Four days dragged by, during which I smoked cigars, read, listened to Bach and Vivaldi, and healed. I had a new cast put on the wrist-not as big but still formidable. I began growing a beard. As I healed, I spent a good deal of time with six big NOAA charts spread out on the carpet at my feet. I puffed on my cigar and stared at them. Placed roughly together, they formed sa jigsaw puzzle that became the cocked arm that is Cape Cod. It is shaped like a cocked arm, which joins the mainland at the shoulder. It is bent the way Arnold Schwarzenegger bends his to make his baseball-sized biceps pop. Only the arm is a skinny one. At the fist end-the end of the Cape-is Provincetown. Wellfleet and Eastham are halfway down the inside of the forearm, on the bay side. At the elbow is the town of Chatham. Along the bicep side are the towns of the Brewsters, the Dennises, the Yarmouths, the Barnstables, and the Sandwiches. On the tricep side are Harwich Port, Dennis Port, and Hyannis. I studied the Cape, then I studied a big map that showed everything from Block Island Sound (the body of water to the north of Long Island) to Cape Ann, where Gloucester was. What was going on?
What lay between Gloucester and Wellfleet, if anything? I puffed and studied, studied and puffed. If I were Sherlock Holmes, or had his talents, no doubt the problem would become clearer. But that wasn't happening to Yours Truly; the problem was getting murkier and more confusing. But I kept at it… glancing over the charts and harbor approaches trying to get a hold on… on something.
I also knew I had to explain myself to our police chief, Brian Hannon. To explain to him why I wasn't really dead. I knew this had to be done before it became town gossip. He scolded me for twenty minutes. Then he notified the Gloucester' police about the attempt on my life, and requested that my continued presence be kept confidential for my own personal safety. This they solemnly agreed to do, which pleased me. In addition, Brian promised a close watch on the house, mostly at night.
Meantime, if the house was being watched-which we and the police both doubted-I never left it or showed my face around Concord Center. We called Jack and Tony and explained the situation, urging caution and discretion. I added that I might be needing their assistance in a week or so.
I got one unexpected call. Mary answered the phone, as arranged, then handed it to me. It was Tom Costello.
"Pahdon me for calling, Doc; I didn't know you'd been killed. Listen: I checked with Jim and he said it was all right to talk to you if I kept my mouth shut."
"If you will greatly exaggerate the rumors of my death you may call me anytime. What gives, thou mighty sage of the ticker tape and prophet of the Big Board?"
"What gives is that my friend Jerry Klonski at Kidder is in touch with some of Wheel-Lock's potential buyers. They have examined the books and there's no suspicious cash flow, no irregularities of any kind about the place. Just thought you'd like to know."
"I do like to know. Thanks."
"And also, if you've got any more theories/about the late Walter Kincaid, my advice is forget 'em. They almost got you killed."
"Thanks for the tip."
"My pleasure, Doc. Stockbrokers are in the advice business. I guess I can't help it. Let me know when you get sprung from Purgatory."
He hung up.
Then a bombshell arrived from California-sent whizzing in our direction by Sarah Hart, who was drawing her visit at her sister's to a close, It was a manila envelope, and inside was the following piece from the Los Angeles Times: L0s Angeles Man Missing, Feared Dead
SPENARD, ALASKA-Nov. 10, 1978. Mr. James Schilling, a Los Angeles area businessman and sportsman, was reported missing Tuesday evening from his hunting camp on the Kenai Peninsula near Ninilchik. Schilling's guide, an Aleut Indian named Joshua J Teal, told his supervisor at AL-AK Airways that his client failed to return to camp after setting off along the coast in a small motorboat to look for brown bear. Teal reported he found the boat awash in a small bay after a brief search. Schilling's rifle and some personal gear were found in the water. There was no sign of the hunter. Though it is possible that Schilling could have been attacked and dragged off by an angry bear, Teal said he thought it unlikely since the rifle had not been fired and there was no sign of violence. Mr. Schilling was employed by the Plee-Zing Food Corporation of Costa Mesa as a regional manager. He resided in Newport, Beach and leaves a A wife, Barbara, and two daughters.
The story sounded reasonable enough. It is not usually printed in public reports because it is thought to be embarrassing or in poor taste, but the primary cause of sportsmen falling overboard from boats and drowning is urination. Almost all the recovered victims are found to have their flies open. The incidence is, steep during the summertime fishing season when men go out not only to see how many fish they can catch, but how many beers they can drink. No, were it not for one thing I could easily envision Jim Schilling-with four or five beers. or a thermos of coffee inside him-leaning over the gunwale relieving himself, perhaps while under way. Then the boat yaws or hits a sudden chop or swell and bingo, it's overboard into the icy Alaskan waters. And if you happen to hit your noggin on the way down-something I was now an expert on-the chances of your coming up again are about fifty-fifty. But it was the "other thing" that as much as told me the story was fabricated. It was the photo of James Schilling that accompanied the article. It wasn't a good reproduction because Sara had photocopied it. But it was good enough. I called Mary into the sunporch.
"Look here, Toots. What do you think?"
She stared for four or five seconds before it hit her.
"Charlie, it's him. It's him."
"Yep. It sure is. The beard helps, but it doesn't hide enough."
"Well what's he doing here?"
She was referring of course to our mysterious piratelike friend whom I had managed to photograph a few weeks previously aboard the phantom vessel Penelope in Wellfleet Harbor. The man was James Schilling, presumed dead. The man who hated Walter Kincaid. I decided that a good thing to do would be to have a lengthy and frank discussion with Mary's brother, Detective Lieutenant Joseph Brindelli. And was in the process of thinking of calling Joe and moving toward the phone when it rang. Mary answered it and handed it to me..
"How are you, dead man? How would you like to come over tonight and have too much to drink?" asked Jim DeGroot.
We replied in the affirmative, with deep suspicions that the invitation was offered chiefly because of my-skill-which I wear modestly-in preparing fillets of striped bass. Still a semi-recluse, I managed to slip into Mary's Audi and scoot down low in the seat. In a few days I would abandon all attempts at remaining invisible. Things in Gloucester would swing into their petty pace by then. But for the nonce, I was incognito.
"Ohhhhh, poor baaaaa-by," cooed Janice DeGroot as she planted a big one on my cheek and cocked a learned eye at mine. "That's the biggest shiner I've seen in years, Doc. Does it hurt?"
"Only when I laugh. I was informed by your spouse over the wires that we have been invited to abuse alcohol. Let's get down to it."
I found Jim in back lighting the grill. The fillets were all set: slabs of milky white flesh the color of quartz that would cook up to look like boiled egg whites and would flake off in luscious chunks by merely pointing a fork at them. We greased up big squares of heavy aluminum foil and placed a fillet on each. Then we covered them with thin-sliced lemons and lots of butter. We covered this with paprika, thin-sliced scallions, and some Old Bay seasoning, then folded up the edges of the foil. Just before sealing the packets, we poured a generous jigger of chablis over the whole thing and added a sprinkling of finely-cut fresh chives. After ten minutes over the coals the packets sent forth a merry bubbling sound, and I poked several holes in each with a toothpick and watched the tiny jets of steam rise from them. The aroma was made more delicious by the two ounces of ice-cold gin that was wending its way through my interior, cutting a wide swath of destruction. I could have eaten a horse, and said so.
"Then how come you only weigh-what is it you weigh, Doc?"
"One hundred seventy-four."
"Well how come?" asked Janice.
"I'll tell you how come," said Mary. "Because he eats only what and when he likes. He has a light breakfast and skips lunch, when he runs. He pigs it up at dinner. But that's only once a day."
"All work should be put behind you by dinnertime," I said. "There should be nothing but pleasant things from six o'clock on. Music on the stereo… the chatter of friends… laughter of children… evening twitter of birds, et cetera. A cocktail or glass of wine… an easy chair… the aroma of cooking food. In short, this experience; now. What the hell's a wrong with you?"
Mary was wiping away a tear. She was thinking of Mr. X, and the photograph of Jim Schilling. She didn't like any of it. We talked all during dinner about what was going on, what it all meant. It broke my rule of nothing but pleasant things after six, but there was no escaping it. Jim and I agreed on how easy it would be for Schilling to falsify his death, especially in a remote region of Alaska. If he were willing to part with a $300 rifle-which he was-the ruse would gain instant credibility. He could have either bribed the guide or arranged another escape route. Both Jim and I strongly suspected the latter strategy, since a bribed guide is generally a poor liar, whereas a duped guide is an earnest witness. It would have been simple for Schilling to arrange a clandestine meeting with a pilot a few miles from the swamped boat. Three hours' trudge would take them far enough away from the camp so the guide would never hear the small, single-engined pontoon plane…
But why?
We agreed the most logical explanation was that he wished to return to Massachusetts to seek revenge on his former employer. But if this were true, hadn't he taken a long time to act? What was he engaged in during the past year? It was all curiouser and curiouser, but unfortunately no clearer.
"Go to the police, Charlie," Jim said.
"No."
"Yes dammit!" screamed Mary. She was crying, and hadn't eaten.
"OK," I said.
I wrote a letter to Chief Hannon summarizing the events of the past two weeks. It was no masterpiece but it would serve well enough to lay out what had been happening, both in my mind and the real world. I sent a copy to Joe too. Either Chief Hannon would be impressed, or he would think I was crazy.