Suspicion of Madness (40 page)

The chambers clicked as they spun around. His father checked the safety, then zipped the gun into his jacket. "Come on, let's get to work."

Billy stepped over a gaping crack in the concrete as he followed him up the slope. He was tired. He wished he hadn't taken a sleeping pill on top of the Percodan, but that was before he found out they were leaving for Mexico in a few hours. He had packed some clothes but couldn't remember if he had brought his passport.

"Help me, will you? Grab the other end of that tarp."

Billy dropped his backpack to the ground, and they pulled a brown plastic tarp out from under some bushes.

"It's heavy. What've you got in here?"

"An acetylene torch."

"What for?"

"To cut through some metal." His father turned back the tarp, revealing a heavy red toolbox and a canvas bag with leather straps. "I don't need all this stuff. I brought everything I could think of."

"We've got the cart," Billy reminded him.

His father sat on one heel and opened his toolbox. "I spent some bucks on these tools. Nothing that can't be replaced, though. Now, listen. When we get over to Joan's house, you knock on the door. If she's gone, great. If she's still there, I want you to take her over to the hotel, then come right back. But if anyone asks, you're going to your room to take a nap and you don't want to be disturbed."

"I understand."

"See? I knew you'd be a good man to have along."

"Dad, I have to ask you something. You remember the house that burned down? The one the Morgans owned?"

"How could I forget?" He went through the toolbox and took out what he needed. "Hold that bag open for me."

"Did you and Mom and me ever go over there? I mean... before the fire."

"To that house? No. I saw it only once, after you burned it."

"There was this mermaid on the dock, and I know I saw her before, when I was a little kid."

"Saw who?"

"The mermaid. Well, it's not a mermaid, it's a lamp made out of concrete—"

"Billy, forget the fucking mermaid and help me. Finish loading that bag and put everything else out of sight. I'm going to check out the weather."

He walked toward the dock.

Billy quickly filled the canvas bag with the tools his father had chosen—a small sledgehammer, a hacksaw, extra blades, screwdrivers and wrenches, crowbar and pliers—then closed it and scrambled to his feet. A wave of dizziness hit him, but he blinked and his head cleared. He shoved the toolbox under the bushes and lay the tarp over it.

On the dock he put up the hood of his rain jacket. The wind changed direction and the mildewed foam floats rolled in a half circle, tethered by ropes tied to the rotting lobster traps. Everything on the dock was black and rotting. It surprised him that the beam had held his weight.

The bill of his father's Mercruiser cap swiveled around. He had a big smile on his face. "It's going to get bad sooner than I thought. I've done some crazy-ass shit on the water, but running a bonefishing skiff in a tropical storm is not one of them."

The water rose and fell in jagged points topped with froth that the wind ripped away and sent flying. "What are we going to do?" Billy asked.

"Can you get me Martin's boat and bring it over here?"

"You're kidding."

"Can you get the boat or can't you? If not, we're screwed."

"Yeah. I can get it."

"Excellent. Get it ready to go and wait till I call you. We'll drop it off at the marina in Marathon with a thank-you note. Do you have your cell phone? Billy? I'm talking to you."

His father's voice faded out. The black dogs were here. They were barking and howling and running up and down the dock. They had huge paws, and their toenails clattered on the wood. Something bumped against a piling, and Billy looked over the edge. It was a little boy with a long green tail like a fish, but the scales were flaking off. The boy rolled over in the water and opened his eyes and laughed.

Billy moaned and slid downward. Then he was on his back on the dock and his father was shaking him by the shoulders and calling his name.

"Billy! Billy, what happened?" A lined face and gray hair came into focus.

"Stop. Dad. My neck—"

"What the hell's the matter with you?"

"Nothing." Billy sat up and leaned over his crossed legs. It felt like a rusty nail about an inch thick was being pounded into the back of his head. He wanted to vomit.

"Nothing? You fainted. Jesus. Don't do this, Billy. Not now."

"I'm okay." Billy tried to stand, and his father helped him up. "I didn't eat anything. Must be light-headed or something."

"You scared the shit out of me." His father turned him around and looked at him. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah."

"Are you sure? What about Martin's boat? Can you get it?"

"Sure, Dad."

They walked back to the tools, and his father put the canvas bag in the cart and tossed Billy's backpack in after it. Billy sat in the passenger seat. He held onto the roof support and watched the bushes come at him and slide out of the way. The tools rattled around, and then he was on the porch at Joan's house knocking and knocking on the door until his father said to get back in the cart.

Billy couldn't remember getting out.

"Okay, Billy, what are you going to do? Let's make sure we have this straight."

The words came out of his mouth so cleanly. "Well, Joan is gone, so I'm going to the harbor and take Martin's boat down off the lift. I'll wait for you to call me."

"All right. Now get going."

A minute later Billy was staring at the open gate in the chain-link fence. He turned around the other way wondering where the cart was, and how he got here. Over his head the tunnel of bushes breathed in and out like he was caught in the throat of a giant animal.

He thought of the razor blades in his kitchen drawer. He'd bought some at a hardware store to see if he could have them around and not want to use them. Five in a little box, edges wrapped in thin strips of cardboard. He had taken one out and pushed the point down on the vein at his wrist. The skin popped back when he lifted the blade. A kid in his ward at the hospital had told him you had to cut up and down, not across.

What have you done? I told you to watch him. I told you!

Billy spun the other way and looked through the gate at the closely mowed grass of the resort. He couldn't remember what he was supposed to be doing. Something important for his father.

The restaurant kitchen was so quiet. The hum of refrigerators. The clock ticking on the wall over the dish racks. From outside came the steady whisper of rain. Such fickle, deceitful weather. It would let go in screams of wind and thunder, then turn its back and withdraw into polite murmurings.

Lois placed the items she needed on the long wooden table in the middle of the kitchen. Bread. Smoked ham. Swiss cheese. Brown mustard. Whipped butter. A ripe tomato. Two crisp leaves of romaine. She had not eaten breakfast. Martin wouldn't begrudge her a simple sandwich. And she wouldn't leave a crumb. She was not like Teri. This morning at seven o'clock Lois had found dirty dishes all over the place. It had taken over an hour to scrub the kitchen and clean the dining room. Teri had dragged herself downstairs for coffee and had the nerve to say,
Lois, I would have done it.
Martin had no idea what a lazy, selfish little bitch he had married.

"He wouldn't listen to me, would he? Men are either
blind,
or they are
liars
." Lois lined up the ingredients along one of the lengths of wood in the table. Bread, ham, cheese, mustard, butter... She reversed the butter and mustard.

A sob burst from her throat, and the kitchen was blurred by her tears. She wiped them away with a dish towel and picked up the spreading knife. Mustard on the bread. Ham on one of the pieces, cheese on the other.

"I might as well be dead. I should be dead." She who had been betrayed by her lover, ruined by the treachery of her brother's wife, then cast out by her brother, to whom she had selflessly given the last fifteen years of her life. Forty-three years old and not a roof, a job, a family, not even a savings account. Lois had never taken a penny for herself. Everything, everything had been for Martin and The Buttonwood Inn.

She took a long serrated knife from the knife block to slice the tomato. What if she lay down in a warm bathtub and used this knife to cut her wrists? She would leave a note for Martin.
Don't grieve for me, my dearest brother. It is you who have been deceived—

The knife blade gleamed through the red flesh of the tomato as paper-thin slices fell onto the table. Lois decided she could not cut her wrists. Hanging would be less bloody. But it would be long and painful. Drowning at sea would not be painful, but it would be terrible all the same.
Dear Martin. I forgive you.

She thought of the gun in her desk drawer, and then remembered what had become of it. Billy had taken it to his room to shoot himself. One bullet. Lois didn't think she could open his door, take the gun from his dead hand, and use a second one for herself.

Why? Because it was so
useless.
Her death would be meaningless. It would be better to kill Douglas Lindeman. Or Teresa Flores. "No, it should be Douglas," she decided. "Billy will be dead soon, and Teri will suffer. If I kill her, Martin would suffer."

Tomato slices on the ham. Then the romaine. Lois realized that she had forgotten to butter the bread. She crossed her arms over her face and wept. What use would it be to kill Douglas Lindeman? He deserved it, and she had no fear of killing him, but she would go to jail and then what? It would be useless. Useless.

Her arms slowly dropped away. She had thought of someone else. Joan Sinclair. If Joan died, Martin would finally have Lindeman Key, all of it. At last he could make a garden for his palm trees, a paradise, as they'd always wanted. He would have the dock, and the boats would come. Douglas would never live in the Lindeman house.
Martin, if you ever loved me, tear down that house—

Lois hurriedly threw away the sandwich, cleared off the table, and folded the towel. The ten-inch carving knife slid out of the knife block and made a slight ringing noise as it touched the handle of the cleaver.

Aware of being on the periphery of this crisis, Gail stood and watched as Anthony explained to Teri Greenwald what would happen when the police arrived. Everyone would have to stay out of the way while they searched whatever areas the warrant allowed.

"Billy's apartment, of course, and the grounds of the resort, but not here, and not the office, or any of the areas that Billy doesn't have control over. They will ask for keys to all the vehicles that Billy has access to." Anthony took Teri's hand. "I said to expect this, remember? I am only surprised that Tom Holtz hasn't called them. Maybe it's the storm that's making him put it off, but he will tell them what he knows. I'll make sure of that. You mustn't worry."

Teri took a deep breath. "No, no, I'm not worried."

Martin said, "They're insane to come in this weather."

With a slight shrug Anthony replied, "Baylor is frustrated. With a confession, most cases would be tied up in a pretty little package by now. He said they would be here soon. That could mean in one hour or two or six." Anthony checked his watch. "It's eleven-thirty. Billy should get some rest, but I do need to talk to him. Teri, would you call him for me?"

Recovered from her fright, Teri got up and went to the phone.

Martin brought his hands down on his knees. "Well. I propose that we continue with our day as planned."

Teri turned around and smiled at him. "Would you like strawberries with the champagne?"

"Yummy," said Martin. "She puts strawberries in my glass to reduce the amount of alcohol. She's so clever. Gail? If you're ready, we should go."

"I think I'll stay." Gail came to sit beside Anthony. "Someone needs to pick up Joan Sinclair. You can't let her walk." The men looked at each other. "Lois is on her way to Islamorada, and you and Teri have Billy to look after and the police to entertain. And besides, I want to be here for the party."

Anthony stood up. "Let's go get your suitcase."

"I'm not leaving."

"Yes, you are."

"I am
not."

"Didn't we agree you'd go back?"

"But it's going to be such fun, all the champagne and the fireworks. Excuse us a minute, Martin." She walked Anthony over to the open door that led to a study furnished in leather and oriental carpets. "Forget what we agreed to. I'm staying here."

"For the party?"

"No, idiot, because I have to get Joan, and... and because I can't stand being without you."

Anthony was pleased by this, she could tell, but he maintained his stern expression. "And what are you going to say to your daughter?"

Gail draw a line down his chest with one finger. "I'll tell her the truth. That I love you and you need me here. I hope you do."

"Siempre."
He put his lips to her temple, and she could feel his warm breath in her hair. "All right. We'll go back tomorrow."