“Who said anything about killing? It’s not a capital crime, not yet.”
They went below, Eddie and the four men. The men searched the berths, the engine compartment, the galley, the head. Eddie assumed they were looking for Mandy. She wasn’t there. He noticed that his scuba gear, normally hanging on the wall by the galley, was gone. He said nothing, not wanting to give her away.
The men didn’t seem discouraged. One returned to the cigarette, came back with crowbars and axes. They ripped up the deck boards. Underneath lay densely packed vegetation, tied in bales, looking so incongruous that at first Eddie didn’t know what it was. Then he did.
Herb.
“You’re under arrest,” said one of the men. He took a file card from his pocket and read Eddie his rights.
10
If there was a heaven it was a watery place.
In lane five, his old favorite in the pool of his hometown Y, Eddie kept swimming. At first he’d had no rhythm, no technique at all, and had tired quickly. Weight lifting had made fifteen years go faster; it had also made him clumsy in the water. He thrashed up and down lane five for a dozen lengths, twisting around on the surface after each one like a beginner. His mouth filled with the taste of tobacco, nicotine-stained snot streamed from his nose. He decided to quit after ten laps-if he could swim that far … But on the very last length and without warning, his lungs suddenly cleared, the tobacco taste disappeared, the snot stopped flowing; and his body began to remember. On their own, his hands and forearms found the right angles, sculling, not pushing, and he felt himself rising higher in the water, going faster. He recalled the sensation of just skimming the surface that he’d felt when he’d been racing at his best; he wasn’t skimming now, but he wasn’t thrashing either. As he came to the wall, he piked, even remembering to spread his feet as they came over, touched, pushed off, streamlining himself in the thumb-hook position, then rolled as he slowed to swimming speed.
Flipped the turn, he thought, goddamn; and found himself smiling for a moment underwater. He kept going.
Eddie swam. Length by length, lap by lap, he watched the bottom tiles slide by, and his mind shut down, as though its power source was being diverted elsewhere. He stopped thinking, stopped remembering, stopped counting laps, strokes, breaths. His body took over. It swam him back and forth in the old hometown pool. Time shrank to the vanishing point, at last and too late. If there’d been a pool at the prison everything would have been all right. Eddie lost himself in that cool blue rectangle, and stayed lost until someone swam by him in lane six.
The other swimmer’s body was unfamiliar: pale, thin-legged, with a roll of fat hanging over the drawstring of the swimsuit. But he knew that powerful, big-chested stroke, with its slightly too-strong counterbalancing kick. And now he could place the voice of the man who had been talking into a portable phone by the side of the pool when he’d come in.
Bobby Falardeau was waiting for him at the far end, treading water. Eddie pulled up, shaking droplets off his head. For a moment, Falardeau, studying his face, his shaved head, looked puzzled.
“Eddie?”
“Bobby.”
“Son of a bitch. I knew it. I was watching you and I said to myself there’s only one guy I know swims like that.” There was a buzzing sound. “Just a sec,” Bobby said, and climbed out of the pool. He picked up his phone, lying on a chair, and listened. “Dump it,” he said, clicking off.
Eddie climbed out too. “Christ,” said Bobby, “you’re in shape.” Pause. “That must be the silver lining they don’t tell you about.” He laughed.
“Silver lining to what?” Eddie knew the answer; he just didn’t think it was funny.
“To going to-you know.” Bobby leaned over the pool, blew out his nostrils. “But you’re out now, right?”
“Went over the wall day before yesterday.”
There was another pause; then Bobby laughed again. “That’s a good one.” His face grew solemn. “I got to tell you, Eddie, I feel really sorry-”
“Forget it.”
“Right. Put it behind you. Look to the future.” Bobby nodded to himself. “What’re your plans?”
“Steam bath,” said Eddie. “Take nothing with me. Quit smoking.”
Bobby blinked. “I mean for what you’re gonna do. That kind of thing.”
“I saw Vic.”
“Coach Vic?”
“What other Vic is there?”
“He’s a sad case, Eddie.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you saw him you know.”
“His drinking?”
“He’s a lush.”
“He says you laid him off.”
“Bullshit.”
“You mean he quit?”
“I haven’t got a clue what he did. We sold out in eighty-six. We had nothing to do with anything that happened after that.”
“You sold Falardeau Metal and Iron?”
“BCC bought us out. One of those junk-bond things. You know.”
“I don’t.”
Bobby shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Turned out they just wanted the railhead anyway. And the equity, of course. They sold off what they could, borrowed to the hilt, the usual.”
“The usual what?”
“Procedure.”
“But what happened to the plant? Vic’s job?”
“I just told you.” The phone buzzed again. Bobby answered it, listened, said, “and an eighth,” clicked off.
“What about your job?” Eddie asked.
Bobby shrugged again. “Gone with the rest. It’s business, Eddie.”
“But what are you doing now?”
“I’m retired.”
“Isn’t it a little soon?”
“I keep busy,” Bobby said. “We’ve got this investment company now. It’s no picnic.”
“You and your dad?”
“Me, actually. The old man’s not really involved anymore.”
“What happened to him?”
“Nothing. He’s in Boca Raton.”
Eddie nodded, but he wasn’t getting it. He glanced at the pool, saw that the waves he’d raised had subsided to ripples; the surface would soon be calm again. He’d always liked that calm surface, liked being the first one in. Now he understood why:
The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow followed free;
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.
“You all right?” Bobby said.
“Yeah.”
“Had a funny look there.”
“I’m fine.” He was hungry, that was all. When had he last eaten? He remembered: in F-Block. Eddie walked
