Part 13 (2/2)

”You guys run a commercial rafting operation. You send people to walk miles up that trail. Up and back. And you've got crazies shooting guns at them?”

”It's never happened before.”

”So why me, Paul? Why's someone trying to kill me?” It felt good to be aggressive. It gave me a use for the leftover adrenaline.

”I doubt he was trying to kill you. More likely just trying to scare you. Scare all of us. I don't know. Maybe he's got a pot farm or something he doesn't want us to find. But I'm guessing, the way rifles are these days and the way some of these gun nuts are, that if he really wanted to hit you, he could have ... especially if he was on that hill and you being in an open field and all.”

Was I in an open field? I was in the spruces, the five-foot spruces, and the hill was behind me, where McFetridge was. McFetridge who had had the bag that clinked.

”What I'd like,” I said, ”is to get one of those beers you dropped.”

”Go back there after you know somebody's been shooting at you? I don't think so.”

”You said yourself he wasn't trying to kill me. If he was, he would have followed us here. Don't you think?”

McFetridge certainly acted as though he was thinking. ”You're right. Let's get the h.e.l.l out of here. Get back to camp. We can get beer there.” He pushed himself to his feet.

I did the same. ”You going to tell the others?”

It was now dark enough that I could barely see his features, but I was pretty sure he was biting his lip. ”I'm going to tell the crew because I don't think we're going to be coming up here anymore. But I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell the other rafters, Georgie. I mean, all it's gonna do is scare them.”

”Like Deliverance.”

”Yeah, like that.”

”Anything else you don't want me to tell people?”

”Yeah, don't tell 'em anything that's going to make them think it's not wonderful living out here in the f.u.c.kin' woods.”

CAPE COD, June 2008.

BARBARA BELBONNET SAID I LOOKED TANNED, RELAXED. ”MELLOW,” she said.

I had nearly drowned, nearly been shot, nearly fallen to my death, and she thought I looked mellow. I dropped my head, said nothing.

”Was it wonderful?” she asked.

She was wearing a copper-colored silk blouse that showed a little decolletage, and form-fitting tan slacks, the likes of which I had never before seen her wear in the office. She was standing at my desk, which she almost never did. She had no pockets and her cell phone was not in her hands, which made me wonder what was going on, why she was not fretting about her kids.

”Yeah,” I said, ”it was great.”

She waited for details. She was smiling at me. She seemed to have done something to her hair, highlighted it, made it even more blond; and to her eyes, made her lashes longer, made the whites stand out and the color of her irises more vibrant. Maybe that was why she was standing so close, so I could see what she had done.

”That is something I would love to try,” she said. ”I'd like to go down the Colorado.”

I gave her a half-smile that left her free to imagine eagles flying overhead, happy prospectors waving from the sh.o.r.e.

”There's whitewater rafting up in New Hamps.h.i.+re, you know. We should organize something, get some of the people from the office to go.”

Barbara, as far as I knew, had no more friends in the office than I did. But I nodded and said we should look into that.

”Or maybe get some of your crazy buddies there on the defense side. They'd probably be more fun.”

I wondered what she knew about my crazy buddies. I never talked about those guys, never saw Barbara when I was out drinking with them. Before I could ask what she meant, she said, ”One of them called while you were gone. Buzzy Daizell.” She put an extra twist in her voice when she said his name. ”He said he hadn't been able to reach you on your cell, so I told him where you were. I hope that's all right.”

Her face scrunched a little, her eyes narrowing, as though she really was worried she might have done the wrong thing. It was, surprisingly, a rather becoming look; it made the imposing, intimidating Barbara Belbonnet girlish and almost vulnerable. ”He wanted you to call him as soon as you got back.”

I thanked her and told her I would get to Buzzy later. I had a calendar call at 9:00 and a half-dozen files that I had to review before then.

IN FACT, I FORGOT. Buzzy had to track me down, call me again at the end of the day. He said he needed to see me. He sounded anxious.

When I told him I had just gotten back from vacation he suggested we catch a Cape League baseball game. ”Hyannis is playing Cotuit at home tonight and the Kettleers supposedly have this great catcher. Next sure thing for the majors.”

I had not been to a Cape League game in years, didn't care about Cotuit's catcher or Cotuit or even the local team, but I agreed to go simply because he seemed so intent on getting me to do so.

”I'll bring a couple of lawn chairs and a couple of beers,” he said. ”We'll sit on the gra.s.s down the left-field line.”

Away from the crowd in the stands, in other words. Buzzy clearly had something to tell me.

BUZZY DAIZELL WAS a multigeneration Cape Codder. He was an offshoot of the ubiquitous Bangs family and could trace his lineage all the way back to Edward Banges, who arrived in Plymouth from England on the s.h.i.+p Anne in 1623 and moved onto the Cape in 1645. This was generally the source of much humor to Buzzy, who got to refer to virtually everyone else as a ”wash-ash.o.r.e.”

He had graduated from Barnstable High School, gone off to Bates College, where he had not done particularly well, gone to the same law school as I did in Boston, and then ended up back on the Cape because he was not in high demand by the big-city firms after not doing particularly well in law school, either. Because his family knew so many people, he was able to open his own practice and make a go of it. Because of the nature of the natives, particularly those with whom he had tended to socialize, he specialized in criminal law.

I had tried three drunk-driving cases against him and he had lost them all. That did not make him a bad trial lawyer. I was supposed to win those cases. What set Buzzy apart was his willingness to try most anything that came along. He thought it was fun.

He was not, however, having fun with me at the Hyannis Mets baseball game. He wanted me to drink the beer that he gave me. Then he wanted me to drink another. He put away three to my two before he said, ”I gotta talk to you about something.”

”I figured that.”

”It's really kind of hush-hush. Confidential.”

”Does it have anything to do with work?”

”Sort of.”

”Then maybe you better not tell me.”

”It has to do with Mitch.e.l.l White.”

I gave that some thought. I rather liked hearing stories about Mitch.e.l.l White, although there generally were not many to tell. Mostly people just made fun of him.

”All right,” I said, ”tell me.”

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