The Caretaker Read online

  “Hey, are you awake?”

  “Hmmm.” She half opens her eyes. He needs to keep her up. If they fall asleep, the night will end, and tomorrow …

  “If … if we went to India together, I know where I would take you. The Golden Temple in Amritsar. I used to go there with my mother, when I was a boy.”

  She sighs and moves in closer. “Mmmm. Tell me about it.”

  “We used to go once a year, on my father’s death anniversary. Later, we went every day. My mother said it was the only place where she felt at peace.”

  “Your father … what was he like?”

  “I can’t really remember. All we had was a framed photograph, enlarged from his identification card, but it was so blurred that he looked like any other Sikh. But I knew he was a hero, because they awarded him a medal after he died. My mother hid it away under her saris, and sometimes I used to take it out and hold it. It was round and heavy, engraved with a three-headed lion.

  “Anyway, we started to go to the Golden Temple every day. My mother volunteered at the langar, the dining hall where they fed thousands of pilgrims every day. She’d roll up her sleeves and work like a demon, peeling mounds of onions, chopping hundreds of potatoes. There was no space for me in the kitchen—there were huge cauldrons full of scalding oil—so she’d send me outside to play.”

  Anna sighs and nuzzles into his chest.

  “I used to just walk around and around the lake, stopping along the way at the sacred trees. Pilgrims and learned graybeards would sit in the shade and chant the scriptures. I liked the way their words sounded, like a song. And then, in the evening, walking back through the bazaar with my mother, I started remembering snatches. Never the whole kirtan, just phrases, and I would sing them to her. She was so happy, she was convinced I would become a priest.

  “Later, she was so disappointed when I went into the army … Anyway, that is where I would take you. The Golden Temple is a beautiful place. You would like how peaceful it is…”

  His voice trails off as he feels Anna’s slow, steady breathing. She is fast asleep.

  Chapter Thirty

  He is woken by the silence. There is faint dawn light in the windows and Anna is on the far side of the bed, buried under the comforter.

  Getting slowly out of bed, he parts the white gauzy curtains, seeing only the whiteness of snow, marked by a dark tangle of downed trees and branches. The storm is over, and the wind has died down.

  He thinks of the Osprey, docked somewhere on the island.

  Today is the twelfth day since Preetam and Shanti were picked up. Each day has been like a decade, and yet he hasn’t been able to help them. He thinks of the nights he has spent here with Anna, and the guilt rises in his throat like bile.

  She sleeps on, an arm thrown over her eyes. He dresses and goes downstairs slowly, wincing with each step. Finding some lined paper in a kitchen drawer, he writes her a note, asking her to keep all the alarms on and to wait for his return.

  The binoculars go around his neck and the Holland & Holland shotgun is cold in his hands. Walking slowly outside, he sees that a large, jagged branch lies less than ten feet from Anna’s Mercedes. For once, he’s been lucky.

  As he drives away, the rising sun dyes the snow pink, and the trees cast long violet shadows across his path.

  * * *

  As he pulls into the empty parking lot of the Vineyard Haven ferry terminal, the first ferry of the day heaves into sight. Walking to the seawall, he raises his binoculars and scans the flat, calm water.

  A sailboat has been swept onto the stone breakwater, and lies at a jaunty angle, its exposed keel shining in the early morning light. The masts of other vessels have been snapped in two and drag into the water, heavy with rigging. There is no sign of the Osprey. How the hell is he going to find one sailboat hidden amongst the island’s many bays, coves, and private docks?

  Two burly, tanned men walk past him, heading toward the water, talking in singsong Portuguese. They climb into a rowboat and head slowly out into the harbor, making for a fishing vessel. The Brazilians now work in every seafaring trade: they run the ferry terminal, the docks, even crew the fishing boats.

  Celia. She has cousins who work on the ferry, and others who are fishermen. She might be able to help him. Her big mouth has gotten him into trouble once before, but he can’t think of another way right now. Sighing, he gets back into the Mercedes.

  * * *

  Even though it is seven in the morning, Jõao’s tow truck is gone. Ranjit walks through the open doors of the garage and crosses the oil-stained floor to the tiny office at the back. Finding it dark, he stands by the stairs leading to the second floor and shouts up a greeting. There is a shuffling noise and Celia peers over the banisters above, clutching a faded yellow housecoat closed with one hand.

  “Ranjit? What are you doing here?” She is wearing glasses with thick black frames, and her face, devoid of makeup, has lost its usual sharp definition. “Opa! Your hair is so curto … short. What happened to your turban?”

  He smiles his widest smile. “It’s a new look. Do you like it?”

  She peers at him through her owl-like glasses. “What a terrible haircut! But you look so handsome. You could be Brazilian!”

  Even in her housecoat and glasses, she can’t help flirting, and he returns her smile.

  “I need to talk to you. Just for a few minutes.”

  A shadow crosses her face. “Those men said that if I saw you again, I should call them. Otherwise they’re going to deport me.”

  He climbs up the stairs while he talks. “They lied to you, Celia. They’re not from Homeland Security, they’re just common thieves. They tried to steal something from Senator Neals’s house, and I got in their way—”

  “Thieves? But I don’t understand…”

  The rickety wooden stairs groan as he reaches the top. Celia looks down at her housecoat and backs away.

  “But I am a mess! A total mess! You should not see me like this! I look like an old woman!” She makes a shooing gesture. “You wait for me in the office downstairs. Please.”

  He smiles, backs down the stairs, and returns to her tiny office. Despite its exposed concrete-block walls, the room is neat, its shelves lined with colorful, labeled folders, and one wall is covered by a bright poster. It is the iconic view of Rio, the massive concrete statue of Jesus high up on a hill, his arms spread out in benediction; below him, gleaming white skyscrapers step down to a tranquil blue bay.

  He can imagine himself there with Anna, just walking the crowded streets, eating meat grilled on skewers, drinking rum, and sleeping together through the hot afternoons. In Rio a brown man and a black woman wouldn’t draw a second glance.

  “Ranjit! So, you leave here in one of Jõao’s wrecks, and come back in a Mercedes?” Celia enters the room, gesturing at the silver-gray Kompressor parked outside.

  She reaches up and kisses him on both cheeks, her lips bright crimson now. A smudge of lipstick stains her front teeth, and she’s wearing a short lime-green dress.

  “It’s a long story, Celia. But the main thing is, you don’t need to worry. My rich client—Senator Neals—he’s helping me with this problem. It’s his car I’m driving.”

  “Are you sure? Because those men…”

  “Celia. If you have any doubts, you just call the Senator.” Ranjit takes out Neals’s business card, now creased, and thrusts it into her hand.

  “United States Senate,” she reads slowly, and then pins the card carefully onto her bulletin board.

  “Celia, the reason I came to you is that the Senator and I need your help. His boat has been stolen, and I need to find it. Perhaps the ferrymen or the fishermen have seen it?”

  The business card with its golden eagle seems to have convinced her. She gets out her cell phone and dials, her long nails skittering across the keypad. Leaning back in her chair, she chatters away in Portuguese. At the end of four calls she shakes her head sadly.

  “Nobody has seen such
a boat. Not in the water, and not in the harbors. Sorry.”

  Where the hell can you hide a boat? Ranjit looks through a window at the wrecks in the yard. A battered green Land Rover sits by the window, awaiting repair, its side gashed open, showing shining metal. Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

  “Celia, where do they repair boats? Or store them?”

  “Storage? Only one place. Vineyard Haven Shipworks. Biggest place on the island.”

  “Do you know anyone who works there?”

  “No, they won’t give jobs to Brazilians. They check papers.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  The shipyard is a ten-minute drive from here. He’s itching to go, but he listens as Celia tells him again about her plan to open a beauty parlor on the island. She kisses him on the cheek before he leaves, and runs her fingers through his cropped hair.

  “Ranjit, when I get my parlor, you come to me, I’ll fix your hair for you, okay?”

  He laughs and disengages, but she follows him outside and waves at the Mercedes as he drives away.

  * * *

  The Vineyard Haven Shipworks is right on the harbor. It has its own jetty with a row of winches, and its large yard is lined with tall metal racks on which shrink-wrapped boats are stored, three high, like giant toys. At the rear is a row of massive metal sheds.

  Ranjit parks the Mercedes farther down the road and walks back, entering through an unlocked gate in the high chain-link fence. He heads to a smaller shed whose door is propped open by a wooden tackle block. From inside comes a loud hiss, interspersed by pops and crackles.

  Pulling the door open, he sees a man kneeling in the middle of the shed, clad in suede pants and jacket, his face hidden by a welding mask. The electric wand in his hands emits a blue bolt of electricity, and sparks fly as he expertly fuses together the parts of a large curved piece of metal.

  “Excuse me, sir—”

  The man wheels around. “Jeez, you scared the shit out of me.” His voice echoes hollowly from within the mask, and he slides up its thick Plexiglas visor.

  “I’m looking for a sloop. The Osprey. I believe it is in this shipyard?”

  “Yeah, it’s in the back. What is it, more pizza?”

  Ranjit is confused, but decides to play along. “Pizza? Yes, that’s right, it’s in my truck.”

  The man pulls off his mask, revealing a thin face streaked with soot. “He’s in the rear shed. D-3, all the way in the back.” He shakes his head. “What does he think this place is, a shipyard or a motel?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  The man gestures with his welding wand. “The guy’s crazy. Renting an entire storage shed for one little boat. Sleeping in there, getting food delivered. As soon as I get this damn propeller fixed, he’s going to have to leave.” Muttering, he pulls down his visor and turns to the twisted piece of metal.

  Ranjit returns to the Mercedes and watches the entrance to the shipyard. Two excruciatingly long hours pass before the welder emerges, gets into a truck, and drives away in the direction of Vineyard Haven.

  Ranjit lifts the shotgun from the backseat of the Mercedes, feeling the bandage on his side pull tight. The Senator is an angry man, and this time, he cannot make a mistake.

  As he walks to the welding shed the light is fading fast, and an ominous chill spreads through the air. With one swift kick, he pops the lock on the door. Entering, he flicks on the overhead lights and sees the welding outfit folded neatly over a chair. He pulls it on, slips the welding mask over his head, and picks up the electric wand; it is too heavy for him to use as a weapon, and he’ll have to move fast. Carrying the wand in one hand and the shotgun in the other, he walks to the rear of the boatyard.

  D-3 is a cathedral-like corrugated metal shed. Ranjit props the shotgun next to the door frame and bangs on the door, making a loud, booming sound. Hearing footsteps, he slips the visor down over his face and steps back, allowing himself to be seen.

  The door opens a crack, and the Senator’s voice shouts out. “Chris? What do you need now?”

  “We need to talk.” Ranjit’s voice is muffled by the welding mask. “Problems with the propeller.”

  “Damn it, Chris, I need it fixed.”

  The door swings open, and Ranjit steps through. Senator Neals is wearing a thick blue down jacket, his bald head now sprouting dull gray fuzz. Behind him, propped upright on giant trestles, looms the Osprey, its wedge-shaped keel exposed, a gaping hole where the propeller should be. Under the boat are a crumpled sleeping bag, an electric heater, and a pile of cardboard pizza boxes.

  The Senator walks past Ranjit and gestures up at the Osprey. “You said it’d be a quick fix. What the hell is the trouble now?”

  “Well, it’s the propeller—”

  Ranjit swings the welding wand hard against the back of the Senator’s legs. He goes down with a grunt, falling to his hands and knees.

  Ranjit steps back into the doorway and grabs the shotgun, aiming it in one smooth motion.

  “Senator, stay on the floor. I just want to talk to you. I think that Kohonen wants us both dead. The man who was shooting at us is a local deadbeat, the police are looking for him—”

  “What the fuck.” The Senator pushes himself off the ground with his fists.

  Ranjit pulls off the welding mask with his left hand, his right holding the shotgun steady.

  “Look, I don’t want to hurt you. I just need to talk. You need to listen to what I have to say.”

  Neals pushes himself up slowly, grimacing with pain. “You,” he gasps. “You tried to kill me at the house.”

  “I had nothing to do with it. I’m trying to tell you, Kohonen—”

  “Bullshit,” Neals gasps. “You—” With superhuman strength, he jerks upright and lunges.

  Enough of this. Ranjit reverses the shotgun and slams the stock against the side of the Senator’s skull.

  This time he stays down.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  As Ranjit pulls out onto State Road the Mercedes sits lower, weighed down by the Senator’s unconscious body in the backseat. He is covered by an oil-stained tarp, hands tied behind his back, his breathing rapid and rough.

  Ranjit remembers the sickening thud as he hit the Senator, and prays that he hasn’t fractured the man’s skull. All he had wanted to do was talk, not beat the Senator half to death. It was a huge effort to drag the unconscious man to the Mercedes, and the wound in Ranjit’s side now throbs with pain. He is driving slowly up-island, lost in his thoughts, when a black shape swoops toward his windshield. Instinctively, he slams on the brakes.

  The Mercedes fishtails. It screeches to a halt at the side of the road, one wheel resting in the deep snow. Breathing hard, he peers up into the dark sky, seeing a massive pair of wings, then a flash of white underbelly. A huge bird flies out into a darkened field and lands on top of a tall telephone pole crowned by a jumble of twigs.

  An osprey. His heartbeat slows. Is it the same bird that Shanti had seen? How has it survived the snow and the storm?

  The osprey folds its wings and vanishes into the outline of its nest. Ranjit strains to see it, and starts when he hears a moan from the backseat.

  “… where? Where are you taking me? Money, I have money, I can pay you…”

  “Senator? Are you awake?”

  The mumbling voice falls silent, and Ranjit curses under his breath. The Senator is probably concussed, drifting in and out of consciousness. Damn it.

  Ranjit starts the car and pulls out onto the road, feeling the jolt of wheels hitting asphalt.

  The roads up-island are deserted and he makes good time back to the estate. He plans to take the Senator to one of the guest cottages and talk to him there; having Anna present will only complicate the situation.

  Pulling up to the tall stone pillars of the Red Heron Estate, he leaves the engine running and rapidly punches in BLUESKY. Blowing on his cold hands, he waits for the green light to flash.

  A red blinks instead, and the LCD
display says DENIED ENTRY.

  Frowning, he punches in the code again. A red blinks, and it still says DENIED ENTRY. A third failure will alert the local police and send a signal to the security firm.

  He can hear the Senator moaning in the backseat. No choice. With rapidly numbing fingers, he reaches into the control box and dials the main house on the touchpad. There is a soft buzzing, and a small television screen flashes to life.

  “Anna? Anna, it’s me. Ranjit.”

  Her face peers out at him, distorted by a fish-eye lens.

  “The code isn’t working. Open the front gate, please.”

  Her black eyes blink rapidly. “Where were you? I waited for you all day.”

  “I have him with me. The Senator.”

  She frowns, and her lips press tightly together. Anger, he thinks, and shame, and something else.

  “Okay, I’m opening the gate now. Ready?”

  With a silent swish, the gates start moving, and he drives through, watching them shut behind him. He relaxes as he travels the long, curving driveway, knowing that he is safe now, protected by the electrified fences and cameras and motion sensors.

  The low, gray-shingled house comes into sight, the wind pushing the rocking chairs on the porch back and forth. He parks right by the front steps and removes the tarp from the backseat, seeing that the Senator is half awake now, breathing through his mouth; gathering up a handful of snow, he rubs it into the man’s leathery face. A large purple bruise spreads across the side of his skull.

  “… huh. What the hell…” The Senator’s eyes open and stare blearily at Ranjit. “Where am I? Where have you brought me?”

  “It’s a private estate. Don’t even think of running. It’s two miles to the gate, and the fences are electrified.”

  “Untie … untie my hands.” The Senator shrugs his wide shoulders, feeling the ropes that immobilize his arms.

  “I’ll loosen the ropes now, so you can move. There is no need for any more of this. We need to talk, you understand? The man who works for you, Kohonen, he wants you dead, and me too. I need to know why.”