by Rich Foster
“There are some people who want to know who is looking into your husband’s death. If anyone comes around asking questions it might be best if you told them that you figured out I was just wasting your money, stringing you along.”
“But you’re not!”
“It would be better if other people didn’t know that.”
Harry pulled away from the curb; the sun slanted low in the western sky. At the corner instead of turning around he simply turned left. The street sloped in a gentle downward curve. Clapboard houses lined the street. At the first corner he turned left again. To his surprise he found himself passing the Red Lake Cemetery. On the hill above, he saw the gable of the Ames’s blue and white house.
Acting on an impulse he pulled into the gravel drive. The graves were a mixture of old and new. Spring flowers filled vases in front of numerous markers. He parked the car.
Overhead the pink cotton candy clouds were quickly fading to gray slush. Slowly he walked the rows. He came to a new grave where the sod showed signs of loose dirt. A pile of fading bouquets acted as a temporary headstone. A small cardboard marker read,
“Edward Ames.”
The light steadily faded. Row by row he walked the aisles of granite and marble. Toward the high side of the cemetery he found a marker. The limestone was badly weathered but the lettering was legible:
Clara Wallis Belson
Oct 12, 1870-June 6, 1898
Rest in the Lord
Beyond the hedge was the Eddie’s backyard. Harry walked on down the row, expectant, but he was disappointed by what he failed to find. He tried the next row, and the next. It was almost completely dark. Halfway down the row he was startled by a figure lurking in the dark. He drew his gun, then felt foolish when he realized it was only a life size sculptured angel.
Using a small flashlight on his key chain, he read the stones. Again he came to the last monument only to be disappointed. He had been sure. Then he noticed the flat brass plate, set flush with the grass, beneath his feet. The raised lettering read:
James Tayler
Born 1-22-1890
Died 12-25-1966
Harry felt the rush of discovery, but for now it was too late. He walked down the gravel driveway to his car and drove home.
When he pulled into the drive the houselights were on. He eased the nine out of its holster. Keeping his back to the brick wall he worked his way toward the rear door. Instead of going up on the porch he climbed onto the trashcan enclosure that kept snow out of the cans in the winter.
He peeked through the narrow space between the drapes and saw a shadow move across the floor. Paula came into view wearing only an apron. Much to Harry’s delight she bent over and checked something in the oven. A happy smile spread across Harry’s face. He hopped down, thrust the gun into its holster and mounted the steps to his rear door.
Chapter 20
Harry stirred from sleep. The sheets and blankets were a disheveled mess. Paula sat on the edge of the bed putting on her bra. He reached over and tried to grope her but she slid away in the dark. Then he was able to see her dimly silhouetted by the moonlight spilling in the window. She pulled a sweater over her head and brushed her long hair down with her open hand.
“I’m going home.”
“But why? I thought we might amuse ourselves more in the morning?”
“That’s why I’m going home. I know you Harry Grim and you won’t let me out of bed until ten o’clock. Tomorrow is Saturday, I’ve got a tennis lesson.”
She bent over and kissed him. He successfully groped her this time.
“How old are you Harry?” She laughed.
“Young at heart.”
Then she was gone.
It had been a pleasant evening. Paula surprised him with dinner. The oven contained a tray of perfectly undercooked brownies. They killed a bottle of Merlot with dinner and another while they were up in the bedroom fooling around. Harry smiled to himself, rolled over, and fell back asleep.
Sometime later he awoke to the whining of his cat, Glock. Probably, another cat was in heat or some feral animal was wandering around outside. He slid out of bed and closed the bedroom door. Already, he felt a dull ache in his head as the wine wore off. He took two aspirin and a leak in the bathroom; then he went back to bed.
It early dawn when he awoke. His head and stomach felt about the same as when he was on a troop transport in heavy weather. It was a mistake to mix highballs and wine. The clock read 5:45. Harry pulled a pillow over his head and prayed to go back to sleep. But the anesthetic effect of the alcohol was gone leaving only edgy nerves.
After ten minutes of tossing he gave up. The room was cold. The heater would kick in at 6 AM. Most days he slept until the house was nicely warmed.
The aspirin bottle was empty. A search through the vanity and linen cabinet was unproductive. There would be some down in the kitchen. He slid into his flannel bathrobe that hung on a bathroom hook. He opened the bedroom door expecting Glock who normally lay next to the door. No, cat.
At the first landing he smelled something rotten. Three steps later he saw Glock, stretched out, hard and stiff at the base of the stairs. Suddenly, he recognized the odor of rotten eggs.
He turned and lunged up the stairs as he felt the first wave of vertigo from the gas. Reaching the second floor he ran to the bedroom and threw the window open, gasping at the fresh air. The clock on the night table read 5:59.
Harry grabbed his gun that lay next to the clock and went out the window. He tripped, rolled down the porch roof, and fell off into the yard. A jolt of pain shot through his shoulder where it hit, but he was quickly up and running for the propane tank at the back of the yard. Frantically, he lifted the valve lid and spun the shut off valve closed. The gauge showed the tank was almost empty.
Inside the house the thermostat circuit opened, and electric starting spark arced inside the furnace.
Outside, the last thing Harry heard was a loud Whoomf, followed by a flash at the windows and then he was slammed to the ground as the concussion wave hit him. The rear wall hurtled towards the propane tank in fragmentary pieces. He was not conscious of the roar of the flames consuming the remains of his house or the falling pieces of debris that stuck him.
Chapter 21
Windows broke a block away. What wasn’t scattered across the lawn or in the street was a raging inferno when the first fire truck arrived. Neighbors stood in the street, clad in pajamas and robes and in the early light watched Harry Grim’s house burn. Parts of the first floor walls survived the blast. An occasional steel window frame acted like a barbeque grate as the flames lapped through. A large section of roof, still fully shingled lay on the neighbor’s car and rear yard.
They found Harry when a firefighter went in back top make sure the propane tank was shut off. Blood, from a laceration on his forehead, covered his face. He appeared more damaged than he was.
Harry’s ears would not stop ringing. People’s mouths moved but their words were distorted by the constant noise within his ears. He put a finger in his ear and wiggled it. When he drew it out the tip was covered with blood. Somewhat against his will the rescue workers wrestled him unto a stretcher. Harry stopped fighting it. His head was spinning. He closed his eyes and let the darkness surround him.
A hand slapped him. A paramedic stared down, closed his eyes then shook his head no. The medic held his eyes wide open with a thumb and finger. Then he pointed at his head and mimicked a blow. Finally, Harry muddled out the charade. With a concussion he shouldn’t sleep yet all he really wanted to do was close his eyes. The hand slapped him again lightly. Harry grimaced and forced open his eyes, which shone with malice for the medic.
The ER doctor put twenty stitches into his forehead. His left arm was in a sling from where here landed falling from the porch roof. Small cuts and abrasions covered his face and arms. An ENT doctor checked out his ears. The tympanic membrane was okay on the left side, on the right the doctor embedded a paper insert to accelerat
e healing. Both doctors recommended he be kept for the night but he declined.
It was noon before Harry dragged himself out of the emergency room. He felt like his body was in quick dry cement. It ached everywhere. From his pocket he pulled out the small envelope of pain pills. At the drinking fountain he took two and a sip of water. When he straightened up he saw Paula reading a magazine. Frequently her eyes darted around the lobby. She saw him and flew out of her chair. Her arms wrapped him in a painful but welcome embrace.
“Oh my God. What happened?”
His hearing was slightly recovered.
“I think I pissed someone off.”
“You always do that, honey! It’s a talent.” She said with a smile.
Paula drove. Harry insisted on going past his house. The basement was a pool of blackened water with sodden debris floating in it. His pickup lay rolled on its side buried by bricks. He walked to the propane tank where after searching in the weeds he found his gun. That was when he noticed he was wearing only a bathrobe.
“Let’s go to a store I need some clothes.” Then he realized that his wallet burned with the house.
Chapter 22
Harry’s week was hell. He spent Sunday recuperating on Paula’s couch. Monday morning she hired him a rental car with her credit card. He began the maddening circuit of replacing who he was. Two hours at the Department of Motor Vehicles for a license, an hour at the bank for credit and debit cards. For an hour he waited, at the post office, to file for a replacement passport. Another hour and a half waiting to file a police report to verify his loss. Insurance agents, appraisers, and time making lists of all the “shit” he lost in the house.
The Eddie Ames case slid to the back burner while he reconstructed his life. Of course there was always the nagging question, “Who wanted him dead, and would they strike again?”
Temporarily he tried living with Paula but her place was too small for two independent people. By the end of the week he lugged his meager possessions over to his office. He could sleep on his office sofa. In the hallway he scooped up the unread newspapers delivered to his office door.
The office was stuffy from disuse. He hadn’t been in since the weekend. He tossed his meager possessions into the closet and filled the coffee pot with water and French roast beans. Over a cup of coffee he ran through the previous weeks news. He was on Tuesday’s paper when a short article caught his eye.
Chase Curtis, Coroner for Parsons County, determined that Zane Thayer died from accidental drowning. Mr. Thayer, a local resident and employee of the County Crime Lab fell in his tub, struck his head and tragically drowned last Friday night. Mr. Thayer was 42.
Someone was cleaning house, Harry thought. They were sure to try again. Worried and feeling guilty for what happened to Zane, he called Lisa Ames, hoping she was still among the living. Her phone rang eight times, his panic rose with each tolling of the bell. Then she answered.
“Its Harry.”
“Oh my god Harry, are you all right? I saw your house on the news. It was a gas leak or something wasn’t it?”
“It was definitely something. Have you had any strange visitors, calls, or suspicious vehicles around your place?”
“Not really. Well… there were two men who stopped by last Friday shortly after you left. They were some sort of Federal Agent.”
“What Agency?”
“I don’t really know. They said they were following up on Eddie’s accident for the prison. One man showed me a badge but it was not like any I’ve seen from the prison. They never really answered a question when I asked one. Mostly they wanted to know about you and why I hired you.”
“This is very, very important Lisa. Tell me exactly what did you tell them?” Harry stressed each word, fostering their importance.
“Well you told me to say I fired you. So I did. Then they asked me a lot of questions about why I hired you in the first place. I said I could only afford a day or two of your time but I wanted to be sure Eddie’s death was an accident.”
“Did that satisfy them?”
“Not at first. They kept asking why I would think it was not an accident. I said Eddie was an excellent driver, I just couldn’t believe he was dead. Then I burst into tears, which now days is not hard to do.”
“Anything else you can tell me?”
“The tall thin guy scared me.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“No. But he looked at me as if I were an insect. The tears discouraged them. Tears make most men shut-up.”
“Was that it?”
“No. They asked if they could look through Eddie’s things. I told them I was not comfortable with two strange men in my house, it might be okay if I brought a couple of friends over. They said to forget it.”
“I’m going to send you a final bill, marked paid. Your first check will cover it. When you get it, leave the invoice lying out on your desk
“You’re scaring me Harry.”
“You should be, at least a little bit. These are dangerous people. I want them to think you are out of the investigation.”
“Are you quitting?”
“No. Somebody tried to kill me, I need to find out who did it.”
Harry belatedly realized his phone might be tapped. If they were listening he had a problem, but if someone were merely checking the called numbers this charade would help shield Lisa.
“Don’t call me. I’ll pickup a prepaid phone and give you the number.”
His next worry was to call Paula. Avoiding the office phone, he went downstairs to the coffee shop and called her from a pay phone.
“Don’t come into the office. Furthermore, if anyone should ask, you no longer worked for me nor do you care to ever see me again.”
“What’s up, Harry.”
“Trouble. Big trouble. Eddie Ames was murdered and the guy who ran those prints for me suffered a fatal accident too.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. Keep your gun handy. If two tall thin guys with badges show up play dumb.”
“I’m blond, Harry, that’s easy.”
“I’m fairly certain they’ll only want to ask you questions. If someone persists about why you quit simply say, ‘Because he’s such an asshole!’ and slam the door. If no one comes by we cane have dinner at Marie’s tonight.”
Then he made plans with her for dinner.
Later, Harry drove to the local Radio Shack where a surely youth with a bad complexion rang up the a prepaid phone and a wireless security camera system.
Chapter 23
Barton Dirk held the .357 in one hand, as he aimed downrange. He evenly squeezed the trigger. The sinew and muscles in his biceps and forearms flexed as he worked the gun. The recoil barely caused his arm to lift. Every shot was within the first ring; the bull’s eye was a tattered hole.
Behind him at the base of the mountains lay Santa Barbara. Up here among the scrub oaks and agaves was the Winchester Gun Club. Barton shot at least four times a week. In his line of work his life depended on it. He ran through a half dozen clips, then stepped off the line.
He walked over to his car and put the gun into the special rack under the drivers seat. It swung up and away under the seat. The bottom side of the rack was camouflaged by false seat springs. If someone took the car apart they would find it, but any cursory inspection by a cop was certain to miss it.
The BMW engine purred to life. He dropped his earplugs into the glove box. Before he headed back to town. His blue tooth rang.
“Barton here.”
“Yeah its Harry.”
“What you need, Harry?”
“Maybe I just called to say hi.”
“Sure, you never call me unless somebody’s trying to kill you or someone needs convincing.”
“I need someone to watch my back.”
“How bad?”
“Terminal.”
“I’ll be there tonight.”
“If you fly won’t there be trouble with your ‘tools’?”
“Oh. You’re a high flyer now, huh?”
“That’d be me. It makes it easier with the hardware. You got a paying client?”
“Not now. But I’m expecting a large insurance check soon.”
Barton glanced at his Rolex GMT Master II. The watch was bling he wore for show, when he worked he used a plastic Casio, virtually non-metallic and low in reflectivity. He did a quick mental calculation.
“Be there in about eight hours. You got a landing strip in Red Lake?”
“Just a small one, no lights. If you get here after dark you’ll need to land in Beaumont, it has tower control.”
“Red Lake sounds more discreet. I’ll be there before dark.”
*
Barton and Harry met during training at Special Forces school. They ended up serving in Afghanistan doing black ops along with a CIA incursion unit. It was an unreported example of clandestine cooperation between governmental agencies.
If a warlord were uncooperative he would suddenly cease to be a problem, because he would be dead.
Or a Taliban agent might be found in a vacant house, no longer capable of being a threat to US forces.
Working alongside the CIA, Dirk became an expert at extracting cooperation. Their unit provided the Army with valuable information from numerous anonymous sources who ‘volunteered’ to talk. He liked his work a little too much for Harry’s taste, but theirs was a nasty job.
When their tour of duty was up both opted out of the service. Harry turned to being a private eye in Red Lake where it was wooded and green, there was water in the canyons all year and large cool lakes to fish. He wanted to be as far from dirt, rocks, and high desert as possible.
Barton went to work as a ‘contractor.’ He would be gone for a while and then he would be back. Harry never asked where Barton went but he knew it would be a place where there was violence, greed, a power struggle, and killing.