He hung up.
‘Be right over,’ he said. ‘Nice fellow, Fred.’
‘You were philosophizing a minute ago,’ I said.
‘Oh, yes. People.’ Handy went to the cigarette box and lighted another cigarette. ‘Most of them are sensible, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Handy said. ‘Yes. Most of them are sensible. Any man will eventually come to the realization that there’s no sense in shoveling manure against the tide.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning it’s sweeter-smelling and much less energetic to simply take a bench on the boardwalk, away from the breakers.’
‘Unless there happens to be something you want in the ocean,’ I said.
‘It’s been my experience, Colby, that there is absolutely nothing you can find in the ocean which you can’t also find on the land.’
‘A lot of fish will be surprised to hear that.’
‘A lot of fish would be surprised to hear that anything but ocean exists at all. That’s still no argument for shoveling against the tide.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said. ‘If you’ve got something to say, say it in English.’
‘The English language,’ Handy said, ‘becomes a skill when you can use it and not make it sound like English.’
‘I thought the purpose of language was communication,’ I said. ‘If you’re trying to communicate, your’ ocean’ is ’way over my head.’
‘Very good,’ Handy said, smiling. ‘Very, very good.’
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘I’m trying to tell you to relax. Stop shoveling. Show a little optimism.’ Handy paused. ‘This nonexistent girl friend of yours.’
‘Yes?’
‘Relax, Colby.’
‘Why?’
‘Optimism. Show a little optimism.’
‘You know she exists,’ I said.
‘I know nothing. I’m simply asking you to look on the bright side. Let us suppose for an instant that she does exist. You came here to Sullivan’s Point with her, you rented separate cabins, and now she’s vanished. All assuming she existed in the first place.’
‘She existed,’ I said. ‘She does exist. Say what you’ve got to say.’
‘I’m saying that if she did exist, if she did indeed vanish... she’s probably safe right now.’ Handy fixed me with a level stare. ‘And she probably will be safe when this is all over and done with.’
‘Is she safe now?’ I asked.
Handy shrugged. ‘Your nonexistent friend? I would say that she is safe, yes. I would say that she is a lot safer than she could be were you to start... ah... shoveling manure against the tide.’
‘We’re back to the ocean again, huh?’
‘The ocean is very peaceful. You don’t know how nice it is not to live in a land-locked state.’
‘Where is she?’ I said.
‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ Handy said. He paused. ‘I never even saw her.’
‘But she’s safe?’
‘Colby, would you like some sound advice?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Yes, but your attitude is an arrogant one. I’m a lot older than you, and a lot wiser, and I’ve done a bit of shoveling in my day, too. I don’t shovel any more. Take that antagonistic look off your face.’
‘Is that your advice?’
‘My advice is this. Go back to the motel. Go to sleep. By tomorrow afternoon, all of this will be in the past. You can continue your vacation as if nothing happened.’
‘With or without Ann?’
‘Who’s Ann?’
‘Will she be back by tomorrow afternoon? Safe?’
‘I don’t know who she is. But I have every reason to believe you could continue your vacation as planned.’
‘One other question, Your Honor,’ I said.
‘Yes?’
‘The person who bled in that closet. Will he or she be able to continue a vacation as planned?’
‘In life, people bleed. You’re a cop. You should know that. Some bleed. Some have to bleed.’
‘You’re a very cryptic fellow, Your Honor,’ I said. ‘In our state, we don’t happen to believe that some must bleed. We’re idealists. We like to think that no one has to bleed. That’s why we’ve got a police department.’
‘And this magnificent police department of yours has undoubtedly stopped the flow of blood, has it?’
‘We try,’ I said.
‘Colby,’ Handy said, ‘don’t be a goddamn hero.’
‘What?’
‘Go back to your cabin and sleep this off. Tomorrow, pack up and go on your way. This is friendly advice. Ride with the punches. Think whatever the hell you want to think. Think at night. In the daytime, play the cop, or the butcher, or the homey j.p., or whatever particular role life has doled out to you. Don’t think during the daytime. If you start thinking, you get in trouble. Just play your part, Colby. Save your thinking for when you’re alone — and never think out loud.’
‘You’re thinking out loud right now,’ I said.
‘Only because I’m trying to save you a lot of trouble.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I appreciate it.’
‘You don’t. Your tone of voice tells me you don’t.’ Handy sighed. ‘Fred should be here soon. When he comes. I suggest you tell him you were mistaken about that blood. That’s my strong advice to you.’
‘I wasn’t mistaken,’ I paused. ‘I don’t make mistakes about blood.’
Handy sighed again. ‘You can be making a bigger mistake,’ he said. ‘A bigger mistake than you imagine.’
And that’s when the knock sounded on the door.
Chapter eight
It was amazing to watch the change that came over Handy as he opened the door. A few minutes before he admitted Fred, he was something of the melancholy cynic. He’d been thinking aloud, but he stopped thinking the second his hand pulled open the door. He stopped thinking, and he became the small town j.p. again. His stature changed, his voice changed, his speech pattern changed.
‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Fred. Come in, come in. Heck of a time to be gallivantin’ over the countryside, isn’t it? Come in. come in.’
‘I was sound asleep,’ Fred said. He looked over at me briefly. He was wearing his trooper’s uniform, but he needed a shave and he looked a little seedy. ‘What’s the trouble?’
‘Young fellow here thinks he saw blood in one of Mike Barter’s cabins.’ Handy paused and turned to me. ‘Or is that right?’ he asked in a last stab at getting me to forget what I’d seen.
‘That’s right,’ I said.
‘Probably somebody cut himself shaving,’ Fred said.
‘I doubt it. People don’t shave in closets, and no shaving cut makes a puddle on the floor.’
‘’Course, it’s something to look into,’ Handy said.
‘Sure,’ Fred answered. ‘Why don’t we get started?’
‘Well, you won’t be needing me,’ Handy said. ‘You know your job, Fred.’
‘Sure,’ Fred said. ‘You get back to bed.’
‘Fred’ll take good care of you,’ Handy said, and he led us to the door. We walked out into the night. It was getting on toward five o’clock, and there was that expectant hush on the air, that silence that comes just before false dawn. Every sound seemed to be magnified. The crunch of Fred’s boots on the path, the quiet snick of the door when Handy eased it shut, the whisper of wind in the pines surrounding the log cabin.