Bad Monkey

“Evidently she’s upset with Mr. Yancy because he’s dating someone new, a doctor. It’s possible she intends to harm both of them,” said John Wesley Weiderman. “However, you should also know Ms. Chase doesn’t have a history of violence. Her past offense was one of … I guess you’d call it exploitation.”

Evan Shook clicked his tongue in fake consternation. In fact he was deeply intrigued. Never had a woman exploited him in a sexual way, but it sounded exhilarating compared to the listless bedroom comportment of his wife and even, in recent months, his mistress.

“These triangle situations can get messy,” the agent from Oklahoma was saying, “and you can never predict how individuals might react. I was told Ms. Chase might be coming here to settle a score. Arson is a possibility.”

“Holy Christ,” Evan Shook said, although privately he felt that losing Yancy as a neighbor would be good for the subdivision; the man’s dumpy-looking house definitely dragged down property values. Should the fugitive set the place ablaze, Evan Shook would manufacture a milder story for the Lipscombs—it had been a sad accident, Yancy falling asleep with a lighted cigarette or whatever.

“Please let me know if you see anything unusual going on next door,” said Agent John Wesley Weiderman.

“Absolutely. Do you have a card?”

“Of course.”

“And may I see her photo again? Just in case.”

“Here, keep it. I’ve got copies.”

“Thank you,” said Evan Shook, trying to mask an excitement he knew was inappropriate.

Neville couldn’t sleep because he couldn’t stop thinking about the man named Yancy, hurrying off to the house rented by Christopher Grunion and his woman. Why had Yancy gotten so worked up when Neville told him about finding Christopher’s shirt sleeve? Neville had been hoping that the American policeman—if that’s what he really was—would be an ally in the fight to save Green Beach.

Yet what could Mr. Yancy accomplish tonight, all by himself, with a damn hurricane coming? Was his intention to go arrest Christopher? Egg would beat him senseless first, maybe even kill him.

So Neville put on his clothes and took Yancy’s fly rod and left Joyous’s place through the back door. He borrowed her daughter’s bike and pumped as fast as he could toward Bannister Point. Soon headlights appeared in front of him—a car weaving recklessly, forcing Neville to veer off the road.

It was Christopher’s yellow Jeep. In the driver’s seat sat Egg; one massive hand was holding the steering wheel while the other gripped the hair of a frightened dark-haired woman. Neville thought she looked Cuban or maybe from Puerto Rico.

By the time he reached Christopher’s place, Neville was wind-beaten and drenched to the skin. Silvery needles of rain cut sideways through the broad wash of floodlights. The coconut palms heaved and shook like wild-maned giants. To Neville these visions appeared otherworldly though not hellish, for he’d been through hurricanes before. Drawing closer he heard back-and-forth shouts and he darted forward, careful to remain in the shadow lines.

At the north corner of the house stood three figures holding a triangular formation while the weather raged around them. One was Mr. Yancy; he was facing the others. The second person was a woman, Christopher’s woman, clutching a piglet or some sort of small critter. The man with his back to Neville was large enough to be Egg but he had too much hair. It had to be Christopher, and the thing he was pointing at Yancy had to be a gun.

Unfolding in a slice of light, the scene confirmed to Neville the ruthless criminality of Christopher and also the importance of the American. Christopher wouldn’t go to the trouble of shooting a man unless he posed a serious threat.

Neville had no time to search for a heavy rock or a limb. He snapped Yancy’s fly rod over one knee, rushed up behind Christopher and stabbed him hard with the broken stub. The impact splintered the rod’s graphite tubing down to the cork grip and unseated the reel, which fell into a puddle.

Neville wasn’t a young fellow, but his arms were strong from years of conching and boat work. And while the fly rod was designed to wiggle at the tip, the butt segment was stiff and inflexible. Christopher Grunion dropped face-forward with the smallest of cries, the shotgun pinned beneath him. His woman began to caw and hop about on her knees.

Neville grabbed Yancy by the arm and said, “Come along, mon.”

“I can’t.”

“Run!” Neville was now pushing the American ahead of him, through the hedges and trees, away from the floodlit house, down the road into the teeth of the wind.

After a hundred yards Yancy halted abruptly and bent at the waist.

“Rosa,” he gasped.

“Who’s dot?”

“My girlfriend. She’s still back there.”

“No, she ain’t,” Neville said.

Yancy straightened. “But she’s alive?”

“Yeah, mon, I seen her.”

“Okay. Okay.” The cop was still panting, fists on his hips. In the sky lightning flared, giving Neville a metallic glimpse of the American’s face, exactly what he was thinking.