“I guess we’ll find out when he calls?”
“You think he’ll call?”
“I know he will. How else will he get what he wants?”
Bertha felt only a little better as they drove on a narrow state route and turned at the end of the lane toward Stumpy’ s farmhouse. In the truck, the ruts jolted Bertha in a way she hadn’t noticed in the car. Pop slowed a little, and finally the house came into view. The porch light was on.
Bertha’s cell phone chirped. She grabbed Pop’s arm. “What should I do?”
“Answer it.”
“Okay.” She put the phone to her ear. “Judge Brannon here.”
“Bertha,” Alvin said. “Where are you? Where’s my Tucson?”
She’d forgotten about Alvin. “It’s at the funeral home.”
“How can that be? I called there and they were closed.”
“It’s a long story.”
“Is the car all right?”
“Oh, sure. I left it there so Pop Wilson and I could look for Grandma. She was kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped? How did that happen?”
“Another long story. If you need the Tucson right away, take a cab over there and I’ll reimburse you.”
“Jerry can take me, unless you need it to get home.”
“I won’t be coming home for a while,” she said.
“Is there anything we can do?”
Bertha considered this. She remembered Norman Bates. “Could you scoop the cat box?”
“Jerry already took care of it. Don’t worry about the cat.”
“Thanks.” She added, “If someone calls looking for me, tonight or at the courthouse in the morning, give whoever it is my cell number.”
“Okay. Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
“Bertha,” Alvin said. “She’ll be all right. Grandma is a pretty resilient old girl. In a way, I feel sorry for whoever took her.”
“Right. I’ll see you soon. I don’t want to tie up this line too long.”
Stopping the truck near the house, Pop opened the door. The dome light came on and Bertha noticed Pop’s weathered face. Had he aged on the trip out here? The wind caught the door and pulled at it. He balanced himself half in and half outside of the cab, swearing softly.
The front door of the farmhouse was open and a porch light seemed friendly. They climbed the steps and tapped on the door.
“It’s open,” Stumpy called from across the long living room. “Got coffee on in the kitchen. Toss your coats there on the couch.”
As she entered the kitchen, Stumpy embraced her and put a wet kiss on her cheek. The scrape of his whiskers yielded an unexpected comfort. “Got you right here.” He pointed to the end of the table nearest the windows, where a large yellow cup of coffee waited for her.
Bertha sank into the chair and warmed her hands around the coffee cup.
“You doing okay?” Stumpy asked. “Had anything to eat? I could heat up some chicken and noodles from earlier.”
Bertha started to say no but realized she was hungry. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all. These here microwaves do everything for you. How ’bout you, Pop? Could you use some grub?”
A few moments later each of the three of them sat before hot coffee and a plate of noodles.
Pop said, “Where’s Mel?”
“Don’t know. He said he has something he wanted to check on. He should be along directly.” Stumpy shoved some noodles in his mouth, followed by a bite of white bread. Once he’d swallowed the stuff, he said, “Tell me what happened. Who took your grandma?”
Bertha’s eyes didn’t leave her plate. “I know this sounds kind of strange, but it was a man she met on the Internet.”
Stumpy patted her arm. “Don’t worry. We’ll find her. What’s this guy look like?”
“A goon of some kind: mid-fifties, dark hair, pork-chop sideburns, dark whiskers—the kind of stubble that never goes away, even after a shave.”
Stumpy used his bread to soak up the broth, then shoved it all in his mouth and chewed. Finally he said, “What’s he call himself?”
“Albert is all I know.”
Stumpy met Pop’s eyes. Bertha saw it even though they made an effort to hide it. “You know who he is?”
Pop said, “Maybe. There’s a guy named Albert Cioni who fits the description.”
“A gangster?”
“No. Not a gangster. Worse than a gangster.”
Bertha slowly laid her fork down. “What in the hell is worse than a gangster?”
Mel stood in the doorway to the kitchen. They hadn’t heard him come in until, startling all three of them, he answered Bertha’s question. “A cop gone bad.”
Chapter Twenty-two
In the glare of the overhead light, the four of them sat around Stumpy’s kitchen table. A thousand questions flooded Bertha’s mind. Was Grandma cold? Did she have her supper? Was she tied up? When would Albert call and tell her what the hell he wanted? At this point she’d give him the deed to the house to get Grandma back safely.
“In this situation,” Pop said, “a person would call the police, but we can’t do that because we don’t know who we can trust.”
“They can’t all be in on it,” Bertha said.
“What about her friends?” Stumpy asked.
“Her friends were our friends,” Bertha said, as if that explained it all. Then she realized they didn’t understand. To be honest, Bertha wasn’t sure she understood anymore. Lesbian couples usually didn’t have single lesbian friends if they wanted to stay couples. They couldn’t get close to people at work because sometimes gays lost jobs, a throwback from the twentieth century. There was no way to give these guys a thumbnail history. Finally she said, “You’re just going to have to trust me on this one—it’s too complicated.”
Pop said, “We made a report. We got them to announce her disappearance to the media. Since the mayor’s suicide, I’ve been thinking this goes right to the top.”
“What the hell could be so bad that Dinwiddie would kill himself?” Bertha asked. “His popularity rate was high with both parties. He could have been mayor for several more years. He’s the top guy. Seems like he’d have control of whatever it was.”
“Politicians are like anybody else,” Pop said. “There’s always something, no matter how much power they have, that’s out of their control.”
“Let’s stay focused,” Stumpy said. “Would be nice if we could manage to get Grandma without her or any of us getting hurt. Course, if we don’t slow Cioni down somehow, he’ll just keep coming till he gets what he wants.”
“Personally,” Bertha said, “I’d like to see the son-of-a-bitch get his nuts blown off.”
Stumpy put his hand on Bertha’s arm. “Honey, if you think you can hit ’em, you go for it.”
“I appreciate dinner, but now that we’re all together,” Pop said, “we need to get out of this kitchen and actively look for her.”
“I have an idea where he might of taken her,” Mel said. “There’s a couple of gambling places, one a trailer down by the river and the other a little house way out on South Fifth.”
Stumpy said, “I know about the trailer. Used to play cards there once in a while.”
“Come on then,” Mel said. “My Explorer is the biggest. I’ll drive.”
Just as Bertha stood, her phone chirped. She grabbed it. “Judge Brannon here.”
“This is Fred Cook. I need to talk to you.”
“Listen, you bastard, if you hurt my grandma—” What could she possibly do that was serious enough to make up for Grandma and probably Toni?
“I don’t have your grandma. But I think I know who does.”
“Who?” Bertha’s heart beat like a drummer on cocaine. “Where is she?”
“Can we meet? I don’t want to go over all of this on the phone.”
“Hang on a second.” Bertha met Pop’s watery and bloodshot eyes. In a stage whisper, she said, “It’s Coo
k. He wants to meet. Says he’s got some information on Grandma.”
“Then we meet,” Pop said.
Bertha spoke into the phone. “What have you got? If you waste my time while I should be looking for Grandma, I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”
Cook hesitated, then said, “This has gone way too far. The bodies keep piling up. Sooner or later one of those bodies will be mine.”
“Is there a new body?” Bertha asked.
“January Johnson. Someone dumped her body a little while ago on a vacant lot over on East Monroe. A bullet in the back of her head. Execution style.”
Bertha’s knees would no longer hold her, and she sat down hard on a kitchen chair, bumping the table painfully with her left hip. A tight rubber band of silence stretched between her and Cook. “Goddamn. I saw her last night.”
Cook said, “So, can we meet or not?”
“Do you know where Grandma is?”
“No. But I’m willing to help you find her. I can meet you after my shift at eleven thirty.”
Bertha searched the room for a clock. Her eyes landed on a large rooster above the wall phone. “That’s over three hours.”
“Best I can do.”
“What’s open that late? A public place.”
“Bus station. There’s a little cafeteria there. It’s open twenty-four hours.”
“Okay. I’ll be there, and I’ll have my posse with me.”
“Bring anyone you want. I might not be alone myself.”
Bertha disconnected. Three men stood around her. Pop said, “If he can’t meet until eleven thirty, that’s time enough to check the trailer down by the river. If we find Grandma there, we won’t need to talk to him.”
“I think he knows who killed Toni and why,” Bertha said. “I’ll meet with him, even if I have to do it alone.”
Pop laid his hand on her shoulder. “Easy, girl. We’ll go with you.”
The four of them turned and looked at the rooster clock.
Mel said, “Come on. Let’s see what we can find.”
With three old 20-gauge deer rifles and a Winchester carbine, along with ammo loaded in the cargo area, each one carried a readied sidearm. They piled into the old Explorer, then turned it around and bounced down the rutted lane away from town. Bertha thought they might be better off in two cars, but she stayed silent because all in all she was glad she didn’t have to do this alone. They crossed some abandoned, overgrown, railroad tracks and found the floodplain, which was dense with trees that stood black and tangled on a bed of winter-white snow. Mel made a left turn onto a winding, two-lane, gravel road that led away from all civilization. Without the snow and the half-covered sliver of moon, it would have been impossible to maneuver. They turned off the road and followed a couple of tire tracks downward toward the river.
A light shone in the distance. Mel said, “Someone’s there.”
Stumpy said, “Maybe we should leave the car here and walk the rest of the way. We don’t want to give up our element of surprise.”
“How far is it?” Bertha asked. “There’s no way to get there without leaving tracks.”
Mel pulled the emergency brake and killed the motor. “That light is the kitchen window. Someone’s there. I’ve been driving in their tracks, so they must have come out here recently.”
Each of them retrieved a rifle from the back and, as quietly as possible, started downhill toward the trailer. As they began descending the final twenty yards, struggling for balance, Bertha slipped on the snow-covered ground, feeling like she was walking across a cold mattress.
They emerged from the woods into a clearing. The trailer was small, probably fifty or sixty feet. A narrow ribbon of smoke rose and dispersed in the cold night air. Pop held up a hand and they stopped. The sound of a TV could be heard from inside. An old Chrysler was parked near the front steps, its warm motor still ticking.
Pop whispered to her, “You and Mel watch the back side. We’re going in.”
Bertha said, “I want to kill the fucker.”
Pop blinked, then said, “Let’s make sure we have the right fucker.”
Bertha rolled her eyes skyward. “Okay, but I get the kill shot.”
Mel got her attention and indicated that she should follow him. They moved together to the other side of the trailer where snow was banked against its skirt and went over the tops of Bertha’s shoes. For the first time she noticed that she was still in her only good shoes, the shoes she’d worn to Charlie’s wake. She was a little overdressed for a shootout, but she’d find a way to make it work. Following Mel’s lead, literally placing her feet in his footprints, she stopped, assuming a defensive stance, with her rifle slung over her shoulder and a revolver out in front of her. Snow muffled the sounds of the TV. Looking at the back door, waiting for it to open and for Grandma to be there, Bertha could hear the river somewhere behind her, other than that only a suffocating silence.
A soft light came on in the back room, probably a bedroom. If Grandma was in there, would she be injured? While she and her friends were armed, Bertha hoped no one would need to fire—except for herself, at Albert.
They heard a loud crash and a woman screamed. Bertha turned to Mel, who said, “Go on and see if that’s Grandma. I got things covered here.”
Bertha had no memory of the trip back around the trailer and up the stairs. She simply found herself on the top step standing before the open door. The scene was ludicrous. Three men inside were facing each other, Pop and Mel’s rifles pointing downward at the orange shag carpet. A fat man in paisley boxer shorts stood with his 9 millimeter at his side. He had a gray poolroom complexion, and on one flabby shoulder was a colorful Guns and Roses tattoo. Just your run-of-the-mill asshole, but not Albert.
Bertha stepped into the trailer. The place smelled of dank carpet and stale cigarettes. Across the room stood a trembling young woman, with a silver ring in her nose and straight tea-colored hair. She put a bottle of beer down on a coffee table and scratched her armpit absentmindedly. Her movements were as slow as Methuselah, but she was so much younger than the guy in his undershorts that she could have been his granddaughter. With determination and without exposing herself, she managed to hold the sheet in place, pull a cigarette from a fairly new pack on the couch, and light it.
She was obviously the source of the scream. Bertha said, “Who is this?”
Stumpy answered. “Luther Heaton, a traffic warden. I guess that over there is his date.”
“Windy.” The young woman managed to get an arm free and held out a hand for Bertha to shake.
What the hell? Bertha shook.
Paisley Undershorts moistened his lips with his tongue. “What’s goin’ on here, Pop? Did my wife send you?”
Pop grinned and shook his head. “Luther. You ought to be shamed of yourself. Now get some clothes on and take this child home.”
Luther brushed an open card table in the center of the room and moved it about a foot; a full ashtray and some scattered chips hit the floor. He swore and then said, “Could you at least close the door? It’s cold as hell in here.”
Bertha reached to push the door closed and realized that door wasn’t ever going to close again. She slammed it, but it wouldn’t catch.
Luther pulled on an ill-fitting black sweat suit. “They’s going to charge me for that busted door.”
“Should have opened the door when we knocked,” Stumpy said.
“I was busy. I had other things on my mind.”
The woman in the sheet said, “I’m cold.”
Pop said, “Go get some clothes on. I’m sure it’ll help.”
Mel swung the door open and stepped inside.
“Jesus Christ,” Luther said. “You guys got the whole SWAT team out there?”
Mel said, “I’m the last. What’s going on here?”
Stumpy said, “Nothing much. A little adultery”
“If everything is secured here,” Mel said, “we need to get along to the bus station.”
A cold wind had swept in, concealing the stars and moon with clouds, leaving the night as dark as tar. Once out of the lights from the trailer, they moved single file back toward Mel’s Explorer. They let the silence lengthen as they scraped the windows with what they could find, but once they were inside the vehicle, the windows fogged up. They could barely see the narrow road. He switched on the Explorer’s four-wheel drive, saying, “Sometimes this works and sometimes it doesn’t. Cross your fingers.”
The headlights faded away as newly falling snow came at them from nowhere. On a sharp bend in the road, they slid off the car tracks and the Explorer’s tires spun. Something in Bertha’s guts fluttered like she’d swallowed a humming bird.
From the backseat, next to her, Stumpy glanced at her and asked, “What’s the matter? You’re starting to look as white as me.”
Bertha ignored the bad racist joke. Grandma wouldn’t, Toni wouldn’t, and probably Doree and Aunt Lucy would at least point it out, but she knew Stumpy meant no harm. “We’ll never get there in time.”
Stumpy took her hand and stroked it. The gesture had a calming effect. Until then, Bertha had forgotten that the healing burns hurt to the touch; the worst one, the right one, stung a bit.
Mel said, “What say a couple of us get out and push.”
Pop opened the front passenger door and Bertha opened her side on her left.
Stumpy said, “Whoa, sweetie, you stay inside.”
“I’m stronger than any of you. Bigger too. My help is our best chance.”
“You ain’t dressed for car pushing—” Just then the inside of the SUV lit up with headlights behind them. It had to be Luther and the sheet gal. “There’s all the help we need,” Stumpy said. Then he opened his door to get out. “You stay here. I mean it.”
Bertha didn’t like being treated like a child; it’d been several years since anybody had tried. She placed her hand on the door handle next to her, but she stayed put.
Mel waited until everyone was ready to push, then pressed on the gas pedal. Steadily, the SUV moved back onto the road and then started sliding toward a tree on the opposite side. Mel turned into the skid and got everything under control.
Pop said, “Pull up a ways and stop. We promised Luther that we’d help them if they got in trouble in the ruts we made.”
Widow Page 22