That Good Night (23 page)

“So what's your suggestion?”

“Give me some choices.”

“There are none!”

“What the hell are you talking about? There are always choices.”

“Not in this case. I've found you and that's that. I'm not the judge here, only the investigator. We leave the island together. What Sunset or the insurance company does with that information is up to them. And this business of buying the boat! You and that yacht broker Baxter could be looking at serious jail time. Look, my job is upholding the law. I take you in, the wheels of justice do the rest. That's my job.”

“No, your job is to make a report. You found me. I'm alive. No life insurance gets paid out. You don't need to take me in for that. But you just can't give it up, can you? You still think you're in the FBI! You're driving a car by looking through the rear view mirror. How dumb is that? You can't face the harsh reality that those days are over. Poor little old Roberts sent out to pasture to end his days playing golf or some other inane pastime. Big block headline: RETIRED FBI AGENT CAPTURES NURSING HOME RUNAWAY. Just who did I hurt by trying to live out my life my own way? My kids? Sunset? My kids will be disappointed that I'm not dead because they'll have to wait that much longer to get the insurance. And Sunset, they're going
to get sued no matter what. Maybe
I'll
sue them for endangering my life by not protecting me against myself. Time to face up to it, Roberts. This is not about me or Baxter or Cat or Bob. It's about you. About your inflated ego. Grow a pair before it's too late. Why don't you just declare me dead and go home to your empty life?”

“My life isn't the issue here. It's you and your inability to accept old age. Give it up, Lambert. You've caused enough trouble.”

“I've caused enough trouble getting old! Is that what you're saying? That's just it, isn't it? Keep us alive at any cost, and then toss us to the wolves! Let me tell you what trouble is. You're here in my boat. You're on an island with no way to contact the outside. Bob wants to chain you to the porch and I'm getting close to agreeing with him. You see, Bob and I are past the point where we run our lives by some oath to uphold the law or anything else. We do what we have to do and want to do and that's that.”

“You're threatening me? Do you think for one minute that you could stop me? I'd have you down on the floor crying uncle in the blink of an eye. Listen Lambert, here's the deal: we're going to sail out of here right now. I'll toss the lines, you drive. And don't try something stupid.”

With that, Roberts reached into the back of his underwear and pulled out the tiniest pistol I've ever seen. I almost laughed. Some new gadget cooked up by the FBI is my guess. And a special pocket in his underwear to boot. But it looked like a real gun and hell if I wanted to get shot by such a puny firearm.

Roberts directed me on deck where I started the engine. He jumped off the boat. I directed him to cast off the bow first, and
toss the lines on deck, then come and get the stern line and toss it to me before climbing aboard. Just as Roberts' feet left the dock, I gave the thrusters and a good hit which sent the boat skittering away from the dock. Roberts missed the boat and ended up treading water. A blast of the horn alerted Bob, who was dockside in no time flat. Roberts was clinging to the dock like a wet lab, his pea-shooter deep sixed. I had a good mind to bring the boat alongside and crush the bastard.

By the time I got the boat tied up and helped Bob chain Roberts to the porch and toss him an old army blanket, it was time for bed. Tomorrow was another day.

Tired as I was, I lay awake wondering what the next step was going to be. Killing Roberts was not really an option and I was fairly certain that Bob was a bit blustery with all his talk on that subject. Nor was it an option taking Roberts along on Bob's twilight cruise. I tossed and turned with little to show for it. I cuddled up to my stuffy which had now become a Lori-, and sometimes an Abigail-substitute. I wanted more than anything to see Abigail again and maybe, when all this was over, I'd make my way back to Boston. Why not dream?

Adapted from the digital recorder of Private Investigator, Justin Roberts recorded July 28, 0215 hours
.

It's damn humbling to be chained to a porch railing on an island in Maine by two men at least twenty years my senior. And forget about sleeping. One of the old guys has threatened to kill me. The other is on the verge of letting him do it. They're sleeping as I dictate this. At least if something bad happens there will be a record of it, thanks to the BBDRD. I've never been so humiliated in my life. It all began with that damn Sunset Senior Citizen Village and Nursing Home. Finding a tracking device in a dog turd should have been a sign that this was not going to be good. Now I'm chained to a porch railing. I've really lost my edge
.

This Bob guy has this heavy rusty chain tight around my waist and padlocked behind my back. He called it an anchor rode, whatever the hell that is. Every time I move, the damn chain bites into my gut and clanks like something out of
Ghostbusters.
Doesn't fit in with the sounds of a night in Maine. Escaping this is not an option. Even Houdini couldn't get out of this. But maybe coming to my senses is. Outwit these guys. How hard could that be? I'm not so sure of this Bob character, but Lambert has a soft side. I'll work on it
.

Last night Lambert lambasted me for hanging on to my career, or trying to. He's got a point, but one doesn't just walk away from thirty years of service. I had awards and citations for bringing down
some pretty rough characters. But capturing rapists and murderers is one thing, tracking an old man is quite another. After retiring, Mary and I bought a motor home and for six months drove around the good old US of A. Once I got back home I went crazy with boredom. I tried golf and hated it. Bought a canoe and left it in the backyard. Watched
Judge Judy
for crying out loud! The wife, she kept making lists of what I could be doing. Guess I was driving her crazy too. I tried a stint as a security guard at the local mall. I was fired after I slapped some teenager for shoplifting. Then this job working for an insurance company came along. It got me away from the house, the pay's good. And now I'm here
.

With my stuffy still cradled in my arms, I awoke to a soft light filtering through the hatch, the same hatch that Abigail and I counted stars through. Savoring the afterglow of pleasant dreams, I lingered in bed before rising to face so many unanswered questions.

Before going up to the cabin, I called Ernie. From the grogginess in his voice, I suspected that I woke him up.

“This better be good, waking me up so damn early,” he said. I apologized for calling before noon. After briefly catching him up on my travels, I told him about Bob having cancer, specifically asking him how I can help Bob deal with the pain. When. I mentioned morphine. Ernie was very clear that he would not risk trying to send me any morphine. “You think I want to spend my waning years in prison?” was his response.

“I wouldn't ask you to do that,” I said. “Just suppose I got my hands on some, tell me how much to give him and how.”

Ernie settled into straight doctor talk. “First of all, I'm not prescribing anything, just giving you some facts. Are we talking about injection or pills?”

I answered that I wasn't sure.

“Well in that case, I'll go with injection, but call me if you wind up using pills. Of course, you'll need a syringe. Anyway, I suggest starting with a low dose, say 4 mg every three to six
hours. If that doesn't work, increase the dosage a little, but 15 mg is the limit. At that dose, expect your friend to get some pretty deep sleep. Okay, that's it. I don't want to know anything else. Like I said before, you can call me back. One more thing, I strongly advise you to get your friend to his doctor for any treatment. You're nuts if you try it on your own. Understand?” I told him that I did. He offered to talk to an oncologist friend of his for any other ideas and said that he would call me back.

Roberts was in miserable shape all scrunched up against the porch railing with a heavy chain showing itself like a snake slithering out from under the old army blanket which was wrapped snuggly around him. I took no pity. Neither did Bob, who was laid back on an Adirondack drinking coffee. I tossed Roberts his now-dry clothes. He squirmed from underneath the blanket. The unforgiving heavy chain wrapped around his waist clunked and clanked as he pulled himself up, using the porch railing as leverage. He struggled to dress, finishing with putting his belt back on. “Mug's waiting,” Bob said, gesturing to a steaming cup sitting on an end table. “Sleep well, did you?”

“Probably the best sleep I've ever had,” I answered. “How about you?”

“To tell you the truth, that crap last night gave me a hell of a headache. It's getting so I'm just not up to all that much excitement anymore. This numbskull,” he said looking over to Roberts “is getting in the way of some good sailing.” Roberts grunted.

“So what are we going to do?”

“Let's hike up to the lookout and talk it out.”

Before we left, Bob gave Roberts a cup of coffee with two
pieces of buttered toast. And an empty coffee can with the warning, “Piss on my flowers and you'll be eating them.” Bob's soft spot has a few barbs.

We sat overlooking Casco Bay. The air was sweet with a slight ocean breeze, the sky a clear powder blue. An osprey glided by, its high chirps cutting through the still morning light. I began the conversation with an abrupt, “We can't kill him.”

“No, we can't,” Bob readily agreed. “Sometimes I talk a bit too much. But, damn it, we both know that my days are precious and I don't want to give them over to nurse-maiding that son-of-a-bitch. Any chance of reasoning with him? I mean, is he so damn thick-headed to think that you are going to go back to that place and just give all this up?”

“I could do that if I have to,” I said. “Maybe I make a deal that we go sailing, come back here and then I go back with him.”

“Over my dead body,” Bob shot back. “Maybe we ship him back to Stone Island with a few of my buddies to keep him comfy. I can arrange that with one phone call.” Catching himself, he said, “Did I just say
over my dead body
?”

“Yes, you did, Bob. It's not a cliché anymore and we need to talk about it.” I told Bob about my call to Ernie, about his suggestion that we see his doctor for pain killers. Maybe get some morphine and have it ready just in case. Bob argued that he wanted to fight to the bitter end and that taking painkillers would only dull his mind. I countered that pain would do that, too, and there was no sense to it. Bob quieted then looked up into the tree tops. Lowering his head, almost bowing, he said, “No more doctors. No more much of anything. I'm not trying to be stoic here, I just want to go sailing and get on with whatever life I have left. The morphine? Maybe, but not until we
get back from sailing.”

He was adamant that he would not leave his island and would not set foot on the mainland ever again. The lone exception to leaving his island was to jump on the boat. Regarding Roberts, we agreed that leaving him on Stone Island while we went sailing was the best option. Worst case scenario was me being hauled off; best case was Roberts dying of some rare disease while we enjoyed wind and wave.

On our way back to the cabin my phone rang. It was Ernie. He reported that his talk with an oncologist suggested that, since the cancer has metastasized, it is likely that the brain is involved. Piercing headaches would be a clear sign. In any event, death was certain and it could come at any time. Hold off with the morphine as long as possible. Once you start that stuff, your friend's life will get pretty foggy. Hospice would be the best place when the time comes.” Ernie ended the call with, “Be sure to look after yourself. What you're into here can take its toll.”

I asked Bob to hold up so we could talk. He directed me to a bench that overlooked the same clearing where I saw deer the day before. I talked with Bob about the possibility of hospice, but he was adamant that he would be in charge, no one else. I promised that I would be with him to the end and he seemed to accept that. We sat for some time looking over the field. Bob pointed out three deer that emerged from the woods. Watching them graze he began to cry. I put my arms around him and we wept together.

When we came out of the woods, Roberts was stooped over in the unmistakable posture of a man taking a leak, his left hand holding the coffee can. Seizing the moment, Bob yelled, “Shake
it more than three times and you're playing with yourself.” Startled, Roberts swung around, giving Bob a full frontal. Bob finished the harangue with, “Not much to work with, I see.” Roberts uttered some indiscernible remark. We walked up to the porch. Bob was sweating like he'd just run the quarter mile. He went into the cabin, leaving me alone with Roberts who had sat down on the porch floor, his back against the railing. I remained standing.

“Chasing you all over the place has put a crimp in my plans and I'm not sure what I can do about it. Last night I could have crushed you against the dock like a ripe tomato and that'd be that, a bad accident. Bob could have smashed your head with the maul, but he didn't. I guess what I'm saying is we're not cut out to be murderers. All Bob and I want to do is go sailing. We could take you along but that'd ruin the trip. Besides, we hate babysitting. We could just leave you chained to the porch for a few weeks. Would you like that?” Roberts shook his head. “I didn't think so. That leaves the only one other option, which is to let you go. But that means we're going to have to trust you and after you pulled that shitty little gun on me last night, that's going to be a very hard thing to do.”