That Good Night (24 page)

“I apologize for that,” Roberts said. “It's just that in training we were told when in doubt, show your weapon. Way overboard, I admit. So, I'll just promise to you right now that if you release me, I'll go on my way. As far as I'm concerned I was never here. You're missing and that's that. How about it?”

This patronizing bastard really pissed me off. “You're not in junior high school, you pathetic son-of-a-bitch, and I am certainly not your principal. You sound like some kid who's been caught playing with himself in a stairwell.
How about it
,
my ass. It doesn't go like that. We just don't shake your hand and send you on your way. And you know why, because as long as you're still playing G-Man, you're going to continue to bird dog us. Or worst yet, invite the local sheriff to haul us in. No sir, letting you go means taking you back to Stone Island, at least until we get back. Is that clear?”

“Yes sir!” Roberts barked like he was a private in basic training speaking to an officer. Bob reappeared on the porch, steaming coffee mug in hand.

“Another thing,” Bob chimed in. “If you are not there when we return, it'll only mean you're lobster bait. A few of my acquaintances will be enjoying some R&R on the island to keep you company. You'll be picked up tomorrow morning to begin your exile while we go for a sail. When we get back, we'll decide what to do with you. How about it?”

Clanking the chain as he struggled to stand, Roberts shot back, “This is beyond ridiculous. You're talking federal offense here. Kidnapping, holding a person against his will. Threatening murder. You guys will spend the rest of your life behind bars.”

Bob began to laugh, a chuckle at first, then a hearty guttural laugh that tore off into the surrounding woods. He was still laughing when he turned and went back into the cabin. I stood for a moment staring at Roberts with utter contempt. I had a good mind to kick him in the teeth.

Adapted from the digital recorder of Private Investigator, Justin Roberts recorded July 28, 1155 hours
.

They went into the woods. I've got to think through this. Lambert has a point. What good would it do to drag him back to Sunset? But that's my sworn duty. You see, there I go. I'm not sworn to do anything other than to help the nursing home and the insurance company save a few bucks. Besides, Lambert's got me thinking. Why am I doing this? I don't need the money, I'm still healthy enough to do whatever I want to do. I've got grandkids. I shouldn't have pulled the gun. I knew the minute I pointed it at Lambert that I was play acting. It didn't feel real anymore. But this chain? That feels real. Still, being chained up like a dog, humiliated like some school kid, somebody's got to pay for that
.

So what if I don't return Lambert to Sunset. His sons certainly don't seem to give a damn, except for the money. I wonder what the story is behind that relationship. Anyway, I need to make a decision. Either I let Lambert off the hook, or I get him back to Sunset.
.

I've come to respect Lambert. I feel somewhat the same way about Bob, although he is unpredictable, headstrong and, I'm afraid, capable of carrying out his threats. After all, he chained me to the porch. Then again, he did feed me and just this morning gave me a cup of coffee and two slices of toast. Damn! I'm losing it. Can't let my personal feelings get the better of me. That's dangerous. First
lesson at Quantico. I don't have much time. Gotta think! Gotta think how to get to Lambert's soft side!

Bob was sitting stooped at the table, head in hands. I put my hand on his shoulder.

“What's going on?” I asked. Bob shrugged his shoulder. “Pain?”

“Yeah.”

“Should I call your doctor or anybody else?”

“No. And don't let my friends know. I don't want anybody to know. Promise me. The pain'll pass. It usually does. I've got some pills; they're in the cabinet above the sink. Get me three and screw the label.”

I gave him my word and I did what he asked. The label read
take two tablets every 3–4 hours when needed, not to exceed 8 tablets in 24 hours
. I poured a glass of water and returned to Bob.

He swallowed all three with a few sips of water. “I need to go to bed,” he said. “These should knock me out for awhile.”

Once he was in bed, I returned to the kitchen. Without morphine, there'd be no sailing. No question that the pain would increase. But where to get it? I couldn't leave him alone. And that idiot on the porch, what the hell would I do with him? Bob's friends would take care of him in the morning, but then what? Maybe Bob's buddies would know what to do. I heard Bob moan and went to his side. He was in a fetal position. Soft moans came with each breath, interspersed now and then with
groans. Oh God, how helpless I felt.

As I paced, I was hailed by Roberts. “Mr. Lambert, is everything okay in there?”

That put me over the top. Maybe I should get the maul and finish this pathetic bastard. I came out of the door like a bull ready to gore. Roberts cowered.

“Easy,” he said. “I didn't mean to pry, but…”

“But what?” I asked, trying hard to control myself.

“Something's wrong. I heard moaning.”

“Mind your own fucking business,” I said.

“Wait,” Roberts said. “I know what you think of me, but let me try to explain. Let me just try to turn the clock back with all this. I'm wrong. I've been wrong. I screwed up, I know it. You're right. I can't seem to let the past be the past. I want to, believe me. Pulling a gun on you, my God, I regretted it the moment I did it. I'm amazed you didn't squash me against the dock. I'll go to Stone Island, willingly. But right now, I give you my word: I will not try to return you to Sunset. As far as I'm concerned, you're missing and that's that. I'm sorry.”

“All this because you heard a moan? You think I'm nuts enough to believe anything you say?”

A heavy groan came from the cabin. I reached over and closed the door.

“There,” Roberts said. “That's what I'm talking about. I know what that sound is. I know it because that's how my grandfather sounded when he was dying. Come on, what's going on here? Can I help? I'm no good to you chained up. How can I gain your trust?”

I remained silent for some time. Roberts had been in his
I'll help
mode before. I admit, his tone was different, but trust
him? That was asking a lot. The thing of it is, with Bob suddenly going downhill, letting Roberts go might be a blessing. He'd rat me out, of that I was certain. But so what? If he showed up with the law, at least Bob might get some help and I would've kept my promise not to tell anyone. I wouldn't go back to Sunset, I promised myself that much, but I'd figure it out. I've always been able to figure it out.

“Years ago,” Roberts said calmly, “I tracked down this kid accused of killing his aunt and uncle along with two cousins. He was sixteen years old. I found him in Dubuque, Iowa working as a dishwasher at a local resort. He was living under an overpass. During my investigation, I became convinced that this kid was innocent. All of the evidence pointed to a vagrant who had wandered by this farmhouse in the middle of a Kansas cornfield. The district attorney, though, was not to be convinced. No matter what evidence I threw at him, he held fast. Get the kid, he told me. Let justice do its work. Well, I did. I took the kid in and you know what? He was convicted. I still wake up with that one. The kid was tried as an adult and executed. I should have let him go.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.

“I'm not sure, except that letting you off might somehow ease my guilt over that case. You know, watching you and Bob do your thing, I'm a bit jealous. You're so damn free. Maybe it's time for me to look out of the windshield instead of through the rearview mirror, as you said. Maybe things would go better. Do you remember saying that to me?” I nodded. “Well, it struck home. So did your comments about me someday being in a nursing home. Look, what I'm trying to say is, just let me help.”

“Let me think about it,” I said.

I went inside. Bob looked relaxed now. I stroked his brow. It felt like he had a slight fever. His breathing was labored. Now and then he gave a moan, but they were soft, almost purrs. The bedroom was sparsely furnished with what appeared to be homemade furniture. His dresser top was covered with photographs. His wife, kids in various stages of life, Bob standing on his boat with a large lobster in each hand, a yellowed photo of a couple, maybe his parents. I pulled a chair up alongside his bed and sat down. I nodded off. When I awoke, Bob was still fast asleep. He was snoring, which made me smile. Whenever he and I had gone cruising, his snoring nearly drove me crazy. I'd taken to carrying earplugs whenever he came aboard. But not now, his snoring was the best music I'd heard in some time.

I rummaged through the kitchen and came up with some lunch meat and a few slices of bread. I made two crude sandwiches and went back to the porch. I gave one to Roberts and, taking the other with me, walked down to my boat. I climbed aboard and ate my lunch in the cockpit. My first and only concern at this point was helping Bob get through the pain and that meant getting my hands on some morphine. I went back to the porch.

“Morphine,” I said to Roberts

“What about it?”

“Can you get your hands on morphine?”

“That's not easy to do.”

“Yeah, you think I don't know that? Can you get it?” I repeated.

Roberts took a deep breath and nodded, “Maybe.”

“I need more than that.”

“Portland. If I could get to Portland, I'd probably find some
on the streets.”

“Just how do you do that?”

“FBI does it all the time. Find drugs, I mean. Once you get onto it, dealers are easy to spot. The problem is that dealers are as good at spotting agents as we are at spotting them.”

“What are you telling me?”

“I'll need some cash; a couple grand would do it. I've been down this route before. Of course, I was wearing a wire back then. Tricky stuff, but with luck, I could be back here tomorrow. The question is, how do I get to Portland?”

“I'd give you my tender. A Zodiac with a thirty-horse power motor. Goes like hell. But could you find your way?”

“Without fog, I could. How about I use the inflatable to run back to the boat rental place, get my rental car, and go from there.”

“What boat rental place?”

Roberts told me the story about wrecking the Boston Whaler.

“It seems to me that the boat rental people are going to be asking a lot of questions if you come sauntering up to their dock in a Zodiac.”

“Not if I land the boat and just go get the car. There's an abandoned lighthouse just around the corner from the rental. I could land there, get the car and be on my way. Can you find my keys? Your partner put them somewhere.”

“Yeah, I saw your keys on the kitchen counter. I'll get them when I go back inside. Are you sure that you can be back here early tomorrow morning?”

“If things go well, maybe even tonight.”

His plan seemed plausible. He even sounded enthusiastic,
a chance to practice the profession he'd never mentally left. I went back into the cabin, picked up Roberts' car keys and went into Bob's bedroom. He was sleeping like a baby. I checked in his pants pocket, found the padlock key, and went back to unchain Roberts.

Free of the chain, Roberts went through a series of stretching exercises, deep knee bends, back twists, swinging arms, neck bobs, the whole gambit. He wound up the routine with a bunch of push-ups, ending by flipping over on his back to pull one knee then the other up to chin and back down. About to get up, he asked, “How about a hand?”

I reached out to him and in a split second, I was on
my
back with Roberts on top of me. His eyes shot darts. He grabbed my wrists and twisted my arms above my head. Pain shot through my shoulders and down the length of my back. “Listen, you creep,” Roberts said, his spittle spraying my face, “You mess with the FBI, this is what you get.” He let go of my left arm and slapped me hard across the face. I grabbed his hair, tried to knee his back, yelled as loudly as I could, but it was of no use. His hands grasped my throat. “Resisting arrest,” he hissed, bearing down. “You don't do that to a federal officer.” His hands tightened.

I was on the verge of passing out when felt something warm splashed over my face. Roberts' grip eased. I gasped for air. His body slumped forward, twisting and writhing on top of me. I was caught in a nightmarish tangle of snakes. I struggled to breath. I tasted blood as a gush of viscous fluid cascaded over my face and neck. Roberts' shuddering body fell to the side. Vomiting, I twisted away from it, grabbing long, noisy breaths before settling into steady inhales and exhales.

When I looked up, there was Bob standing over Roberts' body, a blood-covered maul in his right hand, an odd look in his eye. It was a look I hoped never to see again and one I knew I'd never forget.

Bob looked at me. A long silence passed between us before he finally said, “Let's get you cleaned up. We have some work to do.”

Setting the maul aside, Bob leaned down and helped me to my feet. Now still, Roberts's body lay face down. A jagged crater the depth of the maul's head had been chopped in the center of his shoulder blades. Bits of exposed vertebrae were embedded in bloody flesh and torn cloth. I turned to the porch rail and threw up again. Never in my life had I seen such gore, such absolute destruction of the human body. I wiped my mouth. “My God Bob, we just killed a man. Wasn't there another way?”

“
I
just killed a man,” Bob shot back. “Not you. But, I'd rather look at it like I was saving your life, not taking his.”