Fever Dream

by Dennis Palumbo

  I’d thought things over during the drive here. After I got in touch with Sam, my next call would be to the local cops. Then another to Eleanor Lowrey or Harry Polk, filling them in on what’d happened at the Stubbs house. Especially what had happened to Wheeler Roarke.

  At least, that was the plan.

  As I neared the alcove housing the phones, I glanced over at the counter that ran half the length of the place. A waitress and some patrons were staring in silence at the huge flat-screen TV suspended from the wall.

  I made my way over. On-screen, a wind-blown female reporter was doing a live remote, as a harrowing fire blazed in the background. The graphic along the bottom of the screen read, “Breaking News. Farmhouse Fire.”

  The reporter was shouting into her mike over the noise of the firefighters on scene, working frantically behind her. As the camera pulled back, you could see the fire was totally out of control.

  “We’re live at the home of retired Harville sheriff Henry Stubbs. According to authorities here, the size and ferocity of the fire may indicate arson. And while we don’t know for sure at this time, firefighters concede it’s unlikely anyone could survive this. Now let’s talk to—”

  I turned away and sat on a stool at the far end of the counter. Ronny Baxter must have discovered Roarke’s body, with no sign of me anywhere. He had to figure I’d go to the cops.

  Also, like Roarke, he hadn’t wanted any loose ends. Maybe he’d taken the time to cut Stubbs down, or pull the scythe blade from Roarke’s body. No sense leaving anything funny for the cops to find. Then he’d doused the place with kerosene, or maybe a can of gasoline he’d found in the barn, and torched it. Old dry wood structure like that would go up fast as flash-paper.

  I looked across at the screen again, far enough away not to have to hear the audio. Whether Baxter intended it or not, the fire had spread to the house as well. It would take firefighters most of the night to put it down.

  In the morning, all they’d find were the remains of two people in the barn, burned beyond recognition. Dental records would probably confirm their hunch that one of the bodies was Henry Stubbs. My guess was it would be harder to trace the identity of the second corpse. Until I told the Pittsburgh Police who it was, and they told the FBI.

  Which would just leave Ronny Baxter, the second gunman at the bank, at large. Armed and dangerous. And, moreover, still in possession of Stubbs’ CD. The only hard evidence of McCloskey’s attempt to influence the policies of the presumptive next governor. Of his claim that he had Leland Sinclair on the pad.

  But did I believe it? Without the CD, there was only Henry Stubbs’ word. Yet why would a dying man lie? Besides, he’d offered to turn the CD over, no strings attached. And despite his earlier crimes, his collusion with Evan McCloskey, I had to agree with Sam: Stubbs seemed credible.

  I leaned forward, elbows on the slick Formica counter. I didn’t know what to think. Or else I just couldn’t. My mind was still hazy from the lingering effects of the drug.

  Rousing myself, I pushed off from the stool and headed back to the row of pay phones. Dug some coins out of my pocket and dialed Sam’s cell. He picked up half-way through the first ring.

  “Danny! Jesus Christ, where are you? I’m in a bar watching the news and—”

  “Yeah, I know. Stubbs’ farm. Roarke’s partner Ronny Baxter torched it.”

  “What?”

  “Long story. Edited version: Stubbs is dead, and so is Roarke. And the CD is gone.”

  “What CD?”

  “The one containing the evidence linking McCloskey’s firm to Sinclair. Audio of a conversation between McCloskey and one of his clients. McCloskey claims Sinclair’s been bought. That, as governor, his support for the client’s interests is in the bag.”

  “Holy shit! That’s—wait a minute, what do you mean, the CD is gone?”

  “Baxter has it. And God knows where he is by now. Stubbs said he’d made a back-up, but he never told me where he’d hidden it. Could be halfway around the world.”

  “But without that CD—”

  “You got squat.”

  Silence on his end of the line.

  “By the way, Sam, where the hell are you? How come you never made it out to Stubbs’ place?”

  “You kiddin’? I tried calling you a dozen times but couldn’t get through. I’m still here at the airport. Took longer than I thought to pull together that story on the Gordon brothers. Not to mention the screaming matches with the copy editor. Some Princeton grad who thinks he’s H.L. Mencken. We had to parse every goddam word. Made the press deadline, but just barely. Meanwhile, my boss blames me. Chews my ass out.”

  “You’re breakin’ my heart. I still would’ve preferred your afternoon to mine.”

  His tone softened. “Yeah, I know. Sorry, Danny. I didn’t mean to leave you hanging.”

  Poor choice of words, I thought. Though I didn’t say it. Didn’t want to get into all the details. Not at the moment.

  “So,” I said instead, “is it too late for us to fly back to Pittsburgh?”

  “In the Cessna? In the dark? I’m not cleared for night flying, and I wouldn’t do it if I were. I figured I’d book us a late flight on US Air. Just pay some local fly-boy to pilot the Cessna back to Gold Star Aviation tomorrow. Pad what’s left of my expense account.”

  “Okay. I’ll meet you at the ticket counter. Say a couple hours? I’ve gotta get cleaned up, buy a change of clothes. No way airport security would let me on a plane looking like this.”

  “Damn. Must be one helluva story. Good thing I get the exclusive, right?”

  “Jesus…”

  “Yeah, yeah. But, Danny, one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Do you believe him? I mean, Henry Stubbs. Do you believe what he said about McCloskey, that Sinclair is bought and paid for?”

  I paused, but only for a moment. Surprised by my words as they came out of my mouth.

  “Yeah, Sam. I think I do.”

  Chapter Forty-seven

  After hanging up, I pushed some more coins in the slot and called Eleanor Lowrey on her cell. I’d realized after seeing the story on TV about the fire that I didn’t need to call the local cops. The authorities were already crawling all over the scene.

  Eleanor was still in her office at the precinct when she picked up. Before she could get two words in, I gave her the details of my day’s outing in rural Pennsylvania. Accompanying Sam Weiss by air to interview a possible source for a story he was doing about Sinclair. Henry Stubbs’ contention that the District Attorney was dirty, based on a secret recording he’d heard.

  Then I told her that Wheeler Roarke had shown up in Harville to kill Stubbs and get the evidence. But that it was Roarke who’d ended up dead, while his partner Ronny Baxter escaped with the CD containing the incriminating audio.

  To her credit, she listened to my entire narrative without interrupting me. Instead, she merely asked one question.

  “So there’s no solid evidence that anything this Stubbs guy told you is true?”

  “It’s supposedly on the CD that Baxter has with him. He’d found it over at the house while Roarke was figuring out the most entertaining way to kill me.”

  Her long pause spoke volumes.

  “Look, Eleanor, I know what you’re thinking…”

  “Then you know better than to try to defend yourself. I mean, what the hell did you think you were doing?”

  “I was curious about Sinclair. Helping out my friend Sam Weiss. Getting to fly in a ridiculously small plane. Pick one.”

  “Don’t get cute with me, Danny. You could’ve been killed. Roarke was no guy to fuck around with.”

  “Hey, it’s not like I had a choice. It was him or me, Detective.”

  “Well, I guess I’m glad it was you. But I’m starting to think Harry’s right about you. You’re crazy.”

  “Whatever. The important thing is, Roarke’s dead. The FBI’s gotta intensify their search for Ronny Baxter.”


  “Don’t worry, soon as we hang up I’m telling Biegler about what happened to Roarke. He’ll kick it upstairs to the Chief and Alcott at the Bureau. They’ll probably get in touch with the local blues in Harville and start piecing the scene together. Meanwhile, Ronny Baxter can’t have gotten far. Not yet, anyway. That’ll help the FBI in tracking him down.”

  “What about the Sinclair connection?”

  “What connection? Some blackmailing hick sheriff says he heard an incriminating recording? Only we don’t know who inside McCloskey’s firm made it, and Stubbs himself is dead. Which makes him a tough interview. Hell, how do you know this so-called CD even exists? Right now, these allegations against Sinclair are just that—allegations. If your friend the reporter wants to break that story, let the ax fall on his head. Not ours.”

  “Sam won’t run with anything without proof.”

  “Smart man. Now get your ass back here, Danny. You know we’ll need a complete statement from you about today’s events. You’re a material witness to a homicide and arson.”

  “Or maybe a suspect…?”

  “I seriously doubt it. But it’d serve you right. So when are you coming home?”

  “Sam and I are flying back tonight.”

  “Good.”

  Another, longer pause. Then, hesitantly: “Look, Danny, I was wondering if you could tell me how Treva’s doing. I know some Victims’ Services people went over to her place today, but I didn’t follow up with them. I didn’t want it to seem like…well, like I was intruding. Checking up on her. She obviously doesn’t want that.”

  “Well, I told her I’d call her tonight. I hope to get a better sense of her emotional state then.”

  “Thanks, Dan. For staying in touch with her.”

  I weighed my next words carefully.

  “Listen, Treva told me yesterday that the only reason she’s reluctant to see you is because she feels guilty. For having hurt you so badly. But that’s just how she’s feeling now. That could change.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Remember, too, the intensity of what’s happened to her…what she’s gone through these past two days. I think she just doesn’t believe she can handle it. Seeing you again after all these years. Especially bearing the guilt she’s carried with her since then. I could be wrong, but—”

  “No, that makes sense. I just wish…”

  I let the silence hang in the air between us.

  ***

  I’d run out of change, so I had to ask the counter waitress to break a few singles. After a furtive glance at the manager, who’d nodded gravely, she handed over eight quarters and quickly made her way to the other end of the counter. To wash her hands, probably.

  Back in the phone alcove, I dialed Treva’s home number and listened to its steady ring. Finally, she picked up.

  “Sorry, Dr. Rinaldi. I was in the bathroom. It’s the only time I get out of bed.”

  “Sounds like you’re taking good care of yourself. Getting lots of rest.”

  “That’s for sure. Total slug mode.”

  “Do you need anything? I understand the Victims’ Services people came by…”

  “They sure did. They rang my doorbell a bunch of times. They even left a message on my phone.”

  “Wait a minute, Treva. Are you saying you didn’t let them in?”

  “Don’t be mad at me, okay? Besides, I called them right back. I’m not rude. I told them very politely that I didn’t want to see anybody. Remember what I said to you? That I just wanted to shut out the world.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Her voice grew thin, tentative. “I just couldn’t deal with those people today. I couldn’t bear to have to answer a lot of well-meaning questions. To let them make me herbal tea and tell me everything was going to be all right. Can you understand that?”

  “Perfectly.” And I did.

  Then, abruptly, her tone brightened. “I know I’m being an awful patient. You should probably fire me.”

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way.”

  “Funny thing is, I’m feeling a lot better just talking to you. Like I might actually get out of bed and make something to eat.”

  “Glad to hear it. Even awful patients deserve a decent meal once in a while. But, seriously, I do think we should get together soon. We need to explore your feelings about everything that’s happened. At least, begin the process.”

  “Yes. I know you’re right. In fact, we could meet now, if you want. It’s not too late, and God knows I’ve had my fill of sleep.”

  “Now?”

  “Sure. You could come by here—unless that’s too weird or against the rules or something. Or we could meet some place closer to you.”

  “I’d like to, Treva, but the truth is, I’m out of town. In Harrisburg. I won’t be getting back till much later tonight.”

  “Oh.”

  The disappointment in her voice seemed genuine, which saddened me as well. This was the first time she’d even entertained the idea of letting me help her. Of starting the arduous psychological journey that lay ahead of her. And I was half a state away.

  “I’m sorry, Treva. But let’s meet tomorrow. Anywhere you want. My office. Or some coffee shop.”

  “Okay. But if we’re going to meet somewhere else, I’ll have to wear a disguise.”

  “A disguise?”

  “So I can sneak past those Victims’ Services people. They’ll probably be camped out downstairs in the lobby.”

  I couldn’t tell whether her humor was a hopeful sign of a real connection between us—that she was indeed ready to work—or else just another attempt to slip back into denial. Into that disarming, distracting fog behind which the traumatized often disappear.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “And I’ll answer. Promise.”

  Chapter Forty-eight

  I left the phone alcove, waved good-bye to the obviously relieved restaurant manager, and went out to the parking lot. Across the street was a Motel 6, neon sign bright and buzzing. Next door was a sporting goods outlet store. Good. I wouldn’t even have to move the car.

  Ten minutes later I’d checked into a room, and was standing under a steaming shower. Afterwards, I sat on the bed and awkwardly wrapped the bandages I’d bought around my mid-section. It felt like Roarke had cracked a few ribs.

  Then I stood at the bureau mirror and awkwardly applied a new bandage to the back of my skull. Another war wound from the day before, courtesy of Wheeler Roarke.

  I picked up the room phone to check my messages, but changed my mind. Tomorrow morning would be soon enough.

  I’d already thrown my torn, dirty clothes into the trash can, and dressed now in the new jeans and shirt I’d bought at the outlet place.

  Then, checking the time, I sprawled on the still-made bed. Closed my eyes and breathed deeply, slowly. But I could only allow myself a few moments’ rest. I had to meet up with Sam at the US Air ticket counter by ten o’clock.

  Back in the motel lobby, I grabbed a cup of coffee from the bubbling carafe near the front desk. Strong, bitter. Just what I needed.

  I said good-bye to the kid behind the desk, but he didn’t even glance up from the latest Maxim magazine. I guess having a guy who looked like the Unabomber’s best friend book a room, change clothes, and then leave within an hour wasn’t that unusual an event around here.

  Or else the Maxim was a particularly hot issue.

  ***

  Sam and I sat next to each other near the rear of the US Air jet. We’d taxied out to the runway and were awaiting take-off. From my window seat, I could see the hills like rounded shoulders, hunched under the ink-black sky.

  Been a helluva day. Another one.

  Sam looked at his watch. “Eleven PM. Late flight, but it’s the best I could do.”

  “Stop apologizing. You’re not responsible for what happened out at Stubbs’ place.”

  “I know, but still…” He scratched his tousled black hair. “Hell, it wa
s my story. My source. I shouldn’t have sent you out there alone.”

  “Forget it, will you? Though I’m sorry about Stubbs.”

  “Me, too. Now I just have to figure out how to verify his story. I mean, even without the CD, what he told you gives me lots of leads to follow. Confirms some of the stuff I’ve been thinking.”

  “Best thing would be for the FBI to track down Ronny Baxter. And the CD.”

  “If he still has it. He could’ve destroyed it by now. Or handed it over to whoever he and Roarke were working for.” Sam gave me a sidelong look. “And you still think the bank robbery was part of all this?”

  “Had to be. Roarke and Baxter try to rob a bank, kill a number of hostages, and manage to escape. Wanted for multiple homicides. Hunted by the FBI. So where do they go? Another state? Out of the country? No, they go to Henry Stubbs’ farm in Harville, looking for some secret recording. With orders to kill Stubbs as well.”

  Sam pursed his lips. “You got a point, Danny.”

  The captain’s voice boomed then over the intercom, announcing that passengers and crew should prepare for takeoff. Which we did.

  Once airborne, I kept my head tilted against the window. Watched the blurred night roaring by.

  Sam poked me in the ribs. I winced.

  “Shit, man, sorry.” He smiled sheepishly. “I forgot to tell you. We missed Sinclair’s press conference tonight, but I can boot up my laptop once we land and we can find a link to it. In case you want to watch.”

  “Not if I don’t have to.”

  “Well, as a reporter covering the campaign, I have to. Besides, we both know what he said. That he refuses to be intimated by the likes of Jimmy Gordon. Implying that he’d be equally strong and capable if elected governor.”

  “If he lives long enough to make the debate.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve been on the phone all day with my sources at headquarters. And the FBI. They’ve got every member of the Gordon family under wraps. Every known associate is being watched. Interviewed. Believe me, the good guys are on top of it.”

  The plane leveled off at 30,000 feet and most of the night-flying passengers around us settled in for the short ride to Pittsburgh International.