Vineyard Prey Read Free Page A

which perhaps explained how he ended up with a summer place on the Vineyard, although a surprising number of Southerners have island houses.
    Buford Oakland had a couple of grown children I’d never met, and like John Skye, he had a large library that I admired; but whereas the only weaponry on display in John’s library was a triangulation of foil, épée, and saber on a wall, a token of John’s athletic career as a collegiate three-weapon man, Oakland had a private collection of Civil War memorabilia including bayonets, pistols, and rifles on a wall and in a glass-covered case below it. Among these was a LeMat revolver that sported a short shotgun barrel below the cylinder, in case you missed nine times with the regular bullets, and a Type II 1863 rifle-musket made by the Springfield Armory that was, according to the little card besideit, the last regulation U.S. muzzle-loader. Firearms had changed quite a bit since the Blue and the Gray went at it, and I marveled, as always, at the amount of human ingenuity that went into developing ways of killing and maiming other humans.
    Dr. Oakland also had battlefield maps and shelves of books about the war, including some he had written himself. It was clear that he loved his subject, and I guessed that that love probably made him an exciting teacher. One of the Vineyard’s charms is that it has more than its share of interesting residents, and you never know when you’re going to encounter one of them. Before leaving the room, I laid paper, kindling, and wood in the fireplace. Whoever was coming might enjoy a good book in front of a fire on a cold December night.
    Hearing a lone shot off in the woods to my right as I left the house, I remembered my father once telling me that if you heard a single shot, the chances were good that the hunter got his deer; that if you heard two shots the chances were not so good; and that if you heard three shots the deer was still running. In muzzle-loader days, you only got one chance, which was part of the charm for modern-day black-powder hunters, who liked the link to their ancestral shooters. The thrill of the hunt must be buried deep in our genetic codes.
    After I drove off the ferry in Woods Hole, I hit most of the stores in Falmouth where Vineyarders traditionally shop: Kappy’s for booze, the Christmas Tree Shop and the Oceanstate Job Lot for dolmas and serendipitous discoveries, Wal-Mart forbirdseed, toilet paper, paper towels, and a few other items on Zee’s list, and the office-supply place for computer paper and ink. I also got a late breakfast at McDonald’s because there are no McDonald’s on Martha’s Vineyard and I always pig out at Mac’s when I go off-island.
    At the Cape Cod Mall in Hyannis I had another McDonald’s meal for lunch in the food court: a double cheeseburger, tall fries, and a medium Coke. Two Mac meals in a single day. Heaven.
    Joe Begay didn’t join me. Instead, as he walked by my table he said, sotto voce, “Drive by the door at the far end of the mall in half an hour. I’ll be there.” He walked on and I kept eating. When I was through, I went out to the Jeep and drove to the other end of the mall. As I eased past the entrance there, Joe Begay appeared. I stopped and he slid into the seat beside me.
    â€œDrive,” he said, looking back toward the entrance.
    I did that, glancing into the rearview mirror and seeing no one who appeared to be interested in us.
    â€œHome, James,” said Begay, sliding his big body down as far as it would go, which was not enough to get his head below the level of the windows.
    I drove out onto Route 28 and headed for Woods Hole. “When we get down the road a way,” I said, “we’ll pull off and fix you a nest in the backseat. You can hide in the toilet paper.”
    â€œFine.” Begay sat back up in the seat. “I feel like somebody in a Hitchcock film.”
    â€œMe, too.