not to announce publicly that the danger was over and that everybody could relax and let their guard down.
Unfortunately, he had no way of knowing that as far as the Corefolk were concerned, it was too late-their guard was already down.
Chapter Nine
1
The news traveled fast. The police had all but dismantled Ruford Shea’s cabin looking for evidence when Holly returned with the kids after school, so everybody at the Core knew. With the storm still pissing buckets at suppertime, the communal kitchen, its tarps rolled down to cover the open sides, became the gossip nexus. Rain drummed steadily on the tin roof, the good old sixties’ smell of brown rice and veggies cooking in toasted sesame oil filled the kitchen, and the following conversation, or a variation thereof, was repeated a dozen or more times:
“I can’t believe it.”
“I know. He seemed like such a nice guy.”
“But you know, that’s what the neighbors always say, whenever it turns out there’s a serial killer living next door.”
“Yeah. And remember the time when Ruford thought somebody had been going through his cabin-how mad he got? Started waving that machete of his around, I thought he was going to kill somebody then and there.”
“Yeah, I always had my doubts about him after that. These down-islanders can be so volatile.”
Unless of course a down-islander was taking part in the conversation, in which case
But the talk was harmless enough. Collectively and individually, they felt themselves betrayed; collectively and individually, they healed themselves as bio-organisms do, by forming scar tissue around the injured places. The real danger came when they let down their guard. Collectively and individually, literally and figuratively. Ding-dong, the witch was dead. No more convoys to the Crapaud, no more standing watch, no more tiki torches on the hill or lights in the tamarind trees.
As for Dawson, whipsawed by two conflicting needs, for security and for love, she didn’t know what to think, how to feel. The night before had been wonderful, and this morning, at the Crapaud, she’d seen what she had hoped to see in Pender’s eyes, heard what she had hoped to hear in his voice. It was like that old Shirelles song, “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?” And although the L-word hadn’t made its first appearance yet, clearly the answer had been yes.
So happy as Dawson was to learn that the danger to herself and her neighbors had passed, her emotions were decidedly mixed. Because everybody knows that after the trouble in town is cleared up, the Lone Ranger always rides off into the sunset.
Holly had no such contradictory emotions. She had no reason to doubt what Detective Hamilton had said, and she couldn’t wait for things to get back to normal. Tomorrow morning, she’d work at the rest home. Tomorrow afternoon she’d work at Blue Valley. And tomorrow night, she promised herself, she would do something for herself: she would drop by the Beda Club and buy the new barmaid a drink.
Because if Holly had learned one lesson from this whole Machete Man episode, it was that old one about gathering rosebuds while ye may. And if Holly was any judge of women, that new barmaid, whom she’d met at the clothing optional beach at Smuggler’s Cove yesterday-the one with the butch haircut and the killer bod, who claimed to own all of Tracy Chapman’s CDs, and to have seen every movie Jodi Foster had ever made-was a rosebud ripe for the picking.
2
With time running out and the rain still coming down, Pender raided the equipment locker for binoculars and stopped off at the island’s only 7-Eleven for sandwiches and a thermosful of coffee before driving out to the Great House.
He left his Panama in the car-the brim was starting to uncurl from the repeated soaking-and ascended the steps wearily, wearing the hooded yellow SLPD slicker that made him feel like a school crossing guard. He crossed the colonnaded porch, pushed the ivory bell next to the French doors, behind which the curtains had been drawn, blocking his view of the interior. He heard chimes, counted to thirty, rang the bell again.
The doors opened outward. “Good evening, Agent…was it Pender?” Apgard himself. Loafers, white duck trousers, white T-shirt, white cardigan sweater-like a letter sweater, but without the letter. Golden blond hair tousled under his Dolphins cap. Body language, relaxed. Two, three stiff drinks’ worth of relaxed, Pender estimated.
From here on in, it would be an improvisation, a chess game. “Good evening, Mr. Apgard.” Pender stopped there. Apgard’s move. Would he invite him in? Try to get rid of him?
“All settled into the A-frame?” None of the above. Friendly approach, neutral tone, noted Pender. But his voice and stance were contradictory. Apgard had also taken a step forward, and was now standing in the doorway, barring the entrance both physically and symbolically.
“Yes, thank you. I haven’t been back since this rain started, though-I hope everything’s still dry.”
Apgard flipped a light switch just inside the door. Floodlights glared outside, illuminating the driving rain.
“Still coming down vertical,” he said, peering around Pender. “Should be okay. Something I can do for you?” Clipped sentences: Apgard wanted to hurry the conversation to a conclusion.
“Did you hear about the lime grove?” A promising opening, with limited permutations. There were only three answers, yes, no, and what the fuck you talkin’ ’bout, dude, none of which required thinking over. A hesitation would be a tell. One thousand one, one thousand two, one-
“The lime grove?”
A variation of what the fuck you talking about, but Apgard was two and a half beats behind. Might be a tell.
Lewis’s first impulse had been to deny any knowledge of the lime grove-then he remembered that Artie Felix, probably trying to ingratiate himself, had called a few hours ago with the news. We got him, Mr. Apgard: he’s a deadah. Which meant they’d swallowed the scenario whole. Until now.
“Oh, right,” he added hurriedly. “You mean about Shea being the Machete Man. Yes, Detective Felix called me this afternoon with the good word. In a manner of speaking. Not so good for that poor girl. I’m afraid I’ve been celebrating. Making rather merry, as Bob Cratchit would say.”
Making rather merry? thought Pender. Fucker’s turning into Hugh Grant right in front of my eyes. Let’s see how the charm holds up. “May I come in?”
“Now’s probably not the best time.”
Pender, sweetly oblivious: “I’m sorry-do you have company?”
“No, but-”
“Great-this won’t take but a minute.” And with a pivot and a pirouette, moving light on his toes like old Jackie Gleason-and awaaaayy we go-Pender edged sideways past Apgard, through the outflung double doors into the enclosed vestibule. “I’ll hang this up here, shall I?” Pender’s slicker was dripping on the hardwood floor of the vestibule. “Or will I be putting the maid out of work again?”
“I told you, this is not a good time for me,” said Lewis forcefully.”
“It’s not a good time for any of us.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
The vestibule wasn’t very large. Proxemically speaking, this was an intimate conversation. Pender lowered his voice to just above a whisper, bent his head to the shorter man. “I have reason to believe that it was not the
