Mark Mills - Amagansett

He approached the barn with caution, glancing around him as he went. Ideally he would have checked the interior from one of the high windows, but the ladder he required was inside the barn.

He made two tours, drawing progressively closer. There was no way of entering unnoticed, no loose cladding to be gently prized aside, he knew that, he’d nailed the boards in place himself not even a year before.

This only left the main doors, slightly ajar, the tall crack of inviting light. He made his way over, alert, strongly suspecting he was treading a path expected of him.

Nothing, though, prepared him for what he saw through the gap in the doors.

Rollo was lashed to a chair near the base of one of the main supports. He was gagged and his chin rested on his chest. For a terrible moment Conrad thought he was dead, but Rollo raised his head and glanced around, wild-eyed, struggling with his bonds, only to slump again in defeat.

Whoever was present must be somewhere behind Rollo, lurking in the shadows. This didn’t help Conrad much. He would have to enter regardless.

He tucked the handgun into the back of his waistband, pulling his shirt down over it, then eased the doors open a fraction.

‘Come in, Mr Labarde.’

Rollo’s head snapped up, his desperate eyes fixing on Conrad. Conrad fought to stay calm: mustn’t let his anger cloud his actions.

‘I haven’t got all night,’ said the voice from the shadows.

Conrad pulled open the doors and stepped inside.

‘Move to the other end of the barn.’

Conrad did as instructed, skirting the long workbench that ran down the center of the building beneath the whaleboat suspended in the rafters.

‘Put your gun on the table.’

‘I’m not armed.’

‘Then you won’t mind stripping down.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me.’

Conrad began unbuttoning his shirt.

‘You should know I have a gun aimed at the back of your friend’s head.’

As he eased the shirt off his shoulders and down his arms, Conrad pulled the gun from his waistband, letting it fall to the ground in the shirt.

‘Turn around,’ said the voice. ‘Now the pants.’

Conrad loosened his belt and dropped his pants.

‘And the underwear.’

Conrad did as instructed. ‘Like I said, I’m not armed.’

‘Take off your shoes.’

Conrad undid the laces and pulled off his boots, concealing the gutting knife in his pants as he stepped out of them.

‘Now toss everything over there by the door.’

Conrad bundled the clothes and boots up tightly so the weapons wouldn’t spill out. Not that it would have mattered. At that distance, they’d play no further part in what was about to happen.

‘Turn around.’

Conrad stood naked, facing Rollo down the other end of the workbench. ‘It’ll be all right,’ he said to his friend, only starting to believe his words as his eyes settled on a hand ax lying within reach on the workbench.

There was movement in the shadows behind Rollo, and a man stepped into the light. It was the same man who had followed him to Sag Harbor, though somehow he had looked taller behind the wheel of the black sedan. The long-barreled handgun was leveled at the center of Conrad’s chest.

‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ said the man. ‘You’ve got something I want, and I’ve got something you want.’ He rested a hand on Rollo’s shoulder.

‘Who are you?’

‘It doesn’t matter. What matters is the document, the one you went to the lawyer about.’

‘What lawyer?’

The man placed the end of the barrel in Rollo’s ear.

‘Don’t mess with me.’

Conrad stared into Rollo’s terrified eyes. Then it came to him—one slender chance.

‘Well, I guess this is what you call a Nantucket sleigh ride,’ he said.

‘A what?’

‘Rollo knows what I mean, don’t you, Rollo?’ said Conrad, willing him to understand. There was a flicker of confusion in Rollo’s eyes, then he raised them to the whaleboat overhead.

The man cocked the hammer of the gun. ‘Say goodbye to the half-wit.’

‘Don’t. You don’t understand. I know you followed me to Sag Harbor.’

‘That’s clear now, isn’t it?’

‘I know you carried on down to the waterfront when I turned into Union Street. I know you then drove up Main Street. And I know I crossed right in front of your car.’

It was enough to unsettle the man. ‘It’s a good try,’ he said.

‘I knew you were coming here.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Tell that to the two cops waiting outside.’

The man’s eyes narrowed almost to a squint.

‘I’m here to offer you a deal,’ said Conrad.

‘No.’ The man shook his head. ‘You’re bluffing.’

‘Deputy Chief Hollis,’ shouted Conrad, ‘I think it’s time you showed yourself.’

The man’s eyes flicked involuntarily to the barn doors.

Conrad made his move, lunging at the ax on the workbench, spinning back and burying the head in the wood of the support behind him, cutting the rope and rolling aside in the same movement.

He had expected the man to fire; he hadn’t expected him to miss. As the severed rope whipped through the block and tackle supporting the whaleboat, Rollo toppled his chair to the left.

The whaleboat crashed on to the workbench, its bow poleaxing the man. Conrad didn’t wait to assess the damage. He came out of the roll, seized a lance from among the clutter of whaling gear stacked against the wall and spun back.

Remarkably, the man was getting to his feet. His right arm hung limp and useless from its shoulder joint, but his left hand was already bringing the gun to bear on Conrad.

Conrad let fly with the lance—his stance, the action, those of their boyhood games, the endless whale rallies enacted with Rollo and Billy. He didn’t have to think, the past came willingly to his aid.

The lance caught the man in the midriff, low down and to the side, the steel point passing straight through him. Both his hands instinctively went to the wooden shaft protruding from his belly and the gun fell to the floor. He recognized his mistake almost immediately, lunging for the gun.

Conrad kicked him in the side of the head as his fingers closed around the butt.

Recovering the gun, he backed away towards Rollo, who was struggling on the ground, twisting his head vainly to see what was happening.

‘It’s me,’ said Conrad. He pulled the gag down over Rollo’s chin. ‘You okay?’

Rollo nodded. Conrad bounded over to his clothes, recovered the gutting knife and cut the ropes binding Rollo’s arms and ankles to the chair.

‘Conrad…’

‘Shhhh, it’s okay, it’s over.’ Rollo was shaking as Conrad helped him to his feet, and Conrad held him tight in case his legs buckled beneath him. They stared at the man lying skewered on the floor.

‘Here.’ He led Rollo to the workbench and leaned him against it for support. ‘I have to do this now.’

He checked the man’s heartbeat, the entry wound, the exit wound. There was bleeding, but no pulse of imminent death. The lance would have to stay put though. He dragged the man over to the upright and sat him against it. Then he ran a length of rope beneath his arms and lashed him in place.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Rollo. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry—’

‘Hey,’ said Conrad.

‘He promised, he said he wouldn’t say nothin’. But he did, he lied to me.’

It took Conrad a moment to figure that Rollo was talking about his father. Ned had extracted the information about Lillian from Rollo, then used it when he said he wouldn’t, banning Rollo from seeing Conrad.

‘He did it for you, Rollo, to protect you. And he was right. Look—’ He turned to the man.