15

On the drive to Edgartown, he tried to piece things together. The encounter with Roger seemed to indicate one thing clearly. He was no longer dealing with a simple thing. He was dealing with what seemed to be an organized group, a group which could afford to hire local talent to do its dirty work. And knowing this, he wondered how many of the local residents were involved in the death of Mary, the death of Evelyn Cloud, the kidnaping of Penny. Forty-five-thousand dollars was a lot of money, and murder had certainly been committed before for less. But what was a swordfisherman doing with forty-five-thousand dollars? And how had Roger learned about the money so quickly? Was Anne Dubrow involved in this? She had, after all, been the only person who’d seen him at the Cloud house that morning—and her reason for being there had seemed flimsy enough. But if she’d been there in search of money …

Wait a minute, he told himself. Start from the beginning. Do it logically. Do it simply. Add the facts.

Fact:	My wife Mary drowned last year in Menemsha Bight.
Fact:	A letter from Evelyn Cloud told me the drowning was not accidental.
Fact:	Evelyn Cloud was killed by a blond wearing a regatta medal.
Fact:	John Cloud fled with his son. But first he left forty-five-thousand dollars immersed in a can of paint.
Fact:	Freddie Barton is a sailor.
Fact:	Ahab has been hired to take out Cloud’s boat tomorrow.
Fact:	He was hired by a Mr. Carpenter, the same man who rented the Fielding house from Pete Rambley.
Fact:	Roger knew I had the forty-five-thousand dollars, and tried to get it from me by force.
Fact:	Whoever is behind all this wants me out of the Fielding house and off the island today.

Those are the facts. How do you add them? Why is the Fielding house important? Why does Carpenter, whoever he is, want the Cloud boat? What is that forty-five-thousand dollars going to buy?

The plans for the Nike site?

Is Dr. Reutermann involved in this? But damnit, just how secret is the Nike? Haven’t they already shown films of it on television? And didn’t I see … now hold it a minute … on the drive up, didn’t I see a sign in one of the Massachusetts towns? Rhode Island? Somewhere along the way, didn’t the sign read NIKE SITE, OPEN FOR INSPECTION? Didn’t it read something like that? And if the site is open to the public, isn’t it a little farfetched to assume that any of this is connected with the guided missile?

The Fielding house.

The Fielding house and water. Mary was killed by water, and Freddie Barton is a sailor, and Carpenter hired a sailor to man the Cloud boat. Why? Because Cloud has run off, obviously, and because it’s important to get that boat out on the water tomorrow. What’s out there? What the hell is out there on the water? What did Mary see or hear last year?

I’m on a carrousel, he thought. I’m reaching for the gold ring the way those teenage girls were a little while ago. I’m grabbing half a dozen rings each time I pass that wooden arm—but I can’t catch the gold one.

He drove directly to the Edgartown Yacht Club.

The town was bustling with pre-regatta activity. The people in the streets were dressed in casual sailing clothes, carrying canvas bags under their arms or dangling on white lines. The race was in the air, the excitement of a keen competition, the excitement of skilled sailors pitting small craft against the ocean. The town was thronged with strangers, each hoping to share vicariously in the thrill of the race. He wondered what it was like to be a man like Freddie Barton, a man who roamed from regatta to regatta, a man who made the sea his life, a man who flitted from oceanside to oceanside searching out races.

The yacht club was the hub of the activity. If the town seemed frenzied, the club seemed on the verge of excited hysteria. Zach sought out the man in charge of the regatta committee, and then asked to see a list of the entrants in tomorrow’s race. The man was hurried, but very obliging. He produced the formal entry list, and Zach searched the pages until he found a listing for BARTON, FREDERICK. The name of Barton’s boat was Inheritance.

“Do you know this fellow?” he asked.

The committee chairman looked at the list. “Freddie Barton? Sure. Races here every year. Races everywhere, for that matter.”

“Ever win?”

“Not last year,” he said. “Year before that, he did. He’s a good sailor. In the winter, he hits the Florida regattas. Sails everywhere. The Coast, Lake George, everywhere. He’s a real sailor. It’s in his blood. Where there’s water, you’ll find Freddie Barton.”

“Must be pretty rich. To be able to do that, I mean.”

“Not so rich,” the man said. “In fact, Freddie’s broke. His father’s loaded, but Freddie’s a black sheep. The old man won’t give him a dime.”

“Then how can he afford—”

“The Raven? He inherited it. One of his uncles left it to him. That’s why it’s called Inheritance. I think that’s pretty clever, don’t you?”

“Yeah. How does he make a living?”

“Search me.”

“Does he spend a lot when he’s in here?”

“Same as any other club member.”

“I thought you said he was broke.”

“Well … well, that’s what he always says.”

“But he buys drinks and dinners and pays his bills, huh?”

“Yes. Yes, he does.” The man shrugged. “Maybe he’s got stock or something.”

“Maybe so,” Zach said. “Thanks a lot.”

“You down for the regatta?” the man asked.

“You might say that,” Zach answered, and he left the club.”

It was a little after noon. In an hour and forty-five minutes, he would have to board the ferry. He debated whether or not he should turn over the forty-five-thousand dollars to the police. He decided against it. The money had so far succeeded in smoking out Roger and his playmates. The money was important, and you couldn’t spring a trap without bait. Besides, he was fairly certain the police were not following him, and he did not want to remind them that he existed. Satisfied with his decision, he started the car and began driving back toward the house to pick up his luggage.

A red-and-black car was parked in front of the house. He recognized it at once as Pete Rambley’s.

The real estate salesman was sitting at the kitchen table. His hand was on the table, and there was a .45 automatic in it.

“Come in, Blake,” he said.

Zach entered the kitchen. The screen door slammed shut behing him.

“What do you want, Rambley?”

“The money,” Rambley said.

“What money?”

“The money John Cloud left in a can of red paint at his house.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ll explain as quickly as I know how, Blake. I’m in no particular hurry, but this gun is. Cloud has taken off. After what happened to his wife. I guess he’s scared for his kid’s safety. He wants out. So he’s hiding somewhere.”

“Wants out of what?”

“That’s none of your business. All you have to know is that he sent a note before he took off. The note said he had hidden something that belonged to us in a can of red paint on his front porch. That something is forty-five-thousand dollars, Blake, and I want it.”

“What makes you think I’ve got it?”

“Anne Dubrow saw you at Cloud’s house this morning. It’s our assumption you stumbled across the money. Now hand it over.”

“Is Anne in this, too?”

“Anne is nowhere near it. She simply mentioned to me that she’d seen you there. Give me the money, Blake.”

“How do you know I’ve got it on me?”

“I don’t. I’d just as soon go through your pockets after you’re dead.”

“And if I’m not carrying it, you’d never find it then.”

“Perhaps not. But I hate to think of what would happen to your darling daughter without Dad around to look after her.”

Zach reached into his pocket and threw the tobacco pouch onto the table. Slowly, with the gun trained at Zach’s middle, Rambley thumbed through the stack of bills, counting.

“All there,” he said. “You’re an honest man.”

“What have you done with my daughter?” Zach said.

“That’s right, you have a ferry to catch, don’t you?” He rose. “You’d better catch it. Time and tide …”

“I want to get my bags.”

“Get them. And then get out. And forget all about Martha’s Vineyard, Blake. When you get back to New York, don’t mention a word of this to anyone. If you do, we’ll find your daughter again. And next time, we won’t be so gentle.”

“You’re a—”

“Get your bags. I’ll wait until you’re gone.”

Zach put the luggage into his trunk and drove off. At 1:30 P.M., he boarded the ferry to Woods Hole. He did not see any police cars, but an unmarked sedan followed him onto the boat. There were two men in the sedan. Both looked like Harvard men. He put them out of his mind. If they were cops, they were cops, and he didn’t give a damn.

He drove as fast as he knew how from Woods Hole, but he didn’t get to Providence until six o’clock that evening.