The Knowland Retribution

by Richard Greener

  is always the most obvious. Start at the beginning. As he had done countless times in the last three decades, Walter once more began at the beginning.

  Evangelical Missions Inc. in New Mexico was the same as EM Inc., which owned the empty lot in Raleigh. Corporate records in North Carolina showed that the company had been incorporated just before Leonard Martin left Atlanta for the Bahamas. Further checking turned up an SUV registered in North Carolina to the same EM Inc. It didn’t take Walter long to find a transfer to a New Mexico registration for the same vehicle. The plate location indicated a Las Vegas address, but Walter knew he wouldn’t find Leonard anywhere near there. Not anymore.

  Leonard could not have shown his rifles at any conventional range. Weapons that unique would have been noticed. He had to have practiced someplace else, free from observation. That meant he almost certainly bought land for that purpose, probably when he purchased the lot in Raleigh. Working backward from Las Vegas, Walter saw Leonard planning it out in Georgia and selecting a suitable parcel from the raw, empty stretches of west Texas and out-of-the-way New Mexico. Walter did his own search for Evangelical Missions Inc. or EM Inc. Coming up empty, he reached out.

  Before leaving St. John, he had called a nationally known, flamboyant attorney from Reno, Nevada who had once sought him out, and for whom Walter found and returned a wayward young son. As with so many others, the attorney was forever eager to show her gratitude. Many times she told Walter that she was at his service for any legal work, anything at all. Discretion was the ironclad bond between them, and no questions were ever asked. Walter’s infrequent requests were sometimes difficult but never impossible. What he needed now was a land search. From the attorney he requested data on land sales of parcels within a day’s drive of Las Vegas. This time it wasn’t easy. After turning up nothing for Leonard Martin, Evangelical Missions Inc., or EM Inc., Walter was sure Leonard had bought the land using another name, one totally unfamiliar to him. A dead end. His Reno client told him she’d look for quit claims filed between two and three years ago. She explained that property is often purchased by one party, and then transferred, or quit claimed, to another. This tends to obscure the transaction, but it cannot be entirely cloaked, because every quit claim deed must be filed with an appropriate state or county agency. You had to know how and where to look. Forty-eight hours later, Walter had a map showing 270 acres adjacent to the Kiowa National Grasslands, north of a speck on the map; a place called Albert, New Mexico. The property had been purchased by a North Dakota company (he should have known), quit claimed to EM Inc. of Raleigh, North Carolina, and then quit claimed again to Evangelical Missions Inc. of New Mexico.

  In Las Vegas he showed Leonard’s picture around—the same one that had been pasted across the front page of the New York Times and just about every other newspaper in America. But nobody had seen him and nobody cared. Walter was disappointed, although not entirely surprised. He doubted that Leonard had been to Las Vegas since his meeting with Isobel plastered his face on the nation’s screens and front pages. Walter did not expect to find Leonard waiting for him here. He had hoped a Pac-Mail employee might remember a very fat man with pudgy cheeks on a fleshy face, and a belly bulging deep and wide. None did. “What about a guy who looked like this,” he asked everyone. Cut his hair? Grew it longer? Changed its color? Even lost some weight? Still nothing.

  “Never seen this fellow,” the clerk at the mail store said.

  Walter asked, “How about a man who picked up packages, big ones. Do you get many of those?”

  “How big? Do you mean like refrigerators?”

  “Not quite that big. Long, perhaps, but not bulky.” He held his hands as far apart as he could.

  “I wish I could help you, mister. I do. But we get so many deliveries like that. This is ski country, you know.”

  “So you don’t remember anyone in particular who might have picked up packages looking like skis—maybe that long, maybe a little shorter, the size of a shotgun or something? About two years ago?”

  “Two years?” said the clerk. “Why didn’t you say? Except for the regulars, I can hardly remember two months or even two weeks ago. Two years? I’m sorry.”

  Walter got the name of two others who worked there part time. Before leaving town he looked them up and got the same response. Nevertheless, he felt a twinge of satisfaction, a sense of professional pride standing outside this Pac-Mail store in, of all places, Las Vegas, New Mexico, knowing that the rifles that killed Christopher Hopman, Billy MacNeal, Floyd Ochs, and Pat Grath had passed this way. Perhaps, he thought, Leonard Martin had parked his SUV in the same spot where Walter’s rental car was now parked. He pictured Leonard opening the back of his SUV, sliding the boxes into the vehicle, and driving away. Walter had a very familiar itch, an adrenaline rush he often felt when he was near.

  Snow covered the ground and blew across the road. He was looking for a land parcel northeast of Las Vegas and about a hundred miles from Santa Fe. It looked like wilderness on the map, and close up too. No villages, towns, or houses. No filling stations or bars. He drove on small roads, long stretches paved with barely visible sand, oiled to harden in winter. Within the last hour, a pickup truck passed him, but nothing else moved his way. Three cars came from the other direction. The desert here was hilly and spare, less overgrown than near Santa Fe. His Buick handled the snaky white roads nicely. He hadn’t thought to rent a four-wheel drive. Just as well. The Buick got all the traction it needed. He slowed, consulted the map that the attorney sent him, and turned left onto an unmarked road shown leading to the parcel owned by Evangelical Missions Inc. The car-width trail took him twisting in and around hills. Frequent sharp turns forced him to break. After ten minutes the cabin popped up ahead, as suddenly as the sun had set the day before as he drove north from Albuquerque. It was built into the side of a large hill, looking down on the road. Fifty feet in front of the cabin, the bumpy road stopped and widened, providing space for one car to stop and turn around. Walter parked and got out. The cabin door swung in. He saw a flash of white. Whoever was there had to have heard the Buick crunching ice—might have known he was coming a quarter mile away, or more. The door opened wider and Walter felt disappointment set in. A man emerged with a torso as strikingly muscled and as hard as a kid’s. The man who faced Walter did heavy work for a living. He wore a clean white T-shirt, old jeans, work boots. His close-cropped gray hair and creased, sun-dark skin put him in his forties. The man wore shades, but used his hand to shadow his eyes against the white, glaring sun and the snow. He scratched his chin beneath a tight black and gray speckled beard. There could have been a pistol tucked at his back. Walter did not think so. He wasn’t threatened now, but being closer might be different. Then, if intuition failed, Walter could only hope he’d get to the Glock in his coat pocket first.

  “Evangelical Missions?” Walter shouted across the fifty feet.

  “Yes it is. What can I do for you, sir?” He strained to be heard. Had the wind not been at his back, he would have been inaudible.

  “I’m looking for Leonard Martin.”

  “Leonard Marteenez? He left two weeks ago.”

  “Where to?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “Don’t know.” His soft voice carried the nervous regret of one who knew his place and wanted to give some kind of satisfaction. The measured rhythm of his speech suggested to Walter that he might be what is politely called “slow.” “I don’t hardly never see him. Never seen him but once or twice. He mostly has me come when he’s away. He has me work on the well pump. I like that.” He pointed west. “It works just fine now. He wants me to build him a fence. He lets me use the place if he’s not here. Honest, he does. I’m allowed.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Michael DelGrazo. I come by to work on the well pump and all.”

  “My name is
Walter Sherman. Some people in New York would like to talk with Mr. Mar-, Mr. Martinez. They want to talk about something very important. Will you tell Mr. Martinez I was here?” He covered the distance between them, reached inside his coat to the pocket of his shirt, produced a small, yellow sheet from an Inn of the Anastasia notepad. “Ask him to call this number to get in touch. Will you give him this?” Michael DelGrazo reached out and took the note in his hand. He looked at it for a long time.

  “I’ll put the note on the table, but no telling when he’ll come back. Walter Sherman? From . . . New York?” He wrinkled his forehead, puzzling over the slip.

  “No, I’m not the one from New York, but it’s okay. It’s all right there. Be sure not to lose it. Just see that he gets it, okay?” He watched Michael nod, all seriousness. Walter looked around, then said, “Use your bathroom?”

  Michael said, “Sure,” and stood back from the door. Walter entered and Michael followed. “Over there.” The blinds were up. Sunlight streamed in. The air inside was clear and bright. Walter took in a spacious, plank-floor room, a tattered, brown fold-out couch, a bleached wooden table and two wooden chairs, a propane lamp on the table, and a fireplace in the corner, with scrub wood stacked beside it. Everything looked tidy and taken care of. He peered into a much smaller room, bedroll standing upright in one corner, thrift-shop bureau against the far wall, no pictures in either room. The place had electricity, but no sign of anything plugged in. Walter surveyed the narrow kitchen: propane stove, plate and cup in the sink, a few cans and boxes piled on the floor. “Where’s all the food?” he wondered. A big man has to eat a lot. Probably in the boxes, he figured.

  Then Walter spent his time in the john and threw its small window open before he left. No sign at all of a gun or of Leonard Martin. Michael sat on the fold-out couch, now in a heavy, red-plaid jacket, nodding to himself, the hint of smile indicating a happy thought, looking like a blind man to Walter because of the sunglasses and the way he moved his head. Walter said, “Where’s your car? Don’t you need a car out here?”

  Pleased to produce an answer at last, the friendly voice said, “Leonard took my car. I got a Toyota last year. My sister has one, said it’s a good car. Said he don’t want the truck for a real long ride. That’s how come I know he’s coming back. He left his truck and said I can drive it. Honest, he did. I’m allowed.” They walked around back and both of them looked at the SUV. Michael studied Walter’s face. Anxiously? For signs of disapproval?

  “It don’t drive as good as the car. But you should get a four-wheel truck if you’re gonna drive around here.”

  “Maybe I will. Thanks again.” They walked to the front, and Walter said, “I know Leonard’s got some problems with his health. How’s he feeling lately?”

  “I don’t know. He’s awful fat. Fattest man I ever seen. Huffing and puffing. Huffing and puffing.” Michael’s grin became a full-throated laugh; he had all his teeth.

  They shook hands in front of the house. The wind whipped. Michael, wearing a floppy felt cowboy hat to keep his head warm, still shivered, and said, “So long.” Walter turned after Michael did. Walking back to the car, he put the chances that Leonard might call at maybe a thousand to one. Still, there was nothing to lose. Walter thought about Michael DelGrazo, middle-aged yet hard as a rock. Walter too needed to get in shape, lose some weight. Perhaps he would get a workout tape. Walter pictured himself on a chinning bar looking out at the sea as his muscles hardened; saw the look on Ike’s friendly face when he walked into Billy’s sporting an eighteen-year-old’s abs. Driving away, he smiled at his own daydreams.

  Walter had seen her paintings in books, and the Georgia O’Keeffe museum was within easy walking distance. After a bite at the Inn he went for a look. Distractions often helped when hunches were on the bubble, and plans needed thought. Someone had told him her work was symbolic; the flowers weren’t just flowers. He spent an hour among them, looking for the symbols. Someone also said a cigar is just a cigar. Walter could never remember who. He’d always wondered why that needed saying. A flower, he now suspected, might also be just a flower.

  Now that he had a reliable fix on Leonard, Walter considered how to play it. He had options. He’d go back and wait until Leonard showed up. Tonight or tomorrow morning. Did it really make a difference? He felt sure it did not. He’d already reconnoitered, gotten a feel for the property, found places where he’d park, sufficiently off the road to avoid detection, but close enough to see Leonard coming. “Or maybe,” he thought, “what is the downside of getting an all-day, all-night flat, blocking the road, striking up a friendly chat with whomever happened by?” How did he know that Leonard would use the road? He’d left his truck behind, so it was likely. Was likely good enough? If not, Walter could go back to the cabin and talk to Michael again. He might learn more. That might be the easiest way. Downside of that? Still not entirely clear. In any case, the situation looked good, almost as good as he’d hoped. A couple of words with Leonard, a phone call back to Tom. Job done. Walter gone. Everyone happy. Or not. The only thing off was the feeling he couldn’t completely shake, that very small grain of sand. The same feeling he had on the dock on St. John after reading Isobel’s story.

  Despite bitter cold, the sheltered Plaza sidewalks were crowded with blankets covered by silver and turquoise bracelets, necklaces, rings. Heavy Indian women sat together fighting the cold with coffee or something stronger. Walter wanted a gift for Isobel. The old woman in front of him brewed tea on a hot plate, an outlet set in the wall behind her. She had brilliant black eyes and a smooth, cheerful manner. She did not move easily, though; he figured she might have arthritis. She gave him a bluish stone attached to a silver chain. Walter held the stone in his fingers and raised it to the sunlight. As he moved it, the pendant seemed to change color and even shift its shape.

  “It’s a stone for love,” the woman said, leaning slightly over her tea.

  “Very nice,” Walter said.

  She winked suggestively. “It changes in your hand. It changes because of the sun and the warmth of your hand. It’s a good romantic gift for the lady. She will like it very much. Two hundred forty dollars.”

  “I’ll take it,” he said, thinking maybe tomorrow he’d drive back to Leonard’s place one more time.

  Clarksville

  He rejected seeing the slow-witted handyman Michael DelGrazo a second time, and, in the clear light of a New Mexico morning, realized that waiting for Leonard’s return was useless. Instead, he decided to go where he knew Carter Lawrence had been, and where, he was almost positive, Leonard Martin had been too. Somewhere they might have been seen by somebody. Walter flew to Atlanta again, this time changing planes and continuing on to Nashville. From Nashville, the drive to Clarksville, Tennessee would be about an hour. Before he left St. John, he checked some of the credit card records for Nicholas Stevenson and Harvey Daniels. He knew they were the ones Carter had met in Tennessee—it had to be them—but he wanted to be certain. Preparation was always the key element in solving a puzzle. There were times when Walter had to act quickly without it, but this was not one of them. “Two plus two is always four,” he told himself. No matter the certainty of the math, he knew it was always best to check your work. He set about that task. He knew exactly what he was looking for, and it took little time to find it. Both men had flown to Nashville on the same day Carter Lawrence drove to Clarksville. In Nashville, Nick Stevenson rented a car that he returned the next day with 117 miles on it. On the map, Clarksville was about fifty-five miles from Nashville. He found no hotel charges and he knew why. He smiled at their amateurism. They had paid cash for their rooms, thinking they would go unidentified. It might have worked if they hadn’t rented the car. The airline tickets were fine, absolutely normal. “After all,” Walter thought, “two lawyers from Atlanta traveling to Nashville for the day—happens all the time.” The car gave them away. It is possible to rent a car for cash,
but it’s not easy. It’s also possible to use your credit card to actually get the car and then pay cash when you return it. Thus, no record. But, of course, Walter knew you’d have to be experienced in the ways of such secrecy to understand things like that. If people realized how simple and quick it is to read the story of anyone’s life via their credit card activity, they’d pay cash for everything.

  The Pakistani gentleman who registered Walter at the Holiday Inn in Clarksville told him the restaurant was open for dinner until ten o’clock. He’d been flying since early morning, and the drive from Nashville was so dull he almost fell asleep at the wheel. A nap was what he needed. He awoke around seven, washed his face, changed his shirt, and strolled toward the restaurant. The dining room was half filled. Syrupy recorded music, heavy on the strings, played too loudly. Walter found a table next to the window as far from the smokers as he could. A young Korean girl brought him a menu. For a moment Walter wondered how an Indian or Pakistani ends up a hotel clerk in a place like this, and how a Korean woman gets to be a waitress in a Holiday Inn in rural Tennessee. Then he remembered that Clarksville was an Army town. Fort Campbell, Kentucky was just up the road. In his sleepiness he must have missed the billboards. There are probably wives around here from every place on earth graced with the presence of U.S. troops in the last half century. He assumed this girl was married to a soldier in the 101st. When she brought him his Diet Coke, he asked, “Do you always work the dinner shift?” The Korean girl didn’t know what to make of this question. Walter saw her reticence and added quickly, “Have you seen this man?” He showed her a photo of Carter Lawrence.

  “No,” the girl said.

  “You’ve never seen him before?”

  “No. I am just filling in tonight. I don’t usually work this late.”

  “Oh, I see,” Walter said. “Thank you. Is there anyone else here who does who might have seen him?”