Vineyard Fear (20 page)

I went into the Diamond Belle Saloon and found myself in a re-created Gay Nineties bar, complete with mustachioed bartender and barmaids in tiny dresses and net stockings. I wondered if the barmaids felt exploited. The bar was noisy. Under a balcony at the back of the room was a sign I appreciated: Work is the curse of the drinking classes. True. There was a rail at the foot of the bar. I put my Teva on it and ordered a Sam Adams. No luck. I ordered a Bass Ale and did better. The Bass was smooth and good.

Half of the men in the bar were wearing cowboy hats, and the other half were wearing baseball caps. I wondered if I should buy myself a Stetson. Maybe some boots, too. Then I thought again. Where would I wear cowboy clothes on Martha's Vineyard? I listened to the noise. Western accents and tourist accents. People seemed pretty happy. I had another Bass and felt it. The altitude, maybe.

I went out and down the street to the train station. No trains this time of night. I turned and walked back up Main Street. I came to Father Murphy's Pub. I went in and discovered that Father Murphy served not one but two locally brewed beers! I drank a glass of each while I devoured a sandwich. Durango seemed to be an excellent town. Two breweries. Who'd have thunk it?

I thought some more about buying cowboy clothes. Nah. Then I thought awhile about Gordon Berkeley Orwell. After a while I went to find my car. It took a while, but I managed it, and then managed to find my motel, too. On the way I saw a lot of churches. I wondered if there were more bars, churches, or motels in Durango. I
thought it would be a close contest. I wondered what Zee was doing, and then remembered Billy Jo Skye's hand in mine. I took two aspirin and went to bed.

In the morning I had a bloat breakfast at the diner and went downtown to finch the police station, which turned out to be on Second Avenue across Tenth Street from the county courthouse. Arrest 'em, jail 'em, try 'em, hang 'em. All in one city block. Western justice. I was impressed. I parked and went into the station.

Police stations are a lot alike. This one was newer than others I'd seen, but otherwise pretty familiar-looking. I gave my name to the cop at the front desk and asked for the chief. The desk cop raised an eyebrow and I handed him the letter the chief in Edgartown had written for me. He read it, looked at me, then handed the letter back and gestured toward a door. “Back there, Mr. Jackson.”

I went through the door and found myself across a desk from the chief. I gave him my letter, which he read and handed back.

“Sit down,” he said. I sat. “Well, Mr. Jackson, what can I do for you?”

“You've heard about this man Orwell.”

“Yes. So far, of course, there are no real charges against him.”

I told him about my experience in Weststock and on the Vineyard. “I talked to his mother last night,” I concluded. “She said Gordon Orwell flew west yesterday afternoon. To go hiking in the Grand Tetons.”

“Maybe that's what he's doing.”

“Maybe.” I told him what I'd been doing for the past two days. He listened patiently. I said, “If Orwell really is after John Skye, he may be showing up here pretty soon.”

“We'll keep our eyes open, but you have to remember that we have thousands of tourists coming in here all summer long. We might miss him. Easy enough to do. We don't know what he looks like.”

Neither did I. “The chief is trying to get a picture of
him. He said he'd wire it to you.” I got up. “Maybe I'll talk with the sheriff, too.”

“Good idea.” He put out his hand and I took it. “Don't be rash, Mr. Jackson. Remember that you don't really know whether this man Orwell has actually done anything.”

“Somebody really did something.”

“Yes, but let the police handle it. Thanks for coming by. Stay in touch If you learn anything more, let us know.”

I went across the street to the courthouse and told my story to a deputy sheriff. He also shook my hand, thanked me, and told me to leave the matter in the hands of the professionals.

I found a phone booth and called Billy Jo Skye's house. Her mother answered. She said she was glad I'd called.

“A man phoned this morning, wondering if I knew how he could get in touch with John Skye. Said he was a friend of his.”

“Did he give his name?”

“Yes. He said his name was J. W. Jackson. I did what you said. I called the Sheriff's Department and told them about it.”

The deputy I'd talked to hadn't mentioned it to me. Maybe he didn't know about it. Or maybe he just didn't think it was any of my business. Some cops are like that.

“Funny man,” I said to Wilma Skye.

“Of course, if John and his family hadn't recognized you, there was no way we'd know this guy wasn't you,” she observed. “Or, for that matter, that you were who you said you were.”

True. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him to call back this afternoon. That maybe I'd
know then. Then I phoned your motel, but you were out. Then I got a call from Alison, that's Mack's brother's wife, and she said she'd gotten a call, too. J. W. Jackson looking for John Skye. She called the Sheriffs Department, too.”

“What did she tell The guy who said he was me?”

“Told him she didn't know where John was. Fellow asked her how he could find the farm. She told him because she couldn't figure out how not to. Figured he'd find it anyway. They've got these maps with all the road numbers marked on them, you know. You can get them in town.”

“No damage done.”

“What should I tell him when he calls back?”

A good question. I didn't know a good answer. “I'll call you back,” I said.

I went back to the Sheriffs Department. The deputy was gone. I told another deputy my story and my thoughts and what Wilma Skye had just told me.

The deputy raised a restraining hand and glanced at a page of scribbles in front of him. “Wilma Skye says that a guy calling himself J. W. Jackson phoned and said he was looking for John Skye. Later Alison Skye told us the guy talked to her, too.”

“Right. And Wilma told the guy to call back this afternoon.”

“Right. But the guy really wasn't J. W. Jackson, because you're J. W. Jackson, and you think the guy might really be . . .” He looked down at the scribbles, “Gordon Orwell. Is that right?”

“Right.”

“Is this going to make more sense to somebody else than it does to me? I sure hope so.”

I hoped so too. I went back out to the phone and rang Wilma Skye. “When this guy calls back,” I said, “tell him that someone will meet him at Vivian Skye's place with a map so he can show him exactly where John is. I'll be the someone.”

“That doesn't sound like the world's best idea.”

“I'll have the edge. I'll expect him, but he won't expect me.”

“Didn't you say this guy took a couple of shots at you?”

“Yeah, but he didn't really mean it the second time.”

There was a silence at the far end of the line. Then Wilma asked, “You have a gun?”

“No.”

“You swing by here on your way. Matter of fact, come for lunch. I understand that you and my little girl have a date tonight, by the way.”

“There are no secrets between a daughter and her mother.”

“I wouldn't be so sure about that. Come out about noon. Mack will be home thereabouts. Might want some words with you.”

“About me and Billy Jo?” Good grief!

“No. Well, maybe. I had in mind this idea you have about meeting this Orwell fella. I think we might talk a bit before you go off to confront the lion.”

“See you at noon then.” I knew where the power was. If I didn't show up, she wouldn't give Orwell my message.

I found a window and looked at myself in the reflection. Martha's Vineyard Surfcasters' cap, thrift shop shorts, Teva sandals, and a shirt that said Al's Package Store. No weirder than the threads a lot of tourists were wearing on the street, but not very native Durangoish. I'd been wearing almost the same clothes when Orwell had shot at me on the island, and if I showed up like this at the ranch, he might recognize me and either shoot or take off before I could get close to him.

I went into one of the stores with cowboy clothes in the window and bought myself a wide-brimmed straw hat with a wire around the brim so you could bend it into any shape you liked. I also got a Denver Broncos tee shirt. Then I drove back to the motel and spent some time punching and bending my new hat and rubbing it in the
dirt to make it look old. I soaked the shirt in the sink, wrung it out and tied it in a knot, and put it in a sunny window. By the time I had changed into jeans and my old army boots and it was time to leave for the Skyes' place, the hot, dry air had done its job. The tee shirt looked wrinkled and used. I put it on and drove back to the sheriffs office. I thought I looked quite local.

The first deputy was back. He and the second deputy were together. The first deputy looked at my get-up and shook his head. “Maybe we ought to throw you in jail before somebody else does. If we don't have any laws against vagrants, I think we can make one up pretty fast. We just got some news that might interest you. Come in here.”

I followed him into a room and he handed me two sheets of paper.

“Faxed about an hour ago,” said the deputy.

One was a picture of a man in army uniform looking intently at the camera. His hair was trim and his gaze was level. There was a slight scar on his left cheek.

“Gordon Berkeley Orwell,” said the deputy. “Taken about three years ago, apparently. Now we know what he looks like, at least. I figure we'll tell the guy to come to the ranch, then put a couple of men out there in the ranch house and wait for him to show up. Ask him a couple of questions and maybe get to the bottom of this.”

My first thought was that the deputies were horning in on my plan. My second was that it made sense for them to do it. My third was the first one all over again, and my fourth was the second again. I put my foot on my fifth, and told them what I'd planned to do myself.

The first deputy frowned. “Okay, but now you just stay out of it and leave things to us.”

The second piece of paper said that Captain Gordon Berkeley Orwell had a private gun collection and was said to favor a Beretta 125 nine-millimeter parabellum Italian machine gun with a blowback action offering a choice of burst or single shots out of a thirty-two-round magazine.
With the butt folded, the Beretta was 16.46 inches long. Corporal Dominic Agganis of the Massachusetts State Police was of the opinion that the Beretta had been fired at one J.W. Jackson on Martha's Vineyard.

“What do you think?” asked the deputy.

“The right size gun and the right caliber. Could be. Tell your men to be careful. This guy is a tough cookie and pretty slick.”

“We're not too bad ourselves,” said the deputy.

“I'm going out to Mack Skye's place,” I said. “When the guy phones in, we'll tell him to go to the ranch. Then I'll call you.”

“Call us at Vivian Skye's ranch,” said the deputy, “because that's where we'll be. Jake and I will go out there right now, so we'll be able to check the place out before Orwell shows up.”

“The front door of the house is unlocked,” I said, “and you can put your car in the barn sq it'll be out of sight. I mean it about being careful.”

“Mr. Orwell is the one who needs to be careful,” said the deputy.

I drove, via a liquor store, out to the Florida Mesa. I wished I had a pickup. Then I'd look perfect.

Billy Jo raised both eyebrows.

“I want you to feel I'm just like the guys you grew up with,” I said.

“I'm not interested in the guys I grew up with. I'm interested in some other kinds of guys.” She gave a crooked smile. “You do look the part, I must admit.”

“Mine was a great loss to the stage.”

“Come on around back. Mom and Dad are already into the iced tea.” She nodded. “If you add a shot of whiskey to that, you'll have a seven-course meal.”

I lifted the six-pack of Coors. “I'll be glad to share.”

We walked around the house. The wind was gentle in the trees and the lawn was thick and green. It was cool
in the shade. Mack and Wilma Skye were at the table covered with food. Mack got up and put out his large hand, which I took.

“Hey, you must have really made an impression on my little girl. Went to town this morning and got herself some new diggers for the big date.”

Billy Jo blushed. “I did not! I needed them anyway.”

Diggers? What were diggers? “What are diggers?” I asked.

Billy Jo gritted her teeth. “Underwear, if you must know. But I didn't get them for our date! Daddy, how could you say such a thing!?”

“Well, sweetheart, I . . .”

Wilma clicked her tongue. “Never mind, Mackenzie. Your jokes aren't always as funny as you think they are. Sit down, J.W. You too, Billy Jo. You know better than to take your daddy seriously when he's only trying to be funny. Try some of those muffins, J.W. And there's some roast beef there, or some ham if you'd rather have that. That cheese is good, too. Don't just sit there, Billy Jo, put some food on your plate. You're getting too skinny. It's not healthy.”

“I'm just fine. And I'm not skinny.”

“What do you think, J.W.?” asked her father. “Is she about to blow away, or not?”

“She looks fine to me.” I reached for the roast beef.

“Thank you,” said Billy Jo. “Now that that's settled. I think I will have something to eat.” She started stacking her plate. A twenty-one-year-old woman can eat a lot, I discovered.

After a while, Mack popped one of my beers and took a long slug. “Well, son, what's this about you going over to Vivian's to meet with this fella who says he's you? Doesn't sound too smart to me.”

“As it turns out,” I said, “I don't have to go through with the master plan. The Law is going to attend to it.” I told them about my talk with the deputies.