|
------- ------- -------THE CHAPLAIN AND THE PIG [April 2009] ------- -------by Russ Chenoweth ------- ------- ------- -------Prologue ------- ------- -------Bill Handy killed the engine and the lights and let the battered cruiser coast in behind a junked car. It was after eleven on a raw night in mid-December. The streets were deserted. The only signs of life in the old factory district were a yellow blinker three blocks south on Race and the faint hiss of traffic from the distant highway. -------Mike lit a cigarette, cupping the match in his hand, and opened the window a crack. He hadn’t smoked since the army, twenty years before. The sweet smell of burning tobacco in the bitingly cold air took him back to Berlin for an instant, to the 287th MP’s, a good time in his life. He stared into the indifferent blackness surrounding the abandoned warehouse. The engine ticked as it cooled, and their breath began to fog the windows. Ty Bascomb snored softly in the back seat, the heavy battering-ram cradled on his lap. Carnes and Wesley were parked out of sight around the corner. -------Ten minutes later, a silver Lexus pulled to the curb a block and a half beyond them. The driver got out and approached the dark wall. When light spilled briefly from a doorway, Mike glimpsed the silhouette of a man seated at a table. After a minute the door opened and closed again, and in seconds the car was gone. Three more expensive cars stopped during the next hour. The police had been watching the operation. Tonight they’d take it down. -------Neither man had spoken more than a few words. They usually talked quietly before a raid, about Bill’s kids, or politics, a book Mike was reading. Bill finally broke the silence. -------“What’s up, Lieutenant?” -------For the first time in weeks Mike hadn’t been thinking of Kathy. In his mind he was on the Cape on a summer morning, casting for blues at Coast Guard Beach with Henry Shields. “We don’t know what’s in there,” he said. -------“You don’t have to be here, Mike,” Bill said evenly. “You’re a short-timer for God’s sake.” -------Mike didn’t answer and Bill swallowed his annoyance. “Got plans for next year?” ------- “Working on it,” Mike said. “Sorry,” he added, touching Bill’s arm. Five minutes went by before Bill spoke again. ------- “We all miss her, Mike. The captain...” He gave a little snort. ------- “She stood up to him,” Mike said. “Shamed him into taking his kids to Disney World.” His friends thought he should talk more about his wife. One fool told him it was lucky they didn’t have children. He let the silence build again. ------- “You’re right about tonight,” Bill said finally. “Get our asses shot off someday. We ought to smarten up and legalize the shit. Let the creeps fry their brains.” ------- “Never happen,” Mike said. ------- “Because of the kids?” ------- Mike laughed. “No, Bill, because of the money.” ------- Bill thought about that. “Yeah,” he said, “the money.” Another minute passed. “We’re losing it anyway, Mike If we can’t keep out the drugs, how we going to stop the terrorists? You ever think about that?” -------“No,” Mike said. -------Bill checked his watch again, then reached into the back seat and poked Bascomb awake. -------“Rise and shine, Tyrone.” -------He spoke softly into his cell phone. Thirty seconds later the others appeared at the end of the block. Mike, Bill, and Ty got out, leaving the car doors open. They drew their weapons and crossed the street. They walked the block and half quickly, staying in the shadows. Ty went first with the ram. He stopped a few feet from the wall Bill listened for a moment then tapped the big man’s shoulder. -------Ty took two steps and smashed in the door. ------- “Police, hands in the air!” Bill shouted. ------- There were two men at the table, plastic bags, a pile of cash. Mike saw the gun an instant before Bill fired. A third man burst from a back room carrying an assault rifle. Mike shoved Handy aside and fired his automatic and then he was on the floor and Bill was ripping away his shirt and swearing. Blood decorated the far wall like graffiti. -------Mike was wide awake in the ambulance. The EMT’s told him he’d be okay, but he wasn’t so sure. He couldn’t feel his left arm for a few minutes. Then it began to ache. At the hospital they told him the bullet had missed the vest and gone through his shoulder without hitting bone. -------“You’re a lucky man,” the doctor said. -------Mike almost laughed, but he held out his good hand. “Thanks, doc,” he said, “nice job.” -------He was out of the hospital in two days and had read Handy’s report before he filed his own. One man was dead, the one Mike had shot, a second was wounded but recovering. Bill had claimed both shootings, and Mike didn’t know what to make of that. Let the old guy retire with a clean record, or was that just how Bill remembered it? He thought it over for a day and decided nothing good would come from rocking the boat. -------The dead man wasn’t as young as he’d looked lying on the gurney, a South African in his mid twenties and in the country legally. If they’d called the SWAT he might still be alive, but they’d never do that for a drug bust, not in this precinct. Mike guessed half the money had been turned in. -------There were commendations for all of them. The mayor joked to Mike that they had to stop meeting in front of the cameras. That would be okay with him, Mike told the mayor. He was smiling when he said it, but whatever else he was, the mayor was no fool. The commissioner half-heartedly encouraged Mike to stay on, promised he’d make captain, but that was crap, too. -------Two months after Mike left the force, Sergeant Bill Handy was killed in what appeared to be a random drive-by shooting. Mike suspected revenge for the botched raid, but when he talked to homicide they told him politely that the case was under investigation. He could imagine what they say if he tried to tell them what had really happened. The shooter was never found. -------Mike did what he could for Bill’s wife and kids, but he seemed to make Alice Handy uncomfortable. She insisted they were okay financially, and that was probably true. He wondered how much Bill had told her. Eventually he felt he had to let it go and get on with his life. ------- ------- -------Chapter 1 ------- ------- -------I wrote that up for Mike after he told me about Philadelphia. He liked my writing, which is why I’ve pieced together the rest of the story so he can have it for his kids. I write for pleasure now, and just to keep going. -------My name is Nathan Bleistein. I was a Madison Avenue ad man before I retired to the Cape back in the seventies. My wife and I ran a gallery in Orleans until her death a few years ago. I used to write for the Atlantic and the New Yorker, and I managed to get a mystery novel published and a collection of short stories. That was then, but I still get up at six and make a pot of coffee, and I write until noon. Mostly it’s stories for my kids and grandkids, but occasionally I send something to my agent, who’s no spring chicken herself. That was my routine even before Leah died, and I don’t mess with it. I’m like the old rug you can’t wash because it’s held together by dirt. But when Mike Nickerson returned to the Cape last year and settled into the little farm house next to my place, it changed my life. -------This is the mostly true story of Mike’s adventures the following summer. It’s also the story of Cynthia Cabot, George Santos, Til Putterman, Henry, Sooty, Jane, Saresh, and the shining children Emily, Sophie, and David. I play a small role in it myself. -------Mike was in his early forties when he retired from the Philadelphia police after the bollixed drug raid. Three years later he was doing well in a new career when another fateful poke in the eye forced him back to the Cape. I’d known about his wife’s accidental death. A terrible thing, but he seemed to have gotten through it as well as anyone can. He’s a stoical son of a buck with a sense of humor that can be hard to penetrate. He didn’t talk about what brought him home this time and I didn’t ask, not that first winter. -------I’d always found Mike to be a particularly fine young man. I met him when he was a husky boy of twelve or thirteen and my wife and I had just opened our gallery in a big Victorian on half an acre of scruffy lawn. It was well before landscaping had become the serious business is it now, so I was pleased when this young fellow showed up at my back door trailing a power mower. I thought I saw something special in him and hired him on the spot. He did a first rate job for me for a few years, even after he was old enough to work the charter boats out of Rock Harbor in the summer. I paid him well, but I think he valued the lemonade and the talks we had on my front porch nearly as much. He was fascinated by the rise and fall of the Weimar Republic and Adolph Hitler’s takeover of the most civilized country in the world. I told him about my family’s narrow escape from the Nazis and going back to see our old house in Heidelberg after the war. I’d thought about knocking on the door, but I didn’t do it. I like to think I inspired Mike’s interest in history and that it was partly through me that he became someone he might not otherwise have been. -------Mike was a good cop, smart and tough and liked by his men. He’d moved around a lot, from vice to narcotics, a few years in homicide and then back to narco, making rank and occasionally making the news but never fully trusted until they got something on him. -------He played down his middle-class background in the army and on the job, but he’d found his education was respected. Mike’s father, Ed Nickerson, had made a decent living practicing family law on Cape Cod before the real estate boom. His mother, Helen, taught first grade for thirty years. Good people. Mike was a late child. They’re both gone now. -------He breezed through high school. An AP history teacher found him extra reading, about Germany and the war. He was on the football and baseball teams and spent a lot of time sailing his dad’s sloop. And as I’ve said, as soon as he was old enough, he crewed on the big party boats over the summer. He loved the water. Most of his classmates couldn’t wait to get away, but Mike enjoyed his life on the Cape and was half sorry to leave for college. -------He worked hard at U Mass and earned an honors degree in criminal justice. His senior thesis was on police corruption, which I gather he’d found pretty ironic in later years. Ed and Helen had expected him to go to law school after graduation, but Mike wasn’t ready for that. The army recruiters guaranteed him Europe and the MP’s, and he’d gotten a lot more from his eighteen months in Germany than just beer and Frauleins. Europe was a liberal education, and service under a good commander had set a high standard for his years in law enforcement. He left the army a Specialist 5th Class after giving serious thought to a military career. He’d genuinely bought into the team spirit in the MP’s and the idea of service to his country, and for while, even to the starched uniforms and spit-shined boots, but eventually it began to seem too limited, and he realized that he wanted a more normal life. He considered law again and graduate school, but when a slot opened at the Philadelphia Police Academy he jumped at it. -------He always says that marrying Kathy was the smartest thing he’d ever done. She was a teacher who loved her work. Not having kids was a disappointment to both of them, but Mike took it particularly hard. Even so, they’d had twenty good years together, a solid marriage. They traveled when they could and had visited nearly every major art collection in Europe. Mike studied French and read up on art history in self defense. Kathy became a skilled watercolorist who sold her paintings for respectable money. Mike finally earned his law degree at Temple, which only made the brass more nervous. -------Kathy’s accidental death came close to killing him. He’d gotten through it, but it turned his life inside out. There was no reason now for him to stay on after his twenty. He had nothing more to give the job, and his city was being trashed. -------What he did next was apparently as much a surprise to Mike as it was to me when I learned about it. I found it gratifying too, but we’ll get to that. That and all the fruitiness and murder, the sex and drugs, the witches, love and honor, courage, old geezers, pre-teens, wise cats and cheeky mice. You’ll see. -------Nickerson, by the way, is a patronymic of Nicholas, which is from the Greek for ‘victory to the people’. The Greeks were always optimistic about that. It’s been a well known Cape name since 1656, when William Nickerson of Boston traded a 28 foot shallop, ten overcoats, six kettles, and forty shillings with the Monomoyick Indians for three thousand acres of virgin woodland. He’d neglected to get permission from the Plymouth Colony and had to pay a fine, but he kept the land. His children and grandchildren became prosperous farmers and fishermen in the three and a half centuries that followed. Eventually most of their descendents left the Cape to become citizens of the wider world, but there are still a good many around. Nice folks, in general. -------The name Bleistein, if you’re interested, is German for ‘Leadstone,’ the sort of moniker that dates back to the eighteenth century when officials assigned us fancy surnames like Goldwasser and Silverstein because, they said, ‘the Jews have all the money.’ ------- ------- ------- ------- -------Chapter 2 ------- ------- Tilbury Putterman, better known to summer visitors as the Eastham Miller, stared out to where the ocean met the sky. A ragged line of breakers gleamed beyond the dunes, and the sound of distant surf came on the wind. Close in, the green expanse of Nauset marsh was thickly ringed by pines and cedars from the Coast Guard station to Putt's hill. Just below the house, a rough mowed field sloped gently to the water’s edge. It was only here, in the shadow of the half ruined mansion where he’d been born, that Til could truly feel the reassuring web of past and present, the Nauset Indians, the farmers and the fishermen, and his own unfettered childhood before the chaos of a long and violent life. He knew it was foolish for a man who’d hung his hat in all the desperate places of the earth to care so much about four old walls, but on this subject he was beyond reasoning with himself. ------- Although Cape Cod was largely covered with pitch pine and hardwood forest when Bartholomew Gosnold named it in 1602, Putt’s hill had been cleared for centuries and planted each spring in a patchwork of maize and pumpkins. The ground was fertile and the prospect magnificent. The ocean offered cod and herring and the bounty of an occasional beached whale. Ten thousand years of clam bakes had left massive heaps of shells beside the marsh. ------- When the mostly peaceful Nausets agreed in 1632 that no man owned this generous land, Braeburn Prince of Plymouth drove his staff into the ground and claimed it for himself. The house Prince built for one of Elder Brewster's daughters grew long and rambling before it fell into final disrepair in the 1830’s. It burned a few years later, leaving only its granite doorstep. ------- The last of the old growth timber had been cut to fuel the salt works by the time Thoreau walked the ocean beach from Eastham to Provincetown. When Captain Andrew Putterman sailed past the little hill in 1852 the outer Cape was largely windswept heath, with all but a scattering of the small farms abandoned for the brighter prospects of a Massachusetts mill town. The captain bought twenty acres of field and woodlot for the price of a few barrels of whale oil. Andrew and Adeline, his supremely capable wife who accompanied him on all his voyages and could sail the ship as well as he, planned for their retirement during a last long whaling trip. ------- Putterman paid generously for stone and lumber to build his stately home. The Essex shipwrights set heavy timbers on a foundation of granite ballast blocks and braced and caulked the walls to stand against a hurricane. Bright yellow shingles with white trim, green shutters, and a brown and red striped mansard roof enlivened its foursquare outline and hinted at exotic ports of call. The great bleached jawbones that arched above the garden gate marked the contribution of the North Atlantic right whale herd. Located at the highest point in Eastham, the view from the mansion’s rooftop cupola swept the Cape from Bourne to Provincetown and on clear days reached many miles to sea. ------- Grateful to have survived his profitable but perilous career, Captain Andrew relaxed on his veranda during a dozen years of retirement. He daily scanned the busy coastal waters through a telescope, counted the passing schooners and incautious whales, and witnessed the gradual disappearance of the mackerel fleet. He and Addie spent their evenings reading and playing whist. The captain meticulously cataloged his treasure trove of artifacts and was always pleased whenever he could share stories of his South Seas adventures with a dwindling audience of willing listeners. -------Andrew Putterman died peacefully at eighty-two, puzzled by the inconclusiveness of his busy life but without complaint. Uneventful as it was, the captain's quiet retirement marked the high point in the history of Putt’s hill until the late spring evening when Til stood at the porch rail staring out to sea. ------- Til was eighty-one. With his grizzled beard and his tanned and weathered face, he looked his age, but beneath the khaki shirt and pants he’d managed to preserve the massive body of a heavyweight wrestler. Women and small children were attracted to him in the way cats sought out the lap of an indifferent stranger. ------- Addie died soon after Andrew. Their less adventurous descendants, accustomed to a life of ease and inured to surroundings of extraordinary beauty, shortened their sights considerably. Two generations of tame Puttermans played pinochle on summer afternoons and dozed before coal fires through foggy winter months. They watched the transatlantic cable drawn ashore at Coast Guard Beach in '91 and took note in 1902 when King Edward's wireless message to Teddy Roosevelt reached the Marconi towers in South Wellfleet and was rushed by horseback to the nearest telegraph. During the Great War they were briefly jolted by the distant boom of cannon fire when a German U-Boat shelled an empty barge in Nauset Harbor. -------A telephone was installed in the kitchen and whale oil had given way to electricity by the time Alice Putterman died and left the house to her twenty year old daughter Elizabeth, along with a modest income and the peculiar little Chapel in the Pines. Andrew had built the handsome church for his congregation of Universalists, a denomination that believed all men went to Heaven and especially those lost at sea. It was unclear why he kept title to the building unless it had to do with a sea captain’s well-earned distrust of his fellow men. ------- The mansion with its burden of brass beds, horsehair davenports, hulking Victorian chests and sideboards, and the many boxes of the captain's savage bric-a-brac, stood unoccupied for decades, the object of sporadic litigation and witless vandalism. The untilled fields grew up in cedar forest, and the cellars nested generations of sleek brown rats. -------Young Betty Putterman had left her illegitimate son to be raised by an ancient oysterman and his cheerful wife while she explored her own far seas. She returned to Eastham in the nineteen sixties, and, having outlived all other claimants to her property, set up camp in two rooms of the crumbling mansion and became a local institution. ------- Til noticed the faded sign leaning against the house. LABOR DAY CHOWDER SUPPER. This was Betty’s annual gift to town employees. Despite her truculence, she’d been well liked by most. He looked across the mile of swirling grass towards the dunes and the sea and sky beyond. The view was as compelling now as it had been for Captain Andrew and the Indians. Early June was a good time on the Cape. The scent of locusts filled the air with the sweetness of orange blossoms. The fields were bright with wildflowers, and the marsh reflected a dozen shades of green and gold. The dusty caravan of summer visitors was weeks away. Til stood smoking his pipe as the shadow of the house lengthened before him. When all color had faded from the marsh, he knocked the ashes from the bowl and walked reluctantly back to his car. It was his house now, and he meant to have it. ------- Chapter 3 ------- ------- I’ve known Til for some years now, probably as well as anyone does. I got to talking to this big rough looking fellow at the post office after I saw his 2d Armored Division tattoo. I ended up inviting him to lunch, and we gave the war a good going over. Afterwards he offered to help me move a sweet pepper bush. I was eighty-five then, Til was in his mid-seventies and strong as an ox. We dug out a giant root ball and got the new hole ready. I was going to ask my neighbor, Mike, to give us a hand, when Til hoisted the whole shebang like a clump of petunias and plopped it in the ground. -------There’s more to Til than muscle. He has a degree in engineering from MIT and is pretty well up on all the sciences. Mind like a Gatling gun. I should have known better than to take him on at Go, the Japanese game of strategy. An expert would have spared my feelings, he said, winning by a stone, but that sounds more like rubbing it in. I told him my feelings weren’t all that delicate. Til’s life would make a good story, but he knows too much, he says, and why did I think he moved to the boondocks if not to stay beneath the ridge line? ------- I’ve seen violence myself. Nazi rallies, the Brownshirts running amok. We thought they were comical then. A friend and I blew the door off the Frankfurt Party headquarters with a homemade bomb. That was before they could just slap a dozen suspects up against a wall. They became a lot less amusing as time went on. My war in the pacific came along a few years later. ------- ------- -------Chapter 4 ------- -------Two miles across the Cape from Putt’s Hill, Mike Nickerson sat in the dark smoking a cigar. He’d been reading for several hours but had finally turned off the porch light to listen to the wind in the pines and the slap of the rising tide against the dock. The bay was dull silver fading to black. -------In the year since he moved into his parents’ small farmhouse at the edge of Boat Meadow Marsh he’d replaced its curled and blackened cedar shingles, built a big back porch, and put on a new roof. With dual-pane windows and a foot of fiberglass in the attic, the house had been snug as a ship’s cabin over the winter. Generations of Snows and Nickersons, the hard working citizens of old Eastham, would have burned a forest of stove wood to stay warm. Mike sometimes felt the weight of their good lives. -------He’d thought briefly about studying for the Massachusetts Bar, but he’d never really intended to practice law. Running his charter boat out of Rock Harbor kept him busy over the summer. Unlike the sleek new cruisers in the other slips, the Chub was a re-built lobsterman. She was slow but seaworthy, and her Yankee charm appealed to families with children. He always checked his few lobster traps for them and gave them the catch. The other months of the year Mike worked with a roofing contractor. They put in long and sometimes brutal days in the cold and wind. Henry Shields was tall and rawboned; a quiet man who’d been through hard times himself. They often stopped for a beer after work. ‘Never look back’ was Henry’s mantra, but that was no easier for him than it was for Mike. Henry had a BA in psychology. Mike knew a carpenter with a master’s degree in the cello from Julliard and husband and wife PhD’s who ran a bed & breakfast. The Cape was a goal for some people and a refuge for others. Henry was gay and unattached. -------Mike ran the two miles to Herring Cove and back every morning and worked out at Willy’s Gym three days a week. Training for the Olympics, he joked to Henry. He walked the National Seashore trails in the rain and snow and could name most of the shrubs and wildflowers. In the evenings he read until his eyes burned, taking notes as if he were still working on his doctorate. -------The tip of his cigar glowed brightly for a moment. He savored the smoke curling around his nostrils and the spare beauty of the night. It was where he’d meant to end up, someday, just not so soon. Twenty years on the job and Kathy dead before he’d found what he really wanted in life, and a year ago he’d blown it to Hell. -------“Hey, Cap.” -------“Cyn?” ------- He switched on the porch light as she came up the steps carrying her motorcycle helmet. She brushed his cheek with her fingers and went into the kitchen. ------- “Good to see you, babe,” he called after her. ------- She brought a cold bottle of Cape Red to the porch and sat across the table from him. Cynthia Cabot was in her late-thirties, slim, tough, good looking. Mike, a muscular, weather-beaten man some years older, looked like the fisherman he claimed to be. He flicked the cigar butt into the marsh. ------- “The geese eat ‘em,” he told her before she could say anything. She laughed and shook her head. -------“How’s school?” he asked. Cynthia was a popular math teacher at Nauset High. It wasn’t just her looks his deck hand told him. She really cared about the kids. ------- “School’s good” Cynthia said. “Most of my AP students got their first choice for college. They’re excited.” ------- “Good for them.” -------“They’re our hope, Mike. Astrophysics, genetics, brain science, the whole fucking future.” ------- “Hey, I’m with you,” Mike said. “You had a good year, that’s great. What’s your summer like?” He knew so little about her except that she was smart and sharp-tongued, and she had the sweet body of an athlete. But she had something else on her mind tonight. ------- “I do a little tutoring. That can be best part of teaching, to wake up some smart-ass kid or to push a junior Einstein to where I can’t help him anymore. And I read, work in my garden, play the guitar. Jilly Carter and I had a good time in Paris last summer. This is good beer, Cap.” -------“I got it just for you.” -------She grinned. “It’s too bad I have to work. I smelled your cigar and stopped in for some advice.” -------“Advice?” He hadn’t meant to sound sarcastic. -------“Jesus, Mike, I know I can be a bitch, but I ask for help when I need it. I’m the executor of Betty Putterman’s estate.” -------“No shit? How did that happen?” -------Cynthia snorted and shook her head. “I’ve known Betty all my life. She’s the only person who never gave up on me when I was the town bicycle. She owned the Chapel in the Pines, and she wants me to give it to some religious group.” -------“Which one’s that?” -------“It’s what I’m supposed to decide. That’s what I want to ask you about.” -------Mike shook his head. -------She was surprised. “Why not?” -------“Was Betty religious?” -------“She called herself a ‘seeker’.” -------Mike smiled. “A seeker, huh? You’ve been drafted, babe. She wants you to figure it out.” -------“Sure she does. She had me doing all kinds of crazy shit when I was a kid, and I never even thanked her. She wasn’t an easy person to like, but I loved her, Mike, and if I didn’t feel I owed her big I’d just sell the place and give the money to the homeless. I’ll make the decision, but I don’t even know how to get started.” -------She turned and looked into the darkness. Several flashlight beams wove through the trees, swept the edge of the marsh, and focused on the footpath. -------“The hell’s this?” -------“Probably the renters’ kids,” Mike said. “They come over afternoons with Cap Arnold’s girls and play rummy on the porch. Their moms won’t buy them soda.” -------Faces appeared in the light, young voices. ------- “Cap’n Mike?” -------“Hey, girls. C’mon up. Cyn, meet my buds Emily and Sophie Brandt, summer trash from Smith’s cottages. Cynthia teaches math at Nauset High, so watch your mouth.” -------“Hi,” Sophie said. She studied Cynthia for a moment. “You don’t look like a math teacher.” -------“My other life, Sophie. Where you girls from?” -------“New Jersey,” Sophie said. She turned and watched a boy emerge from the shadows, his hands in his pockets. “David’s from New York. They’re in the cottage next to ours. He’s thirteen, a year older than us. His dad’s a psychiatrist. Emily and I are twins but not identical.” -------“Where in New York, David?” Cynthia asked. -------“Brooklyn Heights.” David seemed bothered by the attention. He was dark haired and several inches taller than the girls. This visit clearly wasn’t his idea. -------“Should we come back another time, Cap?” Sophie kept glancing at Cynthia. -------“Join the party, kids,” Cynthia said. “I have to leave soon anyway.” -------“Sure, get your sodas,” Mike told them. -------He watched them through the kitchen doorway. Pretty girls, long legs, short blond hair. Sophie pushed ahead of the others at the refrigerator and took the last can of Coke. David waited while Emily studied the cans and bottles and selected a grape soda. He hesitated, then took a grape for himself. They came back to the porch and David sat at the table. The girls leaned on the porch rail. -------“Get kicked out of the house?” Mike asked. -------“Mom says we drive her crazy,” Sophie said. “She wants us to volunteer at day camp.” She made a face. “This summer is reeeally boring. Emily reads all the time, and David’s always out in his stupid boat.” -------David laughed. “Sophie likes excitement. Is that your machine down by the road?” He was having trouble keeping his eyes off Cynthia. -------Mike guessed David had never seen a teacher in biker boots and skimpy shorts. She wasn’t wearing a bra under her tee shirt, not that she needed one. He could imagine what she’d been like as a kid. -------“Uh huh,” Cynthia said. “A Ducati 350. Runs like a dream. How long are you guys here for?” -------“Labor Day!” Sophie said. “Mom says next year we get jobs for sure.” -------“You’re a little young for summer jobs,” Cynthia said. “I can ask around.” -------Sophie studied the floor. -------“I don’t want a job,” Emily said. ------- “We need something!” Sophie was ready to explode. -------“Let me think about it,” Cynthia said. “I’m good at finding things for kids to do. Look, I have to go, Mike. What about it? You going to help me or not?” -------“Sure, I’ll help you if I can, but don’t you think it’s a little nutty? I mean if Betty couldn’t decide what to do with the chapel, what does she expect from you? You already have the Unitarian’s and the Jews using the place. Why not offer it to them? I’m sure there are dozens of other interesting religions in the world, but so what?” ------- “So I could sell the chapel and send them the money. The land is worth a bundle. I just want to try to do what Betty asked me to.” ------- “What chapel?” Sophie was suddenly interested. ------- “The Chapel in the Pines,” Mike said. “It’s the little church next to the library, the one that looks like a cookie tin. It belonged to Betty Putterman, an eccentric old lady who died a few months ago. Cyn’s the executor of her estate, and she’s supposed to give the chapel to a religious group.” ------- “She owned a church?” David asked. -------“It used to be a church,” Cynthia said. “The congregation died off in the fifties and Betty rented it out.” She gave Mike an exasperated look but she explained to the children about the will. -------“Does anybody want it?” Emily had drifted into a corner of the porch and was almost invisible in the dim light. -------“That’s a good question, Emily. I haven’t asked. It’s a pretty place, an historic building, but it needs work. There’s supposed to be money to fix it up.” -------“Give it to the Jews,” David said. -------“Why?” Cynthia asked. -------He grinned. “They’ll make it nice.” -------“Yeah well, like Mike says, a Jewish group already uses it Friday nights. The Unitarians meet Sunday mornings, and some evangelical gays have a service every other Sunday evening. AA holds an early morning meeting seven days a week, and the Library uses it for programs. I have no idea who to give it to.” -------“Maybe we can help,” Emily said. “We could find out stuff about the churches. Sophie and I are supposed to be Episcopalians, but I don’t think I’m really anything. Our parents sent us to Sunday school because they thought we ought to go, but they never go to church themselves and they let us quit years ago because our dad doesn’t believe in God, and Mom says what she believes is private. I’d really like to learn about religion.” ------- “Would you?” Mike said. “What do you think, Cyn? They could always bail out.” -------“I don’t know, Mike. The kids say their parents don’t care, but maybe they ought to. Some of those religious groups are pretty slick. Anyway, I’d never encourage kids to make a commitment they don’t feel they have to keep.” -------“Please let us, Cynthia,” Emily said. “We’re old enough to know what we’re doing. Mom and Dad will think it’s a great idea. They always want us to learn new things.” She grinned. “We won’t join the Hare Krishnas, and we’re not quitters either.” -------“Really, Cynthia,” Sophie urged. “It’ll be fun, and we’ll work hard. Pleeease!” -------“Whoa, wait,” Mike said. “I’m sorry I brought it up.” -------“Too late, Mike,” Cynthia said. “I won’t stand in the way of youthful enthusiasm. If you guys really want to do this, you’re on. But do just as much as you feel like. As long as it’s okay with your parents and if Captain Nickerson agrees to help us.” -------“Nicely finagled,” Mike said. -------“What do we do?” Emily asked. She danced off the porch rail and put her hand on Mike’s shoulder. He had to stop himself from shrugging it off. -------“Each of you can learn about a religion or two and lay them out for Cynthia. That is what she meant, isn’t it? Not just what flavor of Christianity?” -------“I think she was actually a little down on the Christians,” Cynthia said. “Her mother had joined some church that was pretty strict. You kids are sure you want to spend your summer in the library?” -------“I’m there all the time,” Emily said “It’ll be neat.” ------- “What did you mean there’s money for the chapel?” Mike asked. ------- “The will says that any of the contents of the chapel that aren’t connected with its history should be sold to provide an endowment. It looks to me like it’s full of junk, but I haven’t had a chance to check it out.” ------- “Hidden treasure!” Sophie hopped down from her seat on the porch rail. ------- “Pirate gold!” David whooped. ------- “It’s got to be Marie Antoinette’s jewels,” Emily said with a grin. “She was supposed to escape to America, and I read they sent some of her jewelry on ahead.” -------“Yeah, on hers,” David said, “after they cut it off!” -------“I know!” Sophie burst out “There really could be old colonial documents hidden in the walls, maybe a copy of the Mayflower Contract!” Emily snickered. -------“Can we look?” David asked. -------“Of course,” Cynthia said, “but the chapel isn’t nearly old enough for any of that. It was built in eighteen ninety, and it’s been used by just about everybody in town. Anything of value has to be long gone, unless it’s awfully well hidden.” -------“They can’t look for the treasure unless they study a religion,” Emily said. “Isn’t that the deal, Cynthia?” She crossed her arms and scowled. -------“There’s no deal, Emily,” Cynthia said. “Anything you guys want to do is fine. No strings. If it gets to be too much, just tell me.” ------- “Hey, I’m in,” Sophie said. She was on her feet moving restlessly. -------“Me, too,” David said. -------“They just want to look for the treasure,” Emily insisted. -------“You bet they do,” Mike agreed. “Get me a pad and a pencil from my desk, Em? And bring last week’s Cape Codder.” -------Emily darted into the house. Cynthia settled back in her chair and watched the children gather around Mike. -------“Take a look at the local Sunday worship listings,” Mike said when Emily came back with the paper. “Decide among yourselves which ones you want to check out. I’m pretty sure the Roman Catholics aren’t interested in another building because they’re trying to get rid of one, but Catholic Charities does a lot for the poor. If any group actually wants to use the building it’s most likely to be one of he small evangelical churches. Talk to the minister or a church member and visit the church for a service if you feel up to it. Make a few notes and tell us what they do and what you like about them. Use the library, too, and remember, it’s not just about the local churches. Cyn could sell the place and send the money to Timbuktu. -------“And for the broader view.... David, my boy, your assignment should you agree to accept it will be to study Islam. Who was Mohammed, and why did he start a new religion? What’s the Koran about? What do Muslims do? Just give Cyn a rough idea. It’s Hinduism for you, Sophie. Emily gets Buddhism, and I’ll do Judaism and Christianity. If you run across something else that sounds interesting, tell us about it. I can help you find stuff to read if you want. Take the job seriously, but have fun and keep it simple. Religion for dummies.” -------“Gee, thanks,” Cynthia said. -------“I get it,” Sophie said. “Em and I are Christians, and David’s Jewish, so we have to study a different religion. How come you’re doing Judaism and Christianity?” -------“They go together,” Mike said, “and I’m a pantheist.” -------Sophie laughed. “No, you’re not, Captain Mike. What’s a pantheist?” -------“Everything is God. You can’t lose.” -------“Oh,” Sophie said. “Aren’t there other religions, too?” -------“There are thousands of them, Sophie. Cyn could give the chapel to the Taoists, the Moonies, the Druids, the Scientologists, the Zoroastrians...” -------“And I could paint myself blue and dance naked on Windmill Green. Mike, it’s too much.” -------“No, it isn’t, “Emily said. “We could even try to practice our religions. That’s the best way to learn something.” -------“Oh neat!” Sophie said. “I’ll wear a sacred dot on my forehead!” -------David grinned. “Like a bullseye.” -------“It’s called a tilaka,” Mike said, “a spiritual third eye. You’re right, Emily, it is the best way to learn something, but I think this time you’d better stick to being reporters. Some people might think you were making fun of them.” -------“And this is supposed to make me religious?” Cynthia asked. -------“You already are religious,” Mike said. “You’re a scientist, and science is based on faith like everything else, but it won’t hurt you to think about something besides Fermat’s last theorem. Isn’t that what your friend wanted?” -------“Probably. So, what happens now?” -------“I’ll find you some books, and we’ll see what the kids and I come up with.” -------“Great,” Cynthia said, “and thanks I guess. You too, kids. Don’t spoil your summer. And please don’t forget to clear this with your folks. Betty’s note did say I might want help, Mike, and maybe even protection.” ------- “From what?” ------- “She didn’t say. I figured for the valuable contents, but maybe she meant pirates. She was ninety-five and getting fuzzy. They never caught the bastard who ran her down.” ------- “What happened!” David said. ------- “Hit and run. She was taking her early morning walk. The cops think someone could have brushed her off the road without knowing it. She weighed only ninety pounds.” ------- “God, that’s awful,” David said. “But wasn’t she kind of old to be out exercising?” ------- “Apparently she didn’t think so,” Cynthia said, “and nobody was going to try to tell her.” -------The children had finished their sodas. Sophie said they were going home and dragged the others away. They could hear the girls’ excited voices and see the flashlights sweeping the trees all the way back to the road. ------- ------- “Is Sophie always so bossy?” -------“Sophie’s the mama bear,” Mike said, “but I’m surprised she went for this. Emily’s the little scholar. The mom drinks.” -------“Jesus, with sweet kids like that!” -------“Tell me about it. Never really drunk. Just hits the Chardonnay while the old man’s back in Jersey. He flies up weekends. A stuffed shirt, but he treats the kids okay. They both do. Not sure how they treat each other.” -------Cynthia grinned. “She came on to you.” -------He shrugged. “I stay away.” -------“Explosive situation, Cap.” -------“I can handle that part. I just don’t want to have to tell the girls they can’t come to me. They showed up without the Arnolds once, and I said I had to go out. I wish there was more I could do for them. AA meets every morning at the chapel, but you know how that works.” -------“I know how it works,” Cynthia said. -------Mike raised his eyebrows. -------“You ever see me drink more than one of these?” -------“I believe I have in fact.” -------“Okay, more than two?” -------“I thought in AA you aren’t supposed to drink at all.” -------“You’re not. You take your chances with me, Cap.” -------Mike grinned. “I’ve never doubted it. You see Sophie watching us?” ------- “Uh huh. We need to talk, Mike, but I really do have exams to correct. What you need, my friends, is a good woman. You’re really a pantheist?” ------- “I used to tell people I was a philatelist.” -------“And are you?” -------“A philatelist? Sure, a pantheist too, and there’s this sexy babe who comes around when she wants beer and advice.” ------- “G’night, Mike.” She stood and picked up her helmet. ------- “Hey, I’m kidding.” ------- “Me too, but I have to go. I’ve been thinking about us a lot, my dear. We’re getting in pretty deep here, and I don’t know what to do about it. You’re a great guy, MIke. I loved watching you with those kids. But I’m not the girl next door. Not even for you.” ------- He’d known this was coming. Wanted it, but he hadn’t realized until now how much he didn’t want to lose her. -------“Stay a minute, Cyn. I have to tell you something.” -------She sat down again, smiling at his seriousness. -------“You’ve never asked me why I’m on the Cape. I appreciate that, but you need to know. I told you about my wife, four years ago now. No kids, no dog, just an empty house and a big insurance settlement. I finished my twenty and retired on half pay. I still cared about the job, but I was tired of looking the other way. -------“Then I did what I always should have, got my M.A. in history.” He smiled. “Yeah, it surprised me too. I’m not sure how I got accepted at Columbia, diversity maybe, but it worked for me. Then I lucked into a teaching job at Franklin Academy in Philly and started on a PhD at Penn. Franklin’s snooty as hell but tops academically. They worked my butt off, and I loved it. I took a group of seniors to Italy last spring. The parents really liked my being an ex cop.” He shook his head. “Those kids were so smart. It’s what I was meant to do, Cyn. I’d be there now....” He hesitated, then made himself go on. -------“There was this kid, Ashley Burnham. Dumb name, brilliant girl. Funny, sweet... Hold it, Cynthia!” he snapped. “Let me finish!” Jesus, he hadn’t meant... -------She sat down again, and he took a deep breath. -------“Sorry, babe. It’s not like it sounds. She was doing an independent study on Quaker settlers in the West Indies, college level work. I helped her all I could. We got to be friends, spent time talking in my office. The school was like that. We were all friendly with our students. I guess she had more of a crush on me than I realized. All I could see was this incandescent girl ready to cut her way through college like a torch. I don’t know, Cyn, maybe I invited it, but I didn’t mean to. Kathy and I had wanted kids so bad.....” -------He turned away. Cynthia leaned across the table and touched his shoulder. ------- “Go on, Mike.” -------He took in a breath and blew it out. -------“Her dad got her into the Academy. It was what she needed, but he was out of the picture by then and her mom had other ideas. I figured I could talk her around and got the kid excited about a scholarship and working with an historian I knew at Columbia. Stupid woman blew a fuse. She’d found some poems the girl wrote. Pure fantasy, but they were talking statutory rape. Ashley told them she’d made it up, and they didn’t believe her. I was lucky just to be out on my ass.” He had to stop again “So it’s goodbye?” -------“Mike.” -------“What?” He sounded angry. -------“I believe you.” -------“Just like that?” -------“Fifteen years in the classroom, you trust your instincts. You know what Aaron told me? He says after your charters pull in a fair catch they get a boat ride and a lecture.” -------“The little shit!” -------“Hey, he trusts me, and he practically worships you. This kid was what, sixteen and pretty mature?” -------“Seventeen. It’s still ten to twenty. How long do you think a pedophile cop would last in the pen?” -------“Another year she’s in college and they could care less. It happens, Mike, but not to you.” ------- She stood and came around the table and kissed him. ------- “You’re not an exploiter or a fool, and you’re the one who got screwed. You can’t let it eat you up.” ------- “Mostly it doesn’t,” Mike said. “The mom was just protecting her daughter.” -------“That’s crap! What kind of mother doesn’t know when her kid’s telling the truth? Look, I really have to go. Let’s do this Chapel thing, and we’ll see, okay? And thanks, I mean it.” She turned to leave and stopped. ------- “Shit, I wasn’t going to show you this.” She pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to him. Mike read it. ------- “He can’t spell ‘whore’.” -------“He can spell ‘dead’. She reached for the paper and put it back in her pocket. “We’ll talk.” ------- She waved to him over her shoulder and vanished in the gathering fog. ------- -------Cynthia Cabot made people nervous. The troubled kid that mothers had warned their sons about was teaching advanced mathematics at Nauset High. She’d come with the highest recommendations and had more than lived up to them. Harvard and M.I.T recruited Ms. Cabot’s AP students when they were juniors. She loved teaching, and she was devoted to the kids. To the annoyance of the administration, they’d voted her their favorite teacher two years in a row. Her colleagues respected her, but she tended to keep to herself outside of school. -------She’d had many lovers, but a steady boyfriend was something new. Going steady! She had to laugh. She liked Mike a lot, but she knew he wanted kids, and she’d never expected to have any. Never thought she should. It had been a long time since she’d been so unsure of anything. ------- ------- -------Chapter 5 ------- -------So Mike gets to go to grad school in his forties. I didn’t make it past eighth grade myself. Never even heard of City College. It makes me want to cry. I worked sixty hours a week at the fruit stand and foreman at a clothing factory until I was drafted in ’42. Four years in the South Pacific, and I wasn’t even a citizen. We should have gone to Israel. -------I got mustered out at Pearl, and two of my buddies and I crewed a beat up sloop all the way to San Diego. We were drunk most of the time or we’d never have made it. Crazy thing to do, but I was ready to get on with my life after that. Three careers, two wives of blessed memory, six children, sixteen grandchildren, and two greats. My tribe. -------What did you think of the Brandt girls? They’re just as smart and sweet as I’ve made them out to be. Do nice kids grow up to be good people? We expect them to. And vice-versa. It’s why youngsters like Cynthia who make it through a bad patch can be treated like freaks. -------Cynnie would have been a classic beauty if she’d had an easier life. She’ll be a stunner like Hepburn in her old age, but you forget about her looks when you talk with her. Obsessed with her job. Wants every kid to have a chance at life, hooligans included. Mathematics makes the world go round, she says. It is the world according to the physicists, but math isn’t all she gives her students. -------Chapter 6 ------- ------- “A new interest, Emily?” ------- Melvil stretched his long body across the table. His head was raised, and his yellow eyes were fixed on hers. Emily glanced quickly around the room. Miss Harper was busy at the checkout desk. -------“I’m going to be a Buddhist,” she whispered. “We’re helping Cynthia Cabot decide what religious group gets the Chapel in the Pines.” ------- Melvil’s whiskers twitched, but before he could speak the door burst open, and a woman herded two small children into the library. The old cat closed his eyes. The children wanted to pet him, but the woman said the kitty was asleep. The little girl glared at Emily. -------“She pinches,” Melvil hissed when they’d gone. “You said you were an Episcopalian.” ------- “I’m a Buddhist, too,” Emily said. “Buddhists meditate and are kind to animals so they can escape suffering and desire and reach enlightenment. What religion are you, Melvil?” ------- “Table scraps and books,” the cat said. -------He drew in his paws and was on his feet in a single motion. ------- “I can put him on the floor if he’s bothering you.” ------- “He’s no trouble, Miss Harper,” Emily said. “He’s good company.” ------- “Isn’t he! Such a dear old puss. The little ones try to catch his tail, but he never bites or scratches. Do you, Sweetie?” ------- She rubbed between his ears. The cat lay down again and closed his eyes. ------- Miss Harper frowned at Emily’s book. ------- “Is that for a school project?” ------- “A summer project.” For some reason she didn’t want to mention Cynthia. ------- “I hope you’re studying Christianity, too.” ------- Emily was annoyed at this for a moment, but then she had an inspiration. “Miss Harper, can I talk with you about being a Methodist?” She knew Jane Harper was an important person in her church. ------- “Of course you may!” Miss Harper was pleased. “It’s so nice out today, though, you should be at the beach with your friends.” ------- “We’ll go this afternoon,” Emily said. ------- A woman appeared at the desk with a stack of videos, and Miss Harper left to help her. ------- “’Never bites or scratches’,” Melvil said coldly. -------“I thought librarians weren’t supposed to be nosy about what you’re reading,” Emily whispered. ------- “Oh, Jane’s all right,” Melvil said. “She just thinks everyone needs to be Born Again. When you’re old enough to decide for yourself you have to ask Jesus to be your personal savior. I’m sure she’ll tell you about it. Are Buddhists really kind to animals?” ------- “They’re supposed to be. I’m going to be a vet when I grow up.” ------- “An excellent idea.” Melvil sniffed the air and got slowly to his feet. “What do you think of Cynthia Abbot?” -------“She’s cool. You know her, Mel?” -------The cat didn’t answer. He stood and stretched for a moment. The tip of his tail caressed Emily’s cheek as he dropped to the carpet with a soft thud. ------- She watched him pad silently across the floor and slip into the librarian’s office where she knew his dinner was waiting. Emily had been talking for Melvil since she was four, but he still confused her at times. Why did he want to know what she thought of Cynthia? Mike and Cynthia were lovers. She wished her mom... -------She stared for a moment at the shelves of colorful reference books that surrounded her. Then she collected her notes and headed for home. ------- ------- They were on Mike’s porch a week later. He’d fixed mugs of hot cocoa with marshmallows and whip. None of the children had been much impressed by the local churches. The people were friendly, David said, but most of them didn’t know much about their own religion. Emily had been talking about Buddhism for fifteen minutes. ------- “What is a bodhi tree?” David asked. ------- “‘Bodhi’ means ‘enlightenment’ in Sanskrit,” Emily said. “The Buddha was supposed to be sitting under a fig tree when he learned the Truth, but I think that’s just a story, like Newton and the apple.” ------- “A fig fell on his head, and boing!” David pantomimed a fruit-induced awakening. -------“Thank you, Emily,” Cynthia said. “That was very well done.” ------- “There’s a little more. The Buddha wanted the monks to think for themselves, so he wouldn’t settle their arguments. There are all different kinds of Buddhists, but they don’t usually fight each other, at least not about religion.” ------- “Do people worship the Buddha?” David asked. -------“They’re not supposed to. He was a teacher, not a god. He thought enlightenment would finally come to you if you were kind and helpful. You’d escape your greedy self and your desires and sorrows and stop being born over and over, and you’d live forever in a state of Blessed Nothingness.” -------“Brother!” David said. “At least Muslims know how to have a good time.” ------- “You’re missing the point,” Sophie said angrily. “Buddhism is about how you live. You’re not supposed to kill or steal, or lie, or get drunk, or... or misuse sex, or...” ------- “Hey, no sectarian wars on the porch,” Mike said. “Thanks, Em. Good job. Is there a deadline with this stuff, Cyn?” ------- “Not really.” Cynthia said. “I’d like to unload the place as soon as I can, but I wouldn’t want to spoil anyone’s fun.” ------- ------- Emily and Sophie Brandt were best friends, but for fraternal twins who looked so much alike they were surprisingly different in many ways. Emily liked to read and to listen to music. She could spend hours by herself without feeling bored or lonely. Sophie needed company and action, but they’d learned to live with one another. Their mother’s drinking had brought them closer. They thought of it as their problem as much as hers and they’d made Mike an ally whether he knew it or not. They knew their mother liked him, but Mike wouldn’t talk with her about it. ------- -------Chapter 7 ------- ------- Emily says she makes up these conversations with Melvil. I’m sure she does, but as the Chinaman says, what if it’s the butterfly who’s dreaming Zhuangzi? I had to ask the cat something myself when no one was looking. He just gave me his usual disdainful stare. ------- I thought Emily did very well with her report on Buddhism. Some people are blessed with curiosity. I’ve had an appetite for information ever since my parents gave me the Enzyklopädie für Kinder when I was seven. I just finished reading From Dawn to Decadence by Jacques Barzun, a wonderfully opinionated history of the past 500 years that Barzun seems to have written off the top of his head when he was ninety-three. I wish I had a mind like that. I put my glasses on a window sill last week and closed the window on them. ------- I’ll have to admit that I’ve never really understood the Buddha’s appeal, except as a cheerful garden ornament. Some of Buddhism is just good sense, of course. There’s no need to beat yourself up yourself with fear and anger if you can avoid it, and I like the idea of being kind to all G-d’s creatures. But why Nirvana? I might be tempted to scrap a particularly lousy existence myself if I were sure I’d have another chance. But if one life is all I get, I want to make the most of it. ------- ------- ------- -------Chapter 8 ------- -------George Santos, known to his readers as The Traveling Green Pig, was on his back porch drinking coffee. Boat Meadow glowed golden in the morning sun, and a faint breeze sent ripples through the grass. George had left the Cape to seek his fortune more than half a century before, but he’d returned as often as possible over the years until he was finally able to buy a small house on the bay. He loved to sit in his Boston rocker and watch the ducks and gulls feed on the salt marsh. He delighted in the swift flight of kingfishers and the aerobatics of the sandpiper flocks. Once he’d once seen a bedraggled puffin resting on his dock after a great storm. He and his friends fished the shallow waters of the inlet and over the years had dug a mountain of clams from its fragrant mud. Since his semi-retirement, he grew a large vegetable garden each summer which he quilted with salt hay. -------George was a small man with a round head, a flattened nose, pointy ears, and deeply olive skin. His nickname might as well have been tattooed on his forehead. He was generous and sociable and his mind seemed as sharp as ever, but at eighty-three he’d begun to live partly inside the rambling stories he told the children of his brief marriage more than half a century before. His friends considered him an agreeable eccentric. -------He’d spent some minutes in quiet contemplation, when, with a burst of pips and squeaks, three sleek field mice came running up his walk and tumbled to a stop in front of him. -------“George!” piped the first mouse, breathless with excitement, “Why is there ANYTHING?” -------George’s eyebrows jumped. “What do you mean, Alexander?” -------“I mean why isn’t there NOTHING AT ALL!” the mouse squeaked. -------“Ah,” said The Green Pig. “That is a dandy question, and I don’t know the answer.” ------- “Why not!” the mouse insisted. -------The Green Pig sighed. “This calls for coffee, gentlemen.” He went into his kitchen and took down three miniature teacups from their tiny hooks. He filled each with a few drops of coffee and a dollop of cream and set them on the table beside his chair. -------“Don’t burn your tongue, Charles. -------“So, why is there anything at all? The philosophers would say, ‘Why not? Why is a small gray mouse less likely than nothing-ever-anywhere?’ And then they’d say, ‘and furthermore, you need both is and isn’t to tell the difference.’ What’s a mouse hole, they’d point out, but a twisty stretch of missing dirt?” -------“It’s air,” said Albert. -------“Air and acorns,” George agreed. “Every pig’s a poet, Albert, and there’s more to ‘nothing’ than meets the eye. ‘Nothing to it’ means it’s easy. ‘Nothing doing’ means it’s hard. ‘Nothing much’ is always just a little something. And speaking of a little something, boys, what wraps around an empty stomach better than a hungry....?” -------“Mouse!” chirped Charles. -------“My thought exactly.” The Green Pig took a doughnut from his kitchen crock. He broke half of it in pieces for his visitors and kept the rest to dunk. “We’ll save the hole for later,” he told the mice, who squealed with laughter. -------“No one seems to know why there’s something and not nothing, Alexander, or if that’s even true.” George looked for inspiration to where the green-gold marsh dissolved into the sparkling bay. The mice watched him with bright eyes. -------Alexander, the oldest mouse, was very studious. His younger brother, Albert, was equally inquiring, although he had less patience with the old and wise. Charles, the youngest, spoke rarely but to the point and was filled with reckless curiosity. -------The Green Pig woke from his musing with a start. -------“Sorry, boys, where was I? Oh yes, four hundred years ago at the beginning of the Age of Reason the French philosopher Rene Descartes said, ‘I think, therefore I am,’ and that settled it for him.” -------“Settled what?” asked Albert. -------“He was pretty sure it answered all his questions. He’d proved by thinking that he existed, and he went on from there. A hundred years later, the English writer Samuel Johnson kicked a stone and came to much the same conclusion. Who can tell me about the universe?” -------“It’s EVERYTHING,” said Albert, stretching out his puny arms to include the sky. “The earth and sky and sun and stars as far as we can see.” -------“And farther,” The Green Pig agreed. “The astronomers tell us that if the Milky Way, our patch of several hundred billion stars, were no bigger than a penny, our sun would be a pin prick at the tip of Lincoln’s nose, and the next nearest galaxy would appear to be two feet away. On the same scale, the most distant star seen through our largest telescope would seem to shine from forty miles down Cape in Provincetown. And that’s just what we can see. Who knows where it gets to on its own!” -------“IN-FIN-I-TY!” Charles chanted. -------“Maybe,” the Green Pig replied, “but in 1929 Edwin Hubble discovered that the stars all appear to be running away from one another as if the universe had started at a single point some ten to twenty billion years ago and might still be growing.” -------“Ten to twenty billion years!” squeaked Albert. “Don’t they know?” -------“They’re working on it.” The Green Pig said. “It might be around thirteen billion. Some scientists believe that the universe was smaller than an atom once and hugely hot and heavy just before it blossomed out into the knobby web of dust and stars we see around us. The Roman philosopher Plotinus said reality is everything and nothing, a tiny pebble plopping in a pond that makes a ring of ripples run forever.” -------“Hooo!” said Albert. -------A beetle landed near Charles’ cup. There was a moment of silence as they watched Charles pop the insect into his mouth and chew it cautiously. -------“Who drops the pebble?” Alexander asked. -------“It’s a pebble of the mind,” the Green Pig said, “a metaphor. Unless it’s the Black Holes that get things going. Look boys, I have to go to the post office. Would you like to come?” -------“Oh yes, George!” Alexander said, and the mice jumped up and down with excitement. -------The Green Pig put on a shiny new straw boater with a broad brim for the mice to ride and rolled out his rattley old fat-tired Schwinn. -------“We can continue our talk while we ride,” he said. -------“Yes! Yes!” chorused Albert, Charles, and Alexander. There was no end to the curiosity of mice. ------- -------“Holes,” Charles prompted, as they breezed along the bikeway. -------“Black holes,” said The Pig. “Some scientists think they’re collapsed stars so dense their gravity won’t let light escape. There may be one in the middle of our Milky Way that’s smaller than a basketball and heavier than a million suns, but with all our measurements and calculations we just don’t know. We’re still bamboozled by things as ordinary as light and life and gravity, and thought. And not only is the universe stupendously enormous, the world inside us is just as strange and every bit as miniscule as outer space is huge.” -------“How can one thing be as little as another one is big?” Albert asked. -------“It’s relative, like giant hummingbirds and pygmy hippopotami. I’m five foot three. You’re four inches nose to tail. Falling from my hat for you would be like falling off a cliff for me.” -------“Until you hit the ground,” Albert said. -------“Ploof!” said Charles. -------“Right you are,” The Pig agreed. “Mice make light of gravity. Let’s say that to an atom, a mouse would be a universe.” -------“George,” sighed Albert, “is everything just words?” -------“Things, whatever they may be are definitely dodgy, Albert, and language is the net we catch them in. I see sunlight on the water. I smell the salt and sulfur of the sea and feel the mud between my toes. In my mind these perceptions become Boat Meadow Marsh, and the words just tell me what I know.” -------“Sooty!” Albert shouted. Sooty Goodwich sauntered down the path ahead of them. She was tall and beautiful with azure eyes and thick black hair that fell below her waist. -------“Morning, Sooty!” The Green Pig tipped his hat, the mice dangling from its brim. “It’s good to have you back in town. Come to see me.” -------Sooty nodded and waved gaily as they rattled by. -------“Sooty knows things,” Alexander said, when the boater was safely back on George’s head. -------“Indeed she does,” the Green Pig agreed. “She sails among the galaxies.” -------Albert hooted. -------“Philosophically, that is. Ask her, Albert. She’ll have a... Whoa! Hang on!” The Green Pig jumped a rut, splashed through a puddle, and coasted to a stop. -------It was busy in the post office. George chatted with several neighbors as he checked his box. He promised Ed McCreary a pot of oakum for his leaking dory and offered to bring a dozen empty jelly jars to pretty Jenny French. He said a cheerful good morning to Will Stuart, who sneered as always. The mice slipped unnoticed through the letter slot. -------“Bring the boys today?” asked Jolly Jack. -------George pointed out that they were weighing one another on the postal scale. -------“Ah, so I see! You’ve grown, young fellow,” the postman added obligingly. “Take another first class stamp to mail you now.” -------“Where?” Charles asked. -------“Why Mouscow!” chortled Jack. -------Charles scowled. -------“Ready to go boys?” The Green Pig called. -------“Oh, George!” Jack came out from behind the counter. “Would you take a letter to the mill?” -------“Be glad to,” George said. “Does the windmill get much mail?” -------“First I’ve seen,” said Jack. ------- -------The windmill on the Village Green had ground the Eastham farmers’ corn and wheat for two hundred years until the railroads began to haul cheap flour from the West. It had been boarded up for more than half a century by the time the Village Improvement Society opened it to tourists in the nineteen sixties. Now the Eastham miller greeted dozens of visitors of all ages on summer days. He explained the workings of the wooden gears and the two-ton granite millstones and showed the children the neatly fashioned little doorway from which the mill cat once guarded sacks of grain. The mice were always careful to avoid the hole. -------“Morning, George,” Til said. “Good to see you, boys.” He nodded to the mice. “Lovely day to be about. You can smell the locust blossoms.” -------“Fish,” Charles said. -------“Windmills always smell of flowers, fish, and pizza,” Alexander explained. -------“Do they now?” Til said. “Trust a mouse’s nose.” -------“Here’s something for the mill.” George handed him the letter. -------“From Ploudon in the Netherlands! I was over there in ninety-eight with the Society of Moulinologists. A big post-mill, as I recall. The whole mill house turns to bring the sails to wind.” -------As he perused the letter, Til frowned. He read it out loud. -------“‘Dear Friend, I hope this letter finds you well and your Eastham mill in good repair. Ours is acting rather fractious. Lost tools turn up in dresser drawers, sails loose their tethers and flutter in the breeze, and the pinion gear hums silly tunes. We feel the mill is laughing at us, Til What’s happening in Eastham? Yours ever in the wind, Gus Stout.’” -------Til looked up and harrumphed. “Mad mills, George? Dry rot or powder beetles more likely. Either one could make a mill see red. It’s well known that windmills can be dangerous, but if anyone were beaned by ours, they’d sue the town not blame the mill. I can’t say I’ve noticed any funny business here, although sometimes when her timbers creak I’d swear the old girl’s sighing for the days when grain was ground. Gus’s mill sounds downright supernatural.” -------“Spooky,” Charles agreed. -------“Too bad I can’t get away just now,” Til said. -------“Well, here’s the funny thing, Til.” The Green Pig had been glancing through his mail. “I have a letter from my archaeologically inclined cousin Elizabeth who’s up to her elbows at a dig in Attica and says she needs my help. Too hush-hush to say more in writing. I wonder what that’s about? Feel like a little travel, boys?” -------The mice erupted in a chorus of squeaks and squeals. -------“Sounds like you have some eager trippers, George. You don’t suppose you could swing by Amsterdam and take a dekko at Gus’s haunted mill?” -------“Just what I was thinking,” The Green Pig said. -------“Til,” cried Albert, “the windmill is on fire!” ------- Chapter 9 ------- ------- So now we’ve met Mike with his good times and his sorrows, Cynthia the tough but caring teacher who’s devoted to her work but uncertain about her feelings and has just received a semi-literate death threat, Til Putterman looking for the light at the end of his tunnel, three delightful children adrift on the gentle swells of summer, and my old friend George Santos the original little green man off to Greece with a trio sharp-eyed imaginary mice. Eventually we’ll sort them out. -------George and I have been critiquing each other’s work for nearly thirty years. He’s the sweetest guy in the world until he puts on his editor’s cap. We knew each other in New York and have a lot in common. George is more into science than I am. I read history and the classics, but we share an insatiable curiosity about almost everything. We’ve traded, read, and discussed books for half a lifetime. I used to spend a mint on postage when I had to mail them to him through an APO in San Francisco. ------- The talking rodents seem to be a fairly recent development. I don’t know if they’re a literary device or if George has really gone meshuge. In either case they’re useful. What’s better than an enthusiastic audience of imaginary mice? George is younger than I am by a decade, but he’s seen it all, and he’s acquired a kindly if non-too-hopeful attitude toward his fellow men. He’s a little like Tom Bombadil sometimes. Remember Tom from Tolkein’s Lord of the Rings? You never know quite who he is, G-d, an angel, or some kind of comic relief. I don’t know who George is for himself, but for me he’s a friend who helps me weed my garden while we drink beer and talk about ancient Chinese technology. When I go, my kids will miss me. If and when The Pig goes west, the world may shift a little on its axis and bits start flying off. ------- ------- -------Chapter 10 ------- ------- “Edward Hopper painted it in the thirties,” Cynthia told them. ------- “That sounds like a straight-line,” Mike said. “I’m sure Henry would give you our ecclesiastical rate if you’re interested.” ------- “I’ll think about it,” Cynthia said. “It needs paint, but if I end up having to sell it, it’s likely to be torn down.” -------The late Victorian Chapel-in-the-Pines overlooked Depot Pond. A few ragged shrubs still graced the church front, but the pines had been gone for decades. ------- “Can we go in?” David wasn’t interested in the building’s elegant proportions. ------- Cynthia unlocked the door, and they entered a bright, high-ceilinged room with pastel leaded-glass windows. Three ornately carved wooden chairs were lined up on a platform at the far end, begging to be sat on. ------- “Who are those for?” David asked. ------- “I guess they were for the church elders,” Cynthia said. “The chapel was built over a hundred years ago for the Universalists. A lot of them were fisherman who had to work on Sundays and weren’t welcome in the other churches. They believed everyone goes to heaven. That’s a photograph of them in the kitchen.” -------“Hey, right,” David said, looking at the picture. “Even the kids have beards. Nice kitchen.” ------- “The Unitarians put on chowder suppers during the summer for charity,” Cynthia said. “There’s a Saturday night coffee house here twice a month. Folk and blues.” ------- “Cool,” Sophie said. ------- “Where do we start?” David asked. ------- “I’ll pull down the folding stairs to the attic and open the basement crawl space,” Mike said. “You kids can do the looking.” ------- “A crawl space, yuck,” Sophie said. ------- “I have a trouble light in my truck,” Mike told her, “and an extension cord. It’ll be an adventure.” Sophie made a face. ------- The children began poking into the corners of the building, prying at the floorboards and tapping the walls. After a while they disappeared into the attic. -------Mike put on a pot of coffee. He and Cynthia sat on creaky folding chairs and listened to the children’s distant chatter. He studied the scarred floor and woodwork and the faded walls. The chapel was obviously well used. -------“They seem to be having a good time,” Cynthia said. “Think they’ll find treasure?” ------- “I’m sure they’ll find something,” Mike said. He got up and poured two cups of coffee. ------- “It’s AA’s coffee,” Cynthia said, “but they won’t mind. Do pantheists go to church?” ------- “What do you mean?” Mike was caught off guard. ------- “I mean did you go when you were a kid?” -------“No, never,” Mike said. “My folks weren’t religious. I went to Methodist Bible School with some friends one summer, but it didn’t take. Why?” ------- “Just curious,” Cynthia said. ------- “I’m not that complicated, Cyn. It was my father who claimed to be a pantheist. He liked to say things to get a reaction, but honestly it makes as much sense as anything else. The cops were my religion for twenty years. Now maybe it’s just trying to be kind and honest. What about yourself?” -------“We were Catholic, but the Church kicked me out when I was fourteen. My mom gave up on me, too. I can’t blame her, not that she was ever much of a mom. I lived with a foster family until I finished high school.” -------“How was that?” -------”Not bad. They treated me better than I deserved. I was sorry when I had to leave the Cape.” -------“Why did you leave?” -------“Trouble. I’ll tell you someday. I ran away to New York. That was rough, but eventually I got things under control. I got my undergraduate degree at City College and an MA in math from NYU. I taught at a high school in Brooklyn for fifteen years.” -------“They must have been sorry to lose you.” -------“Yes and no. It’s hard to find good math teachers, but I was a pain in the ass. Always after them for more stuff for the kids. You ever think about going back for your PhD?” -------“Sometimes, yeah,” Mike said. “I just don’t see...’ -------“Hey, guys!” Sophie called down from the attic. “Come see what we found!” -------Mike and Cynthia climbed the shaky ladder. Sophie, Emily, and David were surrounded by open boxes. -------“What are these?” Sophie pointed into an open wooden chest. -------“Communion cups,” Mike said. “The Universalists drank their grape juice from them.” -------“They’re silver,” David said. “Are they valuable?” -------“I doubt it,” Cynthia said. “But I can’t sell them. The chapel is in the National Historical Register. I have to keep everything that’s connected with its history.” -------“What about the treasure!” David sounded stricken. -------“If we actually find something it’s to be used for the chapel. You knew that.” -------“But what if it’s worth millions?” -------“David! You have treasure on the brain.” -------David grinned. -------Cynthia looked around the attic. “This junk hasn’t been touched in ages. Jesus, are those candle sticks? They must weigh fifty pounds. What’s that, Mike?” She pointed to a crusty brown stain on the bottom of one of the giant candle holders. -------Mike wet a finger and touched it to the metal. “Did the Universalists go in for human sacrifice? -------“It’s blood?” David asked. -------“That’s what it looks like,” Mike said. “I’ll have it checked out.” -------“I think we should get this stuff out of the attic before it’s ruined,” Cynthia said. “Maybe some of it can go to the Schoolhouse Museum.” ------- “How about we take it all to your place?” Mike suggested. “You can look through it when you get a chance.” -------It took a half hour to carry the boxes down the ladder and load them into Mike’s truck. He wrapped the base of the stained candlestick in plastic. -------“It’s almost time for lunch,” he said. “You want to take a quick look in the crawl space, David?” ------- “Sure,” David said, not sounding eager. ------- “The trapdoor’s on the platform.” Mike moved the heavy lectern to one side and pried up a brass ring. The trapdoor opened on creaking hinges. David took the light and went down the short flight of wooden stairs. ------- “It’s not so bad,” he called back. ------- Fifty feet of extension cord slipped through the opening as David walked stooped over to the far end of the crawl space where a concrete block wall separated it from the furnace room. He reappeared a few minutes later with dusty hands and knees. ------- “I didn’t find any treasure,” he said. “The foundation is big stones with some cracks and holes but no place to hide something.” ------- “At least we checked,” Cynthia said. “Thank you, David.” -------“I did find this.” He grinned. In his palm was a slim, inch-long cylinder. “It’s a piece of stem from a clay tobacco pipe. People smoked them like cigarettes until a hundred years ago. The later ones were made by machine and had smaller holes, but this is old. It must have worked its way up to the surface, because I don’t think the ground was turned over when the chapel was built. They probably just dug a trench for the foundation.” He stopped to catch his breath. ------- “That’s amazing,” Cynthia said. “How do you know all this?” ------- “I’ve read a lot about archaeology,” David said. “My dad and I got to work on a dig in South Jersey last summer. We helped excavate an old glass factory. It was really neat. The archaeologists taught us about the artifacts we found and about different kinds of soil. Can Emily and I dig in the cellar?” ------- “Sure. Could you leave them the light, Mike? I’ll give David my spare key. You can dig any time the place isn’t being used. Just keep it neat, and remember to lock up afterwards. And tell your parents!” ------- “They won’t care.” ------- “You guys always say that. I want signed permission slips. I’m kidding, but you’ve got to tell them. Okay?” Cynthia checked her watch. “I have to go, Mike. Leave the boxes in my garage. And thanks all of you. How about ice cream at my place Friday afternoon? We’ll look through this stuff.” ------- ------- David and Emily returned to the chapel after lunch. David had made a sieve out of wood and wire mesh, and they’d borrowed spoons and a trowel from the cottage. David carried the trouble light down the ladder. Emily followed, determined not to show that she was afraid. -------The space mirrored the room above them. The ceiling was high enough that Emily didn’t need to stoop. It smelled of dust and mold, but it was dry, and there were no spiders. The thick floor joists creaked occasionally. -------“What are we looking for?” Emily asked. -------“Anything,” David said. “Some weird stuff gets buried.” -------David took the trowel, and Emily began digging with a spoon. They each worked in a separate corner of the square that David had marked off with pegs. -------“Is this a pipe stem?” Emily asked a few minutes later. -------“You bet!” David said. He recorded their first find in his notebook. -------Emily was pleased. They found more bits of stem and part of a pipe bowl, shards of patterned crockery, hand-cut nails, and an indecipherable coin. ------- “It’s a lot for just the top few inches,” David said. He was excited. “There might have been a tavern here. Cynthia ought to report it to the State Archaeological Commission.” -------“Can we keep digging?” -------“Sure. I want to find out how old the site is.” -------They dug for another fifteen minutes. Then Emily began to crawl around the dirt floor, looking for whatever might have come to the surface. -------“David,” she called out, “there’s a place here about two feet by six where the ground’s sunk in.” -------“It sounds like a grave,” David said. “We’ll dig there next.” -------David had removed a foot of soil from one corner of the square. He found more pipe stems and broken crockery, another coin, and a small blue bottle. -------“It’s blown glass, Em! Probably eighteenth century. I want to dig another inch or two, and....” -------“Who’s down there?” -------Emily gave a little cry and turned towards the trap door. -------A head was thrust down through the opening. Long hair flared beneath it. -------“What are you doing?” The woman’s voice was shrill and angry. -------“This is an archaeological site,” David said. “We have permission....” -------“It’s holy ground!” the woman shrieked. “A curse on you!” -------“Cynthia Cabot said we could dig,” David insisted in a tight voice. -------The light went out. The cord was flung into the crawl space, and the trap door crashed shut. The cellar was completely dark. They heard something being dragged across the floor. -------David grabbed Emily’s arm. -------“She locked us in,” Emily quavered. -------Neither of them spoke for a few seconds. -------“Yell, David.” -------“No one will hear us. Hold onto my shirt. I’m going to crawl over to the basement wall.” -------They reached the cinder blocks, and David began to poke at the mortar. -------“That’ll take forever,” Emily said. “We never told anyone we were here. They won’t know where to look for us. Oh,” she said suddenly. -------“What?” David asked. -------“I have my cell phone.” ------- -------“You’re both really okay?” Cynthia asked. ------- “Uh huh,” Emily said. “Mike got here pretty quick. We weren’t scared.” ------- “Yeah, right,” David said. “Mike said the witch didn’t actually lock the trap door. We should have tried to open it. What did she mean this is holy ground?” ------- “I suppose because it’s a church.” Cynthia said. “I wouldn’t take it too seriously.” ------- “She sounded crazy.” ------- “I can’t think who it could be. Evie Krider cleans the chapel on Tuesdays. Anyway, she has short hair.” -------“What about the dig?” David asked. “Will you report it to the state?” ------- “If you think I should. They’d probably just say to close it up and they might get around to looking at it in twenty years. I think you could keep digging if you want to, as long as you know what you’re doing.” ------- “Thanks, Cynthia,” David said. “This place is fantastic.” ------- “That’s great. I’m sure lucky to have you guys to make my summer interesting. Just lock the outside door next time. I’m going talk to Chief Logan.” ------- “Do you have to?” Emily asked. ------- “I think I should, Emily. Whoever it was had no business doing what she did. It was a mean thing to do even if she didn’t really block the trapdoor, and it could have been serious. Mike and I didn’t know you were here, and your parents might not have started to worry until supper time.” She caught a look between Emily and David. -------“You did tell them?” ------- “I’m sorry,” Emily said. ------- “Oh, Emily.” ------- “Do we have to tell them about today?” ------- Cynthia hesitated, and Mike laughed. ------- “Shut up, Mike. Yes, and please tell them you were supposed to get their permission. But don’t worry about the police. The chief’s a friend of mine, and anyway I’m in charge of this place and thanks to Betty I probably will be for the rest of my life. Never trust anyone over ninety.” ------- ------- David had wanted to be an archaeologist from the age of six. He used to bury his sister’s doll house plates and cups in their back yard and with old coins and bits of bone so he could dig them up and catalog them. His interest in archaeology had increased with time. He now owned a shelf of scholarly books. ------- His parents were impressed by his dedication, but they thought he was too young to decide on a career. If archaeology failed him, he’d be devastated. They liked Emily Brandt a lot, she was smart and nice. They did wonder, however, whether a twelve year old girl was the right diversion for their brainy son. ------- -------Chapter 11 ------- ------- It had been decades since I’d had anything to do with teenagers when Ann Terry talked me into helping at her after-school arts program. -------“We do exercises and improvisation,” she said, “a little art, a little writing. Just act like one of the kids and you’ll be fine.” I thought she was kidding. -------The program was for children with poor social skills, but some talented extroverts showed up too, and the kids were great with each other. It turned out all they wanted to do was improv, so we put on a million skits. I played elves and dwarves, Dracula and Daffy Duck, whatever the plot called for. My favorite role was an enraged vegetable in a thriller concocted by a hyperactive eighth grader. Afterwards the kid told me I was a ‘wonderful pickle’! -------I’d wanted to be an Archäologe when I was young. I was going to say that every little boy does at some point, but these days there are as many women going into it as men. There are more women in everything, and none too soon! I can easily imagine devoting a life to archaeology, one of many lives I wish I’d had. James Deetz says archaeology captures the essence of our past, the ‘small things forgotten’ like coins, clay pipes, and pottery shards, not what we’ve written but what we’ve done. It makes you wonder how much we really have done, when all that’s left of a civilization is broken crockery and shirt buttons. ------- Chapter 12 ------- ------- -------Many doors are open to a kind and gentle man with skin the color of a weathered copper pot, and George took full advantage of his peculiar hue. He loved chasms and cathedrals and the sun-bleached stones of history, but he wrote with equal enthusiasm about local customs, soups, and stews. At a market stall near Istanbul, he’d once enjoyed a pungent bowl of pottage from a cauldron that had simmered five thousand years. -------George’s origins were obscure. He was raised by a mute Wampanoag woman and was thought to be partly Native American himself. He was well read, although largely self-taught, and through fearlessness and determination he’d become a respected news correspondent during the Second World War. He later spent time in Indochina with the French, and reported on both the Korean and Vietnam conflicts. Like Graham Greene, he was drawn to trouble spots and bore the physical and mental scars of his trade. He began his travel writing only after a long career as a newspaperman. -------Although he’d lived out of a suitcase for much of his life, George returned to the Cape as often as he could. Betty Putterman’s death had saddened him. She’d been the kind of difficult but interesting person he most enjoyed. It seemed to him that many of his friends lived near the fringes of society, Cynthia and Mike, Sooty Goodwich, Jane French, and of course Til. Til and he disagreed about almost everything, but he’d always felt a strange kinship with his fellow native. ------- -------George packed an old valise with clothing suitable for tramping in the Ionian hills, a toothbrush, a pen and notebook. He tucked his passport in his money belt and chose a broad-brimmed bush hat from his collection of headgear to give the mice a place of refuge from the Mediterranean sun. -------This pig could fly. George booked coach fare to Amsterdam. The mice went free, as imaginary mice go everywhere, and carried nothing but their summer coats. -------Their tails stood straight as strings, whiskers thrumming with excitement when the big plane trundled down the runway and surged into the air. They smudged the window with their noses as they watched the Cape slide by in the distance. George had to wipe the plastic with his handkerchief. -------George had found the young mice to be ideal traveling companions. They were filled with all the wonder and excitement he’d enjoyed in own children, but they had far more patience and little of their willfulness. Only primates became adults through a long and tedious ordeal of trial and error. Mice were mice from early on. George’s children seemed to him more grown up now than he himself on the increasingly rare occasions their paths crossed. The fragile thread of melody that linked his random thoughts and actions had become fainter with the years and more discordant. He closed his eyes and dozed. -------Later, the Green Pig shared a kosher supper with his companions and was planning on another peaceful nap when Charles whispered in his ear. -------“So I did,” The Pig said a trifle wearily. The mice arranged themselves in a row on his tray table. -------“Who knows what we’re made of, mice?” -------“Atoms,” Charles answered instantly. -------“Correct,” The Pig replied. “Our bodies are made of cells and the cells are made of molecules. Molecules are combinations of different kinds of atom, the biggest ones about a fifty-millionth of an inch across. What’s inside an atom?” -------“Crumbs?” Charles guessed. -------“Good thinking, Charles. The Greek philosopher Democritus invented the word ‘atom,’ meaning ‘a thing that can’t be cut in two.’ But a hundred years ago some Cambridge boffins discovered that atoms do have moving parts.” -------“Puffins, George?” -------“Boffins. It’s what the British called their scientists to keep them from feeling too important. -------“Atoms are actually vast neighborhoods of nothing whatsoever, through which small sparks of energy called electrons whirl at a great distance around a tiny but extremely heavy nucleus of protons, neutrons, and other bits. These are made from even smaller particles like mesons, bosons, and top and bottom quarks that can hop from one place to another without having to go halfway. There seems to be no end of them, and the physicists just name another to make their calculations come out right. And each of these odd ends, it’s theorized, may finally be made of even more ridiculously minute strings of singing energy. So you see, my friends, our sunny marsh fades into mist in all directions, and truth is farther than the moon. But we’ll keep looking.” -------“Why?” -------“Why look for truth? Curiosity, I suppose. We seem to insist on knowing who we are and where we’re from.” -------“And where we’re going,” Alexander said. -------“That’s more difficult,” The Green Pig said. “Today we’re going to the Netherlands to see the man about the mill.” -------“The mill you say!” The elderly gentleman seated next to them had wakened suddenly from a rumbly sleep and glared at George. The mice eyed him with crinkle-snouted doubt. He was a tall old fellow and pronouncedly pear-shaped, with a narrow face that ended in a beard. Spouts of snowy fleece enwreathed his dome like spinnakers. -------“Marcus Millman, M.S., M.A., PhD. If I’m not mistaken, sir, I’ve read your Pig at the Antipodes, a splendid book. But windmills, aha! Windmills I know from top to bottom. Post mills, smock mills, American pinwheels, and dynamically engineered airfoils. Windmills that pump your water, grind your corn, or say your prayers a million times a day. What man is it you’re seeing about what mill, if you don’t mind my asking?” -------“Gracious, Dr. Millman,” said The Pig, “you’re quite the moulenthusiast.” He held out his hand. “George Santos. We’re planning to see a miller named Gus Stout about his mill at Ploudon in the Netherlands. He reports that it’s been acting strangely. What do you think, professor? Can windmills be obstreperous?” -------“Call me Marcus, sir. Windmills always do exactly as they like. We’re most fortunate that they ever deign to serve us in the least.” -------“We are? But we invented them.” The mice had disappeared inside The Green Pig’s coat, but there were stirrings now in George’s pocket. A nose poked from under his lapel. -------“Invented them you say! Polish up your Darwin, Sir. Windmills breezed in on their own two thousand years ago. They conned the Mesopotamians into using them to pump their wells and went on from there. The mills went on. The Mesopotamians are another story.” Marcus eyed George slyly. -------“Tell me, Santos, this mill of Stout’s, what seems to be the particularity which brings you all the way from Hambone?” -------“’Eastham, Marcus, and call me ‘George.’” He handed him Gus’s note. -------“Good heavens,” Marcus blurted, his eyes popping from their sockets as he read it. “Oh my. Oh...capital! Not your splintered wind shafts and broken gears. Not granite in the cornmeal or mayhem on some careless miller, but willful and random mischief. Pointless provocation by a wind machine. I must see this fellow’s mill! Would you be adverse, good sir, to my company on your expedition?” -------“What say you, mice? Shall we invite Marcus to go with us to Ploudon?” -------“Certainly,” said Alexander. The mice had returned to the tray table. -------“Capital!” squeaked Charles and tipped over with mirth. ------- -------Gus Stout greeted the travelers at the door of his tall townhouse. He knew Marcus Millman from his books, he said, although they’d never met. As he drove them through the tulip fields he explained that Ploudon was an operating mill of unusual size. It had been built in 1522 to pump water from the flooded land and was hic et nunc still on the job, although mainly now to entertain the tourists. -------Stout himself was a full-bodied fellow in his early seventies, with a froth of snow-white curls topping his cheerful mug. He was a retired civil engineer, and he clearly took great pleasure in caring for the ancient mill. -------“I take it, Marcus, that you’ve heard of such shenanigans?” Gus asked. -------“Oh yes, indeed,” Marcus Millman replied. “We humans may be half angel and half wild beast, but windmills, sir, are thorough juggernauts. I must say, though, that in my experience they’re hardly ever devious and never playful in the least. They’ll grind your grain or bash your brains. I’d not have said they’d snicker. -------“Hoy! There she turns! And oh, a jolly big one too! Who’s minding the mill, Stout?” -------“My young assistant and barista. Michael, we have guests!” Gus hollered as they bumped to a stop. “Meet George Santos, the famous Traveling Green Pig, his friends the imaginary mice, and Marcus Millman, moulinologist extraordinaire. Go right in, gentlemen.” -------The millhouse held the Plouden Coffeepot Museum and Café. Bearded burghers hugged their steaming cups at tables round the walls, while the mighty pinion shaft spun through the center of the room from the gears above to the water pump below. Gus had striped it like a barber pole. -------The mice set out to explore the mill. “Careful, boys,” Gus warned them. “If you’re caught up in the works, you’re mincemeat.” -------The Green Pig, Marcus Millman, and Gus Stout settled at a trestle in the kitchen garden, and Michael brought them fresh-brewed mocha-java and apple cake. -------“Your health, dear friends.” Gus raised his cup. “May the breeze be ever on your brow. So tell us, Michael, what’s the mischief now?” -------“Squirts me in the eye is what. Got me with a good one when I went to oil the pump. She’s like a mean kid, Gus, making trouble just for fun. You never know what’s coming next.” -------“Charles!” -------George had just spied Charles clinging to a turning sail. On the next upswing of the mighty arm the mouse soared skyward in a graceful arc and landed far off in a fresh-plowed field. Albert and Alexander scampered laughing across the furrows to where Charles stood brushing the dirt from his fur. -------“Just Charles larking it,” The Green Pig assured their host. . -------But when the dusty mouse returned, he told a different tale. “Pushed!” he said. He glowered at his brothers, who huffily denied responsibility. -------“More mischief,” Gus concluded. -------The Green Pig told them about the fire at Eastham. It had quickly been extinguished but its origin remained a mystery. They discussed the many peculiarities of wind and water mills, Dutch beer, the tulip crop, and international finance. The mice continued their exploring, and the mill worked peacefully, content for now to gaze off across the Zuider Zee. -------After a hearty lunch of black bread and pfefferwurst, The Green Pig and the mice thanked Gus and Michael and said farewell to Marcus Millman. ------- -------Somewhere over the Aegean, Alexander whispered in The Green Pig’s ear. “George, why do some people see us and others don’t?” -------The Green Pig smiled. “It’s simply a matter of imagination, Alexander.” -------“I see,” said Alexander, but for once he didn’t. -------“We’ll be landing in a minute, boys. Better hop into my pockets.” ------- Chapter 13 ------- ------- ------- Take my word for it, this is all related. Sweeping dramas are nonsense anyway. Real life is a million sub-plots that stumble into one another, and no one has the slightest idea how they’ll turn out until they do. George says his story telling began more than sixty years ago when his youngest boy wandered down to his basement office before breakfast one morning and wanted to be entertained. The stories were always about mice, but George didn’t put himself into them until later. Now he can’t get out! Who’d have guessed that mice would be so interested in particle physics, but I’ve wondered myself if they won’t just keep on finding smaller and stranger particles until the end of time. Can you imagine that we’d actually get to the bottom of things some day, or what it might mean if we did? -------Everyone loves the Eastham windmill. It sits on the Town Green looking graceful and pulling in the tour buses. It’s the tall turbines that are causing a fuss around here. No one wants them anywhere in sight. Some people feel the same way about power lines, but what’s the alternative, whale oil? The Cape was all newly sprouted woodlands, sand roads, and flivvers when I was a kid. There weren’t many wires to spoil the view, and you could hunt and fish where you liked. But times change and we’d best change with them. You’d think turbines were the spawn of Satan to hear the yawps. We hardly even notice telephone poles and stop lights, not to mention the washed out night skies. I mean to write to the paper about that. ------- ------- Chapter 14 ------- ------- ------- “Sophie!” It was a tiny, high-pitched squeak. ------- Sophie looked up from her book. -------“Hi, Mort. Is it time for lunch already?” -------She was alone in the cottage on a sunny morning. Through the window she could see the salt marsh stretching to the bay. ------- “A little something would be nice,” the mouse said. “What are these?” He sniffed the note cards. ------- “I’m studying Hinduism for Cynthia Cabot, but the Hindus have a million gods and goddesses with lots of arms and legs, and there are temples and ceremonies and sacred books. I can’t even figure out when Hinduism began.” ------- “I can tell you,” Mort said. “It began thousands of years ago when rocks and hills had souls and people apologized to plants and animals before they ate them. Eventually the spirits in stars and mountains and in thunder and lightening and the sea became their most important gods. ------- “When the wild Aryan tribes from Central Asia learned to ride horses they came to northern India and took over from the peaceful Indus valley people. They worshipped Varuna the sky god, Agni the fire god, and Indra the god of war. Their priests, the Brahmins, wrote the Vedas, the Ramayana, and the Mahabharata, which is three times longer than the Bible and tells us that each of us has to do his duty. The Aryans separated themselves into priests, warriors, farmers, and laborers and excluded everyone else from society, including the original Indus valley people, the aboriginal tribesmen, and all foreigners, who had to live out of sight of their sight. It’s how the Hindu castes began. Every caste had its own rituals and duties which haven’t changed that much in thousands of years. -------“There were always people who wanted to break out of this system. In the Upanishads, which were commentaries on the ancient Vedas, wise men wrote about finding God inside themselves so that instead of sacrificing animals and slaves, they could simply be kind and generous to each other. It made life much nicer. ------- “Then some ancient Hindu thinkers discovered brahman. Brahman was even grander than the gods, it was the supreme reality that held the universe together. They believed existence was like a giant wheel, turning with the seasons of the year. People were born and lived their lives the best they could. They died and were born again, better or worse than before, for maybe a million times until they could finally be absorbed forever into brahman.” -------“Is that all really true, Mort?” Sophie asked doubtfully. ------- “Of course it’s true,” Mort said. He was standing on his hind legs and gesturing grandly with his little arms. “Mice never lie.” ------- “Hindus really have to live a million lives?” ------- “But only one at a time. It’s easy. May I sit on your shoulder, Sophie? I’m getting hoarse.” ------- Mort ran up her arm so lightly Sophie hardly felt his feet. He spoke into her ear. -------“Christians, Jews, and Muslims get just a single chance to live a good life. Hindus can have as many as they need.” ------- “Lucky ducks,” Sophie said. “Mort, if I piled up some books, would you sit on them? This is giving me a stiff neck.” ------- “We’re home, Sophie,” her mother called from the kitchen. “Do you want lunch?” ------- “Thanks, Mom. I’ll fix something later.” ------- “How much later?” Mort demanded -------“As soon as they’re finished. Don’t be a pig, Mort. How do you know so much about Hinduism?” ------- “Our family came from India on a tea schooner,” Mort said, sounding miffed. “It was a long trip and all they got to see was the inside of a barrel. I know there are four roles in Hinduism: priest, warrior, trader, and servant. Four stages of life: the student, the householder, the contemplative, and the ascetic. Four goals: obedience, success, pleasure, and release from the circle of birth and death; and three paths to release: knowledge, good works, and devotion to God. Then there are the three...“ ------- “Mort, stop!” ------- “Sorry, Sophie. Hinduism’s like a snowball, it’s gathered so many layers over time that it’s almost lost its shape, but I think for most modern Hindus religion is prayer and meditation every morning at a household shrine, a visit to a temple, and some noisy annual festivals. Every family has its own version of Hinduism to suit its needs and fancies. It’s a very tolerant religion.” ------- “Are you a Hindu, Mort?” -------“No, Sophie, I’m a mouse.” -------“Emily says she’s going to be a Buddhist for real, but I don’t think I could be a Hindu.” ------- “That would be hard to imagine,” Mort agreed, “but thousands of Americans have become Buddhists. Buddhism grew out of Hinduism without the gods. The Buddha was born in 565 B.C., and a thousand years later, just before Islam begin, it was the most widespread religion on earth. It helps you get through life by freeing you from anger and fear and helping you become pure in mind and the master of yourself. That’s what religions do.” -------“Doe they, Mort? My Great Aunt Velma says I’ll go to Hell if I don’t accept Jesus.” ------- “And Great Aunt Velma knows this because...?” ------- “I think it’s in the Bible.” -------“The Bible also says that stubborn children should be stoned to death. I’d be careful around Aunt Velma. I think God just wants us to do our best.” ------- “Oh, Mort, how do you know? You’re a made-up mouse.” ------- Mort eyed her coldly. His imaginary status was a sore point. ------- “Are there many Hindus in Eastham?” Sophie asked, to change the subject. ------- “I’d be surprised if there were any,” Mort said. “Can we have lunch now?” ------- “Sure,” Sophie said. She studied Mort for a moment, his ears askew, tiny paws clasped over his protruding stomach. She wondered how an imaginary animal could always be so hungry. ------- ------- “Your flowers are pretty,” Sophie said. She leaned her ten-speed bike against Cynthia’s fence. Cynthia was working in her garden. Her arms and legs were streaked with dirt and there was a smear across her cheek. Sophie smiled to herself. She liked the way Cynthia threw herself into things. ------- “Sally King helped me plant them, but I’ve forgotten what they all are. We’ll ask Mike. He knows about plants. Do you want to help me pull weeds?” ------- “Sure,” Sophie said. She kneeled next to Cynthia. “Do you grow vegetables, too?” ------- “Just tomatoes and bush beans. I get everything else from Jessie Oldfather’s farm on Smith Road.” ------- “Hindus are vegetarians,” Sophie said. “Buddhists, too.” ------- “I think vegetarianism is a wonderful idea. I’ll try it in my next life.” -------“If you keep eating meat you might come back as a cow in your next life,” Sophie said with a grin. -------“Thank you for sharing that thought. At least being a cow should be peaceful. Did David find out anything more about the inn?” ------- “Just that there was one. Mike says they did a lot of smoking and drinking for Congregationalists. He thought the minister ran the town and you had to spend Sunday in church or they’d put you in jail.” ------- “Maybe that was true when the pilgrims first came. People are hard to control for long. I’m sure they found time to sin.” ------- “You mean sex?” Emily said. ------- “Sex undoubtedly, but sin is anything you do that hurts someone.” ------- “We learned all about sex in school.” Sophie said. ------- “All about sex, Sophie? I seriously doubt it, but just use good sense. I wouldn’t want you girls to get hurt. You’re so...nice.” ------- Sophie squeaked with laughter. ------- “What’s going on?” Mike called from the kitchen. ------- “Finish the dishes,” Cynthia told him. ------- ------- -------Chapter 15 ------- ------- When Mike got to the harbor at a little past 7:30 Aaron had already restocked the galley and filled the bait box. He grunted in answer to Mike’s hello. There was a fading bruise on his right cheek. ------- “What happened to you?” Mike asked. ------- Aaron shook his head, but he couldn’t keep from glancing at the Sea Witch, the elegant forty foot cruiser in the next slip. ------- “Did Will Stuart do that to you?” ------- “How...” Aaron glared at Mike. ------- Mike held up his hands. “You’d have said if it was one of your buddies.” ------- “I don’t want trouble with him.” ------- “Tell me.” ------- Aaron looked at the Sea Witch. Will was busy in the cabin. The big boat went out only three or four times a week with fat-cat sportsmen. His fee was a thousand dollars Mike had heard, but he thought Will must have other sources of income. ------- “It was nothing,” Aaron said. “Carla was helping me wipe down the boat last night. She threw a rag at me, and it went onto the Witch. I didn’t know Will was on board, so I went over to get it, and I was looking at this chart of Boston Harbor on the table when he came up the stairs hollering. What I was doing sneaking on his boat and all that. I started to tell him and he backhanded me. Shit, it hurt. He told me to stay the fuck off his boat or I’d get worse.” ------- “That’s not right,” Mike said. He started up the steps. ------- “No, Mike, don’t,” Aaron said. But Mike was already on the dock. ------- “Yo, Stuart,” he called. ------- Will Stuart came out of the cabin and looked up at him. He was a big man, good looking. ------- “Fuck you want, Nickerson?” ------- “You hit my boat boy. That’s assault.” ------- “So arrest me, officer. The kid was trespassing, maybe stealing. Nobody comes on my boat without permission.” ------- “They were just fooling around, Will. Carla threw a wash rag on your boat by accident. Aaron would have asked permission if he’d known you were on board. You didn’t need to hit him.” ------- “Kiss it and make it better, kiddy fucker.” ------- Mike was stunned. ------- “Come here, Will.” ------- Will grinned. “The old man thinks he’s still got it?” -------He set the clip board on the deck and came up the ladder. Mike stepped back from the edge of the dock and waited. Will came at him fast, meaning to put a shoulder into him, but Mike slipped aside and dug a fist into the big man’s stomach. Will doubled over and fell on the paved parking lot gasping for breath. -------Mike knelt beside him and held the middle finger of Will’s right hand. He bent it almost to breaking. -------“Nod if I’ve got your attention,” he said -------Will nodded. -------Mike leaned close to Will’s ear. “You’re not going to touch Aaron again are you? Or bother any of my friends or do anything to my boat?” -------Will shook his head. -------“Good. You’ll be okay in a minute. What were you thinking, buddy? Aaron was doing what I said. He wasn’t looking for your stash.” Mike was smiling, but Will looked shocked. Mike stood and pulled the man to his feet. -------“Shake and show everybody we’re friends, and you have a nice day, Captain.” ------- Mike climbed back down to the deck of the Chub. ------- “He’ll really hate you now,” Aaron said. ------- “No more than he already did. I don’t think he’ll bother you anymore.” ------- “You sure?” ------- “You can’t be sure about anybody, but you know what they say about bullies. Just stay away from him and watch your back. I think he may have drugs on the Witch. It isn’t chicken to stay away from dangerous people. I probably should have let it go, but I didn’t like what he said. Sorry, Aaron.” ------- “Hey, man, that’s okay. I mean...thanks.” He grinned. “Will looked like he was shaking hands with the devil.” ------- Mike’s cell phone rang. He listened briefly. ------- “Yeah, okay. You know there’s no refund? Got to make a living. All right.” ------- He punched off the phone and stuck it in its holder. -------“Bastard cancelled. Sounded like he was angry at me! Change the sign, Aaron. He seemed like a nice guy.” Chapter 16 ------- ------- -------“Mike, what’s wrong?” -------He walked past her and stared out the picture window at the woods for a moment. -------“Someone’s screwing with my life,” he said. -------“What do you mean?” -------He turned towards her. “They know about Philadelphia at the harbor, about the kid. Both of today’s charters cancelled, and nobody talks to me.” -------“You don’t think I told them?” -------“No, of course not. I guess I just came to you to bleat.” -------“You sure that’s what it’s about? -------“What else? I just never thought... I’m a fucking pariah, Cyn.” -------“And no place to run,” Cynthia said. -------He was startled for an instant, but then he laughed. “Yeah, that’s about it.” -------“It’s time I called in some favors, Mike,” She started to put on her boots -------“Hey,” he said, “I didn’t mean.... It’s not your problem, Cyn.” -------“Sure it is. You’re my guy. Stay here for now, okay? It’ll be easier for people to back off if they haven’t faced you on this.” -------She kissed him and left him standing in her living room. He listened to the motorcycle head off towards town. Of course he’d wanted her help, but he hadn’t expected.... Her guy, huh? -------The room was sunny with big windows that looked out on the woods. A large watercolor by Sally King hung over the sofa. Her paintings were worth money now. He was surprised by all the bookcases. History and politics, some novels, but mostly science, a bound set of the Journal of the American Mathematical Society. He pulled a book from the shelf. ------- ------- “The calculating Ms. Cabot! Good to see you, girl.” -------“You too, big man. What are you hearing these day?” -------“You mean about Nickerson?” -------“You know it’s crap, Til.” -------“I’m way ahead of you. Set some folks straight already. How’s Mike taking it?” -------“Angry. He hates to show his feelings. But he’ll be okay. He’s tough.” -------“So, what’s he going to do about it”? -------“What’s he supposed to do, Til? Mike’s not a quitter, but it’s a stupid rumor. Anything he does just feeds it. I talked to Chief Logan and Cap Arnold. They’ll help, but I don’t know who else to go to.” ------- “How about Jasmine Loo? See if she’ll write a piece on our lad. Cop, teacher, fisherman, local boy sees the world and comes home to his roots.” -------“You serious?” -------“Absolutely. It’s the best defense. If you’re sure about Mike?” He raised his eyebrows. -------“Of course I’m sure.” -------“Then you and Jazz get the poop and rub their noses in it.” -------“Yes sir, Colonel.” ------- Til laughed. He’d been born and raised in Eastham but had dropped out of high school to join the Army in ’36. He reappeared on the Cape in the late eighties, battle worn and burly, and bought a small house near the Town Green. He clerked at the Market for a while, but he seemed to have plenty of money and gave a lot to local charities. Charlie Townsend began asking him to sit in at the windmill, and Til took over when Charlie had to give it up. He could talk to anyone, about art or politics, science, anything really, and he could listen. The kids and older women loved him. Off-duty cops and firemen walked over from the Town Hall to bring him coffee. -------It came out eventually that Til had been a lieutenant colonel in the Army Engineers and later was a mercenary who’d fought all over the world. His stories were always carefully tailored to his audience. ------- -------Mike had plowed through a hundred and fifty pages of a history of mathematics by the time Cynthia got back. -------“Charlie Arnold talked with the captains, and Logan will do what he can. He agrees you ought to lay low for now. Til’s on our side and I have some other ideas.” -------“I don’t know what to say. I owe you, Cyn.” -------“Forget it. You eat?” -------“Not yet, but I’m hungry. -------It was dark by the time they got back to Cynthia’s. Mike was feeling more hopeful after a platter of steamed clams. He flipped through the TV channels. -------“I’m going to the house for a book.” -------“I can get it,” Cynthia said. “I have to run to the Market. I’m almost out of coffee.” -------“Sure,” Mike said, “thanks. It’s The Reformation, on the table by my chair.” -------She gave him a thumbs-up and put on her helmet. ------- -------Coming back across the bridge over Boat Meadow Creek, Cynthia saw a light in woods near Mike’s house and coasted to a stop under the trees. She parked the bike and started up the drive on foot, carrying a flashlight and the heavy bike chain. She stopped halfway and listened, then flicked off the light and began to walk more quietly. She stopped again at the edge of the clearing. A twig snapped somewhere ahead of her. She heard the faint sound of metal on metal. A flashlight briefly lighted the house and silhouetted a man. A moment later she smelled gasoline. She held the chain in her right hand and came up behind him as he splashed gas on the wall. -------He hadn’t heard her. He whirled around when she clicked on the light. She knew him, Buddy Holland, big but dumb as a stump. He pulled a short length of pipe from his belt. -------“Drop it, Buddy, and I won’t shoot your pecker off.” -------“Cynnie? You ain’t got a gun.” -------He came at her, but he was slow and she caught him on the side of the head with the chain. He went down without a sound. She shined the light on him. Blood was welling from his broken face. She went in inside Mike’s house and called 911. ------- ------- “Hi, I’m at the police station. Hope you weren’t worried. What? No, I’m fine. Just a little trouble at your house. I found Buddy Holland trying to burn it down, but it’s okay. I’ll tell you about it when I get home. Half an hour, Logan says. Make us some coffee, okay?” ------- Mike was waiting for her at the door. ------- “You all right?” ------- “Yeah I’m fine, but I broke Buddy’s jaw. He’s being charged with assault and attempted arson. He won’t say, but it had to be his dad’s idea.” -------“Jesus, Cyn, you could have been killed.” ------- “Buddy’s too slow to hurt anyone with half a brain. Logan wants to talk with us tomorrow, maybe defuse things. It won’t help you any to make a big deal of this.” ------- “Sure, that’s fine. A big deal’s the last thing I need, but my God, what happened?” ------- “I saw a light at your place when I was coming back from the Market. So I went to see what was happening. Don’t say it, Mike. I should have called the cops and waited, but at least this way you still have a house. Something wrong?” ------- “Wrong?” Mike laughed. “No, nothing wrong. And I like my house a lot. I really appreciate your saving it.” ------- -------Chapter 17 ------- ------- “Yo, Mike.” ------- “Hey Denny.” -------Mike knew the cop at the desk. The chief had put on a picnic for retired police and firemen earlier in the year. Some of them still filled in part time during the summer, but mostly they were older guys who’d moved to town for the fishing before the big jump in real estate prices. Mike told a few war stories, and the local cops nodded at him now when they passed on the street. Apparently he was still welcome. He walked into the conference room and froze. ------- “Have a seat, Mike,” Logan said. ------- There were four of them at the table, Cynthia, Chief Logan, Jasmin Loo, and a tall young woman. ------- “Ashley?” ------- “‘Lee’. I changed it when I got to Harvard.” ------- “Harvard, whoa! Good for you. Hey, it’s great to see you, but what’s going on?” ------- “I picked her up at the airport,” Cynthia said. “We’re on your case, my friend.” ------- “I don’t know what to say.” ------- “You’ll think of something, Mike,” Jasmine said. “You and I have an article to write.” ------- “I called my mom,” Lee said. “She talked to Chief Logan and Ms. Loo. She feels bad now, but it was too late by the time she realized she was wrong. She’s talked with the headmaster, too. Bordon said he’d get in touch with you. He was going to ask you to come back. I wanted to call you, but I was afraid that might just make more trouble.” ------- “I guess Bordon forgot.” -------“The bastard, but I’m not surprised. God, Mike, I really messed you up. I’m so sorry.” -------Mike shook his head. “Not your fault. I’m just glad it worked out okay for you.” -------“I talked to Dr. Bordon, too,” Jasmine said. “I wouldn’t count on the guy, but he gave me some quotes that will sound good in print. I was figuring an upbeat article about the cop turned teacher. And a picture, Mike, definitely. Maybe on your boat.” She grinned. ------- “You sure this is the right thing to do, Jazz?” ------- “The power of the press. Just a half-page bio, I’ve done lots of them. I was already thinking about you. I have to know today.” -------“Sure, Jazz, and thanks. I really appreciate it. You too, Lee. So you got into Harvard? That’s terrific. I want to hear about it. Thanks, all of you. Especially you,” he said to Cynthia. “I’m counting my blessings here. You wanted to talk about the fire, Chief?” ------- “In my office when you’re done.” He stood and held out his hand. “It’s good to have friends, Lieutenant.” ------- ------- “I wish we could have talked more,” Mike said. “Isn’t she something.” They’d taken Lee to lunch in Provincetown and dropped her at the airport. ------- Cynthia laughed. “God, you are an innocent. Yes, she’s a sweet kid, and she’ll always be too young for you. I wanted her out of here before too many people got a look at her” ------- “I figured.” ------- “Of course you did.” She rapped him on the side of the head with her knuckles. ------- “I really never thought about her that way, Cyn. I can see what you saying, but she was more like a daughter. Which was maybe not such a great idea, either.” ------- “Nah, they’re all my kids, and some of them don’t have much family of their own. I even have a few here in Lalaland that are hanging by a thread. But Lee’s not a kid anymore, Mike, and she’s a knockout. I think she still has an eye on you, old man, but she can’t have you.” ------- “Babe.” ------- “Yeah?” ------- “You saved my life.” ------- “Did I? Good. So, seeing as how we’re in P’town, about we check out Tim’s Books?” ------- “Sure,” Mike said. She had her eyes on the road, but he could see her smile. ------- ------- ------- ------- ------- Chapter 18 ------- -------The ferry to Fetos was a tipsy tub that rolled sluggishly in the Aegean swell. The mice splashed one another in the sloshing scuppers until The Green Pig suggested to them that a cry of “mouse overboard!” might not be taken seriously by the crew. They climbed onto his broad hat brim then and watched the sea as the little ship passed among a dozen sparkling islands whose rocky hills were ringed with olive groves. When the mice became hungry George prepared a tasty lunch of goat cheese on crusty bread. He would have liked a glass of the resinous local wine, but instead he shared a bottle of grape juice with the mice. The isle of Fetos emerged at last from the glare of late afternoon. -------“Look, George.” Alexander pointed to the rocky slopes. -------“Windmills!” squeaked Charles. -------The ferry docked between two brightly painted fishing smacks. George hoisted the rucksack onto his back, adjusted his topee, and went ashore. Cousin Elizabeth was waiting for them when their wheezing taxi topped a rise and sputtered to a stop in front of Nickapapoulos’s Cafe. She hugged George and kissed Albert, Charles, and Alexander on their silken ears. Nick clapped The Green Pig’s sturdy shoulder and extended a wary finger to the mice. -------“You honor our island, Georgios, and you, too, mices. Coffee, gentlemens? It’s on the cuff.” -------“On the house, Nick,” Elizabeth said. “That would be grand. -------“Welcome to the island, dears. It’s not soft and sandy like the Cape, and you must be careful of the cliffs, but the light’s the same, and the breeze is sweet with lavender and thyme. With the olive groves, the vineyards, and the sea, we have everything we need. And under every stony acre, George, lie the bones of history!” -------“Bones,” Charles droned. ------- -------Elizabeth had rented a whitewashed cottage that overlooked the sea. It was so small she had to settle George in a storage shed where his dreams would be spiced by garlands of garlic bulbs and drying octopi. -------The dig was going well, she said, but even with her youthful helpers from the village it was a lot of work to number every artifact and plot it on a grid. She sent detailed reports each week to the Aegean Archeological Commission. -------“I love the digging,” Elizabeth explained, “and the thrill of each discovery. I wanted to share it with you, George. There’s another reason I asked you to come, but that can wait.” -------“Whatever you say, Elizabeth. You’re the archaeologist.” -------“And we’re the students,” Alexander said. -------“We’re all students here,” Elizabeth said. “We’ve barely scratched the surface of life’s mysteries.” -------“Mystereeee,” sang Charles. ------- -------“What’s a Darwin, George?” They were sitting on the terrace later that evening beneath the brightness of the stars. They had eaten well and drunk good wine. George was thoroughly relaxed and only half awake. -------“A Darwin?” Elizabeth inquired. -------“It’s a conversation we’ve been having,” The Pig explained. “We’re discussing the far and fuzzy edges of scientific knowledge. Life’s mysteries as you say.” -------“Charles Darwin, Albert, was a British naturalist. He’d studied medicine and theology, but he was most interested in natural history. Some people say he had the best idea ever, and it wasn’t cheddar cheese on apple pie. In the 1830’s Darwin was the naturalist on Her Majesty’s ship Beagle. He found that the finches on every rocky Galapagos island off the coast of Ecuador had beaks exactly right to eat the local bugs and seeds. Could birds change their beaks to fit their food? It made him think. -------“Back then, nearly everyone believed that all earthly creatures were created at the same time by one waving of a mighty wand, but, ‘Not so fast,’ said Darwin. He theorized that life began with one-celled animals in ancient seas. Creatures changed and formed new species, each one sprouting from the past until humans sprang from proto-apes! And, gentlemen, said he, put that in your pipe and smoke it!” -------“No, he didn’t, George!” Cousin Elizabeth laughed. -------“But people weren’t very happy with what he did say. ‘Apes!’ they squawked.” -------“Were we apes, George?” -------“No, Alexander, mice are a somewhat different story. And men and apes just shared a common uncle seven million of years ago, but even that was quite a tale for folks to swallow. -------“Gaaaak!” Charles said, trying to swallow his tail. ------- -------“...this child of morning, rosy-fingered dawn appears.” -------“Quoting Homer before breakfast? You’re some fellow, George He stopped here on his travels, you know.” -------“Homer?” -------“Odysseus. They say Fetos was where his sailors drank fermented honey and turned to swine. Some island families make a convincing claim to be descendents. Eat up, lads. You’re going to need your strength today.” -------Cousin Elizabeth served the mice a plate of olives and sardines. The Green Pig had toast and wild honey. When her young helpers, Hap and Ellie, arrived from the village they all set off down the winding track with bags and shovels. -------“Would you mice explore some mysterious holes for me?” Elizabeth asked. -------“Yes, yes!” squeaked the mice. -------“We love exploring,” Alexander said excitedly. -------“Mice are a plus in almost any situation,” The Green Pig agreed. ------- -------They couldn’t see the excavation at first. The meadow was blanketed with wildflowers, and the dirt and rubble had been piled at the edge of the olive grove. -------“Neatness counts in archaeology,” Elizabeth explained. -------Near the center of the field the outline of a circular wall had begun to emerge from the bottom of a trench. -------“What do you think it was, George?” -------“A storage bin? A tomb?” -------“Not bad guesses. Try again.” -------“I don’t suppose....a windmill?” -------“It’s the right size and on a windy hill, but it would be a remarkable find. It’s thought that windmills were invented in Persia around 800 C.E., although there may have been earlier ones in China. Wooden beams from our dig carbon-date to over 1,000 B.C.E. It would have been old when Odysseus came ashore! The technology must have been lost, however, because the existing windmills on Fetos date from after 1000 C.E.” -------“What’s a carbon date?” -------“It’s a long story, Alexander, and a bit complicated. The short and simple version is that at any particularly time in history all living things contain the same small amount of radioactive carbon 14. When they die, their bones lose half their radioactivity every 5700 years. I’m not a nuclear physicist, so don’t ask me why! If we count what’s left, we can judge the age of a piece of wood or bone. But first we have to find it! You help Hap and Ellie dig, George. I’ll get the mice started on the mystery holes. -------“Ready, boys? Alexander, let me tie this fishing line around your waist.” -------“Mice don’t get lost,” Alexander protested. -------“I know, dear. Please do it just for me. You never know what you’ll meet down there. These are exceedingly old stones.” -------“Oh,” said Alexander. -------“But nothing a resourceful mouse can’t handle,” Elizabeth added airily. -------Albert, Charles, and Alexander disappeared down a dark crevice in the foundation. The Green Pig began to heft the heavy stones and pile them by the trees. Elizabeth recorded each one in her notebook and sifted the buckets of dirt that Hap and Ellie brought her. Occasionally, she showed George an artifact, and once he proudly presented her with a sliver of glazed pottery. -------“Sharp eyes, George. It’s a piece of the coffee mug I broke last week.” -------“Cousin Elizabeth!” Albert was covered with dirt and waving his arms. -------“What is it, child?” -------“Alexander fell into a big pot, and it’s too slippery for him to climb out. You have to pull him up!” -------Hap, Ellie, and The Green Pig watched as Cousin Elizabeth retrieved several meters of fishing line. -------“Aaaaargh!” Alexander oozed from the hole like a lumpy worm. -------“You smell awful!” Ellie said. -------“What did I fall into?” Alexander asked. -------“It sounds like an amphora,” Elizabeth surmised, “a large jar for holding oil or wine. You must have found the miller’s kitchen.” ------- -------Hap and Ellie stayed for supper. Elizabeth ladled out big bowls of savory mutton stew. -------“A good day’s dig,” she said. “We’ll get the scaffolding tomorrow and begin reassembling the windmill.” -------“How do you know so much about archaeology, Elizabeth?” The Green Pig asked. “You were a school teacher and a city girl.” -------“Books, dear boy. College courses, volunteering on digs, and using the old bean.” -------“Beeeean,” Charles chirped. -------“How did we get brains, George?” -------“The same way you got whiskers, Alexander. They just grew and came in handy.” -------“That’s silly,” Albert bristled. -------“It sounds silly,” The Pig agreed, “but that’s how evolution works. It’s like falling uphill. The chemicals in ancient seas mixed for a billion years before, purely by chance, some of them formed complex molecules. Over time, a few molecules stumbled onto the knack of making copies of themselves. They picked up other tricks like staying out of trouble and finding food which helped them prosper, until one day their qualified as living organisms.” -------“Why?” Albert asked. -------“No reason, Albert. That’s the point. It’s important to remember that this all happens backwards. It’s was certainly nothing any organism set out to do. It’s ‘natural selection,’ to give it Darwin’s name. Billions of biological accidents happen all the time, and when they help an individual organism survive, that organism has descendants and its small advantage gets passed on to them through the genetic code that lives in every cell. -------“Our brains are more complex than whiskers, of course, and conscious minds are still mysterious even to neuroscientists. Are minds something more than brains-at-work? It’s far from clear. The poets say our thoughts can wander through our bones and muscles and even out to where our skin connects us with the universe.” -------“George, your stew is getting cold.” ------- -------After supper, Albert slipped away and settled on a stone that overlooked the sea. He spoke softly to himself and wrote with his finger on the azure sky. ------- Minds run down ------- through blood and bone ------- and mingle at our finger tips, ------- a tasty stew ------- of me and you, ------- a fleet of star flung ------- sailing ships. ------- ------- -------“Mice make poetry?” Ellie had come up quietly behind him as the last licks of evening slipped beneath the sea. -------“Whales sing songs,” Albert reminded her. “Mice are underrated because we’re small.” -------“The proof is in the pudding, no?” -------“The proof of the pudding is in the eating, yes. If you mean you like my poem, thank you very much, and PLEASE DON’T TOUCH MY TAIL! -------“Sorry, Ellie, but mice don’t wish to be fiddled with. I know we’re over-sensitive, but you try living as a furry peanut in a world of thundering hippodromes!” -------“Hippodromes, Albert?” -------“Big and dangerous.” ------- ------- -------Chapter 19 ------- -------“The whaling captain’s trophy home. It must have been the classiest place in town when it was built. Why’d she let it fall apart?” -------“I don’t think she ever had the money,” Cynthia said. “It’s been a dump as long as I remember. She really should have sold it and bought something she could manage, but I doubt that ever occurred to her. The building inspector says I have to get the roof fixed soon or it won’t be salvageable.” -------The cedar shingles were moss-covered and shrunken with age. Much of the paint had peeled from the trim, and a number of windows were boarded up. The lawn was overgrown in catbrier and stunted black locust. -------“What happens to it now?” -------“Betty’s will left everything but the chapel to her oldest child.” -------“That’s Til.” -------“Believe it or not she claims she had a kid when she was only fourteen, two years before she had Til, a boy that her mother made her give up for adoption. He’d be in his mid-eighties if he’s still alive, and if he ever existed. Otherwise, the estate goes to the National Seashore. Betty was a pacifist. She was furious with Til for joining the Army, not that she’d ever had much to do with his upbringing. He’s contesting the will and Bob Gracie thinks he’ll win. Nobody has ever heard of this other son although supposedly Betty spent money on private detectives looking for him. Personally I don’t see why Til shouldn’t get it and the sooner the better. I’ll show you what I mean.” -------She unlocked the front door. The big front parlor was jammed with old furniture, much of it early American and European antiques. Dozens of crates and boxes were piled to the ceiling in places, and every surface was covered with a thick layer of dust. -------“The boxes are silver and fine china and the Captain’s South Seas treasures. Every room in the house is like this, Mike. There’s more in the attic and the basement, and I haven’t even looked in the barn.” -------“It goes with the house?” -------“All of it, and I hope Til can take over before something happens.” -------“The place was like this when you were a kid?” -------“Pretty much. Betty used to joke about turning it into a museum. She gave a lot of furniture to the Historical Society for the Hatch and Bracket houses and it didn’t make a dent. There’s an inventory of the most valuable pieces, but God knows how you’d find anything. We have to go around to the side door. The hall’s blocked. Betty lived in the kitchen and the old dining room.” ------- The kitchen was modern, with a commercial sink and stove and a huge refrigerator-freezer. Dozens of pots and pans hung from an overhead rack. Everything was spotless under a light coating of dust. -------“It’s like a restaurant kitchen.” -------“Betty ran a catering business up until the week she died. That’s how I got to know her. She advertised for helpers when I was a kid, and I was the only one who showed up. She ran my ass off and I took it as long as I could before I told her what she could do with the job. I had a pretty foul mouth in those days.” She smiled. “No, it was worse. Anyway, I thought she was going to come at me with a butcher knife, but she just laughed and said, ‘God love you, child, you’re as mean as I am.’ We sat down and had a cup of tea. She said she wanted to see what I was made of.” -------Cynthia walked around the kitchen opening drawers and cupboards. “It was good pay and good food. I was always hungry, because our foster parents could never make ends meet. It’s a wonder I’m not a blimp. Betty gave me a lot more than food, and I thanked her by running away. When I came back a few years later all she said was that I was looking good and did I want to eat. She slept in there.” -------The former dinning room held a cot, a worn leather sofa, an old black and white TV, several tall chests, and a dresser. One wall was lined with battered filing cabinets, and the others were completely covered with crucifixes, icons, Pacific island masks and effigies, and garish pictures of many-headed Hindu gods. A large crystal chandelier still hung in the center of the room. -------“Interesting,” Mike said. “Forgive my asking, but was she a nut?” -------“Yeah, sort of, and sometimes a little mean, but mostly she was funny and kind. She was just fascinated by religion.” -------“I guess so. Have you looked through all this stuff?” -------“Not yet.” -------“Somebody did.” -------“What do you mean?” -------“The place has been tossed. They wre careful, but it’s hard to hide with a room this dusty.” He checked the windows and pointed to a broken lock. -------“Do you think they found what they were looking for?” -------“Maybe not. They seem to have looked everywhere, except in the filing cabinets. Either they ran out of time or it was something they wouldn’t expect to find there.” -------The cabinets were filled with Putterman family documents and photographs, off-prints of journal articles, and Betty’s business records. One whole cabinet was devoted to the chapel. Cynthia flipped through the folders. -------“Meeting minutes, check stubs, bills, receipts, back into the thirties. Anything valuable is probably long gone, but I’ll have to go through it. I really appreciate your help, Mike. I guess I can take it from here.” -------“If you want to, but I’m with David. I say let’s find the treasure.” -------“Hey, if you’re willing, go for it.” -------Mike took a drawer to the couch and began looking through it. “The Unitarians sure put on a lot of chowder suppers.” -------“Friday nights all summer for local charities. Good chowder, plenty of clams. Betty used to do a Labor Day chowder bash for the town employees. The freezer’s still full of chowder base.” -------“Nineteen forty six,” Mike said, half an hour later. “Two paintings, ‘Chapel from the Pond’ and ‘Chapel in Winter’. A receipt for eight hundred dollars from ‘E. Hopper’” -------“Edward Hopper!” Cynthia sat down next to him on the sofa and looked at the receipt. “Jesus, Mike, wouldn’t that be something! I know he did one painting of the chapel. It’s at the Whitney.” -------“So where are these?” Mike said. -------“God knows. What would they be worth?” -------“Millions? You think that’s what they were looking for?” -------“How would anyone know about them?” -------“Somebody knew back then. It doesn’t look like they took anything else. That set of chefs’ knives in the kitchen must be worth a couple thousand. But you’re right, it would be almost impossible to find anything in this place except by luck. They probably just gave up.” -------“The receipt makes it look like the paintings were bought for the chapel. If they turned up at the house Til could claim they’re part of the estate. The lawyers would have a ball. What if we don’t find them, Mike? They’ll think I stole them.” -------“Why would they think that?” -------“Two million dollar paintings just took a walk?” -------“Don’t tell them. We don’t know the paintings even exist.” -------Cynthia was shaking her head. “I have to report it. I’m the executor. Christ, I don’t know what to do, Mike. I have a juvenile record in New York State for petty theft and soliciting. I had to work my way through undergrad at C.C.N.Y, and hooking was the only way I could make money and have time for school. I was picked up a few times. I don’t put it on my resume, but a couple missing Hoppers would make the headlines. It might come out. Like I said, I’m not the girl next door.” -------“Then file the receipt away for now. Let’s find the paintings first.” He grinned. “And don’t look so serious. You’re shaking your head. You mean the hooking? Forget it. The city’s a tough place. Listen, what I said about looking the other way? I meant for years. It was a corrupt precinct. I kept my hands in my pockets, but I also kept my mouth shut and one day a lot of money just showed up in my bank account. They wanted more from me after that, but I told them I’d go down first. I got regular payments and claimed it as moonlighting and gambling. It’s added up. It was that or quit and I refused to quit. I’m regularly audited by the IRS, but there’s really nothing to find. I had to watch my back the rest of the time I was in the cops. I’d have done that anyway.” -------Cynthia grinned. “I learned pretty quick how to get along with the cops.” She kissed him on the cheek and went back to checking folders. -------“Betty was a dynamo, huh? Recipes, notes, writings. There’s a lot here about religion. A big folder on witchcraft and Satanism. God, I’d hate to think she was into that.” ------- “People are,” Mike said. “Anything to gain an edge. We had a few ritual murders in Philly. Sick stuff. How about we continue this tonight? I have a charter this afternoon.” ------- “Sure. Did the chief say anything about the candlestick?” ------- “Just that it is human blood and we’re to let him know when the rest of the body turns up. You and Logan go back a ways.” ------- “He was a class ahead of me in high school. One of the few guys who treated me okay. But we were never... Jesus, what was that!” ------- They’d heard a heavy thump from the floor above. Mike reached for the weapon he hadn’t carried in four years. ------- “Back stairs.” Cynthia pointed at a small door. ------- Mike considered the Samurai sword but chose a heavy walking stick. Cynthia came from the kitchen with a boning knife. ------- “Careful with that.” ------- “I can use a knife,” she said. ------- The stairs were narrow and littered with trash. The second floor hallway ran the width of the house and was lined with old furniture. Mike walked as quietly as he could. He listened a moment at a door and pushed it open. A big raccoon raised its head and hissed. Mike backed out laughing. ------- “Should we call the police?” Cynthia asked. ------- “They’d just tell you to get an exterminator.” ------- “I wouldn’t want it killed.” ------- “They wouldn’t kill them. They’d tranquilize the mom and bag the kits and take them to the woods. I guess you could charge it to the estate.” ------- “Kits?” ------- “Three of them, pretty well grown, I’d say. I think they’ll be gone soon.” ------- “Then leave them,” Cynthia said. “Maybe they scared away the burglars.” ------- ------- ------- Chapter 20 ------- ------- ------- I knew Betty Putterman quite well. I’m sorry she’s passed on. To be honest she’d become something of a grouch in the past few years, but I made allowances. There’s only a handful left of our generation. Betty started her catering business around the time I opened my gallery. I used her for art shows and openings, and she never let me down although was touch and go a few times. ------- I taught her about marketing, as much as you could teach Betty anything, and we talked about art. She’d been to all the great collections in her globe-trotting days and had strong opinions about everything. She was obsessed with religious art in particular. She’d visited churches and cathedrals all over the world and mosques and synagogues, ashrams and Hindu temples. She talked to priests and holy men and climbed Mount Fuji with a group of Buddhist monks. She wanted an explanation, and she was furious when she didn’t get it. ------- That was her beef with me as well. She firmly believed there had to be a reason for all the ugliness in the world. I told her it was just us, our own greed and fear, and it would be here as long as we were. ------- But you’re a Jew, Nathan! she said. You believe in God, for Christ’s sake. How could he do this to us! I explained to her that as a Jew I thanked the Holy One every day for the gift my life and that I didn’t require that He to explained it. ------- ------- ------- ------- -------Chapter 21 ------- ------- Mahmood’s house was in the old part of town, a full-Cape, late eighteenth century but newly shingled, with freshly painted trim and skylights in the roof. There was a neat kitchen garden in the front surrounded by a picket fence. David had seen the owner working in his yard on weekends, a slight man with a beard. He leaned his bicycle against a tree and walked up the brick path to the door. ------- He was ready to leave after a minute when no one answered his knock, but the door opened as he was turning away. ------- “Yes?” The man looked at him suspiciously. ------- “Mr. Mahmood? I’m David Cohen. We’re staying in a cottage at the harbor. I wondered if I could talk with you about Islam.” ------- Mahmood’s expression softened. ------- “Of course,” he said. “Why don’t we sit outside?” He pointed to the redwood deck. “Would you like a soda? We have coke, orange, grape, root beer...” ------- “Root beer would be great,” David said. “Thanks.” ------- David sat at a picnic table on the deck, while Mahmood went back into the house. He came out through the kitchen door a moment later and handed David a cold can of root beer. He sat across the table from him.” ------- “What can I do for you, David?” ------- “I’m supposed to learn about Islam, Mr. Mahmood. I thought that if you were a Muslim, maybe I could ask you some things.” ------- “I’m gay, David,” Mahmood said. “I’m also a practicing Muslim, although many Muslims would find that a contradiction. I know a fair amount about Islam and I’ll try to help you if I can. Call me Saresh. It’s the name of my salon. You said you’re supposed to learn about Islam? What do you mean?” ------- “We’re helping Cynthia Cabot give the Chapel in the Pines to some religious group. We have to study them all.” ------- “I see,” Saresh said. “I don’t think there are enough Muslims on the lower Cape to need a building, but please, ask your questions.” ------- “Not questions really. I just need to learn what Muslims believe and what they do. I’ve done some reading.” ------- “Then you know we believe in the same God as Christians and Jews. But practicing Islam is more about how we live. The Five Pillars of Islam are to worship one God, pray five times a day, fast during the month of Ramadan, give to the poor, and if you can afford it make a pilgrimage to Mecca at least once in your life. It’s pretty simple. You’re Jewish aren’t you, David?” ------- “Yes, sir.” ------- “People of the book. We value the Hebrew Torah, and I know that religion is more about practice than belief for you, too. A lot of Islam comes from Judaism, one God acting in history, obedience to God’s law, and working for social justice. Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob are our patriarchs, and we believe Jesus was a wise and good man. But Mohammed is the final prophet, a human being like the Hebrew prophets and Jesus. He was an Arab trader who became angry at his fellow tribesmen because they were neglecting their duty to the poor and to widows and children. -------“An angel came to him while he was meditating in a desert cave and told him to speak God’s word. Those words were the Koran, which is a very beautiful book in Arabic. It tells us to surrender our wills to God. That’s what ‘Islam’ means. We pray and help the poor and the weak. That’s the heart of it, do unto others.” ------- “Mohammed wrote the Koran?” ------- “No, he didn’t write it. Mohammed was illiterate. Allah spoke to him through the angel, and he memorized the words. His followers wrote them down much later. Most Muslims believe the Koran contains the actual words of God, but some of us think Allah spoke through the minds of many men, not just Mohammed, and the words are their own, the way God inspired the Jewish Torah and the Christian Bible.” -------“So if we’re so much alike why do Jews and Arabs hate each other?” ------- Saresh looked surprised. “Do you and I hate each other? It’s true that over a thousand years ago Muslims controlled much of the known world, and some extremist Muslims believe we should rule it again, but I don’t think that. I think everyone should be allowed to choose his own beliefs and way of life, and millions of Muslims agree with me. In fact, Muslims and Christians have always fought more among themselves than against one another. Sunnis and Shiites have killed each other for fifteen hundred years over whether Mohammed’s second in command Abu Bakr or his nephew Ali succeeded him as the leader of Islam. I’m Sunni, but what difference could that make to God?” ------- There was clatter from the kitchen. -------“That’s my partner banging pots. Phil and I have been together for fifteen years. The Koran condemns homosexuality, as does the Hebrew Torah, but they just didn’t understand it back then. It was only in the nineteen sixties that psychologists agreed that being gay is normal for five to ten percent of any population. Even the Koran says Allah makes excellent everything that He creates. So why not Phil and me? -------“I don’t need the imams and ayatollahs to tell me what to think. I follow the ancient Muslim tradition of independent reasoning. I think all Muslims should have the courage to denounce terrorism and the oppression of women. Muhammad said the truth of religion is revealed in the way we treat others. -------“But the Koran didn’t include enough practical law, so Muslim scholars developed shariya. Then in the twelfth century a group of conservative leaders decided the law was complete and there could be no more changes. Unfortunately, the traditionalists are still in charge in many Muslim countries.” ------- A man appeared in the doorway holding a cup of coffee. He looked half asleep. ------- “Phil, this is David Cohen. We’re talking about religion.” ------- “What a surprise,” Phil said. He sat at the table. ------- “I was telling David that modern Islamist extremists ignore what the Koran actually says, that we should be tolerant and that you can’t make people believe things against their will. Your faith for you, mine for me. Jihad means the struggle of the soul to understand and to obey God, not religious war.” -------“Right,” Phil said. “Do unto others. Moses, Jesus, Mohammed, and the Buddha were all fine fellows. It was their followers who made them into saints and angry old men. The terrorists are brainwashed nits. Saresh is the best, Dave, but he really wants to believe all that stuff. You’ve got to double-check anything he tells you about religion. Baseball he knows.” ------- “Yeah?” David said, suddenly more interested. “You a Red Sox fan?” ------- ------- “Baseball!” Emily said. ------- “Lots of smart people like baseball,” David said. “You said you wanted to go to a Cardinals game.” ------- “Mom won’t take us,” Emily told Cynthia, “and she won’t let us walk back from town in the dark.” ------- “I can take you,” Cynthia said. She was working in her garden. David was helping her weed, while the girls watched. “I love baseball. I used to write term papers at Yankee Stadium. What else did Mr. Mahmood say?” -------“He calls himself, ’Saresh’,” David said. “That’s the name of his beauty shop in Boston. He told me a lot of good stuff. Islam’s pretty simple.” He pointed to a plant, and Cynthia shook her head. -------“That’s heather. Simple how?” -------“You just have to believe in one God, pray five times a day, go to Mecca once in your life, fast during the month of Ramadan, and give to charity.” -------“They fast for a whole month!” Sophie asked. -------“Just between breakfast and dinner, idiot.” -------“So why all the fighting?” ------- “Saresh says the wars have nothing to do with religion. It’s because we’re human. He said you ought to read about the Sufis, Cynthia.” ------- “Okay,” Cynthia said, “I will if I can. Are there many Muslims in Eastham?” ------- “He didn’t think so.” ------- “I’d like to hear about them anyway. I’m getting the impression that no group around here is interested in the chapel for themselves. When’s the next game?” ------- “Friday,” Emily said. “You’ll really take us?” ------- “If it’s okay with your mom and dad. You guys spend a lot of time with Mike and me. Don’t your folks want to see you sometimes?” ------- “We do stuff together,” Emily said. “But on the Cape everyone gets to do what they want. It’s part of being on vacation.” -------. -------“Emily says her parents don’t mind their spending time with us,” Cynthia said. “Maybe the girls wear them out.” -------“Of course they do,” Mike said. “They wear me out.” -------They were walking on the flats at low tide. The bay beach was almost empty at eight-thirty in the morning with a cool wind coming off the water. A flock of plovers careened past, swooping and diving inches above the sand. -------“Do you think we’re getting too involved with the kids?” ------- “Probably,” Cynthia said, “but they’ll survive.” ------- “I was thinking more about us,” Mike said. ------- The walked on in silence. A woman nodded to them as she power-walked past. A family with small children began to climb down the long wooden stairs from their cottage. By noon, the tide would drive them all back onto a narrow strip of sand beneath the bluff. When the tide fell, the sand would be smooth again. ------- “It bothers me that we don’t know how the rumor got started,” Mike said. “It happened in Philadelphia a year and a half ago, and suddenly it surfaces here.” ------- “Could one of your charters have recognized you? Nobody said anything?” -------“Not that I remember. I don’t usually talk about Philly.” ------- “It went around pretty fast. I’ll see if I can track it down.” ------- “No, Cyn, leave it.” ------- “I’ll be careful.” -------“Yeah, but...” Mike leaned down to pick up a shell. He felt a tug at his shoulder and heard a snap. “Run!” he yelled. “Someone’s shooting at us.” He stayed behind Cynthia as the ran along the line of surf. They slowed as they neared the parking lot, where there were more people on the beach. ------- “Mike!” -------He saw the blood on his shoulder. ------- “It’s just a crease. I must have turned into it or it would have missed me.” ------- ------- “No ideas, Mike?” Logan said. Mike and Cynthia were in the conference room with Chief Logan and Mary Brody, his lead detective. ------- “No,” Mike said. “Except for the run-in I had with Stuart, but Will was out with a party yesterday. I have no idea what it’s about, Chief, unless someone still thinks I’m a child molester. Have any of your registered sex offenders been attacked?” ------- Logan shook his head. “Complaints, nothing violent, and we have a few level threes. How about the other boat owners? Fishermen can play rough.” ------- “Not with guns. I’ve had no trouble with anyone but Will. I’m not competition. I do mostly half days for families with kids. The money’s in the big boats that go out for eight hours with the so-called sportsmen. I guess it could still be about the rumor, somebody’s not convinced.” Mike hesitated a moment and then shook his head. “I just don’t know.” ------- “Keep this to yourselves,” Logan said. “We don’t have a handle on it yet, but we think a fair amount of drugs are coming in through the harbor. If the people involved know you’ve been a cop, who knows what they might think?” ------- Stuart! But he couldn’t be sure. -------“How about you, Cynnie. What you been up to?” ------- “The usual, Don, algebra and calculus.” She explained her role as executor of the Putterman estate. -------“There’s one other thing. When Mike and I were going through Betty’s files, we found a receipt for two paintings that were bought in the forties from an ‘E. Hopper’” ------- Logan shook his head. -------“Don’s not into art,” Mary Brody said. “Edward Hopper. You’ve heard of him, Chief. He had a house in Truro. His stuff’s worth millions.” ------- “Millions? But you haven’t found the paintings?’” ------- “We’ve just started to look.” ------- No one spoke for a moment. ------- “I don’t have them, Don. I wouldn’t have told you if I’d meant to steal them. They could have been thrown out or sold at a yard sale. They weren’t worth millions back then.” ------- “I believe you. And that kind of money could certainly be a motive, but it doesn’t explain why they’d be shooting at you or Mike. Any other reason to think you were the target?” -------“Show him,” Mike said. -------She dug the note out of her purse and gave it to Logan. ------- He read it and shook his head. “I’d have said it was nothing, some creep, but let me get it checked out. You live a hard life, Cynnie. I don’t know what to tell you. Just be careful, both of you, and let me know if anything else happens.” ------- ------- “Did I imagine it, or were you going to say something else in there?” They were walking back to Mike’s truck. ------- “Crossed my mind. You think Logan noticed?” ------- “If I did,” Cynthia said. “He’s pretty sharp.” ------- Mike didn’t say anything more for a minute. They got into the truck, and he drove out of the parking lot. -------“I don’t see how there could possibly be a connection,” he said. “It’s not something I’ve ever talked about, not to anybody. I killed a man in a drug raid in Philadelphia. It would have been a righteous shooting, except that my partner wrote his report while I was getting patched up and took credit for it. I thought at first it was a favor to me, because I was a short timer. But maybe that’s just how he remembered it. Anyway, I let it go, and two months later Bill was killed in a drive-by shooting. I think it had to be a revenge killing, but the department wrote it off as random, somebody out to get a cop. They never found the shooter. -------“I feel like Bill died for me, and the guy who killed him is still out there somewhere. It should have been me he took down.” ------- “God, Mike, that’s awful, but it obviously wasn’t your fault.” ------- “I don’t suppose it was, but that doesn’t seem to help as much as it should. Bill was a nice guy. Smart and decent, with a wife and three kids. It stinks.” ------- “It does, but I’m glad you’re out of it, although I know that’s cowardly. Your poor wife. How did she manage it all those years? ------- “A lot of cop marriages don’t last. Ours did for some reason, but I never really knew what she went through. And yeah, I’m glad to be out of it.” ------- ------- ------- -------Chapter 22 ------- -------When the Green Pig woke in the middle of the night, he thought at first that he was at home in his house on Boat Meadow. He lay awake for a few minutes, his arms and legs still sore from hours of digging and carrying heavy stones, the straw mattress rough on his back. It had occurred to him that Elizabeth was somewhat ruthless in her cheerful way, and he began to wonder if her mysterious problem was no more than a need for willing laborers. -------Yesterday had been thoroughly enjoyable, nonetheless. He could understand the appeal of archaeology, the hunt for small things forgotten in the earth, the painstaking analysis, the correlation with written history, and the heady metaphors of culture and civilization. Perhaps it was resistance to the temptation to romanticize that made his cousin insist that the past lived only in our thoughts. George himself didn’t see the past as dead, or even, as Faulkner said, entirely past. It was where he felt he lived. Who could say when the present began or ended? He’d been back to Vietnam twice since the end of the war. Although few wished to speak of it now, the past there lay just beneath the surface of the rice fields. -------He was pondering the rack of braided garlic and sun-dried octopi above his head when he heard a noise like someone munching on dry toast. A person wearing heavy boots had walked across the gravel outside the shed. -------George went to the door and stood listening. Despite his small stature and somewhat comical appearance, The Green Pig was anything but a coward. He stepped out into the night and began to shadow the faint figure along the path towards the dig. From behind an olive tree, he watched as a tall man shined a flashlight on the excavation and inspected the piles of dirt and stone for a few minutes before he turned and retraced his steps towards the village. ------- -------Cousin Elizabeth suggested they go for a boat ride the next morning, as the scaffolding for the windmill wasn’t expected until late that afternoon. They packed a hamper with wine, bread, and cheese, and at Elizabeth’s suggestion George made fishing poles for the mice. -------The path to the bay was steep and winding. George’s attention wavered between the rough stone track and glimpses of the azure sea. The mice soon tired of scampering among the rocks and climbed onto his hat. -------“Mices have it easy,” Ellie kidded them. -------“That’s not fair,” Alexander said huffily. “A thousand feet for you....” -------“Fiddlesticks, Ellie,” said Cousin Elizabeth. “I’d ride on George’s hat if I could. George, mind the path! You’re carrying the lunch.” -------At the cove, they found a brightly painted rowboat drawn up on the sand. The Green Pig rolled his trousers, and when the others were all aboard he pushed the boat into the clear water. -------They spent a pleasant morning exploring the tiny bays and promontories that fringed the island. George rowed while Elizabeth told tales of ancient Fetos. The mice fished for minnows with hooks that George had made from straight pins. -------Suddenly the sardine that Charles was reeling in was swallowed by a coiling eel, and Charles went over the gunnels with a splash. -------“Caught,” he spluttered, when George retrieved him with an oar. -------While the little fish were cooking over a driftwood fire, Ellie dressed the mice in coolie shells and togas made of ribbon-weed. -------“Mices funny!” Hap exclaimed. -------“Mice like to please,” The Green Pig agreed. -------George and Cousin Elizabeth talked quietly after lunch, while the mice and the children explored the tide pools. George told her about the mysterious visitor. -------“I call him ‘Sneaker’,” Elizabeth said. -------“I didn’t realize you knew about him,” George said. “A rival archaeologist?” -------Elizabeth shook her head. “Archaeologists are generally a principled lot. Anyway, the Greeks keep the artifacts. The locals are very protective of their heritage. Anyone trying to smuggle pots off the island would probably be caught. No, I’ll write an article for some obscure journal, and that will be the end of it. No fame or fortune, George. Just satisfaction.” -------“Drugs then, pirate’s treasure?” -------“It could be anything. Fetos was a rest stop for all the rogues in history. No reason to think that’s changed.” -------“We could set a trap.” -------“With you here, George, I think a trap’s more trouble than it’s worth.” -------“I see,” George said. ------- -------“The genetic code?” Alexander was standing on The Green Pig’s chest. -------“You don’t miss much, Alexander,” George said, waking from his brief nap on the warm sand. “You always ask me things when I have a full stomach and an empty head. The genetic code is life’s recipe, the instructions for making everything from ladybugs to elephants.” -------“Mice?” -------“Mice especially. They’re very complicated. And nine-banded gollywobbles, when Mother Nature gets around to them. Evolution isn’t finished, and learning precisely how it works should keep the scientists busy for another thousand years. Here’s what I know, Albert. It isn’t much. We’re all made of billions of cells, and in each cell are long molecules of a chemical called DNA that look like twisted ladders with a hundred-million rungs. They carry the code for making proteins. Proteins are the chemicals that organize the process of assembling a finely-tuned field mouse.” -------“Ah,” said Albert. -------“It gets odder,” the Green Pig said. “When a cell divides, the ladders split and each side grows another half, so you end up with two sets of the same instructions. The new set is passed on to a creature’s descendents. But here’s the trick that gives us better mice and doodlebugs. Every so often a rung doesn’t copy perfectly. Most of these mistakes do nothing at all and a few even hurt the new organism so it dies young without reproducing. But if the change is helpful, purely by accident you understand, the new creature will have a better chance at life than its brothers and sisters and will be more likely to have offspring. Then the new trait, the mutation, gets carried on.” ------- “So we get better all the time?” ------- “No, I wouldn’t say that. Evolution doesn’t create values. That’s our job. I meant a better fit under the circumstances. The creatures whose talents best suit the world around them tend to survive, and I’m afraid survival is all that matters with evolution. Not being pretty or good or even particularly clever. Dinosaurs weren’t that smart, but they ruled the earth for a long time and then died off quickly, probably when we had a serious weather problem sixty-five million years ago. Sharks and ticks and scorpions aren’t the loveliest creatures, at least not to our eyes, but each one has a recipe that’s allowed its species to survive almost unchanged for hundreds of millions of years. Humans have been King of the Hill for only a few thousand years, but they have minds that can think, so they can change their behavior without waiting for evolution. In theory they could adapt to any environment, if they’re thoughtful and careful and quick enough, all of which would be asking a lot. You don’t look happy, Alexander.” -------“It’s too strange.” -------“It would be if someone had thought it up, but nothing is strange if it just happens.” -------“Did we just happen, George?” -------“I don’t know, but wouldn’t it be amazing if we did? It’s either that or that God or some other power did it all, which isn’t really an explanation. In any case, the details are still quite sketchy. The chemical reactions in a single cell are thousands of times more complex than all the inventions of mice and men. If you wanted to be particularly useful, Alexander, you might consider going into biological research.” ------- -------That night, George waited for the mysterious stranger to appear again. Elizabeth might be content to let him prowl, but The Green Pig was not. When he heard the soft crunching in the gravel, he was ready with a powerful flashlight and a whistle. -------He pinned the tall shadow in a beam of light. -------“Hoo haa!” the startled figure bleated. -------“Marcus! I should have guessed.” -------“Woo hoo! You nearly stopped my heart, George. I’m not a young man. No harm intended here, dear fellow.” -------“It’s all right, Marcus. Catch your breath. Am I to conclude, however, that you’ve been on Fetos before and that perhaps you meant to meet us on the flight from New York?” -------“Yes, yes, George, I’m afraid I deceived you and your small friends, but I can explain.” ------- -------“More cocoa, Dr. Millman,” Elizabeth said. “You still look a bit pale.” -------“Thank you, my dear, and please call me ‘Marcus.’ As I say, I‘ve made a lifelong study of windmills. My dissertation was on their influence in early Near-Eastern civilization. Pivotal in my opinion, and sadly overlooked. For some years now I’ve been seeking the ancient secret of the mills. -------“And what secret is that, you ask. I wish I knew! There’s more to mills than meets the eye, you see. They’re up to something! And I’m convinced that George is the person to whom the secret will be revealed.” -------George shook his head. “Marcus, you’re a fine fellow, but windmills are only windmills, and I’m just an ordinary person.” -------“Precisely, George. A true and honest chap.” ------- -------Chapter 23 ------- ------- “How about if you work on the grave?” David said. ------- “Okay,” Emily agreed. “But after that I get to look for artifacts.” -------“Sure,” David said. “The grave’s been dug-over, so you don’t have to catalog anything you find. I wonder what it is.” -------”I just hope it’s not garbage,” Emily said. -------“Garbage is good. Archaeology is mostly digging up old trash pits.” -------“As long as they’re old.” -------Emily began to dig in the sunken area, using the entrenching tool they’d bought at the Army Navy store and pilling the dirt on a tarpaulin. The ground was easy to dig. She found a few bits of pipe stem and pieces of crockery and set them aside. She’d opened a pit nearly two feet deep when her shovel struck something hard. She brushed the dirt away from what appeared to be a smooth white rock and began to dig around it carefully. -------“Bring the light, David!” -------David shined the light into the hole.” -------“God, I was just kidding! It is a grave.” -------They heard a creak from the floor above them. Emily dropped the shovel and ran for the trapdoor, but the chapel was empty. The outside door was still locked. -------“I’ll call Mike,” she said. ------- -------Mike was fifteen miles out in the bay and wouldn’t be back until noon. He told them to call Cynthia. Cynthia said if they were really sure it was a human skull she’d call the police and they should wait outside until someone came. -------Chief Logan came alone, in his own unmarked car. He asked them their names and where they were from. He seemed content to stay on the porch and talk with them until Cynthia arrived. It was obvious he didn’t think there was really a human skeleton in the chapel cellar. -------“I wanted to be an archaeologist once,” he said. “Takes years of study, right?” -------“Uh huh,” David said. -------He asked Emily how she was enjoying her summer vacation. She decided he was trying to be friendly. She told him about the chapel and Betty’s will and how they were learning about different religions. -------Cynthia roared up a minute later on her motorcycle. -------“Hey there, biker girl.” -------“Hey yourself, Donnie,” Cynthia said. “You’re looking sharp. I hear good things about you.” -------“I haven’t been on the job long enough to screw up,” he said. “Shall we take a look at Mr. Bones?” -------They went down the steps into the crawl space. Logan kneeled and shined the flashlight in the hole. He reached in and brushed away more dirt. -------“Let’s leave everything the way it is,” he said, suddenly more businesslike. He pointed towards the stairs. ------- -------“Randy Piggot,” Cynthia said. -------“Don’t know him,” Mike said. -------They’d met for lunch at the Land Ho. Cynthia told him about her morning. The state police were still working in the crawl space, but the body had been identified. -------“Randy lost two teeth in a fight a month before he disappeared twenty years ago. The dental records match. He was older than me, a dropout and kind of a creep. He caught me alone in the school parking lot one night. I cut him.” -------“You what!” -------“Blood all over the place. I thought I’d killed him. That’s why I ran.” -------“Jesus!” -------“But I hadn’t. He wasn’t even badly hurt, and he didn’t go to the cops because his reputation was worse than mine. I didn’t know any of this until two years later, or that he’d suddenly disappeared a month after I left. And you’re the only one I’ve ever told. Logan wanted me to ask you if you’d meet with him and Mary about this, jut informally. The state police are running the investigation, but Don wants to stay involved and he’s never worked on a murder. Give him a call if you’re willing.” ------- -------“I just wanted your take,” Logan said. “Healed knife cuts on a couple of ribs and a nick on a neck vertebrae but no obvious cause of death.” -------“Was Piggot into drugs?” Mike asked. -------“We think he was a minor dealer.” Logan looked a question at Cynthia. -------“That’s what I heard, too, Don. I didn’t do drugs.” -------“So, an overdose?” Logan suggested. A deal gone bad? But why bury him in the chapel?” -------“It worked,” Mike said. “He stayed buried until our intrepid archaeologists dug him up. What did the state investigators find?” -------“Nothing helpful. Whoever buried him was careful or lucky.” -------“How about the candlestick? Can they check DNA?” -------“We should know by next week, but even if there’s a match it just proves that Randy was killed in the chapel which is likely anyway. He had plenty of enemies. Let me know if you find any more about the paintings.” -------“Sure, Chief,” Cynthia said. -------“Let’s leave it there, then. Thanks, both of you.” ------- -------Chapter 24 ------- ------- “You really like Mike and Cynthia?” ------- “Uh huh,” David said. Dr. Cohen was rowing along the edge of Plum Island so David could cast a lure into the shallows. He hadn’t had a bite. “Cynthia teaches math at the high school,” he added. ------- “And they’re okay with you guys?” ------- “What do you mean?” ------- “I think you know what I mean.” ------- “They’re not married...” He stopped, but when his father didn’t say anything he went on angrily. “Yeah, Dad, they’re fine. They’re not into anything kinky. Give me some credit. I think they just like kids.” ------- “Okay, David. I trust you’re judgment. Having a good summer?” ------- “Yeah, it’s been great. A lot better than I expected. Em and I want to do some more digging at the chapel, but I asked Cynthia if she minded and I sent an email to Dr. Ramsey. He said if we can go a little slow until next week, he wants to drive down and take a look while he’s in Boston for a conference. If it’s really a tavern it could be an important find.” ------- “Ramsey’s coming here?” ------- “I know, Dad. One of the grad students told me he’s gay. He’s been with the same partner longer than you guys. I can take care of myself.” ------- “Of course you can. Just keep using your brain.” He leaned over and gently rapped his son’s head with his knuckles. ------- “So, you going to convert to Islam?” ------- “God, no!” David laughed. “It’s enough trouble being Jewish. Muslims have to pray five times a day, fast for a month, and go to Mecca to be trampled to death. The Sufi’s are cool, though. They believe all religions are true. But they want to do away with the self just like the Buddhists. I don’t get that part at all.” ------- “A lot of people have had very hard lives,” Dr. Cohen said. “And some of them aren’t happy with the selves they were born with. You’ve heard the saying, ‘the world is a vale of tears’?” ------- David shook his head. ------- “Before your time, I guess, but that’s pretty much what life has been for most of the people who ever lived. Nasty, brutish, and short. There’s a lot of suffering in the world, and to want to stop hurting isn’t crazy. We’ve been lucky, the Cohens and the Brandts, and all the people we know who are healthy and safe and who have the time and inner peace even to think about themselves.” -------They were drifting now with the incoming tide. “Physically we really are all one with each other and the universe, literally a continuum of matter and energy. Maybe scientists and mystics are just more sophisticated than the people who hope we’ll sit down together some day at a heavenly banquet. I find it all fascinating, but I think what counts most is how we treat one another.” ------- ------- ------- -------Chapter 25 ------- -------“Sophie Brandt! You’ve grown a foot.” -------“Just three inches, Til.” But she was pleased. “Where’s Buster?” -------“Not in his hole?” -------Sophie looked under the stairs. “Doesn’t he live with you?” -------“I like to think he does, but I don’t see him for days sometimes. He spends a lot of time in the woods, hunting mice.” -------“My dad says cats kill for fun.” -------“Not really, Sophie. Cats hunt for practice. It’s an instinct that got built in because it helps them survive. Only humans kill for fun. Emerson says we’re both the hunters and the hunted. The wolf eats the deer and the deer becomes the wolf. Nature is hard, but you girls are up to it. How was your year?” -------“It was okay. I don’t get as good grades as Emily, but she studies all the time. I’m on the soccer team and I’m pretty good.” -------“I’ll bet you are. And your mom and dad?” -------“They’re fine. Dad comes up week ends. Mom mostly sleeps and reads. She says we drive her crazy. We hang around a lot with Mike and Cynthia.” -------“Nickerson, huh?” -------“Oh, Til, that was a dumb rumor. Didn’t you see the article about Mike in the Codder?” -------“I saw it. Cynnie kept the cops jumping when she was a kid.” -------“Really?” Sophie felt disloyal but she wanted to know. -------“Just small stuff, underage drinking, joy riding. She left town right before high school graduation. Never has said what that was about. I hear she’s a good teacher. Quite a sight on that motorcycle.” -------“Don’t you like her, Til?” -------“Course I do. She’s quite a gal. They must be something together, her and Nickerson.” -------“Uh huh. We’re helping Cynthia decide who to give the Chapel in the Pines.” She gave a little gasp. “Oh, Til! I forgot that Betty was your mother.” -------“That’s okay, Sophie. She was ninety-five, and she’d had a good life.” -------“Have you always been a miller?” -------Til laughed. “Lord no, girl! I was a soldier most of my life.” ------- “I didn’t know that. Was it interesting?” ------- “Interesting? Sounds like the Chinese curse, “May you live in interesting times!’ You ever hear the expression, ‘hurry up and wait?’ That’s a soldier’s life. You spend months polishing your boots, and then all heck breaks loose. I guess you could say it was pretty darned interesting, sometimes.” ------- “Did you get to go lots of places?” ------- “That I did. Kilimanjaro, the jungles of Cambodia, the Andes mountains. I’ve been all over. Good companions, good memories. That’s what life’s about, Sophie.” ------- “Um hmm,” Sophie said. ------- “You’ll have your memories, a girl like you. Anyway, there’s experience all around us. You don’t have to go off to the Congo.” -------“We need stuff to do now, Til. Are there places to explore on the Cape? -------“You kids been to Bearberry Hill?” ------- “Where’s that?” ------- Til reached into a box beside his chair and pulled out a map. ------- “USGS Section map.” He unfolded it and placed a large finger on a line running up the middle. “That was the Old Colony Railroad track. It’s the bike trail now.” ------- Sophie nodded. ------- “Take the trail to the end and then go along this fire road for half a mile until you come to a big bare hill. See the contour lines? It’s over a hundred fifty feet high. Lock your bikes to the fence and follow the path to the top. You get a great view of the ocean. It’s a good place for a picnic. Then you take the path down the other side and over the next rise until you come to a break in the dunes where you can get down to the beach. You’ll probably have it to yourselves. I’ll draw you a map. Be easier to follow.” ------- Til sketched a plan of the bike trail and the path over the hill. He drew two girls and a boy on bicycles and at the top of the page a ferocious looking wolf. ------- “That’s great, Til! Thanks.” She touched his shoulder and smiled. ------- “Just one thing,” Til said. “Don’t take the path over the next hill. It gets pretty wild in there. See this fellow? There’s wolves in those woods.” ------- “No there aren’t! There’s no wolves on Cape Cod.” ------- “Are so. We call ‘em coyotes, but they’re a cross between the coyote and the red wolf. Some of them grow to more than fifty pounds. Uppity fellows, too, just try staring one down! So how’s Emily? I haven’t seen much of her this summer.” ------- Sophie scowled. ------- “She spends a lot of time with David Cohen. I’ll tell her to come see you.” ------- “You do that. Jewish boy is he?” ------- “Uh huh,” Sophie said. ------- “Smart fellows, Jews. Good fighters.” ------- “David’s not a fighter. He’s going to be an archaeologist. I have to go, Til. I told Mom I’d be home by four.” ------- “Sure, babe. You’d better go. An archaeologist, though? Wouldn’t that be something! They say garbage never lies. And don’t be too sure the boy’s not a fighter. The Romans are long gone, but the Jews are still around. We’re all fighters when we have to be. Come again, Sophie, and send David to see me. I’ll tell him about the Roman ruins in North Africa.” ------- -------Til watched Sophie ride off on her bicycle. If more kids had the chance to grow up like that.. He’d known he’d be a soldier by the time he was twelve. He wore fatigues to school and read every book on military history he could find. He’d lied about his age and enlisted in the Army out of high school in ’36. Made first sergeant by the time the war broke out, and was a captain when it was it was over. ’42 and ’43 in Africa with the 2d Armored had been the best years of his life, and he knew it. The men, the tanks, the big guns, the smell of cordite and diesel. Wars were idiotic, but that’s why men like himself had to settle them. ------- ------- ------- -------Chapter 26 ------- -------Buddy was reluctant to look at her. -------“I’m sorry about your father, Buddy.” -------“Not your fault,” he mumbled through his wired jaw. “I just don’t understand it.” -------“You don’t think he killed himself?” -------“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “The cops said he did, but he’s been so full of himself since he started making money. Said he was going to Paris with some babe. I told the cops, but they weren’t interested. He did talk big a lot.” -------“Maybe your Dad felt bad about getting you in trouble. I didn’t mean to break your jaw.” -------“Yeah you did. It’s okay, Cynnie. You were always too much for me. Dad thought it was a riot that I got clocked by a broad.” -------“Then I don’t get it either. You knew Mike made them drop the arson charges? Are you and I okay?” -------“Hell, yes. I’m not a fool, Cynnie. I owe you. You need somebody beat up, let me know. Except no women! I’m glad I didn’t burn down Nickerson’s place. I like him.” -------“Your dad was that upset about Mike?” -------“Not really.” He grinned. “You know him. He’d screw anything that moved.” -------“That’s what I thought. You never worried about jail bait either.” -------Buddy looked embarrassed. “He paid me a thousand bucks.” -------“Shit, you never said that.” -------“The lawyer told me not to. Oh, jeez!” -------Cynthia laughed. “Your lawyer’s right, but I didn’t hear that. You think somebody paid your dad?” -------“Probably.” -------“But you don’t know who? -------“No, and I’m just guessing, but I can’t think of any other reason. I thought he liked Nickerson, too.” -------“Tell me about the meditation group. I heard your dad went to it.” -------“Wouldn’t miss it. Said it did him a lot of good, but he wouldn’t talk about it. It was ‘too spiritual,” he said, but that was crap. There was nothing spiritual about my dad.” -------“When do the wires come out?” -------“Three weeks. It’s a drag drinking soup through a straw, but it won’t hurt me to lose some weight. I’m glad I didn’t hurt you, Cyn. You’re a classy babe.” -------She left his house with a grin on her face. Her good friend Buddy Holland. Bill Holland hadn’t cared about the rumor. Somebody paid him. And then killed him to shut him up? ------- -------“You got me,” Mike said. “Holland tried to overcharge me when he did my kitchen plumbing. I told him I was going to check with Cape Supply and he dropped the price. No hard feelings, so far as I knew. I sensed he respected me for it. I don’t know what’s going on, Cyn. It’s all action and no plot. Your death threats, the paintings, Randy’s murder, but that was twenty years ago. Bill Holland takes up meditation, pays his kid to burn down my house, and then kills himself. Or maybe not. How long has the meditation group met at the chapel?” -------“Five or six years.” -------“You think we should talk to Buddy some more, now that he’s your friend?” -------“Sure. We’ll bring him a six-pack and a straw.” ------- ------- ------- ------- ------- -------Chapter 27 ------- -------“The story goes that three thousand years ago pastoral tribes followed their sheep and goats through the wild uplands of what are now Turkey, Syria, Iraq, and Palestine. They worshiped earth and sky gods that they believed would make their lives easier. Then Yahweh, a mighty war god, made a deal with Abraham, the leader of the Hebrew tribes, that if they worshipped him he’d make them a great people and bring them to a land flowing with milk and honey. It’s a great story. Didn’t you learn it in Sunday school?” -------“I guess so,” Sophie said. “I’ve forgotten most of it.” -------“The Hebrews, or the Jews as they were called later, had to do most of the work, but with God’s help they took over Palestine and built a magnificent temple where they sacrificed sheep and goats to Yahweh. That’s what the bible says, but the archaeologists haven’t found evidence of any of this. They think the Jewish bible, the Torah was written down from around the seventh to the third centuries B.C.E, and that maybe the Israelites were actually a tribe of Canaanites and they were always in Palestine. -------“Then in 386 B.C.E., the Babylonians defeated the Hebrews in battle and took most of them back to the city of Babylon. And there is archaeological evidence for that. They treated them like second-class citizens, the way the Jews lived in Muslim Spain in the ninth and tenth centuries and than under the Ottoman Turks in the Middle East until 1918, and in some ways even in Europe until after World War II. They were allowed to worship Yahweh in Babylon, but they couldn’t build a temple. So what they did instead was make a kind of portable temple out of the holy writings they called the Torah. These were stories and sayings and rules about how to live that they’d memorized and told around the camp fire for centuries. Christians know them as the first five books of the Old Testament. The Jews studied the Torah in their synagogues and wrote down their interpretations, and the Torah and all the commentaries on it became the embodiment of Yahweh when the Jews were scattered in the world after the Romans drove them out of Palestine in the first century C.E. -------“The Jews gave the world some important things. One God, history that was continuous instead of going in circles, the individual human being, social justice as the mark of righteousness, and religion as a way of everyday life. The Torah calls the Jewish people the Israelites, the tribe descended from Abraham’s son Jacob, who was known as ‘Israel’ or ‘the one who wrestled with God’. The Torah stories make the point that Jews don’t accept God’s offer blindly but struggle to understand their place in the world and to become more complete human beings, always wondering and never completely satisfied. In fact a Jewish wise man once said he’d refuse to accept infallible teaching from an angel because his life would be meaningful only if he had to struggle to find the truth on his own. So, Jews can be skeptics about God in a way that Christians can’t be about Jesus or Muslims about Mohammed. Understanding doesn’t have to come first. If you live a good Jewish life, you’ll find its meaning.” -------“Cool,” Sophie said. -------“How much did I get wrong, David?” Mike asked. -------“I don’t know, Cap. My family isn’t religious, but that sounds pretty much like what I learned in Hebrew school. How come if Jews are so great we’ve been persecuted for thousands of years?” -------“My guess is it’s more for social and political reasons than religious ones,” Mike said. “Minorities always get picked on. Jews were forced to stick together and take care of each other to survive, and people thought they were clannish. It made some of them strong and successful. Successful people always get some flak. Also, it can’t have helped that the Jews claimed to be God’s chosen people. Do you think Jews are smarter than other people?” -------“Maybe a little,” David said, grinning. -------“Okay, moving along to Christianity. It seems to me that there are at least three versions. The first, and it was the last one to be written down but I think it’s the story that’s carried Christianity for two thousand years, is that Jesus is the Son of God, he died for our sins, and by following Him and loving one another we can escape the world and enter the Heavenly Kingdom of his Father. A corollary is that the Church and other formal religious organizations aren’t really necessary. In fact they may be a form of idolatry. This tends to be what’s believed in small independent congregations. My problem with this, besides the fact that like a lot of other people I just can’t buy it, is that it’s based on the Gospel of John, which was written at least a hundred years after Jesus died and is full of Greek philosophy and middle-eastern mystery religions like Orphism and Mithraism. Also, they believed that Jesus would come again in glory almost immediately and the world would end, and that hasn’t happened. -------“The second story is that Jesus is embodied in the Church, or the churches, and all Christians together form the Body of Christ. This is the institutional Christianity we see around us now, the big churches, and it definitely gave the Church power and helped the original experience survive. The problem with this one is that most of the churches have behaved so badly over the centuries, persecuting, torturing, and murdering anyone who disagreed with them, that it’s hard to take them seriously as holy institutions. -------“The third story is that Jesus Christ was simply a good Jew. As he got older, he decided that his fellow Jews weren’t living up to their bargain with Yahweh. They’d made the Temple sacrifices into a business, and the priests and nobles weren’t treating the poor and the weak justly. That’s what it always comes down to with a failing religion or a failing society, mistreating the weak. So he spoke up like the prophets Amos and Isaiah had done hundreds of years before. It was only later that his followers got carried away and made him the Son of God. That’s the one I prefer, but it makes Jesus a man and no more the son God than the rest of us, so most Christians don’t accept it.” -------“How come you get to criticize your religion,” Sophie said, “and we’re suppose to try to make Cynthia like ours?” -------“You can criticize your religion if you want. But you have to understand it first. I’m not really being critical. I’m just saying Christianity isn’t simple. None of the great religions is, because humans aren’t simple.” -------“If Jesus and the disciples were Jews,” Sophie said. “How can Christians be against Jews?” -------“I think the Christian answer is that the Jews had the first chance to become Christians and they passed it up. The priests who ran the Temple didn’t like being accused of corruption, so they told the Romans that Jesus was making trouble, which he was. The last thing the Romans wanted was trouble, because there were just a few thousand Roman soldiers in Palestine and hundreds of thousands of Palestinians. They arrested Jesus and crucified him, which was how they generally executed criminals and trouble-makers in those days. -------“We know this only from the stories that were told by Jesus’ followers and were written down from fifty to a hundred years after he died. There are dozens of these stories, hundreds maybe, but a committee picked just four of them, along with some letters from Paul of Tarsus, a gentile who’d never met Jesus, to be the Christian New Testament. -------“As the first story goes, the miraculous one, three days after Jesus was buried, his mother and his friend and follower Mary Magdalene came to his tomb and found the stone that sealed it had been rolled away and the tomb was empty. Shortly after that, Jesus appeared to his disciples, looking a little spacey, and told them he’d risen from the dead and that they should go out in the world and preach that everyone who believes in Him and is baptized a Christian will be saved and will cast out demons, heal the sick, and handle serpents, and when Jesus returns in glory they’ll all be taken up to Heaven. -------“The Jesus of this story isn’t an ordinary Jew. He’s in Heaven sitting at the right hand of God. He forgives sins, which for Jews only God can do, and he’s called the Messiah and the Son of God. He speaks for himself and not as a representative of God like the Jewish prophets. This was all blasphemy as far as the Jews were concerned. -------“For the next three hundred years the Christians had to sneak around and meet secretly in houses and catacombs. They were persecuted and killed because they wouldn’t pretend to worship the emperor, but they slowly got more converts. They were surprised that Jesus hadn’t come again as he said he would, but they believed it could happen at any time. They still do. -------“There were lots of Christians by the fourth century. In 323 the Emperor Constantine needed their help in a war with the Eastern Empire and made Christianity the official religion of the state. Pretty soon after that the Western Roman Empire collapsed. The Church of Rome was left in charge of Europe for the next thousand years. They fought with the Muslims, and they persecuted the Jews and anyone else who didn’t believe exactly what the Church taught. -------“Over the centuries, the Roman Church tried to eliminate the opposition. Finally, in the sixteenth century, some Christians in Northern Europe decided the Roman hierarchy was corrupt and they’d had enough. Martin Luther and John Calvin and others began the Protestant Reformation, which eventually produced the Lutherans and the Presbyterians, and then the Episcopalians, the Methodists, the Baptists, the Congregationalists, the Quakers, and the hundreds of evangelical and Pentecostal churches. -------“So that’s the Christian message. We were created by God to obey and worship Him, to enjoy the universe he made for us, and to hope for everlasting life in Heaven. Naturally we disobeyed him the first chance we got, that’s the story of Adam and Eve, and we were headed for an eternity in Hell when God took pity on us and sent his son Jesus Christ to share our humanity and pay for our sins with his own life. Some Christians say that means we’re all saved, and others say that each of us has to accept Jesus as his personal savior to be saved. Some say we should live good lives and seek justice in order to be worthy of being saved, and others say only God can make us worthy and living a good life is just the evidence that he’s already done it. And that’s Judeo-Christianity.” -------“Oh, Mike!” -------“What? Did I leave something out? Jesus died for your sins, so give thanks, be kind, and you won’t be sorry. What’s wrong with that?” -------Cynthia laughed. “Pantheists are smart-asses.” -------“Hey, John Milton said it in Paradise Lost. -------Of man’s first disobedience, and the fruit -------Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste -------Brought death into the world, and all our woe, -------With loss of Eden, till one greater Man -------Restore us, and regain the blissful seat, -------Sing, Heavenly Muse. ------- -------“I left out some of the downside. There are thousands of Christian churches and sects all believing a million different things and all insisting they’re right and that we should live our lives the way they tell us or go to Hell. They can’t stand each other. For two thousand years Christians have been torturing and killing everyone who won’t join them and believe exactly what they do, and especially other Christians. It’s been a problem.” -------“Now aren’t you being too harsh?” -------“Why? Are you going to stand up for the Catholics after they kicked you out? What good is a religion if it can’t take care of its own troubled kids? They could have forgotten about bingo for a few minutes and tried to look out for their lost sheep. All the churches, mosques, and synagogues say they’re doing God’s will, and I’m sure most think they are, but at bottom they’re human organizations. They run on greed and fear as much as faith.” -------“I thought you’re supposed to be talking up religion. The kids have done a good job. Why are you running down Christianity?” -------“I’m not, damn it. I’m as much a Christian as I am anything. If you peel away some of the legendary stuff, Jesus shows us a good way to live. But did God give us just one true religion, and if so, which one? Did we invent all the others? Personally I think we invented every religion, including Christianity, but that doesn’t have to mean God isn’t involved. If I were God, I’d let it happen just the way it has, from molecules to Mother Teresa. Then I’d have a worthwhile creation and genuine friends.” -------“If you were God we’d have bigger problems.” -------“All I’m saying is that every religion can be true, as long as it helps us treat one another with kindness. When it doesn’t, it’s not.” -------“So why does it matter which one you belong to?” Sophie said. -------“That depends on who you are. It doesn’t matter to me. And it doesn’t matter to me if you belong to none of them. It’s how you live that counts.” -------“So why do we need religion at all?” -------“A lot of people think we don’t,” Mike said, “but unless we’re psychopaths we all have values and principles, whether we call them our religion, our ethics, or our philosophy of life. The evolutionary biologists would say that religion is a survival measure. Sharing values supports society, and society supports the individual.” -------“So Cynthia could give the chapel to anybody,” David said. -------“Anyone she thinks could use it.” -------“Thanks so much,” Cynthia said. ------- ------- ------- Chapter 28 ------- -------“I don’t understand how you can be Jewish and not religious,” Emily said. It was after supper. She and David were sitting on the chapel porch, watching people go into the library. -------“I thought I’d told you. If your mother’s Jewish, you’re Jewish. And I didn’t mean we’re not religious exactly, just not very observant. We don’t go to the synagogue except sometimes on the big holidays. We usually light candles on Friday nights, but that’s mostly a custom. You heard what Mike said. Judaism isn’t so much a belief. It’s a way of life, doing certain things and trying to be good and useful.” -------“What about going to Heaven?” -------“Neyn. Most Jews don’t believe in Heaven or Hell. You have to do the right thing in this life because it’s the right thing. Let’s do some work before it gets dark.” -------The crawl space was familiar territory by now. They’d rigged a permanent light, and David had found an easier entrance from the kitchen where there had once been a big heating duct. They’d just begun to dig when they heard the front door being unlocked. Windows were opened noisily, chairs were moved. -------“Hot night,” someone said. -------“The place is an oven.” -------“Rats, I forgot,” Emily whispered. “The Businessmen’s Meditation Group meets tonight. Do you think we ought to go?” -------“I don’t see why,” David said. “They won’t even know we’re here.” ------- In the next five minutes a dozen more people came into the chapel. Eventually the rumble of conversation tapered off. A gong sounded, and there was quiet except for an occasional creak from the old wooden chairs. The silence stretched minute after minute. ------- “I guess they’re meditating,” Emily whispered. ------- “Don’t talk,” David whispered. “They’ll hear us.” -------Twenty minutes passed. Emily and David dug as quietly as they could. Then someone began speaking in a strong low voice. There was another long pause. The gong sounded again, and someone said, “Take over, Michael.” ------- “Thank you, Paul. Any old business?” ------- “What’s happening with the chapel?” someone asked. ------- “Cabot’s supposed to give it away to a religious group,” Michael said. ------- “Why not us?” someone suggested. “We’re a religious group. Maybe we could buy it from her.” ------- “Why not meet in my basement?” This was the voice of an older man. “I have a meeting room that’s private and air conditioned. I’ve offered it before.” ------- “I talked to the chaplain,” Michael said. “He says we should either stay here or go to another church building. A private home sends the wrong message. He suggests we offer to buy the chapel from Cabot, and put some money in her pocket if she’ll take it. Tell her we’ll run it as a non-profit like old lady Putterman. Or we could pay her to that if she’d rent to the same people.” ------- No one spoke for a moment. Then there was a mumble of agreement, and a purchase was put to a motion and approved. ------- The rest of the meeting was impossible for the children to follow. There was a great deal of talk about money with eventually half a dozen different conversations at once. ------- “What do you think?” Emily whispered. ------- “I don’t know,” David said, “but I don’t think we should let them know we’re here.” ------- The meeting went on for another hour. There was enough noise that the children didn’t have worry about being heard, but they became tired of digging. Emily fell asleep, her head on David’s shoulder. -------When they’d gone, he woke her and they went home. ------- ------- David and the girls found Cynthia at Mike’s house the next afternoon. They told them about the meditation group. -------“They’ve been meeting on the second Thursday of every month for six years,” Cynthia said. “Thirty-five bucks a shot. I wish I could have heard what they were saying. I wonder who the ‘chaplain’ is. What do you think, Mike?” ------- “Meditating on money? Sounds strange, but what’s more important to most people than money? -------“Apparently they’re going offer to buy the chapel.” ------- “That would get it off your hands. Why not, if they’ll run it the way Betty did? Give the money to the homeless.” ------- “I’ll think about it,” Cynthia said. “I’m not sure I trust them.” ------- ------- ------- Chapter 29 ------- -------A business men’s meditation group? Why not. I’ve sat shiva where more business was conducted than on a golf course. I don’t see a bunch of small-time Cape contractors mixed up anything shadier than padding a bill, but it’s been a while since I rubbed elbows with the Chamber of Commerce. -------I still have a naive faith in my fellow men, though G-d knows why I should. We were doing okay in our new country when the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor and I was drafted. It was bad enough I had to fight the Japanese. Half the guys on our side were racists and anti-Semites. Fortunately I was pretty tough in those days, not the sort of Jew that gets pushed around, and our casualties were so high that I made sergeant by our second landing, which probably saved my life. We got ourselves through it, the Holy One be praised, but I wouldn’t call us a band of brothers. Green troops came and went too fast, and, whatever you may have heard, war doesn’t ennoble us. Ask the ‘brothers’ who put in their time as cooks and stevedores. Some knucklehead was always saying, “Would you want your sister to marry one!” -------My situation improved pretty quickly after the war. I started making money and never looked back. I’ve always been optimistic. For a Jew do I mean? No, I think we all are at heart, or we wouldn’t still be around. It was bad in the Middle Ages, and then, sure enough, things got worse. Luther was a Jew-hater, and they name a religion after him! Voltaire, Wagner, Ford, and Lindbergh were all big time anti-Semites, and there are plenty around today. Some of it’s just locker-room talk, but would you tell mean jokes about almost anyone who isn’t in earshot? I won’t, and I don’t want to hear anyone else doing it. If you think we’ve left serious hate behind us, just look on the web. -------David wants to know why some people hate Jews. It’s not about Jews. It’s about someone convenient to hate. As they say in the ads, “This could be you!” -------If you’ve been thinking Bleistein rings a bell, you must have been an English major. It’s from a poem by T.S. Eliot, Burbank with a Baedeker: Bliestein with a Cigar. ‘But this or such was Bleistiein’s way: A saggy bending of the knees and elbows, with the palms turned out, Chicago Semite Viennese. A lusterless protrusive eye stares from the protozoic slime...’ You’ve got me to a ‘T’ there, Tom, hitting the Jap beaches in ‘44, and each time less enthusiastic about saving your ass. ------- -------Chapter 30 ------- ------- ------- It was just before dawn when Mike started his run. Light touched the bottoms of the clouds, but the woods were dark. He was usually at work by sunrise in the winter. In summer his charters didn’t start until nine. Most of his customers were dads who wanted to see their kids catch a few fish and be home by lunch. ------- The sun rose as he came out of the trees where the road crossed the marsh. Ragged cumulous clouds filled the sky, rosy on top now and darker underneath. The marsh grass was sunlit and rippling in the stiff breeze. In the distance it looked like smoke. On some days the marsh was a lake hidden in fog so thick that cars avoided Bridge Road altogether. ------- It had been rainy and foggy the day Betty was killed. There are worse ways to go than switching off like a light on Bridge Road. She’d been hit from behind and thrown to the right, so she must have been running with the traffic. That was surprising, though, because according to Cynthia, Betty was no fool. If she’d been on the left where she should have been, the car would have had to swerve into the other lane. He wondered how carefully her death had been investigated, an accident waiting to happen to an old lady running in the rain. ------- A woman waved to him as she picked up the morning paper from her driveway. Good looking and not wearing much under her robe. A lot of women had been interested when he first showed up on the Cape. By now they’d probably decided he was gay. Cynthia had come to his door one morning. Said she was a neighbor and wanted to meet him. ------- Who gained by Betty’s death besides Til? She’d showed no signs of dying on her own, but how much did Til care? He seemed to have plenty of money, and he was over eighty himself. Mike didn’t know why he liked the old soldier. The man told good stories, but he was gruff and opinionated. Greed was the last thing you’d accuse him of, though. He gave generously to the local charities and lived in a small, book-filled cottage near the chapel. Betty’s house had sat empty for months now. When it was broken into nothing significant was taken as far as they could tell. It looked like Til would get it all anyway, even the paintings if they were found in the house. -------Betty’s death had been investigated by the state police Cynthia told him when he asked her later that day. They called it a hit and run. “If they’d suspected murder,” Cynthia said, “they’d have looked at me. She left me some money. I didn’t know that until she died, but I can’t prove it. And you’re right, Mike, Betty knew enough to run against the traffic. They’ll wonder why I didn’t say anything.” ------- ------- ------- ------- ------- ------- ------- ------- ------- Chapter 31 ------- -------“Mike Nickerson! Good to see you, son. How’s it going?” -------“Not bad.” -------“Nice article about you in the paper.” -------“Thanks. You know, Til, somebody told me they first heard the rumor here.” ------- Til crossed his heavy arms over his chest and leaned back in the old wooden chair. The two of them were alone in the mill. It was generally quiet in good weather, when families preferred to go to the beach. -------“Could be,” he said, “a lot of stuff goes through the mill, but they didn’t hear it from me. In fact I set a few people straight. These things just get around, Mike. It’s human nature. Lucky you had Cynnie on your side.” -------“Logan thought it was more than human nature.” -------“That’s possible, too. Lot of malicious people in the world. The Chief’s kind of sensitive about rumors.” Mike didn’t respond. “Some nasty stuff on his last job, but he took care of it. Like I say, something ugly comes up, deal with it. Don’t let it go unanswered. Most people are rotten and weak, but even assholes understand fairness.” -------“Most people are rotten? I think that’s a little harsh, Til. My sense is that most people are pretty decent, and some of them are damned heroic, street kids who beat the odds, old women willing to take on drug dealers, I’ve even met a few honest cops.” -------“Then you’ve been lucky,” Til said, “but I’ve been around longer than you have. You know my story. Got my engineering degree after the war and ended up commanding a battalion in Korea. That was a nasty war. I made colonel and got out. Spent a few years building oil tanks in the Middle East for Chicago Bridge and making money at poker. The corporations are worse than the military. Every man for himself and forget the collateral damage. Soldier of fortune is an interesting profession, Mike. Money and action up the wazoo. Ugly as hell, but nobody cares so long as you win. Some of my troops were just kids. Kadoga they call them in Swahili, ‘little things that mean nothing’. I took care of them, and most of my boys went home in one piece with money in their pockets. I always tried to be on the right side of a war, if I could figure out which it was. I knew Vietnam was a mistake, but I’m proud to have I fought for Israel in ‘67. Decent wars are hard to find. It’s the politicians that start them, for their own lousy reasons. We soldiers just finish them. What about your Ph.D?” ------- Mike was surprised by the change of subject. “I’ve been thinking about it. Cynthia tell you?” ------- Til shook his head. “I just don’t see a guy like you giving up. Go for it, Mike. Life of the mind. A man who’s seen some action brings more to it. What’s your field?” ------- “History of nineteenth and twentieth century thought,” Mike said. “James, Dewey, existentialism, phenomenology, the neo-pragmatists.” ------- “Willy James,” Til said approvingly. “Most people think pragmatism means screw your neighbor.” ------- Two couples with half a dozen young children appeared in the doorway. ------- “Morning, folks. Come on in. Anything you want to know, just ask. The mill was floated over to the Cape from Plymouth in 1793. Been on this spot since 1802. High tech back then. Farmers ground their grain and paid the miller with a sack of flour. Sure, son, go on up, but take it slow. Those are farmers’ steps, cheap and steep. ------- “Got to get to work here, Mike. Say ‘hi’ to Cynnie. Tell her to stop in. You be good to her. ------- “Come here, young man. I’ll show you where the corn goes in.” ------- -------Chapter 32 ------- ------- ------- “I got another letter, Mike.” ------- “I’ll be over,” Mike said. She’d sounded spooked. He put on his shoes and jogged out to the truck. It was a two minute drive. ------- Cynthia was standing in the doorway when he pulled up. The drawing she held out to him was crude, but he could see why it had threatened her more than the note. ------- “It’s just a piece of paper,” he said. “The ones that send messages don’t do anything.” ------- “Never?” ------- “I’m not saying don’t take it seriously. Don will.” ------- “I’d rather not to show it to him, Mike. Somebody will talk, and I don’t want that.” ------- “He’d have their head.” He hesitated a moment. “Why don’t you move in with me? I mean just for a while. I have an extra bedroom. Unless you think the school...” ------- Cynthia laughed. “We have a dozen gay and lesbian teachers and lots of unmarried couples. I think there’s even one ménage à trois. You and I are upstanding citizens. I’d like that, Mike, for now anyway. It’s been spooky these last few nights. Thanks.” ------- They talked a while and then walked up Bridge Road to Watkins Point and took a path through the woods to a low bluff that overlooked the marsh. The old wooden bench had been a memorial, but the plaque was missing. Birders often came here with spotting scopes. They sat for some minutes watching the marsh. ------- “Why something like this now, Mike? I’ve been here for two years.” ------- “Anything I don’t already know about?” ------- “Other than being a former juvenile delinquent and teenage slut and an ex-hooker with a police record?” ------- “The notes don’t mention kids,” Mike said, “or school. He doesn’t give any reason or make any demands. He just wants to scare you.” ------- “He’s doing pretty well. I can handle an angry parent or a ticked-off principal. I don’t even get upset. It’s not knowing....” She took a breath. “I don’t see how this could be part of it. It’s the last thing I haven’t told you, because I didn’t know how you’d take it. I’m bi-sexual. I’ve had girl friends. But I’m not promiscuous. You’re my guy as long as you’ll have me. What’s so funny?” ------- “Sorry. Nothing’s funny. I’m smiling because I knew. I’m glad you brought it up, though. I wasn’t going to.” ------- “Most people don’t know.” ------- “That’s what Sally said. She and I were friends in high school. I hit on her, politely, when I first came up last year, and she had to set me straight. I asked about you, too, and she didn’t mean to give you away, but reading people was my job for along time. It’s why I didn’t come looking. Sorry.” He put his arm around her. “It just makes you more interesting.” ------- ------- Chapter 33 ------- -------And here I thought it was all about the food! They say love, money, and power are what make the world go round, but somehow we always end up in bed. Sex developed over the millennia as an encouragement to reproduction, and the good news, depending on how you look at it, is that humans can’t turn it off. -------I’d never heard of gays and lesbians when I was a child. You can keep kids pretty ignorant for a while, but they’ll figure things out eventually. Talk about burying your head in the sand. In the sixties the psychologists realized that homosexuality was a normal variation of human sexuality, and now the biologists have even found genes for it. It’s just the way things are. -------I knew nothing about Cynthia’s life in New York until she told me, but I wasn’t surprised. She was always a firecracker. Ready to try anything. Mike seems to have taken it well. I’m pretty sure he’s strictly straight himself, but he’s been around. I’ve wondered about Til sometimes, all those golden soldier boys, but that’s my point. We can wonder all we want and it’s none of our business. You’d think we didn’t have real problems. Gay marriage? Marriage is a pledge that a couple makes to one another before witnesses. That’s all it is, not magic. The rabbi or minister gives his blessing, which any fool could do, and the couple gets the rest of their lives to work it out! ------- ------- ------- -------Chapter 34 ------- ------- “I love Crones,” Sophie said. She and Emily had talked Mike into buying them mocha frappachinos. David was eating a grilled Italian sandwich, and Mike and Cynthia were drinking coffee. At three in the afternoon the coffee shop was overflowing with high school kids, mothers with small children, and elderly retirees. They’d invited Marcy Brandt, but she begged off. -------“Nickerson!” -------Mike looked up to see an unfamiliar face inches from his own, a rough-looking man with crazy eyes. He wasn’t being loud, but people were watching them. -------“You kids beat it,” he said. “These people are perverts.” -------“I don’t think you and I have met, pal,” Mike said. He held out his hand. The man took it without thinking then tried to pull away. Mike stood and put his arm around the man’s shoulders, his hand resting at the base of his neck. “Let’s go outside and talk,” he said and steered him quickly towards the door. He saw Adele Crone watching them as she spoke into her cell phone. -------Mike walked the man to the far side of the parking lot, talking quietly to him for several minutes until a police car drove up. -------“Making trouble again, Jason?” one of the officers said. “Don’t know what to do with you.” -------“Somebody told me...,” Jason mumbled. -------“They told you wrong, Jason. Remember? You’re supposed to think before you act, like we’ve talked about. Hop in the car, and I’ll give you a ride home.” -------Jason got into the back seat of the police car. -------“Thanks, Nickerson. Jason gets confused.” He stuck out his hand. “Phil Trout.” -------“Thank you, Phil,” Mike said. “You’ll be all right, Jason. You like fish? Yeah? Come see me at the harbor. The Chub.” ------- -------“That was cool,” Sophie said. -------Mike glanced around the room. Everyone was looking somewhere else. ------- “Can you show me how to do that?” David asked. ------- Mike shook his head. “There’s nothing to teach really. Jason’s big but he’s not that strong. Mostly it’s knowing what to expect from people. You could talk to your parents about some self-defense classes if you want, but the best thing is just to stay away from trouble. You know that.” ------- David looked disappointed. ------- “I’ll tell you what,” Mike said. “If you can be up by six, come running with me tomorrow. It’s not macho, but the idea is to stay strong and healthy. I’ve had to run from situations more than once.” ------- “No kidding?” David asked. ------- “No kidding,” Mike said. “And the bad guys can’t run for beans.” ------- Chapter 35 ------- ------- ------- “This is my favorite place in the world.” ------- “I thought that was Stone Harbor,” David said, but Sophie ignored him. ------- They’d bicycled to Bearberry Hill and left their bikes locked to a fence. A narrow path wound through low bushes to the top of a bald knob overlooking the Atlantic. Hills covered with bearberry, poverty grass, low bush blueberry, and young junipers rose around them. There were no other hikers in sight and no sign of civilization except for the tip of a radar tower miles to the north. They sat on the grass and watched the whitecaps being whipped up by a strong northeast breeze. Sophie took their sandwiches and drinks from her backpack. ------- “What should we talk about?” she asked -------“Archaeology,” David said. ------- “I want to talk about mom,” Sophie said. ------- Emily looked upset but didn’t say anything. ------- “We have to say something to her.” ------- “She’ll be angry,” Emily said. ------- “I don’t care,” Sophie said. ------- David started to speak but changed his mind and looked out at the ocean. ------- “We’ll make her talk.” ------- “Then she’ll be really angry.” ------- “What do you think, David?” Sophie asked ------- “I don’t know,” David said, “she’s your mom.” ------- “But your dad’s a psychiatrist.” ------- “I don’t want to talk about this,” David said. ------- “We have to.” Sophie said. She was near to tears. ------- “Okay, okay,” David said. “Tell her she’s got to get help.” ------- “You have to come with us. You’re our friend. If you come, she can’t just blow us away.” ------- “All right,” David said unhappily. He balled up his sandwich wrappings and put them in his pocket. “What about your dad?” ------- “We can’t talk to him,” Emily said. “Not about this.” ------- “Fine,” David said. “Can we forget about it now?” ------- “Sure,” Sophie said. “Let’s talk about Mike and Cynthia.” ------- “They’re lovers,” Emily said primly. ------- “So?” David said. He was tired of the conversation. ------- “So why don’t they get married?” Sophie asked. ------- “Ask them,” David said. ------- “No!” Sophie said. “But they’re really great together. They ought to be married and have kids.” ------- “They have us,” David said. ------- “Just for the summer,” Emily said. “Maybe Cynthia’s too old.” ------- “Mrs. Wycoff had twins,” Sophie said, “and she’s forty-five. Mom said so.” ------- “Maybe they’re already married to somebody else,” David said. ------- “Oh, come on,” Sophie said in disgust. She stuffed the sandwich wrappings and the empty water bottles in her back pack. “We’ll go down to the beach like Til said.” ------- “Good,” David said. ------- They followed the fire road over the next rise and down a steep sand hill to the beach. A few tiny figures were visible two miles south of them. There was no one at all to the north. They walked the beach for ten minutes, poking through piles of drift lumber and scraps of rope and fishnet. David periodically checked the base of the cliff for arrowheads. ------- Near the blackened remains of a campfire Emily bent down and picked something out of the sand. -------“Look,” she said, “A cross.” She showed it to the others. -------“It’s an ankh,” David said. -------“What’s that?” Sophie asked. -------“An Egyptian cross, from before the Christians. It’s the symbol of life.” -------“Cool,” Sophie said. “What’s it doing here?” -------“They’re used by pagan cults,” David said. -------“There aren’t any pagan cults,” Emily told him angrily. -------“Sure there are,” David said. “It’s just make-believe. My dad says there are always people who do that sort of thing, witches, pagans, druids. For fun, or maybe because they have trouble ordinary life, so they invent a world they can control. He says we all do that in one way or another.” -------“That’s silly,” Sophie said. “Come on, let’s go.” She started back, and the others followed. ------- ------- After they’d climbed up from the beach they discussed going home, but it was only mid-afternoon. -------“That way.” David pointed to a vague path that led over the next rise. ------- “No,” Emily said. “Til said not to. We might get lost.” ------- “How can we get lost?” Sophie said. “It’s only two miles from the ocean to the highway. We could call 911. Your phone has GPS, so the police will know where we are.” ------- “Sure, and they’ll send a helicopter for us,” David said. “My dad would love paying for that. I have a compass,” he said, holding up his walking stick.” ------- “You and your dumb stick,” Emily said. -------“It’s not dumb.” -------“Til says there are wolves on the other side of the hill,” Sophie said. -------“Til like to tell stories,” David said. He started along the trail, and the girls followed. The sand path wound up the short slope and then steeply down through stunted pitch pine. In places it was gouged into a deep trough by runoff from the spring rains. In other places it was only a faint track across an open area of lichen and bearberry. -------“Is this going anywhere?” Emily asked. -------“It has to go somewhere,” David said. -------Ten minutes later, deep in a small valley, they came to a kettle pond that was no more than fifty feet across. It was almost filled with buttonbush and loosestrife, and it was noisy with the twanging rubber-band sound of invisible frogs. The path continued around the edge of the pond to a dilapidated shack. -------“Does somebody live there?” Emily asked. -------“It’s where the Swamp Thing lives,” David said. -------“Grow up, David,” Sophie said. She started towards the door. -------“Wait,” David said. He went ahead of her and pried the door open with his stick. -------“It’s empty,” he said. He went inside, and the girls followed. -------“I wonder why it’s here,” Emily said, looking at the bare room. -------“A hunting camp?” David suggested. -------“Maybe it belongs to a hermit,” Sophie said. -------“The old man of the dunes,” David said. “He eats live frogs.” -------“Stop it!” Emily said. “I don’t like this place.” -------They were halfway back to the main trail when Emily suddenly pointed. -------“Look, a wolf!” -------Fifty feet further along the path a large coyote stood watching them. It still wore some of its winter coat, but they could see that it was shedding and would soon appear thin and scraggly the way coyotes do in the summer months. -------“He’ll run away if we start towards him, won’t he?” Emily asked. -------David took a step, but the coyote didn’t move. -------“I don’t like this,” Emily said. -------David shouted and waved his walking stick. He shouted louder and ran a few feet towards the animal. The coyote came slowly towards them, its head turned slightly to one side. -------“Why isn’t it running?” Sophie asked in a strangled voice. -------“I think it has rabies,” David said. -------The coyote walked as if its legs were stiff. It was growling at them, low and menacing. -------“What do we do?” Emily said. -------“Go back to the shack,” David said. “Get inside and close the door.” -------“You go, Sophie,” Emily said. She gave her the cell phone. “Call for help.” -------Sophie started to run to the shack but stopped when she saw that Emily had stayed with David. The coyote was no more than ten feet away. David held the walking stick like a lance. When the coyote was close enough, he jammed the end of the stick into the animal’s mouth and pushed as hard as he could. The coyote bit furiously, but David pushed it off the trail. Finally it pulled away and ran into the brush. The girls were screaming. ------- “Did you call,” David said to Sophie. -------“I can’t get a signal.” -------“Up the trail,” David said. He was pale. -------“What will happen to the coyote?” Emily asked. -------“The rangers will shoot him if they find him. They’ll have him tested for rabies. They don’t attack humans unless they’re sick.” David sounded sick himself. ------- -------“You guys don’t give it a rest, do you?” Mike said. “You have more adventures in a week than most people do in their whole lives. Where did this happen?” -------Sophie pulled out the sketch that Till had drawn and showed him where they’d met the coyote. Mike looked at the map carefully, then asked if he could borrow it. -------“Keep it,” Sophie said. “We’re not going there again.” -------“You still have the stick, David?” Mike asked. -------“Uh huh. It has bite marks on the end. The ranger told me to soak it in bleach. They’re going to look for the coyote, and they’re going to put out bait with rabies vaccine. If they don’t, people will want to shoot all the coyotes. -------“It’s not the coyotes’ fault,” Emily said. “They were here first.” -------“I heard they came across the bridge just a few years ago,” Mike said. -------“But there were wolves here once, a long time ago,” Emily insisted. “Til says our coyotes are part wolf.” -------“Wolves are neat,” David said. -------“In stories,” Sophie said. -------“What about the cross?” Cynthia asked. -------“It’s silver,” Emily said. “I took it to Grunnings, and they said it’s nice. They’d never seen one like it. It’s a shame that someone lost it” -------“They were too busy dancing naked around the fire and biting the heads off frogs,” David said. -------“You make fun of everything,” Emily said. -------“Everything’s funny,” David said. -------“No, it isn’t,” Emily said. “Some things aren’t funny.” ------- ------- ------- -------Chapter 36 ------- ------- “You want to know if the same person did both of these?” I said. “You’re asking the wrong man.” ------- “I think you’re right,” Mike agreed. He put the drawings back in his pocket. “So how’s the old man?” ------- “Not bad,” I said. “I keep busy with talking books and a little work in the garden. I still write some, but it’s mostly a one-sided conversation with my former wives and the Master of the Universe. It keeps me going. Yourself?” ------- -------It was good talking with Mike. I hadn’t seen him for a while. He told me his troubles, some of them at least, but he didn’t seem too bothered by them. The map was Til’s. I was pretty sure the drawing was, too, and Mike knew it. But what should I have said? I’ve known Mike a lot longer than Til, but I’d trust my life with either one of them, what’s left of it. -------Chapter 37 ------- -------Melvil was staring at her with uncharacteristic intensity. -------“You mean this?” Emily touched the silver ankh she’d hung around her neck. It was such a surprisingly feminine request that her mother had gladly bought her the thin silver chain. “I found it on the beach near Bearberry Hill, before we were attacked by the coyote. It’s an ankh.” ------- “I know what it is,” Melvil said. -------“I think it’s pretty. Mom got me the chain.” -------“Miss Harper wears an ankh,” Melvil said. -------“I’d never noticed that,” Emily said. “Does that mean she’s a witch.” She grinned, but Melvil just looked at her. “She is a witch, isn’t she?” Emily said. “How can a Methodist be a witch?” -------“I don’t think the Methodist Church entirely satisfies her,” Melvil said. “Eastham has always had witches.” -------“Really?” Emily said. -------“From the beginning,” the cat said. “but it’s just for fun now, although it still strikes me as a little risky.” -------“You mean...black magic?” -------“No,” Melvil said scornfully. “I mean social pressure. People in a group can do things they wouldn’t do alone, like casting spells.” -------“No group could tell me what to do if I didn’t want to,” Sophie said. -------“Good for you. Miss Harper says...” -------“I thought you liked her, Mel?” -------“I love Miss Harper,” Melvil said. “I don’t know exactly what the Eastham witches do. I’m sure it’s harmless, but...” -------“If she sees my ankh, she might think I’m a witch, too!” Emily said, fingering the chain. -------“I seriously doubt it,” the cat said, “but she might know if someone lost it and wants it back.” -------“Oh,” Emily said. “Maybe I should I give it to her.” But then she’d know I knew about her! Emily undid the chain and put the cross in her pocket. “Are there witches everywhere, Melvil?” -------“There’s everything everywhere,” the cat said. -------There was no one on the bike path at 11:30 in the morning. Emily rode the five miles to the cottage in twenty minutes. Her father said people who played at being witches were silly, but Miss Harper wasn’t silly. She’d get Sophie to ask her. ------- -------“Witches, Sophie? Why do you want to know?” -------“I was just curious, Miss Harper. Some kid said....” She hesitated, uncertain how to continue. -------“I know a little about witches,” Miss Harper said. “Until the eighteenth century nearly everyone believed that all bad things that happened to you, like getting sick or having an accident, were either God’s punishment for your sins or were caused by witchcraft. Women, and men too, who were thought to be witches were sometimes even put to death. But the Eastham witches are just ordinary women who meet at someone’s house for lunch. We have what we call our Spelling Bees. People contribute money to charity to have us beat drums and cast spells for good things, like getting well or finding a husband or a job. Would you like to come sometime? We have a few younger members. You’d have to ask your parents.” -------“That sounds cool,” Sophie said. “Maybe my mom would come too. If she did could you... make a spell for her?” -------“Certainly,” Miss Harper said. “Is there something in particular?” -------“Uh huh,” Sophie said. ------- -------“A witch party?” -------“They call them Spelling Bees.” -------“And you want me to come?” Marci Brandt asked. -------“Uh huh,” Sophie said. She suddenly felt warm. -------“Emily, too?” -------“No, just you and me,” Sophie said -------“Why, Sophie?” -------“Because,” Sophie said. Tears were forming in her eyes. She’d blown it. Her mother was too smart. -------“It’s all right, Sophie,” her mother said softly. “Sure, I’ll come. It sounds like fun. She held Sophie in her arms, and Sophie buried her head in her mother’s shoulder. -------“I don’t think everything can be fixed by a witches’ spell,” her mother said. -------“I know,” Sophie said. -------“Maybe it’ll be a start,” her mother said. “We won’t tell your father.” Sophie shook her head. ------- -------Chapter 38 ------- ------- -------“I can’t believe you went with Mom to a witch party!” -------Emily and Sophie were sitting on a rock at the edge of the salt marsh behind their cottage. -------“You’re not mad at me?” Sophie said. -------“No, it’s okay,” Emily said. “Did they make a spell?” -------“Uh huh,” Sophie said. “They beat drums and chanted and exorcised mom’s demons. It got really loud.” She grinned. “Mom laughed, and she cried too. She said she didn’t know how her drinking got started, but she knew what she had to do and we shouldn’t worry. She’s going to AA tomorrow with one of the witches.” -------“That’s great! Sophie, you’re terrific. Are you going to do more witch stuff?” -------“I don’t think so. They were nice, but except for Mom’s spell, it was kind of boring.” -------“Who was there?” -------“Miss Harper and Mrs. Bennett from the library, Ider, the woman who works in the Food Giant, and some other women I’ve seen around. Mostly they were pretty old, except for the girl that pumps gas at the Sunoco station. I think she’s Ider’s daughter. And there was one woman, Mrs. French, who was kind of scary. She’s old, too, but still almost beautiful, and she looks like she could really cast a spell if she wanted to. Miss Harper says there are at least twenty witches in Eastham and covens in Brewster and Wellfleet. There are hundred of witches on the Cape, Em!” -------“Is Cynthia...?” -------“No,” Sophie said. “I asked Miss Harper, and she said she wasn’t. She didn’t say so, but I think they’re afraid of her. Afraid she might really be a witch.” ------- -------Chapter 39 ------- -------“I’m glad about your mother,” Cynthia said. “AA really works, even if you don’t exactly believe in God.” -------She and Sophie were on top of Great Rock, a fifteen foot tall, lichen-covered boulder that had been left by the last glacier and looked strangely out of place in the oak forest behind Coast Guard Beach. Their bicycles were leaning against a tree. -------“She said they couldn’t have been nicer. There were teachers there and a lawyer, all kinds of people.” -------“All kinds of people become alcoholics,” Cynthia agreed. “It’s easy to do. I went for a while when I was in New York. Being poor and dumb in the city can get you into bad habits. I still go sometimes.” -------“But you drink beer.” -------“I shouldn’t, but I’m stubborn.” -------Sophie looked at her doubtfully. -------“I’m a big girl, Soph.” -------“Yeah, but they say....” -------“I know what they say. Tell you what. How about I stop for the summer?” -------“No, Cynthia, you don’t have to for me.” -------“My decision. Mike can keep me company. He downs a few too many. Booze ruins lives, but it seems to be an individual thing. Churchill won the war half sloshed. He was a fencing and polo champion when he was young, he wrote 400 books, became a good artist after he retired, and lived to be eighty five.” -------Cynthia pointed into the trees. They watched a flock of two dozen wild turkeys stalk out of the woods and cross the parking lot, keeping loosely together without any of them seeming to be in charge. Then they saw the big tom behind them. -------“They’re huge!” Sophie said. “I’ve never seen a wild turkey before. Aren’t they hunted?” -------“Do they look worried?” Cynthia asked. -------“No,” Sophie said, “they look mean. I’m glad we’re up here.” -------“Turkeys were brought back to the Cape just a little while ago. I think they’re still protected, except from the coyotes. These woods have grown up over the past sixty years. The Cape was mostly virgin pitch pine and hardwood forest when the colonists came. Really giant trees. There were wolves and wild turkeys back then and just a few fields where the Indians grew corn and beans. It was almost all waste land by the middle of the nineteenth century. There were just a few asparagus and turnip farms for a while after that. And believe it or not, all around here was a golf course in the 1920’s.” -------“A golf course!” -------“Some rich guy built it. Mike says we like golf courses because they look like the African veldt did when the apes first came down from the trees.” ------- -------Her mother needed a few things from the store, so Sophie rode her bike to the Food Giant. She could spend an hour wandering its aisles, reading labels and studying the canned goods in the foreign foods section. Marcy didn’t like to cook, so it was hard to get her to try new things. Emily and Sophie cooked sometimes. They had fun, but it wasn’t always very good. -------“Hello, Emily!” -------“Hi, Ider, only I’m Sophie. Emily’s the pigmy.” The big woman laughed. She had set up her table at the end of the cereals aisle and was heating something in a toaster oven. -------“Sorry, dear. You’re both such sweetie pies. Want to try some Pizza Pieces for me?” -------“Sure, Ider,” Sophie said. Ida’s job was to cook samples for the customers. She seemed to give most of these to her fellow employees, but she was generous to Emily and Sophie. The popcorn and pop tarts, and sausages, pastries, and pizza were one of the reasons Sophie like to go to the food store. -------“You girls having a good summer?” -------“It’s been great. We’re helping Cynthia Cabot decide what to do with the Chapel in the Pines. We’re learning about different religions.” -------“Cynthia Cabot, huh?” -------“She’s nice, Ider.” -------“I hear she’s a good teacher. Goes with that Nickerson fellow?” -------“Mike’s helping us too. He’s our friend.” -------“If you say so, Dearie. How’s your mom?” -------“She’s fine,” Sophie said. Ida nodded amicably. Ida was in AA, and she gossiped. But AA was something to be proud of. -------“The Spelling Bee was interesting, Ider.” -------“Mm hmm,” Ida said. She was pulling pizza snacks out of the toaster oven and trying not to burn her fingers. Ida did one thing at a time. “Kind of dull for kids,” she said. -------“It was okay,” Sophie said. “Emily and I are interested in witches.” -------“Not a good idea, kiddo.” Ida said. “We’re not witches, just old women. ------- “I know that, why not?” Sophie asked. “There aren’t real witches, are there?” -------“It’s just not a good idea,” Ida said with finality, “and, no, there ain’t any real witches.” -------They talked about other things for a few minutes. Ida glanced up. Jane French smiled and said hello as she pushed her shopping cart past them, and suddenly Sophie knew she was the women who had locked Emily and David in the crawl space. She watched Mrs. French rummaging in the packages of stew meat. Ida was taking Pizza Pieces from the toaster. ------- Sophie took one and thanked Ida and told her she had to finish here shopping. She followed the tall woman into the produce section and ate two cheese samples at the deli while she kept an eye on her. Then she paid for the apples and the newspaper and waited on a bench near the door. -------Twenty minutes later she followed Mrs. French out of the store. She got on her bicycle and waited while the woman rolled her cart to a red pickup and put her bags in the back. Sophie rode quickly to the exit. When the truck turned onto Route 6, Sophie followed. There was a lot of traffic, and the woman had to drive so slowly that Sophie was able to keep up all the way to where Mrs. French turned into the driveway of an old Victorian farm house just outside of town on the road to the harbor. Sophie got off her bike and fiddled with her chain as she watched the woman carry bags into the house. She could come back another time with Emily. -------. ------- ------- ------- -------Chapter 40 ------- ------- Cars lined both sides of the road in front of the chapel. Marcy parked in the library lot beside an old Volvo that was plastered with bumper stickers. ‘Save Tibet’ seemed particularly plaintive. ------- “Let’s go girls,” Marcy said grimly. ------- “Mom!” Sophie said. “It’ll be fun.” ------- “Life after Death?” Marcy couldn’t stop herself from giggling. ------- “We know some of the people, Mom,” Emily said. “You’ll like them.” ------- “I’m sure I will,” Marcy said. “Sorry to be a grouch. Getting up at seven for AA is hard.” ------- “We know, mom,” Emily said. “We think you’re wonderful.” ------- “Do you, baby?” She hugged her daughters as they walked up the steps to the chapel. ------- They found a scene of unhurried chaos inside as two dozen elderly men and women arranged chairs in a circle. ------- “Hi, I’m Dorothy,” a small, sharp-featured woman said to Marcy. “Welcome to the Fellowship. Hello, girls. You’re Sophie, right? I see Emily in the library all the time. Should be an interesting program today.” ------- “Marcy Brandt,” Marcy said. She felt overwhelmed. -------Dorothy introduced her to a small man who asked where they were staying and immediately began discussing environmental threats to the salt marsh. Everyone looked extremely old, but the girls were chatting as if they were among school friends. There was no reserve among these people. She didn’t see how she could fit in. ------- “Let’s get started,” a large woman called out over the din. Conversation slowed as the stragglers sat down and chairs were adjusted. ------- “Helen’s the president,” Dorothy whispered. ------- “Any visitors this morning? Helen was looking at Marcy. “Just tell us your names dears and where you’re from.” ------- “Marci Brandt,” Marci said. “My daughters, Emily and Sophie. We’re from New Jersey.” ------- “Welcome to the Fellowship, ladies. If you girls want juice, just get up and get it. We’re informal here. Announcements anyone?” ------- A large man waved a pudgy hand. “William’s in the hospital. It’s his heart again, but they say he’ll be all right.” ------- There were murmurs of sympathy, and a woman said the Caring Committee would send flowers. ------- “He likes blue,” the man said. ------- “Yes, Marion?” Dorothy said. ------- “Fred has an announcement,” the woman said. ------- A gnarled old man stood and sang several verses of a risqué sea chantey. He reminded everyone that he was selling food certificates to benefit the homeless. ------- “I think we can start,” Dorothy said. “You’re on, Harry.” ------- A slim man in his late sixties took the chair vacated by Dorothy. ------- “’Life after death.’ Harry said. “My father always said you get what you expect, Heaven, Hell, or zilch. Let’s go around the room. June, can we start with you? Anyone can take a pass,” he added, glancing at Marcy. ------- “Oh, dear,” June said. “Well, I think we live on the in the memories of our loved ones, and... in the good we’ve done here on earth. Little things, but it all adds up!” She looked pleased with herself. ------- “Nicely put, June. James?” ------- “I’m a scientist,” James said. “and any scientist who believes in life after death is a fool.” ------- “Then I’m glad I’m not a scientist,” Dorothy said. ------- “So am I,” James said, and Dorothy stuck out her tongue. ------- When it was her turn, Marci surprised herself by speaking. ------- “I think anything’s possible,” she said, “but I believe we should try hard to live the best lives we can now.” ------- “There has to be a heaven,” Sophie said angrily. “Grandfather can’t be just gone.” ------- “He isn’t gone,” Harry said. “Whether or not there’s an afterlife, you’ll always have your grandfather, and so will everyone who ever cared about him.” ------- Sophie nodded, but she wasn’t sure that was enough. ------- “Believing in life after death could be an excuse for not doing as much as you can in this life,” Emily said. ------- “It certainly could,” Dorothy said. “You girls are thinkers. We need all the thinkers we can get.” ------- Emily and Sophie were pleased. ------- Others suggested variations on remembrance and good works and different degrees of oblivion. ------- “What about Hell?” Fred asked. “If there’s a Heaven, there has to be a Hell.” ------- “Why?” Dorothy asked. ------- “What happens to terrorists,” Fred insisted, “torturers and rapists, serial killers, con men that steal a widow’s savings?” ------- “They could be cured,” Dorothy said. “Then they can go to Heaven. I think you have to be weak or crazy to do bad things. I don’t believe there are any really evil people. It’s just the way we feel about things that happen to us. Anyway, why do you care, Fred? You don’t believe in Heaven.” ------- “This is getting too philosophical for me, Dorothy,” Harry said. “I see folks eyeing the cookies.” He smiled at Sophie, who glowered at him. ------- ------- “You must have been very fond of your grandfather,” Harry said to Sophie. Harry was drinking coffee. Sophie had a cup of juice and was eating her second brownie. She liked Harry, and he didn’t seem to her much like a secret agent. -------“Grampa was especially nice to Emily and me,” Sophie said. “He always wore a suit and vest and smoked big cigars. He looked important. I wish he hadn’t died. Do you believe in witches?” -------“Nope.” -------“Not at all? Do you know about the witches of Eastham?” -------“Yes, but they aren’t really witches. The Eastham Elks aren’t elks. Those are just names.” -------“So you wouldn’t worry if you were cursed by a witch?” -------“I might worry about the mental health of the witch. Did that happen to you? -------“Cynthia Cabot let Emily and David dig for artifacts in the basement of the chapel, and a crazy woman put a curse on them and locked them in, except not really. And Emily had her cell phone so they called Mike. I think they’re still a little worried.” -------“That’s quite a story. Did they tell the police?” “Cynthia did, but they said there wasn’t anything they could do.” -------“No, I wouldn’t think so. Tell them not to worry. If curses worked, the C.I.A. would have used them. Of course, if you believed in magic then having a curse put on you might be upsetting.” -------“Thanks, Harry. Did you ever wear a disguise when you were in the C.I.A?” -------“All the time,” Harry said. “I hardly ever knew who I was.” He grinned. “I’m not sure now, but I’ll bet you know who you are?” -------“I think so,” Sophie said, not sure what he meant. ------- “Good,” Harry said. ------- ------- “They were nice people,” Marci said as they were driving home. “You forget how old they are.” ------- “Some of them used to be famous,” Sophie said. “Fred and Helen were college professors and wrote books. Harry was a secret agent. William’s a billionaire.” ------- “A secret agent?” ------- “For the C.I.A.,” Sophie said. “I asked him if there are witches. He said there aren’t but that some people are afraid of them anyway.” She glanced at Emily. ------- “There aren’t real witches,” Marci said. ------- ------- Chapter 41 ------- ------- ------- Emily and David were cursed by a witch, but I can’t believe Emily was really upset. She’s twelve and sometimes she seems even older than that. I think she and Sophie just enjoy scaring themselves. My friends and I did at that age, and our resources were meagre by comparison, just ghost stories and corny black and white movies. Horror comics didn’t come in until the forties. -------I’m quite fond of all the Fellowship people. I’m not a member myself, although they have a few Jews. I send them a modest check every year and go when the program sounds interesting. Membership seems to be nominal anyway, just sign the book. There’s nothing special to believe. The chapel on Sunday mornings is a little like the Space Bar in Star Wars. Officially it’s Unitarian/Universalist, but it’s mostly a secular humanist support group of retired academics, social workers, and scientists who hold Sunday morning meetings on miscellaneous topics. They’re unfailingly kind to the speaker, which is always a good way to judge an organization. They put on tasty potlucks every month, what we used to call covered-dish suppers. The closest thing they have to a creed is their Seven Principles. I like the children’s version: Each person is Unique. Treat everyone equally. Think for yourself. Search for truth and meaning. Seek peace, fairness, and freedom in the world, and respect the planet earth. Who could argue with any of that? And they give generously to local charities, G-d love them ------- I hang out with lots of groups, the Historical Society, the Coffee Club, the Arboretum Committee, a book group, a writing group, a Torah Study Society, and an Amicale Francaise. I’m always telling my kids to find themselves a community. They don’t know it yet, but he older you get, the more you need your friends and the quicker they die off. I tell them to learn a foreign language, too, but they’re too busy. -------Chapter 42 ------- ------- “You’re looking good, Cynnie.” ------- “If I were only as good as I look?” ------- “Yeah, but they’re plenty proud of you now.” ------- “You’ve taken a poll? Tell you what, here’s another point of view.” She took the folded sheet of paper from her shirt pocket and handed it to him. He glanced at it for a moment and gave it back. ------- “They picked on the wrong girl. You get much of this?” ------- “Not really, a few letters to the Superintendent when I first came, more concerned than nasty. This is definitely my first ever death threat, and however silly you think it is I don’t like it. I know famous people get them all the time, but I’m not famous. What are you hearing?” ------- “About you? Nothing. Like you say, there was a little talk a couple years ago, mostly supportive. You are sort of quietly famous, you know, locally anyway. You show it to Logan?” ------- “Yeah, if I turn up dead they’ll investigate.” ------- “You never used to sweat this stuff, Cyn. It’s the cop, isn’t it? He know about your past?” ------- “It’s nothing to do with Mike.” ------- “You sure?” ------- “Mike’s a good guy.” ------- “Yeah? What are you now, kid, thirty-five? Think you can give up your independence?” ------- “You know how old I am, Til. You never connected with anybody?” -------She didn’t think he was going to answer. -------“There was a women once,” he said finally. “She died. I loved my men, and I left them buried all over the world. Love’s a bitch, Cynnie. Don’t let this creep scare you.” ------- “I’m not scared, Til.” ------- ------- ------- -------Chapter 43 ------- ------- “Take a pew, Captain.” Til aimed a thumb at a worn wooden chair. “I was just talking to your young lady.” ------- Mike nodded. “You knew her when she was a kid, right?” ------- “Smart as a whip and wild as a young nanny goat. Tell me something, Mike, why’s an historian putting on roofs and running a cute-assed party boat?” ------- “You’re such a sweet old bastard. You know I crewed on half the boats in Stone Harbor when I was in high school. I like boats. How did you end up a mercenary?” ------- “Professional soldier,” Til said. “I got hooked on fighting during the second war. You were military yourself.” -------“A three year enlistment in the MP’s. Not in your league.” ------- “What league is that, Cap? How about we start over?” ------- “Sure,” Mike said, “why not. You’re a big hit with Sophie and Emily. They think you’re Daddy Warbucks.” ------- “Great girls. All the youngsters like the mill.” ------- “We used to fool around in here when I was a kid,” Mike said. -------Til grinned. “That’s why we keep it locked. Windmills can give you a window on more than young love, professor. Technology, economics, architecture, social class. They’ve been around a long time. I read a lot of history. I suppose you know that armies were all professional until the twentieth century?” ------- “They lived off the land,” Mike said. “The Hundred Years War wiped out half of Europe.” ------- “But they didn’t target civilians the way they do nowadays. The people had no political power and they provided food and labor. There’s a nice collection of war books in the library. I should write my own. Like Churchill says, there’s nothing like being shot at and missed. ------- “I wouldn’t know,” Mike said. ------- Til laughed. “So I heard. I carry around some lead myself. We have more in common than you think, Mike.” ------- “I doubt it. Did Cynthia show you the letter?” ------- Til nodded. “I told her it was a piece of crap. You worried?” ------- Mike shrugged. “A little. She’s not happy about it.” ------- “Not scared, though?” ------- “No, I’d say more angry.” ------- “That girl doesn’t scare. Tell her to forget it. We’ve got our creeps like anywhere else. But tell me something, Mike, how’s a heathen like Cynnie supposed to pick a religious group to give the chapel?” -------“She’ll figure it out,” Mike said. “I wouldn’t call her a heathen. She’s got a strong sense of duty and honor.” -------“That’s personal faith. I mean religion, the official bunk that holds the tribe together. Beats me that anyone still buys it. What kind of God lets innocent children suffer? I’ve seen too much, Mike. There’s nobody looking out for us. Or if there is, he’s a pretty sick fucker. What I say is that a spark of energy came out of nowhere thirteen billion years ago. The theists see the hand of God, I see the beauty of the unintended. Meaningless and doomed but fascinating as Hell. We make our own lives. What could be more fantastic than that?” ------- “Is that what you tell the kiddies?” ------- Til laughed. “I tell ‘em about grinding corn. It took us a couple thousand years to get windmills right, and in the last two hundred we’ve come up with steam engines, electricity, atomic energy, computers, DNA. Who knows what next? Maybe the end of the world. But it all means what we say it means. -------“Listen, about the chapel. Why doesn’t Cyn just leave things the way they are? The place is jumping. It’s the whole fucking human comedy.” ------- “She’s just trying to do what Betty wanted.” ------- “Betty wants Cynnie hooked on religion the way she was. It’s not going to happen.” ------- “She knows that, but she feels obligated.” ------- “What I’m saying is so long as she gives it a fair try it doesn’t really matter what happens to the chapel, so why not do what Betty herself did for thirty years?” ------- “You’ve got a point there, Colonel,” Mike said. “I’ll pass it along.” ------- ------- ------- -------Chapter 44 ------- ------- “Miss Emily!” ------- Emily stood silhouetted in the doorway into the windmill. Til was leaning back in is chair, his red suspenders stretched over his stomach. Emily thought he looked like a friendly troll. ------- “Are you sure?” she said. -------“Yep. Sophie has a bigger mouth.” ------- Emily grinned. “Most people don’t notice that.” ------- “It pays to notice things. How’s the God Project going?” ------- “It’s good. We’re having a worship service next week. Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, and Hindu all at the same time. Will you come?” ------- “Wouldn’t miss it. You figuring to jerk a few chains?” ------- “No, Til! It’ll be nice.” ------- “Glad to hear it,” Til said. “Some people take religion seriously.” ------- “So do we! We’ll do it right. Anyway, all religions are about love and kindness and justice.” ------- “Is that what Mike told you? Some people don’t see it that way. They figure if they’re right everybody else has to be wrong and maybe they ought to kill them. You think the Buddhists are on to something?” ------- “Un huh. You empty your mind, and when you get rid of the self you invented to escape your pain, you find Nirvana. After that you’re supposed to stay on earth for a while to help other people find it. I’m not sure how long. I think I’d want to stay a long time. It’s just people who don’t understand their own religion who want to hurt others, and Mike’s not telling us what to think, Til. We figure it out for ourselves.” ------- “Sorry,” Til said. “I shouldn’t have said that. Would I have to give up cigarettes and whiskey to be a Buddhist?” ------- “You don’t smoke.” ------- “Not here I don’t. Can’t smoke in the mill. Know why the millers used wooden shovels?” He pointed to the shovel leaning against the wall. ------- Emily shook her head. ------- “Sparks,” Til said. “Air’s full of dust when the mill’s running. With a metal shovel you might get a spark, and boom! Whole towns have been flattened out west when the grain elevator blew up. Grain dust is mostly carbon, and when it mixes with oxygen in the air it burns like an explosive. No drinking around the mill either. Drunken millers don’t last long. Know why there are always two doors in a mill? So you don’t lose your head when you walk out the door. A killer mill’s called a ‘moulin rouge’.” ------- “Mike says we’re having an ‘ecumenical’ service. That’s Greek. It means the whole world.” ------- “’Oikos,’ Greek for house. I guess you’re pretty fond of Mike and Cynthia. All right, young lady, it’s time I locked up and went over to the Market for my lunch break.” Til levered himself out of his chair. “Let me know when you’re putting on your thingamajig. I’ll bring Buster. He likes a nice church service.” ------- ------- -------Chapter 45 ------- ------- “It’s locked,” Sophie said. She was annoyed. -------“Told you it would be,” David said. “They’re afraid kids will climb it and fall off.” ------- “I’ll bet we could see the whole Cape from up there.” ------- “Probably,” David agreed. ------- They’d ridden their bikes to the fire tower in Wellfleet. It was built of steel girders, fifty feet tall and still in good condition although it hadn’t been used for decades. David had said they probably wouldn’t be able climb it. Emily hadn’t even wanted to. Only Sophie was disappointed.” ------- “We could climb up the outside,” David said. ------- “Oh sure,” Sophie said scornfully. “Why don’t you do it?” ------- “Bet I could.” ------- “No!” Emily said. “It’s too dangerous.” ------- David studied the tower. “Not really,” he said. He shinnied up one of the stanchions to where the cross braces began and started to climb.” ------- “Come back, David,” Emily called after him. “You’ll be killed.” ------- “No I won’t,” David said. “It’s easy.” -------He continued to climb, steadily and carefully, twenty feet, forty, and finally to the base of the cabin, well above the tallest trees. The lower half of the cabin was sheathed with steel plates. He tried to find a crack to look through, but the plates overlapped and bolted together. To climb to the windows he’d have to put his foot on the narrow lip at the bottom of the cabin and pull himself up holding onto the seam between two plates. He was deciding whether to try this when he noticed what appeared to be a hinged door in the wall of the cabin. It was almost invisible from a foot away. He put a finger in a small recess in the metal and pulled the latch. The door opened easily. Inside was a narrow compartment. The top part was filled with insulation, but the bottom contained hundreds of packages wrapped in plastic. He took one and stuffed it in his pocket and began very slowly to climb down. He’d stopped every few feet, as if he couldn’t trust his arms and legs. When he finally slid down the stanchion to the ground his face was pale. He showed them the package. “I’ll bet it’s drugs,” he said. ------- -------“The junior archaeologists strike again.” Chief Logan had been called by Charlie Wells, the Wellfleet police chief. ------- “We’ll forget about your climbing the fire tower, David,” Wells said. “Did you know Will Stuart?” -------“Not really, sir,” David said. “I’ve seen him at the harbor. He has the mooring next to Mike’s.” -------“He a friend of Nickerson’s?” Logan asked. -------“I don’t think so,” David said. “Captain Stuart’s kind of mean.” -------“You don’t like him?” -------“It’s not just me. Nobody likes him. They say he’s a...a prick,” David said reluctantly. -------Logan laughed. “Why did you climb the tower, son?” -------“Sophie thought we could go up and see the view.” -------“It was Sophie’s idea?” -------“Not to climb up the outside. That was me, showing off.” -------“I see,” Logan said. “I guess I can understand that. Okay, David, you and your dad can go. Don’t talk about this to anyone. And stay away from places you know damn well you’re not supposed to be, all right? We might have a few more questions later.” ------- -------“Will Stuart’s house is just down the road from the fire tower,” Chief Wells said. “How well do you know him, Mike?” ------- “Not well. I know he’s a son of a bitch.” -------“What did you say to him when you had your little dust up?” -------“You heard about that, huh? I told him to stay away from Aaron.” -------“Yeah?” -------“And I said we’d keep away from his boat. We shook on it.” -------Logan laughed. “There’s a pretty valuable stash of heroin up there in the tower. The State Police will be fingerprinting the packages, but I figure we know who they belong to. Pretty smart actually. Handy but invisible except when a crazy kid climbs the tower, and no way to connect it to him unless he forgot to wear gloves. Stuart’s boat has been gone from the harbor for two days, Mike, and nobody knows where he is. You got any ideas?” -------Mike shook his head. “He goes out early and comes in long after me.” -------“Okay, we’ll leave it there for now. I hate to say it, Mike, but I think maybe you and Cynnie ought to stay away from those kids. Drugs are dangerous.” -------Mike nodded. “Got you,” he said. -------“Mind if we take a look in your boat?” -------“Be my guest,” Mike said. “When Stuart and I had our talk, I said something about Aaron not looking for his stash. Just jerking his chain, but I thought I got a funny reaction.” -------“Anything else you haven’t told me? Now would be a good time.” -------Mike shook his head. “It was just an impression, Chief. Wish I could help more.” ------- -------Chapter 46 ------- ------- ------- “What’ll you have, Captain?” ------- “Sam Adams.” ------- Sally King was a tall blonde who intimidated most men. Mike had known her in high school when she was a shy kid on the fringes. He hadn’t seen much of her after he went to college, but he’d looked her up the year before. She’d had to set him straight. She was part owner of the Binnacle now and living with her partner Julie. She’d made a name for herself as a painter as well. When he was at Nauset High, nobody had talked about gays and lesbians. Now there was a good-sized community on the Cape. -------“Nice write up on you in the Codder.” ------- “Thanks,” Mike said. “You find out who your friends are.” ------- “You’re telling me. How’s Cynnie?” ------- “She’s good,” Mike said. ------- “She’s way better than good, Mike, and a lot trouble, but she’s worth it. Good luck to both of you guys.” ------- “Thanks, Sally.” ------- Sally left to serve another customer. When she came back, Mike asked her where she’d heard the rumor, but she couldn’t remember. ------- “Tell you if I could,” she said. “You’d think we’d be immune to that garbage.” -------“What do you know about Will Stuart?” -------“Drugs. That’s what they say, and I believe it. He’s an asshole for sure. You think he’s skipped, or did somebody pop him?” She waved to a customer. “Duty calls. Say ‘hi’ to my girl. Tell her to stop around.” -------“I will,” Mike said. ------- ------- -------Chapter 47 ------- -------Mike had liked Alan Rubinstone a lot when he was a student at Penn. Alan was a professor of Russian history in his sixties who spoke eight languages and had written a dozen books. They’d met through Harvey Kahn, his thesis advisor. Mike had caught the fancy of several Penn faculty members, men roughly his own age who shared his interests and openly envied him his experience. He’d heard nothing from any of them for over a year and was surprised when Alan phoned to invite himself over for a beer. -------“Harvey told me you lived here,” Alan said. “If I’d known you were from the Cape, I’d have mentioned our cottage before. Great view of the marsh.” -------“My folks bought the place in the fifties,” Mike said, “a falling down farmhouse on the water. It’s obscene what it’s worth now, but I don’t plan to sell.” -------“You like it here year round?” -------Mike thought a moment before he answered. “Yeah, I do. It’s where I grew up. You just making conversation, Alan?” -------Alan grinned. “Harvey was pretty upset about what happened, but we didn’t know what to do. I gather this woman has apologized? Forgive me if you don’t want to talk about it, but it’s important. You were Harvey’s best student.” -------“I didn’t know that,” Mike said. -------“It’s not something he’d ever tell you, and don’t say I did. What about it, Mike? You coming back?” -------“You think I could?” -------“No question. Serious scholars are rare. Want to think it over?” -------“Hell no. I’ve just been afraid to ask. There’s somebody I need to talk to first, but yeah, I definitely want to come. Thanks, Alan.” ------- “Call Harvey and tell him.” Alan was looking at the bookshelves and the pile of books and papers on the table beside Mike’s chair. “Looks like you’ve been keeping your hand in.” ------- “I never really stopped. It keeps me sane. How’s your work going?” ------- “Good. Vick and I took my half-sabbatical in Israel. There’s new interest in Russian studies, but my field was the Soviets. Contemporary Russia is more like a big banana republic, and the winters are terrible. The Middle East is another direction for me, but I know Arabic and Hebrew. I’m working on a de Tocquevillean study of Israeli society. I admire them tremendously, but their situation is discouraging, and it’s partly their own fault.” ------- “It’s not a region I’ve studied,” Mike said. “They’ve been under siege for sixty years and they’ve kept their nerve.” ------- “More like a hundred, but it’s wearing them down. Us. We’ll probably move there eventually. Want my short version?” -------“Sure,” Mike said. “Let me get us a couple more beers.” -------“Okay, there was a small community of poor, devout Jews in Palestine for centuries under the Ottomans. About twenty thousand, mostly in Jerusalem. When more Jews began buying land in the 1880’s, the Arabs started to get nervous and tried to keep them out. They kept coming, and the Brits confused things by promising a homeland to both the Jews and the Arabs during the First World War, and then they didn’t come through fully for either of them. -------“The Jews started arriving by the boatload after the pogroms in Russia and the increased anti-Semitism in Western Europe, but if the Arabs had kept their cool and let them in, Palestine would be a thriving nation today with a peaceful Jewish minority. Instead, they forced the Jews to defend themselves and made partition and the nation of Israel inevitable. After the ’48 war, the Jews ended up with more land than the UN intended them to have, but even so, Israel would have been a lot smaller if the Arabs hadn’t tried to destroy it three more times. The Palestinians blame it on the Jews, but it was mainly their own leadership.” ------- “I’m all for the Israelis, Alan,” Mike said, “but haven’t some of them had their eye on all of Palestine from the beginning?” ------- Alan shrugged his shoulders. “Some of them The nationalists wanted a safe place for every Jew, and the ultra-orthodox believe God gave them Palestine three thousand years ago. The majority of Israelis are still willing to compromise, but the Arabs have made it easy for the hardliners. Things started to go really bad twenty years ago with the first intifada. The occupation of the West Bank has been disastrous for both sides, although people seem to forget why it ever happened. I think most of the land would be given back if the Palestinians offered genuine peace, but it’s getting late. There are over two hundred thousand Israelis in the big settlements.” ------- “Think there’ll be another war?” ------- “War or wars. The U.S. could help cool things off. G-d help us, the one thing that can unite the Muslims is making them our enemies.” ------- “Amen. I didn’t know you were observant.” ------- “More or less. I think we’ll outlast the extremists on both sides because we want for the Palestinians what they don’t want for us. Do unto others. That’s my faith.” -------“I hope you’re right, Alan. 9/11 took only twenty guys with box cutters. One nut with a suitcase device could do a lot more damage. I’m not sure love is the answer, but it’s worth a try.” ------- ------- Chapter 48 ------- ------- ------- “Emily, can we talk for a minute?” ------- Emily looked up from her book. Miss Harper was standing beside her. Carol Ann was at the checkout desk, staring at the far wall in the weird way that drove Miss Harper crazy. ------- “Sure,” Emily said. “Go, Melvil.” She shooed the cat off the table. ------- “You didn’t have to do that,” Miss Harper said. ------- “He listens,” Emily said. ------- “That’s true, he does.” Miss Harper smiled. “Sometimes I think he even understands me. I shouldn’t have said that to you the other day, Emily. It isn’t my business what you read or what you believe.” She didn’t seem to know how to go on. ------- “That’s all right, Miss Harper,” Emily said. “We’re Christians. We’re Episcopalians. We still go to church sometimes.” ------- “I know, dear, but we have to ask Jesus to be our personal Savior.” ------- ”Why can’t he save us without our asking? I would, if I were him.” ------- “He,” Miss Harper said. “If I were he. Well, perhaps you’re right. He can do anything. He’s made such a difference in my life. When I help someone, it’s like I’m doing His work.” ------- “I see how you are with people, Miss Harper. I hope I can be as kind and helpful as you are when I grow up. Maybe someday I’ll know Jesus, too. I just don’t think I’m ready.” ------- “I’m sure you will, Emily. And thank you for saying that. You’re a very thoughtful girl. Oh dear, Melvil’s looking daggers.” ------- ------- “I felt bad, Cynthia. It was so hard for her, but she just had to say it.” ------- They were sitting at the table in Cynthia’s back yard, admiring the garden. ------- “It sounds like you kept your cool, and Mary was able to keep her dignity and can feel that she’s done what she had to do. I wouldn’t mind thinking of Jesus as a friend who stands by me when I need help. It would be nice. It’s when religious people insist that you have to believe exactly what they believe and do things only their way that I won’t have it. I’ve never understood the business about accepting Jesus. It seems to me that if we’re judged at all, it has to be on how we live our whole lives, not on a moment’s decision that we could be conned into by some slick preacher. Like you told her, why wouldn’t God be as generous to us as we are to each other? Why can’t we have our own beliefs? I don’t teach all my students the same way. They’re all different, and I try to do what’s best for each of them. If Christians just tried to be good people like Jane Harper I’ll bet they’d get more converts.” ------- ------- -------Chapter 49 ------- ------- ------- By late June there was already a hint of gold in the marsh. Emily and Sophie had paddled the canoe up Silver Creek and stopped at Frog Island, an acre of grass that was covered by water only at the highest tides. They would explore its shores before eating their bologna sandwiches, and when the tide turned they’d let it carry them back towards the dock. ------- “It’s been a weird summer,” Sophie said. “I never used to think about religion at all. I don’t know what I’d have done if Miss Harper had said that stuff to me.” ------- “She wouldn’t have,” Emily said. ------- “What do you mean?” Sophie frowned. ------- “I mean because I hang around the library and talk to her more than you do. I think she’s really kind of shy.” ------- “She was okay about the witches,” Sophie said. “Mom says Jane French is a famous painter, and she used to live in Mexico. Mrs. French didn’t talk a lot at the Spelling Bee, but the other witches listened when she did. I think they’re afraid of her. I wouldn’t want her to try to put a spell on me.” ------- “You don’t believe she could do that?” Emily said. ------- “Of course not.” Sophie was insulted. “But I’ll bet Mrs. French could scare you if she wanted to. And if she could do magic, why couldn’t she use it to do good things? Oh, Jeez!” ------- A great blue heron had launched itself from the tall grass, croaking like a rusty gate. The girls watched it flap slowly to the edge of the marsh and soar up to settle gracefully at the top of a juniper. ------- “Using magic wouldn’t be fair,” Emily said. “Princess Galadriel refused to take the ring from Frodo because she knew its power would turn her into a monster.” ------- “Harry Potter....” ------- “Harry Potter’s just a story! Anyway, Mrs. French isn’t a witch.” ------- “How do you know? Why don’t we go see her and find out?” Sophie wished immediately she hadn’t said it. Now Emily would make them do it. ------- “Sure,” Emily said with a grin. She could always count on Sophie’s big mouth. The grass was waving under the water now. “Tide’s turned,” she said. ------- They climbed back into the canoe and began to drift towards home. ------- ------- The French’s house was an old Victorian set beneath a giant beech on the kind of low rise that’s called a hill in Eastham. Mrs. French, a tall and still beautiful woman in her late sixties, opened the door and smiled at them. ------- “Hi, Mrs. French, remember me? I’m Sophie Brant. I met you at the witch party. This is my sister Emily. We wondered if we could talk with you. We’re studying religion for Cynthia Cabot.” ------- “Cynthia Cabot?” Mrs. French said arching her eyebrows. “Of course you may. Come on in, girls. Would you like some tea? I’m baking gingerbread.” ------- “Thank you,” Sophie said. ------- “I can see small differences now that I look at you both, but I’m an artist. You’re identical twins?” ------- “No, we’re dizies,” Sophie said. We just look a lot alike.” ------- “Dizies?” ------- “Dizygotics, you know, fraternals.” ------- “Of course, dizygotics.” Jane French smiled. ------- The living room walls were covered with paintings. Some were of places on the Cape that Sophie recognized, but others seemed to be pictures of tree bark and cracks in dried mud. They were like nothing she’d ever seen before. ------- “Did you paint all these?” she asked. ------- “Most of them,” Mrs. French said. “I have a studio in the barn and a potter’s kiln I’ll show you if you like. I’m glad I have my art, because I’m alone now. My husband died two years ago.” ------- “I’m sorry,” Emily said. ------- “Thank you, Emily. He was very sick, and it was time for him to go but I didn’t want to lose him. Why do you want to talk with me about religion?” ------- “About witches really,” Emily said, “and the pagans. I know there aren’t real witches.” She hoped Mrs. French would agree with her. ------- “No,” Mrs. French said, “of course there aren’t, but there have always been people who thought there were, and people who truly believed that they themselves were witches. I suppose that could make them just a little real.” ------- “I guess,” Emily said. “But they can’t do magic?” ------- “Do you go to church?” Mrs. French asked. ------- “We’re Episcopalians,” Sophie said. ------- “Then you know that in the Communion service the bread and wine become the body and blood of Christ.” ------- “But that’s.....” ------- “Symbolic? The Catholic Church doesn’t think so. Lots of perfectly normal things can seem magical when you think about them. Even scientists don’t truly understand some very ordinary phenomena. I think of art as a special form of everyday magic. Look at this painting of sand dunes. Every time I paint them they’re different.” ------- “What about black magic?” Emily asked. ------- “Oh Emily, the world is very strange but nothing in it is ‘supernatural’. What would that mean? Black and white, good and bad are things we have to decide for ourselves. Anything you do that helps people is good magic and anything that hurts is bad. If there were witches, and if they could do magic, what would matter is how they used it. But there aren’t witches or devils or angels or anything like that, there are just people, and we’re all pretty much the same. Think of it this way. I’m a woman, I’m tall and getting old, and I’m still a pretty good painter. Those are my semi-permanent qualities. But kindness and cruelty, caution or foolishness are all behaviors. They can change. There’d be no hope for us if we were always just bad. And I think we’d be unbearable if we were always good! But no one’s like that. We’re all a mixture and changing all the time, and we have to make our own choices and rules as we go along, if only by choosing the right person to make them for us. Sometimes we make poor decisions, but I believe it’s never too late to change. Do you see what I mean, Emily?” ------- “Sort of,” Emily said. -------Emily and Sophie drank their tea and each ate several pieces of gingerbread. Mrs. French invited them to see her studio and try her potter’s wheel. ------- “Some of your paintings are a little sad,” Emily said when they’d returned to the living room. ------- “Yes they are,” Mrs. French agreed. “Sometimes the painter is a little sad. I miss Milo. He did things for the government that I don’t think I’d have approved of if I”d known what they were, but he was wonderful to me. And he was such an interesting man.” ------- Milo had worked in a secret government laboratory, Jane French explained, and she’d never known exactly what he did, just that it had to do with dreadful weapons. Jane had been a psychotherapist and couldn’t talk about her work either. Fortunately they shared an interest in art. -------It was late afternoon when the girls headed for home on their bikes. ------- “Milo sounds scary,” Sophie said, “but Jane is really nice.” ------- “She has secrets, though,” Emily said. “I’m sure she’s the woman we saw at the chapel, and I think she is a witch.” ------- ------- -------Chapter 50 ------- ------- “I’m nowhere with this business,” Cynthia said. “You and the kids have been great, and I’ve learned a lot, but I still have no idea what to do with the chapel. None of the people I’ve talked to wants the responsibility.” ------- “It comes down to what works for them,” Mike said. “Til thinks you should leave the chapel the way it is. You’ve done some thinking about religion the way Betty wanted, and everybody seems happy. Why change things?” ------- “Someone has to run the place, Mike. Pay the bills. I don’t want to do it.” ------- “I’ve been thinking about that. What if I bought it and got someone to run it for me, for us? You could give the sale money to charity.” ------- “Jesus, where did that come from! Even if the court lets me sell the chapel the property’s worth a bundle, Mike. It’s a whole acre of land with a view of Great Pond? I couldn’t sell below market value, maybe half a million.” ------- “Not a problem.” Mike said. “Can you think of a better way to launder money than buying a church?” ------- ------- -------Chapter 51 -------The windmill’s walls were reassembled with the help of sharp-eyed stone masons from the village. The stones fit together as neatly as they had when it was built, more than three thousand years before. The finished windmill was a handsome structure, rising thirty feet above the meadow, solid yet graceful and looking very much at home on the mountaintop. -------Marcus left as suddenly as he’d arrived, and George and the mice prepared to return to Eastham. George had dismissed Millman’s claim that he, The Traveling Green Pig, would unearth the secret of the mills. He liked Marcus very much but thought him a harmless lunatic on the topic of windmills. -------After a long day’s dig, followed by a chilly dip in a mountain stream and a supper of peppery eel stew, George had gone to the site and settled on an old stone wall which looked out over the Mediterranean for a last musing. He was ready to return to the cottage when he saw a tiny figure on the path that led up from the cove. Twenty minutes later the energetic climber had reached the meadow. She wore a tan work shirt, blue jeans, and hiking boots. Long black hair flowed down her back. -------“Sooty!” -------“Hi, George.” Sooty Goodwich strode briskly through the tall grass and leaned down to give The Green Pig a hug. “Nice windmill!” -------“Sooty, how did you get here?” -------“I flew, George. British Air,” she added, when she saw his eyebrows twitch. “A fisherman agreed to drop me at the beach for a few drachmae. He forgot to mention the thousand foot climb.” -------She looked around. “I can’t believe I’m here. It’s so beautiful. I’ve always wanted to see Greece, but I’m not sure why I had to come just now. Can we sit, George? My legs are wobbly.” -------They sat side by side on the stones and looked out at the darkening sea. One peculiar thing after another, George thought. -------“It really is you,” he said suddenly. -------“As opposed to whom?” -------“I meant that I was just thinking about you, about how good you are at puzzles. Sometimes I imagine things.” -------“Well, not this time, old dear. I’m as solid as I ever am. So tell me, Noble Pig, what’s up with you?” -------He told Sooty about the fire, the cranky mill at Ploudon, the excavation on Fetos, and Marcus Milman’s absurd claim. -------“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it,” he said. “I’m a storyteller, not a detective.” -------“Maybe it’s is a story,” Sooty said. -------“I suppose it is, in a way. We were planning to go home soon. Elizabeth is excavating the floor of the mill. It’s very tedious work, and I’ll be glad to leave it to the expert.” -------“There’s still your puzzle to solve Can we go inside the mill?” -------“Tomorrow, Sooty. It’s getting dark.” ------- -------Albert, Charles, and Alexander were delighted to see Sooty. She kissed their ears, tweaked their tails, and juggled the squealing mice like furry lemons. -------“Enough, Sooty,” Elizabeth said, laughing. You’ll scramble their brains.” -------“They can’t leave yet, Elizabeth.” She carefully placed the dizzied mice on the table. “They haven’t solved the mystery.” -------“I don’t want them to go, dear, but I think they’ve had it with archaeology. They’ve all been very helpful, but takes a peculiar dedication to sift dirt.” -------“Let’s see what happens tomorrow,” Sooty said. “You and George can show me the mill, and we’ll try to figure out why I’m here. Sorry to be a beggar, Elizabeth, but I’m positively ravenous.” -------Sooty spooned down two bowls of soup while she entertained the mice with stories of her adventures. -------“Goodwich? No, Albert, it’s just a name, an old Cape family. The subject seems to come up a lot, but there are no witches, good or bad, and no full-time ghouls or ghosts, goblins, devils, sprites, or zombies, although I’m sure I’ve met a few of each. But they aren’t just words. An anthropology professor of mine said that language is the fruit of experience and a beanstalk to reality.” -------“Beanstalk,” Charles murmured. -------The next morning dawned unusually cool for late spring in the Greek islands. Charles pronounced it audacious. The Green Pig thought he might have meant auspicious, but Charles was adamant. -------“How about we finish breakfast and get cracking!” Elizabeth admonished them. -------The mice washed the plates and cups by splashing furiously in the soapy pan. Sooty dried the dishes and then rubbed the mice and fluffed their fur. George and Elizabeth, Sooty, and the mice gathered the necessary tools and boxes, the lunch basket, water bottles, and a Thermos jug of coffee and started down the trail. -------After working for several hours they took a morning break. While they drank strong coffee and munched on flaky pastries Elizabeth talked to them about the inscriptions they’d just unearthed. -------“It’s a Minoan script that was used on Crete four thousand years ago. I’m amazed to find it here on Fetos. It may be an ancient form of Greek, but it’s never been translated.” Elizabeth pointed to the line of gracefully carved letters. “If only we knew what this says.” -------“Georgios,” said Charles. -------“Yes, Charles?” The Green Pig inquired. -------“Georgios!” Charles said more forcefully. -------“What, Charles?” -------“He means that’s what it says, ‘Georgios’,” Alexander explained. “It says, ‘Georgios, read my riddle’.” -------“Alexander!” Elizabeth glowered at him. “Stop this foolishness. Archeology is nothing to trifle with.” -------“But Cousin Elizabeth,” Alexander protested, “that’s what it says.” -------“Nonsense, Alexander. No one can read Linear Q. Certainly not a whippersnapper field mouse.” -------“But that’s just it,” Alexander explained. “The inscription is written in Common Mouse. Do you want me to read the rest of it?” -------Elizabeth was too stunned to speak. -------“I believe we do,” The Green Pig said. -------“It says, ‘Georgios, read my riddle’. And then it says, ‘My four from three make one of the Seven.’” -------“Mouse!” Elizabeth finally found her voice. “Linear Q is Common Mouse!” -------“Stranger things, Elizabeth,” Sooty said. “Mice have been around forever.” -------“Quite so,” said Alexander, looking pleased. -------“A riddle,” said The Green Pig. -------“A riddle with whiskers,” Sooty said. “You know The Seven.” -------“The Seven Wonders of the World! Of course! Four sides of the pyramid from three sides of each triangle make one of the Wonders. The Great Pyramid of Cheops. But what does it mean?” -------“There’s more,” Alexander said. ‘The Pig must seek the Cat.’” -------“That’s mysterious enough,” The Green Pig said. -------“Not at all, George,” Sooty said. “Clearly you have to go to the Great Pyramid and consult the local cat.” -------“That’s ridiculous, Sooty! The inscription isn’t talking about me. It’s thousands of years old.” -------“Of course it’s about you. How many honorary pigs named ‘George’ bring their imaginary mice to read a riddle they’ve found at the bottom of a bronze-age windmill? We’re off to Egypt, Elizabeth.” ------- ------- ------- -------Chapter 52 ------- -------“I wish we could have seen the Parthenon.” -------“You didn’t have to come, Sooty,” George said. -------“Yes I did. If it weren’t for me, you’d be drinking coffee on your porch at Boat Meadow.” -------“Don’t remind me,” said The Pig. -------The Nile delta far below looked to George like the roots of a great tree whose trunk stretched beyond the horizon to the south. Bright green fields along the river quickly faded to desert browns and tans. -------“The pyramids!” The mice were glued to the window. -------“Aren’t they splendid!” said The Green Pig. “They were even taller once and covered in polished limestone. That must have been a sight.” -------“Built by slaves,” Albert said with haughty disapproval. -------“Not necessarily, Albert. They’ve found some rather nice tombs belonging to the craftsmen, and many of the common laborers were farmers who worked part time on the pyramids when their fields were flooded by the Nile. They were probably paid a pittance and given a plowman’s lunch. They may even have felt they were sharing in the Pharaoh’s afterlife. Look, there’s Cairo, the largest city in Africa. Fifteen million inhabitants.” -------“And a trillion mice,” Sooty said. ------- ------- -------The taxi driver was wide-eyed. The tall person in dark glasses and a baseball cap was a woman and was accompanied by a small, round octogenarian with skin a peculiar shade of green and three mice lounging on his hat brim. He was about to object to the rodents, when George addressed him in colloquial Arabic. -------“Please take us to the Great Pyramid, young man.” ------- -------“Incredible,” said Sooty, when they stood at the base of the four-hundred-fifty foot pile of limestone blocks. ------- “There’s more stone in the pyramids than in the Aswan Dam,” The Green Pig said. “The Nile itself may be a better symbol of eternal life, but the view from the top is grand. Think you can make it, Sooty?” -------“Last one up is a sausage link!” -------Sooty was first on top, but her aged companion puffed along not far behind. Although there were other climbers on the pyramid, they were alone for the moment. The Green Pig pointed to familiar landmarks and gave them a brief history of the region as they gazed out over the amazing scene. -------“I wonder where we’d find the cat,” he mused. -------“Ask the mice,” Sooty suggested. -------“We don’t want to find the cat!” Alexander said. -------“Maybe he’ll find us,” George said. -------They watched the evening shadows move across the desert. The wind picked up. -------“Shouldn’t we look for a hotel, George? It might be interesting to spend a night on the top of the pyramid, but it’s getting chilly.” -------“I’ve made arrangements,” said The Pig. “We’ll come back tomorrow and investigate the tunnels.” -------“No need.” The deep soft voice emerged from somewhere in the dusk. “I’m Bast, the mill cat.” -------The mice had disappeared into The Green Pig’s hat at the first sound of the silky voice. Their eyes glinted from the air holes. -------“Mill cat?” George said. -------“That was the original plan, a giant windmill with a shaft running down through a dozen granaries and workshops. They hired my ancestors to be the mousers, but there were cost overruns, and the mill was never built. Mill cat to the Pharaoh is the longest lasting civil service sinecure in history. Ready for the message, Pig?” -------“What message?” George asked.” -------The cat had emerged fully from a crevice in the stones. It was a big striped calico with yellowed whiskers and a mouth filled with sharp teeth. Not a companionable animal. -------“The message carried for five thousand years by the Noble Order of Mill Cats. ‘Tell The Pig to seek between The Rivers, for the Mother of All Mills.’ I presume that you’re the ersatz swine.” So saying, the big cat gave them a disdainful look and vanished among the stones. -------“Bast,” Charles said. -------“The Eastham mill cats were all named ‘Bustah,’” Sooty said, “even when they were girls. Need help with the message, George?” -------“The rivers are obviously the Tigris and the Euphrates,” George answered. “I hope someone knows about The Mother of all Windmills.” -------“I think that’s likely,” Sooty said. ------- ------- -------Chapter 53 ------- -------“How do you know so much about Egypt, George?” Alexander asked. -------Sooty and The Green Pig lounged under a canvas awning on the deck of the old Sinai Slug as she plowed her way up the Persian Gulf towards Basra. The mice cooled their stomachs in a melted ice cube. -------“Books mostly,” George said. “The scholars get their information from ancient works like the Babylonian Epics and the Hebrew Scriptures, from clay tablets, manuscripts found in caves and attics, inscriptions carved in stone, archaeological remains, preserved seeds and insects, and carbon dating. They put all the bits together and try to reconstruct the past.” -------“Why?” asked Albert. -------“Curiosity, I suppose.” -------“But why are they curious?” Albert insisted. -------“Albert,” sighed The Green Pig, “you’re asking who we are. Some scientists think we’ll never explain personality and consciousness. They say that it would be like picking ourselves up by our own ears. My idea, though, is that when enough squeaks and stinks and flashes happen inside our brains we just suddenly wake up and know we’re here. -------“We take in tons of information all the time. It’s like Boat Meadow Marsh, remember? Only here we listen to the water roiling around the prow of the ship, we smell the salt and taste the spray, and we call it being on a boat. We fly across the water before the wind and say we’re sailing. It’s a never-ending process of sensation and analysis. If it were to stop, well... Why don’t you lads have a look around the boat and leave us in peace for a bit?” -------The mice left to explore the tramp steamer. George and Sooty tried to read, but their eyes were drawn to the ragged line of mountains. -------“They look so old.” -------“No older than I feel,” The Green Pig said. “I want to get this done and go home” -------“But you’ll see the Parthenon with me?” Sooty asked. -------“Of course,” The Green Pig agreed. “The marsh can wait a bit for ancient Greece, and the mice are game for anything. The Parthenon really is quite fine. It was built in 432 B.C.E. and dedicated to Athena the goddess of warfare and wisdom. All the sculptures were painted in bright colors, and the marble columns were carved to look like the wood of older temples.” -------“Statues painted like toy soldiers and columns made of fake wood! I can‘t wait to see it. I only wish....” The suspicion of a tear appeared on Sooty’s cheek. “Sorry. George. Even philosophers have regrets.” -------“Even aging pigs,” The Green Pig said softly. They sat in silence for a moment. -------“There was a statue of Athena in the temple thirty cubits tall,” George continued. -------“My kind of woman,” Sooty said. “What’s a cubit, and why was the statue there?” -------“A cubit is about a foot and a half, and my guess is they made the statue out of gratitude. Athens was a major birthplace of science, philosophy, and the arts, but they couldn’t quite believe they’d done it all themselves.” -------“And did they?” -------“Well, that’s the question. I’m a thoroughly practical pig, Sooty. I don’t believe the gods are leaning over our shoulders dropping hints. There’s far too much suffering for the world for it to be the work of any decent sorts of deity, and furthermore the setting seems ridiculously large. Light years? What could distances like that have to do with us? I’m afraid we’re on our own, molded of space dust and barely hanging on from one synapse to the next. Whatever we’ve done we’ve done for ourselves, and the miracle is that we can do anything at all. I quite understand that we’d want to celebrate Athena.” -------“Rats!” Alexander came dashing from the stairwell with Albert and Charles at his heels. -------“Dirty rats!” Albert said. -------“In the cargo hold,” Alexander explained. -------“There are bound to be rats on an old ship,” The Green Pig said. -------“But these are mean and ugly rats!” -------“I imagine they’ve led a hard life, Alexander.” -------“They say there are crates hidden in the grain.” -------“Crates in the grain!” The Green Pig exclaimed. “That sounds ominous. We must speak to Captain Bluff.” -------“Maybe he already knows about them, George,” Sooty said. “Maybe they’re his crates.” -------“Let’s ask him,” The Green Pig said with a grin. -------The Captain’s door was opened by a villainously hog-like little man. -------“Help you, brother?” the porcine creature rasped. -------“Captain Bluff, did you know that there are wooden crates hidden in your hold?” George said. -------“Blimey, no!” Bluff grunted. “But I’m not surprised. Contraband no doubt, and I know just where to unload it. We pass our sister ship the Tiptoe Snail in half an hour. I’ll have her take the crates to the Greater Bangkok Rummage Sale.” A smile creased his weather-beaten snout. -------“Join me for dinner, Pig. Bring your friends. We’ll raise a glass to enterprise.” ------- -------“George, this is our friend, Ships Ahoy.” Alexander indicated a seedy looking rat. -------“Pleased to meet you, bub.” -------“Likewise, Ships,” George said. “What can we do for you?” -------“’smore what I can do for.... Whoa!” The rat looked up at Sooty in amazement. -------“C’mere, cutie,” Sooty said. She lifted the horrified animal by the scruff of his neck and set him on the table. -------“Oh, man,” said the rat. -------“So, what’s the word from vermin deck?” -------“Hey lady, cargo rats ain’t trash. We’re useful scavengers. I hear you want to find The Muthah.” -------“The Mutha of all Windmills?” The Green Pig interpreted. -------“Her,” the rat affirmed. “She’s in the Northern Plains between the T and E, up past Samara.” -------“You’ve seen the windmill?” Sooty asked. -------“Nah, there’s nothing there but rocks and stinky sheep.” -------“You could use a bath yourself, my love.” -------The rat looked horrified. “Salt water makes me itch,” he wined. -------“Not a problem, lad. We’ll use a little of the Captain’s gin.” ------- ------- -------Chapter 54 ------- ------- ------- “We’ll have to park on the highway and walk in,” Mike said. “It’s a long way back in the dark.” Cynthia was driving them to Provincetown for the Fourth of July fireworks. ------- “Everyone have a flashlight?” Cynthia asked. ------- Several ‘Uh huh’s’ came from the back seat. ------- The girls had been after their parents all week about the fireworks. The Brandts and Cohens were delighted to let Mike and Cynthia take them. -------Mike was busy with charters again. No further facts had surfaced about Randy Piggot’s murder. A thorough search of Betty’s files turned up nothing more about the paintings, and Cynthia’s threatening letters and the gunshots at the beach remained mysteries. ------- “I love P’town,” Sophie said. ------- “Me too.” David agreed. “It’s so gay.” ------- “David!” Sophie was incensed. ------- “They joke about it.” ------- “Are you gay?” Sophie asked. ------- “No!” David said. ------- “Then shut up.” ------- “I didn’t mean...” ------- “P’town is one of my favorite places,” Cynthia interrupted. “I almost bought a house here ten years ago. Be worth a million dollars now.” ------- “A million dollars!” David said. ------- “Easy. Two room apartments go for half a mill. P’town still has its own high school because it’s too far from Nauset, but pretty soon there’ll be no kids here at all. Just B&B’s, shops and restaurants, and ritzy second homes.” ------- “Going to school in Provincetown would be weird,” David said. ------- “Not as weird as going to school in Red Hook.” ------- “That’s where you taught!” David was horrified. “They have metal detectors and cops in the halls!” ------- “You bet, and they have kids who want to learn math. I did it for fifteen years, there and at a school on the lower East side.” ------- “But you’re from the Cape, right?” Sophie asked. ------- “I lost my down East accent in New York, but I was born in Truro, one-eighth Wampanoag. Not enough to start my own casino.” ------- “You’re an Indian?” David said. ------- “We like to call ourselves Native Americans when we’re not selling moccasins to the tourists.” ------- “Sorry.” ------- “I’m kidding. I’m not much of an Indian, but I like the idea. Do you like being Jewish?” ------- “Sure. I mean, Jews aren’t better than other people, but...” ------- “We’re WASPs,” Sophie said. “Big deal.” -------“I wish we were actually something,” Emily said, “like Jewish or Catholic, or even Buddhists.” -------“You can be a pantheist like me,” Mike said. “It’s free, it covers all bases, and there’s no obligation. God, look at the cars. Maybe you should.....” -------Cynthia made a quick U–turn at the next cross road and parked on the shoulder at the end of a line of cars that disappeared around the curve. -------“Nicely done,” Mike said. “We’ll be ahead of the traffic going home.” -------“Are we in a hurry?” Cynthia said. -------“The kids’ parents might worry if we’re late.” -------“They never worry about us,” Sophie said. -------Cynthia laughed. “Of course they do. Be nice.” -------Most of the streets had been closed to traffic and were already filling with people. They made their way slowly to Commercial Street. Mike and Cynthia wee lucky to snag seats on one of the wooden benches in front of Town Hall. The kids said they’d check back in half an hour and wandered off. -------“I really do like P’town,” Mike said. “I always have, but it used to be more interesting, edgier.” -------“Back when gays were considered freaks, Mike, but I know what you mean. It was a lot cheaper too.” -------Several women stopped to talk with Cynthia. Provincetown had become something of a lesbian resort in recent years, but everyone was here for the Fourth, straight couples, families, kids in strollers, lots of dogs. -------“Be a great place to spend the winter,” Cynthia said. -------“If you have plenty of money and a head for booze.” -------The girls brought ice cream cones, and they watched a group of young men sing French songs a cappella. David went to look in the marine salvage shed. Sophie and Emily held the seats while Mike and Cynthia walked to the Japanese arts shop and browsed in Tim’s Books. The kids took off again when they returned but promised to be back before dark. Commercial Street was mobbed by now. -------They’d been gone for half an hour when Mike’s phone rang. It was Emily’s number. ------- “I have your girls.” The voice was heavily muffled. “Go to the beach shacks now if you want to see them again. Say nothing to anyone and go alone.” The call ended abruptly. -------“Cyn, somebody has the girls. He has Emily’s cell. They told me to go to the beach shacks. Give me fifteen minutes and then call 911. Tell them to come without lights or sirens.” -------“It has to be a trap,” Cynthia said. -------“I still have to go.” ------- -------It was fully dark by the time Mike reached the car. He drove fast to the deserted parking lot at the Visitor’ Center. The sand path to the beach shacks was a pale line winding up through the laurel and pitch pine covered hills. After ten minutes he saw the first cabin dimly silhouetted against the sky on the last low dune before the beach. His cell phone rang. He turned it off. ------- The door to the cabin was unlocked and swung open easily. He stepped in and froze. A lighted lantern hung over a long wooden table that was splashed with blood. Blood had run down the table legs and pooled on the floor. Slashed and bloody clothing and bits of cut rope were scattered everywhere. A large knife lay at his feet. ------- He couldn’t breath. There was blood on his shoes and on a corner of his denim shirt. It had to be Putterman, but no one would believe him. He turned on his cell phone as he ran from the cabin towards the deserted beach. ------- ------- Henry met him at the entrance to one of the sand roads east of town. Mike climbed into the truck, and Henry headed south without a word. ------- “Emily and Sophie are dead,” Mike said. ------- “Jesus!” ------- “They were snatched in P’town and butchered in one of the beach shacks. They’ll think I did it.” He told Henry about the phone call. ------- “But she called the cops. Cynthia was with you in town.” ------- “It won’t help, Henry. They’ll blame her too. He’ll have planted stuff. I didn’t have time to look. God, what was I thinking to get you into this? Now I’ve got blood on your truck. Drop me here.” ------- “Forget it, Mike. Who are we talking about?” ------- “Putterman.” ------- “Til Putterman?” ------- “He sent threatening notes to Cynthia. He must be crazy. I know he’s behind this. I’ve got just one chance, Henry. I shouldn’t ask you, but I need your help.” ------- “I’m in,” Henry said. “Putterman! Old Cape family, but I don’t know much about him.” ------- “He joined the army out of high school back in the thirties. Got a degree in engineering from M.I.T. after the war and worked in the middle-east before he became a mercenary. That’s all anybody seems to know. He came back here in eighty-eight. What?” ------- Henry had raised his hand. “Cop car. Head down and cross your fingers.” ------- He drove in silence for a minute. ------- “False alarm,” Henry said. “Think I should cut over to Ocean View?” ------- “I don’t have the time.” ------- Henry kept the truck under the speed limit. Mike quickly went through everything that had happened and what he planned to do. ------- “It’s you’re call, Cap.” ------- “You can back out.” ------- “Not a chance. Doing crazy stuff is what I live for. Won’t the cops be waiting at your place?” ------- “I don’t think so. Not yet. Anyway, I’ve got to take the chance. Thanks, Henry.” ------- Twenty minutes later Henry parked the truck in the driveway of an unoccupied cottage a block from the chapel. He switched off the engine and put a hand on Mike’s shoulder. ------- “You planning to nail this guy or put him away?” ------- “Trust me, Henry. It’s just what I said. You ready?” ------- “No, but here we go.” ------- Mike looked in through the lighted front window of the house across the street from the chapel. ------- “Sitting at his desk. Writing with a fountain pen like he thinks he’s fucking Ben Franklin. Start the recorder and stay out of sight.” ------- Mike kicked the door in. ------- Til turned to look at him. ------- Mike raised the 45 and jacked a cartridge into the chamber. ------- Til raised his eyebrows. “Something on your mind, Mike?” -------Til wasn’t afraid. Mike’s cell phone rang again. It had wrung half a dozen times since he switched it back on, but he’d ignored it ------- “Better answer it, Mike.” ------- Mike hesitated, then pressed the button. ------- “Cyn? You’re sure? Thank God. Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry. Look, I’ll call you back in a few minutes, okay? Can you meet Henry and me at Ben and Jerry’s in half an hour? No, it was a more than a joke. I tell you after we get the kids home.” ------- He looked at Til and shook his head. “I don’t know how you did it, you son of a bitch. Was I supposed to kill myself?” ------- “Mike, put that thing away before it goes off. It doesn’t sound like you’ll believe this, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why don’t you sit down and tell me? You too, Henry. You can come in and stop holding up the doorframe.” ------- “Later Til, there’s something I have to do now. Maybe you didn’t have anything to do with this, but I did have a reason to suspect you. The gun isn’t loaded. -------“All right, Mike. Come back when you want to talk. The door’s never locked.” ------- ------- “What the hell was that about?” Henry said. “What did she say?” ------- “The kids are okay. They were never taken anywhere. Someone swiped Emily’s cell phone and she didn’t know it until they got back to Cynthia five minutes after I’d gone. Cyn hadn’t called the cops, so she didn’t tell the kids. It was all a goddamn charade.” ------- “You might have told me the gun wasn’t loaded. That big sucker really freaked me out. Isn’t it supposed to be bad policy or something, threatening someone with an empty gun?” ------- “Jesus, Henry, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Yeah, it’s a good way to get yourself killed, but I shot a guy once and I’m not doing it again. We need to get back to P’town. I owe you a year of roofs, buddy.” ------- “Forget it. Just explain it all to me someday.” ------- “If I ever can, Henry, but if I had the faintest notion of what’s going on we wouldn’t be crashing around in the dark like this. ------- ------- Chapter 55 zzz ------- ------- -------I thought Mike should ask Til about the drawing. I’d wanted to stay out of it because they’re both my friends, but I could have gotten someone killed. Living to be ninety doesn’t make you any smarter. We lucked out. I remember I used to pray to Lady Luck when I was a little kid. I don’t know where that came from, or where it went for that matter. I’ve been an observant Jew all my life. I’m thankful for what comes my way, and I’m not shy about asking for more. But God gives, and G-d takes, and I don’t understand any of it. I have noticed that not a whole lot gets done until we get busy ourselves. ------- ------- ------- ------- -------Chapter 56 ------- -------“Shut up, David!” Sophie said. “Cynthia said the candlesticks have to go back in the attic. You can’t light candles in the chapel, because it’s against the fire code.” ------- “Okay,” David said. “He picked one up in each hand and lifted them like dumb bells. Emily was surprised at his strength. -------“This one feels heavier.” ------- “So?” Sophie said. ------- “Maybe there’s something in it.” ------- “Sure,” Sophie said, “the treasure.” ------- David studied the candlestick. ------- “The top screws off.” He tried, but it didn’t turn. “We need a wrench.” ------- “Give it up, David,” Sophie said. ------- “Archaeologists don’t give up,” David said. “I saw a wrench in our basement. We’ll need a rope anyway to hoist the candlesticks into the attic.” ------- He was back in twenty minutes with two pipe wrenches, a coil of rope, and both of their fathers. Dick Brandt was spending the week with his family. ------- “Use the cloth to protect the brass, David,” his father said. “If it doesn’t turn, don’t force it.” ------- “Yes, Dad,” David said. -------“It’s turning!” Once it started, the top of the candlestick unscrewed easily. -------“There is something in here.” He pulled out a long, tightly rolled package wrapped in many layers of oilcloth. “I’ll bet it’s the paintings.” ------- “David, Emily! You have to see this!” Bobby, the graduate student Dr. Ramsey had left in charge of the excavation, had poked his head out of the trap door. David handed the package to his father, and he and Emily went to see what Bobby had found. ------- ------- Chapter 57 ------- ------- -------“Basra!” Charles announced. They’d chugged into the Basra docks aboard the pilot boat. The old city loomed out of the pre-dawn darkness. Distant gas flares dotted the horizon. -------“What does ‘Basra’ mean, George?” Albert asked. -------“I don’t know, Albert. Towns are named after all sorts of things, hills, streams, founders, historical events. We invent names and words when we need them and forget where their origins. I think ‘mouse’ is from the Sanscrit mus because a mouse looks like a muscle, or maybe it’s the other way around. Morris dancing, which sounds so English, comes from ‘Moorish’ dances. There’s so many unlikely words like that. I’m sorry, Albert. There are lots of things I don’t know. ” -------The bus trip to the north was long and dusty. They arrived late that night at a desert outpost well beyond Samara and slept in an ancient inn. The next morning George hailed a passing donkey cart to take them to the Mother of All Windmills. After an hour, the unpaved road narrowed to a track which finally ended at the foot of a great bare hill. -------“Please wait here,” The Green Pig told the driver. -------“I’ll come with you,” the man said, unwinding his turban. -------“Marcus! I should have known.” -------It took half an hour to climb the rocky path. At last they stood within a ring of broken rocks. A stiff breeze tugged their robes. -------“Stones,” Charles said. -------“Where’s the mill?” Marcus looked around wild-eyed. -------There was little color in the land, no smell, and no sound other than the wind. The others wandered about, leaving George alone in the middle of the scattered stones. -------“I’ve never seen a place so empty,” The Green Pig mused to himself. -------“Dimwit,” said a grating voice from nowhere. ------- “Who’s that?” -------“The windmill, George.” -------“Ah,” George said. “So, what’s this all about?” -------“I would think that’s obvious,” the windmill said. “It’s a quest. You’ve made it here from Hambone. Good for you.” -------“Eastham,” said The Green Pig. -------“Just make you wish!” the windmill snapped. -------“I don’t want...” -------“WISH FOR SOMETHING, GEORGE!” ------- “Like what?” -------“Like anything. Truth, justice, world peace, cold fusion, a good five-cent cigar. Just do it now! I don’t have all day.” -------George thought this over as he stared at the barren landscape. He felt the mill’s impatience looming over him. Five thousand years? -------“I’m sorry to take your time,” he said finally, “and I appreciate the offer, but I think we need to find those things for ourselves.” -------“Excellent decision,” the windmill said. “Other questions, then?” -------George thought some more. “Is there anything I ought to know?” -------“That’s the right one Pig,” the windmill cooed. “You’re smarter than you look.” Something whispered in George’s ear. -------George was amazed by what she told him, but before he could reply there was a sudden interruption. ------- “Windmill, windmill! WHY IS THERE ANYTHING AT ALL?” Alexander had seized his opportunity. -------There was a moment of uneasy silence before the windmill sighed and spoke. -------“Who verily knows and who can here declare it, whence it was born and whence comes this creation.” -------“She doesn’t know,” Albert snickered. -------The windmill snarled. Ghostly sails were ruffled by a sudden gust. Unseen timbers creaked, gears chattered, and the sound rose quickly to a scream as George and Sooty threw themselves to the rocky ground. The mice were spiraled, squealing, high above the hill. -------Only Marcus Millman forced his way towards the raging mill. -------“Marcus, no!” The Green Pig cried. Marcus, too, rose into the air and began to spin, faster and faster until he blurred and dimmed and disappeared. -------The wind stopped then. Sooty stood and brushed the sand from her burnoose. George sneezed. The mice came floating down like autumn leaves. -------“What happened, George?” Sooty asked. -------“The windmill threw a fit,” The Green Pig said. -------“Marcus blew away?” -------“I’m sure he’s somewhere.” -------“She didn’t tell us anything,” Alexander said, looking slightly dazed. -------“Actually, she did,” The Green Pig said. “She was quoting the Creation Hymn from the Rig Veda, which says there’s no answer. It’s still a good question, but it was probably unwise to scoff at her, Albert. She told me something rather strange, but I’ll have to think it over.” ------- ------- ------- Chapter 58 ------- ------- -------Sophie was alone on the flats at low tide. She liked to walk to the distant water’s edge and have the Cape spread out around her from Provincetown to Bourne under the great bowl of the sky. Sometimes her mother came with her, but never Emily. Emily said she didn’t like the way the mucky places felt on her feet. The wimp. ------- “I try hard,” Sophie said to herself, “but you get better grades.” ------- “I’m smarter than you are.” ------- “No, you’re not,” Sophie said. “I’m just as smart as you are but in a different way.” ------- “I work harder.” That was true. Emily studied all the time. ------- She walked on in silence for another five minutes. A woman was coming towards her with a dog. The dog was off his leash and racing in circles around the woman. She threw something, and he chased it and brought it to her. ------- “Why do you work so hard?” Sophie said. “It’s crazy.” ------- “It’s what I do best. It’s why David and I are friends. He likes to study too. You’re just jealous.” ------- Sophie trudged on, looking down at the sand, watching her feet sink into the soft ridges, splashing through cool rivulets and warm tide pools. ------- “Maybe a little,” she said. “It’s okay.” ------- Sophie stopped and listened to the wind. Then she turned and started back down the beach. ------- ------- When Emily came to the back door Mike’s first instinct was to offer to take her to town for ice cream, but she wanted to talk. He let her get a soda from the refrigerator, and they sat on the porch. ------- “Do you believe in God, Captain Mike?” ------- “That’s pretty personal, Emily. I’ll tell you if you really want me to, but what I think shouldn’t matter to you.” ------- “I can think for myself, and I really want to know.” -------“Okay. It’s complicated, but no I don’t believe in God the way most churchgoers say they do. Not in a personal God who knows each of us and loves us and helps us live our lives. I wish I could, but I look at the world and I see too much suffering and injustice. I’d treat people better than that if I had the power, and if that’s the way it has to be for some of us to have freedom, then I don’t think it’s worth it. And if it’s all supposed to be a mystery, it’s too much of one for me. On the other hand, if everything just happens, Emily, the good and the bad and the inbetween, then it’s not anyone’s fault, and we simply have to deal with it. -------“There are other ways of thinking of God, like our conscience, or the power of love in each of us, or wanting the world to be a good place for everyone, or just being able to experience beauty. Those make sense to me, but most people are more comfortable being like everyone else. I say I’m an agnostic, meaning I don’t know if there’s a God or not. It would probably be more honest to call myself a qualified atheist. I don’t think there is a God. I think we’re on our own. -------“All those things, like conscience and love and beauty, are good in themselves, whether there’s a God or not. And the size and majesty of the universe blows my mind every time I try to think of it. For Einstein God was the eternal laws of physics and the holy curiosity of men, but I’d finally have to go with what Bertrand Russell said.” -------“Who’s he?” -------“He was a British philosopher. He wrote a three volume work on the foundations of mathematics that was mostly mathematical notation and that only a dozen people in the world can read. But what he had to say about values was simple. He believed in kindness and honesty. I don’t know how honest he was and I don’t think he was that kind, but he had the right idea. Anyway, that’s what I believe.” -------“So how did the world get started, if there isn’t a God?” -------“I don’t think anyone knows, but if God did create the world, how would that be an answer? Even little kids ask, ‘Who made God?’ Talk to George. He’s the expert on the origin of the universe, and he reads all the books on evolutionary biology. I don’t know much, but what I think is that we started out as complex molecules in the shallow waters of the ancient oceans and developed by natural selection into one-celled living organisms, then into germs and worms and bugs and fish, and finally into primates like you and me and the other apes, with nervous systems that gradually came to consciousness and thought up ideas like God to try to explain it to ourselves. There you go, the story of life in one sentence.” -------“But you say I can believe in God if I want to,” Emily said with a grin “Even if it’s really stupid.” -------“I never said it was stupid, and I don’t think it is. I know lots of people who are smarter and better educated that I am who do believe in God. I have to think what I think, but no one else does. Is that an answer?’ -------“Sure,” Emily said. “But don’t most people believe in God.” -------“In this country something like ninety percent of people say they do, although I doubt that many of them have really thought it through. They believe what the people around them say they believe. But here’s something to think about, Emily. The biggest religious group in the world is the Christians, two billion of them. Then come one and a half billion Muslims, and in third place, at a little over a billion, are all the non-believers, the atheists, agnostics, humanists, and free-thinkers.” ------- “Like you?” ------- “Like me. There are a lot of us if we don’t have our own flag. The main thing for me, the only thing really, is not what people believe but how they live and how they treat others. If we can’t all work together we’ll never have a world fit to live in.” -------Chapter 59 ------- ------- The Green Pig stood just inside the wooden gate, admiring the newly painted Putterman house. The park service had mowed the surrounding fields and uncovered the old stone fences. He felt that Captain Andrew would be pleased to find his whaler’s folly gleaming again after nearly a hundred and fifty years. After a moment he continued up the walk and raised the heavy knocker. ------- “George!” Jane French answered the door. ------- “Jane?” George raised an eyebrow. “Let me in, let me in?” ------- Jane laughed and called over her shoulder. “There’s a pig at the door, Til.” She turned to George. “He’s on the porch reading Marcus Aurelius.” -------George found Til sitting in a large wicker armchair, a pair of rimless glasses low on his nose. He put down his book. ------- “No mice today.” ------- “No,” George said. “The place looks good. What happened to all the furniture.” ------- “I gave some of it to the historical society. We sold the rest except for a few of the better pieces. The house is an historical site now, a national treasure like you and me. Coffee?” ------- “Sure,” George said. Til went into the kitchen and returned with two cups of coffee. “You take it black.” ------- “That’s right,” George said. “Good coffee.” ------- “So, what’s up, my friend?” ------- George smiled. “Something surprising. I’m your long-lost older brother.” -------For once Til was speechless. ------- “Look in the mirror,” George said. “Round face, flat nose, piggy eyes. More to the point, the DNA checks out. It’s no big deal, Til. You keep the house, and when you die it goes to the Seashore the way Betty wanted.” -------“Christ on a stick, you’re serious. It blows my mind, and, George, I think it’s wonderful. I’ve always thought you and I... Damn, we’re brothers! That’s really something all right. It means I have nieces and nephews. I can leave them my money.” -------“If you have any left. Aren’t the feds investigating your meditation gang for money laundering?” -------“My meditation gang?” -------“You’re not the Chaplain?” -------Til looked startled for a moment and then he laughed. “Never underestimate the Green Pig. That’s what my men used to call me, my nom de guerre. But that was a long time ago. No, I’m not their chaplain. Interesting idea though, isn’t it, money laundering for charity. Drugs, prostitution, arms smuggling, gambling, protection. Billions of dirty bucks, and it’s all fungible, so why not siphon off a little for a good cause?” -------“How much money can a dozen Cape contractors deal with?” -------“You’d be surprised, but this isn’t the only operation. It’s all over. It’s...” Til set his cup on the table and leaned back in his chair. “You’re right, smart ass. I did set it up, the organization although not this branch, and I have a personal interest. A lot of the money goes to help kids in Africa. That’s where it started, in a very bad place where almost everyone was corrupt. I figured if it worked there it could work anywhere. But I have no contact with it now. No one around here knows I was ever involved, and I never made a dime from it for myself.” ------- “Robin Hood and his Merry Men. I’m impressed. I should have had more faith, but I’m relieved. So, what have you been up to? What about Mike? You didn’t start the rumor?” -------”No, George, Mike’s one of the good guys. I don’t know who did that, if it didn’t start by itself, but I’ve done my best to squelch it. As long as we’re letting it all hang out, I did send the threats to Cynnie. It was dumb and risky, and I hope she never finds out, but I did it for her. Those kids have all the brains and guts you could ask for and they were spinning their wheels with each other. Drove me nuts. I figured if I could rattle her enough she’d turn to Mike. I love that girl, George, and Mike’s a fine man. You’re something of a mench yourself. Too bad you’re schizo.” ------- “It seems to run in the family.” ------- Til laughed. “Yeah, Betty was halfway around the bend. I hear you’ve got the Brandt girls talking to mice.” -------“No, that’s all on their own, since they were little kids evidently. They just have good imaginations.” -------“Sometimes I think I see them too, your mice I mean.” -------“Good for you, Til. What about the charade in P’town? Mike says he wouldn’t have hurt you, but I still think he might have killed himself.” -------“I thought he was going to kill me for a few seconds,” Til said. “Almost shit my pants when he burst in the house with a fucking 45. Someone wants him out of the way, George. Stuart maybe, but it seems kind of subtle for him. I just don’t know.” -------“What about Randy Piggot?” George asked. -------“We don’t know who killed him,” Jane said. “We thought it was Cynthia Abbot at the time, but it wasn’t. The witches buried him, the old coven. It might a bit awkward if you were to mention that to anyone else, George.” ------- “Thanks for clearing that up, Jane. Your secret remains buried, even if the body didn’t. While we’re at it, how about our mother, Til? Do you think her death was an accident?” ------- “That’s hard to say. You knew she had Alzheimers? My guess is she decided she’d lived long enough and just forgot to run against the traffic. You’re full of questions today, big brother.” ------- “And I’ve appreciated the answers. I’ll be back, and we can talk some more, but just now may I borrow your key to the mill? I have a sense there’s something else I have to do before it’s too late.” -------Til reached into his pocket and tossed George a key ring. -------The Green Pig set his coffee cup on the table and stood. “I’m sorry we couldn’t have been brothers sooner, Til. Let’s try to make up for it. Nice to see you too, Jane. Carry on the good work.” ------- ------- -------Chapter 60 ------- ------- “It’s locked,” Sophie said. She was angry. ------- “Sure it’s locked,” David said. “They’re afraid kids will climb it and fall off.” ------- “I’ll bet we could see the whole Cape from up there.” ------- “Probably,” David agreed. ------- They’d ridden their bikes to the fire tower in Wellfleet. It was built of steel girders, sixty feet tall and in good condition although it hadn’t been used for decades. David had said they probably wouldn’t be able climb it. Emily hadn’t wanted to. Only Sophie was really disappointed.” ------- “We could climb up the outside,” David said. ------- “Sure,” Sophie said scornfully. “Why don’t you?” ------- “Bet I could.” ------- “No!” Emily said. “It’s too dangerous.” ------- David studied the tower. “Not really,” he said. He shinnied up one of the stanchions to where the cross braces began and started to climb.” ------- “Come back, David,” Emily called after him. “You’ll be killed.” ------- “No I won’t,” David said. -------He continued to climb, steadily and carefully, twenty feet, forty, and finally to the base of the cabin, well above the trees. The lower half of the cabin was sheathed with steel plates. He tried to find a crack to look through, but the plates overlapped and were bolted together. To climb to where the heavy wire mesh began he’d have to get a foot on the narrow lip at the bottom of the cabin and pull himself up holding onto the seam between two plates. He noticed what appeared to be a hinged door the cabin wall that would have been invisible from more than a few feet away. -------“Come down,” Emily hollered to him. -------David didn’t answer. With one hand holding the beam, he pulled on the latch and the door swung open. For an instant he was afraid he was going to fall, but he regained his balance. Inside the three inch cavity between the inner and outer walls of the cabin were dozens of small packages thoroughly wrapped in plastic. David didn’t move for ten seconds. Then he stuffed one of the packages into his pocket and began very slowly to climb down. He’d stopped every few feet, as if he couldn’t trust his arms and legs. When he finally slid down the stanchion to the ground his face was pale. -------He held up the package. “I’ll bet anything this is drugs.” ------- -------“The junior archaeologists strike again,” Chief Logan said. He’d been called by Charlie Wells, the Wellfleet police chief, along with David’s father. ------- “Why did you climb the tower, son?” Chief Wells asked. -------“Sophie thought we could go up and see the view, but it was locked.” -------“So, it was Sophie’s idea?” -------“Yeah, but not to go up the outside. That was me, showing off.” -------“Okay, David. You did fine. Just don’t any of you talk about this to anyone for now. And stay away from places you know darned well you’re not supposed to be, all right? You kids can go. We might have a few more questions later.” ------- -------“How well do you know Will Stuart, Mike?” -------“Not well at all, but I know he’s a son of a bitch.” -------“What did you say to him when you had your little dust up?” -------“I told him to stay away from Aaron.” -------“Or what?” -------“Or we’d continue the discussion I guess. I said we’d keep away from his boat. We shook on it.” -------Logan laughed. “There’s quite a collection of drugs in those bags, a pretty valuable stash. The State Police will be fingerprinting them, but I figure we know who they belong to. Stuart’s house is just down the road. Pretty smart actually. Handy but invisible, except for a crazy kid. I don’t know if you know it, but Stuart’s boat’s been gone from the harbor for two days, and nobody knows where he is. You got any ideas?” -------Mike shook his head. “No, I didn’t know he was missing. He usually goes with the tides and is out six to eight hours. I rarely see him.” -------“Okay, we’ll leave it at that. I hate to say it, Mike, but I think maybe you and Cynnie ought to stay away from those kids. You both seem to be targets for some reason, and if it has anything to do with the druggies, that’s bad shit.” -------“I agree,” Mike said. “It’s going to be hard to explain to them.” -------“Mind if we take a look in your boat?” -------“Be my guest,” Mike said. “Look, Chief, when Stuart and I had our talk, I said something about Aaron not caring about his stash, just jerking his chain. It got moe of a reaction than I’d expected.” -------“Interesting. If there’s anything else you haven’t told me, Mike, now would be a good time.” -------Mike shook his head. “Wish I could help, chief.” ------- Chapter 61 ------- ------- ------- George unlocked the door to the mill. He closed it behind him and stood for a moment in the semidarkness, smelling wood and stone. Dust swirled in a beam of light from one of the high windows. The only sounds were a creaking of timbers and traffic on Route 6. ------- The trip to the Netherlands, the Great Pyramid, and the Mother of All Mills seemed like fading dreams. His eye settled on the visitor’s book. ‘Bob and Mirabell McGinty, Albany, New York;’ ‘Jimmy D;’ ‘Love the windmill, lose the windbag.’ George smiled Til wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. ‘Saresh Mahmood and Philip Prince.’ He looked at the names for a long time. Either enlightenment had seeped from the old boards or he’d remembered something. He closed up the windmill and locked the door. ------- -------“George Santos! Come in, my friend. Coffee?” -------“I always take coffee, Saresh,” George said. -------“We haven’t seen you in a while.” -------“I think I’ve been away. How are you and Phil?” -------“We’re all right.” ------- “I saw you Monday at the food store,” George said. “You seemed preoccupied.” ------- Saresh looked like he was going to speak for a moment. Phil appeared in the doorway with George’s coffee. ------- “A few weeks ago,” Phil said, “a guy we know in Boston called and asked for Will Stuart’s phone number.” ------- “Ah,” George said. “And this person...?” ------- “Amir. Kind of a crazy guy. I know he hates Stuart. Well, you know what Stuart’s like. Something happened between them a while ago. And now Stuart and his boat are missing. I can’t believe we’re mixed up in this.” ------- “Is this Amir a radical Islamist?” George asked. ------- Phil looked startled, and then he laughed. ------- “No, George, I don’t think he’s religious at all. He’s a cellist. Plays with the BSO.” ------- “Where does he live?” George asked. ------- “Boston,” Phil said. “But he has a summer place in Wellfleet and a power boat at the marina near the Dacon Bridge. He has money.” ------- ------- It was noon when George got to the harbor. He waited until Mike’s party had left with their catch. ------- “Yo, George.” Mike waved him on board. ------- “I’ll help you clean up,” George said. ------- While they sluiced and scrubbed the deck, George told Mike what he’d learned from Til and from Phil Prince. -------“So I guess I’d better go to Boston” Mike said, “and try to find the Sea Witch before that lands on me too.” ------- “I’ll come with you,” George said. ------- ------- It was late afternoon when they reached the small marina near the Dacon Bridge. A forty foot power boat with the name “ATMAHAN,” on its prow was moored at the end of the dock. Despite minor changes to its paint and fittings, Mike easily recognized the Sea Witch. He nosed the Chub alongside and had George hold their position while he climbed on board. ------- He unhooked a pry bar from his belt and jimmied open the cabin door. The cabin was packed tightly with brightly colored plastic barrels. Wires led everywhere, and there were more barrels in the hold. A strong smell of fuel oil filled the air. ------- “The whole thing is a bomb,” he called to George. He climbed back onto the Chub. -------“I think it’s wired to go off as a shaped charge. They must be planning to sink a cruise ship. I want to start cutting wires, but I’m afraid to touch anything.” He got out his cell phone. “Head in to the marina, George, and get ready to tie up. We’ll probably be here all night.” -------His voice was drowned out as a police helicopter passed low overhead. A moment later a harbor patrol launch sped past out on the river. In the distance they could see a Coast Guard cutter approaching, and well behind it the towering superstructure of an LNG tanker. ------- Mike was trying to get through to the police emergency number when a panel truck roared into the parking lot and out onto the dock. A man got out and boarded the Witch. A few seconds later he’d thrown off the lines and started the engines. ------- “It’s too late,” Mike said. “I’ll have to ram him. Get off, George. Get as far away as you can.” ------- “I’m too old to run,” George said, “but I can drive a boat. You go.” -------“No time to argue,” Mike said. “We’ll take our chances.” ------- He backed and turned the Chub toward the river. The Atmahan was idling fifty feet from the end of the dock. while the man worked in the cabin. ------- “Ready, George?” ------- “Been ready for years,” George said. ------- Mike grinned at him, “Stay low,” he said, “he might be armed.” ------- But the man was absorbed in what he was doing and had no time to react before the solid prow of the lobsterman cut through the fiberglass hull of the Sea Witch and rebounded in slow motion from the tightly packed cargo. Water rushed into the opening. The boat began to list and settle into the water. Black smoke burst from the cabin. ------- Mike backed the engine, pulling free of the floundering boat, and swung around to head down river. “Check for damage,” he told George in a tight voice. George went below and was on deck again in two minutes. ------- “Nothing.” ------- “Jesus.” Mike pointed. George turned and gasped as a wall of steel loomed over them. ------- Neither of them spoke while the giant tanker passed. George waved to a crewman leaning on the rail. They continued down the river in silence for another five minutes. ------- “I used to tell my men to try to think like the bad guys,” Mike finally said, “ understand what makes them tick. This I don’t get.” ------- “Neither do I,” George said. ------- They had expected to be stopped by the police or the coast guard, but they were able to cruise slowly through the harbor to the open sea without interference. ------- “Atmahan, George said a half hour later. It’s Sanskrit for ‘killing the soul.’ A suicide bomber? Not much you can do about fanatics except to talk to them. Try to reach them before they go off the rails.” ------- “Christ, George, they should put you in charge of homeland security.” ------- -------It was ten o’clock on a calm and starry night. They were more than halfway back to Stone Harbor. George had made coffee and fixed ham and cheese sandwiches. Mike was finding it difficult already to remember the details of what happened in Boston. -------“You all right?” George asked. -------“More or less,” Mike said. “You think they’ll track us down? I suppose we should have hung around like responsible citizens instead of making for the hills.” -------“Someone will remember seeing us,” George said, “the sailor I waved to. We did our bit. They must be going ape-shit.” -------Mike stared into the darkness to where the Provincetown lighthouse was just a spark. “I still have the shakes myself,” he said. “Half a million people. You’re not religious, are you George? You don’t believe in an afterlife?” -------“No,” George said. “I believe in this life, which is why we have to help everyone make the most of it. But if it’s any comfort, we can’t ever not have been. Maybe that’s immortality of a sort.” -------“I’ll have to think about that,” Mike said. “How about another pot of coffee? I don’t want to drive us off the road.” -------The Green Pig busied himself in the galley. He had friends in Boston, lots of them. He ought to feel more upset, but he wasn’t feeling anything at the moment. Maybe he was getting too old. -------“I can’t believe Til’s your brother,” Mike said. -------“Big brother,” George said. -------“You seem like such different people.” -------“No so different. I was a war correspondent for 30 years before I became a travel writer.” -------“I’d forgotten. You really think Til had nothing to do with what happened in P’town?” ------- “For what it’s worth. He’s careful about what he says, but I don’t think he’d lie.” -------“Crazy old fart. If it’s not Til or Stuart, then who hates me that much?” ------- “Maybe it’s something more practical than hate, Mike. Some reason to get you out of the way. Or maybe it’s just a nut. Someone who’s offended by the fact that you’re smart, young, rich and handsome, and you’ve got the girl.” -------“Except for the girl, that’s all pretty relative,” Mike said. “Especially the young part.” -------“So you say. After a certain point there’s nothing relative about old age. Did Cynthia ever decide what to do with the chapel?” ------- “I’m going to buy it. We’ll it up as non-profit and rent to the same tenants, the ones that aren’t in jail.” ------- “None of the churches was interested?” ------- “You mean after David found the Hoppers? Sure they were, but that just confirmed Cynthia’s doubts about the whole religion business.” ------- “She’s a scientist,” The Green Pig said. ------- “I told her that’s a religion of a sort.” ------- “Scientists live in the real world. They use reason and experience, and their theories are falsifiable.” ------- “Not always, George. They make their own leaps of faith, but I’m not really up for this discussion.” ------- ------- An hour later Mike headed into the Stone Harbor channel. George stood beside him and watched the dark shore approach. ------- “What do we do next?” Mike said. ------- “Get some sleep,” George said. ------- Chapter 62 ------- ------- ------- “Twenty-seven minutes. Nice guess.” ------- “Not a guess,” Cynthia said. ------- They’d thawed a one gallon log of chowder base in a gallon of milk. ------- “Shouldn’t we taste it?” Til asked. ------- “Yeah, but let it heat up a little more. I’ll give some to Gato. Betty’s cats loved chowder.” ------- “His bowl’s in the sink,” Til said. -------Cynthia ladled a small amount of clam chowder into Gato’s bowl and set it on the kitchen floor. The cat looked at her suspiciously, then strolled across the room, sniffed the chowder, and began to lap the rich broth. -------“Tested and approved,” Til said. “We ought to start cooking by noon tomorrow. Are we set with the rolls and pies?” -------“Uh huh,” Cynthia said. -------“So all’s well that ends well. The kids had a good summer. You and Mike get a new life in Philly. Jane and I get to fix up the Captain’s Folly, and Betty Putterman puts on a last chowder bash. You want kids?” -------“I don’t know, Til. It’s chancy at my age, and it’s not a promising world.” -------“Don’t give me that crap. It’s the same lousy world we grew up in. You’re not turning chicken?” -------“Maybe. Worrying about one person is hard enough. I don’t know how Mike’s wife stood it.” -------“Cold feet?” -------Cynthia shook her head. “Where’s Jane.” -------“Whole Foods. Pour yourself some coffee, girl. We’ll sit on the porch.” ------- -------Cynthia leaned back in the big wicker chair. The marsh was almost entirely golden with just a hint of summer green. Two miles across the shimmering grass the Coast Guard station stood out like a beacon in the late afternoon sun. Miles at sea, a trawler was slowly working its way along the coast. -------“This is nice,” Cynthia said. -------“Can’t ask for more.” -------“Oh, I can. I want to understand, Til.” -------“Sure, why not,” Til said, “but while you’re at it, I say let it roll.” -------They talked and watched the tide slowly rise until the marsh was flooded. ------- -------“Til!” Jane called from inside the house. -------Til shot out of his chair. Cynthia followed him as he ran into the house. -------“It’s Gato,” Jane said. -------The cat was on the kitchen floor, convulsing. He shuddered for a moment and then lay still. Til kneeled beside him. -------“He’s dead. Jesus, Cyn, the chowder.” -------“No!” Cynthia said. “It can’t be! Oh Til. We don’t know for sure. We can get it tested.” -------Til shook his head. “No time. Probably the damned mushrooms. Betty’s eyesight was shot. Ninety-five and half dotty. Bitch on wheels, too. Christ, Cyn, maybe it’s better we don’t know. Betty was a good hater. She loved you, though. I can’t believe... Aw, hey.” Til took Cynthia in his big arms and held her. -------“I’ve known this girl near all her life,” he said to Jane. “Never seen her cry bvefore. I’m shaking in my boots, too, Cyn, but the cure is action. We need twenty gallons of frozen chowder base by tomorrow morning. Tell ‘em Betty’s stuff was spoiled. We’ve got a party to put on.” ------- -------Chapter 63 ------- ------- “Til says all’s well that ends well.” -------“I guess so,” Mike said, “for us anyway. The kids had a good summer, David found the Hoppers, we’ve dealt with the chapel, and we’re off to the big city. I’ll never know who had it in for me, but if it’s stopped I guess it doesn’t matter. I wish the other shoe would drop on Boston, though. I can still see George and me getting blamed for something.” -------“How about we ask him to lunch?” Cynthia said. “See what he thinks. George is soothing.” ------- -------“This is nice,” George said. They were on Mike’s porch, drinking beer and eating smoked bluefish chowder. Mike and Cynthia had told George about their plans to move to Philadelphia while Mike finished his doctorate. They’d rented a campus apartment and Cynthia had found a temporary teaching position at Girls High. -------“I told Henry I’d miss roofing,” Mike said. “I don’t think he believed me. I’ll miss Henry, though. We’ll miss the Cape, but we’ll be back.” -------“I’ll try to be here,” George said. “Til and I plan to do some traveling, maybe work on a book about World War Two battlefields. Making up for lost time. We aren’t as far apart on some things as we’d thought.” ------- “Sounds good, George,” Cynthia said, “which brings me to something Mike and I were talking about. What’s happening in Boston?” -------“Why do you think they’re keeping it under wraps?” Mike said. “And why haven’t they tracked us down? Unless they’re waiting to roll up our entire terrorist network. They must have identified the Sea Witch by now.” -------“Maybe not,” George said, “if Amir used a phony registration number. I still can’t imagine how he came up with the name.” ------- “Atmahan, yeah,” Mike said. “I wonder...oh Christ, George! It’s not Hindu philosophy. It’s ‘A. T. Mahan!’” -------He went into the house and came back with a book. “Alfred Thayer Mahan’s Influence of Sea Power on History. You’ve read it. It helped cause the First World War. And you know who has a first edition.” -------“Oh, dear,” George said, “little brother.” ------- -------Chapter 64 -------Til was waiting for them. -------“Welcome to the house, my friends. It’s good to see you. Come in, I’ve just made coffee, and Jane baked blueberry scones.” ------- Til showed them to the big porch overlooking the marsh. Jane poured coffee and Til passed the scones and jam and then settled back in his chair. ------- “I was hoping I’d see you two before you went off to Philadelphia, but I gather from George that this isn’t entirely a social visit. I assume he’s told you about the money laundering operation. I set it up years ago, but I’ve been completely out of it for a decade and I never had anything to do with this local bunch. No paper trail, no smoking guns, just a little history as far as I’m concerned. Hell, it’s a lot more efficient than most charities. Three quarters of the operation’s cut goes to help poor kids, and not a dime of it ever came to me.” ------- “Quite a scheme,” Mike said. ------- “One of my better ones, I’ve always thought. Until human nature changes, the dirty money’s going to be there, so why not skim a little off for a good cause? The groups get what they can, and when the time seems right they shop the bad guys to the cops.” ------- “Really? They turn them in?” ------- “Carefully, but that’s the idea. The cops, the DEA, the FBI. Or better yet, the competition. Sweet and cheap with a high body count. You’re not talking, Cynnie. I’m sorry if the old man’s a disappointment to you. I’ve made my own rules, but honest to God I did it for those kids in Africa. I don’t want to lose you, any of you. Especially you, big brother. You’re twice the man I am.” ------- “You haven’t lost me,” George said. “Next time I’ll even bring the mice.” ------- There was a long silence which seemed to confuse Til. ------- “Mother Mary!” he said. “That’s not it, is it? Ever since I told George I’ve been afraid... Hell, Mike, what’s this all about? ------- ------- “A. T. Mahan,” Mike said. “Ring any bells?” ------- “Mahan? Sure, I have a first edition of his Influence of Sea Power. I showed it to you.” ------- Mike nodded but said nothing. ------- “I don’t know what you’re after here Mike. I really thought you folks wanted to talk about the money.” ------- There was another uncomfortable silence. ------- “For what it’s worth,” George said, “I don’t think does know. Do you, Til? About an attempt to blow up Boston by a man named Amir Safed?” ------- “Amir!” Til laughed. “He’s a cellist, George. He was with the BSO until they canned him. He lets me play my violin with him sometimes. Blow up Boston! That’s nuts.” ------- George explained what had happened in Boston. ------- “The poor bastard. I haven’t seen him since they let him go. He wouldn’t say why, but I guessed it could be that he’s not that great a musician. Look, Amir’s a good friend, a military history buff like me. We have talked about Mahan. And yeah, he’s a little crazy, but not nuts if you know what I mean. I absolutely don’t believe it about Boston. He’s not violent. The man’s a vegetarian!” Til thought a moment. “But he is a world class joker. You’re positive it was a bomb?” ------- “A dozen barrels full of diesel fuel connected by wires? It sure looked like a bomb. It never occurred to me that it might be fake,” Mike said. “I guess that would explain why they haven’t come after George and me. Shit, Til, they’ll lock up your buddy for the rest of his life. They won’t know what else to do with him.” ------- “I think he always did feel a little out of place,” Til said. “Arab but not Muslim and not always accepted as a real American. Maybe he thought that’s why they fired him. But then what happened to Stuart?” He took a drink of coffee. “They did have some history, but...” Suddenly he grinned. “Oh shit. You know what I’ll bet the cops found when they got there? A half-sunken boat, a fake bomb, and a very drunken Captain Will Stuart.” ------- Til pulled a cell phone from his pocket and punched in a number. -------“Amir? How you doing, man? Yeah, I heard. That’s rotten. You okay, though? Sure, there are other orchestras. Better ones. When you coming down? Tuesday? Napi’s for lunch? Great. No, nothing much new here. Listen, Amir, I don’t want to know the details, but I have to know. Have you just been up to something a little wild and crazy?” -------“No shit.” Til laughed. “All right, my man. Looking forward to it.” -------“Cool as a WACS ass, but it was him all right. And by the way, gentlemen, even if it was a scam, what you boys did was as brave as anything I’ve ever heard of. I wish I could have seen it. The Captain and the The Pig save Boston! It’s too bad they were able to hush it up. Seems like a window of vulnerability the public might like to know about.” ------- “Somebody knows,” George said, “cops, firemen, EMT’s. I’ll make a few calls. Once the press starts poking around they’ll talk.” ------- -------Chapter 65 ------- Cynthia watched from the doorway as an old truck rumbled up her driveway and squeaked to a stop. A tall woman got out. -------“S’matter, Cabot? Seen a ghost?” -------“Sooty!” Cynthia ran to her and threw her arms around her. “Where have you been?” -------“Hell and back. I just finished five years teaching at Berkeley. You’re looking good, love.” -------“I’m happy, Soots. Mike Nickerson and I are together. I’m going to Philadelphia with him. He’s the greatest guy.” ------- “Yeah, Mike’s all right. Relax, I came to apologize and say goodbye.” -------“Where are you going?” -------“Assistant professorship at Harvard.” -------“Sooty, that’s wonderful! What are you teaching? ------- “A couple of sections of Intro to Philosophy and a graduate level course on cognition and mental states. I hope the kids are up to it, because we’re going to fly. Wish you were coming with me, babe.” ------- “I wish I had a mind like yours.” ------- “You have a fine mind, toots, and you’re putting it good use. Anyway, the world doesn’t need another fruitcake like me. You ever think about us, Cyn? About when we were kids?” ------- “Of course I do. You gave me my life, you and Betty. I’m sorry I ran out on you, but I thought I’d killed Randy. Some people still think I did.” ------- “That’s my fault, Cyn. I told the little prick I’d do him in the chapel and I did him all right. I cut his throat. I went home to wait for the cops, but Randy just disappeared, and nobody ever said shit. I still don’t know what happened to him.” ------- “My God, Sooty! You killed Randy?” ------- “I was out of my mind. I knew he’d done something to you, maybe killed you. I was sure you were gone for good, and I’d never even told you how much I love you.” ------- “Sooty, I knew. I loved you too. I thought you’d understand.” ------- “It’s all right, babe. I was too messed up, anyway. Still am. You and Mike have a great life, okay? Have kids. Bye, girl.” She started to leave. ------- “Wait, Sooty,” Cynthia called after her. “You said you came to apologize.” ------- Sooty hesitated in the doorway, looking out to where the late afternoon sun touched the marsh. Cynthia could hardly hear her when she spoke. -------“It was me, Cyn, all of it. The rumors, Buddy Holland, the stupid shit in P’town. I wanted you for me and I wanted Mike gone. I never meant to shoot the dumb fuck, just scare him. Sorry I messed up your lives.” -------She turned and was gone. Cynthia watched the truck until it rounded the bend in the driveway and disappeared. It was Sooty? She couldn’t believe it. And all because... But what about the threatening notes to her? That made no sense. And what about Bill Holland! Oh Sooty. Oh Jesus. ------- -------Chapter 66 ------- -------Cynthia called me. Said it was serious. That doesn’t happen a lot when you’re over ninety unless you’re Oliver Wendell Holmes. -------“Why me, Cynnie?” I said. -------“Because it can’t be me, Nathan, and George is too close to her. You’re it, old man. I know she trusts you.” ------- “She won’t for long,” I said. ------- -------“This was delicious, Nathan.” -------It was good. I love this place. I’d called her and said I wanted to fly up from P’town and take her to lunch at the Four Seasons. It was excellent as always, and I’d had one of the best times I’ve had in years. I think Sooty is more alive than any other woman I’ve ever known. And she’s an academic! A brilliant one. I was afraid she’d still be broken up about Cynthia, but she seemed in control and excited about her work. I was putting off what I’d really come for, but if she anticipated anything, she covered it well. -------“I didn’t know you were interested in brain science, Nathan, or I’d have sent you some of my articles. I think you’re right about consciousness. It seems magical, but it’s nothing more mysterious than a concatenation of sense experiences. There’s a lot more research to be done, but that’s where it’s going to come out. Hey, did you see the look on the waiter’s face? I’ll bet he thought I licked my plate! No one’s even taken me to the Four Seasons before, Nathan I don’t approve of ridiculous consumption, but I have to say I loved it.” -------She gave me the beady eye for a long moment. There is a quid pro quo here, isn’t there? You’re a sweet old guy, but I wasn’t born last Tuesday. What is it, my dear.” -------“There are some people who care a great deal about you,” I said. -------“That’s hard to believe, but I’ll take your word for it. Cynthia and Mike?” -------“And George.” -------“George! Christ, this is serious!” -------I took a deep breath. “Sooty, did you kill Bill Holland?” -------In that split second I knew it was all right. -------“No, Marty,” she said calmly, “Bill killed himself.” Suddenly she looked embarrassed. “This is awkward, but not to beat around the bush he couldn’t perform. Don’t flip your eyebrows. I am that kind of girl. That was the deal, a thousand bucks and a pity-fuck. I’m not mean, Nathan, just nuts. Why not, if it made him happy? I was horrified when I heard what he’d done. If I’d even dreamed... I told him it wasn’t big deal, happens all the time, to everybody, but he was mortified. It might not matter to someone like you, especially at what, a hundred and fifteen? You have other resources. But Bill lived to dip his wick.” -------“Other resources?” I said coolly. -------“You know, books, music... Oh God, you’re putting me on!” -------“If I were fifteen years younger...” I said. “Aren’t there...you know, measures these days?” ------- “You’re so cute, Marty. Sure there are, but they didn’t work for him. Believe me, I tried and I couldn’t pull it off. Don’t laugh! It’s tragic in a minor way. Bill was a turd, but he had a sense of humor, and I kind of liked him. God, the big dope.” She wiped her eyes. ------- “I wasn’t laughing,” I said. “I’m just relieved. The state cops were satisfied, but we knew things they didn’t. I’m sorry, Sooty. No one wanted to believe it. You have to understand, it wasn’t justice we cared about. It was just you. So you’re really okay?” -------“Yes, Nathan. Tell them that. Tell them I’m okay.” ------- Chapter 67 ------- -------Now my children want to set me up in a swanky Senior Living Community in Brewster. They mean well, but I’m not ready for bingo and balloon volleyball. I’m up at six to let Thatcher out. I make coffee, eat a toasted bagel, and write until lunch. The rest of the day just glides by, errands, naps, visits with friends, a long walk with Thatch. I eat dinner with friends or at a restaurant, read a while, and take the dog for a last outs. -------The trouble is with Mike’s story finished I couldn’t get started on anything. I know how Gibbon must have felt after The Decline and Fall. ------- Then a few weeks after Mike and Cynnie left for Philadelphia, Til came to see me. We chatted about nothing for a while, his new composting septic system, the book he and George are planning to write. I told him about the damned Senior Community and having writer’s block for the first time in eighty years. I knew he was working up to something, but I was in no hurry. ------- It was about Mike, about the drug raid in Philadelphia. When Mike’s partner was been murdered, Mike was sure it was revenge, but he hadn’t convinced homicide. It weighed on him, his friend dead, and the wife and kids without a husband or father because of decisions he’d made. And there was still a killer out there. ------- “It was the dead man’s being South African. That’s where I recruited our headquarters staff. If it was one of our guys collecting money, payback’s a strong possibility. I’m long out of it, but I know people, and I got a name. If you think Mike has to know, I’ll tell him, but maybe it’s better to let it go. What do you think, Nathan? ” ------- “We all have unfinished business,” I said. “He can carry it for the rest of his life, which we’ll hope is a lot longer than ours.” ------- “That’s settled then, and speaking of life, old man, if there’s ever a time you can’t manage here, you can live with us, okay?” ------- “Never happen,” I said, “but thanks.” ------- “How about this then,” Til said. “I’d hate to see you die of boredom. You can write my autobiography.” |