The Bright Spot Read online

  The ranger, a very pleasant archaeologist who offered to show us any number of interesting holes in the ground, suggested the folks Wally was looking for would be Jamestown Settlement, a little ways down the road, another living-history museum. They had a fort, an Indian village, boats, whatever we might need—all firstclass phonies. They were a public/private Commonwealth of Virginia something-or-other, and would be glad to do business, he was sure.

  But when we got there, the boss wasn’t in yet, and Martha the cashier, an earnest woman in her early twenties, wouldn’t let us look around unless we bought tickets. Except for the interpreters, loitering somewhere offstage, she was the only one there.

  Gary started to give her an argument, but she wouldn’t be deterred from her recitation of the various ticket options. Then one of the seventeenth-century boats went gliding by outside the window, surprisingly close, and we all stopped and gaped. It was a lovely thing, gaily painted like something from a Gilbert and Sullivan set, made all the more enchanting by the snowstorm. I’d expected something more rugged, weather-beaten. It wasn’t much bigger than a city bus. What kind of nuts sailed across the Atlantic in winter in that thing? A seventeenth-century sailor ran up the rigging to the crow’s nest like a toy monkey on sticks. Another on deck hauled away at something. We were all impressed. This was more like it. The ship completed its transit across the window and was gone.

  “Wow!” Wally said, speaking for us all.

  Martha pointed out that the admission price now included a ride on one of the three boats. They used to just sit by the dock, she explained, but competition for the tourist dollar was stiff these days, and people expected more. “That’s why we are constantly upgrading our attractions to better serve the public.” I didn’t know why they always had to split that infinitive while they were at it, but we all wanted to ride on that boat.

  I told Martha we’d take the deal that included the T-shirt and the coin purse (or coffee cup) for all seven of us, plus the crew whenever they showed up.

  Martha was delighted. “The hats are on sale this week,” she said.

  “Yes, definitely. They come with the feathers?”

  “Yes, goose. You can upgrade to turkey for two dollars more.”

  “Turkeys all around.”

  Martha gave us a great big smile, Wally handed over the ReCreation credit card, and we’d done our good deed for the day. As we waited for the boss, she got all our autographs in a Jamestown Settlement autograph book. I asked her if she had John Smith or Pocahontas in there, and she giggled. Making her happy had already made my day, but then, I had the lowest of expectations.

  Boss arrived and introduced himself as Lofton Wilcox. He was only a couple of years older than Martha, but he’d grown up with more pretentious vowels and probably had a degree in history. I don’t think he liked me much. Gary made all the arrangements, which went quite smoothly once Lofton saw the bill we’d tallied up already.

  We had the complete use of Susan Constant with sailors, the use of the Indian village (including the use of both a yehakin—neither teepee nor wigwam—and a dance circle), and the run of the fort (including the interiors of the guardhouse and the church) for a period of three days, to commence once the crew arrived. We were all set.

  I drifted outside to wait for the crew and watch the snow come down. It made even the empty parking lot look pretty. Lu came up behind me and wrapped her arms around my waist.

  “What you thinking?” she asked. “You seem awful sad this morning.”

  “I was thinking about snowmen.”

  “Really? That’s a great idea. I love making snowmen.”

  I raised my right arm, and she came around under it, her arms still wrapped around me. “I’ve never made one,” I confessed.

  She moved around in front of me, found my eyes. “You’re kidding. I had the idea it was cold where you grew up. Didn’t it snow?” She asked cautiously. She knew I didn’t like to talk about my childhood.

  “There was plenty of snow. No snowmen, no snow angels, no snowballs. We had rules for everything. There was a kid once who’d gotten frostbite in his hands making a snowman and lost some fingers, so they made it a rule after that, no snowmen. We called it the Snowman Rule. The only way they could enforce it was to lock us down whenever it snowed. Once, some of us got caught sneaking out. We hadn’t even picked out a place yet. As punishment they made us stick our hands in the snow for five minutes, while they timed it, or pretended to. They actually took longer, someone told me, waited until we begged their forgiveness.” I looked back to the snow, the flat white plain. The crew might not be here for another hour, I thought. We could make a snowman now. My first.

  “They?” Lu asked softly. In my childhood narratives, that pronoun often went begging for a clear antecedent. She had a pretty good sense of the we—a bunch of homeless kids warehoused in an institution. She had less sense of the they, the keepers. The blessed fathers.

  “Here they come now,” I said, pointing. Coming across the causeway, their lights flashing red, making the winter wonderland look more like the bad acid than the old song—a half-dozen white James City County police cruisers headed our way like polar bears driving in a snowstorm. It took them long enough. It’s too bad they showed up now, just as I was warming to the snowman idea.

  They pulled up around us, showing badges and great teeth. Very well-mannered cops. You never knew who might be rich. They asked if we knew Trey Kennemeyer, and, of course, we did. Once they got a good look at me, they rounded us up and loaded us into the cruisers in no time. I had the back of a cruiser to myself, where an earnest-cop recording explained my rights to me in a loop. He didn’t stop for questions.

  I felt bad for the disillusioned Martha standing behind the plate glass with Lofton watching the actors getting busted. We’d seemed so nice.

  It was a first-class jail, brand new. They still had the architectural model of the place sitting under a plastic bubble by the elevators, as if they had trouble letting go of the concept now that the reality had arrived. Under the bubble, little cruisers were parked under little trees. It was spring under the bubble, with a few cobwebs hanging from the trees like Spanish moss. Somebody needed to collar a spider or stick this thing in the attic.

  JAMES CITY COUNTY—OPEN FOR BUSINESS SINCE 1607 in highly polished brass was bolted to the wall behind the bubble in case the spiffy new place misled you into thinking you were dealing with some upstart. This was Uncle Sam’s eldest. 1607 it said right there on the seal. What looked like the Susan Constant floated above the date, which I took as a good omen, since we had the boat booked.

  Here’s how I thought things would go down: The cops would let Gary and Wally and Brenda go right away—there was nothing to connect them to any crimes. The cops would have some questions for Dee and Stan and Lu, since they had recently talked to the deceased, and Stan and Dee might be said to have a motive. But they also had an alibi, asleep in their rooms miles away from the scene of the crime. Unlike yours truly, who was, let the records clearly show, the last man standing at what appeared to be a gangland hit or a terrorist attack, a man who then fled the scene of the crime in a vehicle belonging to one of the victims. They couldn’t possibly let me go. They had to listen to me, lock me up at the very least. Then maybe Dumfries and the feds would have to give it up as another draw and drop the rope. They could bust him, throw him back in another facility. And then maybe people would quit dying everywhere I went.

  I was mostly right, except for the most important parts. I must’ve had spiders in my brain.

  They installed me in an interrogation room. They let you sit awhile, getting you in focus, analyzing your breath for controlled substances, giving you a moment in a featureless box to contemplate your future. I tried to get myself into the right frame of mind. Guilty, Your Honor. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I was eager to tell what I knew and when I knew it. I wanted the knowing to be somebody else’s problem.

  I learned as a kid, if you can�
�t disappear, make yourself bigger. A high, preferably loud, profile sometimes deterred predators if there was no place to hide. I could vanish in a cloakroom in summer without a trace, but my true calling was getting everyone’s attention. No doubt a factor in my career choice. It was a strategy, of course, that depended on someone, once you had everyone’s attention, caring.

  My cop came in, pulled out the chair opposite, sat down. Suzanne Feldman, her nametag said. She had a solid, professional look. Black blazer, touch of gray at the temples, probably grew up on CSI: Virtual!

  “Do you know why you’re here, Mr. Bainbridge?”

  I didn’t waste any time on cute. I was lucky the locals had nabbed me first. That didn’t mean the feds weren’t far behind. “I was present at the World Palate last night when Trey Kennemeyer was murdered along with dozens of other innocent people. I fled the scene and did not contact the authorities.”

  This wasn’t quite the reaction she’d been expecting. She glanced down at her notes, probably to double-check whether I was high on anything or not. “Have you been advised of your rights?”

  “Oh yeah, they took care of that. I’d rather not have an attorney present, if it’s all the same to you. It would just slow things down.”

  “What do you know about these murders, Mr. Bainbridge?”

  “Everything.”

  I did what I could to make good on that claim, once she’d assured me every word I said was being recorded as evidence. Wally had inspired me. My story was full of great ideas. I pitched my heart out.

  Maybe I pitched a little too hard. She wasn’t entirely convinced I wasn’t delusional. Spies, clones, double crosses, mad scientists, dutiful zombies run amok— what was not to believe? But she’d also seen the surveillance recordings from the World Palate and knew whatever was going on was no ordinary crime. It took her a moment to figure out what to ask me first. “So if what you’re saying is true, Mr. Bainbridge, agents of the federal government likely monitored the events at the World Palate last night and did absolutely nothing to stop them?”

  “Trey was about to take me out of circulation, fuck up Dumfries’ plan. The feds couldn’t let that happen. Did any of the ’ware chefs survive?”

  She thought about not answering. “No. They were all dead on the scene.”

  “What are you telling their families, that they were murderers? Kennemeyer’s goons could take the fall, I suppose, but the recordings must be pretty clear as to what happened.”

  “That’s none of your concern, Mr. Bainbridge. Do you have any proof of these claims you’re making?”

  “Check out my DNA. Dumfries must be in the database.”

  I could see by her expression this was already in the works. “If what you’re saying is true—that you’re so closely watched—how did we manage to arrest you?”

  “You’ve got me there. They’ve had a lot of fires to put out lately. Losing an agent last night might’ve slowed them down. Trey was probably screwing with their surveillance too. Maybe your own chain of command—”

  There was a knock at the door, and it came open a crack. “Suze,” a male voice said. Suze excused herself, went out in the hall, and came back. She looked at me differently now. Nobody was taking in this stray. I was fucked. I couldn’t even get myself arrested, not here, not anywhere.

  “You’re free to go,” she said. “We’re dropping all charges and deferring all further investigation in this matter to other law enforcement agencies better equipped to deal with the complexities of the case. Thank you for your time, Mr. Bainbridge.”

  I stayed in my chair. “Fuck you and your time. You’re my one chance. Don’t you get it? They’ll play this murder like Ed Kennemeyer’s—another talkathon. Like life was a living-history museum. ‘What turned these boys into killers? What does it mean for America?’ I know the answer. Not a fucking thing. Because it’s a crock. They didn’t hate Ed. They don’t even remember him. This thing will be even worse. They’ll invent new kinds of experts to talk about it. The Prez will have to weigh in—Trey Kennemeyer being such a friend to America and all—blaming it on ‘certain malcontents who wish to destroy our way of life.’ Our way of life. That’s a good one. Nobody will know what really happened. The evidence will evaporate. Already, I bet, God himself couldn’t lay hands on the recording of the conversation we just had. Only you know what I said, and now you know it’s true, because you’ve been ordered to release me when you’ve got a dozen reasons to hold me. You can’t let me go out there.”

  “I can’t help you.”

  “ ‘To protect and serve up,’ huh?”

  “Mr. Bainbridge ...”

  “Nick. You’ve already checked, I’m sure. And you know that’s not my real name. Doesn’t that bother you? A bad phony like that? You’re thinking I have to be a spook to walk away from something like this, some serious badass trying to play you. But if I were a real spook, I’d be better at it. I don’t want to be involved in this any more than you do. I’m just looking for a way out, shelter from the storm. You’re saying there’s no room at the inn, fair enough. But if you’re going to throw me back out there, you can at least remember what I said, watch out for me and those around me.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. I can’t even talk to you.”

  Oh, Suzanne, you shouldn’t have let that slip. She was sorry. You could hear it in her voice. She’d clearly lost sight of her job description. Being a cop meant never having to say you’re sorry. “Sure you can. You’re doing fine. I’ve played a few cops, but it’s nothing like real life, is it? When real lives are at stake. If you can’t protect me, maybe it’s time I met my maker on my own for the good of everyone. Mr. Henry gave me the opportunity, but I blew it. Maybe you could help me—”

  “Mr. Bainbridge, we have been instructed by an unimpeachable authority that this matter is no longer in our jurisdiction. I—”

  “Ever do the ’ware yourself, Suzanne?”

  She held my gaze for a long moment. “Yes.”

  “What about the others? Is anyone building a frame around them?”

  “We were told to let you go. They didn’t say anything about the others.”

  “Not even Luella Anthony?”

  “No. Only you. I’ve said too much already, Mr. Bainbridge. Now, would you please leave?”

  “Yes, certainly. I’ve never had a cop say ‘please’ before.” I stood and took my exit. “By the way, there’s no such thing as an unimpeachable authority. Look at these guys. They don’t even seem to realize Galatea and Lu are the key to the whole thing.”

  Lu was waiting by the bubble downstairs. When I came out of the elevator, she threw her arms around me, and I held her close. She felt so good. It was all I could do to let her go.

  “What took you so long?” she said. “I was starting to worry they were going to hold you, afraid maybe you’d pissed somebody off again.” She gave me a quick but passionate kiss. If she knew I should be behind bars, she gave no sign of it. She thought it was just routine questioning.

  “Me? Where do you get these ideas about me? I’m a sweet guy. Everybody loves me. What about the others? Are they out?”

  “They let Wally, Gary, and Brenda go right away. Wally’s disappointed he didn’t get arrested. They asked the rest of us a few questions about our run-in with Trey, if he said anything about his plans for later, that sort of thing, then let us go. The cop who talked to me was more interested in you, where you were last night. I just told him you had drinks. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  It’s true I never had dinner. “That’s right. One drink. I gave him yours.”

  She shuddered. “There must be lots of people who would like to see that creep dead. Stan and Dee are seeing about the car. I said we’d meet them out front. We all got out twenty minutes ago. What made you so popular?”

  “They were interested in the story Trey told me last night—that he stole the basis of his fortune from his uncle’s friend James Dumfries when he was just a thirteen-year-old kid.
”

  “You think Dumfries killed him?”

  “I’m certain of it.”

  “But why?”

  “Trey stole his life’s work and turned it to shit. That’s reason enough. But I don’t think that’s why he killed him. Trey was about to get in Dumfries’ way, interfere with his plans.”

  “I can see where you two share the same DNA.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “I didn’t mean it to be. But don’t be so sensitive. You didn’t kill him, did you?”

  Him him? No, not him specifically. Death just follows me around. “No,” I said, way too seriously.

  “You look awful. Maybe you should get some sleep. We can turn in early tonight.”

  “No way. I want to build my first snowman tonight.” It may be my last.

  She smiled her approval.

  Back at the Patriotel, the ReCreation crew had shown up and were waiting in their bullet-shaped bus. They were all wearing hats with turkey feathers and Jamestown Settlement T-shirts pulled on over whatever else they had on. They had Martha with them as well, sitting in Mike’s lap, déjàviewing like crazy. When she spotted me, she experienced a vivid déjà vu of having just met me. She seemed disappointed when she realized she actually had just met me. I didn’t take it personally. She was undergoing a life-changing experience. Good for her. We all need those every couple of years or so, even if we can’t remember them any too well later on.

  “Whatawe doin’?” Keith, half-deaf soundman, hollered across ten yards of parking lot like we were at opposite ends of a football field.

  “Building a snowman,” I hollered back, and everybody piled out into the snow. The racket soon brought Gary, Wally, and Brenda out of the pancake lounge, and the rest of the guests out of their rooms.