The Scarred Man (13 page)

    I started for the door. He got up to unlock it for me.

    "One more thing, Shaw."

    "What?"

    "You'll have to pay somewhere around ten bucks a pound for the stuff in Jamaica. That's twenty thousand skins. Have you got that kind of cash on you?"

    "If I do, do you think I'd tell you?" I said.

    

    

    I liked Red. I would not have trusted him with my dirty wash, but still he was likable. How much of my story had he swallowed? Enough at least to generate some interest. Red obviously had his sticky finger into a good many local pies, and he was as good a bet as any to find Skid for me. On the other hand, if he really thought I had that kind of money with me, I might easily wake up some morning with a sliced jugular. To cover at least a portion of this latter possibility, I shopped around for a weapon. What I wanted was in the window of a pawn shop in downtown West Palm-a hammerless, snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .32, no more than six inches long. I expected some difficulty over a license, but no questions were asked. I gave them a phony name and told them I was a yachtsman who needed a handgun for shark protection. That much at least was true. They wrapped it up for me and took my money and grubbed it away. The place reeked of old murders.

    I heard nothing from Red for three days. I fought down my impatience. When I finally got a message from him it was indirectly. I was sewing new hanks on the jib luff when a blonde came walking down the finger pier and said, "It's nice to see a man who still knows how to use a palm and needle."

    I sliced off the end of the waxed thread. "Learned it rounding the Horn in the old clipper ship days. Not the sort of thing you forget."

    She had a nice smile and small white teeth to go with it. She wore no makeup, which was refreshing in that over-painted town. She was slim, but her compact figure gave an impression of strength. Her small brown feet were bare, and her faded denims were chopped off at the knee.

    She studied
Corazon
's sweeping sheer line and said, "Alden, isn't it?"

    I nodded. "You know boats?"

    "The old master's lines are unmistakable. Not like these Clorox bottles you see cluttering up the marinas."

    Would you like to come aboard and see the rest?"

    "I don't mind if I do," she answered directly.

    I held out my hand, but she whisked on by it with a clean leap. The last woman I had seen do that was Stacey.

    "I'm Mary Caldwell," she said. Her gray blue eyes were shy but not coy.

    "William Shaw."

    "I know. Red told me about you."

    She did not look like the kind of girl who would know Red. Her voice was good-Yankee to judge by the faintly flattened a-and her clear brown skin had a healthy outdoor look.

    She let the subject of Red drop. I waited her out while I showed her over the boat. She nodded approvingly at the Westerbeke diesel, the self-tending jib, the heavy ground tackle.

    "She's a good boat," she said. "A happy boat."

    I was not about to argue the point with her. "Would you like a drink?" I asked when we got back to the cockpit.

    "Cold juice would be nice, if you have it."

    "I think there's grapefruit, if you can stomach this canned stuff."

    "That will be fine."

    I opened the can of juice and poured it out into paper cups and carried it back to her.

    "Go on with your sewing," she said. "Don't let me interrupt you."

    "Okay."

    There was a pause while I resumed work on the hanks. I waited for whatever it was. When it came it was a surprise.

    "I'm Skid's sister," she said.

    I tried not to let my face show anything.

    "Red told me you were asking about him."

    "Did he tell you why?"

    "Yes, he told me that too."

    "He's not what you might call a close-mouthed man, our friend, Red."

    "If he were, I wouldn't be here."

    "That's true."

    "So now you want to know where to find Skid."

    "Yes."

    "I wish I knew," she said. "Not that I'd necessarily tell you if I did. I don't think I really approve of this project of yours, Mr. Shaw."

    "What exactly did Red tell you?"

    "Something about a trip to Jamaica to search for buried treasure. Frankly the whole thing sounded like a grade B movie scenario. And now that I've met you and seen your boat, it makes even less sense than before."

    "Why is that?"

    "You just don't seem the beach-combing, buried-treasure type. There's an air of… efficiency and purpose about you that doesn't seem to fit. Are you sure you're not a policeman, Mr. Shaw?"

    "What would give you that idea?"

    "Well Skid has done some pretty wild things in his time. Things that weren't always on the… right side of the law." She lowered her eyelids prettily when she said it. I was beginning to wonder if there wasn't something just a little bit phony about Mary Caldwell. She was coming on very straight. If she was all that straight, how did she know Red? Perhaps through Skid. That would account for a lot of things. "Mind you," she went on, "he isn't really such a bad boy but he is pretty wild at times, almost uncontrollable. That's why I'm so worried about him now."

    "Why?"

    "Because he's disappeared again. I haven't heard from him in weeks. And when he goes off like that, there's no telling what he might be up to."

    Her eyes were very candid. They would be difficult eyes to lie to.

    "I swear to you I'm not a policeman, Mary."

    "I'm very glad to know that, Bill. I have very strong instincts about people. Vibes, as the kids say. I'm getting nothing but good vibes from you and your boat, and I wouldn't like to think I could be fooled as easily as all that."

    "You haven't been. How long have you known Red?"

    "I don't really know him at all. I know
of
him by reputation-I guess most people around here do-but that's as far as it goes. For that matter it might easily have been Skid who mentioned his name to me. Anyway he came out to the house yesterday looking for Skid, and that was when he told me about you. The whole thing sounded so strange that I thought I'd better come out here and look you over myself. Now that I've met you, I'm not so worried, but I must say I'm more than a little puzzled."

    "Why?"

    "Well, if you're looking for a hardy, adventurous, seafaring type, there must be hundreds of men all up and down this coast who would qualify. Why Skid?"

    "It doesn't have to be Skid. It just has to be someone I can trust."

    "Surely you have a friend somewhere you can take with you."

    "None who can get away right now."

    "What about your wife? Doesn't she like to sail?"

    "She's dead."

    "I'm sorry."

    "Thanks."

    "You say you can trust Skid. What makes you think so? I gather you've never even met him."

    "Are you trying to tell me I can't trust him?"

    She shrugged and raised one eyebrow. "I don't really know. I think he's basically a good boy, but as I told you, there is this streak of wildness in him. Perhaps there's something of that in all of us, but most of us do a better job of covering it up."

    "What sort of wildness? Riding with motorcycle gangs?"

    Her lips compressed slightly, and some of the warmth went out of the clear blue eyes. "Why do you mention that?"

    "No particular reason. Is it a secret?"

    She gave me a long look and then smiled. "Not really. It's just that I don't approve of it, and so for that reason I suppose I don't like to hear about it. He's two years younger than myself, and ever since my parents died, I've felt sort of responsible for him."

    "What's his real name, by the way?"

    "Timothy." Her face tightened again slightly, and she rose. "You do ask a lot of questions, don't you?"

    "If I'm considering going on a long cruise with him, I ought to at least know his name."

    "I suppose so. Well, it's been nice meeting you, Mr. Shaw. Bye."

    She leaped ashore with that same clean, nimble movement and went off down the pier. I liked the way she moved. In fact, I liked her very much. For the first time since Stacey, I felt a genuine stirring of interest in another woman.

    But there was that touch of evasiveness in her that disturbed me…

    

    

    When she had gone, I locked the hatch and walked back to Red's place.

    "Tell me about Mary Caldwell," I said.

    "Marone! That's one good-looking chick. She doesn't come on heavy with it, but the message gets through loud and clear."

    "How did you find her?"

    "Easy. We get a lot of bike freaks in here. A couple of them remembered Skid, and somebody said they thought he came from somewhere around Manalpan, although nobody was real sure. He's kind of a loner who makes the scene now and then but don't talk much. The town fuzz at Manalpan is on my payroll. I gave him the description. He said it fit a kid who keeps a bike up at the Caldwell place. So I went up and met Mary and had a talk with her. I figured she might come down to have a look at you, but I wasn't sure."

    "What was all that stuff about treasure hunting?"

    "Did you think I was gonna rap with her about the grass?"

    "She told me he's somewhere down in the islands."

    "Could be. Or he could be right upstairs in bed watching the 'Tonight Show.' She's a pretty cool cat, that one."

    "What's their place like?"

    "Freaky, man. Loaded. I mean really loaded. Manalpan is where the cats who are too rich for Palm Beach live. In a way it kind of figures though. These rich kids around here are always lookin' for new kicks. I mean, like the time they're eighteen, they've already had it with the Jags and the Ferraris; so then the real kick is to switch over to a hog and ride around with the worst creeps they can find. I guess your friend Skid is one of those."

    "Maybe."

    "You changed your mind about the deal?"

    "What makes you think that?"

    He shrugged. "I just figured you might after you met that Mary Caldwell."

    

    

    I had not believed very much of what she had told me about Skid. He was, after all, her brother. If he was in some kind of trouble-and trouble appeared to be his middle name-it was natural enough that she would cover for him. The story Red had given her about a treasure-hunting expedition sounded pretty phony. So did her story about his being off somewhere in the Bahamas. Quite possibly, as Red had suggested, he was there in the house with her.

    I went into West Palm and rented a car and drove out to Manalpan. Red had told me how to find the place. The house was invisible behind a string of high sand dunes, and there was nothing on the road to mark the place but a winding sandy track and a mailbox bearing a discreet MC. I drove the Ford about a quarter of a mile further down the road and parked it there, took my binoculars, and trudged across the sand to the water's edge. I came out on the beach three houses beyond the Caldwell place and began to work slowly back, pausing often to raise the glasses and peer out to sea-hoping to give the appearance of a casual bird watcher or tourist.

    A girl in a red bikini came out of one of the houses and started along the beach. With her was a huge great dane. She threw a stick for the dog, and the big oaf smashed into the water for it. As the girl passed, she gave me a long hard look as if to ask what the hell I was doing there. I didn't particularly want her to remember my face. I raised the glasses and stared out to sea as though I had spotted the rarest yellow-bellied auk.

    She strolled on with the dog. When she had vanished, I cut back across the dunes and Worked my way past the other two houses. They were closed and shuttered. Most of the residents of Manalpan were probably at Menton or some other fashionable watering place at this time of the year.

    Crouching low, so as not to be seen against the skyline, I worked my way to a point where I could see the rooftops of the Caldwell house. Holding the glasses in one hand to keep them out of the sand, I wriggled forward until I could observe the front of the house.

    Neat but not gaudy. A rambling beach house finished in natural wood and weathered to a silvery gray that went well with the sandy surroundings. Judicious mixture of good taste and unlimited funds. Battered red Volks in the driveway. Bit of reverse snobbery, that. When you can afford a Mercedes, you drive a Volks. Big Harley in the carport. Chromed and gleaming. So there it was. Skid's machine. The murderous sonofabitch. The notion of a kid from these surroundings getting his kicks riding with the Beaks seemed particularly revolting. Conceivably Stud and Soldier had been the products of their environment. But how did you account for the sick impulses that motivated a kid who had grown up in a place like this?

    Through the glasses I was able to make out the tag number of the Harley. I jotted it down for future reference and then settled down to watch the house. No sign of life. Yellow-enameled kitchen sink and the usual appliances but no one moving. Inner patio planted with a profusion of flowers. Someone-Mary Caldwell most likely-had cared enough to make the effort to grow flowers in that climate.

    I had been on the ridge more than an hour when the door opened and a man appeared. Yellow pants, silk shirt, espadrilles. My pulse quickened as I adjusted the glasses. On closer inspection nothing about him fit the description of Skid. He was too tall for one thing and too old-pushing forty and with a distinguished touch of gray at the temples. Mary Caldwell was with him. They came out and got into the Volks with Mary at the wheel. She snapped the little bug around and shot off down the sandy track.