St. John
The phone rang at a quarter to eight. Wesley Pitts’s blood still flowed hot on a Mississippi asphalt two-lane beneath a lonely traffic light. Walter reached over to the end table where he put his cell phone the night before. He rubbed the cobwebs from his eyes and tried not to wake Isobel.
He said, “Yeah?”
“Good morning, Mister Sherman.”
“Who’s this?” The voice was vaguely familiar. Walter sought to clear his mind, get his bearings.
“You may remember me as Michael Del-”
“Leonard Martin.”
“Yes, I thought you knew back when-”
“What do you want?”
“Well, good morning to you too. It’s time for us to talk.”
Walter was struggling now, fighting what he knew was his stupid, damaged, ego-driven reaction. He tried to tell himself-quickly-that Leonard Martin had fooled him with his Michael DelGrazo act out of a sense of survival. What could he have expected in New Mexico? Did he ever really think Leonard Martin would welcome him with open arms, buy him a cup of coffee, tell him his life story? What would he have done in the same situation? “Oh, fuck it,” he thought.
“I’m glad you called,” he said. “I am.”
Leonard said, “Good. Let’s get together tomorrow, in the afternoon. How does that work for you?”
“Where do you want me to meet you?”
“No need. I’ll meet you. I like St. John. If Ms. Gitlin is there, I hope to see her too. Save me a trip.”
“Let me give you directions,” Walter said without skipping a beat. “Finding my house is not always the easiest thing. It can be confusing.” How did he know about Isobel? How did he know Isobel was here? What did he know about Isobel? Does he know…?
“I’ll find it okay. See you tomorrow,” Leonard said. And the phone went dead.
Leonard Martin was on a plane from Jackson to Atlanta before noon. While waiting to change planes there, he made one more phone call to Carter Lawrence. “Go ahead,” he told him, “tell Nick to get started. Have him make the call.” He landed on St. Thomas in the midst of the Caribbean afternoon’s slow and glorious multicolored fade to evening. He took the first ferry for St. John. He meant to rent a car and had made an Internet reservation with the island’s biggest rent-a-car agency, an enterprise owned and operated by one of Ike’s sons. Ike’s grandson Roosevelt met Leonard Martin at the dock. He held a sign in front of his chest with his customer’s name in bold, capital letters. He did not make Leonard for a tourist, but Leonard saw him.
“Mister DelGrazo?”
“Yes,” said Leonard.
Roosevelt introduced himself with a smile, a warm and friendly handshake, and a small apology. “I’m very sorry, sir, but can you bare with me a minute? I need to give a message to my grandfather. He’s just over there across the square.” He pointed to Ike, who was sitting at his regular table on the other side of the small square. “It will only take a moment, then we can be off to the paperwork and your vehicle. Then you can begin what I’m sure will be a wonderful stay for you here on our lovely island of St. John.”
“Quite alright,” said Leonard. “No apology needed. I’ve been sitting all day. I’d like a little stroll.” Roosevelt grinned broadly and the two were off on the short walk to the open-air bar called Billy’s. Not wishing to intrude on the young man’s words with his grandfather, Leonard stood at a respectful distance. Only a moment later he tensed up. His heart rate increased and in his fear he considered that he might have made a big mistake coming here-here to this tiny island, here to a place where there was only one way out and it was behind him. He was a man on the run. Only a few hours ago he’d killed someone. Was he now trapped? Although he was a complete stranger, newly arrived, Leonard had an uncomfortable feeling he was being watched.
Someone was indeed staring at him. At the far end of the bar he saw Isobel Gitlin looking right at him. A sense of shock rolled over him. He was riveted to the ground, undone by the dread he felt that his carefully constructed cocoon of privacy and safety had been pierced. Did she recognize him? How could she recognize him? She was blindfolded all the time. She hadn’t seen him, or had she? Then, next to her, he saw Walter Sherman. He was drinking from a bottle that appeared to be a Coke. Of course, Leonard realized with a comforting sense of relief, she had his description from him. There could be no other way. Unlike Isobel, Walter had not yet noticed him. Leonard chuckled. He tapped Roosevelt gently on the shoulder and told him to bring the rental car here, to Billy’s.
“I’m sorry. I can’t do that, sir,” said Roosevelt, confused and a little worried he’d somehow offended a customer, perhaps by stopping to talk with his grandfather. “There’s the paperwork, and I have to-”
“It’s okay, boy,” said Ike, not missing the stare that now both Walter and Isobel were giving to this bearded cowboy. “He ain’t no bushwhacker.” Leonard acknowledged the old man with a pleasant tip of his hat and moved slowly but easily toward the far end of the bar where Walter and Isobel sat motionless. Billy saw the connection too. His old friend Walter and his new friend Isobel looked right at this guy with the floppy, western hat. The surprise on their faces was unmistakable. They knew him, Billy figured, but were they happy to see him? He couldn’t tell. The cowboy seemed eager enough to see them. His gait as well as his smile was definitely friendly. Billy had reached for the baseball bat he kept behind the bar. It had been so long since he grabbed a bat, or anything like that, with bad intentions. He broke a sweat, but as Leonard passed him, he realized it was uncalled for. He dropped the wooden club and, shaken, wiped his face with a bar towel. Walter had not missed Billy’s clenched teeth or his hands beneath the bar. Even the sight of Leonard Martin could not overcome the nagging question in Walter’s mind: Who was this William Mantkowski?
“Ms. Gitlin, a pleasure to see you-again,” Leonard said, holding his hand out. She shook it and it seemed she was trying to say something, but nothing came out. “Mister Sherman.” Again, he tipped his hat politely.
Walter said, “Please call me Walter. And what should I call you?”
“Leonard will do just fine. I hope my deception can be forgiven between us.”
“You look just like Walter said you would.”
“Ms. Gitlin-”
“Isobel.”
“Isobel, you’re nervous. You know what I look like, so why haven’t you printed it?”
“We can’t. The New York Times won’t print something we can’t confirm to be true.”
“Of course not,” Leonard said. Even Walter caught that one.
“That’s not a joke.” Isobel was unnerved. Despite her education and experience, she believed in the integrity of the press in general and the New York Times in particular. Plus, Walter told her that Leonard Martin was coming tomorrow afternoon. Not now. Seeing him, like this, without even the semblance of a blindfold-she needed to collect herself. “Just because Walter told me what he saw doesn’t mean I can print it. I didn’t see it.”
“No, I suppose you didn’t and you can’t. And you couldn’t say that Walter Sherman saw me without explaining who Walter Sherman is. That I suspect would be just as difficult. So difficult that it will never happen.”