“Because she was,” he said. “And because you and I are friends. Or at least I thought we were.”
“Okay, right, I get it now,” Mitch said, nodding his head. “I’m the one who has the problem.”
“Mitch, we all do things that we don’t understand and we can’tcontrol,” Dodge offered as explanation. “Things that we feel bad about. That’s what makes us human beings. Our only real failure is when we don’t make the effort to understand one another. Will you at least try? Will you do that much for me?”
“Sure, I’ll do that much, Dodge,” he replied grimly, seized by the horrifying certainty that his friend had just confessed to killing Tito Molina and Donna Durslag.
And then Mitch had said good-bye to him and headed home to prowl Big Sister’s tidal pools alone with his hands in his pockets. He pruned his tomato plants, mowed his lawn, picked wild blackberries and beach plums. He was fine as long as he kept moving. Until at long last Des returned to him from Boston, one-quart tub of shredded pork in hand.
And now they sat there together in his truck, Des sipping coffee and stabbing holes in his theory. “What about the fact that Dodge has an alibi for when Tito was murdered?”
“His alibi is Becca,” Mitch pointed out. “I don’t mean to sound cold, because I like Becca, but if Dodge can convince her to get down on all fours with a bag over her head, he can convince her to fib for him.”
“I’ll give you that one,” she responded. “But answer me this-why would Dodge want to kill Tito?”
“Maybe he didn’t. Maybe it was the other way around. Let’s say Tito found out about Dodge and Esme. Maybe Esme told Tito, okay? And let’s say Tito called Dodge out on it. Think about what Tito told me at my house that night. He said he’d gotten himself into something bad, something he couldn’t get out of. This certainly fits the bill, doesn’t it? ‘The hangman says it’s time to let her fly,’ Maybe Tito was telling me that Dodge was about to pay for his sins.”
“Except that Dodge got the best of him up there,” she mused aloud. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“Well, why not? There’s no actual proof that it was a woman who pushed Tito off of that cliff, is there?”
“Not one bit,” Des said. “Only answer me this, boyfriend. Why did Dodge turn right around and kill Donna? What’s the connection?”
“Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe it was just some rough sex that got out of hand. It happens.”
“No sale. You can’t tell me that he accidentally happened to kill his second person in three days.”
“Look, I saw with my own two eyes what this guy is capable of doing to women. Frankly, it’s a miracle that more of them haven’t died while they were getting freaky with him.”
“This wasn’t getting freaky, Mitch. Donna was brutally, violently murdered. I am talking about walls spattered with blood.”
“Was there a lot of blood?”
“There was enough. Why, what’s the significance of-?” Des broke off suddenly, drawing in her breath.
Mitch sat right up, hearing the same sound she had-a car starting. It came from across the Crocketts’ meadow. Headlights flicked on now in front of their house and, slowly, the lights turned and made their way down the long gravel drive toward them. Mitch recognized the flatulent burble of the car’s diesel engine. It was Dodge’s old Mercedes wagon.
It was midnight and Dodge was heading out.
“I don’t believe this,” Des muttered at him.
“And I don’t believe you doubted me,” Mitch exclaimed triumphantly. “If I were a less secure person I would actually be hurt.”
“Hush!”
The Mercedes was nearing the carriage lamps at the entrance to the drive. From where they sat, it was impossible to tell if Dodge was alone in the car. For that matter, it was impossible to be sure that it was Dodge who was behind the wheel. As the Mercedes paused at the road, Mitch reached for his key in the ignition.
Des stopped him with a warning hand. “Not yet. Let him get rolling first.”
Dodge pulled out and headed toward Old Shore Road, leaving plumes of diesel exhaust in his wake. Mitch waited until he’d gone around a bend before he started up the pickup and put it in gear.
“No headlights,” Des cautioned him. “Just zone in on his taillights.”
Mitch took off after the Mercedes in the blackness. Fortunately, there were occasional streetlamps to mark his way. Otherwise he would have driven into a ditch for sure.
Old Shore Road was deserted at that time of night. The Mercedes was about a half mile ahead of them, chugging in the direction of town, its headlights casting a soft, film noir glow in the foggy mist that reminded Mitch of the opening sequence of The Killers, when William Conrad and Charles McGraw are pulling into that sleepy small town in search of the Swede. All that was missing was the ominous Miklos Rozsa score.
Mitch chugged along after it at a steady forty-five.
“Don’t get too close,” Des said anxiously from next to him, her knees jiggling with excitement. “Give him room.”
He grinned at her. “Want to take the wheel, Master Sergeant?”
“Heck no. You’re doing great.”
“You miss this, don’t you?”
“Miss what?”
“The hunt. You are loving this. I can see it in your eyes.”
“Doughboy, it is pitch-black in this cab.”
“So maybe I’m imagining it.”
“So maybe you ought to keep your imagination on the road. Careful, he’s slowing down… Watch it!”
Mitch hit the brakes, coming to a dead stop. Up ahead, Dodge was pulling into the Citgo minimart, even though it was closed up for the night. The illuminated sign was dark, the big floodlights out. There was only the night-light that the Acars left on inside when they went home. Nonetheless, Dodge drove around in back, where the rest rooms and trash bins were, and shut off his lights.
“Man, what the hell is he doing?” Des wondered as they idled there.
“Meeting somebody?”
Des jumped out, shutting her door silently behind her. “Catch up with me real slow,” she said to him through the open window. “Hit your lights when I signal you, got it?”
“Got it.”
She was off and running now, streaking her way toward the minimart, her knees high, her arms pumping. Mitch eased along behind her, seeing her backlit by the night-light inside. Now he could see her cutting across the parking lot toward Dodge’s car, raising an arm high over her head. Now he could see her lowering it…
And now Mitch flicked on his headlights.
And there stood Dodge Crockett intently spray-painting 9/11 WTC on the side of the minimart in two-foot-high red letters.
“Hold it right there, Mr. Crockett!” Des bellowed at him angrily.
First, Dodge froze. Then he hurled the aerosol paint can at her. Then he tried to run, which was futile-Des was faster than he was. He scarcely got twenty feet before she overtook him and threw him roughly to the pavement, jamming her knee into the small of his back. She slapped a handcuff on him and dragged him over to the rear service door, which had a heavy steel handle on it, and cuffed him to that. Then she called for a cruiser on her cell phone. She also got the Acars’ home number and put in a call to them.
Mitch climbed out of the truck and walked slowly over toward Dodge, his eyes hungrily searching Dodge’s face in the headlights for some insight into what was going on in this man’s mind-this man who he had looked up to and confided in and thought of as a friend.
Dodge did not hang his head in shame or defeat. He remained unbowed and unapologetic, the same way he had when Mitch and Will had walked in on he and Becca.
“A cruiser will be here in five,” Des announced, pocketing her phone.
“How about the Acars?” Mitch asked.
“No answer. I left a message on their machine.”
Mitch frowned. It was after midnight-kind of late for them to be out. Then again, maybe they didn’t pick up after
they went to bed. A lot of people didn’t.
“This finally makes some sense,” Des said, staring coldly at Dodge “I get it now.”
“You get what?” wondered Mitch.
Dodge wasn’t saying a word.
“Why Miss Barker got weird on me,” she explained. “The old girl clammed right up when I asked her if she’d seen anybody drive by her house after that rock got thrown. Same with Mr. Acar, who was way too anxious to button it all up. Because it wasn’t any stupid kids who were messing with him. It was you, Mr. Crockett, and you’re someone who still matters in this town. Miss Barker knew it was you-she recognized your car. And Mr. Acar knew because you’d warned him, hadn’t you? You’d told him what might happen if he didn’t back off.”
Mitch turned to Dodge and said, “Why have you done this? What did the Acars ever do to you?”
“They’ve cut our morning take-out trade in half, that’s what,” Dodge spoke up, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. “They’re absolutely killing us with those Turkish pastries of hers. The locals haven’t come anywhere near The Works since she started selling them. I begged Nuri to give us a break. I said to him, look, you’ve got a thriving gasoline business. Kindly leave the food trade to us. He refused. I even offered to buy the damned pastries from him myself and sell them at The Works. Again he refused. He just wouldn’t listen to reason. Those Acars are unbelievably stubborn people.”
“So, what, you’re trying to scare them into leaving town?” Mitch asked.
“I’m trying to protect my investment. This is business I’m talking about, Mitch. People play for keeps. Believe me, some fellow who was truly ruthless would have burned this damned place to the ground a month ago and never lost a night’s sleep over it. We will have to shut down half of our bakery operation if they don’t back off. As far as the banks are concerned that’s a red flag. I won’t be able to raise any more capital. I won’t be able to meet my overhead. The Works will go into receivership, and I’ll be cleaned out. I’ll lose everything.”
“In other words, the Acars are smart businesspeople and you’re not.”
“Don’t judge what you don’t understand,” he shot back gruffly.
“Actually, I understand you perfectly, Dodge,” Mitch said.“You’re the single most arrogant egomaniac I’ve ever met. You think the rules that apply to other people don’t apply to you. That you can do whatever you want to whomever you want, up to and including your own daughter. Well, you’re wrong, and it’s amazing to me that you’ve lasted all of these years without finding that out. I guess you’re just a sheltered small-town boy. But let me just ask you this-why did you have to push Tito off of that cliff? And how did Donna qualify as competition? It seems to me she was one of your biggest assets.”
“Now, you wait one minute.” Dodge’s eyes widened. For the first time he seemed genuinely rattled. “I’ve stepped over the line a tad, I’ll grant you that.”
“You’re granting us jack,” Des snapped. “We caught you in the act.”
“I threw a rock through a window,” Dodge acknowledged readily. “I sprayed some graffiti on a wall. But that’s all. You can’t pin those murders on me. I had nothing to do with them. I am not a killer, I swear.”
“All I know,” Mitch said, “is that Donna told me not to look too closely at her business or her marriage. And now she’s dead and you’re out here trying to put a hardworking immigrant couple out of business.”
“Where were you last night, Mr. Crockett?” Des asked him.
“I was home all evening.”
“Alone?”
“Very alone. I don’t seem to be too popular these days.”
“I can’t imagine why,” she said, raising her chin at him. “Were you romantically involved with Donna?”
“Of course not,” Dodge replied. “Donna Durslag didn’t sleep around. She wasn’t the type. Believe me, I know about these things.”
Mitch started to say something back but before he could get the words out something went ker-chunk inside his head and he just stood there with his mouth open, dumbstruck. Because it hit him now-the thing that had been staring right at him all along. The thing he’d completely ignored.
And now Mitch stood there in the Citgo parking lot with his head spinning. It was spinning when the cruiser that Des had summoned pulled up and an immense young trooper climbed out. It was spinning as Des went over the charges with the trooper. It was spinning as she uncuffed Dodge from the door handle and put him in the backseat. It was still spinning when he and Des stood there watching the cruiser take Dodge away to the Troop F barracks in Westbrook.
“Are you okay, boyfriend?” Des asked, examining him with concern. “You look a little blown away.”
“Des, I’ve figured it out…”
“Figured what out?”
“Who killed Tito and Donna.”
“Well, are you going to tell me about it?”
“Of course, only there’s absolutely no way to prove it. No conventional way, that is. Des, I’m afraid that this is going to call for some more, well, visionary thinking.”
She stood there with her hands on her hips, scowling at him. “Mitch, you have got to be kidding me.”
“What do you mean by that?” he protested innocently.
“I mean, I know that look on your face. You look just like a fat little boy who is about to stick his fat little hand in the cookie jar.”
“Okay, first of all I resent the repeated use of the F-word-”
“You want to set some kind of a trap. And you want me to watch your back, don’t you? Tell me I’m wrong. Go ahead, tell me.”
“Well, it worked once before, didn’t it?”
“You ended up in the hospital before.”
“I didn’t mind. The wound healed fast, and I got all of the ice cream I could eat. Not to mention tapioca.”
“Mitch, it cost me my damned job on Major Crimes.”
“And look how much happier you are. Look at how much fun we have together, day in and day out.” He strode resolutely back to his truck now and got in, waiting for her join him.
Des followed him reluctantly and climbed in, her eyes shining at him. “Mitch, I’m being serious now, okay? Please, please don’t do this-whatever this is.”
“I have to,” he insisted, pulling out onto Old Shore Road and heading for home.
“Why, damn it?”
“Because somebody has been killing people who I care about. You guys can’t put a stop to it. I can. And there’s absolutely no need for you to worry about me. I can handle myself. I’m perfectly capable of. ..” Mitch frowned, glancing over at her. “What was that noise you just made? I distinctly heard a sound come out of you.”
“That was sheer human anguish!” she cried out. “I am involved with a crazy person. You are insane!”
“Am not. I’m just a concerned Dorseteer who’s had enough.”
“Kindly tell me this, Mr. Had Enough-what am I supposed to do about Rico and Yolie? What do I tell them?”
“Not a thing. If they have so much as a hint of prior knowledge then it’s entrapment. That’s one of the truly valuable things I’ve learned from hanging with you, Des.”
“Mitch, it’s entrapment if I’m involved!”
“But you’re not. You’re simply backing my play in case it all turns sour. They can’t fault you for being in the right place at the right time. Perfectly legitimate.”
She glowered out the windshield in seething silence. “You’re going to do this no matter what I say, aren’t you?”
“If you don’t want in, just say so. I promise I won’t hold it against you.”
“You know what I should do? I should cuff you to that steering wheel right now.”
“But you won’t,” he said, grinning at her.
“Why the hell not?”
“Two reasons. One, because I’m your sweet baboo-”
“You were my sweet baboo. Our love is like so hanging in the balance right now.”
�
��Two, because deep down inside, where your scrupulously high moral standards live, you know I’m right.”
She said nothing in response to that. Just rode along next to him, smoldering, as he steered his truck back to Big Sister.
“I can’t do it,” she finally said, her voice low and pained. “Not again. I won’t be there to help you this time. You’re on your own. I’m out.”
“That’s fine. I understand.”
“I mean it!”
“So do I.”
“Mitch, I can’t even begin to tell you how much I am hating you right now.”
“I’m awfully fond of you, too, Master Sergeant.”
The road up to the Devil’s Hopyard was narrow and twisting, and the low, dense fog ahead of him in the headlights made the shoulders seem to crowd right in around his truck.
Mitch drove slowly, alone in the cab except for his microcassette recorder and the pint bottle of peppermint schnapps on the seat next to him. His mouth was dry, his palms moist, even though he kept wiping them on his shorts.
When he arrived at the end of the road he pulled onto the shoulder by the gate, just as Tito had when he’d phoned him to say goodbye. The yellow crime scene tape had been removed, but two overflowing barrels of evidence still remained-the trash that the press corps and celebrity gawkers had left behind. Their empty film canisters, food wrappers, coffee cups and soda cans were spilled out all over the pavement.
Stinking garbage. This was Tito Molina’s final tribute from his public.
Mitch shut off his engine, grabbed his things and got out, hearing the roar of the falls, feeling the fear surge through his body. He started down the rocky footpath in the fog, making his way by flashlight past the picnic tables toward a wooden guardrail that smelled of creosote. Here he spotted the warning sign that all of the newspaper accounts had referred to, the one that read: Let the Water Do the Falling. Stay Behind This Point.
He climbed over it and started his way carefully out onto the slick, gleaming shelf of ledge, the roar growing louder as the water cascaded right by him, crashing onto the rocks down below. It was cooler up here over the falls. But he was still perspiring, his heart pounding as he inched his way slowly out onto the promontory.
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