Amagansett

Eighteen

‘You’re kidding me,’ said Abel.

‘No.’

‘Mary Calder’s invited you to a party!?’

‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ said Lucy, coming to Hollis’ defense.

‘Yeah,’ said Hollis.

‘Come on, Tom, you’ve got looks, brains, a sense of humor, but not a whole lot of any of them.’

‘Abel Cole!’ snapped Lucy, kicking him under the table.

‘Jesus, Lou.’

‘He’s just jealous,’ said Lucy, turning to Hollis. ‘She’s one of the few women in town who never succumbed to his dubious charms. And, believe me, he tried.’

‘Is that what she told you?’

‘I remember you trying.’

‘I meant the bit about not succumbing.’

Hollis laughed. Abel was indomitable in these situations.

‘Don’t,’ said Lucy, ‘you’ll only encourage him.’

At that moment the waiter appeared at their table with the bottle of wine. He cast a surly eye over their unopened menus and left.

‘It’s okay, we’ll pour,’ said Abel, just loud enough for the departing youth to hear.

Hollis filled their glasses and insisted that they order whatever they wanted from the menu—it was his treat. There was nothing magnanimous in this gesture. He was painfully aware that he’d been living off their hospitality since Lydia had left him. A meal out was the least he could offer them.

His stated intention of getting them round to his house had somehow amounted to nothing, maybe because he had lost the desire to prove to himself that life went on. It didn’t. He knew that now. It stalled, shuddering towards inertia.

He was shocked by the speed with which the house had descended into a state of dereliction. Dust heaped up in corners he could swear he’d just swept. Clutter multiplied, begetting yet more clutter with no apparent involvement on his part. Without Lydia to spur him into action, hinges creaked, window sills leaked, taps dripped and bulbs went unchanged.

At first Hollis had battled bravely against this creeping decay, but at a certain point he had conceded defeat, contenting himself with an uneasy coexistence, singling out a room and concentrating all his efforts there, allowing the dust and detritus free run of the other areas of the house. The kitchen had been his first place of refuge, then the living room, but he’d recently retreated to the bedroom. He had plans to break out soon and reclaim the kitchen. But right now, number 4 Indian Hill Road was not a fit place to entertain one’s friends—in fact, it was hardly a fit place for anything—hence the dinner at the 1770 House.

Hollis and Abel opted for the steak; Lucy ordered the bluefish before announcing that she was going to ‘powder her nose’. Abel suggested she take a leak while she was at it.

‘You want to tell me what’s up?’ asked Hollis as soon as she had left.

Abel lit another cigarette and eyed him suspiciously, almost aggressively. ‘Who said anything was up?’

‘You seem a little edgy is all.’

‘Yeah?’

Hollis didn’t mind being shut out. He knew Abel well enough to accept that he’d tell him in his own time. This turned out to be about twenty seconds (and three large gulps of red wine) later.

‘She mentioned the M-word.’

‘Ah,’ said Hollis.

‘A couple of nights back. Just dropped it in there. Caught me on the hop. Guess I’m still hopping.’

‘Marriage, huh?’

Abel winced at the word. ‘Don’t do that.’

‘You brought it up.’

‘She brought it up. I’m just…relaying it to you. Forget I ever mentioned it, okay?’

‘Okay,’ said Hollis. He waited, relishing his friend’s discomfort, trying not to smile. Abel snuck a look at the rest-room door.

‘So what do you think?’ he mumbled.

‘About what?’ asked Hollis innocently.

‘You know…the M-thing?’

‘What do I think? I think she’s crazy.’

‘Come on, Tom, seriously.’

‘Abel,’ he said despairingly, ‘she’s smart, talented, funny and very, very beautiful.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘She’s too good to be true. And she’s chosen you.’

‘That’s the point.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t you see?’

‘No.’

‘I wanted…’ He hesitated. ‘I don’t know…to amount to something first. Then think about it. Maybe. Or not. I don’t know.’

‘Abel, you’re a great photographer.’

‘Bullshit. And I’m not fishing for compliments.’

‘Let me lay some on you anyway.’

Abel wagged a hand, cutting him dead. Hollis didn’t persist. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t had the conversation before. Abel judged himself far too harshly. How many other photographers would have been mortified at getting their work on the front cover of Life magazine? How many would actually have given thanks for the fact that the photo wasn’t credited directly to them but to the US Army Signal Corps? Most would have had that front cover framed and hanging on the wall of their shop for all to see, not moldering amongst a pile of other magazines on a shelf back at their house.

It was Lucy who first drew Hollis’ attention to the magazine cover. Lydia was also present at the time. Abel wasn’t. He was in the kitchen, preparing dinner—their first dinner together, two couples tentatively getting to know each other. Taken in a small town in Germany, the photo showed a GI leaning against a halftrack, muffled up against the cold, and smiling. Abel’s reaction when he wandered through and found the three of them bent over the copy of Life almost soured the evening. He dismissed their compliments, cutting Lydia quite dead, something for which she never really forgave him.

Abel explained that the officer in the photo had bugged him to fire off a couple of shots, and he’d only done so to shut the guy up. The reel of film was then tossed into the photographic pool, and that was the last he’d expected to hear of it. Next thing he knew, there was the smiling GI on the front of Life, some idiot at the War Department having decided that his grin struck just the right note of cheeky triumphalism for the folks back home. Abel rated the photo as one of the blandest he had taken during the long push eastwards from the beaches of Normandy—devoid of any technical or artistic merit—but what annoyed him most was its dishonesty.

The man whom he’d immortalized for the home-front readership had played no part in the fighting they’d just come through, the hell that was the Battle of Hürtgen Forest. He was from a relief unit sent in at the end, 33,000 men having already died or been incapacitated in a few brief months, swallowed up in five hundred acres of densely wooded real estate of little or no tactical value.

Some weeks after that first dinner, Abel dug out and showed Hollis a folder of shots he had taken in Hürtgen Forest, photos he’d held back for himself rather than consign them to the nearcertain oblivion of the photographic pool.

The forest itself was the stuff of fairy tales, those of the more nightmarish kind—a dark, dense underworld, the dwelling place of witches and wolves. Towering pine trees, tight-packed so that their branches interlaced, formed a gloomy canopy through which stray shafts of sunlight barely penetrated to the forest floor. What the photos didn’t show were the German anti-personnel mines lurking beneath the spongy carpet of pine needles, or the trip wires rigged to the assault course of fallen wood that anyone passing through the forest was obliged to negotiate. The greatest danger, Abel explained, came from above, from the deadly hail of wood unleashed by artillery tree-bursts. In one of the shots a soldier was literally hugging a tree, while all around him death whirled like a blizzard. It was an image that brought to mind a terrified child clutching at his mother’s thigh.

Most of the photos, though, were of GIs at rest, stuffed into slit-trenches and foxholes, tending to their feet or their weapons, seeking comfort in the little routines of life. One GI was even plucking at his nose hairs, using the inside of a tobacco tin as a mirror.

By the time Hollis had worked his way through to the end of the batch, the forest was all but gone, the noble pines reduced to matchwood, their shattered trunks poking through the surrounding debris. Light flooded the photos, the roll of the land was revealed. The final shot was of three tall pines outlined on a bald crest, beheaded and stripped of all but their lower branches. There was no mistaking the parallel with the three crosses of Calvary.

Abel had been right. The photo selected for the front cover of Life magazine was inert and empty when set alongside those other images. But he was wrong if he thought he had yet to prove himself as a photographer.

‘It’s a poor excuse,’ said Hollis.

‘What’s that?’

‘Your work. For not getting married.’

‘Right now it’s the best I can come up with.’

‘What if she leaves you?’

‘That’s her choice.’

‘I hope she does.’

‘You fancy a shot at her yourself?’

‘Then you’ll know what a damn fool you’ve been.’

‘You’re not her type, Tom.’

‘Will you just listen to me for a moment.’

Abel spread his hands: fire away.

‘Too late,’ said Hollis. ‘She’s coming.’

Abel stubbed out his cigarette.

‘Thank Christ for that,’ he said.

Hollis groped for the alarm and shut it off. Three aspirin and a cup of reheated coffee later, the little man jackhammering at the base of his skull downed tools.

Abel was to blame. If he hadn’t taken Hollis to task over the amount he was drinking, then he wouldn’t have got angry, and he wouldn’t have reached for the bottle of brandy when he got home. He guessed there was a hollow logic to this thinking, so he tried not to dwell on it too much.

He tracked down the binoculars eventually, though how they’d found their way to the back of the airing cupboard he couldn’t rightly say.

He had been up at this hour many times before, the duty rota demanded it, but he’d never found himself down on the ocean beach just after sun-up.

The fishermen, he knew, rose early. One time he had attended the scene of a bar brawl on Montauk. By the time the matter had been resolved, the participants in the fracas agreeing to split the costs of the damage, there were already dim little figures creeping from their shacks around Fort Pond Bay, rowing out to where their boats were moored, lanterns like fireflies in the fading night.

From the top of the frontal dune at the Atlantic Avenue beach landing, Hollis could make out two crews of fishermen working the shoreline to the east. The Basque’s Model A was not among the vehicles gathered on the beach.

It lay to the west, a mile or so away.

Hollis lowered the binoculars. Better to drive round to Indian Wells landing and walk from there.

They were emptying their net, dragging fish up the beach by the gills, big fish, their tails trailing in the sand. If the Basque was surprised to see him, he didn’t show it.

‘Morning,’ he said, tossing two fish into the back of the truck. Hollis waited and watched while they went about their business. When the net was empty, the Basque turned to the Kemp boy.

‘Rollo, you want to go get that other seine from the barn?’

‘Sure.’

Hollis took this as a sign that the Basque wished to be alone with him, but as the truck pulled away along the beach he wandered down to the water’s edge. Hollis followed. He hadn’t noticed before, but there was a shark wrapped in the sodden net.

The Basque picked up a baseball bat lying nearby and rinsed the bloodied end in the wash. ‘Thresher,’ he said. ‘Chewed up the seine some bad. Mostly they go right through. This one got snagged.’

‘They come in so close?’

‘How many people would go swimming if they knew, right?’

The Basque seized a hold of one end of the net.

‘You mind?’ he asked.

This was not how Hollis had imagined the encounter going: helping the Basque to drag a dead shark up the beach.

When they were done, the Basque set about rolling a cigarette.

‘You asked to see the autopsy on Lillian Wallace.’

The Basque didn’t react, didn’t even look at him.

‘Why?’ asked Hollis.

‘Curiosity.’

‘Curiosity?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You’re going to have to do better than that.’

Now the Basque looked up. ‘’Cos you’re a cop?’ For a brief instant Hollis was scared by what he saw behind the gray eyes, or rather the lack of it, of anything, the emptiness. ‘I don’t owe you nothing,’ said the Basque. ‘It’s best you understand that now.’

‘Now’ was the word that leapt out. It suggested that this was the start of something. But what exactly?

‘I’ve seen the autopsy report,’ said Hollis. ‘She died from drowning.’

‘I’m not saying she didn’t.’

‘So what’s your interest in it?’

‘Could be they missed something.’

‘What if I told you they didn’t?’

‘I’d say, “What are you doing here?”’

Hollis pulled his cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. The aspirins were wearing off; the little man was back at the rock face, hammering away.

‘Follow me,’ said the Basque.

The boat sat at the water’s edge a little way along the beach. The Basque seized the bow and swung it around in the sand.

‘Best take those fine leather shoes off,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘And the jacket.’

‘I’m not going out there.’

The Basque ignored him, tugging the boat into the wash.

‘I can’t swim,’ said Hollis.

‘You’d be surprised how many fishermen can’t.’

‘That’s supposed to make me feel better?’

The Basque smiled. ‘Nothing’s going to happen, not with the surf all flattened off.’

It was true—the waves weren’t at their most menacing—though ‘flattened off’ was hardly the phrase Hollis would have used.

The Basque was waist-high in the water now, waiting.

Hollis heaved a sigh, shrugged off his jacket, kicked off his shoes and waded in.

‘Hold the stern steady. When I give the word, shove off and climb in.’ The Basque clambered into the boat and began to row gently, glancing over his shoulder at the ocean.

A wall of white water slapped into Hollis, almost wrenching him free of the boat.

‘Now,’ said the Basque, pulling hard on the oars.

Hollis pushed off, hooking both elbows over the side. And that’s where he stayed. Each time he tried to swing his leg up over the side a wave would drive it back under. His strength fading, it was all he could do to hold on in the face of the relentless onslaught.

When they were clear of the breakers, he found he was too exhausted to haul himself aboard. The Basque abandoned the oars, seized the back of his pants and plucked him out of the water. He lay limp and drained in the bottom of the boat, his heart racing, as much from fear as exertion.

‘Not bad,’ said the Basque. ‘For your first time.’

‘You mean my last time.’

The Basque smiled, rowing them out to sea.

It was unexpectedly quiet, just the slap of the oars, the dull thump of the breaking waves receding with each stroke. It struck Hollis that he’d never seen the land from the ocean before. He’d taken a ferry once from Sag Harbor over to Shelter Island with Lydia—a Sunday jaunt when they were still poking at the carcass of their relationship—but that had been more familiar, more welcoming, with its bays and inlets and islands and little sailboats. Here on the ocean side you were left with an altogether different feeling. It was as if God in a fit of pique had used a ruler to divide two of His elements—a clean, stark battle line stretching from one horizon to the other, the conflict to roll on for all eternity. It wasn’t something that could be fully appreciated when viewed from the land.

‘First time off the back side?’

Hollis turned. ‘The back side?’

‘That’s what we call it out here,’ said the Basque, releasing the oars.

‘What are we doing here?’

The Basque pulled a tin pail from beneath his feet and tied a length of rope to the handle.

‘Fishing,’ he said.

He tossed the pail over the side. It slowly filled with water and sank from view. The Basque reeled it in and handed it to Hollis.

‘What do you see?’

‘Water?’

‘Look again.’

Hollis peered into the pail. ‘Sand,’ he said quietly. Sprinklings of silver in suspension.

He looked up at the Basque. ‘What are you saying?’

‘You tell me. They won’t release the autopsy yet.’

Dr Cornelius Hobbs was out on a call, and wasn’t due back at the County Morgue till two o’clock.

He appeared at one-thirty, which was why he found Hollis in his office, going over the autopsy report on Lillian Wallace.

‘Well, well, well,’ he said, with as much indignation as he could summon up.

‘Sit down,’ said Hollis.

‘You’re in my chair.’

‘Sit down,’ repeated Hollis firmly, indicating the seat across the desk from him. Hobbs hesitated, to press home his point, then did as he was told.

‘There better be a damn good reason for this.’

‘Let’s find out, shall we?’ said Hollis. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but it’s common in cases of drowning to find foreign material in the airways and lungs, material that’s in the water.’

He knew this to be the case. Before driving out to Hauppauge he had phoned Paul Kenilworth, an old friend from police pathology back in New York.

‘That depends,’ said Hobbs guardedly. ‘What kind of material are you talking about?’

‘Sand, for example. Sand thrown up by heavy surf.’

Hobbs smiled, the smile of an adult indulging a child. ‘Oh dear, Deputy Hollis, I can see where you’re going with this.’ He leaned forward. ‘As it happens, I did find traces of sand in her airways. I might not have recorded them, though.’

‘I can tell you, you didn’t.’

‘Believe me, they were there.’

The news was a blow, and if Hollis hadn’t discussed the matter at some length with Paul, it might well have ended right there, as Hobbs evidently thought it was about to, judging from his self-satisfied grin.

‘Where exactly was this sand?’

‘Her pharynx and trachea.’

‘The larger airways, then.’

‘Yes,’ said Hobbs, a distinct note of annoyance creeping into his voice.

‘It’s possible, isn’t it, for debris to enter the larger airways after death has occurred, while the body’s underwater?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘In fact, the sand you found in Lillian Wallace’s airways proves nothing about the exact circumstances of her death, only that she was submerged in the ocean.’

This was the moment Hobbs lost his temper. ‘Are you questioning my expertise? Read the report, man. She drowned. Everything points to it. Everything.’

‘I can see that.’

‘She drowned in the ocean.’

‘Now that we don’t know for sure.’

Hobbs grabbed the autopsy report, turned to a page near the back and slapped it down in front of Hollis.

‘The results of the salinity test on the water in her lungs.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘So what more do you want?’

‘Just one thing: evidence of sand in the terminal bronchioles and alveoli. It would have been drawn deep into her lungs when she drowned.’

It was pleasing to see Hobbs stopped in his tracks, silenced.

‘You didn’t check, did you?’

‘The facts speak for themselves,’ stammered Hobbs, jabbing his finger at the report.

‘Did you check? Yes or no?’

Hobbs couldn’t bring himself to actually utter the word.

‘It would have been there.’

‘Speculation.’

‘Deduction. Based on sound scientific evidence and twentytwo years’ experience. There is no other explanation for her death.’

‘Try this on for size. She drowned in salt water and her body was placed in the ocean afterwards.’

Hobbs weighed his words. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘But it fits, right?’

‘That’s not the point. Where on earth is she going to drown in salt water, if not the ocean?’

From Hobbs’ expression, it was clear that the answer occurred to him as soon as the words had left his lips.

Both cars were gone within a minute or so of Hollis pulling up, his decision to turn on the flashing blue light no doubt precipitating their departure. He stepped from the patrol car as the taillights disappeared into the night. He could picture the occupants of the vehicles, panic giving way to relief, still adjusting their clothing.

He was alone in the silence, just the lazy pulse of the waves breaking against the shore. He glanced up at the night sky—an even dusting of cloud, enough to mute the glow of the moon; no need for a flashlight, though.

The most direct approach to the house from the beach landing was along the base of the bluff, but he opted for the long route round, down on to the beach, along the shore then back across the dunes. He needed time to marshal his thoughts.

As he walked he tried to persuade himself that the investigation would remain intact even if this trail turned cold on him. But he knew he was only preparing himself for the worst. He soon found himself at the spot where he had discovered Lillian Wallace’s bathrobe and towel neatly folded on the frontal dune some two weeks before. If she hadn’t placed them there, then someone else had—someone with a detailed knowledge of her routines and habits, someone close to her, someone who wanted her dead.

He was getting ahead of himself now. Even if she had drowned in the family swimming pool, it wasn’t necessarily evidence of foul play. This was the line he had fed Hobbs, anyway. In fact, he’d openly dismissed the idea of murder to Hobbs, suggesting that the body had been moved for more innocent reasons. There were, after all, no indications of physical violence on Lillian Wallace’s corpse. Hobbs’ silence had been bought with the inducement that if anything came of Hollis’ investigation he would credit the Medical Examiner with first drawing his attention to the anomaly in the autopsy.

The tactic seemed to have worked. If Hobbs was going to spill the beans to Milligan, he would have done so by now.

He paused to catch his breath at the top of the bluff. The sound of a vehicle broke the silence. From his vantage point he could see headlights sweep the lot of the beach landing, passing over the patrol car, then accelerating away up Two Mile Hollow to Further Lane.

The sooner he was gone, the better.

Entering the garden through the gate in the rusted iron fence, he crept through the shadows and found himself poolside.

The pump suddenly kicked in, causing his own to skip a couple of beats. Dropping to one knee, he scooped up some water and raised the cupped hand to his mouth.

There was no mistaking the taste, the briny tang.

As he hurried away, there was no feeling of exhilaration, but a curious sense of inevitability. He hadn’t landed here by chance. Like a blind man guided across a road, he had been led by the elbow.