Ghost Writer(85)

On the deck, the men sit around smoking and drinking beer. Two sit apart slightly. Naire's attention is on the boys in the garden, the younger one being his nephew. Minton watches the other men, smiling slightly, satisfied to be with them even if he does feel apart.

Shore excuses himself from the group and goes into the kitchen. He kisses his wife at the nape of the neck as she washes dishes. Boreman's wife and Margolo's date dry as Lorraine Dawes puts things away. Naire's wife sits out the chores sipping tea. She isn't showing much, but she is obviously pregnant.

Shore continues through the house to a small den done up in a decorator's idea of a nautical theme. All the knickknacks and photos are sports related except for a photo of Shore, Dawes, Minton, and Margolo in uniform. He picks the photo off the desk and stares at it, blindly reaching for his swivel chair arm and pulling it around so he can sit.

The phone must have rung, because he answers it. As he listens, he stares at the photo. At one point, he slams it, face down on the desk. When he hangs up he is calm again. He picks up the photo and puts it back where it belongs.

“Necessary evil.”



I woke to the sound of knocking.

Feeling more tired than when I lay down, I dragged my shorts on and padded across the cool deck on bare feet. I hoped it was Gravell with tea. I expected it was Sloan with another fashion-challenged outfit. I was disappointed and irked to find Tim Neville.

“Did I disturb you?” he asked, pushing his way into the room regardless.

“I was having a nap,” I grumbled.

I sighed and tried to shift into professional mode.

“I have to get up anyway. Sloan will be back soon to help me get ready for dinner.”

“Yes, I'll have to be quick.”

I woke up a bit at this remark. His tone was urgent and direct. Curiosity at what he wanted now pulled ahead of the immediate irritation Tim tended to trigger.

There was another knock. He turned to answer it.

“That'll be Dippel, I bet. He's been following me around most of the afternoon. Might as well let him in.”

I shrugged. Irritation was now neck and neck with concern. Curiosity was still ahead by a nose.

Tim let the Marine in. While his back was turned, I mouthed to Margolo, ‘Get Gravell.’ Curiosity might be ahead, but it was following caution.

Margolo nodded and disappeared.

Meanwhile, Dippel was straddling the coaming at the entrance.

“In or out, Dippel. You'll give Jen a chill if you keep standing there.”

“Perhaps we should both leave, sir, let Ms. Kirby get properly dressed.”

“In or out.”

Dippel chose in. Tim closed and dogged the hatch. Dippel turn to unlock it and Tim pulled the marine's sidearm and used it to cosh him on the back of the head. The man staggered and fell to his knees. He struck again and Dippel fell.

I wanted to go to Dippel or call for help, or even do something stupidly heroic like attack. I froze.

Tim turned and pointed the gun at me.

“Now we can chat, Jen.”

I thought madly. Where the hell had I put the radio phone? I staggered backwards, keeping my eyes on Tim, and sat heavily on the edge of the bed.

“What do you want?”

“The journal for a start. Then I want to know what you know and how you know it.”

Okay. This wasn't entirely unexpected. He got pretty intense when he first heard about the journal. I tried to act like he wasn’t holding a gun, hoping to put him off guard.

“The journal is in the top drawer of the dresser. Be careful with it. I’m already in trouble with Mary Lou for holding on to it.

In the moment his back was turned, I found the phone under my pillow, where I had left it when I lay down. From now on, I wasn't going to go to a door without a phone in hand. I swear.

“Don't get any funny ideas about calling for help with that phone of yours.”

He turned and levelled the pistol at my chest.

I held up my hands to show they were empty. I managed to push a couple of buttons and hoped they were enough.

“Let's sit at the table where I can keep an eye on your hands.”

I stumbled to the free chair. Fear made me clumsy.

“Hands on the table.”

I complied, sitting in silence while he thumbed through the journal. Minton appeared, and I finally noticed the family resemblance.

“You are related to William Minton.”

Tim looked up, startled.

“How did you know?”

“A hunch. Was he your uncle?”

“Father.”

“But you would be too young.”

Then I had the answer to what had been puzzling me. Where did Minton go after he tidied up? “Minton escaped and took a new identity. But how?”

“It doesn't matter.”

He wasn't the one I was asking. Behind him, Minton nodded. He gave me the diving hand signal for surface.

“Tied to the journal after death, even though it was miles and years away.”

Minton nodded.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Tim’s voice betrayed his frustration. He was obviously not finding what he was looking for in the journal.

“Tell me what you know about your father, Tim.”

He looked up from the scribbled pages he was trying to decipher.