and for a time said nothing. Elliot began to find the pause awkward.
"'Sixty-eight," Kim murmured finally, as though finding it difficult to think three years back. "Nineteen-sixty-eight. No. I was not in Paris at the time."
Elliot leaned back and sipped his drink. He had thought of a way to examine Kim, but not for elimination from the vampire pool. There was some other element about the man he wanted to test which wouldn't require a cross.
Roger had told Elliot something curious that David had shared: Jansing seemed never to have heard of The Beatles' musical group. David had also related that Kim claimed to have studied art in Russia and had exhibited surprise when David had reacted with astonishment. And then there was his reference to the United States as 'the Colonies.' It was a bizarre piece of conversation, nearly indicative of a break with reality. Under the current circumstances, Elliot's mind had been puzzling to explain it.
A man of Kim's age had no excuse for not knowing of The Beatles, unless he'd been comatose for the past eight years. And any American, especially one who'd lived in Europe, would know of the Cold War, the Berlin Wall, and Russia's inaccessibility. Referring to the United States as 'the Colonies' was patently ridiculous. Here was one red flag after another.
What was the explanation? If Kim were the monster, he'd probably been alive for centuries, but still it made no sense that he wouldn't know 1960s popular culture, presumably having just lived through it. Then where had he been? What could explain such temporal disorientation?
Had something happened to literally cause the monster to 'go to ground'? Such a happening would have left the vampire with some blind spots on historical events. What, then, could have taken place?
Elliot was unaware of the vampire past of his dear friend Barnabas. He had had some suspicions there, but had shelved them long ago. But Barnabas could have named several factors that might have kept a vampire inactive as time slowly spun past him.
Whatever the cause and whatever it meant, Elliot was fascinated to find out how far the rift extended. What would a simple discussion of current events reveal?
"That is a pity," Elliot said gently now to Jansing, referring to Kim's having missed the Paris riots. "But perhaps you could come and display your work. Speak of your travels. It's an intelligent group of young people."
Kim looked at him intently. "I am not that well-traveled," he admitted. "I am a native of Maine, and have only been to very few places. I was two years in the Dutch Republic, and I've spent time in Germany and Northern Africa."
Elliot lowered his lids. "North Africa, how interesting. I have also had the good fortune to visit the Netherlands, but that was in the post-war years."
"Post-war, yes," Kim echoed uneasily, as though the expression didn't register. He cleared his throat and sat forward on the sofa, dangling his glass in one hand.
When was the Netherlands last known as the Dutch Republic? Elliot asked himself. Eighteenth century?
"I'm sorry to hear that you've taken rooms in the cannery. I don't imagine the atmosphere there can be entirely—"
"What has happened to Mrs. Stoddard, if you do not mind the question?"
Elliot blinked at the interruption. "She is unwell," he rumbled, making a vague gesture with his hand. "Headaches. She's gone to visit her daughter," he lied.
"Headaches? Nothing more than that? Are you sure?" Kim pressed. If Elliot was not wrong, there was some urgency in the question.
"Oh yes, I'm sure."
As Kim set his glass on the table, Elliot studied him. He had a slight cleft in his chin, a healthy tan—which might be fake—and those limpid blue eyes with their shadowy surround of lashes. Elliot noted the lines of pain that had made their impress on either side of Kim's mouth. Strange lines for a young man's face.
"How old are you, Mr. Jansing?" he asked.
Kim flushed.
"Twenty-five."
"Ah, twenty-five. You're young, but your reputation precedes you. Many people will be anxious to know you. If you like, I would be happy to make a few introductions. To the mayor, for instance. He and his wife would be very pleased to know you. They are collectors of art."
Kim was relaxing by increments. "Oh?" he asked with a smile. "I would be honored to meet your friends."
"We'll set something up," Elliot said, putting his glass beside Kim's. He trained his gaze to the serenity of the terrace beyond the French windows and got ready to weave some fiction. "The mayor and I have been friends since primary school," he related, with a bemused chuckle. "I never expected him to enter public service, but here we are. There were actually three of us who grew up together, this friend of mine and another one, who is a painter, like yourself," Elliot told him. He felt like a fisherman casting his reel over new waters. "I definitely want you to meet him."
"That is something that would greatly interest me. What is his medium? And," Kim laughed, "is he any good?"
Elliot grinned back at the artist. "Mick works in oils, but he'll try anything once. Perhaps we can go to his studio, or better yet, the four of us could have lunch somewhere around town."
Kim stiffened slightly. "I'm usually quite busy," he apologized. "But perhaps if it is simply a matter of meeting at an inn, for meat and drink …"
"Oh, it would be strictly casual, believe me. The only thing we'd have to look at is Charlie's schedule. That's my friend, the mayor. Charles Manson."
"Well, I'll be pleased to meet him. And what is the name of your artist friend?" Kim secured his glass again and sipped, enjoying the marvelous liquor.
"Mick Jagger. He painted Hallie once, but to be perfectly frank, I didn't care for the treatment he gave the subject."
Kim sat back a little on the sofa and gazed at the leaves outside the French windows as Elliot watched him.
No reaction.
No sign of recognition of the names Charles Manson and Mick Jagger. For Kim not to have taken him up on such names, at least questioned them or exclaimed at them, was unimaginable for any young person in the world exposed to broadcast news. There was no way he could brush that off; it was like encountering a Jew who'd never heard of Abraham.
Conversation went on. Elliot let his imagination lead him.
"There's an annual get-together coming up in early December I'd like you to know about. Most of Collinsport will be there to celebrate, and you needn't bring anything but yourself. It's called the Donner Party. Do you think you might want to come?"
Kim smiled at him. "Collinsport seems a very happy place," he responded in a husky voice. "Friends and Christmastide revels." For a second, he looked pained. "If I am still in town, I believe I would enjoy that very much. But I'm afraid that I must get back to my studio; I have a portrait in progress."
"Oh, certainly," Elliot said, rising. "Which reminds me, I wanted to mention that we have a very fine local art supply house if you haven't been there already. It is run by two friends, former students of mine. Perhaps I have their business card on me …" Elliot pretended to falter for a moment at his vest pockets. "No, I haven't. Well. They're on South Main Street. Bud Abbott and Lou Costello. They have all you could need, canvases, paints, brushes."
"Thank you for telling me. I will soon have to pay a visit there. Perhaps Mr. Collins can direct me to the location. But I really must be leaving, though I have enjoyed talking with you."
The men left the drawing room.
At the door, Kim shook Elliot's hand. "I've enjoyed meeting you, Professor," Kim said with sincerity, and with a hopeful glance into his companion's face. "I have been lonely and not realizing it, and you have this afternoon made me feel welcome. I would be happy to meet any of these townspeople you have mentioned."
With nearly a pang of remorse in his heart, Elliot relinquished Kim's hand. The artist's eyes had been guileless and trusting. "The pleasure was mine. May I call you Kim? And you must call me Elliot."
The painter nodded, pleased.
"Feel free to ask Mr. Collins' secretary the way to the art store, if you can't find Roger," Elliot said softly in farewell. "She knows where all these people are. Her name is Ruth. Babe Ruth."
With another expression of thanks, Kim was gone.
No reaction to some of the biggest names in late-modern history.
Charles Manson, bloodthirsty murderer of Sharon Tate and scores of others, currently on trial in Los Angeles for his life. Manson had struck terror worldwide with his random, gory slayings of innocent people in their California homes.
Mick Jagger, the charismatic lead singer of the British rock group, The Rolling Stones.
The Donner Party, not a festival at all, but the name of a doomed caravan of American settlers who had gotten lost in the Sierras in 1847 and had been mostly decimated by cannibalism. Schoolchildren from that time to this had heard the story.
Abbott and Costello. Elliot was willing to bet that almost anybody in the world, from Collinsport to Mindanao, was familiar with the famous comedians.
Babe Ruth, the quintessential American baseball legend.
Elliot sat on in the drawing room of Collinwood, absorbed in thought, holding his empty glass.
He was alone in his murky studio. The stench of dry rot in the room, now familiar to his nose, little troubled him. He sat on his stool and swung one booted leg, his canvases silent about him, and thought about his meeting with Professor Stokes.
He had liked Elliot. The man had been authentically friendly. Collinsport was where Kim had been born, but he'd been ages in Europe, and the town was no longer recognizable to him. It left him feeling depressed. And he had been charmed by his short encounter with Elizabeth Stoddard yesterday. That gracious lady had given him a feeling of comfort, and even esteem. He wondered what her illness was and what had caused her to flee the house. He was acutely concerned, and doubted what Stokes had said of headaches, but Kim didn't know how he could have demanded details without inviting uncomfortable scrutiny of himself.
And he hadn't even asked after the two children. Were they safe, or had something befallen them, too? The danger was great; who knew that better than himself? In retrospect, he felt great liking for Hallie and David, but while they had sat chatting with him that afternoon, he had been frightened. They were a threat to him; he was sure that David had registered his bafflement in the discussion they'd had. Kim had to keep clear of the young people.
Elliot had put Kim far more at ease than Roger Collins had. Certainly Roger had been kind to him, but Kim felt that that was because of money. He had paid Roger a huge sum to secure rooms in the cannery. Obtaining this particular space had been imperative to Kim and he hadn't wanted to attempt making up a story, so he had allowed the money to speak for him. He felt that Roger Collins tolerated him on the strength of that and little else.
But Kim would have to rein in his loneliness and carry on with the matter that had brought him home.
He lifted his eyes to his latest painting, a beautiful depiction of the harbor just outside, at night. Sky and sea in purples and blues. Trawlers and fishing boats rolling clumsily in the slips. Groups of fishermen, their heads touched by the moonlight which traced a trail across choppy water.
He had painted the seaport in order to have something to show, in case he was challenged. After all, he was here, supposedly, to paint the local coast. His other paintings were not of the sea.
Kim had completed this painting as rapidly as he could. He needed to paint, anyway. It was his very life; he couldn't help himself. He remembered feeling ecstasy at lifting a brush once more, after such a long, black time away, discovering his talent hadn't deserted him. Painting focused him. He wished that he could just devote his life to it and exploit his gift as far as he could take it. But he hadn't been free to live his life for years.
A horrific task lay ahead of him.
For the first time, he allowed himself to consider the future, when his ungodly responsibility would have been discharged. Perhaps he could remain in Collinsport. Maybe there really were fine people here who would accept him. Possibly, he could be a normal member of a community again.
But that wasn't to be thought of yet. What was the use? He could think of nothing until he had carried out the task he figured was going to kill him.
"Thanks for coming down," Sheriff Amos Luke told Elliot Stokes. "We've got her in back."
"My niece is in a cell?"
"Yes, she is. One of the doctors at the hospital came by to check her over, and she's fine, Elliot."
"What happened?"
"An altercation at The Blue Whale. As I understand it, Miss Lundford was minding her own business when a man began bothering her. Your niece is lucky; several witnesses have come forward to tell what they saw. Bob Rooney, the bartender over there, definitively says that it was the man who started it."
"But Amos," Elliot rasped, his eyes never leaving the other man's face, "why have you put her in a cell? Shouldn't Tisa be in the hospital if someone assaulted her?"
Amos carefully leaned back in his creaky old chair, slowly eased his feet up on his desk, and said, "Well, I'm going to be honest with you. She hurt him."
Elliot felt a spasm of pain at his heart even as his features bent in disbelief at the sheriff. "What the hell are you talking about?"
He had been flabbergasted to receive a call twenty minutes earlier from the sheriff's office with instructions to pick up his niece at the jail. He hadn't known Tisa had it in her to frequent an establishment such as The Blue Whale. Not that there was anything wrong with the local watering hole, but what was his demure little niece doing down there alone at night, when he'd thought she was up in her room?
He blamed himself for having spent so little time with her, made so little effort to see her in the days since she'd been at Collinwood. As he well knew, there had already been a ruckus at the house with Tisa involving his other niece, Hallie, and what had he done? He'd merely let Julia Hoffman brief him on the details and left Liz Stoddard to cope with the situation alone. Elliot cursed himself for a fool. Oh, he was doing a terrific job looking after these nieces of his. Hallie had been frightened to death by the bloody encounter with Tisa the other day, and what of Tisa herself? He hadn't talked with her about it or even checked on her. Who knew what his elder niece was thinking? He was as neglectful of her as her parents were.
Regrets and ruminations rumbled through Elliot as the sheriff continued.
"Now listen to me. I'm speaking frankly with you, and I expect you to behave yourself. No going after the guy involved. You leave that to us. Got that? The last thing I need is you zooming off alone for revenge. If you'll give me your word, I will tell you the whole story."
"I'm not that type of man, Amos, you know that. All I want is to protect Tisa. But yes, yes, I give you my word."
Amos sighed. "As I say, your niece was having dinner there by herself when young Henry Cabot started bothering her. He was a couple sheets to the wind. Your niece says that he insisted on squiring her across the way to the marina for private shenanigans on his brother's boat.
"If you know the Cabots, you know Lester Cabot practically never uses our marina—he prefers the one at the Country Club, not the one us peons use.
"Anyway, this is where their stories diverge. Henry says he only asked her to dance with him and that she immediately, quote, "went berserk" and attacked him. He asserts that he never said a word about taking her to his brother's boat, which he swore was not moored down here by us. I sent Fred down the wharf real quick, and it turns out that Lester's rig is moored down here tonight after all. It gives a great deal of weight to your niece's story, because I understand that she's brand new in town, and how is she to know where these clowns are putting up their boats? And how would she know it's Lester's rather than Henry's? Henry's been telling fibs.
"A couple that was dining near Miss Lundford told me that Henry was being quite loud and standing over her in a menacing fashion. They say it sounded as though he were demanding she go someplace with him. They saw him take Miss Lundford by the arm.
"Then we have the testimony of Bob Rooney. He almost blames himself for the entire thing. He was trying to keep an eye on Miss Lundford, because he said she struck him as, oh, vulnerable, I guess, and when he saw Henry bothering her, he tried to get over there but wasn't fast enough. He confirms that Miss Lundford had simply been having dinner, bothering nobody."
Elliot had held himself in check until the sheriff finished. "And Cabot? Have you detained him, is he in a cell also? Just because his last name is Cabot and he's wealthy doesn't mean he can go about terrorizing young girls!"
"Cabot's at the hospital."
"Why, why's he at the hospital?" Elliot burst out angrily. "What did she do, stomp on his foot?"
"No, Elliot. The guy's got a puncture wound in his throat. She just missed his jugular."
The Collinsport Inn, after sunset
Burke was getting used to the coffee shop again. It had taken him days because it was all so unfamiliar. The waitresses now wore turquoise nylon uniforms instead of the friendly white dresses of yesterday. And the hairstyles on the girls were so odd and clunky. As to the men and their long hair? Dear God, don't get him started.
He was so lonely that his hands ached. He sat back at his favorite table, the one he'd always taken in the days when he lived here and Carolyn would join him for breakfast. Or Vicky would.
Tears threatened to rise, tightening his throat. But he ignored them, and in a few seconds the pressure eased. He lifted his empty coffee cup and looked into it, and when he raised his eyes, David was there.
The eldritch boy he remembered had grown into a frank, solemn teen. Had Burke missed the stage where the boy's voice would break when he spoke? Perhaps, for tonight David was fourteen. The incremental changes that had taken place in the kid hit Burke again as one high-speed alteration after his four-year absence.
He marveled once more that Roger and Laura, blonde and blue-eyed, could have produced this dark-eyed son. Elizabeth also had blue eyes. Burke was no geneticist, but it had always struck him as strange.
David thrilled at his hero's confident smile as he wrestled his way out of his jacket and threw it over the back of his chair. He saw the scars on Burke's head. They weren't that bad, really, and you couldn't even see them unless you were sort of standing over him as David was now and looking down. Though the damage was mostly hidden, it still made David's heart wrench in concern and anger.
He flopped gracelessly into his seat.
They spoke of music, fishing, cars, and David's future. David thought he might want to be a record producer when he was old enough. Or go in for chemistry somehow. Or join the Air Force.
Burke's lips lifted in a grin. He'd been in the Air Force himself. Or at least, he'd registered and completed his basic training. And then one blotto night, he'd trusted an intoxicated Roger Collins to drive him home. It had been one week before he'd been set to report for duty at Loring Air Force Base—which, of course, he never did. He'd be standing trial for manslaughter instead.
He'd put that night where it belonged—out of his thoughts, where it couldn't hurt anymore. But tonight the spectre of the incident rose up before him again. Well. It was long ago, and now he could officially say that he had lived through worse, but dear God, how he hated Roger Collins. He'd love to see the man crawling on the floor, cheeks stained with tears, watching all his precious millions evaporating.
Juicy fantasy, for what it was worth. But there were other people who would be hurt if that happened, and Burke cared about them now. There was Liz, and David. And Veronika.
Something deep inside him moved at the thought of her.
He sighed, and brought his mind back to the cafe and the boy before him.
"Well, Davey," he asked, "how was your birthday up on the hill?"
David shrugged and flipped open his menu. "I got a lot of the albums I asked for, which is fantastic, but it's been a weird birthday anyhow. A lot of my birthdays are weird."
"You've had a weird birthday? How so?"
"Well, for one thing," David said, smiling, "you died on my birthday and now here you are again, just in time." His hair fell into his eyes, and he tossed his head slightly to get it out of the way. "Burke? Are you ... going to tell me what happened to you in Brazil?"
At the question, Burke made himself relax. "Yes, I am. Right now, if you like, as soon as we order."
Burke had coffee and David had a chocolate frappe, and each ordered a hot dog with French fries. David had mustard on his hot dog, and groaned when Burke slathered his with mustard, mayo, ketchup and relish.
And then Burke gave David a truthful if sanitized and slightly swashbuckling account of what had happened to him in South America. The teen was silent throughout.
"I wanted to tell you first," Burke concluded, "because you're the one who never gave up on me."
The effect of Burke's narrative remained in David's eyes. He was unmoving and silent, and Burke wondered what emotions churned through him. Then David spoke.
"Are you sure they're all dead?"
"I'm sure. Every last one of them."
The boy stared at him silently and finally nodded. "Good. Okay. Then we don't have to hunt them down."
"No, Davey, they're gone," Burke agreed softly.
"Because I was ready," David said with lowered eyes. "I've thought of this for a long time. I know how to shoot, and I could learn how to handle a dagger. I've read up on setting booby traps. I was sure that one day we'd go down there and punish those men who grabbed you." David lowered his head and traced a pattern on the tablecloth. "I'm so angry that this happened to you, Burke."
No one had said anything like that to him before, and the simple compassion of the statement gave Burke a surge of love for the boy.
"Thanks, David," he told him. "A guy doesn't find this caliber of friendship just anyplace. You're a good man." And I'm proud of you, Burke nearly said. Well, damn it, he was vastly proud of how David had turned out. He felt a link with the boy to his very soul.
The waitress cleared away their plates. A moment later, the lights in the coffee shop dimmed dramatically, and David looked up with concern.
"Oh, no," he said, "don't tell me the skating rink is going to cause a power failure here at the Inn. That'd be the end."
Almost before he'd finished speaking, a sweet-faced waitress leaned over to slide a plate with a lit birthday candle stuck into the middle of a chocolate eclair. David blinked in surprise.
Burke's eyes shone in the semi-dark. "Happy Fourteenth, David," he saluted.
Later, Burke drove David back to Collinwood in the 1962 green Caddy he'd rented for himself. Thank God Brazil drove on the right side of the road; he'd needed some refresher jaunts before he came home, to be certain that driving was even a skill he still possessed.
In the darkness of the car David suddenly said, "Thank you, Burke. I appreciated that."
"Appreciated what?"
David squirmed, feeling awkward. "The candle and the eclair. That was the best surprise I got today. My father took me out to lunch, but he was so sad and distracted, we didn't have a very good time."
His friend grimaced. "What in the world has Roger got to be depressed about?" he asked. "For heavens' sake, he needs to pull his head out of the cannery every so often and pay attention to what's important." Like Veronika, he said to himself. Seeing Roger again, and having known Dr. Liska since the beginning of the week, it made less sense to him than ever that she would actually choose to marry the guy. There was always the chance that she could straighten him out, but a man shouldn't need a woman to make him stop acting like a jerk. The thought of that union made him feel helpless and ill, but he was going to have to put it out of his mind because there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it.
How he would love to have her, or a woman like her. But he was a mess nowadays, only just returning to the life he'd been out of for so long, and with all his physical challenges, he just couldn't see any woman wanting him.
"It's not that," David said in the darkness. "My father is upset because something's happened to Aunt Elizabeth."
"Elizabeth?" Burke asked with alerted attention. "What's happened? I'm coming to tell her about South America tonight. She told me to come by this evening."
"Well, she's not there. Everybody's trying to make sure that Hallie and Amy and I don't find out what happened, but it's something bad," David said angrily. "You'd think they would at least treat Hallie and me like adults instead of kids, but no. They snuck Aunt Elizabeth out of the house, but I know she's not at the hospital because I telephoned over there to check. Barnabas knows what it is, because he's been over trying to calm my father down. Do they think I'm not going to notice that Aunt Elizabeth isn't home the night of my birthday, when we were supposed to have a party? It's pretty insulting."
"I agree. Well, why don't we just see what they tell me about it," Burke replied, gritting his teeth. He increased his pressure on the accelerator, and the car sped on to Collinwood.
74BLOOD LEVY