It’s either hard to explain or hard to orchestrate, because Bobby is gearing up for a confrontation. He takes the long way because he and Pike haven’t spoken since that night Walker came to the house, OK, thirty years ago. They were never friends, although he suspects they’re a lot alike. Oh, God this is hard. He takes the oyster shell road that hugs the shore, making time to write the necessary speeches. For all the good that does. When he arrives at Walker Pike’s neat redwood house on the far side of Pierce Point, the only opening line he’s managed to come up with is, ‘You have something of mine.’
Like Florida beach houses in the 1920s, Walker’s place is built with a tin roof and wooden shutters that drop to protect the glass from storms. Even though it’s late spring, he has the shutters down. Except for running lights on the deck and the yellow bulb in the lantern above the door, no light shows. For all he knows, Walker is gone. He goes up on the deck and knocks, rehearsing his opening line.
OK then. Knock again. Again. If nothing happens, walk away. Go on, admit it, it would be easier. Unless you think you can break in.
The door opens.
Everything Bobby lined up to say evaporates. ‘Hi.’ Weak, Chaplin. Fucking lame.
Standing on bleached teakwood planks worn smooth as the deck of a square-rigger, Walker Pike regards him. Like silvered teak, he’s weathered well.
‘It’s me.’ Bobby adds foolishly, ‘Bob Chaplin, from school?’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I had to see you.’
The face Walker has prepared for him is carefully assembled. Neutral. Handsome. He’s lost the hungry, vulpine look he had as a kid. ‘I don’t do drop-ins,’ he says in a level tone but he adds, to make clear that he is by no means hostile, ‘If you want to know the truth, I don’t do people.’
Write too many undelivered speeches and you write yourself backward, into cliché. Bobby blurts, ‘We need to talk.’
‘No we don’t.’
‘You have something of mine.’
‘No.’ Then Walker astounds him. ‘You have something of mine.’
Troublesome facts drop into place like tumblers, with an audible snick. Suppressing a groan, Bobby dips his head in acknowledgement. ‘I do.’
Walker snaps to attention. ‘I thought she’d sent it to you.’
‘Let me in?’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘If I go home and get it, then will you let me in?’
‘No,’ Walker says, and that’s the last thing they’ll say about Lucy’s wedding ring.
Desperate, he tries, ‘Lorna.’ Walker’s face clangs shut, which makes Bobby babble on about her snobbery, that big old car, her outfits with matching gloves and shoes until he hits, ‘All she cared about was Precious. Fat as a toad. And mean.’
‘She loved that dog.’
Bobby does not have to add, Probably the only thing she loved. ‘Some expert came all the way from Tampa to do its hair.’ Walker speaks. I’m almost there!
But Walker ends it. ‘Precious was mostly bald.’
It’s weird. Bobby’s articulate by nature and by no means a stupid person but thirty years of pain and confusion, the bulk and weight of raw experience compressed, boil up and present as a single word. ‘Please!’
Walker stops Bobby with the flat of his hand and holds him in place. ‘Wait.’
‘It’s urgent.’
‘Not yet.’ The green eyes move faster than any scanner, assessing. His fingers tighten on Bobby’s arm as if he’s testing for vibrations. Fiber. Intent. Something inside Walker goes: Click. He says, ‘OK. You’re safe.’
Relief makes Bobby too bluff, too hearty, just one of the guys. ‘Shit yes I’m safe.’ What is the man, a walking metal detector? ‘I’m not here to rip you off.’
Walker says coldly, ‘Safe, as in, I can’t hurt you.’
‘I think you ripped me off,’ Bobby blurts. ‘The Swordfish.’ Oh shit. Oh, shit!
Walker’s face changes, perhaps too fast. ‘That wasn’t me.’ He stands aside, revealing polished floors, teak furniture with clean lines, shelves filled with books by the thousands. ‘Come in.’
31
Dan
Exploding into the Fort Jude Star parking lot, Dan finds a note on his windshield. The oversized sheet of rag paper is neatly folded and tucked under the wiper blade. Whoever left it has an enviable printer; the heavy stock unfolds to poster size. The writer chose quality paper, 72 point type, to deliver a message that there is no mistaking:
DON’T BE HERE
DON’T DO THIS
IT ISN’T SAFE
Dan grunts. It’s like taking a blow to the heart – not fatal, but he feels it. The puzzle is not