The Whale's Footprints - Rick Boyer (16 page)

"Well, Dr. Abramson?"

"Well, I think da guy's a classic. A textbook
case: paranoid schizophrenic. At least from the outward signs. It's
unprofessional to make a thumbnail diagnosis like dat. But he's got
the signs. Notice the office? The lab tables all pushed up around the
desk, as if to protect it? The drawn blinds? The peeking out at the
people who he says are spying on him? And the delusions, the feelings
of persecution? They're all there. I'd say he's the one to watch. By
the way, was that true about his leaving the lab last Friday?"

"According to Andy. And you heard him admit it.
Tom McDonnough was the witness, and it'll be easy to check with him.
Now wouldn't an hour be enough time to go to the boys' house, find
the pill dispenser, and switch the capsules? Hartzell knew where Andy
was at the time, and he knew Jack was out on the ocean. Tom saw him
from his car on the way to somewhere. Hartzell could have found the
house empty and made the switch, knowing Andy would self-destruct
over the weekend, leaving him in the clear—"

"Yeah . . . and protecting his precious research
data from prying eyes."

"Notice how it scared him?"

"Uh-huh. By the way, Doc, you were ruthless in
there. You seem to have caught on real quick. Does carrying a badge
change a guy that fast?"

"I guess so, I—hey! Oh shit!"

"What's wrong?"

"I can't find my damn badge, Moe," I said,
feeling around in my pockets. "I must have left it in Hartzell's
office on the table."

"Well, something tells me you're gonna have a
hard time going back in there and getting it back. No?"

I said nothing, watching the black dog pumping back
through the water, stick in mouth and panting hard.

"I think you're
right," I said finally, catching a glance over my shoulder at
the impressive brick bulk of Lillie Hall, "and I think Joe's
going to be pissed."

* * *

An hour after Moe left for his office back in
Concord, our sorry little procession wound its way down to Providence
for the funeral of Andrew Cunningham. The Adams family went in Mary's
Audi. Behind us, Tom McDonnough and Terry and Alice Henderson rode in
the Hendersons' big Buick. There are many instances on life's bumpy
road when I wish I could push a button and magically advance the time
by two or three hours. Most of my patients tell me that's the way
they feel about visiting me. Gee Doc, they tell me, when I've got an
eleven o'clock appointment with you, I just wish all of a sudden it
would be twelve-thirty. You know?

Sure I know. That's what gets me down so much about
my job. And going to kids' funerals isn't exactly my idea of a high
time, either. We found the church, parked, and walked up the stone
steps together. Andy's parents, Paula and Boyd Cunningham, were
standing up at the top to meet us. There they were, standing up near
the door, their faces blank with grief. Ohhh, boy. The position I
never, ever want to be in. I kept looking at Boyd Cunningham all the
way up those steps. Gray, pale, and thin. The very life knocked out
of him. I remembered hugging Jack the night Andy died. Hugging and
crying a little because he is so precious to me. And the Cunninghams,
busting their asses all these past twenty years for their only kid.
Good God . . .

The service ended at three-twenty. The forty-odd
people filed out of St. Joan of Arc Church and went to their cars for
the ride to the cemetery and the burial. Hey, folks, the fun never
stops. The burial was mercifully brief. But then came the part I
really dreaded: the home visit. And for us it was obligatory, of that
there was no doubt. Now where's my magic button? Just push it and
pow, it's five-thirty and time for cocktails.

Both parents were still in shock, and sat immobile,
eyes unfocused, their skin ashen gray. Boyd, as handsome as his son
had been, drummed his fingers on his forehead and temple.

"So hard to get used to. I still can't believe
it. So hard—"

Then he swallowed fast several times, and started to
break down again. Mary hugged him tight and talked to him. I stood
around like a heron in the Sahara, hating myself and not knowing what
to do about it. Hating myself because I had two sons, and they were
both alive, and his only son was dead, and it wasn't fair. I was so
glad my boys were fine, but it was so unfair I couldn't help hating
myself, as if I had cheated at a game and left poor Boyd Cunningham
in ruins. I found it terribly hard to face him. Jack consoled Paula,
and I went back and forth between the stricken parents, doing the
best I could. My patients tell me I've got a good bedside manner. The
bedside manner I can cultivate; it's the graveside manner I'm not so
hot at.

Finally, it was time to go. We walked down the modest
front stoop and went over to the car. Boyd had walked us out. He
summoned Jack and me to stand on each side of him. He put his
trembling arms around us and said in a low voice: "I heard it
was murder. The detective told me he thought it was murder, and that
you, Dr. Adams, discovered it. Is this true?"

"Yes. We think so, Boyd," I said.

"Well, that's awful. Who could have done that?
The detective said he was sure it was somebody at the laboratory. Is
that right?"

"We just don't know at this point. Jack's even a
suspect."

"We all know better than that," he said.
"And listen, I'm going to keep my eyes and ears open, all the
time. And if you hear anything about who might have done it, you let
me know, hear? Because I just can't—"

He couldn't continue, so we all hugged him again,
giving our word we'd stay in touch and help in any way possible, and
left. So we rode back in the car, watching the green world slip by,
not saying a word. Tony—a.k.a. the Condom Kid—was driving. Nice
of him, and appropriate, since he was less emotionally wrecked than
the rest of us. Mary and I sat together in back, holding hands in
silence.

"Tony, can you turn the air up a notch?" I
asked. He flipped the switch and the cool air came rushing over me. I
leaned my head back and closed my eyes, trying to doze. It didn't
work.

"Hey Jackie," said Mary, "who was that
tall kid with glasses who came up to you after the service? Is he
from Woods Hole, or what?"

"
Him? Oh, I kinda forget. He's some nerdy guy
who works over at the USGS warehouse, I think. I was surprised to see
him there. I didn't even think he knew Andy. Is that cool enough for
you, Dad?"

I said it was fine. Then Mary asked for music, and
Jack put on a Handel tape. I let my mind wander then, and didn't wake
up until we were back at Swope Dorm.

"Look Charlie, the DeGroots are here," said
Mary, shaking me gently out of my sleep. We walked up toward the dorm
and saw them both sitting on the grass, waiting for us. We hiked to
the room, Jim carrying a jug with a spigot on the bottom of it.

"You want a G and T, Doc?"

"Do I ever. And so does Mary. How long you guys
been here?"

"About an hour. We heard you were all down in
Providence for the funeral. Too bad. Joe's here too; we saw his car
pull in here a while ago. He's out walking around somewhere. Said
he'd be right back."

So we went up to our room and wrapped ourselves
around big gin and tonics. The DeGroots reported on their cruise, and
we talked about places and harbors we knew. Joe entered shortly
afterwards, looking glum. He made himself a drink and went over and
hugged Mary and Jack.

"Hey," she said. "Weren't you coming
down tomorrow? Why so early? An extra day off, or what?"

"No. I have to tell you something. Doc too. So
let's sit down and get comfortable for a second."

I didn't like the vibes I was getting from him. First
of all, why was he walking around while waiting for us to return? Joe
doesn't like to hike; he only paces around when he's upset or
nervous. And then telling us he had an announcement to make. Uh-oh .
. .

I saw Joe "freshen up" his drinkie. The way
Joe makes his G and Ts, it was a little like "freshening up"
Lake Erie. He wasn't smiling, but was doing his level best to look
happy. Something was up. I didn't know exactly what was headed our
way, winging its way toward us like a poisoned spear, but I knew I
wanted to jump out of the way, and fast. We all sat down, and then
Joe came forward and spoke softly.

"What it is, is I just came from the D.A.'s
office with Paul Keegan—" He looked at Jack. "The lab
reports all came back, from your room at the Breakers and from your
house in town here. The upshot is, Jack, that your prints are all
over Andy's pill case and the bottle of meds. But we knew that . . ."

We all shifted around in the silence.

"The bad news is, there are no other prints
there, except Andy's."

"Well so what, godammit!" cried Mary. "Who
else was up at the cottage, anyway?”

Joe held up his hand and continued in a soft voice,
with a tone that was soothing and words that definitely weren't.

"Mary, the D.A. just thinks he can't let it go,
that's all. He says we've got to take Jack up there for a statement."

"And what else?" I said, getting to my
feet.

"And see . . . and see if they want to call a
grand jury."

We all sat, stunned.

"And, uh, so Paul and I had a little talk, and
we—"

"I'm sick of hearing about Paul Keegan, that
son—"

"No Mary, he's in our corner, believe me. I
know. We all discussed it, Paul, the D.A., and I. I told them if it
was okay with your mom and dad, Jackie, I'd take you up with me
tonight and have you stay with me at my place, and then we can go in
there early tomorrow and get it over with."

Mary, fighting tears, said we were all going
together. Joe went over and put his hand on her shoulder.

"I know that's what you want. But believe me,
it'll be easier and quicker this way. They just want a statement,
that's all, before the judge. I'm sure, as sure as I'm sitting here,
that day after tomorrow we'll all be back down here together with
Jack off the hook, okay?"

Okay? Okay? What the hell did he mean, okay?

I went over to the window and opened it wide. The
cool, tangy sea breeze wafted in. I breathed in deep to steady
myself. From over behind the buildings of MBL, from Great Harbor, I
heard a familiar sound from a ship I couldn't see.

Ah-OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO (wee)!

One long blast. In ship talk, it said: I am about to
depart . . .

I looked over at Jack.

"
God help us," I whispered to myself.
Mayday . . . Mayday . . .
 

TWELVE

I SAT UP IN BED. Mary was purring away beside me. I
leaned over and pecked her on the cheek. She didn't stir, and I could
smell that sweet vapor of beverage alcohol. My watch said
three-thirty. In the company of the DeGroots, we'd really put down
the Destroyer after Joe and Jack had pulled away in Joe's car. The
party didn't end until after one, if such a glum gathering could be
called a party. I sighed, tasting the dry, metallic taste of old
booze and pipe smoke. Not good. I smacked my lips. What did I want?
First of all, to brush my teeth. And I was hungry. I thought about
that cold ham aboard the
Hatton
.
The iced Hackerbrau. And what about the coffee I'd ground fresh
before we'd left the dock up in Wellfleet? And those Jamaican cigars
Moe had given me? They were probably getting stale by the minute. A
ham and cheese sandwich with plenty of Dijon mustard, with ice-cold
beer, followed by a cup of strong, steaming java. And a cigar to top
it off . . .

In the near darkness, I scanned the small dormitory
room. Nice beds and bathroom, but otherwise none of the creature
comforts. And the dock at Eel Pond was just outside the back door of
Swope. Barely thirty yards away. I crept out of bed, went into the
John, and brushed my teeth. Massive improvement. Massive. I slipped
into shorts, a knit shirt, and sockless dock shoes. I left a note on
the bathroom counter telling Mary I was down at the boat. In all
likelihood, I'd return before she woke up. But if I didn't, she'd
worry. And when Mary worries, she frets. And when she frets, she
steams. And so on.

I left the room, went down the silent carpeted
hallway, downstairs, and out into the dark. Tiny droplets of cold dew
stung my ankles as I walked over the grass. Light danced faintly on
the dark water of the pond in shimmers and wavy lines. A pair of
mallards, hearing my footsteps on the wooden dock, muttered and
splashed out in the middle somewhere. The sailboats with their tall
masts appeared still; there was no metallic pranging of halyards. The
powerboats, cruisers, and lobster boats sat hunkered down low in the
dark. Out toward the middle of Eel Pond I could see the bright
topsides of Jim DeGroot's sport fisherman, the
Whimsea
.
I walked onto the dock and out to the end, where the
Hatton
was made fast. After jumping down into the wide, shallow cockpit, I
unlocked the companionway hatch and crept inside. Flicking on the
cabin light, which temporarily blinded me, I took an iced beer from
the cooler and retrieved the hunk of ham, which I sliced thin and
piled onto chewy rye bread. Rather than light the alcohol stove in
the galley, I decided to make the coffee with the tiny camping stove
we use in the cockpit when the boat is berthed. I set this up in the
cockpit, turned out the cabin lights, and sat in the darkness with my
beer and sandwich, watching the stove's bright blue flame underneath
the percolator, which was beginning to purr and buzz with the heat.