Fire Season (17 page)

Tony put the his hand loosely over his mouth. “Aliens,” he said, in a conspirator's whisper.

“Are you worried they're watching you through the screens?” Lola said.

Tony nodded. “Talking to me, too. Telling me to do stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?” Coffin said.

“Last night they told me to go outside in the yard. That's when they got me.”

“They got you?”

Tony stared at Coffin for a moment, his eyes dark and intense. “They took me, Frankie. In their ship. I was gone for, like, hours. They must've hypnotized me or something, 'cause I don't remember much until they dumped me out in the dunes.”

Coffin hesitated. “Oh,” he said finally.

Tony looked away. “I know. It sounds crazy.”

Coffin wanted to climb back into the Crown Vic and drive to the Bookstore Café in Wellfleet for a beer and a big plate of fried oysters. Instead he said, “Is that it? The TV's not telling you to do anything else?”

“Well, there's a guy on FOX that keeps telling me to buy gold,” Tony said.

Coffin took his hat off, scratched his head, put his hat back on. “This isn't good, Tony,” he said. “This worries me.”

“I'm fine, Frankie. I know it sounds crazy, but I'm fine.”

“It's Doris I'm worried about,” Coffin said. “Look at her. She seems pretty unhappy.”

Tony turned, his big belly slopping over the waistband of his boxers. Doris was crouched on all fours, looking down at them from the deck, her face mascara-streaked.

Tony nodded. “She looks like a raccoon,” he said. “A sad one.”

“You don't want that, right? I mean, you love her, don't you?”

Tony's eyebrows went up. “Sure I do, Frankie. 'Til death do us part. I take that shit seriously.”

“I know you do,” Coffin said, “but here's the thing. She wants you to see a doctor. She's a little worried.”

Tony frowned. “What kind of doctor?”

“A doctor doctor. You know—a regular doctor. She just wants to make sure you're okay. If everything checks out, you can come right back and throw the rest of the screens off the deck, no problem.”

“You swear? I can come right back?”

Coffin crossed his heart. “I wouldn't bullshit you, Tony. We're family, right?”

“That's right, Frankie. Like brothers.”

“Why don't you get dressed. We'll run you over to Outer Cape Health in Wellfleet. If everything checks out okay, you'll be back in two shakes.”

“Awesome,” Tony said. “While I'm over there I think I'll have the doc take a look at my bunghole. I think the aliens musta probed me. I got a wicked bad hemorrhoid all of a sudden.”

*   *   *

Coffin drove Tony to Outer Cape Health, while Doris and Lola followed in Tony's truck. As Tony slid out of the Crown Vic, Coffin said, “Listen, I want you to do whatever the doc says, okay?”

Tony shrugged. “Sure. Like what?”

“If he wants to send you down to Hyannis to the hospital, say.”

“Just to have a look, though, right?”

“Right—just to have a look.”

“Okay. Sure, Frankie. We got good insurance, right?”

“Right. And you listen to Doris—she's the boss for now, okay?”

“Ha,” Tony said. “When the fuck isn't she?”

*   *   *

Coffin slumped down in the passenger seat with his hat over his eyes while Lola drove. It had started to rain again—the fat drops blowing slant against the windshield. The windshield wipers' rhythmic thwonking should have been relaxing, but it only made Coffin more tense.

“Well,” Lola said, after a long silence. “That was weird.”

“Yes,” Coffin said. “Yes, it was.”

“So, what do you think—psychotic break?”

“Sure looks like one,” Coffin said. “Delusions, paranoia. That thing about the aliens talking to him through the TV is classic stuff.”

“Didn't Son of Sam have that?” Lola said. “The TV telling him to kill people?”

Coffin pushed his hat back, sat up. “I'm having a hard time processing this. I think of Tony as being goofy—not crazy. Mentally ill. Whatever.”

“Well, there's another possibility, maybe.”

“Don't even go there.”

“Come on—thousands of people claim they've been abducted by UFOs. You think they're all having the same hallucination?”

“Yep.”

Lola smiled a wry half-smile. “Yeah. Me, too. Want to stop in Wellfleet for a bite? I'll buy.”

“Seriously?”

“Of course, seriously. How about the Bookstore Café?”

Coffin grinned. “It's like you're reading my mind,” he said.

*   *   *

The Bookstore Café was on Kendrick Avenue, just past the Wellfleet town pier. Coffin liked to eat in the bar: it had big windows that looked almost due south over Mayo beach—a strip of coarse, lion-colored sand—and the broad expanse of Wellfleet Harbor, beneath the calm, gray surface of which lay the Cape's most exquisitely productive oyster beds. If you wanted a fresher oyster than those served at the Bookstore Café, you'd have to cross the street, wade out into the harbor, and harvest them yourself. If you wanted a better oyster, Coffin thought, well, good luck with that—the cold, clean saltwater and strong tides of Wellfleet Harbor produced a small, firm, and briny oyster that was plump and flavorful but not overpowering or swampy-tasting. Coffin had eaten them for almost fifty years, and believed them to be the best in the world—far better than the Cotuits, Blue Points, or Chesapeakes, which, he knew, were genetically identical, and a superior experience entirely to the funky-smelling, pancake-sized Gulf oysters he'd eaten in New Orleans and on the Florida panhandle. Coffin barely glanced at the menu, focusing mostly on the beer list. He knew what he wanted.

“What are you getting?” Lola said.

“I think I'll try the fried. Maybe a Newcastle—looks like they've got it on draft now.”

“Good plan. I'd get a lobster roll, but after last night I'm not sure I could look it in the eye.”

Coffin shuddered. “When we get back to the office I'll give Shelley Block a call, see if she's had a chance to take a gander yet.” Shelley Block was the state medical examiner for Cape Cod; her office was in Sandwich, at the far west end of the Cape, about three miles from the canal. Coffin had dated her briefly before he met Jamie—she was a pale, angular woman who always smelled faintly of menthol. Coffin liked her and thought her very attractive, but had found himself unable to stop thinking about what she did for a living—with embarrassing results.

She'd been ironic, good-humored. “It happens,” she'd said. “To me. A lot.”

They'd parted on good terms, and remained friends. Branstool's head would have been transported to her domain at the morgue by now most likely. Coffin guessed that it would have been an object of considerable interest to her. He shuddered again.

“Toxicology?” Lola said.

“Yep, and whether there are any other wounds we didn't see last night.”

The bartender took their order: fried oysters and a Newcastle for Coffin, fish and chips and a Diet Coke for Lola.

“Let's stop at Branstool's for a bit on the way back,” Coffin said, when the bartender was gone. “One or two things I want to check out.”

“Like?”

Coffin told her about the ducks, and his conversation with Rudy. “He must have also had a place to keep lots of cash; he was too meticulous to just shove it under the mattress.”

“So you're thinking what—a safe, somewhere?”

“Maybe a safe—some kind of stash box. He almost had to have one.”

Lola nodded. The bartender brought their drinks.

“Dude, should you be drinking this?” he said, setting Coffin's beer down on a white napkin. He looked barely twenty-one, and wore his hair in blond dreadlocks. “I mean, you're, like, in uniform.”

Coffin met the bartender's eyes. “You stay out of my business, I'll stay out of yours.”

“Ha! Right on, dude,” the bartender said. “Good one.”

“I should've gotten a Bloody Mary,” Lola said.

“It's not too late,” Coffin said.

Lola grinned. “I guess one of us should probably keep a clear head.”

“That would be you,” Coffin said. Outside, the wind had picked up. Small whitecaps raced across the harbor; a dull gray rain pelted the window.

The bartender brought their food. “Beer's on the house,” he said, pointing a ringed index finger at Coffin. “You stay out of my business, I'll stay out of yours, right? Awesome, dude!”

The oysters were perfectly fried: the breading was light, crispy, and golden brown, the oysters sweet and piping hot. They were not greasy or overbreaded, not skimpy, either—the helping was generous. The fries were okay, Coffin thought, the coleslaw disposable, the beer cold and rich. He wanted to go home and take a nap—maybe after Branstool's, he thought. Maybe.

“So how's Jamie doing? Everything okay?”

Coffin knocked on the table. “So far so good,” he said. “Sleeping, eating. Sexy as hell. She wants me to go car shopping with her. And furniture shopping. Also, I'm supposed to paint.”

“Paint? You mean the baby's room?”

“Yep.”

“Do you know
how
to paint?”

“Am I a man? I know how to paint. It's the car shopping that worries me.”

“Don't like negotiating?”

“I don't like anything about it,” Coffin said. “The creepy salesmen, the fake friendliness, the weird little test-drive. And don't get me started on all the hidden fees. You negotiate a deal, they make you wait around while they ‘talk to the manager'”—he held up finger quotes—“then when they come back with the contract it's got a $500 advertising charge, a $250 transportation fee—next thing you know you're $1500 over the price you thought you'd agreed on.”

“Huh,” Lola said, dipping a piece of cod into a plastic cup of tartar sauce. “I've never had that problem.”

“You haven't?” Coffin said.

“Nope.” There was a faint smudge of tartar sauce on Lola's upper lip. She licked it off with the tip of her tongue.

“Okay,” Coffin said. “So what's your secret?”

“I tell them I'm a cop,” Lola said.

“That's it? You just tell them you're a cop and they don't screw you over?”

“Well, kind of. I tell them I'm a cop and they ask me where. And I say Provincetown, and they get all jokey and say, oh, P'town—that must be
interesting.
And I say yep, I love it. And you know what? My brother's a cop, too. And they say really? Two P'town cops in one family? And I say no—he's with the FBI. And they say oh,
really?
They're a little more serious now. What does he do in the FBI? And I smile very sweetly and I say he's in the fraud division. They've been investigating a bunch of auto dealerships, although I probably shouldn't be telling you that. They couldn't get me out of there fast enough. I got my new Camaro below dealer cost, zero percent APR.”

“Wow,” Coffin said. “I'll have to try that. You don't have a brother, right?”

“Nope.”

Coffin pointed a finger at her. “Awesome, dude.”

*   *   *

Branstool's driveway had been sealed off with yellow crime scene tape by the Truro PD. Coffin and Lola parked the Crown Vic by the road and walked to the house—beige clapboard, beige trim. No one was around except a Truro police officer Coffin didn't recognize. He was young, crew cut under a blue uniform ball cap. He stood on the porch, smoking a cigarette and trying to look tough.

“Well, who have we got here?” he said, squinting at Coffin's uniform. “P'town cops? Are you lost or something?”

Coffin stuck out his hand. “Coffin. You must be new.”

“You're Detective Coffin?” the young officer said, all smiles now, shaking hands emphatically “Wow. You're practically famous.”

“Hear that, Frank?” Lola said, patting Coffin on the back. “Next thing you know, you'll have your own reality TV show.”

“America's Most Stunted?”
Coffin said.
“Clam Shack Investigations?”

The young cop turned to Lola. “So you must be Sergeant Winters, then. I guess I should've put two and two together. I'm Adams. I'm just a part-timer. I'm studying criminal justice at CCCC—hoping to go full time when I'm done.”

“There's no money in it,” Coffin said.

“No benefits, either, once the legislature's done with us,” Lola said.

Adams squared his chin. “It's all about catching the bad guys, right?”

“In Truro?” Coffin said.

“You've got to start somewhere,” Lola said.

“Hey,” Adams said. “Two murders in ten years. That's not nothing.”

“Maybe I should apply,” Coffin said.

*   *   *

Inside, Branstool's house was just as Coffin remembered it from the night before—neat, beige, crowded with wooden ducks—except that during the day the sun streamed in through the big, west-facing windows, filling the living room with yellow light, motes drifting in the still air. There was a large print on the living-room wall—a solid field of dark blue, fading into turquoise at the edges, with a pale green stripe across the top. It looked, Coffin thought, like one of Branstool's silk ties—the ones he'd worn to offset the beige suits he always wore to work. Except for the ducks, it was the only splash of color in the room.

Lola stood near the fireplace. “Wow,” she said. “The man liked his waterfowl.”

A life-sized merganser swam in place on the glass coffee table. Coffin picked it up, turned it over, tapped on it. It appeared to be solid.

“You said he made these in his woodshop?” Lola said.

“There's a hell of a lot of woodworking gear up there, and a hell of a lot of ducks down here. Two plus two.”