The story sounded reasonable enough. It is not usually printed in public reports because it is thought to be embarrassing or in poor taste, but the primary cause of sportsmen falling overboard from boats and drowning is urination. Almost all the recovered victims are found to have their flies open. The incidence is, steep during the summertime fishing season when men go out not only to see how many fish they can catch, but how many beers they can drink. No, were it not for one thing I could easily envision Jim Schilling-with four or five beers. or a thermos of coffee inside him-leaning over the gunwale relieving himself, perhaps while under way. Then the boat yaws or hits a sudden chop or swell and bingo, it's overboard into the icy Alaskan waters. And if you happen to hit your noggin on the way down-something I was now an expert on-the chances of your coming up again are about fifty-fifty. But it was the "other thing" that as much as told me the story was fabricated. It was the photo of James Schilling that accompanied the article. It wasn't a good reproduction because Sara had photocopied it. But it was good enough. I called Mary into the sunporch.
"Look here, Toots. What do you think?"
She stared for four or five seconds before it hit her.
"Charlie, it's him. It's him."
"Yep. It sure is. The beard helps, but it doesn't hide enough."
"Well what's he doing here?"
She was referring of course to our mysterious piratelike friend whom I had managed to photograph a few weeks previously aboard the phantom vessel Penelope in Wellfleet Harbor. The man was James Schilling, presumed dead. The man who hated Walter Kincaid. I decided that a good thing to do would be to have a lengthy and frank discussion with Mary's brother, Detective Lieutenant Joseph Brindelli. And was in the process of thinking of calling Joe and moving toward the phone when it rang. Mary answered it and handed it to me..
"How are you, dead man? How would you like to come over tonight and have too much to drink?" asked Jim DeGroot.
We replied in the affirmative, with deep suspicions that the invitation was offered chiefly because of my-skill-which I wear modestly-in preparing fillets of striped bass. Still a semi-recluse, I managed to slip into Mary's Audi and scoot down low in the seat. In a few days I would abandon all attempts at remaining invisible. Things in Gloucester would swing into their petty pace by then. But for the nonce, I was incognito.
"Ohhhhh, poor baaaaa-by," cooed Janice DeGroot as she planted a big one on my cheek and cocked a learned eye at mine. "That's the biggest shiner I've seen in years, Doc. Does it hurt?"
"Only when I laugh. I was informed by your spouse over the wires that we have been invited to abuse alcohol. Let's get down to it."
I found Jim in back lighting the grill. The fillets were all set: slabs of milky white flesh the color of quartz that would cook up to look like boiled egg whites and would flake off in luscious chunks by merely pointing a fork at them. We greased up big squares of heavy aluminum foil and placed a fillet on each. Then we covered them with thin-sliced lemons and lots of butter. We covered this with paprika, thin-sliced scallions, and some Old Bay seasoning, then folded up the edges of the foil. Just before sealing the packets, we poured a generous jigger of chablis over the whole thing and added a sprinkling of finely-cut fresh chives. After ten minutes over the coals the packets sent forth a merry bubbling sound, and I poked several holes in each with a toothpick and watched the tiny jets of steam rise from them. The aroma was made more delicious by the two ounces of ice-cold gin that was wending its way through my interior, cutting a wide swath of destruction. I could have eaten a horse, and said so.
"Then how come you only weigh-what is it you weigh, Doc?"
"One hundred seventy-four."
"Well how come?" asked Janice.
"I'll tell you how come," said Mary. "Because he eats only what and when he likes. He has a light breakfast and skips lunch, when he runs. He pigs it up at dinner. But that's only once a day."
"All work should be put behind you by dinnertime," I said. "There should be nothing but pleasant things from six o'clock on. Music on the stereo… the chatter of friends… laughter of children… evening twitter of birds, et cetera. A cocktail or glass of wine… an easy chair… the aroma of cooking food. In short, this experience; now. What the hell's a wrong with you?"
Mary was wiping away a tear. She was thinking of Mr. X, and the photograph of Jim Schilling. She didn't like any of it. We talked all during dinner about what was going on, what it all meant. It broke my rule of nothing but pleasant things after six, but there was no escaping it. Jim and I agreed on how easy it would be for Schilling to falsify his death, especially in a remote region of Alaska. If he were willing to part with a $300 rifle-which he was-the ruse would gain instant credibility. He could have either bribed the guide or arranged another escape route. Both Jim and I strongly suspected the latter strategy, since a bribed guide is generally a poor liar, whereas a duped guide is an earnest witness. It would have been simple for Schilling to arrange a clandestine meeting with a pilot a few miles from the swamped boat. Three hours' trudge would take them far enough away from the camp so the guide would never hear the small, single-engined pontoon plane…
But why?
We agreed the most logical explanation was that he wished to return to Massachusetts to seek revenge on his former employer. But if this were true, hadn't he taken a long time to act? What was he engaged in during the past year? It was all curiouser and curiouser, but unfortunately no clearer.
"Go to the police, Charlie," Jim said.
"No."
"Yes dammit!" screamed Mary. She was crying, and hadn't eaten.
"OK," I said.
I wrote a letter to Chief Hannon summarizing the events of the past two weeks. It was no masterpiece but it would serve well enough to lay out what had been happening, both in my mind and the real world. I sent a copy to Joe too. Either Chief Hannon would be impressed, or he would think I was crazy.
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Know what your problem is?" said the chief as he put my letter down on his desk and peered at me over his glasses. "You're crazy."
"I was hoping you weren't going to say that."
"What am I supposed to say for Chrissake? You see a boat that looks like another and they both disappear. You ask around and discover that a certain man's private life and his business aren't all they were cracked pup to be-as if that's a rarity. You get in a bar fight up in Gloucester-which, by the way, you are too old to be doing-and later get hit on the head and tossed in the drink. A hundred miles away, I might add, and two weeks after you presumably saw Windhover's reincarnation down on the Cape. Now Doc. What am I supposed to say?"
I felt like a naughty kid in the principal's office. I stared idly out Brian's window and watched a gray squirrel hop along a giant oak limb, fluffing its tail and chattering. The word was getting around fast; even the squirrels knew I was crazy. A blue jay shrieked, and the squirrel chattered and flipped its tail in little quick jerks.
Brian Hannon picked up the phone and summoned an aide. He told the aide to run down some background information on James Schilling and Daniel Murdock.
"You did it. Why did you, if I'm imagining the whole thing?"
"I don't want you to suppose anything from it. Remember this: you still haven't a thing concrete to go on. It's one pipe dream strung to another, all the way along. But I can get the information, and will, if there is any to be got. I can do it without pangs of conscience because doing so will indirectly protect you, which is what I'm paid to do. We'll get back to you in a few days. You can be reached at home?"