An Incident At Bloodtide

Chapter Two

Tom Blaine brought us to within a hundred yards of the beach on Garth's property. We hopped back on the catamaran, untied the towline, thanked him profusely, then proceeded to make our way to shore. It was high tide, and we paddled our way under the overhang that was both a family music room and a state-of-the-art recording studio where Mary and her musician friends laid down many of the tracks for her best-selling albums. We pulled the cat up on the beach, in front of the original boathouse on which the main house had been built, then walked up the path leading to the side door. I was thoroughly exhausted, but it was a healthy fatigue, free of mental stress. Being out on the water always did wonders for my head. The mellow high I was enjoying would last until at least midmorning on Monday. Now I was ready for a hot shower, a good stiff Scotch, and some music-live music, if Mary felt like playing her guitar or the piano-dinner, and then sleep. I knew I was going to feel good driving into the city in the morning.

As we came to the side of the house, I noticed a late-model green Cadillac parked in the driveway behind Mary's Wagoneer. I said, "It looks like you've got company."

Garth merely shrugged, then led the way through the screen door at the side of the house. "Mary?" he called cheerfully. "Guess who's back? It's just like Mongo says: there's nothing like a short sail before dinner to whet your appetite. Mary?"

There was no response, and we walked into the spacious living room with its pine walls and fireplaces at the north and south ends. "Mary?" Garth called again. "You home?"

"We're in here, Garth." Mary's voice, coming from the music room off to our left, sounded strained, nervous.

Garth and I exchanged glances, and then I followed him into the music room, which was essentially a large, enclosed deck overlooking the river. It was my favorite room; despite the clutter of cables, amplifiers, and huge, studio-quality speakers, I found it comfortable and cozy, a place where you could sit in an easy chair and look out over the river through the wraparound windows, read, or listen to music, or just think.

But now the room was filled with an almost palpable atmosphere of tension apparently generated by the lanky stranger who was slumped in Garth's favorite chair, a leather recliner, with his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.

Mary was seated on a straight-backed chair between two five-foot-high floor speakers. Her back was stiff, not touching the chair, and both feet were flat on the floor. Her large hands with their long fingers were clenched tightly in her lap. She was wearing her waist-length, gray-streaked yellow hair in a ponytail that was pulled back tightly from her face and held in place with a calico ribbon. As usual when she was home, she wore no makeup, and her flesh, normally a golden brown in the summer from the sun, now looked pale, almost translucent, like delicate china. Her blue eyes seemed cloudy, and she appeared to be very tense, perhaps afraid.

The man in Garth's recliner did not rise, but instead stared intently at my brother and me with cold, black eyes that were bright with intelligence, but also tinted with cruelty. I judged he would be six-four or six-five if he were standing, a couple of inches taller than Garth, but much thinner. He wore jeans, the bottoms tucked into the tops of highly polished black cowboy boots with silver chains draped around the ankles. His black T-shirt was too large for him and hung loosely on his tall frame. Crawling out onto his flesh from both sleeves were black tattoos that appeared to be the clawed, hairy legs of some creature, perhaps a spider that might be tattooed on his chest. He had angular features, with high cheekbones, long nose, and pronounced chin. His hair was black-too black, with a flat, matte appearance that made me think the color had come out of a bottle. I put his age at around forty-five. His thin lips were slightly parted in what seemed to me an insouciant, arrogant smile. I instantly disliked the man and was certain that his presence in the house meant trouble. He was obviously in no hurry to introduce himself, and Mary was too distracted, or fearful, to do the honors.

Garth walked to the center of the room, stopped. "Who are you?" he asked in a soft, even tone.

Now Mary rose to her feet in a quick, jerky motion. Her hands remained clasped together. "Garth," she said nervously, "this is Sacra Silver, an old. . acquaintance. Sacra was in town, and he stopped by to say hello. Sacra, this is my husband, Garth, and his brother, Robert."

The man Mary had introduced as Sacra Silver pointed a long index finger at me. "Brother Robert is the famous one, isn't he?" he said in a raspy, nasal voice. "Former circus star, unlikely martial arts expert, Ph.D. in criminology, ace private investigator, and darling of the media. Mongo the Magnificent."

Having delivered this pronouncement in his gravelly voice, the man ran both hands through his long, bottle-black hair and smirked. Sacra Silver was a man who could insult you without half trying, and was obviously willing to go out of his way to do so. "You've got quite a stage name there yourself, Sacra Silver," I replied. "I can't say I've heard of you. What's your act?"

"You don't want to know."

"Actually, you're right," I said. The dislike I had instinctively felt for this sour man was rapidly turning to anger, and I didn't like that. I felt I was somehow being emotionally manipulated, although I couldn't, for the life of me, understand what would motivate somebody, a guest in a couple's home, to go over-the-top obnoxious immediately. Most obnoxious people take at least a minute or two to get properly warmed up, but Sacra Silver had seemed full-bore intent on offending Garth and me from the moment we'd walked into the room. I wondered why, and I wondered where Mary knew him from. I shrugged, continued, "Just trying to be polite. It's always a pleasure to meet one of Mary's friends."

His response was to laugh; it was an unpleasant, grating sound. I glanced at Mary, waiting for her to say something, anything, that might short-circuit the tension that was rapidly building in the room, but she seemed almost paralyzed with fear or anxiety. She remained mute, lips tightly compressed, looking at the far end of the room.

"So you're Mary's latest old man," the man who called himself Sacra Silver said to Garth. "Looking at you, I wouldn't think you're her type."

Finally Mary spoke. "Sacra," she said quickly in a tight, anxious voice, "Garth is my husband."

"It's true, babe," Silver said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "He certainly does not look like your type, and you know exactly what I mean."

"Sacra, please. ."

Garth walked the rest of the way across the room, to his wife, pointedly turning his back on the tall man sitting in the leather recliner. My brother's movements were slow, lazy, almost to the point of exaggeration. If I'd been Sacra Silver, I'd have begun giving quick and serious thought to abandoning my present position. He obviously had no idea at all of what type Garth really was. I did. I knew the warning signals when I saw them, and when Garth spoke, it only confirmed my suspicions that Mr. Sacra Silver was shortly about to encounter more trouble than he was likely to know how to handle. I wasn't inclined to warn him. Silver remained serenely stretched out in the chair, his fingertips pressed together and forming a tent under his chin as he stared at my brother's broad back.

"What is it, Mary?" Garth asked in a soft, perfectly calm voice.

"Talk to me. Who is this man, and what does he want? Tell me what's going on."

"Sacra and I have known each other a long time, Garth," Mary said in a voice that trembled. "He and I-"

Suddenly the man in the recliner snapped his fingers, producing a loud, popping sound. Mary immediately fell silent, turned away from Garth, and covered her face with her hands. Her reaction startled me.

Garth didn't appear to react at all. His movement as he turned to face Sacra Silver was even more exaggeratedly slow. "Tell me why you're here," he said to the man in a voice that was only a half decibel above a whisper.

"I'm going to cut through all this bullshit," Silver announced to my brother, not even bothering to look at him. "It will save us all a lot of trouble and aggravation. Mary and I go back a long time. You may be her husband now, but believe me when I tell you that doesn't mean jack shit-not to her, and certainly not to me. We've shared more than she and you ever could. She may be married to you, hiding out here in Cairn, but all the time she's really been waiting for me to come back around. Well, I have. I'm here. If I know Mary, she's never even mentioned my name. But I can tell you that there hasn't been a moment of your life together that she hasn't been thinking of me. She belongs to me, Frederickson. That's it. Nobody's going to sneak around doing anything behind your back. I've given it to you straight and up front; she's mine, and I'm here to reclaim her. It's very simple, so don't make the mistake of trying to make anything complicated about it. You're out of the picture, out of this house. She doesn't want you here any longer. Now, let me hear you say you understand what I've just said."

Well. Let it be said for Sacra Silver that he had chutzpah, if not a keen sensitivity to the danger inherent in irritating my brother. For a moment, it occurred to me that this might all be an elaborate practical joke: Sacra Silver, an old friend of Mary's, perhaps a character actor specializing in playing outrageous, creepy types, had dropped by, and they had decided it might be fun to play a little trick on Garth. But, of course, it wasn't that at all. Mary was clearly terrified of the man. Sacra Silver was a wild card.

"Now I understand the stage name," I said cheerfully to the man in the chair. "You're a comedian."

"Shut up," Silver said in a perfunctory tone, continuing to stare at the opposite wall. "This is between Mary, her old man, and me. Butt out."

"Mary," Garth said in the same soft tone, "I'm asking you to tell me what's going on here. Who is this man?"

"Garth," Mary stammered, "it isn't… I don't. . I'm so sorry. I'm just. ."

"He's your guest, Mary, so it's up to you to tell him it's time to leave. I think you should do it now. Then we can talk."

Garth waited perhaps five seconds, just long enough to watch his wife helplessly glance back and forth between him and the man in the chair. Mary seemed incapable of speaking or moving. Then Garth abruptly turned, walked over to Silver, grabbed the front of the man's shirt, and pulled him to his feet. The T-shirt ripped, baring Silver's chest, revealing an enormous, grotesque tattoo of a black, spiderlike creature with large emerald eyes in a tortured human face.

"You're in my chair," Garth said in the same mild tone he had used with his wife. "I want you out of it, and I want you out of-"

Sacra Silver reached back with his right hand to his hip pocket, drew something out. There was a sharp, ominous click. I started to shout a warning, but there was no need. Mary screamed when the multi-bladed butterfly knife glinted in the bright lights of the room, but Garth was ready. He released his grip on the man's tattered shirt just in time, and the blades sliced through the empty air where his wrist had been a moment before. Garth popped him with a left jab to the nose, then hit him hard with a right hand to the stomach, doubling Silver over. He grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the knife, twisted. The weapon clattered to the floor. Then Garth stepped around behind the man, grabbed the nape of his neck with one hand and his belt with the other. Garth turned him around, marched him unceremoniously to the open window at the front of the room, and tossed him out headfirst, just beyond the edge of the outside deck. I nodded appreciatively. There hadn't been a wasted motion.

I had heard no sound behind me, but perhaps that was understandable considering all the commotion in front of me. I started when I felt a small hand touch my back. I turned, and was startled and alarmed to see Vicky, barefoot and sleepy-eyed, staring up at me. I did not think we had been making that much noise, but it had obviously carried to the bedrooms in the west wing of the house.

"Mr. Mongo?" the child said.

Garth was Garth to the child, and Mary simply Mary. But I was still "Mr. Mongo," a tide I had bestowed upon myself when I had first met her, under rather perilous circumstances, and had made a desperate bid for her trust-and all-important silence-by telling her I was Santa's chief helper. "Hello, sweetie," I said, quickly stepping in front of her and stroking her cheek. "What are you doing up?"

"What's wrong, Mr. Mongo?"

What was wrong was the spectacle of violence. In the two years since we had taken responsibility for her, Garth, April, and I had gone to great pains to insulate Vicky from all kinds of violent images; the girl had seen enough death and suffering, and heard enough screaming, to last more than a lifetime. Now I swept her up in my arms, cradled her head on my chest, and turned so that she could not see the expression of terror and shock on Mary's face. "Nothing's wrong, sweetheart," I whispered in her ear. "Garth just dropped something."

Garth stood very still in front of the window, watching me, his face impassive, but his eyes gleaming with anxiety. The child in my arms was breathing regularly, and her eyes were closed. I nodded reassuringly to my brother, and only then did he turn, lean out the open window, and look down at the water below. He remained there for almost a minute, but apparently didn't see anything, for he finally turned away and headed for the door.

"Don't go down there, Garth," Mary said in a low voice that vibrated with tension. "It's a trick. You don't know anything about him. He's a very dangerous man."

Garth stopped and stared at his wife, and I could see in his soulful brown eyes the same surprise and confusion I felt at Mary's curious behavior. Garth and I had seen Mary shot at, and we had witnessed her instantly turn away from a lifelong faith in pacifism to shoot a man who had been about to kill Garth. Mary Tree was certainly no coward, and yet she appeared to be totally intimidated by the man Garth had just thrown out the window. Finally Garth simply shook his head, turned, and walked out of the room. Mary put one hand to her mouth and looked at me in alarm. I didn't know what to do, and so I merely shrugged as best I could with the girl in my arms. After a few more moments of hesitation, Mary bolted for the door to go after Garth.

Satisfied that Vicky was asleep, I carried her back to her bedroom. I put her to bed, tucked her in, then went out, closing the door quietly behind me. I went back to the music room, walked over to the window, leaned over, and looked down. Garth was almost directly below me, slowly paddling his canoe in the area where Sacra Silver would have fallen. The river's surface was placid, reflecting the light from the full moon overhead. Mary was out of sight, and I assumed she was standing up on the section of beach beneath the overhang. Garth looked up, saw me at the window.

"Can you see anything from up there?" my brother asked.

I shook my head, then turned away from the window and headed for the door.

Garth stayed out on the river almost forty minutes, paddling the canoe in ever-widening circles in a systematic search for our departed guest. Finally he paddled back to shore, pulled the craft up onto the beach in front of the boathouse, then came over to where I was standing next to a silent, pensive Mary. I noticed that Garth did not look at his wife.

"He's not dead, Garth," Mary blurted suddenly, turning and gripping Garth's right forearm with both hands. "He just wants you to think he's dead, make you worry. I know him." She paused and sucked in a deep breath, screwed her eyes shut, and rapidly shook her head back and forth. "Damn him. Damn him!"

"I'm not worried," Garth said in an even tone. "If he's dead, so be it. I'll take the consequences. If he's not dead, he'd better stop playing possum pretty damn quick and get his goddamn car out of the driveway."

My brother abruptly turned and headed up the path to the side door. Mary and I followed. Inside the house, he went directly to the telephone in his office, called the Cairn police. He calmly, without any hesitation, told whoever was on the other end of the line what had happened. When I noticed that Mary was no longer standing beside me, I went out of Garth's office, returned to the music room. Mary was standing at the open window, staring out into the night. I went to her, placed my hand gently on her back; her muscles were hard, knotted.

"So?" I said to my brother as he entered the room.

"Harry's coming over to check it out and take a statement."

"Did you tell Harry he pulled a knife on you?" I asked, glancing over to the spot on the floor beside the recliner where the butterfly knife had fallen. "I did."

Now there was a long, uncomfortable silence. Both Garth and I glanced over at Mary, who, for the first time since I had known her, looked all of her forty-five years of age, even older. She still seemed afraid, but in addition now appeared confused, as if she could not quite come to grips with what had happened-whatever that might be. The visit of her decidedly strange friend had apparently ended in tragedy. I wanted to go to her, to find words to bridge the gap that had suddenly opened between her and my brother and me, but did not feel it was my place.

"I'm going back to the city now," I said to Garth. "I'll take Vicky with me; I think it's better that she be gone before Harry gets here and starts asking questions. She could wake up, and I don't think she needs to hear any of this."

"Agreed," Garth replied simply.

"Please don't go, Mongo," Mary said in a small voice. "Not. . yet. I want to explain." She paused, looked at Garth. "With Sacra Silver, I just don't know where to begin."

I went over to the woman, took her hands in mine, kissed them. "You don't have to explain anything to me, Mary. I'm not the one who needs to understand. Aside from the fact that I don't want Vicky to know about any of this, it's really not my place to be here now. This is between you and Garth. I hope you understand."

Mary did not reply. When I let go of her hands, they dropped limply to her sides. I went to the guest room, quickly packed my clothes into my duffel bag. When I came out, Garth was waiting for me in the hallway. He had wrapped the sleeping girl in a blanket and was holding her in his arms. It was a wonderful picture. I felt awful.

"You've got enough clothes for her at the brownstone?" Garth asked.

"Yeah."

My brother carried Vicky out of the house, to the car, and gently laid her on the backseat. Garth now looked withdrawn, deeply troubled.

"I'm doing the right thing, aren't I, Garth? I'll stick around if you think it would help."

Garth shook his head. "No. You were absolutely right when you told Mary I'm the one she has to talk to. If Harry needs a statement from you, I'll have him call you in an hour or so."

"Tow call me if you need anything."

"Yeah."

"Good luck, Garth."

"Yeah."

As I pulled around the green Cadillac and out of the driveway, I could see Garth standing in a patch of bright moonlight, staring after me. Then the moon passed behind a cloud, and he was shrouded in darkness. I headed for the Palisades Parkway, and New York City.