They spent the rest of a ragged night driving and then counting. Foster was good at the latter, Wayne discovered. So good, in fact, that Wayne basically relegated himself to keeping the accounts. Foster’s fingers lost about fifty years every time they took hold of another stack of bills. And there were a lot of those.
The safe had been jammed full. Wayne had stuffed with both hands, sweeping one shelf empty after another. The bills were all denominations, fives to hundreds. Wayne had crammed the sack until he could scarcely shut the zipper, so full he staggered trying to lift it. He had then returned to the kitchen, stripped the plastic garbage bag from the trash can, and filled that as well. Even so, he had left far more than he had taken. He was still roaring with his adrenaline high, still waiting with every breath for the lights to flash and the night to shrill and the voice from the dark to shout for him to drop it and spread. Which did not give his feet wings on the return journey but did keep him moving even beneath that double-armed load. He had made it back to the boat with a couple of night birds sounding the only alarm. Wayne dropped the sacks into the boat, Foster pushed them off the bulkhead, and Jerry rammed the motor straight to full bore. The scam artist lay still, his eyes never leaving the sacks. They dumped him on the marsh island’s sandbank, just out of shouting distance from his home. Their last image of Lantern Island was of Zachary Dorsett standing two hundred yards from the edge of his almost perfect world, watching a significant portion of his hard-earned cash drill through the calm Gulf waters.
While Foster counted and Wayne made notes, Jerry kept order and brewed coffee. Wayne used the community records to list what was owed to whom. At his written instructions, Foster separated the cash into little piles, one for each of the homeowners who lost their stash to the scam artist. They didn’t have envelopes, so Wayne wrote the names on slips of paper and fitted them under the rubber bands. A lot of the bills were old and greasy. Wayne doubted any of the group was going to object.
Jerry did not sit down until Foster shook his head to another coffee recharge and Wayne covered his own mug. Then Jerry dragged over a chair from Wayne’s dining table. Foster looked up at the noise and frowned, but his fingers never stopped counting.
Jerry settled himself down and sipped from his cup, taking his time. Maybe giving Wayne a chance. Finally he stretched out his legs and asked his cup, “How come …”
Wayne just waited.
Jerry stared at his steaming mug for a while. “Never mind.”
Wayne studied the big man. Jerry’s refusal to cover more ground with his questions was about as big a gesture as Wayne had ever known. He wanted to thank the man, but all he could think to say was, “Ask me again and I’ll tell you.”
Jerry looked at him then. Really looked. Eyes of dark copper, steady and strong. “That works for me.”
Foster slipped a rubber band around the pile he’d been counting, fitted Wayne’s handwritten sheet on the top, and glanced over.
Jerry went on, “Some things that need telling don’t need telling now. Wouldn’t want to mess up how good we’re all feeling.”
“Speak for yourself,” Foster said. “I wouldn’t mind learning why you’ve got a pile of assassin’s gear stowed in your closet.”
“Sniper weapons,” Jerry corrected. “And the man will tell us. Just not now.”
Foster snorted. Wayne looked over. Offering him the same deal. Say it again, and Wayne would talk. But Foster dropped his focus back to the next slip of paper, shook his head once, and resumed counting.
Even so, for the first time since all the mess started, Wayne found silence was just not enough. When he was certain his voice wouldn’t sound ragged, he said, “Last night is the first time I ever shot that rifle off a range.”
Jerry said, “Let it go now.”
From his place at the table, Foster said, “Don’t see why you had to flap that big mouth of yours in the first place. Go and ruin everybody’s morning.”
Jerry turned around. “Yeah, like you weren’t dying to know.”
“Had to dump a heap of misery on my buddy.”
“So he’s your pal now. And what am I, chopped liver?”
Jerry sipped from his mug and said nothing more.
They stayed like that while the dawn took gradual hold. Wayne finished the last of the accounts and sat watching the light grow beyond his front porch. The only sounds were birdsong and the rattling air-conditioner and the flicker of Foster’s hands.
Finally Foster scraped his chair back. He rubbed the small of his back with both hands. Stretched. Asked Wayne, “You want to know how much is left over for the community?”
But the strengthening day had revealed a house almost smothered in bougainvillea. “Later. First I’ve got to see a lady about a bet.”
Victoria was there waiting for him, an elfin hue inside the screened porch, painted in shadows and sunrise. Only her eyes were clearly visible. “Are you boys all safe?”
“Yes.” He stopped on the front porch and found himself wishing he was back in uniform so he could sweep off his hat. The diminutive woman might have been dressed in a quilted housecoat, but her authority was unmistakable. “You were right. I lost and you won. I owe you.”
She inspected him a long moment, then said, “Go ask your friends if they’d like pancakes for breakfast.”
The kitchen table was just a ledge off the back wall, proper for an intimate couple. They ate in the living room off fold-up trays. Foster hovered around Victoria as long as she was on her feet, sitting only when ordered. Jerry watched the two of them with the dark concern of a man who had learned not to say what he thought.
Victoria ate rations for a tiny bird. When Foster complained, she silenced him with, “Haven’t we discussed this?”
“Well, if you won’t look after your own health, somebody else needs to step to the plate.”
“I’m healthy and I’m happy. That should be enough for anybody.”
Two walls of her living room and one in the kitchen were filled with photographs attached to drawings and letters. Some of the pictures dated back to a monochrome era of crinkled edges. Tiny black children grew to have children of their own, who drew love messages on onion skin paper, many of them addressed to someone called Maliaka. Two Anglo girls grew up amidst the dark faces, smiling and laughing with them, and now held babies of their own, and soon these babies were laughing as well. All in villages of scrub and dust and a light so strong it shone across the years. Wayne asked, “Your daughters are missionaries?”
“One is. The other works in Cape Province. Her husband is with the UN.”
“You miss them.”
“They’re where they should be.” She sat as erect as a corporal on report. “Your sister Eileen tells me that your father was a pastor.”
Wayne made a process of setting his tray to one side. “Yes.”
“A stern man who lived in a state of perpetual disappointment, as far as you were concerned.” She did not actually sing the words. And there was not really a hint of accent. Yet something in the way she spoke suggested she had spent years thinking and dreaming in a different tongue. “A man who never approved of his uniquely special children.”
“You got that right.” Wayne found himself so drained from the night he could speak without the old bitterness. “Eilene was the son he always wanted, only inside the wrong skin.”
“There is absolutely nothing wrong with your sister,” Victoria replied. “Or with you.”
The two older men sat and watched the exchange like they would a good movie, silent and absorbed. Wayne said, “You’re going to tell me to give God another chance, is that the wager?”
“No, son. I’ve spent my entire life witnessing the bitter legacy of people forcing others to believe.” The morning light turned her features translucent. “But I will say this. God does not wear your father’s face.”
Victoria held him. Not with anything he had ever known before. Not with anger. Not with strength or authority or seniority. With luminescence. She said, “I know your father’s ways all too well. Religion becomes another word for oppression and coercion. Religion specializes in shame and blame, a lot of energy and no inspiration.”
“I probably deserved it.”
“Son, listen to me. We all deserve it. Each and every one of us.” She gave him a moment. When he did not speak, she went on. “You weren’t allowed to live your own life, but instead were expected to conform to someone else’s concept of order.” She shook her head. “No wonder the old-time religion failed you.”
Victoria leaned forward until he could see the sparks lifting from her eyes. Until he could feel them. “Jesus loves you, son. Deal with it.”
Wayne said weakly, “You won the bet. I asked what I owed you.”
Victoria leaned back in her chair. She did not show disapproval. Instead, the illumination dimmed somewhat. She said, “Go do whatever it is your sister asks.”
Wayne felt as much heat as his weary frame could manage. “We didn’t say anything about transferring debts.”
“Your first mistake was not asking.” Victoria used the arms of her chair to push herself erect. She waved away Foster’s move to her aid. She was light on her feet, scarcely more than a sweep of quilted robe and eyes of diffused light. “Your second mistake, son, is thinking your sister brought you here only for your sake.”