"Call me when you get to a hotel room?" she murmured.
"Sure," he said.
"Are you okay? I haven't really talked to you about Angela. Is everything—"
"It's fine, it's fine."
"We can always talk about it, you know."
"I know," he said. "But really, it's fine. Doing this—it helps."
"Okay. Garrison?"
"Yes?"
"What're we doing here?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, you know, us. Is everything all right between us?"
"Same as always," he said.
She was quiet a moment, and when she spoke, it was so softly he could barely hear her.
"Same as always," she said.
* * * * *
Driving straight, Gage figured it would take ten hours to reach Lewiston, Idaho. As Gage hadn't taken any road trips longer than two hours in over eight years—his longest recent drive a day trip to Portland in August so Zoe could peruse Powell's Bookstore—he wasn't at all sure he could make it without stopping, even if he'd been so inclined. Still, his hope was to drive it in one day so he could get an early start in Lewiston on Tuesday, a feat that would prove challenging since it was already going on ten o'clock when he finally made it out of Barnacle Bluffs.
In the end, he did make it by the end of the day, but with stops it took him close to twelve hours before he pulled into the Motel 6 just over the Main Street Bridge and into Lewiston proper. A nasty thunderstorm around Walla Walla, when it was already as dark as the inside of an oil drum, slowed him to an inchworm's crawl for a good hour, but the real reason the trip took so long was that Gage just couldn't drive that many hours without stopping. His right knee, in particular, started to scream in agony if he didn't get the blood flowing at least once every hour.
So he'd stopped for lunch in Portland. Gas in Hood River. Every rest stop he could manage. A coffee break at a ma-and-pa dinner in Arlington. Each of these respites he stretched into at least twenty minutes. This wasn't a young man's game. He was on the downhill slope of middle age, out of shape and feeling it, and he had no idea what he was doing five hundred miles from home in the heart of December.
He checked into his modest motel room, made quick calls to Carmen and Alex to let him know he'd arrived, then rested on the bed. He'd asked for Zoe as well, but she'd refused to come to the phone. He didn't blame her. He'd left her behind when he said he wouldn't. Another promise broken.
The digital clock read 11:02. Garish green light rimmed his closed shades, the glow from a bar sign across the street. The room smelled faintly of chlorine. He heard a man talking on the phone in the room beneath him. Is this what his life had come to now? An endless parade of hotel rooms, some posh, some seedy, none of them home. Angela dead. Bruzzi on the prowl. Zoe not speaking to him. The conversation with Carmen so stilted it was as if she wasn't speaking to him either.
What was he doing here?
Why did any of this matter?
This was another life, a life that wasn't his anymore. He didn't miss it. He'd never missed it. He wanted to curl up by the fire with his coffee and Irish cream, maybe top off the evening with a touch of bourbon and a bowl of buttered popcorn. He wanted to struggle over the New York Times crossword, and pat himself on the back when he realized that the answer to the clue Orally Inflamed was gingivitis. Ten letters. A serendipitous fit, especially since it connected with the word serendipity at the bottom. That was his life now. It was comfortable and easy. It didn't involve dealing with psychotic cult members and two-bit mobsters. It didn't get him into trouble. It didn't make him miserable, ever.
It also didn't matter. To anyone.
You can't retire from what you are, Garrison.
Rising from the bed, he felt as if there were straps tying him down. He was so tired he could have slept for a week, a month even, and yet he knew he wouldn't. After splashing cold water on his face in the bathroom, he headed into the night, the address Alex had given him tucked into the inside pocket of his leather jacket, as well as the notes he'd made to himself about where the Monahan house was in relation to the hotel. It wasn't far, not more than ten blocks, a neighborhood of quaint tract houses with almost no trees, nearly every house decorated with Christmas lights. Lewis-Clark State College was within walking distance.
Afraid his grumbling van would attract unwanted attention, he parked it on the street next to a dark elementary school with a brick facade. The air, though still, was so cold that it felt hard on his face—cold enough to snow, though there was no snow except for the puffy, decorative cotton lining some of the windows. It was unusual for this part of Idaho to have no snow in December. He walked with his fedora bent low, cane taping softly on the sidewalk, his breath fogging in the brittle air. He could have been back in Montana. Maybe he could go there next. It wasn't too far, just another day's drive. Surely someone would remember him, that shy kid who never said a word except to make some wiseass remark.
Until Angela came along. Then he made wiseass remarks all the time.
The address took him to a one-story rectangular house with a slanted roof that looked like it had been attached as an afterthought, like a trucker had left behind his trailer by mistake and some opportunist had thought to turn it into a house. A wilted postage stamp yard. Withered geraniums in pots. It was squeezed between two much larger tract houses, which weren't large except by comparison. A boxy, eighties era sedan, a brown Mercury Cougar, was parked in a weedy gravel area next to the driveway, leaving room for whatever car was probably parked inside the garage.
The house's most distinctive feature was the wide bay window, which, as luck would have it, was unobstructed by curtains. A spartan living room was lit by the bluish, wavery glow from a television, the back of which he could see just below the trim of the window. The street was as silent as an abandoned Hollywood set. Strolling past, taking his time, Gage saw a snowy-haired old woman sitting in a rocker, a rainbow-colored afghan draped over her shoulders.
She stared blankly at the television. Gage passed the house, hoping to see someone else, but there was no one. He pretended to tie his shoe. He walked to the end of the street, turned back, and passed the house again. He did it a third time, knowing to do more would be pushing his luck, and was finally rewarded when a man walked into the room and stood just behind the old woman, studying the television.
Small and slender. Short, dark hair. Bookish features. Ryan Monahan was definitely the same man from the surveillance video.
"Got you," Gage said.
Chapter 17
Satisfied that he'd located his prime suspect, Gage returned to the Motel 6 and crashed until a truck with a bad muffler woke him at the first light of dawn. There was no going back to sleep after that, so he shaved, showered, and grabbed an omelet at the diner down the road. By the time he was done with breakfast, the city of Lewiston was slowly coming to life with Tuesday morning activity. A few men in trench coats trudged past with chins bent low. A garbage truck rumbled down the road, spitting out clouds of diesel fumes. Across the street, between two vacant stores, a florist rearranged her Santa Claus window display. At thirty thousand people plus, the city wasn't exactly a bustling metropolis, and had something of a run-down feeling, but there were still signs of life. Maybe it was a little like him then—run down, but still showing signs of life.
Of course, the only thing Gage really knew so far was that the man who had picked up the Bible in Jaybee's Grocery in Barnacle Bluffs, Oregon was the same man who lived in the little house in Lewiston, Idaho. It didn't prove he was the one who'd killed Angela, though Gage was having a hard time understanding why a man who lived with his mother and earned his bread mowing people's lawns had reason for a quick jaunt to the Oregon Coast. A landscaper's convention at Golden Eagle Casino? Somehow Gage doubted it.
The first order of business was a little inconspicuous surveillance, some shadowing of Monahan as he went about his day, which might prove tricky with Monahan being former speci
al ops. Although there was no knowing if Monahan would recognize Gage's van, it was better to play it on the safe side.
He rented a silver Corolla from a rental service near his motel. The car smelled like the pine air freshener that hung from the rearview mirror, and it shifted between gears with all the grace of gorilla, but it was a common enough vehicle that it might just blend into the background.
The rental service didn't open until eight, so Gage didn't get the Corolla into position until it was nearly nine o'clock. The residential street where Monahan lived had two ways out, but to the north was the bulk of the town, and to the south were more blocks of little unremarkable houses, so Gage was betting Monahan would come out the north side.
He parked the Corolla under the shadow of a leafless elm, not far from a Merry Maids cleaning van, the car's rear end facing the turn onto Monahan's street. Slumped down a little, Gage could watch through the rearview mirror and Monahan wouldn't be able to see him.
Fortunately, it was the kind of neighborhood where everybody parked on the street or in their driveway; even in the middle of a workday there were cars everywhere. Gage's hope was that Monahan could come home for lunch, maybe to have a cup of chicken noodle soup with good old ma, and at that point he'd be able to follow him.
And what was he hoping to find? He had no idea. Back in New York when he'd done this sort of thing on a fairly regular basis, Gage used to call it lottery surveillance. It was a long-shot roulette, and all he could do was hope that the little ball bounced on something good. Strangely, though, it often did lead to something good. Stake-outs may have been boring, but they were better than sitting around waiting for a flash of inspiration.
That was a lesson he learned early on: It was always better to do something, no matter what it was, than nothing. Nothing usually just led to more nothing.
A number of cars passed, one every ten minutes or so, but none of them was Monahan. Gage had brought along Loren Sparrow's books, so he entertained himself by doing some reading. Godless Universe contained black and white photos on glossy paper in the center of the book—Sparrow shaking hands with various politicians and entertainers, Sparrow on an archeological dig in Africa, Sparrow at various lectures, looking impressive as he expounded from his podium. Gage smiled at how similar the pictures of Sparrow were, regardless of the change in setting; they always caught Sparrow in the best possible light, in the most impressive pose, with the most commanding expression.
With the engine off, the Corolla quickly turned into a cooler. If he'd brought along some beers, they would have been properly chilled in no time. He put off starting the car because he didn't want to draw attention to himself. Fortunately, less than an hour after he'd parked, a blue Toyota pick-up with an oversized white canopy puttered up the road ahead of him, approaching Monahan's street. Gage ducked out of sight, listening to see if the truck turned. Sure enough, it did.
Doing a drive-by of the house was too risky, so Gage waited. Ten minutes later, the pick-up re-appeared, this time turning the other way. Gage watched it in his rear view mirror. He never got a good look at the driver, but he got confirmation another way. A white sign with bold black letters was posted on the tailgate: Monahan Yard Service.
Gage started the Corolla. When he reached the major boulevard where Monahan had turned, the truck had disappeared around one of the bends, but Gage wasn't worried. He knew the road ended on one of the more commercial streets, one with lots of stoplights and clear lines of sight, so he figured he'd pick up Monahan there. He did. The truck was just passing a Taco Bell. He merged with traffic, staying a block or two back, always keeping the truck in sight.
The truck turned just past a post office. When Gage followed, he saw rows of much nicer houses than the ones where Monahan lived, two-story mini-mansions with great arched roofs, tiered yards, and partial brick facades. The pick-up was already parking in front of one of the houses. Gage decided to risk driving past.
A block away, he saw Monahan, in tan overalls opening the back of his canopy and retrieving a pair of shears with extremely long handles. Gage cruised past, keeping his gaze fixed forward until Monahan turned toward the yard. Then, with a surreptitious glance, Gage took in the house and yard. There was nothing remarkable about the place—a stately, white two-story with decorative blue shutters—but there was another man in matching tan overalls who was quite remarkable all by himself.
He was a big hairy ape, so hairy Gage at first thought he was dark-skinned, until he saw the hints of white peeking through the wooly black beard. He was as thick around the waist as he was broad-shouldered, the edger he was using like a toothpick in his hands. Even at first glance he seemed massive, but it wasn't until he stood next to Monahan that Gage truly appreciated how monstrous the man was—at least a head taller and three times as wide. His head alone could have been put on display at Ripley's Believe it or Not.
Parking two blocks down, but close enough that he could monitor the pick-up via his rear view mirror, Gage settled in for more waiting. A little over an hour later, when the morning chill was finally beginning to subside, Monahan and Ape Man loaded the tools into the back of the truck, hopped inside, and headed the other way.
Gage followed.
* * * * *
The rest of the morning was more of the same—mowing lawns, trimming bushes, blowing off driveways. A couple of the houses truly were mansions, nice spreads overlooking the Snake River. Monahan and Ape Man had lunch at a Burger King while Gage ate at the Subway across from them, positioning himself so he could watch them eating at their booth near the window. Monahan did most of the talking—and he was quite a talker, gesturing with his fries, pointing often, lots of nodding and head shaking. In fact, he did all the talking. Ape Man ate and stared, always wearing the same dull, vacant expression.
It warmed up a little. Now only Gage's fingers and toes were numb rather than his whole body. The afternoon routine was no different, just two hard-working guys putting in another honest day's work, a modern George and Lennie from Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men. Gage wondered if Ape Man, like Lennie, kept a pet mouse. As deep as this line of thought was, it only managed to entertain him for a few minutes, so Gage tuned the car radio to a jazz station and tapped on his steering wheel in time with Dizzy Gillespie. He picked up the Lewiston Tribune and devoured everything inside, including the classifieds. Hunting rifles. Aluminum fishing boats. A Ford Tahoe with two hundred thousand miles. They were definitely in Idaho.
That first day was beginning to look like a total bust, since the only thing Gage had really learned was that Ape Man lived in duplex over the bridge in Clarkston. After Monahan dropped him off shortly after five o'clock, he sauntered back to ma in no particular hurry.
The evening air was brittle and cold. Afraid someone would get suspicious if he parked in the same spot, Gage decided to chance parking on Monahan's street itself. Two hours passed with no activity at all from Monahan's house, though plenty of other cars came and went. A woman in a pink windbreaker walked a Great Dane under the brightening street lights. A Pizza Hut car delivered two pizzas to the house at the end of the street.
The night sky, even in the city, was much clearer than the sky ever was in Barnacle Bluffs. On the Oregon coast, he was lucky if he saw a handful of stars on any given night, but by seven o'clock in Lewiston there were already hundreds of diamond-sparkling pinpricks overhead. The clerk at the gas station, where he'd refueled at lunch, said such clear weather was actually rare for Lewiston, because of the smog put out by the mill—the area's primary industry. Even so, the sky made Gage wistful for his youth in Montana, for those clear, winter nights when he'd trudge into the cow pasture not far from home, staring up at the universe and finding the vastness lonely and comforting at the same time.
Gage was thinking of swinging by Ape Man's duplex, to see if anything unusual was happening there, when Monahan emerged from the house. He was dressed in a black trench coat with the collar turned up. How very dapper of him; he looked like a mobs
ter from the prohibition era. His mother, bundled in a pink parka fit for an Alaskan expedition, the furry lining matching the white of her hair, hobbled next to him with the assistance of a cane. Gage felt a kinship to her, as he did to anyone with a cane. He wondered if she preferred wood or some type of composite. It really was a personal decision.
Monahan helped her into the truck—the whole effort took an eternity, and was obviously an exercise in extreme patience—and then the truck cruised back to the main boulevard, going noticeably slower than when Monahan had driven with his big friend. So Monahan was a good, doting son. Gage found that disconcerting, though he wasn't sure why. Lots of psychopaths were probably good to their mothers.
They didn't drive far before turning. Since it was night, it gave Gage more cover, but he still kept a respectful distance. He turned at the same street and immediately spotted them, already pulling into a crowded parking lot of a big lodge-like building. There was a lighted sign out front that read Lewiston Senior Center, and below that, in removable letters on a message board, Game Nite Tue.
With all the parked cars, Gage wasn't worried about being spotted, but he still took a space toward the back. Other elderly gamers trickled into the building, a few accompanied by younger companions but most on their own. Gage debated about whether to go inside. Maybe he'd pick up some shrewd bingo tips.
His stomach was grumbling. His eyes were heavy. He was frustrated, lonely, and sinking into the lethargy of depression. A steak sandwich and a bottle of Wild Turkey Bourbon would do wonders for his mood. He wondered how late the liquor stores were open in Lewiston. He wondered if they'd raise any eyebrows if he bought three bottles instead of one.
Once again, Monahan prevented Gage's escape. Not twenty minutes after going inside, Monahan reappeared, this time without ma. Hands stuffed into pockets, he scanned the parking lot. Gage ducked lower in his seat, but Monahan was obviously searching for someone in particular because his gaze never lingered on any vehicle for long. He walked away from the front steps, to the corner of the building and under a cone of yellow light.
A Desperate Place for Dying Page 19