‘I’m not going out there.’
The Basque ignored him, tugging the boat into the wash.
‘I can’t swim,’ said Hollis.
‘You’d be surprised how many fishermen can’t.’
‘That’s supposed to make me feel better?’
The Basque smiled. ‘Nothing’s going to happen, not with the surf all flattened off.’
It was true—the waves weren’t at their most menacing—though ‘flattened off’ was hardly the phrase Hollis would have used.
The Basque was waist-high in the water now, waiting.
Hollis heaved a sigh, shrugged off his jacket, kicked off his shoes and waded in.
‘Hold the stern steady. When I give the word, shove off and climb in.’ The Basque clambered into the boat and began to row gently, glancing over his shoulder at the ocean.
A wall of white water slapped into Hollis, almost wrenching him free of the boat.
‘Now,’ said the Basque, pulling hard on the oars.
Hollis pushed off, hooking both elbows over the side. And that’s where he stayed. Each time he tried to swing his leg up over the side a wave would drive it back under. His strength fading, it was all he could do to hold on in the face of the relentless onslaught.
When they were clear of the breakers, he found he was too exhausted to haul himself aboard. The Basque abandoned the oars, seized the back of his pants and plucked him out of the water. He lay limp and drained in the bottom of the boat, his heart racing, as much from fear as exertion.
‘Not bad,’ said the Basque. ‘For your first time.’
‘You mean my last time.’
The Basque smiled, rowing them out to sea.
It was unexpectedly quiet, just the slap of the oars, the dull thump of the breaking waves receding with each stroke. It struck Hollis that he’d never seen the land from the ocean before. He’d taken a ferry once from Sag Harbor over to Shelter Island with Lydia—a Sunday jaunt when they were still poking at the carcass of their relationship— but that had been more familiar, more welcoming, with its bays and inlets and islands and little sailboats. Here on the ocean side you were left with an altogether different feeling. It was as if God in a fit of pique had used a ruler to divide two of His elements—a clean, stark battle line stretching from one horizon to the other, the conflict to roll on for all eternity. It wasn’t something that could be fully appreciated when viewed from the land.
‘First time off the back side?’
Hollis turned. ‘The back side?’
‘That’s what we call it out here,’ said the Basque, releasing the oars.
‘What are we doing here?’
The Basque pulled a tin pail from beneath his feet and tied a length of rope to the handle.
‘Fishing,’ he said.
He tossed the pail over the side. It slowly filled with water and sank from view. The Basque reeled it in and handed it to Hollis.
‘What do you see?’
‘Water?’
‘Look again.’
Hollis peered into the pail. ‘Sand,’ he said quietly. Sprinklings of silver in suspension.
He looked up at the Basque. ‘What are you saying?’
‘You tell me. They won’t release the autopsy yet.’
Dr Cornelius Hobbs was out on a call, and wasn’t due back at the County Morgue till two o’clock.
He appeared at one-thirty, which was why he found Hollis in his office, going over the autopsy report on Lillian Wallace.
‘Well, well, well,’ he said, with as much indignation as he could summon up.
‘Sit down,’ said Hollis.
‘You’re in my chair.’
‘Sit down,’ repeated Hollis firmly, indicating the seat across the desk from him. Hobbs hesitated, to press home his point, then did as he was told.
‘There better be a damn good reason for this.’
‘Let’s find out, shall we?’ said Hollis. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but it’s common in cases of drowning to find foreign material in the airways and lungs, material that’s in the water.’
He knew this to be the case. Before driving out to Hauppauge he had phoned Paul Kenilworth, an old friend from police pathology back in New York.
‘That depends,’ said Hobbs guardedly. ‘What kind of material are you talking about?’
