She traced a forefinger-circle on the tabletop. “Any predictions?”
Packard hesitated. His dislike for her grandfather was growing steadily – the nagging, ugly likelihood that if the deaths of Charles Callan’s wife, mother, Kate’s parents – and maybe Meg Brady – were indeed the result of his actions, the man had to have been one bogglingly selfish, irresponsible sonofabitch. He swished his beer. “Not really. No.”
Kate nodded. “Well, I’ve gotta see how it turns out.”
He knew that she knew he had just lied to her.
The 7-11 was ahead on the right, in a smallish strip-mall. Packard hit his turn-indicator, slowed, pulled off the road. Following the woman’s instructions, he parked next door, in front of the liquor store. He found it curious that the camper wasn’t there; Kate had described it to him, having seen the woman emerge from Haney’s and drive off. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the Lincoln pulling in opposite the real estate office. And out on the road, the blue Taurus, slowing.
Packard’s fear was countered by an almost light-headed excitement at the prospect of learning another piece of the mystery. Driving over from Haney’s, he had outlined the routine laid out for them by the woman in sunglasses; both were impressed with her thoroughness. Upon entering, they were to pretend to be shoppers, move away from the checkout counter, along the island of shelves nearest the window, which would presumably keep them in view, via the front window, of the people who had followed them.
Kate grinned. “Want to bet she’s a Virgo?”
He guided Kate into the small, shelf-crowded store. The clerk was bagging some purchases for one of the two customers. The other was making a selection at the freezer. Kate picked up one of the red plastic baskets, moved slowly along the front aisle, selected a box of crackers, a can of soup. Packard made a show of choosing a bag of chips as they passed the end, moved around toward the rear island of shelves. In the back wall just beyond it, partially hidden from the clerk’s view by the refrigeration cabinets, was the back door. Exactly where the woman in sunglasses said it was. Nearing the door, no longer visible through the front window, Packard stole a look at the clerk. He was ringing up the second customer’s ice cream and six-pack. Packard made a tiny gesture to Kate, who passed behind him and out the door. Then Packard slipped through.
The old blue International with its camper-body was parked, engine idling, a few feet from the rear of building, passenger door open. Kate deposited the shopping basket on the stoop, wordlessly climbed in beside the woman with sunglasses, who did not acknowledge her. Packard was not quite all the way inside when the woman put it in gear, started rolling. A moment later she veered out onto a narrow two-lane that ran south, at right angles to the Aspen Road, into the deepening dusk. They rode in silence.
Packard leaned slightly toward Kate, so that he could get a view of the road behind them via the right-hand outside mirror. No cars were visible. Relieved, he decided that as odd as the situation felt, it would be best to let the woman choose when and where they should talk. She seemed to be peering straight ahead; because of the sunglasses it was difficult to know if she was monitoring the road behind them. He shared a look with Kate, who seemed as willing as he was to let their driver set the agenda.
After several minutes the woman switched on her headlights, did not remove the dark glasses.
A smiley fifty-fiveish man wearing a yellow tee shirt with a Jujyfruits logo greeted her as “Miz Troup,” waved them past the gatehouse. The Owl Creek RV Park was about half-full, definitely low-end, most of the vehicles as worn-and-torn as Ms. Troup’s. She pulled onto her pad beneath a large oak tree near the far edge of the compound. A stockade fence was on the left. On the right, beyond the oak’s trunk, was a small Airstream, its original rounded aluminum rear-end replaced by a crudely fitted, green-painted plywood panel. She cut the engine, doused her lights.
“I’d like to buy an E...” drifted faintly across the cool darkness from the Airstream’s yellow-glowing windows, joining the muffled mingle from elsewhere of Loretta Lynn, a baseball announcer, occasional laughter.
Ms. Troup opened her door, jerked her thumb toward the rear, climbed out. Packard exited the other side, then Kate. They met the woman at the rear, where she was plugging the camper into the park’s electrical supply. The interior lights went on. She opened the narrow, louvered door, motioned them to enter.
To Packard’s surprise, the cramped interior of the camper was as trim, homey and well-appointed as the outside was woebegone. A recent-vintage color TV and VCR were nestled into built-in spaces that also housed a small, component stereo system. A microwave oven was suspended from a cabinet near the spotless stovetop. A yellow-eyed calico cat eyed them skeptically from a shelf. The one they’d heard during the ride from the 7-11. Her quack-like meows amused Packard.
The woman climbed in, waved them into the nicely upholstered L-shaped booth behind the small dining table. She pulled the door shut, locked it, removed her sunglasses. Her blue eyes were striking, her face lovely. It was obvious to Packard that she had been a very beautiful young woman.
“Sorry for all the cloak and dagger stuff, but in a few minutes I think you’ll understand why...” She roughed the cat’s fur. “What d’you say, Pekoe?” The cat answered plaintively. Then the woman addressed Packard. “I can imagine how awful you must feel – what happened to that Brady girl, and your other assistant. But I can’t say I’m surprised. Had to put quite a damper on your finding all those old bones – although having a boss like you’ve got probably would’ve been enough to take care of that anyway...” Off Packard’s reaction to this last: “I caught the press conference. Someone I knew used to say ‘with a friend like that you don’t need any enemies.’” She shifted her eyes to Kate. “For starters, I’m pretty sure the sixteenth skeleton Dr. Packard found is who you think it is.”
Kate glanced anxiously at Packard, who read her silent questions. They were the same as his. He nodded. “Our lab confirmed it. Less than two hours ago.”
“Thank god... Finally---” Her voice broke. She half-turned away, cleared her throat, collected herself. When she faced them, her eyes were reddening, filling. “Excuse me.”
Kate was still off-balance. “But how did you---?”
“I’ve made it my business to keep track of such things. I’ve had a lot of time to do it.”
Kate stared at the woman. Packard’s brain was churning. The cat had been talking insistently. The woman reached into a cabinet, found a can of tuna, located the opener in a drawer. The cat leapt onto the counter. The woman turned to them. “You have to understand something going in. There’s no way I’ll ever believe that – that Charlie meant for it to turn out the way it did...” She paused, then: “Y’see – your grandfather and me – we were lovers...”
Packard took Kate’s hand.
The cat paced fretfully, still quacking, her tail straight up except for a small leftward curl on the end. The woman opened the tuna. “My real name – god, I haven’t said it out loud in more years than I care to admit – is Dorothy Purviance. Charlie...”
Packard was touched by the love with which she spoke his name.
“...Charlie wasn’t the first man in my life...but he was the best – and the last. He would’ve been that no matter what – even if I hadn’t spent the rest of it like a – a goddam fugitive.”
Packard felt Kate’s hand tense.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a victim. I’m not looking for sympathy. I’ve got no patience with people like that. And no regrets. I wouldn’t trade one minute of the time I had with Charlie for anything in the world. It’s just, if I had my pick, I’d rather have had him...” While fending off Pekoe with her elbow, Dorothy had spooned the tuna onto a saucer, then methodically chopped it. “There you go sweet thing...” While the cat eagerly ate, Dorothy uncorked a bottle of Merlot. “...First, I want to tell you about him. So you’ll understand what a dear, sweet man he was, how it was with us...”
She
explained that nobody, not Charlie’s wife or daughter, not Dorothy’s employers, not the showgirls with whom she worked, not even her neighbors, knew of their affair, which was conducted at Charlie’s office, occasional overnights in the High Sierra, or, after dark, in her trailer on the outskirts of Reno. “I’m pretty sure that’s how come I’m still alive.” She apologized for the ordinary water tumblers into which she poured their wine. “I don’t do a lot of entertaining.” She held her glass up, in a toast. Kate and Packard did the same. “To Charlie...” Dorothy gazed distantly through her glass, through the refracted deep-red lamp-glow, then she drank. She told them about Charlie’s financial and family situations back in ‘63, his hiring by Stan Brodax, the promise of a bonus that was to have afforded her and Charlie a fresh start together.
Kate touched Packard’s sleeve.
Packard leaned forward. “The case he talked to that Reno police detective about.”
“That would’ve been – what was his name – Ed Brackett.” Dorothy turned to a storage cabinet opposite the table, pulled out some magazines and books, exposing what appeared to be its side wall, till she began removing the screws that held it in place, all the while wistfully alluding to the memorable four days she and Charlie spent in Moab, hiking, exploring, the romantic suppers – their only real excursion together. She offered that that might have been what drew him back there. Then quickly added: “I mean his familiarity with the place – not sentiment. Charlie wasn’t big on that stuff...”
From the small compartment she withdrew an old carton that bore a number of postage stamps. The faded-beige, crumbling corrugated cardboard had long ago lost its rigidity, corners crushed, its once-four-inch sides bowed in or out to half-height. Dorothy held the box in both hands, looked down at it – Packard thought – almost reverently.
“This is the last communication I had from Charlie.”
She placed the carton on the table. Packard saw that it was addressed in the same handwriting that was on Kate’s postcard, to Dorothy Purviance, 22 Taggart Road, Reno.
It was postmarked Moab, Utah, November 27, 1963.
Packard sat very still, as apprehensive about the box’s contents as he was eager to see them. Kate, too, seemed to be frozen. Dorothy reached inside, withdrew a bundle wrapped in an old, frayed pink bath towel. She laid it on the table, spread it open, revealing a creased, yellowed sheet of paper and a manila envelope. The latter, Packard observed, was relatively crisp, fresh, as if it hadn’t been handled much. She passed the paper to Kate, who unfolded it, shared it with Packard. Again, Charlie’s handwriting:
Dearest Dorothy:
Whatever you do, don’t open the clasp envelope. Hide it, and don’t tell anyone you’ve heard from me!! I miss you like crazy, love you even more. Everything’s okay. Hang onto the other stuff. It’s our start. See you in a few days.
Your Charlie
“I received it on December 2nd. I remember because that was the day---”
Kate interrupted excitedly: “That – that was the day my grandmother died in the fire. And the dentist’s office – it exploded, right?”
“Tom Hirsch. You got it honey. And there was more. That night, Marjorie and Stan Brodax – their car stalled on a grade crossing. They were killed by a freight train. She was my friend, Marjorie was – but all I could think of at the time – I guess I was just so excited at the prospect of seeing Charlie – and getting the package – that I didn’t put any of it together. Not right away, anyhow...”
Packard’s scalp felt as if it had a life of its own. He gestured at the carton. “‘The – other stuff’...?”
She seemed reluctant to answer. “Money. Small, used bills...” Again, she hesitated, almost afraid of the words. “One hundred and ninety-five thousand dollars.”
Kate and Packard exchanged looks.
“I stashed it away like he said. And tried not to think about it, or how he got it. Anyway, at first when he didn’t come back, I didn’t worry – he was like that – and he’d been having car trouble. But then he never called, or wrote. Nothing. And there were people – men, asking about him, like youknow over at the casino---”
Packard cut in. “What kind of men?”
“What do they call ‘em now – suits? Buttoned-up, tightass. Not locals. Federals was my guess. They talked to me, my girlfriends, my bosses. I’d see ‘em around town. Did we know Charlie Callan, had we been in touch with him. And even some of the boys...” With her forefinger, she pushed her nose to one side. “...they were nosing around, too. So – I’m worried sick about Charlie, and now I start wondering about the money. I mean, the Feds and the mob? They don’t say anything – they just ask questions. And I couldn’t ask, couldn’t let on that I knew anything. Except it had to be pretty heavy. It scared me, having all that cash around, but something told me not to put it in a bank – that there shouldn’t be any record of it. And after – I don’t know – a week, ten days, then a month goes by and I don’t hear from him, that’s when it began to dawn on me, that – maybe something happened to him, maybe he wasn’t coming back...” Her voice caught again. Then: “I started to wonder why Marjorie and Stan just sat there in the car waiting to get hit by that locomotive. The newspaper said there was a lot of alcohol in their blood, but neither of ‘em were big drinkers. And then I think – wait a minute – the fire at Charlie’s house – and Phyllis’s death – was that really an accident---?”
Kate was troubled. “The police, they---”
Dorothy smiled. “No way, honey. They were wrong. Your grandfather, that wasn’t his style. Besides, we had the money. He could’ve afforded the divorce...”
It may have been the answer Kate wanted, but it didn’t quite satisfy Packard. “What about the Brodax couple? You think he might have---?”
“Uh-uh. Nope. I’m positive. But like I said, the deaths, and those men and the fire at the dentist’s – anyway, that’s when I finally went home and locked the door and closed the curtains and...” She picked up the manila clasp envelope. “...and pulled this out from behind the kitchen cabinet...”
Dorothy paused, looking at the envelope. It was as if she was back in that moment. Then the cat jumped up on the table, rubbed the side of her head against Dorothy’s forearm, began to purr.
“When I saw what was in it, that’s when I – knew Charlie was dead – that if I wanted to live much longer I’d damn well better disappear off the face of the earth – in a big hurry. That was the day I became Louise Troup.”
Dorothy placed the envelope on the table in front of them. Her words hung there for what seemed like a long time, while they looked at it. Then, apprehensively, Packard reached out, opened the clasp.
TWENTY
1963
Monday, November 25th
“Daddy, it’s perfect. It’s what I want to do.”
This was the last thing Santo DiMartini needed. He ran a hand through his black hair. “Look, I don’t care. What you’re gonna do is get married. Have babies.”
“Ohjesus fucking god.” Her father had been in a foul mood all day.
“Do not use that language in my house.”
Nicole DiMartini had turned out to be everything her father wanted in a daughter: bright, gorgeous, spirited, driven, independent. Unfortunately, those attributes also comprised the downside.
“Fine, I’ll go use it in New York.”
“Hey! You are not going to New York, and you are not going to work in a goddamned advertising agency. Period. Now get outa here. We’ll discuss this later.” The image on the muted TV behind Nicole caught his attention. A small boy standing beside his veiled, black-gowned mother. The boy was saluting. DiMartini was unmoved. The other two men in the study gave no sign that they were affected by it.
“Shit, Daddy, why?” Nicole followed her father’s eyes, glanced over her shoulder at the TV. “Ogod. That is so sad...”
“You wanta know why? I’ll tell you why. Because they’re gonna start asking you questions.” What he did not say was
that she’d already drawn far too much attention to herself, to him. He’d had complaints from the Families.
“Hey, I’ve got news for you, You’ve been the talk of Bennington for the last couple of months. My father, the goddam TV star.”
“Honey, please...I said we’ll discuss it later.”
“What? I get all this expensive education so I can make babies? With who? One of your whattatheycallem ‘button men?’ One of your fucking slob goombahs?”
“Nikki, shut your mouth. Now!”
“With pleasure.” Nicole strode out, slammed the door shut.
Both Alex Moffat and John Ciccone were pointedly focused on nothing in particular. Neither displayed a readable reaction. On the television screen, at Jackie’s side, was Robert F. Kennedy.
“I hope to god that little prick got the message...” DiMartini turned his glare on his lawyer.
Shaken, Moffat fumbled with the snaps on his attaché case. He removed the photos, note, and envelope, all of which he’d hastily concealed when Nicole had burst in. “Santo, this is our worst nightmare---”
DiMartini silenced him with a frown, grabbed the photo enlargements, quickly re-examined them.
Christ.
There he was, clear, sharp, unmistakable – talking, distributing envelopes to Oswald and the other two. He passed the prints to the dapper, taciturn Ciccone, looked at the note again:
Mr. DiMartini, we need to talk. I’ll contact you.
B. Russell.
“Unless this B. Russell is a fucking moron, it’s a phony.”
Ciccone spoke for the first time. “He was onto us, he can’t be too dumb.”
“How the fuck could this happen, Johnny? You and Lupo, you told us you’d scoped the place. It was clear.”
“It was. I don’t know how---” He re-shuffled the photos, then: “Yeah I do...” He handed the pictures back to DiMartini. “...See how you’re all the same size – how the posts that support the roof are all the same? The ones that’re close and the ones farther away?”
The Sixteenth Man Page 18