When he was a mile from his neighborhood in West Hartford, and stopped at a red light, Jack called 911, gave them the address of Margaret Hutchinson and Eric Miles, and said that a man had been shot there. The least he could do was to spare Margaret the sight of her dead husband when she returned home from her library shift. He threw Eric’s phone out the window of his car as he merged onto Interstate 84, heading north.
It was just a regular Tuesday in November for most of the world. He thought of his wife, wondering what she’d be doing right now. Drinking chardonnay and watching one of the early evening shows she liked. Either Jeopardy! or the PBS NewsHour. They’d come to her, wouldn’t they, after they figured out what he’d done? Interview her, maybe even try to find out if she had assisted him in anyway. At the very least they’d ask her why he’d done it. He thought that maybe she’d mention the glioblastoma and how his personality had changed after the diagnosis and treatment. She’d mentioned it enough to him, convinced that something had altered in him. He thought she was probably right. He had changed a little after that particular ordeal. He’d realized not just his own insignificance, but the insignificance of everyone else in the world. And, yes, that had been around the time he’d begun to fantasize about killing the children of the Pirate Society, about setting the world to rights.
And he wondered if his wife would mention their only daughter, and how she’d died the year she’d graduated from college. He’d changed then, too, but that was to be expected. It was the second time he’d learned that the world would happily rid itself of its young and beautiful inhabitants. There was no order, only chaos. He’d created the list to bring back order, but his wife would never make that connection, and he doubted that anyone else would either.
It was late by the time he pulled the car into the half-empty parking lot of the Windward Resort. He stepped out into the cold, briny air, and was flooded with the weight of sadness that always accompanied the smell of the seashore.
The young woman at the reception desk took his information and smiled at him with an empty look that made Jack feel pretty certain she hadn’t been told to be on the lookout for anyone checking in under the name Jonathan Grant. He asked if she had a tide table, and she dug around in her desk drawer, finally finding one.
“Are you going fishing, Mr. Grant?” she said.
“No. Just going to the beach.”
“It’s nice this time of year. Empty.” She was looking directly at him, but he clocked her eyes darting to the side of his head. Normally he combed his hair in such a way as to cover up the raised white scar from his brain surgery three years ago, but he’d forgotten to do it before entering the hotel.
He took the stairs to the second floor, and went down the dingy hallway to his room. As a child at this resort he’d been dazzled by the luxury, or maybe it was just the freedom that at such a young age he’d been given the run of the place, with its cavernous dining room, and darkly lit lounge, and endless hallways. Now it just seemed worn-out and sad. The hallways smelled of canned soup and disinfectant.
In his room, where the smell was worse, he studied the tide table, confirming that low tide was going to be at 1:49 a.m., and high tide was at 7:53 a.m. It was perfect. It didn’t give him a lot of time to do what he’d come here to do, but it was enough. He cracked the seal on a bottle of Macallan 25 and poured some into the water glass he’d taken from the bathroom. Then he sat at the desk and wrote his letter.
At just past midnight he poured the remainder of the scotch into a sterling silver flask he’d had since college and left the resort, going out the back entrance that led to the rear parking lot. The cold wind was still whistling over the empty asphalt. Jonathan wore waterproof boots and flannel-lined jeans, plus a thick fisherman’s sweater under his parka. He’d always hated the cold, and despite what he planned to do, was nervous about the temperature outside. He dug the woolen cap out of his pocket and put it on his head, then walked purposefully across Micmac Avenue and down toward the stone jetty.
The night was clear, the sky peppered with stars, and with a three-quarters moon. He had no trouble making his way across the dark beach, despite the damp wind that tugged at his parka. When he got to the jetty, he risked using his flashlight briefly to locate what he believed was the place where his sister had been left to die over fifty years ago. He’d scouted the spot earlier, back when he’d waited out here for Frank Hopkins. He couldn’t be one hundred percent positive that it was the exact location, but it was close enough, a crevice in the base of the stone wall just large enough for an adult to squeeze into. He studied it now, a tidal pool reflecting the moon, something scuttling away as he pressed his boot into the damp sand.