local businessman who was not, after all, quite what he seemed.
I wasn’t surprised, exactly. Since sundown, the people I’d encountered had revealed dimensions to their lives of which I had previously been unaware. Even Bobby had been keeping secrets: the shotgun in the broom closet, the troop of monkeys. When I considered Pia Klick’s conviction that she was the reincarnation of Kaha Huna, which Bobby had been keeping to himself, I better understood his bitter, disputatious response to any view that he felt smacked of New Age thinking, including my occasional innocent comments about my strange dog. At least Orson, if no one else, had remained in character throughout the night—although, considering the way things were going, I wouldn’t have been bowled over if suddenly he revealed an ability to stand on his hind paws and tap dance with mesmerizing showmanship.
“No one’s trailing after you,” said Roosevelt as he lowered the night glasses and took back his shotgun. “This way, son.”
I followed him aft across the sun deck to an open hatch on the starboard side.
Roosevelt paused and looked back, over the top of my head, to the port railing where Orson still lingered. “Here now. Come along, dog.”
The mutt hung behind, but not because he sensed anything lurking on the dock. As usual, he was curiously and uncharacteristically shy around Roosevelt.
Our host’s hobby was “animal communication”—a quintessential New Age concept that had been fodder for most daytime television talk shows, although Roosevelt was discreet about his talent and employed it only at the request of neighbors and friends. The mere mention of animal communication had been able to start Bobby foaming at the mouth even long before Pia Klick had decided that she was the goddess of surfing in search of her Kahuna. Roosevelt claimed to be able to discern the anxieties and desires of troubled pets that were brought to him. He didn’t charge for this service, but his lack of interest in money didn’t convince Bobby: Hell, Snow, I never said he was a charlatan trying to make a buck. He’s well-meaning. But he just ran headfirst into a goalpost once too often.
According to Roosevelt, the only animal with which he had never been able to communicate was my dog. He considered Orson a challenge, and he never missed an opportunity to try to chat him up. “Come here now, old pup.”
With apparent reluctance, Orson finally accepted the invitation. His claws clicked on the deck.
Carrying the shotgun, Roosevelt Frost went through the open hatch and down a set of molded fiberglass stairs lit only by a faint pearly glow at the bottom. He ducked his head, hunched his huge shoulders, pulled his arms against his sides to make himself smaller, but nevertheless appeared at risk of becoming wedged in the tight stairway.
Orson hesitated, tucked his tail between his legs, but finally descended behind Roosevelt, and I went last. The steps led to a porch-style afterdeck overhung by the cantilevered sun deck.
Orson was reluctant to go into the stateroom, which looked cozy and welcoming in the low light of a nightstand lamp. After Roosevelt and I stepped inside, however, Orson vigorously shook the condensed fog off his coat, spraying the entire afterdeck, and then followed us. I could almost believe that he’d hung back out of consideration, to avoid splattering us.
When Orson was inside, Roosevelt locked the door. He tested it to be sure it was secure. Then tested it again.
Beyond the aft stateroom, the main cabin included a galley with bleached-mahogany cabinets and matching faux-mahogany floor, a dining area, and a salon in one open and spacious floor plan. Out of respect for me, it was illuminated only by one downlight in a living-room display case full of football trophies and by two fat green candles standing in saucers on the dinette table.
The air was redolent of fresh-brewed coffee, and when Roosevelt offered a cup, I accepted.
“Sorry to hear about your dad,” he said.
“Well, at least it’s over.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Is it really?”
“I mean, for him.”
“But not for you. Not after what you’ve seen.”
I frowned. “How do you know what I’ve seen?”
“The word’s around,” he said cryptically.
“What do you—”
He held up one hubcap-size hand. “We’ll talk about it in a minute. That’s why I asked you to come here. But I’m still trying to think through what I need to tell you. Let me get around to it in my own way, son.”
Coffee served, the big man took off his nylon windbreaker, hung it on the