The Exiled

by Christopher Charles

  Dunham grinned. Dizzy rocked back on his heels.

  “Well played, motherfucker.”

  “So we’re good?”

  “Shit, man…in for a penny…”

  “I thought you’d see it that way.”

  “It’s me in a garage with two strapped crackers. How else am I gonna see it?”

  26

  The lab tech led them into a cramped conference room, left them alone with Mavis’s computer and a fifty-page printout listing sites visited, accounts and passwords, the title of every folder and document on her hard drive.

  “Not bad,” Bay said.

  “Not bad at all. Let’s hope our guy is in here somewhere.”

  “Where do we start?”

  Raney scanned the icons on Mavis’s desktop.

  “Is there a password on that printout for something called FiftyPlus?” he asked.

  “FiftyPlus? Sounds like a vitamin.”

  Bay slid on his reading glasses, skimmed the top page.

  “Goddamn,” he said. “She spent her life on that site. Let’s see…Here it is. Oh, you’re going to like this one, Raney.”

  “What is it?”

  “‘Screw Jack’—one word, all caps. And the a is an ‘at’ symbol. Mavis sure was a pistol. That much of her was real.”

  “Here we go,” Raney said.

  A small blue banner at the top of the home page read WELCOME BACK MAVISW! YOUR LAST LOG-IN WAS JULY 20.

  “Hard to believe she was alive just a few days ago,” Bay said.

  Beneath the banner was Mavis’s own profile, a large green Edit button positioned in the top right-hand corner. She described herself as outgoing and vivacious…an artist in love with life…a successful businesswoman. “I’m interested in people,” she wrote, “which means I’m interested in anything people do.” Her ideal man was “cultured and athletic…someone whose perfect day would include a hike in the morning, a museum in the afternoon, a concert in the evening, a glass of fine wine under the stars.”

  “That describes exactly no one for about two hundred miles,” Bay said.

  “I think Mavis was happy to travel.”

  She’d shaved a few years from her age, trimmed off a pound or two, but the photo looked current. As a kind of flourish, she wrote: “I promise not to judge you. I don’t care about your flaws, as long as you promise not to cover them up.” And then, the fine print: “If you do not already have a profile, please include a photo with your e-mail. E-mails with no profile link and no photo will be deleted.”

  “She had a gift for irony,” Raney said.

  “Or else she couldn’t tell when the lies stopped.”

  Beneath her profile were two columns: on the left, links to pages she’d visited; on the right, a short list of members recommended by FiftyPlus based on her recent activity.

  “Let’s see if Mavis reached out to any stocky bald men,” Raney said.

  He started clicking. The photos were hard to read. Most of the men posted head shots that revealed little about their heft or height. The few who were bald gave specs that made them too tall or short, fat or thin.

  “He could be wearing a toupee,” Bay said. “If Mavis went with Bob Sims, she wouldn’t have minded a bit.”

  Beyond their photos and occupations, there was little to distinguish one candidate from the next. They were divorced or widowed, had grown or almost-grown children, loved dogs and nature and good books. They were teachers, librarians, journalists, photographers. All vaguely literary or artistic. They were Jack’s opposite: men who fit the life Mavis wished she’d had.

  “Who knew there were so many of us out there?” Bay said.

  “Us?”

  “Single men over fifty living in the state of New Mexico.”

  “You getting ideas?”

  “Maybe.”

  Raney navigated back to the home page. At the bottom right, beneath the column of recommendations, was another green icon labeled MESSAGE CENTER.

  “How will we know it’s him when we find him?” Bay asked.

  “There were two coffee cups on the kitchen table the night Mavis was killed, two wineglasses in the sink. We know now that the second person wasn’t Kurt. So it must have been our man. He wasn’t hiding in the bushes. He was invited. He was lying in wait, but he was doing it in plain sight.”

  “And he knew what he was lying in wait for cause he was the one who called the Mexies.”

  “Must be.”

  “You think he started this whole fucking thing? You think he planted the idea to kill Jack?”

  “Planted it or made it seem like a real possibility.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work. The guy knows how to handle himself. Why not just hijack the Mexie kids before they ever get to the bunker? Leave Jack and Mavis out of it.”

  “There’s something personal here. Something emotional.”

  “Maybe it’s got to do with the guy they killed in Boston.”

  “Maybe.”

  They read backwards from the morning of her death to the approximate date of Jack’s entombment. She’d received more than a hundred messages from sixty different candidates. Most were easy to eliminate:

  Dear Maves,

  U r yourself an artwork. Let’s meat.

  N.D.

  Dear Mavis,

  You are a beautiful woman, and we have many interests in common, but before I go any further I must know: Do you accept Jesus Christ as your savior?

  Ian R.

  “I guess it beats sitting down with these guys,” Bay said. “Hell, I might look damn good in their company.”

  “It’s like applying for jobs,” Raney said. “The CV doesn’t matter if you botch the cover letter.”

  There were only six men Mavis corresponded with regularly in the period leading up to Jack’s death. Four signed with their first names, two with their initials. Raney clicked back through the profiles Mavis had visited; of the six men on the list, one was Native American, another black. Only one taught art in an Albuquerque public school.

  “We’ll start with him,” Raney said.

  “Joseph V.?”

  “Mavis told Clara she was chatting with a teacher.”

  “That would make for a nice cover,” Bay said. “You wouldn’t expect your kid’s homeroom monitor to turn special ops for a summer.”

  “Do me a favor. Give your tech friend Joseph V.’s address and ask him to track down where his e-mails were sent from. Not just one of them, but as many as he can.”

  “All right. But don’t get too far ahead of me.”

  Raney isolated the messages from Joseph V. in Mavis’s in-box. There were eighty-five total, the oldest sent six weeks before her death:

  Dear Mavis,

  I can say with all honesty that you are the only woman on this site whom I have felt compelled to contact. If you read my profile, you’ll see that we have much in common. You’re an artist; I teach art (K–12). I also have a small (emphasis on small) collection of artworks gathered from the smattering of cities I’ve been fortunate enough to visit: Tokyo, Sydney, New York, and a few others. I’m nearing retirement, and my greatest ambition for the coming years is to travel more, preferably in the company of someone who shares my passion for beauty and culture.

  Of course, I don’t mean to get ahead of myself. We should probably start with a cup of coffee. :)

  I very much hope to hear from you.

  Best wishes,

  Joseph V.

  Mavis’s response:

  Dear Joseph,

  I don’t see why we shouldn’t get coffee! And if coffee in Albuquerque leads to coffee in Paris, so much the better! I believe people should say what they want right from the start, especially those of us who are looking at fifty in the rearview mirror.

  I’m guessing you’re on summer break. Where and when would you like to meet? I more or less make my own schedule, as long as the girl who works for me can cover the store.

  So glad you reached out—

  M
avis W.

  It took a short exchange of messages to nail down a place and time. Then, a few days later, this from Joseph:

  Dear Mavis,

  I agree with you: people our age should know what they want, and they should say it. When I think about my retirement, when I allow myself to dream about it, I know I want nothing but days like the one we just spent together. Only I want each day to be a little bit different. Maybe we drink tea instead of coffee; maybe we drink white wine instead of red. Or maybe every day happens fifty miles south of the day before, until we get to Buenos Aires. Maybe we land there and never leave. It sounds like I’m spinning fantasies, but I know this: a day with you has me wound up like a teenager.

  Until next time, which I hope will be very soon,

  J.V.

  Bay sat back down beside Raney.

  “The kid’s on it,” he said. “I miss anything?”

  “They met for coffee here in Albuquerque. He’s working her pretty hard.”

  Bay slapped Raney on the back.

  “We’re closing in,” he said. “I feel it.”

  “Let’s keep reading.”

  Over the next few weeks, Mavis and Joseph V. e-mailed one another every few hours. They swapped love notes. He sent her a video of a tango lesson, an advertisement for a dance school in Buenos Aires. She sent him photos of paintings she claimed were her own, though Raney recognized them from Clara’s studio. They made plans to spend a full weekend together. The following Monday, Joseph wrote:

  Mavis,

  I have thought about it, and while there are lies I might be able to tolerate, this is not one of them. I’m sorry, but I stand by what I said earlier.

  J.V.

  Mavis’s response:

  Dearest Joseph,

  I was so afraid of this. I was trying to tell you that my marriage isn’t a real marriage. It never was. Yes, I go home to another man, but not to his bed. Not to his love. Not to his companionship. Please agree to see me just one more time. I’m not good with words like you are. This is more than I can manage over the computer.

  Love,

  Mavis

  “Trouble in paradise,” Bay said.

  “He’s turning the focus to Jack,” Raney said.

  “If this is our guy.”

  “If it is.”

  Mavis and Joseph met at a Mexican bar in Santa Fe. Afterward, Joseph forgave her, turned apologetic:

  It was wrong of me to judge you. I had no idea what you’d been through, what you continue to endure. I’m glad Jack was there when you needed him. But that was four decades ago. Nothing excuses the man he is today.

  “She told him,” Bay said.

  “She told him something. Maybe some version of the truth. A parallel version.”

  “Parallel how?”

  “Maybe Stewart turned violent during sex. Maybe Jack saved her life, her dignity. They moved out here to heal. But they grew apart. Jack took to drink. He became mean.”

  “So she’s lying to him, and he knows she’s lying, but he pretends not to know, which is another lie,” Bay said. “Makes you wonder if you ever heard a true word.”

  There was a spate of forwarded articles and jokes, more sweet nothings, a promise to let Mavis visit one of his art classes. They spent a second weekend together. Both signed their e-mails “Love.”

  And then, two weeks before Mavis’s nine-one-one call:

  Dear Cheryl,

  You see, I’ve learned something about you. About you and Jonathan. I didn’t mean to, and I wish to God I hadn’t. I wish to God it weren’t true. I’ve never been so devastated.

  This isn’t something I want to discuss here or over the phone. Come to my place tonight.

  I know I shouldn’t give you this chance. I know I should call the authorities straightaway.

  J.V.

  “This is him,” Bay said. “It’s got to be. He’s on his way to blackmailing her—‘lock that bunker door or die in jail.’ She half wanted to kill Jack anyway.”

  “Maybe,” Raney said. “Let’s see if the tech found any hits.”

  “I’ll go get him,” Bay said.

  Raney searched “Joseph V” in the Albuquerque public school directory. Only one name came up: Joseph Vignola. He checked the White Pages, found a J. Vignola living on the outskirts of the city.

  Too easy, he thought. Too easy by far.

  He knew before he searched that he wouldn’t find a single image of Joseph Vignola, art teacher, anywhere on the Web. The stocky bald man had grafted himself onto a faceless virtual imprint.

  Bay came bounding back.

  “The messages were sent from libraries all over town. Even a few in Santa Fe.”

  “Makes sense,” Raney said. “Our man isn’t dumb.”

  “We got him,” Bay said.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a real Joseph Vignola teaching art in Albuquerque, but he didn’t send these messages.”

  “You positive?”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Raney said. “Let’s go knock on his door.”

  Queens, June 1984

  27

  Dunham watched Dizzy pull out and drive away before he drew down the door.

  “Time to work,” he said. “We’re going to do this right here.”

  They filled four duffel bags, hooked one strap over each shoulder, climbed the steps to the loading dock. Dunham unlocked the door and flicked a switch. Inside was a seemingly endless space broken into workstations, each with its own machinery. The place smelled like it had been hosed down with bleach.

  “I’d give you a tour,” Dunham said. “But what the fuck do I know about glass?”

  Raney followed him through a maze of furnaces and conveyor belts.

  “That foreman I mentioned? He’s the guy you beat the shit out of. Spike. This started as his parole gig. Now he’s boss of the worker bees. I said I needed a space to get some shit done. I didn’t say what shit, but unless you damaged his brain he must have more or less figured it out. Spike wouldn’t set me up, though. He’s the only one of my fighters who wouldn’t. That’s why I let him come back. Normally, one loss and they’re finished. I wish you’d taken that Cobra prick. The guy’s a colossal fuck-up, and he’s boring as hell to watch. But rules are rules. I can’t cut him loose until someone puts him down.”

  The drafting table sat in a workstation at the far end of the floor. Dunham had adjusted the surface so it lay flat, stocked the cubicle with Saran wrap, razor blades, baking soda, duct tape.

  “The morning crew gets in at five. We’ve got about four hours of work here, so let’s keep the bathroom breaks to a minimum. If someone shows early, they’d have to make it across the floor before they got to us. In which case we clean up fast, and I drop Spike’s name.”

  He measured out two sheets of Saran wrap, sliced open a brick, spilled half onto his sheet and the other half onto Raney’s.

  “That’s a pretty big cut,” Raney said.

  “Yeah, and the bitch of it is, Farlow’s inbreeds will step on it again. The tree people of Maine are in for a very slight buzz.”

  They worked in quiet until the chopping and sifting and wrapping turned rhythmic and the bricks seemed to materialize on their own.

  “I must have done this a thousand times,” Dunham said, “but never for myself. If this goes right, it could be the start of a new era. The Dunham era. No more whipping boy. I gotta give props, Deadly: I’m glad you knocked me off that stool. I owe you. Don’t think I don’t know. I’m not like my douche-bag uncle. I won’t hold you down so you have to keep coming back. You’ll get a third of everything. And if one day you’ve had enough, you just walk away. I won’t come after you. Not unless you talk, which I know you’d never do. I’ll admit I had my doubts with the Mora situation, but then I thought about it. You and him were both fighters. That’s like a brotherhood. So shaking the guy down was hard for you. You’re loyal. I get it. I’m loyal, too. And I mean
to people, not just money. This isn’t an in-for-life thing we have here. It’s time for that old-school bullshit to die a fast death. If a guy wants to move on, I say let him move on. As long as he’s not fucking you over.”

  “So these jobs we’ve been doing have all been for your uncle?”

  “Like you didn’t know. When you showed up looking for work, I wondered about that. If you knew who I was, then you knew who he was. So why come to me and not him? Then I figured it was a parole thing. You ain’t looking to do your full bit, so why not pick the guy who’s already buried? Meno’s got eyes on him twenty-four seven. You made the smart move.”

  Meno, Raney thought. It’s out in the open now.

  They drove in two cars, Raney carrying one duffel bag, Dunham the others. Two traffic jams, two stops for gas, one meal at a drive-through, three lines of coke. Nine hours total. They set the meet in a state park, at a campground just off the coast. Raney pulled in first. Dunham hung back, parked in a spread of beach grass. If the buyers seemed legit, Raney would wave him on. If they didn’t, Dunham would have Raney’s back.

  There were three of them gathered around a fire and drinking from oversized aluminum cans. They’d pitched a tent, parked a rusted-out pickup on the periphery. Anyone driving by would see a clutch of good old boys kicking back on a weekend afternoon. They even looked like a brood Farlow might have sprung from: tall and burly, with the same dull-brown hair. DA Stone was thorough, even on short notice.

  He pulled straight up to the fire. The undercovers fanned out around his car, two with hunting rifles, the third with a shotgun. Raney rolled down his window. The one with the shotgun moved closer. Raney kept his hands on the wheel. For a moment he forgot he was dealing with cops, forgot he was a cop himself.

  “I thought there was two of you,” the man said.

  “Dunham’s hanging back. I’m Raney.”