Night Mares in the Hamptons (38 page)

He'd stay with Dante and Louisa tonight. His tone of voice was cool but hopeful. I couldn't encourage him with an invitation to come back. I said I'd see him tomorrow.

But tomorrow was the Ride for the Ranch.

The weather was bright and beautiful but still windy. The harbormaster said we still couldn't get close enough to the cut to launch a raft.

I thought about paddling into the cove on a canoe or a kayak or a rowboat. I suppose I could scuba dive from Rick's marina. If I knew how to scuba dive and wasn't terrified of sharks and jellyfish. But what could I do when I got there? Even if I wasn't drowned or dashed on the rocks, I couldn't get H'tah out, not by myself.

Not that any of them would be much help, but Susan was busy cooking for the meals the Breakaway was catering at the food tent. Grandma was in town with the Garden Club, spiffing up the flower boxes that got damaged in the storm and arranging displays for the show grounds. Doc was having brunch with his old friend Scowcroft. Susan's father was draining the farm's fields to save the early crops, and her mother was at the school, organizing the kids who would hand out the programs and sell the alphabet books.

I didn't bother calling the police. They'd be swamped today. So would everyone involved with the show. Ty couldn't have gotten much rest last night, and he needed to be refreshed and relaxed and ready to entertain five thousand people. No, I heard it was up to eight thousand tickets sold. That mightn't be a lot by Yankee Stadium standards, but it was almost three times the population of Paumanok Harbor.

I'd already missed the midmorning's low tide. I couldn't miss tonight's. But how could I miss the show? So I had to get to H'tah before then. Which meant putting on my mother's raingear and boots, slogging across the muddy ground of Bayview and lifting—shudder—that log over the airshaft. Maybe it could lead to H'tah, or maybe I could call down to him, keep him company for awhile until we could get to him.

I called Grant first.

He was already on his way to Bayview Ranch, so I met him there. The greetings were awkward, but we were mature adults. I only cried a little. Grant didn't, although his beautiful blue eyes did get cloudy. He wouldn't show emotion, not in front of a handful of tough narcotics agents with a real drug-sniffing dog, a heat sensor, metal detectors, and a brush-cutting machine. They also had orange mesh fencing and signs from the police office: “Danger. Fragile dunes. Stay back.”

They'd already found the airshaft. I called down it, sent pictures down it, paper ones and mental images. Nothing.

They dug around in the muddy earth, but couldn't make the hole big enough for a man to be lowered on a rope, not without caving in the entire shaft.

“Not on top of the horse!”

They looked at me as if I were crazy. They didn't care about the colt, only the drugs the dog was barking about.

With the ground so soft and sodden, the Feds didn't dare bring the machinery any closer to the edge. They gingerly placed the signs, then hung the orange fencing between them and around the airshaft. They'd go by water at low tide tonight, but they weren't going to open the bunker, only watch from the Coast Guard boat on call. They figured that whoever stashed the coke in the bunker would come to retrieve it at the full moon, tomorrow night.

“No, you cannot wait that long!”

One agent in a blue windbreaker, obviously worn to cover his shoulder holster and weapon, told me the decision came from Washington. They didn't want the drugs. They wanted the smuggler, the supplier, the dealer. He ordered me to stay away.

But I was the one who found the airshaft. I was the one who led the police to Bayview Ranch in the first place. They wouldn't even know the drugs existed without me!

Grant pulled me away before the guy in the windbreaker put me in handcuffs. They'd handle it, he said. The situation was too dangerous for me anyway, what with murderers and drug runners. He gave one of my drawings to the Federal agent to show to the colt if they reached him.

“I'm supposed to show a horse a picture of a tree?”

When put like that, he might call for a straitjacket instead of handcuffs.

Even Grant doubted H'tah was still alive, so long out of his own world without the proper food or comfort. Joe the Plumber saw him as sickly, I knew he was injured and weak, so how many days could he last? Besides, water might have breached the bunker or flooded through the airshaft. He might have drowned or suffocated.

“No! He couldn't have!”

“Then where are his sendings? Why will he not reply to you, or to me? I've been trying to talk to him all morning.”

I had no answers, only more tears. Now the windbreaker man thought we were both nuts.

Feeling helpless, I left.

And got home in time for a phone call from Mrs. Froeler.

Her husband and Lewis were taking the boat out overnight for striped bass fishing, and he'd ordered his family to stay in the house while they were gone. Yesterday, he'd agreed Letitia could go to the benefit show, but today he rescinded his permission. Now Letitia was near hysteria, with her breathing ragged and eyes all swollen from crying.

I couldn't figure out what Mrs. Froeler wanted me to do about it. “I guess I could speak to her, but she's still going to be disappointed. She's been working on the programs and the alphabet book for two weeks, and the horse show is all she ever talked about.”

“I know. I want you to take her.”

“Without you?”

“I cannot disobey my husband.”

Now I was as angry at Mrs. Froeler as I was at her tyrant of a husband. “Of course you can. You're not his slave or his subordinate. Besides, his demands are unreasonable and cruel. No one has to follow orders like that.”

“Do you really think so? I. . . I try to please him to make up for what he's missing. He wanted a son and I never . . . That is . . .”

I almost said he had her money; that should be enough. I just told her, “You can take Letty yourself and have a good time. If you need help with the wheelchair, I can lend a hand. But watch out for her all night? That is your job. You also need to encourage her artistic talents. You'll see, her drawings in the alphabet book are that wonderful. What Letty needs is to see the horses.”

After a pause, Letty's mother murmured that her husband was not himself these days. He used to be different.

Oh, and Willem Froeler used to be a cuddly teddy bear of a sugar daddy? I didn't think so. He was a petty tyrant who wanted a clone of himself—after he got control of Alice's bank accounts. The pig. “You have to think of Letty and how happy she'll be. Tonight could be the best experience of her young lifetime. What else does she have of her own, for her own pleasure? Another lap in the pool?”

“You are right. I'll do it. I'll bring her tonight.”

“Great. I'll be in the bandstand. We'll make room for you two, so you don't have to chance Letty being pushed or not getting seats close enough to see everything. There's handicapped parking at the base of Bayview's street and special buses will bring you right to the show grounds.”

After we disconnected, I wondered if she really had enough courage to show up. Hey, I faced a field of possible snakes and I was the biggest coward in five counties. And maybe Froeler would never find out they left the house.

I didn't know if I was jumping to conclusions because I didn't like the guy, but I called Grant and told him about Froeler and his muscleman, Lewis, and how they were taking the boat out tonight. Sure, fish bit better by bright moonlight, but did they have to go tonight, when every other soul in Paumanok Harbor would be in town? That smelled more than fishy to me.

Grant said he'd call Washington for background checks, notify the Coast Guard to monitor Froeler's yacht, post agents on the beach to either side of the cove and more in camouflage on the top of the cliff.

“Remind them not to get too close to the edge. Sand pebbles.”

O
NLY ONE THING COULD HAVE DISTRACTED me from worries about the white horse.

Tonight wasn't about me or Grant or H'tah or sex. It was about Paumanok Harbor, the sheer magic of the place, the ordinary magic of a whole village getting together to make something wonderful happen.

Think Fourth of July and Christmas and Mardi Gras, all packed into a little town. Think goodwill and friendship and a common goal of saving something precious, and having a rousing good night at the same time.

Think lights and music and glitter and cotton candy and eight thousand people—maybe ten thousand with all the overflow crowd watching from another projector on the village commons.

Think pride and patriotism as the color guard marched in bearing the flag and circled the stadium, followed by the high school marching band in bright white uniforms playing “God Bless America.” Everyone stood.

Think Ty Farraday, because it was his show. He walked in behind the band, leading the grand parade customary at circuses. I don't know why he was on foot, but he was as commanding a presence as if he'd ridden in on an elephant. He wore a black shirt with white embroidery and aurora crystals to sparkle in the light, tight-fitting black pants, high boots with cutwork, and a white Stetson. He held the hat up and waved it to the crowd as he followed the flag to the imported mobile bandstand.

The sound system was there; so was a professional announcer, the producer, director, and Ty's manager, various state, county, and a couple of Federal dignitaries, Mayor Applebaum, Doc and Grandma Eve with Mr. Scowcroft, the Rivera family, Letty and her mother, K2 because he begged to sit with Letty and fetch her junk food, Chief of Police Haversmith, Grant, and me.

Ty bowed as he reached the raised bandstand. Everyone applauded.

Next came Connor Redstone, looking magnificent in Indian regalia atop Lady Sparrow. Both had feathers in their hair. Members of the Shinnecock Nation danced in next, followed by Indian drummers. Then came two tumbling rodeo clowns, four cowboys in leather vests and chaps riding on cutting horses, the dog handler and his three border collies with red, white, and blue kerchiefs around their necks.

“Uh-oh,” the PA blared. “Someone's missing. We can't start the show, folks. Sorry.”

The audience looked stunned for a minute, then started stamping their feet and chanting, “Paloma Blanca, Paloma Blanca.”

Ty pretended to look around as if he'd misplaced his mount. Then he shook his head and whistled. From the far end of the field, from the chute the entertainers used, the white horse entered the arena. She wore no saddle or bridle, nothing but red ribbons braided in her mane, flying loose behind her as she trotted toward Ty.

What a sight she was, enough to bring a lump to your throat. Like watching an eagle soar or hearing a bagpiper play “Amazing Grace.” No one made a sound until the magnificent animal stopped inches from Ty and arched her neck to bow her head. Then the applause thundered through the crowd. They loved her already.

The mayor welcomed everyone, then the announcer cued the “Star Spangled Banner.” The high school band played and a young woman I hadn't noticed on the field sang the difficult anthem. She should have won the talent contest.

Then everyone left the field except for Ty and his horse. He walked to the center of the arena and she followed, snatching the hat off his head. That was the sign this part of the show was all for fun.

Ty wore a mike, so everyone could hear him giving orders, which the prancing mare didn't obey. Instead she cavorted and spun in circles around him, keeping the hat out of his reach, to the amusement of the audience, especially the children.

He pulled a carrot out of a pocket. She shook her head, and his hat, no.