Barracuda Page 2

  Saying yes would be an admission there had been something bothering him but that it was such a small deal a walk could get rid of it.

  Saying no would show how unfair this deathbed surprise had been. But then David would want to discuss it. Webb was in no mood to share his feelings. Ever.

  If Webb answered by asking, Get what out of my system?, it would also lead to discussion.

  The best way to play it was to change the subject and not answer the question.

  Webb said, “Am I dressed okay for meeting your old friend?”

  David was wearing khaki pants and a loose Hawaiian shirt with muted colors and a patterns of flying parrots. David was a tall man with lots of hair, and he was trim and fit. People knew he was old. The flowing hair was nearly white, and there was no hiding his wrinkles. But he moved with the gracefulness of a younger man and spoke with an energetic vibration in his voice.

  “We’re in the Keys,” David said, as if he hadn’t noticed that Webb had not answered the first question. “I think your T-shirt and shorts and sandals are the dress code for nearly anything. My generation does think it’s rude to hide your eyes during conversation, but that’s your call. I’m good either way.”

  Webb knew how he was going to play this now. Like he was happy and nothing bothered him. But that wouldn’t change how mad he was. Seriously, springing a deathbed scene on him after Webb had landed in Florida?

  “Thanks for the reminder,” Webb said. He took off the sunglasses and flipped them around, as if he had eyes in the back of his head. “Great present by the way. Thanks.”

  Yeah. Webb would play it happy in the presence of his grandfather. But Webb would do his best to find as much alone time as possible.

  “I am impressed by your sudden fake cheerfulness,” David said. “I can see why you drive your stepfather crazy.”

  Webb realized he should never forget how quick his grandfather was.

  “I didn’t know this trip was about getting me alone so you could grill me about my life,” Webb said. “I thought it was some kind of tradition that you had for your grandsons. A fun trip.”

  “That’s the tradition,” David said. He sipped from his lemonade and smiled. “Although I was the one who suggested the Florida Keys. Didn’t you once mention Italy?”

  “I’m good with Florida,” Webb said. It looked as if he was clear of the stepfather conversation at this point. Now that Webb could see what the game was, he was going to be like Teflon. Let everything slide off him like it didn’t matter. Besides, he’d find ways to get back to the bandstand and see Kristie again. Nothing like L-O-V-E to make time fly.

  Webb continued, “We’ve got a great place to stay, and it will be fun to go fishing in the gulf, right?”

  He paused, like something had just occurred to him, and then said, “Hey, wasn’t your friend expecting us about now?”

  That should definitely take them away from any conversations about Webb’s stepfather.

  “I don’t think he’ll croak before we get there,” David said. “How about you sit for a minute or two and let me tell you about him?”

  “Sure,” Webb said. “Maybe I can grab a lemonade first?”

  “It’s in the fridge. Should have had it ready for you,” his grandfather said. He waved lazily toward the cottage door. “I’ll be waiting right here.”

  Webb wandered into the kitchen of the small cottage and pretended to look for a glass, even though he knew where they were. The trick was to take enough time to make the adult mad, but not so much time that the adult could accuse you of dragging it out without looking like an idiot. It was the only way Webb survived life at home, enjoying how it felt to irritate his stepfather without pushing him over the tipping point of anger.

  But here, Webb was conflicted. His grandfather was a great guy. Webb loved him as much as he could love an old man he saw about once a month. More important, Webb respected David, not something he could say about his stepfather.

  Part of him wanted to go back out to the patio to hug his grandfather and apologize for the attitude. The other part wanted to lock himself in his bedroom. The school counselor had talked lots about a flood of hormones that came with adolescence and how that led teenagers to be overwhelmed by confusing feelings. Webb hated listening to his school counselor. Maybe that came with hormones too.

  The crackly jazz music drifted into the small kitchen. The image of his grandfather sitting in the chair, calmly smiling, felt so good to Webb that he blinked away the beginning of tears. Stupid hormones. Stupid school counselor.

  Webb decided to pick up the pace so David didn’t have to wait.

  He walked back into the warm humidity and slipped into the other chair. It was just far enough away from David that Webb didn’t feel uncomfortable.

  “So,” Webb said, “tell me about your friend Jonathan Greene.”

  “Sure,” David said. “Either he is losing his mind, or someone is trying to steal everything he took a lifetime to build.”

  FOUR

  “I’ve told you enough stories about my own life,” David said from his lawn chair, “so apologies that I have yet another for you.”

  Webb spoke the truth. “I never get tired of your stories.”

  Webb knew his grandfather was a remarkable man by any measure. He had been a lifelong adventurer, all the way back to fighting in the Spanish Civil War. From there, David had been shot down while flying airplanes in World War II. He had been to dozens of countries since. Every once in a while, people joked that David McLean must have been a spy, for all the places he had been and the famous people he knew.

  “Here are my World War Two flying buddies,” David said. He lifted The Call of the Wild from his lap and opened it. He pulled out a black-and-white photo and handed it to Webb.

  The photo showed four young men in air-force uniforms, grinning. Webb only recognized one of the men, his grandfather. They were standing in front of a biplane on a grass runway. The wings and the upper body of the airplane were black. The lower half was pale. It was a black-and-white photo, so Webb couldn’t be sure of the plane’s real color.

  “That’s a de Havilland Tiger Moth from the 1930s,” David said. “Canadian-manufactured plane. It was used as a military trainer aircraft for a lot of countries. The four of us cut our teeth on that plane. Me. Jake Rundell. Harlowe Gavin. Ray Daley.”

  “Not Jonathan Greene?”

  “Rundell and Daley are still alive,” David said. “We find ways to get together now and then. Air shows, things like that. Harlowe Gavin, that’s a story for another day. I don’t expect you to remember their names or their faces though. What’s important about the photo is that the person behind the camera was Jonathan Greene.”

  “So you were a group of five friends?”

  “Not exactly,” David said. “Jonathan Greene trained with us. But he never really fit in. He never stepped into photographs. Never went out with us on our free time. We thought he was arrogant and a jerk. Took me a long time to realize how wrong we were.”

  David slid the photograph back into his novel and set the book on his lap. “Wasn’t until then that I made sure to look him up and apologize. That might have been thirty years after the war. Fact is, we all owed him a lot for how he quietly helped all the time even when we made him feel like an outsider.”

  “Outsider?”

  “We should have made him one of us. We didn’t understand that some people…”

  David paused, then appeared to switch directions. “Did you know that there are three kinds of people in the world?”

  Webb waited for the answer.

  David said, “Those who can do math and those who can’t.”

  Webb squinted.

  “I know,” David said. “Bad joke.”

  “No,” Webb said a second later, after thinking it through. “Actually a pretty good joke. Just came out of nowhere, that’s all.”

  “Where it came from was that I want to explain how you really can divide people into one
of two types. Introvert or extrovert. A psychiatrist name Carl Jung said there is no such thing as a pure introvert or extrovert. Such a person would be in the lunatic asylum. So while everyone has a little of both, a person will fall on one side or the other of being an extrovert or an introvert. If you understand that, then things you do and things others do will make more sense to you. A lot of people say extroverts are loud and sociable and that introverts are quiet and shy. But it’s not that simple.”

  “Something tells me you’re going to explain.”

  “Extroverts gain energy from other people. That’s where they get their kicks. From people and from activity. Like parties. I’m an extrovert. That’s why I’m always busy. I love meeting new people, trying new things. As for introverts…let me ask you this. Wonder why I ask you to call me David instead of Grandfather or Granddad?”

  “Nope.”

  “Want to explain why you don’t wonder?”

  “Nope.”

  “See? You’re a guarded type of person. Walled. You like keeping people out. I don’t ask my other grandsons to call me David, but I think you like the distance and feel better that way. And I’m good with that.”

  “Boy,” Webb said. “Getting late. How about we get the visit over with?”

  “And that speaks volumes. That you think about a visit to someone you don’t know as something you need to get over with. Like it’s a chore. Is it safe to say you don’t like meeting new people?”

  “I’d rather push a needle into my eyeball,” Webb said sourly. “I have an idea. How about I visit someone I’ve never met before and talk to him while he’s dying?”

  His grandfather laughed. And speaking his resentment out loud had made Webb feel better, like he’d just pulled out a sliver.

  “Introverts need time alone,” David said. “They aren’t necessarily shy, because shyness implies a fear of social encounters. Introverts need solitude to recharge their batteries, and being around people constantly drains them. It’s the reverse for extroverts. I get charged back up by being around people.”

  “I don’t mind being around you,” Webb said. “Just in case you were going to call me an introvert.”

  “I’m glad. Introverts are great with one-on-one conversations with people they trust. But you said that like being an introvert is a bad thing. And that’s one of my points. We’re in a society that celebrates extroverts, which tends to make introverts feel out of place. How do you like school?”

  “Huh?” Webb said. This was a fast-moving conversation.

  “I’ll answer for you,” David said. “I talked to your mother. She says you hate school. And now let me tell you why. It’s because of the group work you face every day.”

  “Huh?”

  “Pods,” David said. “Your teacher, believing it’s important to teach kids how to work in teams, has put four desks together to create pods, and so the kids work in groups. Great for extroverts. Not so great for introverts if the teacher isn’t aware of what introverts need. Some teachers think you have to force kids out of their shells. But what if the kid is wired to work better when he’s alone and can focus on stuff instead of trying to shut out all the distractions?”

  “Huh,” Webb said. Things were making sense to him now. He was in a classroom with pods. He did hate school because of it. He did like to work on things alone. He did need solitude to get his energy back. His teacher was always trying to prod him to be more of a team player, as if Webb was a jerk for keeping to himself.

  “Huh,” Webb said again. Then he gave his grandfather a suspicious look. “You planned a conversation like this with me, didn’t you?”

  “I’m your grandfather,” David said. “It’s part of the job description.”

  “But we’re good for the rest of the trip, right? No more talks like this?”

  “Not unless you bring it up.” David grinned. “Or I change my mind.”

  “Great,” Webb said sarcastically. “So, Jonathan Greene?”

  “Introvert. Hardworking, honest. Brilliant. Problem solver. Even a great leader. A couple of times, we wouldn’t have survived our missions without him stepping up to the plate and taking over.”

  “Introverts can be leaders?” Webb asked.

  “Often better than extroverts. Introverts listen. I really hope you can understand that being an introvert is a positive thing.”

  “I thought we weren’t going to be discussing me anymore.”

  “I thought I reserved the right to change my mind,” David said. “See how lovable we extroverts are?”

  “If your friend is an introvert, why would he own a resort?” Webb said, choosing to ignore his grandfather’s charming grin. “That means dealing with people all the time.”

  “It’s always been on his terms,” David answered. “At least, until his illness took away his independence. That’s why I asked you to come to the Keys with me. My apology never felt like enough. He needs our help, and I owe him.”

  David opened his novel again. This time he pulled out a folded piece of paper from the pages instead of a photograph.

  “Greene sent me this book, you know,” David said. “At the beginning of the second chapter, I found a note glued to the page. This one.”

  The handwriting was faint and the letters were ragged, as if written by a shaky hand.

  Webb read the note. Three sentences.

  They are trying to steal everything. Help. I’m not safe in my own home.

  FIVE

  The scene at the bedside was everything Webb had expected and feared. Oxygen tank, tubes in nose, wheezing.

  What he had not expected was the panic in Jonathan Greene’s eyes when the old man momentarily stopped breathing.

  They are trying to steal everything. Help. I’m not safe in my own home.

  Webb had walked with David to a mansion among palm trees on the water’s edge, just down from the resort. A middle-aged woman had met them at the door and told them she was Yvonne Delta, Greene’s full-time nurse.

  She had taken them inside, saying very little. The big house had windows that took in the view, and hardwood floors in every room. There was no trace of dust anywhere. The art on the walls showed the brush lines of oil paintings, not the flatness of cheap reproductions. There were small statues of animals on burnished wood shelves.

  Without speaking, Yvonne had opened the door to Jonathan Greene’s bedroom and pointed inside, where Webb had his first look at the dying man.

  The old man was dressed in light-green pajamas. His head seemed huge compared to his shrunken body. Webb had seen photographs of a younger Greene. This man was a shell. Sunken cheeks, only wisps of hair that had once been wavy.

  He lay in his bed in a large bedroom that had another huge window with another great view of the bay. On their arrival, Greene had slowly reached over for a remote control and raised the top half of the mattress, to put him in a near-sitting position. He’d then set the remote beside a digital picture frame on the bedside table that showed a new photo every ten seconds or so.

  They are trying to steal everything. Help. I’m not safe in my own home.

  David had waved Webb to stay put, then moved forward, leaned close to Greene and had a whispered conversation that finished with a gentle hug. David had then pulled two chairs up to the bed and taken one. Webb had been invited forward to sit on a chair beside David, and after Webb had seated himself, Greene had begun to gasp for air.

  That’s when Webb saw panic in Greene’s eyes.

  “He needs help!” Webb said, feeling panic himself. The old man was going to die right in front of him.

  Greene waved it away.

  “No,” David said. “It will pass.”

  Greene managed to nod, but it didn’t take away the fear in his eyes, the fear of a drowning man. A few agonizing seconds later, Greene found air again.

  “Nothing to worry about,” Greene managed in a hoarse whisper. “That’s the way it is.”

  “No need to apologize,” David said. He gra
bbed a tissue from a box at the bedside and used it to wipe away some spit at Greene’s mouth. “It’s not something you choose.”

  Greene choked on a snort. “If I could choose, there would be about a thousand better ways to do this.”

  His eyes turned to Webb. “So you’re the grandson he’s been talking about. I can honestly say I’ve been dying to meet you.”

  Webb couldn’t help it. He laughed. That was something else he hadn’t expected at a deathbed. Jokes. So if these two old men weren’t going to flinch or feel sorry for themselves, neither would Webb.

  “Nice to meet you too,” Webb said. “Thanks for a great place to stay.”

  “Never got tired of it,” Greene said. “You’ll be out on the gulf tomorrow. Lock it into your memory.”

  “Yes, sir,” Webb said. But Webb couldn’t help but think of the note.

  They are trying to steal everything. Help. I’m not safe in my own home.

  “I can tell you he’s already locked something else into his memory,” David said. “A girl belting out some rock and roll at a beachside bar.”

  “Hey,” Webb said.

  David spoke to Greene. “I managed to get him to tell me about her. Just watching the grin on his face when he talked about…” David snapped his fingers. “Webb, what’s the girl’s name?”

  “Got to be Kristie,” Greene told David. “Kristie McCullough. Local girl. Wants to be a singer. This is a small key. We know everybody.”

  “Kristie,” David said. “That’s her. Right, Webb?”

  “See if I tell you anything again,” Webb said.

  Greene coughed and said, “Kristie’s something, all right. If I were fifty years younger…”

  David said, “Nice try. You’d have to be sixty-five years younger for her to look at you twice. Maybe seventy. Then you’d be back around Webb’s age.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Greene said. He looked at Webb. “I probably don’t have to tell you, but run hard while you can. When you get to where I am, you’ll want to know that you squeezed everything you could out of life.”