Jan Burke - Sweet Dreams, Irene

Before long, Frank came back in and watched me thumping around. “Irene, that can’t be good for your ankle.”

I wanted to say, “Forgive me, Frank, I’ve been a jerk.” What I did say was, “Leave me alone.”

“I came in to apologize,” he said, ignoring my snottiness. “Never mind about Thanksgiving. Maybe we can just spend it here together.”

I stopped pacing and scowled. “You’re being too reasonable.”

He started laughing, and despite my efforts to the contrary, I found my scowl lifting into a grin.

“You’re being impossible and you know it,” he said.

“Yes, I am,” I sighed, and eased myself down on to the couch. “I’m going crazy, Frank.”

He sat next to me. “I know. What can we do about it?”

“I don’t know.” I was out and out glum.

Just then there was a familiar pattern of knocks on the front door. We both recognized it and Frank called out, “Come on in, Jack.”

Jack took one look at us and said, “You’ve just had a fight, haven’t you?”

Frank and I exchanged a look that was a mixture of surprise and shame.

“I knew it. Okay, that does it. I’ve been meaning to suggest this for a couple of days. Frank, have you got a pair of warm sweatpants that will fit over Irene’s cast?”

I frowned, but Frank was answering, “Yes, I think so.”

“Good. We’re going sailing.”

“What?” I yelped.

“We’re going sailing. You know, a boat, the ocean, and a little breeze?”

“Forget it, Jack,” I said. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

I hesitated. “I just can’t.”

“You mean you won’t do it,” Jack said evenly.

“Okay, I won’t.”

“Not an acceptable answer. I’ll be back in an hour. Be ready. I’ve got a big sweater that will fit over that harness you’re in.”

And with that set of directives, he left. Frank, damn him, was grinning.

“You aren’t seriously thinking of doing this, are you?”

“Yes.”

“Frank, he’s crazy.”

“No, he’s making more sense than we have lately.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“You love the ocean. Don’t you miss seeing it?”

“Yes, but-”

“What would O’Connor tell you to do?” he asked.

“You fight dirty, you know that?” I said, then sighed. “I give in. I can’t take on you and Jack and Cody all in the same afternoon.”

“Cody?”

“Never mind. Let’s get ready.”

Frank went into motion. Seeing his enthusiasm, I felt a little twinge of guilt at the thought that this very active man had been cooped up in the house with me whenever he wasn’t at work or accompanying me to the doctor’s office. I decided that for Frank’s sake, if not my own, I needed to go along with Jack’s plan.

JACK RETURNED with a sweater large enough to get on me without jarring my shoulder. Frank put a stocking cap on my head for warmth.

“Let’s go!” Jack said.

Outside, we were waved to by a couple of neighbors and got a wide-eyed look from a cable-TV installer; otherwise no one was out on the street, so this venture out of the house wasn’t too bad. We drove down to the marina; we were in our by-now standard arrangement of Jack driving while Frank sat in the backseat, next to me. Frank kept hold of my hand, but this time, I wasn’t clenching it in fear. I traced my fingers over his, enjoying the feel of his hand, his closeness.

Above the rows of masts in the marina, the sky was a soft, cloudy gray. I was grateful for the sweater. There were people out and about, but the weather wasn’t warm enough to draw a big crowd. We stopped at a sharp-looking Catalina 36. Jack told us the boat had been his mother’s; he had lived aboard it when he first came back to Las Piernas. It was named the Pandora.

“More Greek mythology?” I asked.

Jack nodded. “Mom once told me that I shouldn’t see it as a story which blamed the world’s troubles on a woman; I should simply remember that the world would have been a very dull place if Pandora hadn’t been inquisitive.”

It was a calm day, just enough wind to move us along. The sea was smooth, Jack was an able skipper, and we made our way out onto the bay in an easy fashion. For all I cared, it might as well have been a sunny summer afternoon. Even though it was gray above and below, there was still something uplifting about being out on the water.

“It’s good to see you smile, Irene,” Jack said. I noticed we were all looking content.

Frank made his way over and sat next to me.

“Any more news about the case?” Jack asked.

“Not much,” Frank said. “Hernandez is working on identifying some hairs he found in Sammy’s wounds.” Seeing Jack’s look of puzzlement, he added, “Dr. Carlos Hernandez, the coroner.”

“You mean he’ll be able to tell who the hairs belonged to?” Jack asked.

“They don’t belong to a human being. We thought at first that they might be from a goat. But they didn’t match up with the goat hair samples he had. So now he’s going through samples of other animals to try to match it up.”

“Any other hair or fibers?” I asked.

“Some, but you have to remember that just finding a hair or a type of fiber doesn’t prove much. Carlos is putting in whatever time he can on it. He verified that she wasn’t killed in the field. And he did find wool fibers, so maybe those came from the blanket you heard them talking about.”

Frank changed the subject after that, and I let myself be distracted from thoughts of Sammy’s murder. I looked out over the water, felt the breeze, listened to the two men talking. We sailed out beyond the breakwater, and headed down the coast, away from the boats going to Santa Catalina Island. Although eventually I was feeling at ease again, I wore down fairly quickly. Frank noticed.

“You’re tired, aren’t you?”

I nodded to him.

“Take her below,” Jack said. “Sleep for a while, Irene, and I’ll take us back in.”

Frank helped me down the companionway ladder and forward into a bunk. He lay down next to me, gently stroking my hair. He leaned over and gave me a long kiss. We hadn’t kissed like that in a while.

“I have a good mind to untie those sweatpants,” he said.

“Frank! Not with Jack right above us.”

He laughed and left me. I fell asleep quickly.

When I woke up, we were back in the marina. Frank helped me up the ladder. Just as we cleared the hold, I saw a sleek yacht going by, looming above our much smaller craft.

“Whose is that?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s Malcolm Gannet’s,” Jack said.

“Gannet?” I said, just as the name painted on the yacht’s stern came into view.

The Long Shot.

“The Pony Player,” I said, and suddenly felt the blood drain from my face.

“IRENE? Irene? Are you okay?”

I looked blankly into Frank’s worried face, my mind still flooding with images of being in a small, cold, dark room; of being beaten; of being afraid I would be killed. Dice rolling across a bare wooden floor.

“Sit down,” I heard Frank saying, as if from a great distance. “Try to put your head down.” I let him position me without resistance; I couldn’t seem to will myself to do anything.

When I had recovered somewhat, I lifted my head and said, “Sorry,” and took a few deep breaths. Frank and Jack were anxiously watching me. I was shaking. I started to talk to them, but it was no good. I wanted the fear to pass, but it was like waiting for a long freight train at a railroad crossing.

“He’s the one,” I finally managed, but my mouth was so dry it came out a whisper. “He really is the one,” I said again. “Malcolm Gannet. The Pony Player.”