The Caretaker Page 24

  She says nothing about her daughter. Ranjit’s arm under her head has become numb, and he shifts a little, his voice gentle in the darkness.

  “Anna, I know about your daughter. I know what happened.”

  There is a sharp intake of breath. “Who told you?”

  “Betty Green, I ran into her in the post office—”

  “Betty Green. That woman is a real bitch. Even when I was a teenager, she used to gossip about me, spread rumors that I was sleeping around—”

  “Anna, it was even in the paper. A few days ago.”

  “Oh.” She turns to face him, her head rising from the pillows. “I told Clayton—I goddamn told him—that with all this publicity, they were going to bring it up again. What did they say?”

  “Only … only that she drowned. Here. On the Vineyard.”

  She sits up abruptly. “Ranjit,” she whispers, “there are times when I can’t remember my baby’s face. I’m losing her all over again.”

  “You’re tired now, Anna. Let’s get some sleep. You’ll see, when you’re rested, you’ll remember. Come here.”

  He pulls her under the covers, and she cuddles into him.

  They lie entwined in the darkness, and soon her chest is rising and falling and she is asleep. He stays awake, thinking of Shanti. He can see her clearly as a baby, lying gurgling in her stroller, but he has to reassemble her nine-year-old self, using her big eyes from one memory, her heart-shaped face from another. Finally her face is complete, and she smiles up at him, showing her small, even teeth. What would happen if he couldn’t see her for years? Would he be able to remember her then?

  The question haunts him as he drifts into sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  He wakes late the next morning into glittering winter light. Anna is gone from the bed, the place where she had lain cold and empty.

  Sitting up, he feels a sharp ache in his side, and remembers again the red dot moving through the darkness of the Senator’s living room. He sees it swerve from the Senator’s chest to his, hears again the shattering of the glass. Something about the scene bothers him, and he replays it again and again, getting nowhere.

  Panic washes through him as he looks around the huge bedroom. This is the tenth day that his family is in detention. They will be deported soon, and here he is, with Anna. He has to do something. Gritting his teeth, he slides his legs over the side of the bed. He takes slow, halting steps to the bathroom, holds the edge of the sink, and peers into the mirror. His face is hollowed out, his eyes cloudy, and a bristly beard has begun to grow back, the hair on his chin a shining gray.

  “Ranjit, you’re up? I heard a noise, I thought you’d fallen—”

  Anna is in the doorway, her hair damp, her eyes bright. She’s wearing the same brown corduroys as the day before, but with a man’s electric-blue dress shirt.

  “I just need some help getting dressed. Are there any clothes that will fit me?”

  She gestures to an armoire in the corner. “That’s full of clothes. But are you sure you can walk?”

  “Yes,” he says, but suddenly the room spins. She comes into the bathroom and grabs his arm.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, he is dressed in a thick cream cable-knit sweater and a pair of too-short gray corduroys that match the ones Anna is wearing. She supports him and they walk slowly down the stairs and along the ground-floor hallway. Its windows look onto the front porch, and he sees the pastel rocking chairs outside moving silently, back and forth, caught in a gust of wind.

  They walk past the doorway of a dark sitting room, its furniture hidden under heavy canvas dust covers, and enter the kitchen.

  Anna has started the potbellied woodstove in the corner, and it is warm in here. Ranjit slumps into a straw-backed chair at the wide-plank table and looks around the room. Polished copper pots and pans cover one wall, sparkling with morning sunlight, and hanging bunches of dried basil and marjoram give off faint, woody smells. Despite the hominess of it all, the eight-burner stove and dishwasher are of industrial quality, clearly meant to service a house full of demanding guests.

  He slumps into a chair, feeling the waves of heat radiate from the stove, and watches as Anna pulls cans and packages from the white wooden cabinets. He knows that the bottom cabinet in the corner, identical to all the others, holds the security system for the house.

  “Voilà!” She returns to the table and piles up her finds. “Baked beans, sardines, caviar, wheat crackers, and umm, pickles.”

  In the glint and gleam of the kitchen, she looks rested and happy, far from the anguished creature of the night before.

  “Did you sleep well?”

  “Thanks to you, I did.” She brandishes a can opener. “Now, what do you want to eat?”

  “The beans and crackers for me, please. Is there any tea?”

  She turns back to the cupboard and finds a green tin. She opens it under his nose, and he sighs as he inhales the rich aroma of Darjeeling. There is even a can of condensed milk, sticks of cinnamon, and some cloves—now they can make chai.

  He guides her as she carefully measures out water, milk, tea leaves, and spices, boiling them together in a copper-bottomed saucepan.

  “Mmmm, this smells good,” she says, inhaling the steam. “I thought you had to make chai out of a mix.”

  “Ah, that’s just American nonsense. They turn everything into a can or a mix.”

  She pours the boiling liquid into two thick pottery mugs, and he takes a large sip.

  “Aaah. Now this is real tea.”

  “It must be a magic potion. You look a hundred times better already.” She smiles at him as she heats up the beans on the woodstove.

  Sunlight shines on his face, and his palms wrapped around the warm cup of chai soak in its heat. After last night, every emotion seems newly minted; even the dull ache in his side reminds him that he is alive. He watches Anna at the stove, her dark hair silvered with sunlight, the electric-blue shirt bright against her dark skin.

  She catches him looking and smiles shyly, deep dimples appearing in her cheeks. When the beans are hot, she spoons some onto his plate, but their sweetness makes him nauseous. After a few bites he eats only crackers, dipping them into the hot tea.

  “Isn’t this house amazing?” She sits across from him, eating oily sardines on crackers. “I came over here last summer, you know, to have tea with the First Lady. It turned out to be more like cocktails. The President was there, too. People think he’s so stiff, but he isn’t really, he’s quite funny when he’s relaxed. She was egging him on, and he was imitating his enemies. He said, Hell, the amount of times I’ve had to go to church to prove that I’m not a Muslim. Maybe I should just eat a pork chop on prime time. That’ll show them, once and for all…”

  She captures the President’s calm, professorial voice, and he can’t help smiling.

  “It’s amazing that he can joke about it.” Ranjit takes another sip of tea. “Being able to laugh at yourself is probably a sign of sanity. You know, in India they’re always telling jokes about Sikhs. Even Sikhs tell Sikh jokes.”

  Anna looks up at him. “Well, I’m waiting. Tell me one.”

  “Okay.” He thinks for a moment. “How do you make a Sikh laugh on Sunday?”

  “I don’t know. How?”

  “Tell him a joke on Wednesday.”

  “Ha. That’s not very nice.” But there is a smile on her lips.

  “Hmm. Okay. Here’s another one. How do you defeat a submarine full of Sikhs?”

  “Stumped again.”

  “Just knock on the door, and they’ll open it.”

  She laughs like a man, with deep, hearty guffaws. Soon they are both laughing, each burst of laughter tied to a twinge of pain in his side.

  “It’s not your jokes,” she gasps. “Your jokes are awful. It’s just so nice to see you happy—”

  There is a sudden loud beeping.

  His eyes jerk toward the cabinet in the corner, and she rises and throws i
t open. A green light flashes, and beside it a small television screen shows a grainy image of the boundary wall.

  “Something set off the motion detector,” he says, walking over to her. “Swivel the camera.”

  She uses a small joystick and the image flickers and moves. Bare black trees, more snow, and the stone wall stretching into the distance, casting a short blue shadow. Then they see a blur of motion, disappearing behind what looks like a woodshed.

  “Did you see that? What was it?” Anna bites her lower lip, and he raises a hand for silence.

  He squints at the other screens, scrutinizing the front gate, the porch with the rocking chairs, the lakefront, and the dock. There is just sparkling light and snow and emptiness.

  “Anna, the leather case from the house in Ocean Park? Where is it?”

  “Upstairs, in the bedroom. Want me to bring it?”

  He nods, and she runs up the stairs, returning in a minute. He clicks open the locks and her eyes widen. She reaches in, her fingers caressing the varnished walnut stock and the whorls of silver engraving on the receiver.

  “Here. Let me assemble it. It’s a Holland and Holland, right?”

  “You know this gun?”

  “Twelve bore, side by side. I’ve always wanted one of these.”

  Her hands fly across the pieces without hesitation. She swiftly slides in the side-lock and tightens the screws, then attaches the barrels. She cocks the gun, breaks it open again, and pushes in two fat yellow cartridges.

  “This load would take down a bear,” she says softly. “I’ll go outside and check it out. The east wall, right, by the lake?”

  He forces himself to stand. “I’m coming with you. You carry the gun.”

  “But Ranjit, you can barely stand—”

  “I’m coming with you,” he insists. “Can you find me a coat?”

  * * *

  They make their way slowly through the snow, Anna holding his arm tightly and supporting him. Underneath a blue padded coat and a red hunting cap with earflaps, he is sweating heavily from the effort of walking. She is wearing her silver down coat and orange watch cap, pulled low on her forehead.

  The section of wall they are heading toward has a drift of snow piled high against it, but from this distance he can see no footprints, and the triple strand of barbed wire on top is intact. The woodshed is about a hundred feet in, obscuring a section of wall.

  He bends, picks up two large pine cones, and his voice drops to a whisper. “He will have heard us coming. I’ll take the left side of the woodshed and lob these over. You move in from the right. Only fire if you have to. I want him able to talk.”

  Anna squints into the whiteness as she slides off the safety catch. They split up, and she walks toward the woodshed, the muzzle of the gun up and ready. The only sound is the faint crunch of their footsteps in the deep snow.

  He reaches the woodshed first and sees her frozen motionless at the other end, waiting for him to act. Leaning against the rough planking, he wipes salty sweat from his eyes. He peeks through a small window, trying to see through to the other side, but the glass is dusty, and all he can make out is a quick, dipping motion; there is definitely someone by the wall.

  Gripping the pine cones, he lumbers to the corner and throws them over the woodshed, hearing them thud against the low roof, then spiral into the air. Ducking back, he hears Anna rounding the far corner, her feet crunching in the snow, hears her shout.

  There is the galloping of feet, and suddenly a large deer bounds out from behind the woodshed, a buck with huge, spreading antlers. It lifts off in mid-gallop and soars into the air, clearing the stone wall and the barbed wire. There is the crashing of brush on the other side, a flash of its white tail, and then it vanishes into the tree line.

  He forces himself upright and lurches around the woodshed. “It’s me, Anna, it’s me.”

  She is standing in the deep snow, her mouth open, the shotgun still raised. “Jesus Christ. Did you see that?” With a quick movement she breaks the shotgun and drapes it over the crook of her arm. “Another second, and I would have shot it.”

  He bends to examine the deep footprints and pain arcs down his side. He staggers then, and she runs to his side. “Hey, hey, are you okay? Can you make it back to the house?”

  His head is spinning. “I just … need to sit for a moment.”

  She tries the door to the woodshed, but it is locked. He gestures to an upside-down rowboat, a hundred yards away at the edge of Tisbury Great Pond. Arms entwined, they walk there, and she sweeps the snow away with her gloved hands.

  They both sit, breathing hard, listening to the soft lap lap lap of water. The clear blue sky above is bereft of clouds, but there is a knife-edged chill, and he knows that the weather is going to change very soon.

  “Are you okay?” Anna peers at him and puts a concerned hand on his forearm. “It was just a deer.”

  “Yes, but next time it could be someone else. And in my condition—” He wipes his face, now slick with sweat.

  “I’ve got the gun. I can handle it.”

  “I’m sure you can.” He forces a smile, but the deer has proved that they cannot rely on the alarms and cameras. They need to get out of here. What is the next move? He shivers as a chill wind begins to blow.

  “We better be getting back,” she says, but he keeps on sitting.

  “There is snow coming. A storm, perhaps a big one. Look at those clouds.”

  She squints at the gray clouds that have blotted out the sun. They part a little, and a single beam of light breaks through. “Looks pretty to me.”

  “Yes, it does.” He suddenly thinks of James, back at the Garibaldi. “You know, a friend of mine wants his ashes scattered in water. This might be a good spot for it.”

  “That’s pretty morbid.” She moves closer and takes his arm. “What’s on your mind? You have that look on your face. The look you get when you’re thinking.”

  “I’m trying to figure out what happened.” There is a silence and he can see her dark eyes staring at him from under her orange hat. “I’ve been thinking about those two men, back at your house.”

  “Ranjit, we should get you back inside. You’re soaked, and—”

  He turns to look at her. “At first I thought that the Senator hired those men, but I was watching him after you left. He didn’t move from the chair, he just sat there. Even if he called them, there wasn’t enough time for them to get into position. They were waiting for me.”

  He takes a deep breath. “It has to be Kohonen. He warned you at Filene’s that I would approach you. And he knew that you and the Senator were coming to the Vineyard, right? But there’s something else that is bothering me.”

  He closes his eyes and it all comes back to him: the darkened room, smelling of fear and desperation. The red dot wavering in the darkness, moving from the Senator’s chest to his own. He sees again the Senator’s eyes widening with shock as the glass door shattered, his frightened escape down the circular stairs.

  “The Senator was just as surprised as I was when the shots came. I’ve had it wrong all this time. The shooter wanted us both dead.”

  “Why … why would Kohonen want to kill Clayton?”

  “I don’t know. And those two men were amateurs…” He remembers the gunman’s shooting. Used to hunting deer, he had counted on the panicked movements of an animal in flight, not the reasoned tactics of a human adversary. “… while Kohonen is a professional.”

  They both stare out at the water, watching the wind ruffle its surface, throwing up small, choppy waves. Clad in an unknown man’s coat and hat, Ranjit can smell the man’s scent, something old and sour about it.

  “Anna. This Kohonen—has he had a falling-out with the Senator?”

  Picking up a piece of smooth, black driftwood lying next to the boat, she begins to doodle in the white crust of snow. “Like a fight? No, nothing like that.” She cocks her head and thinks. “There has been a strange … tension, yes, I think that’s the wo
rd for it, ever since they got back from North Korea. I thought Clayton would be happy with all the press, but he seemed frightened of something. We’d be in a restaurant or something, and he would look around, like he was afraid. And several times, I’ve heard him on the phone with Kohonen, yelling. That’s unusual, the two of them have always been tight.”

  Using the stick, she makes convoluted loops in the snow. “What are we going to do, Ranjit? Go to the police? Tell them I killed that man? What will happen then?”

  He thinks about Officer Gardner of the West Tisbury police. The man was upset at the sight of a dead dog. What is he going to make of a corpse lying on the cliff face?

  “No police. And we can’t stay here too long. If it is Kohonen, he knows I’m a caretaker, he’s smart enough to get a list of my clients. And if a deer can get through that wall … we have to assume it’s just a matter of time before he finds us.” He takes a deep breath. “If I’m right about what happened at the house, I have to find the Senator, talk to him. He’s in as much danger as I am. Where could he have gone? Back to Boston?”

  She begins to doodle in the snow again. When she speaks, her voice is dull. “What happens when you find him?”

  “I don’t know. That really depends on him.”

  Despite the cold, her cheeks are burning with anger. She gestures out, beyond Tisbury Great Pond, at the ocean. “I think he’s on the boat. The day you arrived, he’d spent the morning loading up supplies. He could live on that thing for a month.”

  Ranjit remembers the glimpse he’d had from the stairs, the dark line of the jetty stretching out into the water, strangely empty. Of course. The sloop that was moored there all summer was gone. He remembers its name painted in gold lettering on the bow: OSPREY.

  “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait, where are we going?”

  He turns and gestures to the horizon. The gray clouds are moving faster now, pushed along by an invisible hand. “There’s a storm coming. Wherever the Senator is, he’ll be forced back to the island. Vineyard Haven Harbor is the only anchorage deep enough to ride out a storm this big.”