The Fall Guy

by Barbara Fradkin

  “Why?”

  “Someone changed the screws on that railing. I think it was him. I think he was trying to kill his wife.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, maybe he was tired of her or something.”

  She got up, poured herself a shot and lit a cigarette. Then she stood looking at me. “Why you?”

  I didn’t have a clear answer to that. Usually Aunt Penny didn’t make me do all the thinking.

  “Maybe he thinks I’m too dumb to fight back?”

  She blew out a stream of smoke. Looked at me some more. “Were you messing round with Lori-Anne, Ricky?”

  My jaw dropped. It made it hard to talk even if I could have found words. I’d felt sorry for her, but messing around didn’t come that easy to me.

  Aunt Penny shook her head impatiently. “Jeff Wilkins is a jealous man. Did you spend time with her? Talk to her?”

  “Well, I talked to her, yeah. I mean, she was there. She said things to me and I answered. Just to be friendly!” I thought about it. “She made me lunch a couple of times. She had nothing to do all day, and she had no car, so she…”

  “She came on to you,” Aunt Penny said. She looked disgusted.

  “Well, no. She…” I stopped. A penny dropped. Wilkins had come upon us once, having lunch. Lori-Anne had brought me a beer because it was hot. She was laughing. It was a nice change and it made me smile. Wilkins had picked up my beer, poured it on the ground, crushed the can and told me he wasn’t paying me to keep his wife happy. Lori-Anne had scurried inside so fast she nearly broke the door.

  Aunt Penny sighed. “You didn’t even notice, did you? She could have paraded naked across the deck and you’d have thought she was just suntanning. If you’re right, if Wilkins did kill her…”

  I swallowed. The mess just got a whole lot bigger. “He gets two for one.”

  Penny nodded. “So you better get down to the police station and tell your side of the story before he gets his all sewn up.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Outside, it was even darker than an hour ago. No moon, just a handful of stars that cast no light at all. I was all fired up when I went out Aunt Penny’s door. Ready to drive straight to the police station and lay down the truth. But by the time I drove fifty feet, excuses were creeping back in. There wouldn’t be any detectives there in the middle of the night. Just the routine patrol shift responsible for catching speeders and drunks.

  Or worse, Constable Swan with her smirk of disbelief.

  I drove slowly, practicing my story. A car came up behind me and rode my bumper, flashing its lights to get me to speed up. At the first straightaway, it pulled out and roared past, horn blasting. Then another car appeared in my rearview mirror. Bigger this time. Its lights were blinding. He sat on me for almost a mile, and I pressed harder on the gas, trying to get some speed. Farmhouses and small bungalows whizzed by without him making a move to pass.

  The local detachment was still about five miles up the highway, but I remembered a gravel back road through some woods. It would take longer, but it would give me more time to practice my story without worrying about cars on my tail. The turnoff came up faster than I expected and I had to spin the wheel hard. The pickup slid sideways thirty feet across the gravel before I got it under control. The other car blew past and on down the highway.

  The woods seemed even darker. No farmhouses, not even the flicker of stars to light the way. I took a deep breath. I thought of the cop station up ahead, and the steering wheel grew slick in my hands. I had the screw in my pocket, but who was going to believe it came from the deck? What if Jeff Wilkins already told the cops his version of his wife and me? Why would any woman mess with a dumb, dirt-poor handyman when she already had the richest man in the county, he’d say. The romance was all in my head, and when I figured that out, I’d killed her.

  At first the headlights were far behind me. Just a quick flash as I rounded a bend. A few minutes later I saw them again. Closer. A glare of white fire in the black night.

  He’s going way too fast, I thought. Probably some local who’s been driving this road since he was ten. Up ahead, the road opened up into a long straight stretch. I pressed my foot on the gas. Behind me, all was dark. I relaxed my grip.

  Suddenly the light from his high beams flooded my cab.

  Fear shot through me. The car came up on my rear, its lights wiping out everything in my wake. On either side, pastures sloped down into a gully. At the bottom, the road curved out of sight into the trees. Still the guy stuck to me. Why the hell didn’t he pass? He had plenty of room. But he sat on my bumper, his engine rumbling.

  The curve in the road rushed toward me. I was going way too fast. My heart hammered. I tried to remember how sharp the curve was and what was on the other side. Trees flashed by and branches slapped my windshield. I caught a glimpse of metal railing and remembered. Too late.

  The bridge!

  I slammed on the brakes. Fought the wheel as I tried to aim for the narrow plank track. My truck skidded. Headlights and chrome filled my rearview mirror. I felt a violent shove from behind. Heard the bang of metal on metal. Then I was flying through the air. Branches screeched along the sides of the truck. My headlights caught bits of green and silver and rock as I cartwheeled over the edge.

  It felt like a lifetime. Spinning, thumping, swooshing, before I hit the creek with a huge splash. The truck ploughed a wake through the water and shook to a stop. My engine died, my lights went out.

  I hung upside down, shaking all over. Trying to make sense of the blackness. The sound of water gurgled around me. My truck was on its roof. Water was rushing in the broken windshield. Creeping up the sides. My ponytail was flopped over my ear and dragged in the water. I reached my hand over my head. I had only a couple of inches till the water would reach my head. It was pouring in fast.

  I squirmed and twisted but found myself pinned by something pressing against my shoulder. My seatbelt, I realized finally. I groped around for the buckle. Pushed and pressed at the plastic until my fingers hit the right button and the belt burst open. I pitched headfirst into the cold dark water. At the last minute I twisted my head sideways to avoid crashing against the roof. Water closed over my mouth and rushed into my nostrils. I fought panic, flailed around in the tiny space to turn myself over. My feet hit the steering wheel, elbows cracked against the doors. Which way was up?

  By a miracle, my head popped up above the water. Pressed against the floor of the cab. I didn’t have much time. I felt for the door handle, held it and kicked the door as hard as I could. It wouldn’t budge. The water held it tight. I found the window handle and began to roll. More water poured it, almost sweeping me across the cab. I had inches of room. I remembered the car behind me, with its huge grinning lights. I took one deep, angry breath, dived down and dragged myself out the window. I got stuck halfway. Still below water, I flailed about like a fish on the line. I thought my head would burst. I kicked and shoved. The metal scraped my back as I wiggled the rest of the way out the hole. An instant later, my head came up in the silent black river.

  I hung on to the truck, gasping for air and trying to calm myself. I shook all over. Where the hell was I? I peered around in the dark to see how far I was from shore. That’s when I realized I wasn’t alone. Headlights shone through the trees and over the water. A car was rumbling slowly across the bridge. I could see nothing but the headlights, but I heard the engine stop. A door opened and footsteps crunched on the gravel. In the spooky light, I saw a shadow walk to the side of the bridge and lean over. Peer down into the water.

  Searching.

  I pulled myself along the edge of my truck out of sight and ducked as low in the water as I could. Barely breathed. The lights from the car made long shadows, hiding me.

  After what seemed like hours, the footsteps moved again, the door opened and the engine roared back to life. Spinning his tires on the gravel surface, the guy took off. From my hiding spot I watched as his taillights disappeared up
the hill and out of sight, leaving the throaty roar of the car hanging in the air.

  I had heard that lousy muffler before. At Jeff Wilkins’ cottage.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Tell me again what happened?” Constable Swan raised one eyebrow and gave me a look. At least she’d given me a blanket and turned up the heat in her cruiser before starting in on me. Didn’t this woman ever sleep? Her cruiser clock said 12:02 AM. Two hours since I’d gone off the bridge. I was so tired I almost fell over in the backseat.

  I’d waited a long time in the water before I decided I was safe. Then I swam ashore and hauled myself up over the rocks. I stood on the road in the dark, listening to the owls. Now what? I could just see the wheels of my pickup sticking up above the water. I almost cried. The tow and repair bills were going to wipe me out. That weasel Wilkins hadn’t even paid me for the deck, and now that money was spent. If I ever saw it.

  I shivered so hard my teeth clattered. Every inch of me ached and I was dizzy. I needed help. Warmth, dry clothes and a phone to call the police. I stood in the middle of the bridge, trying to remember what was nearby. I’d passed nothing but pastures and woods on my way, but then I remembered the pastures belonged to Gerry Bennett, and his dairy farm was just at the top of the hill ahead.

  It was the longest hill I’d ever climbed. But Gerry’s homemade plum brandy warmed me nicely while he called the police. I was well into my third glass by the time Constable Swan arrived. She whipped it out of my hand before hustling me into her car. Back down to the bridge we went, with curious Gerry trundling along behind in his tractor. In case you need help pulling it out, he said. I knew my truck needed way more help than his tractor, but I was in no shape to argue. I had to save all my wits for Constable Swan.

  So I explained again about the car that ran me off the road.

  “No offence, O’Toole,” Swan replied, “but you’re drunk as a skunk. We don’t call this bridge Last Call for nothing.”

  She was right about that. About once a year some idiot taking a shortcut home from the Lion’s Head would sail over the guardrail into the drink. I’d even helped Bud from Bud’s Garage rig a winch system that would haul the cars out of the creek without his tow truck even having to leave the road.

  I concentrated hard. “I’m not drunk. I mean, I wasn’t drunk. I was coming home from Wilk—” I saw her eyes narrow. “Aunt Penny’s. Someone’s trying to scare me off from saying what I know.”

  She looked up from her notebook. She was standing outside the open cruiser door, her foot resting on the running board. She leaned in to peer at me. “And what do you know?”

  “That someone tampered with that deck. They changed the screws in the railing.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “I…” Too late, I saw I was in a box. What the hell, I decided. Better she thinks I’m a bad listener than a drunk who can’t nail two pieces of wood together. “Because I found this screw in the rocks below the deck.”

  I wiggled my hand into my soggy pocket. The screw wasn’t there. I scrounged all around, thinking it might have gotten wedged in the corner. Nothing. By now, both her eyebrows were just about disappearing under her cap.

  “You went out to the scene, O’Toole? After I gave you a direct order?”

  “Someone is trying to set me up,” I said. “I found the wrong kind of screw at the site, but it must have fallen out in the water.”

  Swan waited a beat. “Set you up. And who might that be?”

  I was so dead-tired I could hardly think. I had figured it was Jeff Wilkins, but now I wasn’t so sure. Wilkins exchanged his vehicles the instant they got a scratch or a rattle. Rough timing and busted mufflers weren’t good for business. The car that ran me off the bridge had both. Plus, it was a V8 at least twenty years older than anything Wilkins drove.

  “Who, O’Toole?”

  I shrugged.

  Headlights shone in the distance. Both Swan and I turned to see a large flatbed truck bumping down the hill. I recognized the knocking sound of Bud’s tow truck long before I could make out his name on its dusty side. It came to a rattling stop behind us. A tiny gray-haired woman climbed down. The business still carried Bud’s name, but more often than not Bud was flat on his back with pain. It was his wife who took the calls. Nancy always looked like she’d been dragged out of a hen house. Hair like straw, skin like a turkey wattle and a scowl to match. When she saw my truck, though, she couldn’t hide a grin.

  “This is a first for you, Rick!”

  I’m not much of a drinker. Even if I had the money, I don’t like how stupid it makes me act. The guys tease me down at the Lion’s Head when I stop in for a beer or two. But the truth is, it’s those third and fourth beers that cause all the trouble. Sometimes a loosened tongue is not a good thing.

  “Rick thinks he was run off the road,” said Constable Swan.

  Both women laughed. I glowered. “Just get my damn truck out of the creek and I’ll prove it.”

  I was hoping the old V8 would have done some damage to my back end. I was also hoping that screw was somewhere in the bottom of my truck. Not that Swan would believe I didn’t plant it.

  The cop moved her cruiser so her headlights lit up the creek, and Nancy wasted no time wading out into the water and hitching the winch up to the wheels of my truck. I cringed as she slowly flipped it over in the water. But the truth was, she was good. A damn sight better than Bud, whose strength always gave out on him at the worst times. Nancy has been doing most of the garage work and all the towing in three counties since Bud was diagnosed. She looked like beaten shoe leather and had the charm of a scalded cat. But she moved those levers and gears like she was hauling a late-model Cadillac instead of a thirty-year-old pickup. Water poured through the windows as it bounced upright.

  Back down to change the hitches, then up to work the gears again. By now quite a crowd had gathered, including Swan’s shift supervisor, Sergeant Hurley, and a paramedic team, who seemed more interested in the damage to my truck than to me.

  They checked me out, bandaged a bump on my head I didn’t even know I had, cleaned the cuts on my arms from the windshield and told me I should see a doctor in the morning. Fat chance of that. All the headlights were aimed at my poor truck as it came up through the bush.

  Its hood and windshield were crushed, the front bumper was gone and all the lights were broken. But it was the sight of the tailgate that made me smile.

  “Looks like something hit you pretty good there, Rick,” Nancy said.

  Swan’s supervisor headed over for a closer look, and Swan hustled over to join him. Sergeant Hurley had been at the detachment for a hundred years, almost, and nothing much got by him. He was the one who took me to identify my mother, and he’s had a soft spot for me ever since. Sometimes he even tries to give me fatherly advice. Or what he figures is fatherly advice. I wouldn’t know, and neither would he.

  Any move hurt like hell, but I wasn’t missing this moment. I dragged myself out of the cruiser and limped down to the edge of the road where my truck sat dripping. Hurley was peering at the tailgate with his flashlight.

  “And you think someone did this deliberately?” he asked.

  “They did. An old Ford V8 with a hole in its exhaust. I heard it earlier today over at”— I stopped for only a second—“Jeff Wilkins’ place.”

  “Wilkins doesn’t own a vehicle like that,” Hurley said.

  I squatted down an inch from the big scratch along the edge. Bits of chrome stuck to the black paint. “I bet it’s at least twenty years old. All we have to do is find it. Can’t be too many old souped-up V8s still on the road.”

  Gerry was down off his tractor, angling for a closer look. “Lots still stored under tarps in the shed, though, with owners dreaming of getting them back on the road. Nancy, I bet you and Bud see them.”

  Nancy nodded. “Lori-Anne Wilkins used to drive one herself, before she married Jeff.”

  I was surprised. “Does she still have it?”<
br />
  Swan rolled her eyes. “Well, she’s dead.”

  I felt my face grow hot in the darkness, but Nancy ignored her. “I think she gave it to her son. I told her she was nuts. Flaming death trap, that thing was.”

  I didn’t know much about Lori-Anne’s kids. I knew there was a son and a daughter. But they were a lot younger than me, so our paths didn’t cross. But I remembered Lori-Anne worked late hours before she met Wilkins. And the kids ran wild in the streets of Lake Madrid long after dark. Aunt Penny always felt sorry for them. She said they’d learned to live by their wits way too young. When it got cold, they hung around the store. They always seemed to need a wash and a good meal, so Aunt Penny would give them things. She never let them steal, but she gave them apples, expired bread and chips. Said Lori-Anne needed all the help she could get. In her own way, Aunt Penny was a softie.

  “Does he still live with her?” I asked. “I never saw him at the cottage.”

  “They’re both away at college in the city,” Sergeant Hurley said. I think the man knows where you’re going before you do, because he added, “Jeff said he only just reached them. They won’t be coming down till the funeral Friday.”

  “Aw, no big family hugs?” Nancy said.

  Nobody seemed to think that needed an answer.

  “Then I guess that means they weren’t around here driving O’Toole off the road, were they,” Constable Swan said. She strode around my truck. “This thing’s so banged up I don’t know how you can tell a damn thing.”

  I said nothing. Sometimes that’s the best thing, with women and with cops. But it didn’t stop me from thinking. It made no sense for Lori-Anne’s son to be spying on me at the cottage or driving me off the road. It was his mother who’d been killed, and if he thought I had proof, surely he’d be the first person wanting the cops to have it.

  But if the son did have an old, beat-up V8, Jeff Wilkins could have gotten his hands on it. I didn’t know how, but I was betting Lori-Anne had spare keys around the house somewhere. Wilkins had already proved he was a resourceful guy, especially when it came to pointing the finger at some other sucker. From the sound of it, he didn’t like his stepson much either.