by Robin Lamont
“Hold on,” he said, reaching behind him to shut the door and close off the worst of the sound.
“I know this is a strange request,” the woman was saying. “But I don’t know what else to do. My ex is crazy. He gets real mean when he’s drunk. He rammed my car about a week ago. But when the cops finally came out to interview him, he’d already gotten it fixed. ‘Oh, look,’ he says. ‘Not a scratch on it!’ Bastard. It was him,” she went on hurriedly, “I saw through the window. But look, I don’t want to bore you with my sob story. I just want to try and find out where that sonofabitch got his car fixed.”
“Why do you think he brought it here?”
“I don’t know where he took it. I’m calling everybody.”
“This is probably a police matter, don’t you think?” asked the mechanic hesitantly. He was starting to wish he’d let the answering machine take the call.
“His brother is on the force. They’re all standing behind him,” answered the woman, breaking into a sob. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called. I just … oh, God.”
The mechanic scratched his head. Shit, he hated it when women cried. “No, no. It’s okay,” he said. “Uh … uh, what kind of car is it?”
“A blue Grand Prix,” she sniffed. “It would have been the whole right fender.”
“I don’t remember it,” he replied. “But maybe one of the other guys worked on it. I could check with them and get back to you.”
“You’re a life saver. What’s your name?”
“Charlie.”
“Oh, thank you, Charlie. Here, let me give you my cell number.”
He slid a crumpled napkin over and jotted it with a pencil. “Got it,” he said. “Well, best of luck, ma’am.”
“Charlie, thank you. You make me think there are good men in the world.”
He couldn’t think of anything else to say and went back into the garage.
Jude checked another shop off her list. It was tedious business. An internet search had given her a long list of body shops within a thirty-mile radius. And after a couple of hours, she’d developed a headache from the whine of sandblasters and air compressors that sounded in the background while mechanics shuffled paperwork or flipped through their calendars. One guy, trying to be extra helpful and perhaps thinking she didn’t know her car models very well, disclosed that he’d worked on a dark blue Honda. The owner was named Greg Dunne and had come all the way across Lake Champlain from Plattsburgh to get the work done. No, not him.
Toward the bottom of the list, she got a hit. Fellow had brought in a blue Pontiac Grand Prix owned by one Robert Gravaux. And the shop owner, who’d recently been pulled over for speeding and wasn’t feeling too kindly about cops, had offered up an address on Summer Street in Montpelier.
* * *
“You skedaddle,” Dr. Harbolt told his assistant. “I’ll lock up. There’s some paperwork I have to get to.”
He waited until he was sure she was gone, then he went outside to his car and dragged a beer cooler out from the trunk. He lugged it to one of the examination rooms and wiped down the counter with alcohol. Donning a pair of latex gloves, he opened the cooler and withdrew a ziplock bag he’d kept on ice. Inside was a dead rat. It was the third one his wife had found in the barn. There was no outward sign of injury, so he concluded that it hadn’t died at the claws of a hawk or a wood owl. The doctor thought a necropsy might give him some clues.
After pinning the animal on a piece of cardboard, he cut away the fur along its belly. Then he made an incision lengthwise down the body to reveal the organs. No need to proceed further. He’d suspected this is what he’d find. A significant amount of blood had pooled underneath the rat’s skin and around the joints. Rat poison. Had to be. Some type of “superwarfarin” like brodifacoum or difenacoum – a blood thinner. Tasteless, odorless, and commonly used as a rodenticide since rats were unable to vomit. The drug caused hemorrhaging throughout the body, and death was certain within a few days.
The why seemed fairly clear; the how was still a mystery. Neither he nor his wife would ever have put out rat poison, not with the dogs and hens around. For a brief panic-filled second, Harbolt wondered if someone with a grudge had snuck onto his property and dusted the barn. He couldn’t come up with anyone or any motive. Then he remembered that a few days ago he’d noticed that animals had been digging around in the compost pile. It could have been rats. But how could poison have gotten into the compost? Only he and his wife had access to it.
A strange, crawling sensation began at the base of his neck and his mouth suddenly went dry. He disposed of the rat and stripped off his gloves, washing his hands in water as hot as he could stand. Then he went into his office and unlocked his desk drawer. The files had grown to five. Tori Lacey. Young Jarrod Healy. A farmer who’d come in with blood in his urine; preliminary tests for kidney or urinary tract problems were negative. And there were two others – all of them unexplained hemorrhaging.
Harbolt stacked the files, absently making sure the edges lined up perfectly while he thought about what he should do. Five cases, not all exactly alike, but all with similar symptoms and no confirmable diagnoses. Did he have any liability if he didn’t call the Center for Disease Control? He didn’t believe any of them fell into the category of communicable diseases that would mandate a report. And he surely did not want the CDC or the state health department coming down and combing through his patients’ medical charts.
He made his decision and locked the files back in the drawer.
CHAPTER 19
Katherine knocked softly on her daughter’s bedroom door. It never used to be so permanently closed, such an impregnable barricade. These days Heather was talking less, listening hardly at all, adding one or two bricks a day to the wall between them. And Katherine wasn’t helping; she felt herself closing off, sure that her daughter was lying about knowing where Tyler was. And each day Katherine had taken one more step to infringe upon her teenage daughter’s unspoken request for privacy. Earlier, she’d searched Heather’s bedroom, tentatively fingering dresser drawers open as if something horrible might jump out. Something that would validate the feeling that she was living with a stranger.
It was time to reintroduce herself and end the stalemate. She knocked again, and Heather finally said, “Come in.”
“Hi,” said Katherine.
“Hey, Mom. What’s up?”
“I thought you were kind of quiet at dinner, and I wanted to see if you’re okay.”
Heather sat on her bed with her back against the headboard. She had a textbook in her hands open to clean, conspicuously unmarked pages. She adjusted the pillows on her bed to sit up a little straighter. “I’m fine.”
“You think you might be coming down with something?”
“No, why? Do I look sick?”
“Yeah, a little pale to me. And you haven’t been yourself lately.”
“I’m right in the middle of my period, and it’s really heavy this month.”
Her brow furrowed, Katherine said, “Still? I thought you started about a week ago.”
Heather shrugged, then waited for her mother to question her further or leave.
“How’s the poison ivy?”
“Better.” She held out her arm where the red blotches did appear somewhat faded.
“Okay, good.”
“Anything else?” Heather asked, clearly hoping it was a no.
Uncomfortable, Katherine replied, “Well, I need to ask you something. I was in town yesterday afternoon and I happened to see you go into the pizza shop.”
Heather stared at her blinking.
“I had some shopping,” her mother added.
“Shopping?”
Katherine didn’t feel like she had to explain herself. “Yes. And … I thought I saw Tyler.”
“What?” Heather let the book fall from her lap. “Where did you see
him?”
“You told us that you didn’t know where he was.”
“I don’t know where he is. And I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I saw him walk into Angelo’s while you were there.”
“You’re bugging, Mom. He didn’t come into Angelo’s.”
“Right after you walked in? Tall, thin, curly hair?”
Heather’s mouth dropped open, incredulous. “Do you mean Jerry Holman? Jesus, he looks nothing like Tyler or Tim, or whatever his name is. Jerry wears glasses, for one thing.”
“The boy I saw wasn’t wearing glasses,” countered Katherine.
“He wears them for reading.”
“And you’re telling me the boy who walked in right after you wasn’t Tyler?”
“No, Mom.” Heather rolled her eyes dramatically. “It was Jerry Holman.”
Katherine felt her confidence slipping. “Oh,” she said.
But Heather had gained some, demanding, “Were you spying on me?” And when her mother couldn’t think of a response fast enough, said, “I can’t believe it! Why would you do that?”
“Honey, I … I’m worried that maybe you’re doing drugs again.”
“I’m not, okay?”
“You seem so distant.”
“Well, following me around is not going to bring us closer.”
“I just want you to be safe. I love you.”
“I know, Mom,” said Heather, softening. “Love you, too.”
“You can tell me anything, you know.”
Heather gave her a weak smile, feeling the sting of tears behind her eyes. She was scared. The spots on her arm had faded, but there were a ton of them now on her legs. If she told her mom, she would take her to Dr. Harbolt, and he might say the spots were from heroin use or see the needle marks on her arm. Heather suspected she was having a reaction to the dope and told Bobby she wasn’t coming back. “I’m done with all that,” she informed him. He nodded and replied, “Sure, babe.”
Now what she wanted more than anything was for her mother to rock her in her arms like she was a little girl and tell her it would all be okay. But she waited until Katherine left before letting the tears fall. Suddenly, she doubled over. The cramp was a bad one. And it was so unfair that on top of this stupid rash, she had a bitch of a period that felt like it would never end.
* * *
Jude parked across the street from Bobby Gravaux’s apartment house and watched his front door. She sat for an hour and saw a total of four people come and go. They ranged in age and manner of dress, yet all appeared on the furtive side; Jude made them as clients. Each person used the uppermost doorbell and spoke into the intercom before being let in. About five minutes later they left – just enough time to make a transaction. Bobby G was open for business.
Jude convinced herself that she was waiting for the right moment to make her move. But since she had no clue what the right moment felt like, it never came. Besides, she didn’t even know what she was going to say. Bobby could be a murderer. And how did she imagine that would that go? It played out in her mind like a bad thriller. You ran Tim off the road, didn’t you? You killed him and got rid of his body? Answer me, you … you … She shook her head, realizing that it was cowardice that kept her in her seat.
Oddly, it was her fear, as familiar as an old sweater, that mobilized her. She’d spent her whole life pushing through fear. And patterns, even self-destructive ones – particularly self-destructive ones – were something she fell into easily. Jude wiped her clammy hands on her jeans and got out of the car.
As she approached the house, a stringy twenty-year-old with a cap pulled down over his eyes stepped out, letting the front door slam behind him. The kid barely glanced at her, probably assuming she was just another junkie. She could understand why; she hadn’t washed her hair in days, and she’d lost enough weight in the last week to make her tug at her jeans to keep them from slipping down her hips. Jude stabbed at the top doorbell.
“Yep,” came from the intercom.
“Jude Brannock,” she said.
“Who?”
“Jude. The blind lady, remember?”
“Whaddya want?”
“Talk to you.”
Bobby grunted his displeasure, but after what felt like an eternity, buzzed her in.
Slightly breathless after the three-story walk up, Jude pushed open the door to Bobby’s lair. The close, smoky room nearly gagged her.
“Don’t you want to open a window?” she asked.
“No.”
Jude had second thoughts now that she was in the same room with him. Her heart beat hard in her chest. Bobby emitted a kind of darkness that felt not exactly evil but suffocating. She needed air. She also needed to assert herself, so she walked over to the window by the kitchenette and pushed on the frame. It was stiff but lifted a few inches, enough to allow in a stream of night breeze.
“That’s better,” she said, taking a seat at the table, as in, I’m here now and nothing you can do about it. She tried to project a boldness she didn’t feel.
“How’d you find out where I lived?” he asked.
“I’m resourceful.”
Bobby came slowly toward her and drawled, “You want to talk? So, talk.”
“I’d rather you,” replied Jude. “Because you’ve been lying to me. You and Heather Buck are a thing – at least you were until Tyler came along.”
As he stared down at her, he casually pushed back his leather vest to reveal a gun parked in the waistband of his pants.
“Okay, got it,” she said brightly over her thudding heart. “You have a gun.”
“Just establishing the parameters.”
“And do the parameters include shooting me like you shot Tim?”
He laughed, a low, greasy laugh. “Is that what you think?”
“I don’t know what to think, to be honest. I might. I might know what to think if anyone told the truth. But apparently, around here truth is a limited commodity.”
“More like a luxury.”
“I’ve got money.”
“Let’s have it.”
Jude glanced around the room, searching for a quick exit if needed. But the door to the apartment was the only way out and Bobby was standing in her path. If she showed her hand, he might hurt her. If she didn’t, nothing would come of this risky confrontation.
Licking her dry lips, she said, “Okay, here’s what I know.” It was the only currency she had. “I know that Heather is an addict and that you’re supplying her, along with half the town. I know that she was your girl until Tim … I mean Tyler … came along, which didn’t sit well with you. I know that Tyler was forced off the road down near Roxbury by a blue car and that you own a blue Grand Prix. Moreover, quite coincidentally, that very same car has gotten a new fender and paint job. The work was done by an auto body shop that has your name on record.”
He picked at something stuck between his teeth, then asked, “That’s it?”
“Mmmn, let me see …. Oh, and I know that the state police have paint chips that will match a blue car. Possibly yours?”
Bobby moved closer to her, so close she could smell the tangy sweat seeping from his pores. He put his hand around her throat and lifted her chin so that she had no other place to look but his eyes. He wasn’t afraid, he was angry. “You’re quite the detective, aren’t you?” he asked softly.
Feeling like a coyote caught in a snare, Jude thought that if she moved at all, the noose would tighten. She held her ground, meeting his burning gaze.
All at once, he let go. “Pretty flimsy evidence, Blind Lady, but I’ve come to like you in a strange kind of way, and I don’t need you messing with my business. So, I’ll deal. But then, I never want to see you again. First off, I never lied to you. You didn’t ask me about Heather. Secondly, I already knew your boy
was named Tim Mains.”
“How did you find out?”
“I’m resourceful.” He smiled, his teeth flashing white in the darkness. “And no, I didn’t like the way he was all over Heather. But he was never any serious competition. If she wanted to fuck him, that was up to her. I knew she’d always come back to me. In fact, for a while I thought he was hanging around not because of her, but because he was tryin’ to get to me. I figured him for an undercover with the cops or DEA, and when you showed up, I thought you were, too. Only now, I’m beginning to believe that you kooks really are animal rights people.” He shook his head in disbelief.
“Do you know what happened to him?” asked Jude.
“No, and that’s the gold-plated truth. The last I saw of him was the night Heather’s daddy found them together. She’d been dying to turn Tim on, and he was fine with that. We went out to the back of Buck’s place, Heather and Tim in her car, and I took mine.”
“Wait a minute,” interrupted Jude. “You were there?”
“For a little while. She wanted the needle, but Tim didn’t. I don’t think he’d ever done it before, but he was happy enough to snort some. For me? I don’t partake with my customers. I stay long enough to make sure they’re breathing.”
“Big of you,” commented Jude.
He smiled. “I was going to leave the stoned love birds when Tim starts freaking out. Heather’s gone, she’s totally smacked. But Tim is getting real agitated. At first, I think it’s because of his first time using, you know? But far from being mellow, he’s jacked … pointing into the field and spouting some truly weird shit.”
“Like what?”
“Like ‘there he is … he who walks behind the rows.’”
“Who was he talking about?”
“One of them was Jim Davidson.”
“Who’s Jim Davidson?”
“He has the place next to the Bucks. I tried telling Tim that Davidson is just another Half Moon farmer on the verge of bankruptcy.”
“What did he mean about ‘he who walks behind the rows?’”
“You never saw that movie? Children of the Corn. Scared the shit out of me when I was kid. ‘He who walks behind the rows’ is the evil entity who gets all these kids to kill people as a sacrifice, so they’ll have a good harvest.”