“not let Ben watch that sunset by himself. But it felt like what he wanted.” He paused, then added in a musing tone, “If it weren’t for your father, I wouldn’t have been there at all. Or standing here with you.”
“How do you mean?”
Nate faced him again. “When my youngest boy got to college, I had two ahead of him and a girl behind. So I put my place on the market. Hated to do it-my family had lived there since the 1850s, one son passing it to the next. But what choice did I have?” He shook his head in wonder. “Next thing I knew, Ben had set up a fund to cover my kids’ educations. I couldn’t accept it, I told him. ‘What else is money for?’ he answered. ‘I know how my own family struggled, lobstering like yours, and what it meant for me to go away to Yale. I’m doing this as much for me as them.’”
Stunned, Adam absorbed this. “I never knew that.”
“Neither of us talked about it-me out of pride, Ben out of kindness.” A film of tears shone in the old man’s eyes, and he placed a hand on Adam’s shoulder. “He wasn’t all bad, far from it. Maybe now you can hang on to that.”
After Nate left, Adam climbed down the stairway to the beach.
Ten years ago, he had descended this same stairway at night, Jenny waiting for him below. Knowing this, the climb downward had not bothered him. Now it did. The distance was too far to fall.
A thin cry in the night. Adam had heard men cry out, dying in pain or fear, the final darkness enveloping them. This must be what Nathan Wright had heard.
Now Adam heard only the echo of waves dying on rock and sand. Reaching the bottom, he rested a hand on the stone that had broken his father’s fall. If he could have chosen this man’s last moments, he wondered, would he have wished for this? He had no answer. It was one thing to have the right, another to have the heart.
He glanced around him, wondering if the white button from his father’s shirt was camouflaged by fragments of rock and shell. No way of telling now. He climbed the stairs again, its worn wood rough on his hand, wondering if Ben’s antagonist had come for him in this same way. But tonight he could imagine many things. Nearing the top, he half-expected a dark figure awaiting him on the promontory, his father or his killer.
There was no one, of course. Taking a small flashlight from his pocket, he studied the dirt near the promontory. Before the night Ben died here, rain had fallen, as it had today. In the soft dirt Adam found the partial imprints of Nate’s heavy boots, then his own walking shoes, as distinct from each other as the soles themselves. Nate and Ben must have left their prints here on the night his father died. And so, Adam believed now, had Teddy.
Somber, he considered his own footprint in the light. His weight had pushed up the dirt at its edge, half- exposing a buried pebble. No, he realized, not a pebble. Its edge was too round.
With thumb and forefinger, he removed his father’s button from the dirt.
Why, he wondered, had the police not found this? Mallory was hardly careless; neither, he felt sure, was the crime lab. What must have happened, Adam posited, was that his father’s murderer had ripped it from his shirt before one of them had stomped it beneath the muddy surface of the clay.
Pensive, he inspected the button, weighing his choices. Maybe he lost it in the fall, Mallory had said. If so, we’d expect to find it on the beach. But if we found it up here, it might suggest he lost it in a struggle. Problem is, we can’t find it at all. It leaves you wondering.
Adam no longer wondered.
For a moment, he considered throwing it into the darkness, replicating the trajectory of his father’s fall. A new thought stopped him-there might be fingerprints on this button, maybe damning to his brother, maybe not. Whatever the truth, Adam could not allow it to be found. Not until he knew more, or, perhaps, ever.
Adam put it in his pocket.
He knelt there for a time, considering the places Ben’s killer could have come from-the beach, the trail, or his mother and Teddy’s home. All directions remained possible except the one in which Nathan Wright had continued walking. But the murderer could easily have followed in Nate’s path, until he or she found Benjamin Blaine on the promontory, watching his last sunset.
Slowly, Adam took the path back toward Nate’s place. Near his house the line of woods ended; the Wrights’ modest home, a dark outline in the moonlight, sat on a gently sloping meadow. Passing it, Adam continued toward the property where Carla Pacelli lived.
The Danes’ guesthouse, too, was a short distance from the trail, commanding a view across the meadow to the Atlantic. Nearing it, Adam stopped. The kitchen window was a square of light, framing Carla’s face as she washed dishes, her expression abstracted, her head a little bowed. He had seldom seen a woman look so alone.
Despite his purpose, Adam felt like a stalker, or a voyeur. Yet for moments he kept watching her face in the light, pale yet lovely. At length, she looked up, gazing toward him in the darkness. Though she surely could not see him, Adam had the illusion that she had. Her face and eyes were that still.
Turning from her, he walked back to the promontory-a twenty-minute journey on which, once past Nathan’s house, she would have been concealed from view. With Nathan farther along the trail, she could have come here and returned, and no one would have seen her.
Suddenly, Adam heard a twig snap, then-for an instant-saw a dark form near the trail. Instinctively, he reached for the gun he did not have. Heart racing, he addressed the silent darkness in a clear voice. “Do you want to kill me too? That won’t be quite so easy.”
There was an answering sound, perhaps undergrowth rustling, perhaps only the wind. Then, he thought, a single footstep. Then nothing.
Adam released a breath. Perhaps he had been speaking to his father, or the shadow of his own fear. The night was still now.
Adam walked back toward the house, glancing from side to side. Then he checked his watch, climbed into his father’s truck, and went to see Avram Gold.
Six
Like the Blaines, Avi Gold had a home in Chilmark, and during his summers there, the renowned defense lawyer and professor had discovered a certain affinity of outlook with Adam’s father. Both were to the left of center; neither avoided controversy. In his career, Gold had defended a famous baseball player on murder charges, and a glowering Russian middleweight accused of rape, triumphs sprinkled amid lesser known cases where Gold, without charge, had assisted unfortunates railroaded by the legal system. He stoutly defended civil liberties, no matter the vituperation this attracted, as well as the state of Israel at the most fractious junctures in its history. All this had earned Ben Blaine’s respect.
But in Adam’s brief experience of Avram Gold, he had found a crucial difference from his father: contrary to his combative public image, Gold was one of the fairest and most generous people around, a man at peace with human complexity and disinclined to harsh judgment. With enthusiasm, he had recommended Adam for law school, and encouraged him to consider criminal defense. And so, though they had not seen each other in a decade, Adam sought out Gold’s advice.
Though more rain was falling, the night was temperate, and they sat on Gold’s screened-in porch, the dark pool of the Atlantic visible only by its absence of light. Gold was fresh from a dinner party; among the summer crowd he was known as a great raconteur, and his days and nights were crowded-this time, however late, was what he had. Despite his evident pleasure in seeing Adam, Gold asked for no explanation of what, to him, must have seemed such an abrupt and remarkable change of career plans that some emotional breakdown lay beneath it. Nor did he probe his visitor’s life now. Perched in his deck chair, Gold listened to Adam’s reason for coming, his eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses alert, his lean face-the summary of generations of Ashkenazi scholars-curious and sympathetic.
For a quarter of an hour, Adam related what he knew without disclosing who or what had led him there. “Obviously,” Adam said, “the DA and Mallory suspect that some member of our family caused my father’s death. Among my interests is protecting them from further pain-or worse-and, with luck, persuading the police to look harder at Carla Pacelli. I need your advice, and expect to pay for it. Anything I say to you, or you to me, has to be
