The Forest Bull (The Fearless) Page 11

  Jim seemed a bit tense. The combs must be really unusual to get a reaction from a pair of old pros.

  “And the vehicle? Tax included, of course?” I smiled. I had leverage. It was deeply satisfying, even knowing that they probably had a buyer lined up already who would pay a ghastly number for the trinkets.

  “Taxes. Of course. Always a pleasure, Ring.” Jim shook my hand, and Deb began to count out money.

  The combs must have been much nicer than we could have imagined because she counted out six thousand dollars and set the Wagoneer keys on top of the stack. I was pleasantly surprised.

  “Do me a favor, Jim.” I had another matter in mind, for later. “I need something for protection for the girls. No guns. Anything light, maybe a blade. Something very personal. Keep me in mind. Functional but well designed. I’ll go a thousand each for whatever you run across. It should be small enough for a woman’s hand, but lethal. Not decorative.”

  Deb and Jim both closed their eyes for a second in thought. Jim spoke first. “You betcha. I’ll send you anything appropriate that I might find.”

  We said our goodbyes, and I strolled through the sun to my new pride and joy. I shut the door with a satisfying thump. The engine turned over immediately and settled into the rich purr of an eight cylinder powertrain. With a tweak to the mirror, I pulled out into traffic and headed for home, a yuppie to the core.

  And an elementary school art class was six grand richer.

  When Suma pulled up to our place, the boat was ready. Gyro greeted her at the door with a single reverberating WOOF, and then fell to the floor, his security requirements fulfilled. Wally was cycling, and Risa had been at the heavy bag in our carport gymnasium. Her grunts of satisfaction with each strike had punctuated the last hour. She was working hard, and I didn’t wish to interrupt her, so I had Suma follow me to the dock, where we stepped aboard and cast off. The canal shone brilliant in the afternoon sun. The tide was running out, so I took a leisurely pace, opened two beers, and asked her what she felt like fishing for.

  “I don’t know. Can we sit still, drink beer, and technically still be fishing?” Her look was mischievous. I appreciated that type of angler.

  “Absolutely. In fact, the less we move, the better. It gains us tremendous fishing cred to remain in one location. I know just the place; it’s in Port Everglades. We’ll still be inshore, but there’s a deep hole where we might accidentally catch fish while we get sun.” I pushed the throttle forward, and we turned east, our destination minutes away.

  We coasted to a stop at the corner of two seawalls, where a lazy eddy circled underneath us. I dropped the blade anchor and let the line pay out until I felt the subtle underwater clink that meant we were relatively stuck.

  “Okay, so, we have a hook, a small weight, and a shrimp. We drop this over,” I demonstrated with my spinning reel, “until the line goes slack. Then, you reel up until there is a hint of tension and pray that nothing tugs at the bait, which would interrupt your sandwich and beer time.” I finished by sitting on a cushion with my legs overboard so that they could be slapped by wavelets.

  “Like this?” Suma was very careful with the rod and had one finger lightly poised on the line.

  “Just right. That way, you feel the line, not the tip. If you get a bite, don’t reel--pull up quickly and then reel as you lower the rod, like a seesaw, up and down.” I mimicked my flawless strategy as she watched.

  “Can we have a snack? I’m starving,” she asked, smiling winningly at me from under her hat. I leaned toward the cooler and began to rummage.

  “Sandwich time?” I asked, and she reached with her free hand across the space between us. I noticed for the first time that her eyes were hazel. I handed her a one-pound section of sub, dripping lettuce and dressing onto the deck. It was an inelegant but rewarding way to eat.

  “Are you from Thailand or the States?” I asked, squinting out at the water. It was that particular fragmented green of late afternoon.

  “I’m American. And a little bit French. Our grandfather was from Marseilles. He met our grandmother in Thailand, though, so some of my family had dual citizenship. We--hey! A bite!” She cut off her speech and began to reel furiously, the rod tip dancing merrily. After a few seconds, a wriggling fish swayed in the air, gill plates pumping in frustration.

  “Swing it over here. I’ll take it off for you, Fish Master.” I bowed solemnly as she led the fish through the air to my waiting hands.

  “What is it? It’s beautiful, like a blue and yellow mirror.” Her gaze was admiring. It was a gorgeous little fish.

  “It’s a grunt. They carpet the bottom, but they’re delicious. Since we have sandwiches, we’ll let him go.” I held the foot-long fish out for Suma to inspect.

  “A grunt? What a name.”

  The fish obliged me, barking several times like an old man clearing his throat. I tossed him back in as Suma laughed.

  “That’s truth in advertising. I never knew fish could talk,” she said, looking into the water where the grunt had submerged with a miffed flip of the tail.

  “They certainly can. Translated, it said we should have another beer, and I, for one, always listen to nature.” I reached for the cooler as she laughingly accepted the bottle, and we both decided to work on becoming better friends before the sun went down.

  I know the rhythm of our house, from the creaks and pops of roof joints cooling after a day in the sun to the low whirr of the refrigerator. I walked silently to the back door. It was three in the morning, and Gyro rose quietly to join me on the dock. I replayed my afternoon on the boat with Suma and realized that I liked hearing her laugh more than I should. I noticed things about her. She had flecks of green in her eyes when the sun hit them under the brim of her hat. She hated the texture of fish but loved their colors. Enormous ships throwing wakes made her a bit sick, but she thought the shape of the waves was graceful, and she tanned without burning. There was no Nightingale syndrome between us, but I intrigued her for unknown reasons, even with the danger that surrounded me. In turn, I found her immensely likeable. Absently scratching Gyro, I knew that our day together was our last. She was family of family, and I refused to be the vector that brought death to her door. I hoped I would be determined enough to avoid an emotional attachment that could only lead to danger.

  The canal was quiet, and the streets were still. I let the illusion of solitude swirl around me. Even amidst the lights of the unending coastal city, stars burned sparsely in the sky. I knew the Milky Way stretched above, invisible to me, but still present, unending from horizon to horizon. So much of the world was beyond our perceptions. We were obtuse for so many reasons, our poor senses laughable in the animal kingdom. We could be blind by choice, or by design. That type of ignorance was no longer an option for me and the girls. We had lifted the curtain, and we could not lower it again, the stain of knowledge permanent in our minds.

  I had Risa and Wally. I had a dog. Still, looking out over the dark water, it seemed that there were many things I would never have, and anger stirred within me at the loss of a future I could not know.

  I went inside, resolving to call the Baron and ask him if someday there might be room in the forest for three more people. Our lives suddenly felt more dangerous.

  Cazimir connected immediately and seemed genuinely glad to be in contact. After a description of fishing and my general leisure, he grew quiet.

  “Ring, I do not wish to sound paternal or brash, but may I ask you if you are serious about finding Elizabeth?” He waited for my answer, hands folded on his desk. His expression was one of mild curiosity, not anger.

  I was brought up short. I didn’t have a legitimate reason for my inactivity. In fact, his question caused more introspection than I was prepared for, and I hesitated to answer. I didn’t want to lie. Was it fear? Perhaps I was unable to be fully engaged in a task that was outside my original skillset, and my discomfort made me unfocused. I didn’t know, but it was a fair question, not an interrogation, s
o I waited a long moment before I began speaking.

  “I don’t know. I feel like I may need a point of origin, or something, I can’t exactly articulate what is missing here.” I was nonplussed by my own vagueness. I knew to Cazimir I must appear to be a braggart at best and a coward at worst. He had unwittingly, or by design, struck at the very root of my entire life with the girls. I had morphed from a laconic teen into a sporadic soldier who found casual death inoffensive and forgettable, only to find that, as an adult, I was repeating the exact same behaviors to our detriment. I had even found a nontraditional but intense relationship with two women who, for some reason, returned my feelings and respect tenfold. I’d been dipped in luck and yet here I was being mildly rebuked because I couldn’t maintain an intensity that we needed if we were to succeed.

  “Allow me to give you some direction, if I may, Ring. You recall that I was able to identify you by looking for oddities within the news. Let me pass along something you may find useful. One of your local news sources reported a murder, quite gruesome, involving a highly respected surgeon who was found buried near the beach. After reading what is present and lacking in the crime description, I think you may be interested. I’ll email it directly, and please give me your opinion when you have read it.”

  I felt a bit like a recalcitrant child, but I agreed and we signed off, my resolve a bit more firm than it had been an hour before.

  We had a lead.

  We all read the article describing the death of one Arnaud LeConte, a surgeon who had donated countless hours to corrective surgery free of charge. He was, on the surface, a highly unlikely target for an immortal of Elizabeth’s standing. Internet searches revealed him to be of relatively modest means and an all-around good citizen. Risa keyed on the body. Rather, she keyed on who found the unfortunate Arnaud, and where. A caterer returning to clean up after the charity event stumbled, quite literally, on the good doctor and called the police. Photographs from the affair were everywhere online. For the people in attendance, being seen doing good works was more important than the act itself. Social sites were laden with smiling faces of perfectly coiffed socialites sacrificing for the greater good. In one photo, a caterer’s truck was parked in the background, the distinct blue and gold logo clearly visible. Le Renard Gris Catering.

  Arnaud’s body was discovered by a male, we knew that much. In all likelihood he was young, self-assured, and attractive, if the hiring model held true for Palm Beach caterers as a whole. Our next move was simple. We needed information, and it had to be extracted with the least possible resistance. I smiled grandly at Wally who was already rolling her eyes at me in disgust. After a quick search, I located the company and found that they also staffed a yacht club in North Lauderdale. In all likelihood, our target could be found there, pouring stiff drinks for boating enthusiasts who dressed more casually than their bank accounts would allow.

  “Get your miniskirt, gorgeous. You’re going to shake down a bartender for some gossip.” I was already laughing. I knew her evening would consist of, at the very least, an interminable flirting session with a side order of personal space violation. I planned on cleaning the boat and then taking Risa for pizza. That seemed like a solid occupation of our valuable time while Wally played inspector.

  Wally hung her head in dejection and made tracks for her room to prepare for her interrogation by flirtation, one of her specialties.

  Risa put down the remote and softly called from the couch, “Be home by eleven, you tramp.” In answer, a flip-flop hurtled her way, followed by a slew of cursing as we heard the shower being turned on. Risa stood and grabbed her keys.

  “Pizza and beer? I’m buying,” she said. The boat would remain grimy. My response was the only one a sane man could offer. I opened the door with a flourish and wondered if Wally would have any luck.

  Stacia

  His shoulders shook with hidden sobs. This was a man coming apart at the seams, and it was no surprise to his family and friends. Privately, they were amazed that Don had been able to hold it together for this long after losing Janice. A long, ugly pitched battle against ovarian cancer had ended in a Miami hospital where his wife of three decades had slipped into a coma and exhaled one last time, her pallor instantly shifting to that of the deceased. Even a year later, the smell of disinfectant left Don shaking and uneasy, like the specter of her sickness had come to visit again, and brought little details to remind him of the pain with a sadistic hint. He was a big man, with long limbs and the rough hands of a hard worker. His black hair was still cut short, and he dressed crisply every day after drinking a single cup of coffee while looking over the rock garden he had built for Janice. The water still bubbled merrily from the fountain they had placed in the middle of it all, oblivious to the crashing sorrow in the man standing a few feet away.

  But Don had found hope.

  At the brink of a breakdown, he had sought help. His pride eroded, his resolve weakened, he had turned outward and found a grief counselor who met his demands for discretion and budgetary constraints. Janice’s illness had left him far less secure than he liked, and he needed to clear his head in order to regain the desire to live. To breathe. To survive.

  Stacia had been the only counselor willing to come to him. It was a huge step to even admit he needed assistance, but to publicly reach out was too much for Don. He had been, at turns in his life, reticent, quiet, and even taciturn. But sitting in his own chair, with the familiar trappings of his life around him, Don learned with each session to let go, just the smallest bit. It was an internal war of control. Stacia, a well-groomed woman in her forties, would sit across from him and introduce small questions. Did he dream? Did he remember them? Did he cry, and how often? She paid close attention to whether or not he could express himself around her, an outsider.

  He could not. She was fine with that, and pressed no further, leading Don to trust her with more imagery of his sorrow. His deep, penetrating sadness. How he still picked up the phone to call Janice at work and then, crying, hung the phone up, wondering if he was losing his mind. After an hour or more of talking each day, Don realized he was shedding his burden. He slept a bit more and ate quietly at his solitary table, aware that the food had no flavor, but at least he was eating.

  He came out of his shell in small ways. Progress was being made. He complimented Stacia’s necklace, a single green stone. Green was Janice’s favorite color, and she had loved to feel feminine. She would have loved the piece. I know, said Stacia. After three weeks, Stacia solemnly informed him that, for their next meeting, he would learn. She needed him to understand concepts that were alien to his Western mind, but she felt it critical that he grasped them in order to heal fully and move on.

  So for a day, he listened. Over coffee gone cold, the dark-eyed woman sat primly at his table and told him of how the world defined the soul. She spoke of Prana, and Ch’i and of the spirit in terms that were simple and clear. When the sun set through Janice’s gingham kitchen curtains, she asked Don one simple question.

  “In that large body, you have a small but pure soul. Knowing this, are you ready to tell me, in full, how Janice loved, lived, and left you? The pain? And now, perhaps, hope? The after, so to speak? Can you do that?” she asked, her gaze maternal and warm.

  He folded and unfolded his large, bony hands. He looked at the lines and scars bespeaking a life lived in service to his love. He nodded once and looked blearily into the lights of the kitchen.

  “Don, you should speak. It is time to let go,” she urged, but softly, warily.

  He was aware of her becoming very still, like a hunter fearful of spooking game. Her head was poised, listening, her hand inches from his, the fingers curled lightly inward. He began from his first memory of Janice, with her cursing at a cyclist who tore her dress on a crowded street in Rochester, New York, when they were both young. His eyes grew soft, far too soft to match his hands, and the lights began to lose their focus as the memories took command of his body. He felt Stacia take his
hand, her warmth and caring urging him on. Through dates, and their first child, to the war and two years of wondering do I die today while choking on rain a world away . . . he told her all of it. And, eventually, the tears rolling freely now while he had to cut off a yawn, he dove into the blackness of the day that the doctor said simply, “The cancer is back.” He recalled the hum of the fluorescents. The light scent of urine and cleanser on tile, rustling lab coats, and the faces carefully ignoring him as he led Janice, staggering, to the car to weep together, crying without end for the entire world to hear. Stacia stood behind him now, rubbing his wide, bony shoulders and leaning on him, his yawns growing wider and longer, his focus fading.

  “What about the last day, Don? Did she move at all? Tell me . . . tell me about her eyes. Did she know it was close?” And now her voice was low, guttural, fat with pleasure. He felt a delicate probing of his body and then the lightest touch as her messenger tendril, an ethereal dark blue, twisted from within her and twined around his ribs and heart. It pulsed like a gorging snake with his sadness and lost love. Inside his body, synapses fired and went black, their charge stripped away by her questing presence, the filaments of her hungry light spreading in him like the canopy of an evil tree. Her eyes flickered under her lids in concentration. He had a vivid mind and a hardy soul. She laid her cheek against his head and asked him, while his heart hammered, “Do you want to join her? Do you love her that much, Don?”

  Oh God how he did and he would tell her if he could just keep his eyes open. He became aware of a slight erection and moved his hand to cover it, but his arm only rolled weakly. He was so tired. So very tired. His lips kept moving as Stacia whispered again and again, “Tell me about her. About the sadness, Don,” and then, finally, the tendril made of more shadow than light uncoiled one final time from his chest, and retreated into her body, now flushed and glowing. She was drunk with his memories and more than a little high on the depths of his pain. A patina of sweat covered her cheeks and forehead. His rugged frame had been very strong, and she had expended an intense effort to feed freely of it. His brain pan filled with blood, and he had bitten his tongue. A massive stroke, they would determine. Brought on by a broken heart, the neighbors would say.