That Good Night (25 page)

“Self-defense?”

“Yeah, you could say that.” Bob moved to cover the corpse with the old army blanket. “Let it go, Charlie. Let's go inside and get you cleaned up.”

I said, “Wait, Bob. I've never been involved in a killing before. Shouldn't we at least call the police, I mean let somebody know about this?”

Bob walked to the far end of the porch, as far as he could go from Robert's body. He turned, staring me in the eye.

“You say that like I enjoyed myself—like I'm a serial killer or something. For the record, this is a first for me and I don't enjoy being treated like I'm some deranged murderer. Can't you ever just understand that life is something that happens, that we're
not in charge of every goddamn thing under the sun? Roberts was a nutcase, pure and simple. He couldn't get over growing old. For Christ sake, the bastard would've killed you!”

Poking his finger at me, he raged on, “Suppose I was the one being choked to death, what would you've done? Asked Roberts to please stop hurting your friend? Call for Mommy? What the hell was I supposed to do, tap him on the shoulder? If you haven't noticed, I'm a bit weak these days. If I didn't take him out with one blow, he could have killed us both.

“So, go ahead,” Bob said sarcastically, “make the call. But before you do, here's some facts. First, the police will come out here, ask all sorts of questions. Forget the sailing trip; we'll be tied up with inquests, district attorneys, lawyers, detectives. Newspaper folk will descend on my island like hungry black flies. Second, you'll be back in Sunset faster than a cat shot in the ass. Third, I'll be dead before the legal wheel turns half-way. So, go ahead and make your call if makes you feel better.” Bob side-armed me out of the way, grabbed the screen door, and disappeared inside.

Stunned, I moved to the side of the porch away from Roberts' corpse. I looked down at
That Good Night
. My first impulse was to jump aboard. Hide myself from myself. I want life to be simple. I've always wanted that. But life isn't simple, is it? All I wanted was to get out of Sunset and enjoy my remaining days sailing. But no, my kids abandon me, my best friend is dying, I was just nearly killed. And now instead of praising Bob for saving my life, I challenge him. Life is a series of decisions. We have choices to make right up to the end, that is if we still have the guts or wherewithal to make them. Back at Sunset, we were denied choice. We ate what they gave us,
didn't get to go shopping, went to bed and woke up according to a schedule. Hell, life without choice is no life at all. Bob's right of course, calling the police or anyone else about killing Roberts would be the end of it.

I caught a whiff of myself. Vomit, the coppery smell of blood, and God knows what else. My shirt looked like it was tie-dyed by a butcher.

I went into the cabin. Bob was sitting with his elbows on the table, his head bowed and cupped in his hands.

Without moving, he said, “Sorry about all that. Caught up in it, I guess.”

“You did the right thing, Bob. There was no alternative. And as far as calling the police, I was way off base. Can we go on from here?”

“Yup,” was all Bob had to say.

“So,” I asked, “how did you know I was in trouble out there? You were sound asleep when I left your bedroom.”

“You wake a dead man when you go through his pockets,” he answered.

“The key?” I asked.

“Yup,” Bob said, slowly getting up from his chair, and giving me a grin that made everything seem as right as rain. “Why don't you get cleaned up,” he said. “Those clothes will have to go into the burn barrel. While you're in the shower, I'll go down to your boat and get some fresh stuff. There's a bottle of mouthwash in the medicine chest. I suggest that you use it.”

I went through a half bottle of Listerine before my mouth felt even close to being clean. Hearing my gargling, Bob popped into the bathroom to hand me a tall glass of Black Grouse. “You need this,” he said, leaving. I took a few healthy swigs. I stayed
in the shower until the hot water gave out. I could have used another half hour, and knew that I wouldn't feel clean for a long time. Bob called to me that he had my change of clothes, which he had brought up from the boat. “Found these,” he said dangling up a sexy red thong through the partially opened bathroom door. “Pretty good time in Boston, huh?” he teased. I grabbed them and let it go at that. How Bob was able to joke after going from abject pain to a snooze to killing a man was beyond me, but Bob is Bob and may he never change. Washed and dressed, I joined him at the table.

“I guess that we better clean up,” I suggested, gesturing toward the porch.

“No need right now, Charlie. Friends are on the way. We've had enough struggles for one day. Go down to that boat of yours and take a nap, maybe snuggle up with that thong, slip it over your head for all I care,” he laughed. I just shook my head and left. On my way out, I focused my eyes straight ahead. One look at
That Good Night
with her promise of safety and solace was all I needed.

I woke up from my nap to the heavy throbbing of a turbo diesel and looked out of the companionway. A lobster boat was tying up behind
That Good Night
. Three men hopped off the boat. Though the weather was clear, they were dressed in yellow foul weather gear. They headed up to Bob's cabin. I gave a thought to joining them, but the thought of the gruesome act of cleaning up the porch killed that idea.

About an hour later once the mess was taken care of, Bob called down to me to come up and meet his friends: Francis Jensen, Earl Honauer, and Dustin Adams, all retired lobstermen,
each hitting their mid-seventies. I was the interloper as they exchanged one fishing story after another: traps wrecked after storms; the idiots that moved in on their territories only to find their traps destroyed; the varying price of lobster, the big four pounders. They talked of boats and engines and stories of wives and children, families stretching back generations. They were shocked over Maine property value reaching unimaginable heights and didn't like the idea that our government was ungovernable. But not once in all this conversation did talk of the disposal of Roberts' body cross their lips. The porch was as clean as a pin; all signs of Roberts having been there were gone. When I asked about it, I got cold stares. Bob offered that Roberts must have died at sea. His battered rental from Dinger's Rentals was already reported to the coast guard. Martha Dinger confirmed that Roberts had rented the boat. The rowboat was returned to Hi Fabinham as if it had never left his property. A search was on. Maybe Roberts' body would wash up, maybe not. That's the way it goes in tidal Bay of Fundy.

I could sense that Bob was experiencing the onset of pain. He affirmed my suspicion when he got up and, excusing himself, went inside. I followed, letting the lobstermen get back to storytelling. Bob took three more pills and headed to his bedroom.

“Tell the guys I have a stomach virus and went to bed. They'll understand.” I nodded and told him that I'd check in on him later. I left his room and returned to the porch.

The lobstermen were standing at the sturdy railing peering down at
That Good Night
. “Pretty fancy boat you got there,” Earl commented. “Draw a lot?”

“Five feet,” I said.

“Pretty good for such a big boat. How long is she anyway?”
Francis asked.

“She's forty-six feet overall,” I answered.

“Bob says you single-hand. A bit of a chore, I'd say,” he said.

“Not bad once you get used to it. She has a lot of extras that make it doable.”

Conversation bogged down and the four us just stared straight ahead. There just wasn't a lot we had in common.

Francis broke the silence with a bit of sarcasm: “I guess we better be on our way. I hope the Coast Guard finds that guy. It can get pretty lonely floating around Fundy.” Muffled chuckles all around. I ignored the macabre banter.

I joined the three guys for the walk down to the dock. About ready to climb aboard their boat, Dustin paused and asked, “So tell me, what's going on with Bob? Doesn't seem himself. Hasn't for some time.”

“I think he has some kind of virus,” I lied.

The three men looked at each other, then Dustin continued, “Look, Charlie, we don't mean to pry, but that's no virus. We've known Bob since grammar school, fished with him, our families grew up together. Why, we're as close as twins in a womb. Now, Bob's always been the quiet sort, keeps his cards pretty close to his chest. If you know something that we don't know that would help that stubborn mule, why not just come out and say it.”

Here I was being stared at by three of the most honest, hardworking men on this earth—albeit now involved in a conspiracy to dispose of a corpse—and lying to them. Well, I just couldn't do it. Breaking the promise I made to Bob was a serious matter, but watching him suffer was worse. “Cancer,” I said hoarsely. “Bob has cancer.”

“How far along?” Francis asked matter-of-factly.

“I'm not sure. He said it's spread and that he doesn't have much time left. He asked me take him on one last sailing cruise. That's all I really know.”

Of course, you can imagine how somber all this was, the four of us standing on Bob's dock realizing that each of us in our way was about to lose a dear friend. Earl had turned away to dab his eyes, not willing to let his friends see his tears.

“There's got to be something we can do. Hell, we just can't let the man suffer,” he said.

I said, “Bob made me promise that I wouldn't tell a soul, so whatever you do, you've got to act like you've come upon this on your own.”

“Oh hell, that's Bob all right, stoic as a terrier meeting a grizzly,” Francis said.

“There is one thing you might help with, but it's a long shot,” I said. “Morphine. If I could get some morphine, it would ease Bob's pain, which is going to get a lot worse.”

Earl rejoined us. His eyes were red and swollen. “Morphine?” he said. “They gave that to my mother during her last days. It works with the pain, but it sure put her down.”

“More than the pain?” I asked.

“Well now,” Earl came back, “You got a point there. Let's just say she was better off being in another world.”

“How soon do we need to get it?” Francis asked

“As soon as possible,” I said. “With the investigator ‘lost at sea,' we're free to go on that last voyage. I'd like to depart tomorrow if we could.”

Dustin jumped in, “We can get some. There's always ways.” The others nodded their head in agreement.

“It'll be expensive,” I said.

“You let us worry about that, Charlie. We'll take care of that. You take care of Bob,” Francis said.

“Bob can't know where I got it. How do you plan to get it to me before we leave?”

“What time you casting off?” Francis asked.

“I'll take the tide out; I think it's around ten.”

“We'll be here to send you off. We can get it to you then.”

Before jumping aboard the lobster boat, Earl approached me.

“Hey Charlie,” he said, “when we were getting that guy ready, you know up on the porch, I had to, well, uh, lift him up some. Oh, the looks of that fella wasn't something to talk about in church, I'll tell you that. I used his belt, well, like he was a suitcase and his belt was a handle and the dang buckle snapped open and came right off in my hand. Now, I think this here buckle is some strange gizmo because when I fiddled with the flicker thing, a teensy light on the back lit up green.

“Here, I'll show you.” With that Earl flipped the post back and forth, and sure enough, a pinhole sized light flickered green.

“Thanks, Earl. You did good work. I'll have to check it out,” I said, pocketing the device. Thinking of the tiny FBI gun Roberts pulled on me, my guess is that this new find had something to do with his investigation. I made a mental note to examine it once I had a moment.

Without another word, Earl undid the bow line and jumped aboard. Francis cranked the engine, and in a plume of diesel exhaust, they were off.

I climbed aboard
That Good Night
and went below to cook up some soup for Bob. Cook? Hell, I heated up a can of Campbell's and headed back to the cabin. Bob was sleeping. I put the heated soup on the cold stove, and then went to his side.
His snoring let me know that pain was not an issue. I returned to the kitchen and stuck a note on the pot that he should just heat and eat. As I was about to leave, Bob called my name. He was sitting up when I reentered his bedroom. “Good sleep?” I asked.

“Slept more in the last three days than I did during my entire lifetime. Don't like it. There's work to be done.” The minute he stood, he teetered and plopped back down on the edge of the bed. “Do me a favor, he said. “In the third drawer in the dresser is a yellow envelope. Can you get it for me?” I did as he asked and handed the envelope over to him. “This,” he said, “is important.” For the next half hour, Bob explained that the envelope contained his last will and testament. “All signed and legal,” he said proudly. “Giving some of my stuff to the kids and the church, but this here island is going to The Nature Conservancy. Those deer out there are the real owners, but they sure as hell can't hold a deed. Folks at the Conservancy, they'll do right by these creatures. Lawyer has the originals; he'll handle everything. All I need is for you to call him when the time comes, his number's on the front of the envelope, right here,” he pointed. It read Arden Schmidt, Esq., followed by an address and phone number. I asked Bob why he was giving me the envelope. “You never know. If old Arden dies or gets killed before I do, you have the back up.”

“And what's the likelihood of that happening?” I asked.

“Snowball's chance.” Bob snorted.