“No. But I sleep at night. And come bedtime, I’m alive. I like that.”
“I’ll throw in another ten thousand dollars in stocks. I’ll have my broker put together a prime portfolio, something for your retirement.”
“I’m trying to be polite here.”
He took a step forward. “Mac, my daughter is dead, and the police are saying it was an accident, but I don’t believe it was an accident.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s none of my business.”
“Then why did you jump into that freezing pond and try to save her?”
I said nothing.
“You went into the water and you pulled her out of the car. You tried to revive her. You almost drowned trying to save her, from what I hear.”
“Who told you that?”
“Elizabeth Cole.”
“Lizzie?”
“Yeah. When I heard you were friends with Augie Hartsell I asked some people who was friends with his daughter. Lizzie sold you out for five hundred bucks.”
“She got you on that one, man, because it never happened.”
“She said you almost froze to death running from the scene. I won’t say anything to the police or the papers. Like I said, I think the police are the problem.”
I looked at the floor, at a point about halfway between us.
“Please help me, Mac.”
I’d been skirting the issue, but now there was no avoiding it.
“What is it you want?”
“The morning after Amy was killed someone ransacked her room. They were obviously looking for something.”
“Do you know what?”
“No. But I know who it was.”
“You know or you think you know?”
“I’m fairly certain I know. I lied when I said the worst thing you could say about Amy was that she took my Corvette when I was out of town. The worst thing about her, as far as I was concerned, was that she was involved with a man much too old for her. An adjunct professor at the college. Concannon. Phil Concannon. He lives out there by that pond. He’s a married man. I suspect he was searching through her room for something that would connect him with her. The room was a shambles. The police didn’t seem to take much interest in that, either.”
“They are rather indifferent by nature, it seems. So what is it you want me to do?”
“Find out who killed her. Find out who killed my daughter. Find out why. You saw her, you know how beautiful she was. Someone just blew her out like a candle, and I want to know who and I want to know why. I’ll pay you whatever you want.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“No, sorry, this is supposed to be a job for you, not a hobby. I want you out there, around the clock, if necessary. I insist on paying you. I’ll cover your expenses, I’ll give you money to buy information. You do an honest job and you can keep the ten grand, whether you find something or not. You find out who killed her and why and you get another ten in cash and the ten in stocks. You kill the son of a bitch, and I’ll give you a hundred grand.”
I could almost hear the alarms in my head. “Put your hands up,” I said abruptly.
“What?”
I started toward him, fast. “Put your hands up.”
Uncertain, he stood there frozen. When I reached him I threw his arms up and started to frisk him. I was searching for a wire, a bug, a microphone, anything. I handled him rough. I checked him thoroughly but found nothing. I still didn’t trust or like this. We stood face to face. He was waiting for me to speak. I took my time, studying his face.
“First, I’m not killing anyone. So start dealing with that right now. Nor will I tell you who killed your daughter, if I find out who, if your plan is to kill him. That would make me an accessory. Do you understand?”
“I want justice for my daughter.”
“Then I’ll try to get enough evidence to get whoever killed her put away for a long time.”
“I told you, I don’t trust the police.”
“Then you and your lawyer take it to the FBI. That’s what it’s there for. Are we in agreement on this?”
“Yes.” He looked at me. “Why are you doing this? I mean, I’m paying you, don’t even think about not taking it. But your clearly not doing it for the money. So why are you doing it?”
I shrugged. “If I couldn’t save her, then maybe I can at least do this for her.”
James looked at me for a moment, then nodded once, absently. He reached into his jacket pocket and removed his checkbook. With a pen that cost more than I made in a month he wrote out a check to me for ten thousand dollars. He tore the check out of the book and offered it to me.
“You can put it on the table by the door,” I said.
He looked at me and smiled at that, then stepped to the table and placed the check on it. He turned back and looked at me again.
He removed a business card from the pocket of his shirt and handed it to me. I took it.
“All possible ways to get hold of me are on this. Call anytime, day or night.” He reached back for his wallet, opened it, and removed ten one-hundred-dollar bills. He put that in my shirt pocket. “For expenses and what not. That car of yours must eat up gas. And your tires look about as bald as tires can get. Don’t want you following a lead and sliding off the road into a tree.”
I looked at him but said nothing.
“You’re probably one of those people who have a hard time accepting things. Maybe if I were a woman it would be different for you, but I’m not, I’m a guy, so it’s hard for you to say thanks. Don’t worry, I understand. I’m the same way.”
I ignored that as best I could. “I’ll call you when I find something.”
“Please. If possible, I’d like to hear from you every other day. So I know you’re not dead in a ditch somewhere.”
“That’s fine. You might want to get some surveillance people to come out and check your house for bugs.”
“Is that necessary?”
“If we’re going to be talking on the phone, yeah. And when you talk to me, no cell phone, no cordless phone. It has to be a corded phone.”
“I don’t mean to smile, but this strikes me as more than a little paranoid.”
“I learned from the best,” I said. I wondered then just what Frank was up to.
“You learned well.”
“And don’t swing by. If you need to see me, call me and I’ll meet you somewhere out of the way. It’s best if we’re not seen together.”
James nodded. “Okay. Whatever you say.”
“I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”
He extended his hand. I took at it. We looked each other in the eye.
“I was starting to think I was the only person in town who cared about Amy,” he said. “I’m glad to know I was wrong.”
We shook hands for a moment more, let go, and then he was gone. I went to the window to see what kind of car he got into. It was a black Mercedes Benz sports utility vehicle. Wet from the rain, it glimmered under the lights like stone in a stream.
I went to the table by the door and looked at the check for a moment. All those zeros. I could live on this for a year, easy. But I had, of course, another use in mind. Augie’s defense fund. Ten grand wasn’t enough, but it was a start. I was pleased. Unwilling to actually touch the check, though, I left it where it was and grabbed my jacket and left my apartment and started down the stairs. I didn’t want to waste any time.
The night sky was in constant flux, like something in the throes of metamorphosis. It was unclear whether what was evolving in shreds of tattered clouds and patches of dark sky was good or not, but I knew there was no point in looking for such distinctions in something still playing out.
In the phone booth I opened the phone book and looked up Phil Concannon’s address. It was familiar to me. Then I went to George at the bar and asked him to break a hundred. I ignored the look of surprise on his face and took the money and left.
I drove my LeMans to the gas station
North Sea Road and filled the tank to the top. I couldn’t remember the last time I had done that. The back of the car sat a little low because of the weight. But it felt like a sturdier drive, like the earth was holding onto me tighter, maybe even closer.
As I sat in my car on Seven Ponds Road I kept thinking how there was a feeling that came with having money in your pocket and a tank so full of gas that the headlights of your car aim up into the trees as you drive. I would have to admit I liked that feeling. The thousand dollars in cash that James Curry had given me could easily last me a month and give me everything I’d need – rent, food, new boots and a coat, as well as time to sit in my chair and watch the train station. I even imagined that somehow it would even keep others from me, keep me safe from those who come looking for me, for my help or to do me harm. Maybe all this would be worth a month of peace, a month of shelter, of living like the Buddha or maybe even Boo Radley. I didn’t care which.
The night was clearer than the last time I was here but still dark. I had driven past the pond, past the spot where Augie and I sat in his truck at the side of the road, past the tree where we had seen the mysterious man, where the spike strip had been laid out for Amy Curry.
I rounded the corner that she had rounded too quickly and saw the only lights to be seen--a contemporary house with a small lawn set right in the middle of a potato field. Several of the long vertical windows were lit, and in the driveway was a sports car. As I got closer I saw that it was a Fiat.
I parked on the shoulder, under an oak tree whose lower branches reached not upward but downward, for the ground. I cut the motor and the lights and watched the house. Its covering wood was plank, painted gray, and its driveway was gravel. The stones were white and caught what little light the night sky had to offer. The house was angular and not very large. It seemed to me like a piece of a child’s toy left out in the yard.
I cracked my window and let in the cold and the smell of farmland. It was subtle but I could sense it. It felt just like November, what November meant to me. In town leaves would tumble across Elm Street and the smell of those that had been raked up and burned in the afternoon would still be lingering in the air. The Hansom House fireplace would be lit and that smell would be in the air, too. Out here on Seven Ponds Road the only smells were that of near-dormant earth and cold.
I watched the house for an hour, feeling the inside of my car turn from warm to cold, but nothing more than that happened. Then around one in the morning a man exited through the garage and got into the Fiat parked in the driveway and started it up. I could hear the distinctive sound of its motor, more of a power tool than an automobile. When he pulled out of the driveway and started toward me, I could hear him move through the gears fast. He drove by me quickly, and when he was out of sight I cranked the ignition and hit the lights and made a U-turn and went after him.
I sped till I caught sight of him, and then I backed off. I kept my distance as I followed through the winding back roads. He headed toward town, then rode through east the village, often jumping lights. I didn’t want to get busted for a traffic violation--in my uninsured car, in the Chief’s town--so I kept to the traffic laws. Each time I lost the Fiat I’d press the speed limit as much as I dared till I caught sight of it again. Once we cleared the village the Fiat continued east on Sunrise Highway. I followed it through Water Mill and Bridgehampton, past the street on which Gale lived. By the time we passed East Hampton I had been following that car for a half hour, keeping my distance, letting it get ahead of me, then pulling up behind it at stop lights, only to let it pull ahead again after the lights turned green. I had no idea where he was going or what my following him would tell me. I had no idea what I would bring back from this trek, if anything. After East Hampton we passed through Amagansett and were then headed toward Montauk and this long road’s inevitable end.
I followed the Fiat onto Old Montauk Highway, where the road narrowed and ran close to the primary dunes and the ocean beyond them. It was a stretch of no man’s land where only grass and sand bordered the road on both sides for long stretches at a time. Once we were on this road the Fiat all of the sudden took off in a burst, racing down the highway, its engine whining. My engine was a 327, fast, and the road immediately ahead was long and straight, and I felt my foot press down on the gas pedal, heard the deep groan of the exhaust tumbling down the exhaust pipes below, and watched the Fiat go from pulling away from me to coming closer.
I knew that the smart thing to do was let the Fiat go, but I wasn’t in the mood for smart. I wanted to press the issue, to force its driver to act in a way that would give something up, something I could use.
Ahead I could see the curve that ended the long stretch in the road. I had to press my advantage while I could. I held the accelerator to the floor, my right leg almost completely straight. I was closing on the Fiat but knew I would lose much of the ground I had gained in the turn. I held the accelerator down and gripped the wheel firmly and watched the curve get closer and closer. It came up fast, as if it and I were both racing toward each other and not just me toward it. I heard the Fiat downshift and the pitch of the engine change from baritone to tenor. It screamed through the corner as if it were on tracks. I dropped down a gear and pressed the brakes, though I knew it was much too late. I knew I would cross onto the shoulder and maybe even eat sand as I moved recklessly into the turn. I turned the wheel to the left and felt the right side of my car dip. My suspension was for shit, and my bald tires chirped like four frightened birds. The steering wheel tugged and jerked; I had pushed my whole car into spasms. I was flung into the turn and it seemed for a moment that my car would flip and I would roll, kicking up sand and grass, into the dunes.
Then the harsh glare of headlights filled my car. I remember at that instant looking down at the speedometer and realizing I had dropped from eighty to forty. I was on the shoulder, halfway through the turn; I heard sand shifting under my tires. Then it seemed that all there was were those headlights. The interior of my car was entirely lit up, and I saw my dashboard and console and knobs in such stark detail that I was fascinated by it for several seconds.
Then I realized what was happening, and every muscle in my body flexed in anticipation.
A black Ford Explorer had been waiting just around the turn. It came at me, plowing headlong toward my driver’s side door just as the right side of my car was dipped to the point of turning over. The Ford struck my car hard, landing right on target, and I felt first the jolt, the sudden transition from forward motion to sideways motion, and then I felt the left side of my car rise upward. It felt so much like a carnival ride, a combination of bumper cars and the corkscrew of a roller coaster. I heard glass break and metal fold, and then I was airborne, tumbling down a drop just beyond the edge of the road.
Now it didn’t feel so much like a carnival ride. Now I was in two tons of steel that was being rolled like a toy, unable to find my bearings. I was facing upward, then upside down, then upward again. It was happening faster than I could think. My seat belt was on but I was still getting banged up pretty good. My arms flailed with the spinning motion, hitting the ceiling and the door. I felt sharp pains in my ribs and a heaviness on my chest. I couldn’t breathe. I prayed for each turn to be the last, and when finally the rolling finally did stop, I was hanging upside down.
I felt nauseated, and too many hurts were checking in with my brain for me to keep track of. I hung in the seat belt, the crumbled door against my side, my head against the ceiling. I seemed heavier upside down.
I felt around till I found the buckle and then pressed the button. The force of my weight against the locking mechanism made the button hard to push, but I got it finally and slumped from the seat onto the roof – first my shoulder, then my side, then one leg. The other was caught between the door and the dash. I stayed that way for a moment, then tried to work my leg free. There was pain but I didn’t think any bones were broken. I strained, my hands cupped behind my knee, and pulled till my leg was free
and my entire body came to rest on the dented ceiling.
I lay still and heard the sound of someone approaching across the sand. I turned my head as far as it would go and looked out the passenger’s door window. The glass was gone; bits of it were everywhere. I saw the SUV up on the road, its headlights aimed down at me. I saw in that light the shape of someone. He moved slowly. I remembered my mad dash down to the pond where Amy Curry’s car was sinking. This man, however, showed no such urgency.
I pulled myself toward the driver’s door window. Its glass, too, was gone. I could feel its bits under me, under my elbows and hands and knees. I could feel blood coming from my head and its warmth spreading over me in an oddly comforting way. I pulled myself through the window and onto the sand. My car was between me and the approaching man. I tried to stand but couldn’t. I pulled myself on my stomach away from the car, but there was nowhere to go. Ahead of me was a dune I couldn’t possibly climb, and beyond it I could hear waves hissing. I rolled onto my back. I was breathing hard, shallow breaths. I reached for my pocket, but my knife wasn’t there, and anyway, what did I think I was going to do with it? I lay there in the sand and heard the man getting closer. Then the footsteps stopped. I looked through the windows and could see feet.
The man crouched down and looked inside what was left of my LeMans. Then he saw me and stood. I watched his feet as he moved around the back of the car. The minute he was visible I saw the gun in his hand. It was a chrome-plated revolver. The lights were behind him; I couldn’t see his face, just the shape of him, dark and towering.
I looked up and I couldn’t hear the waves anymore, only my own breathing, short, frantic bursts through my nose. My brow tingled and I broke out in a fast sweat. The man came around the car and approached me and stood over me. He looked at me for a moment, then raised the gun and aimed it at me.
I don’t know if I could see the barrel or just imagined that I did, but either way it seemed as big as a well and pulled me into it. I felt as if I was falling. It was almost hypnotic. The gun was level with my head.
Gin Palace 02 - The Bone Orchard Page 12