Fever Dream

by Dennis Palumbo

  Peering through flitting curtains of shadow, I moved cautiously along the fence as it trailed off the access road and cut into a grove of trees. Overhead, broad gaps in the interlocking branches allowed some sunlight through, and now it glinted and danced off verdant clusters of foliage on either side of me. With every other step, I heard a rustling of movement in the thick undergrowth. Lizards, ground quail, perhaps a startled garter snake.

  Finally, this stretch of wire fence led to a thick, squat concrete pillar, atop which was a pitted tin sign. In deep scratches, as though carved with a nail, were written the words “Keep Out.”

  Is this guy kidding? I thought. What’s next, a snarling German shepherd, straining at the leash?

  I wasn’t that lucky.

  The tin sign in front of me literally exploded as a bullet ripped through and whistled past my shoulder.

  I hit the ground hard, clutching the dirt, as another shot fired. This one chipped a half-inch divot off the near edge of the concrete pillar.

  Without knowing from which direction the shots were coming, I rolled instinctively toward the fence and began pushing my way under the razor-sharp wire. The barbed twists raked my back, shredding my shirt and finding skin, as I struggled to get through to the other side.

  Two more shots echoed like cannon-fire, shaking dust from the trees, as I finally squeezed under the wire and rolled again, this time toward the shelter of an ancient, upended wheelbarrow rusting in the tall grass. I scurried around to its far side, hunching down as far as possible.

  I must have been seen. The next bullet pinged off the edge of the wheelbarrow, inches above my hairline, shearing off flecks of rust. Christ!

  I knew I was pinned down. The nearest cover was a stand of maples, fifteen or twenty yards away.

  I’d never make it.

  As I crouched there, breathing hard, I heard the sound of an engine revving, then a clutch down-shifting. I raised myself up enough to see the old, pitted chassis of a John Deere tractor rumbling across the field toward me.

  Sitting behind the wheel, steering with one hand while the other held an upraised Remington rifle, was an older man in crisp denim and a cap.

  As he got closer, I recognized the squint in the sharp eyes sunken into folds of tanned, mottled skin. And the mustache—now white, but still neatly trimmed.

  Slowly, I got to my feet.

  Henry Stubbs braked to a stop about ten yards from where I now stood behind the wheelbarrow. He leaned forward across the steering wheel, using it to brace his forearms as he aimed the rifle directly at my head.

  And smiled.

  “If you’re here to kill me, son, you went about it all wrong. ’Cause I’m just about to shoot you where you stand.”

  “No, I’m not here to kill you. Just to talk.”

  “Ever hear of the telephone?”

  “Sure. You ever hear of answering it?”

  He clucked his tongue. “Well, there’s that, I guess. You a cop? Private eye?”

  “No. I’m a consultant with the Pittsburgh police.”

  “Consultant? What’s that mean?”

  “Depends. I’m a psychologist, and sometimes I advise them on cases. Right now, though, I’m working with Sam Weiss. The reporter you contacted.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “He got held up at the airport. Some work thing. But he’ll be here as soon as he can. He sent me along to make sure you didn’t think he wasn’t gonna show.”

  “So you people are takin’ me seriously, eh?”

  I paused. “Sam is. He says you’re a credible source.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think. I don’t know you. I guess I’d have to ask you some questions.”

  He shifted position, as though easing some stiffened joints, then refocused on aiming down the line of the rifle barrel. Its black eye stared at me, unblinking.

  “Questions, eh?” he said at last. “Like what?”

  I took a breath and made my pitch. “We know about your connection to Evan McCloskey, Sheriff. Why you came to Harville, and why you ended up staying. And, frankly, I don’t care about any of that. McCloskey’s probably a prick, given the kind of people he represents. Personally, I hope you took him for a fortune. I just need to hear what he has to do with Leland Sinclair, if anything.”

  Stubbs gave a kind of snort. “Well, mister, you got marble stones, I’ll give you that. Not that I got the slightest idea what you’re talkin’ about.”

  “Sure you do. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You also know that if anybody wanted to bust you for taking bribes, this place would be swarming with cops right now.”

  He considered this. “You know, son, if you’re lyin’ to me, I’m gonna have to go with my original plan and put one right between your eyes.”

  “I don’t think so. I think you want to tell me your story. Tell somebody. Or else you would’ve shot me already.”

  A long pause.

  “Well, I guess that’s true enough,” he said finally, a strange resignation in his voice. Lowering the rifle, resting its butt on the top of his knee.

  He sat back, lost in thought. A deliberate stillness emanated from him, as though he were posing for a portrait.

  Then, just as abruptly, he stirred, and gunned the tractor’s engine. Plumes of black smoke rose from the sputtering exhaust pipe.

  “Okay, then, mister,” he said. “Get in. I got some liquor back at the house. I figure I’m gonna need it.”

  I walked across the high grass and swung up onto the seat next to him. As he turned the tractor around and headed back across the field, Stubbs shouted to me over the engine’s roar.

  “Psychologist, eh? Well, it ain’t a priest, but I guess it’s close enough. I sorta thought the same thing about that reporter fella.”

  “Close enough for what?”

  “For confession.”

  I must have stared, because he broke into a raw laugh.

  “Damn, maybe you ain’t as smart as I thought. Truth is, I don’t give a shit about McCloskey. Or Sinclair. But I’m fixin’ to spill my guts about all this to somebody. And it sure as hell better be soon. ’Cause, mister, I’m dying.”

  Chapter Forty-three

  “Non-Hodgkins lymphoma,” Stubbs said, pouring a fourth of a bottle of Stoli vodka into the pitcher of lemonade. “They figure I got six months. Maybe less.”

  We were on the front porch of his rambling, two-storied house, all burnt brick and timber, intersected by wide, floor-to-ceiling windows.

  When we’d stepped up onto the wide, railing–enclosed porch, the first thing I noticed was the oval cedar table with twin matching chairs. On a woven placemat in the table’s center was a large glass pitcher of freshly-made lemonade. The dozen sun-melted ice cubes bobbing on the surface had diluted its rich golden hue.

  “My mother’s recipe.” Stubbs indicated the pitcher, its curved glass bowl beaded with condensation. “Not too much sugar, and you leave the lemons in, outside in the sun. Been out here since noon. Really deepens the flavor.”

  Then, with a weary smile, he’d reached under the table for a half-empty bottle of vodka.

  “Of course, every recipe needs modifyin’ once in a while.” After which he’d unscrewed the cap and began his modifications.

  As he poured us each a generous glass, I reflected on what I’d seen as we’d walked up the winding driveway to the front porch.

  Nestled in a stand of poplars, with views of the valley and surrounding hills, the house must have cost a fortune. Yet there were signs of recent neglect. Tree branches scraped the roof, the gutters choked with leaves. Dirt and dust and skeins of old webbing clung like unwanted memories to every corner, every niche.

  Henry Stubbs was dying, I thought, and he was letting his home die with him.

  “And don’t worry, we got the place to ourselves.” He pointed the bottle’s nose at the dim, spacious rooms on the other side of the window. “I only got one girl workin’ f
or me now, and I send her home before the cocktail hour. If you know what I mean.”

  Stubbs put the vodka down next to the pitcher. Then he took his drink and leaned against a porch railing. I stood across from him, my back to the unlit house within.

  Just past Stubbs’ shoulder stood a weathered barn, half the size of the house and at least twice as old. Its opened doors revealed a sawdust floor, cords of firewood, and a rack of long-unused farming tools. Rakes, shovels, a hand mower. Relics.

  “I know what you’re thinkin’,” Stubbs said with a pained smile. “What did I do with all the money?”

  “I assume a lot of it’s here. In the land. And in the house.”

  “Yeah, but most of it ain’t. It’s in trust funds my kids have been livin’ off for years. Grown men now, but neither one of ’em worth a damn. I guess I gotta take most of the blame for that. They were just babies when I left their mother.”

  “You were still with the FTC then?”

  “Yep. In DC. The divorce was turning into a nightmare, so when my supervisor asked me to come up here and investigate McCloskey’s firm, I jumped at the chance.”

  “The concerns about unethical practices…”

  His mouth turned down. “I always laugh when people get their shorts in a twist over legal ethics. I mean, shit, how do you think big law firms get so big? By sweatin’ the ethics? It’s just a word, son, like any other. After a while, it don’t even mean anything.”

  “But what about McCloskey’s firm? What did you find?”

  “Pretty much every violation in the book. From illegal wire-taps and blackmail to over-charging clients. Had a judge or two on the payroll, too.”

  “So you definitely had the goods on Evan McCloskey. Only instead of busting him, you went to him with a deal: Your silence for a healthy piece of the proceeds.”

  Again, that pained smile. “I figured, what the hell, there was nothin’ for me back in DC. And I hated my damn job. Paperwork. Bureaucracy. All that bullshit. So me and McCloskey came to an understanding…”

  “What kind of understanding?”

  He looked down at the drink in his hand. “Well, I guess I was plain greedy. I told him I was gonna go public with the evidence about his firm’s illegal practices. Then I said I wanted ten million dollars to keep what I knew to myself. And, by God, I got it.”

  “Pretty dangerous game to play, wasn’t it?”

  “Not really. I’ve investigated guys like McCloskey all my life. White collar criminals, they call ’em. And for good reason. They’ll happily rob widows and orphans of their pensions, or steal intellectual property from their rivals. But they ain’t gonna kill nobody. They don’t got the stomach for it. Or the knack. Truth is, when things finally go belly-up, ain’t unusual for a lot of ’em to put a gun in their mouths. Or jump out the window of their fancy corner office.”

  “Still, ten million’s a lot of money.”

  Stubbs laughed bitterly. “Not for McCloskey. Based on what I uncovered, his firm’s paid more’n that in bribes to government officials. Or to get a competitor’s top guy to give ’em some inside info. Hell, afterwards, I realized I shoulda hit him up for more.”

  He grimaced suddenly, holding his stomach.

  “Not that I give a shit anymore about the money,” he went on, with difficulty. “Soon as I got it, I set up anonymous trust funds for my kids—they think it’s from some distant rich relative. So, to answer your question, that’s where the money went. My ex-wife died soon after I settled here, so there was nothin’ much I could do for her. But I wanted to provide for my sons. Bums, like I said, but I figured they got a bum father first.”

  He finished the rest of his drink. Then, slumping, he fell silent, haggard face half-hidden beneath his cap.

  “But why stay in Harville?” I asked. “You could’ve taken the money and gone anywhere.”

  He turned his head, glanced out at the sloping hills fading behind lengthening afternoon shadows.

  “I liked it here,” he said. “It’s quiet.”

  “So why not settle down and live a life of leisure? Why run for sheriff?”

  “Tell ya the truth, after a while I got kinda bored. Even with this nice house and all. Plus I was shackin’ up with this beautician at the time. Big red-head. Tits out to here. Life was good. But I was goin’ nuts.”

  Stubbs drained his glass. “I figured McCloskey’d be only too happy to have the local law in his pocket, so I went to him and suggested he stake me for a run during the next election. I guess he saw some merit to the idea, ’cause he went along with it and helped elect me sheriff of Harville.” He pointed his glass at me. “And, listen, I was a damn good sheriff. I always liked catching the bad guys.”

  “Except for the one you were blackmailing.”

  Stubbs gave a short, angry laugh. “See, it’s that kinda remark that makes me wanna get out my rifle again.”

  He reached for the pitcher of spiked lemonade and refilled his glass, while I silently cursed myself. I’d counted on a kind of brash, “no bullshit” directness as being the best way to keep Stubbs talking. But I’d overplayed it.

  Stubbs was the one who’d used the word “confession,” because as his days grew short he wanted to confess. But I had to be smart enough to let him disclose his sins in his own time, and in his own self-satisfied fashion.

  “But this was all many years ago, right?” I went on carefully. “What’s the connection with Sinclair? With the campaign going on now?”

  He sipped his drink, wincing as it sluiced down his gullet. “I’m gonna be needing my pain medicine soon. Can’t go too many hours without it nowadays.”

  I took a step toward him. Insistent, but not crowding him. “Are you still keeping tabs on McCloskey somehow?”

  “Maybe. Maybe I got someone on the inside at the firm. Over in Harrisburg. Just in case I’m not as good a judge of character as I think.”

  This took me by surprise, but I didn’t let it show.

  Tried not to, anyway.

  “Sam Weiss said you’d heard something incriminating. Something McCloskey said about buying Sinclair.”

  “You bet I did. Heard a couple interesting conversations. On a real nifty digital recording.”

  “Made by someone in the firm? Someone close to Evan McCloskey?”

  He stroked his mustache. “What do they call those guys in all the spy movies? ‘Moles.’ You might say I have a mole inside McCloskey, Singer, and Ganz.”

  “Who is it? One of the other partners? Some junior associate?”

  “Now I can’t tell you that, and you don’t need to know. The important thing is the recording, which I got. Or which I had, before I destroyed it.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry, I transferred it to a CD first. Easier to hide.” He paused. “I made a copy, too. Got it stashed somewhere far away from here. Just in case.”

  “Okay. But what’s on it, exactly?”

  “Enough. McCloskey’s firm represents some of the biggest companies in the country. Financial groups. Manufacturers. Software giants. People who have a vested interest in how tax laws are being written. How employment practices are overseen. People who’d like a governor in their pocket, to make sure they have a path cleared for expanding their businesses in that state.”

  A mocking smile. “I sure hope I’m not shocking you with all this, son.”

  “No. To quote a friend of mine, politics is a dirty business.”

  “It sure as hell is—if you’re doin’ it right. I spent enough years in DC to learn that. Anyway, on one part of the CD, McCloskey tells some corporate client of his that Sinclair is in the bag. That once he became governor, the state was going to be very accommodating. Very partial to this particular client’s interests.”

  I didn’t risk glancing at my watch, but I could tell from the spreading shadows that it must’ve been close to six by now. Where the hell was Sam?

  “This mole of yours,” I said casually. “Why is he helping you? What’s in
it for him? Or her, I guess.”

  “Money, that’s what. It’s why most people do most things, son. Thought a professional man like yourself would’ve figured that out by now. He’s doing it for the money. A lot of money, I admit. But I can afford it.”

  I took a last swallow of my drink, which he noticed. But I waved away his offer to refill it.

  “But what about you, Stubbs? Why contact Sam Weiss? Surely you don’t care whether or not Sinclair wins.”

  “I told you, I don’t give a damn about some bullshit election. I just want the truth about McCloskey to come out. I want to die with my conscience clean. Or as clean as I can make it.”

  My voice hardened. “Then we’ll need to hear what’s on that CD. Sam won’t run the story without hard evidence.”

  “I know that. And I’m gonna give it to him. When he gets here. Him, not you.”

  Stubbs and I exchanged wary looks. I knew better than to push him, but I was suddenly having trouble figuring out what to say next. My thoughts seemed scattered. Unfocused.

  I took a long breath, to steady myself. Put out my hand and gripped the porch railing.

  A hawk circled overhead, shadow flitting against the light vanishing over the hills.

  Stubbs was reaching for the bottle again, but I stopped him. He looked at me for a moment, as though about to argue, when another spasm of pain bent him over.

  “Look,” I said, “where do you keep your medication?”

  “Bedroom,” he gasped, as I helped him to one of the two cedar chairs. “On the bureau.”

  His head lolled a bit, as if he too were having a hard time concentrating. Unless it was just the pain, growing in intensity. Spreading its tendrils.

  My own head spinning, I pressed my thumbs to my temples. Tried to collect myself.

  Taking quick, shallow breaths, I went into the house. Fumbling in the dark, it took me half a minute to find a light switch. Then, another thirty seconds to make my way to the nearest bedroom, to find the right medicine among a dozen similar prescription bottles.

  The print on the bottle was small and fine. Blurring now, as I stared at it. What the hell was wrong with me?