by David Waters
“When do you expect him to make his move?” I had almost said when does Leclair expect him to make his move, but I had thought better of it.
“If I were him,” Phil said, “and if he uses the same route he probably used before, he should arrive at the parking lot just before dawn. That way he’ll be able to negotiate the trail without too much difficulty and will hit the cottage before he figures Francine is fully awake and mobile. Right now he’s probably resting somewhere. Maybe we should sneak around and check the cars. Maybe he’s booked himself into this motel!” Ryan grinned, “nah,” he said, “I’m sure he’d have chosen something classier.”
I reminded Ryan that Gooden had a cottage on the other side of the lake, but I was not sure whether he or his wife had the use of it at the moment. We decided to spell ourselves in the van. While one of us monitored the phones, the other tried to cat-nap on one of the beds. I was just about to head for the room when the phone rang. It was just before midnight. To Phil’s surprise, Gooden had already been spotted at the parking lot.
While I retrieved our few possessions from the motel room Phil put a call through to Leclair.
He had already started the engine by the time I returned.
“Come on. We’re on the move again.” He was in his element. “Gooden is already on the damn trail.”
“At this hour?”
“Yeah. I had forgotten the fact that there’s a clear sky tonight and a full moon. And it’s shining from a direction which gives him a reasonable view of the mountain trail. Bloody lucky our spotter hadn’t dozed off. He saw the lights of a car approaching. When it turned up the road to the parking lot, and switched to low beams, he was smart enough to move a few yards into the woods. But he was close enough to identify Gooden from his picture.”
“So where are we going?” I asked as we left the motel and turned South rather than North.
Phil compressed his lips. He did not look happy.
“You’ve spoken to Leclair?”
“Yeah.”
“And how did he react to our being here?”
“Only slightly annoyed. I think that he’d already decided he needed more manpower. He asked me to block off the road to Leadville. I’ve checked the map. It’s a small road which leads South and East. It’s about a mile to the South of the cottage.”
I already knew about the Leadville road from my study of the area surrounding Bull’s compound. In fact, Leadville as a place no longer existed. The road which passed Naomi’s cottage runs North and South. Owl’s Head mountain is to the North. At the southern end of the road, at the point where it loops its way back towards Mansonville, a narrow dirt road led off to the East and then headed South. It had once led to a primitive lead mine. During prohibition the dirt track had served as a hidden route, favored by smugglers and bootleggers. across the border into the United States.
“Why is Leclair stationing us there?” I asked puzzled.
“Leclair decided that if Gooden smells a trap and decides to take evasive action, he may not head back up Owl’s head mountain to his car. In fact, Leclair thinks Gooden may just have been clever enough to have arranged some back-up escape plan to the South of the cottage. Maybe even planting Symansky somewhere! Or he may have stationed another vehicle somewhere to the South. Who knows.”
“Makes sense.”
But Phil only responded with an unenthusiastic shrug of his shoulders. “Personally I think Gooden is too vain to have bothered!”
I did not envy the policeman who was stationed inside the cottage. I mentioned this to Phil.
“Leclair’s no fool. He was prepared at short notice to insert a second one. He’s seeing to that now before Gooden gets close to the cottage. Leclair himself will be stationed about three minutes away from the cottage on the road leading from Mansonville.”
I made a mental count. About eight bloodhounds after only one weasel! I hoped it would be enough.
Phil found a spot to turn on the Leadville road so that the van was facing down the valley towards Mansonville. We could see a few of the town lights in the distance. Phil and I sat in silence in the front of the van with the lights out and the windows open. Time dragged. We kept glancing nervously at the cellular phone. Through the open windows, I could hear the complex night sounds of the almost untouched countryside. The air itself was cold and damp, and among the variety of odors, I felt sure I could smell the distinct, pungent odor of a pig farm rising from the valley below.
Even from this distance, I could hear the shots when they were fired. Three of them. One right after the other. And then silence. We waited. I jumped when the phone suddenly rang with the shrill sound of a cornered animal. Phil grabbed it. But even before he got it to his ear, I could hear Leclair swearing in French. “Christ, he’s got away! He’s in the woods behind the cottage somewhere!”
That’s all I got to hear, since by now Phil had the phone pressed firmly to his ear. He grunted affirmatively a couple of times, and then put the receiver down. “Jesus!” Phil said, “he really did manage to weasel out of the trap! Son of a bitch!”
“But how?” I asked.
Phil guffawed. For a moment he almost seemed to be enjoying himself. “Through the goddamn front door! Jesus! Can you believe it! We didn’t anticipate he would have a gun. Not his style, we thought. He went in the front bold as brass instead of through the back as we had expected. He must have had a master key. When the two cops emerged from their hiding places, they didn’t even get a chance to tell him to freeze! He just fired a shot in their direction and dove back out the front door! They fired two hopeless shots at his retreating figure, but by then he was already into the woods! One of them tried to follow, while the other phoned Leclair. But since Gooden had a gun, the cop was cautious, so he lost him!”
I was prepared to believe anything. I wondered why they had not stationed one of the cops outside the cottage to block his possible retreat. But at the moment it seemed a moot point. “They think he’s coming our way. I just hope the son of a bitch does!” Ryan did not seem all that disconcerted. I had this strange feeling that he wanted to be the one to make the arrest or go down in the process.
“Leclair is now moving slowly along the road from the cottage in our direction. We’d better keep our eyes peeled. If anyone spots him, they’ll call us.”
I nodded. I opened the door of the van. Ryan gave me a surprised look.
“I know you have to stay near the phone,” I said, “but I’ll be able to see and hear better if I station myself a few yards away from the van.”
He nodded. He offered me his revolver. I declined. “I wouldn’t know how to use it. I’ll leave the door slightly open in case I have to scramble back in.”
I needed air and some open space. The tension in the van had been getting to me. I moved about two yards into the woods and slightly ahead of where the van was stationed. I found an old birch tree and leaned against it. It took me a minute to get my breathing under control. Slowly the moonlight began to define shapes. And I began to distinguish the forest sounds: the soft rustle of small animals burrowing through the leaves, the whir of insect life, the periodic hooting of a distant owl. I glanced back at the van which loomed, dark, and large, like a juggernaut poised at the valley below. A half-hour dragged past, but it seemed more like an hour. The phone in the van remained silent. Suddenly a very distinct sound made me freeze. Something was blundering through the woods about twenty yards ahead. A large animal? Gooden possibly? A shot of adrenalin slipped through my blood stream. I tensed.
Then Phil flicked on his high beams.
“There he is!” He shouted, leaping from the van.
As I moved towards the road, I saw Gooden stiffen like a deer in the van’s headlight. Although it could not have been for more than a few seconds, Gooden stood, his mouth open, a truly puzzled look on his face. Slowly he began to raise the gun in his hand. But still blinded by the headlights he did not know where to shoot. Before he could decide to turn and leap back into the
bushes, I saw a flash from Phil’s revolver and heard his shot echo down the valley. Gooden dropped his gun and grabbed at his left leg. His staring, puzzled eyes betrayed a kaleidoscope of emotions: fear, anger, confusion, and finally something akin to contempt. But by then Phil had taken the four or five strides that were necessary, and launching himself at Gooden, had toppled him over onto his back. Both men grunted as they landed on the dirt track with a crunching, scraping thud. When I got to them, Phil had rolled Gooden over onto his stomach and had pinned his arms behind him.
“Handcuffs,” Phil shouted, “in the glove compartment.”
I ran back to the van and returned with them.
“My leg!” Gooden muttered through gritted teeth.
“Piss on your leg!” I heard Phil say, “we’ll fix that later!” And with that, Phil clicked the handcuffs into place. He flipped Gooden over and made him sit up.
Gooden was breathing heavily. “Symansky.” He said. “Where the hell is he?”
He stared at me. “You!” He said as recognition dawned.
“Symansky?” I asked, incredulous. “Did you really expect him to be here?”
He made an effort to hide the pain. In his eyes, I saw hatred. He tried to mock me with a cynical harsh laugh devoid of any humor. “Played you beautifully, didn’t he! The bloody bastard! And me too!” His breathing was rapid and erratic. “But I’ll get him for this! That’s a promise! Tell him that!”
Two police cars, their lights flashing strangely in the night, came bumping up the dirt track and came to a halt just a few yards behind Gooden. A grim faced Leclair nodded to Ryan who was grinning as if he had won a lottery. I wanted to question Gooden further, but one of the police officers was tending to the wound in his leg. And I could see from his reaction to the presence of the police that he had now opted for a stonewalling silence. He was not going to say anything more until he had a lawyer sitting beside him.
I watched as he was bundled into the back of one of the police cars. He sat there with his lips compressed and his eyes closed as if the scene around him no longer existed. It seemed only minutes before Phil and I were driving away. He had handed over his revolver to Leclair, and one of the officers was left behind to seal off the area until it could be properly inspected. Twenty minutes later we were passing the motel and I began to focus my thoughts.
“Any of that coffee left?” Phil asked.
I reached for the thermos, poured a cup and handed it to him.
“Amazing how warm it’s kept.” He took three rapid sips. “Another hour to go,” he said, “and then a good shower, a double cognac, and bed.” He chuckled quietly. “What more can a an ex-cop ask for!”
How about a wife to go home to, I thought to myself. But I didn’t say that. I glanced at my watch. I reached for his cellular phone.
“Who are you calling? Gina?”
“No. The newspaper. There’s still time to get something in tomorrow morning’s paper. Not much. But maybe something in a box on the front page.”
For the next twenty minutes, I spoke with one of the night editors. I dictated the essential facts, sticking to events involving the cottage. I did not mention the break-in at the flat. I tried to keep any speculation out of the story that would appear tomorrow morning. That could wait for a longer piece I planned to write later. But I did say that the police suspected a tie-in to both the murder of Naomi Bronson and her former husband Michael Monaghan fifteen years ago.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I had told Gina and Mary about Gooden’s arrest from the cellular phone in Phil’s van. When I got in the door, the phone rang.
“I want you to write a fuller story for this morning’s paper.” Mel Vogel said.
“But surely it’s too late,” I said. I explained about the short piece I had called in.
“It’s not too late to catch the last 75,000 copies. The ones that get delivered downtown. Might even catch the edition that will land on your doorstep.”
“You’re not really going to stop the presses just for my piece, surely.”
“It doesn’t work that way anymore,” He said, “I can give you an hour at the outside. File what you can.”
“I could really do a much better job for tomorrow’s paper.” I noted making a last stab a delaying the inevitable.
“Jesus, Tom, by then every radio and television station will have got the juiciest parts. Please! Just get on the computer and file!”
“Okay,” I sighed and rang off.
But I delayed writing for a few minutes more. I phoned Joe Gibbs at home. I felt he had a right to hear from me. I told him about Gooden’s arrest. He let out a long defeated breath. “Shit!” He said.
“Yeah,” I said, “sorry but it’s really going to hit the fan in tomorrow morning’s paper.” I tried to sound sympathetic, although my mind was elsewhere.
“I never liked the bastard,” he sighed. “I was in the middle of a happy dream when your phone call shattered it. But thanks, Tom, for warning me. Can you give me any more details?”
I explained my deadline. I said I would fax him a copy of anything I filed. He thanked me again and we rang off. As I turned back to the computer I thought of all those papers being read at the breakfast table while swallowing hefty doses of caffeine. I’m told there are houses which begin the day with the television news blaring, a radio on in the bedroom, and the ubiquitous paper at the breakfast table as if it were somehow crucial to get all of the bad news pumped into our systems before we’d had a chance to digest our breakfasts. What in the world has got into us? Did an Athens’ household summon the messenger of bad news before breaking bread and munching the first grapes of a new day?
Feeling slightly angry at the efficiency of modern technology, I turned furiously to the computer. You can always count on a professional, I whispered cynically, as I watched the first words I wrote appear on the screen. At one point I searched for a cigarette and lit it. The first one in what seemed like a long time. I watched the smoke curl upwards and dissipate as if it was disappearing into some kind of mystery I could not understand. There were too many riddles which still needed answering and which I was carefully keeping out of my story. Stick to the facts, I told myself, it’s safer. At the last minute I decided to delete any reference to Symansky. I had second thoughts about doing so. Particularly given Gooden’s sudden outburst on that dark track of a road leading to a nonexistent Leadville. Something about that had disturbed me more than I was prepared to admit. But prudence and a desire to honor a commitment won out. I pushed the buttons which sent my copy along telephone lines to a newspaper that had increasingly become electronic. Personally, I was not sure it was a blessing. I looked at my watch. I had beat the deadline by five minutes. I went downstairs and poured myself a stiff Scotch. And then waited in the dark living room for a call from the office. None came. At four o’clock I went to bed feeling like a broken man. I did not know whether what I had filed would make the home delivery. But as I shifted in the cold sheets trying to find my comfort zone, I really didn’t care.
Six hours later I was woken by a knock on my bedroom door. I must have muttered some kind of an invitation, because the door opened and Mary came in with a cup of coffee. She placed a newspaper by my bedside. I took a grateful sip and sank back on the pillow. I was still groggy. The last thing I wanted was to get out of my warm bed.
“Gina and I have had breakfast. We want to make an early start back to Portland.”
“Oh?”
“We’ve already been away from our jobs for too long.”
“I’ll get up,” I said.
“There’s really no need Thomas. I know you need more sleep. Gina and I are all packed.”
“But what about the inquest Thursday?” I asked.
“We’ll call Wayman from Portland and beg off. I’m sure he won’t mind. If he needs us we’ll come.” My glance slipped past her to Gina who was standing uneasily in the doorway.
“Thanks,” she said simply. “It’s a good ar
ticle. Much better than what you used to write.”
“Gina!” Mary said reproachfully.
Gina gave me a conspiratorial wink. Then she added, “we want you to come to Portland for a visit as soon as you’ve wrapped things up here. Can you?”
I nodded.
“Yes,” Mary said, “after all we still have to discuss Hendricks’ will, or had you forgotten?”
“I haven’t,” I said, thinking of the funeral arrangements I would probably have to arrange.
“I’ve put the answering machine on.” Mary said. “But I’ve turned the volume down low so that it won’t disturb you. Some calls have already come in but I’m sure they can all wait.”
I agreed. I really did not want to write any more about the events at Winston. Let the regular staff handle it from here. They might miss the nuances. But who cared? Not Hendricks, not Monaghan, not Naomi, and certainly not Frank Montini.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Three hours later, I was on the line again with Mel Vogel.
“We need more copy.” He said. “Some follow-up stuff. Some more background.”
“Mel,” I suggested, “put one of the regular staff on it. I’m an implicated party. Probably shouldn’t even have filed yesterday’s copy.” My sense of journalistic ethics had returned to trouble me.
“The fact that you were along for the ride when Gooden was arrested doesn’t make you an implicated party.”
“Mel. I helped set up the trap.”
“What trap?”
I explained.
“Christ!” He said and then he was silent.
“What’s more,” I said, there’s still a few loose ends I want to check. I need the time.” I’m not sure why I said that: it seemed to come unbidden from some gut feeling about what Gooden had said to me about Symansky. Almost as if he had read my mind, Vogel switched topics. “And what about the Symansky piece I’ve been sitting on?” I explained that Symansky had co-operated with the police in setting the trap for Gooden. Furthermore, I told him, Symansky despite his recent help was one of the loose ends I wanted to check out.