early seventies, when sportswriters referred to him as the
Sledgehammer. Though he was now sixty-three, a successful businessman
who owned a men’s clothing store, a minimall, and half-interest in the
Moonlight Bay Inn and Country Club, he appeared capable of pulverizing
any of the genetic-mutant, steroidpumped behemoths who played some of
the power positions on contemporary teams.
“Hello, dog,” he murmured.
Orson chuffed.
“Hold this, son,” Frost whispered, handing the shotgun to me.
A pair of curious-looking, high-tech binoculars hung on a strap around
his neck. He brought them to his eyes and, from this topdeck vantage
point overlooking surrounding craft, surveyed the pier along which I
had recently approached the Nostromo.
“How can You see anything?” I wondered.
“Night-vision binoculars. They magnify available light eighteen
thousand times.”
“But the fog He pressed a button on the glasses, and as a mechanism
purred inside them, he said, “They also have an infrared mode, shows
You only heat sources.”
“Must be lots of heat sources around the marina.”
“Not with boat engines off. Besides, I’m interested only in heat
sources on the move.”
“People.”
“Maybe.”
O?
“Whoever might’ve been following You. Now hush, son.”
I hushed. As Roosevelt patiently scanned the marina, I passed the next
minute wondering about this former football star and local businessman
who was not, after all, quite what he seemed.
I wasn’t surprised, exactly. Since sundown, the people I’d encountered
had revealed dimensions to their lives of which I had previously been
unaware. Even Bobby had been keeping secrets: the shotgun in the broom
closet, the troop of monkeys. When I considered Pia Mick’s conviction
that she was the reincarnation of Kaha Huna, which Bobby had been
keeping to himself, I better understood his bitter, disputatious
response to any view that he felt smacked of New Age thinking,
including my occasional innocent comments about my strange dog. At
least Orson, if no one else, had remained in character throughout the
night-although, considering the way things were going, I wouldn’t have
been bowled over if suddenly he revealed an ability to stand on his
hind paws and tap dance with mesmerizing showmanship.
“No one’s trailing after You,” said Roosevelt as he lowered the night
glasses and took back his shotgun. “This way, son.”
I followed him aft across the sun deck to an open hatch on the
starboard side.
Roosevelt paused and looked back, over the top of my head, to the port
railing where Orson still lingered. “Here now. Come along, dog.”
The mutt hung behind, but not because he sensed anything lurking on the
dock. As usual, he was curiously and uncharacteristically shy around
Roosevelt.
Our host’s hobby was “animal communications quintessential New Age
concept that had been fodder for most daytime television talk shows,
although Roosevelt was discreet about his talent and employed it only
at the request of neighbors and friends. The mere mention of animal
communication had been able to start Bobby foaming at the mouth even
long before Pia Mick had decided that she was the goddess of surfing in
search of her Kahuna.
Roosevelt claimed to be able to discern the anxieties and desires of
troubled pets that were brought to him. He didn’t charge for this
service, but his lack of interest in money didn’t convince Bobby: Hell,
Snow, I never said he was a charlatan trying to make a buck. He’s
well-meaning. But he just ran headfirst into a goalpost once too
often.
According to Roosevelt, the only animal with which he had never been
able to communicate was my dog. He considered Orson a challenge, and
he never missed an opportunity to try to chat him up. “Come here now,
old pup.”
With apparent reluctance, Orson finally accepted the invitation. His
claws clicked on the deck.
Carrying the shotgun, Roosevelt Frost went through the open hatch and
down a set of molded fiberglass stairs lit only by a faint pearly glow
at the bottom. He ducked his head, hunched his huge shoulders, pulled
his arms against his sides to make himself smaller, but nevertheless
appeared at risk of becoming wedged in the tight stairway.
Orson hesitated, tucked his tail between his legs, but finally
descended behind Roosevelt, and I went last. The steps led to a