Death of the Extremophile

by Stuart Parker

  *

  Elsa Gurner had a bag of groceries squeezed under her arm. She always dropped into a store after work. Always the same ones. Always the same days. On a weekly cycle so as to not become too familiar with the clerks, for she was uncomfortable with their chitchat, never knowing what to say and never knowing how to get away quickly enough. Nevertheless, these shopping expeditions were as close as she came to a social life.

  At her front door she rattled through her keys. Most of them were no longer functional other than as mementos of what they used to open - things that in hindsight had done nothing other than bring her to this moment right here: a ratty apartment in a ratty part of town. It was only living her life that had helped her not realise it in the past, but now she was realising it with every moment and every single breath.

  She found the right key and was skirting around the keyhole with it, waiting for it to drop, when she noticed a shadowy figure approaching from the side. Aware of how many muggings occurred on any given night, she always held on to enough air to release an ear screeching scream. About to let launch, she just managed to catch it halfway up her throat as she noticed something familiar in the approaching man’s gait and in the shape of his body. To get a look at the face under the Fedora hat, however, she had to let him get right up close. And when she realised it was Hope, she still had an inclination to scream. She noticed that some of the shadows under the hat brim were in fact bruises.

  ‘Rough night?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ replied Hope, ‘though there are people out there who slap harder than you.’

  ‘Really? Well, I’d certainly enjoy another go at it.’

  ‘To be honest, I was thinking of something more resembling a conversation.’

  Elsa slotted the key into the door with a newfound sense of purpose. ‘We can start out that way but there’s no guarantee that’s how it will finish.’

  She stepped inside the apartment and held the door open for Hope. He took up the offer a little too eagerly and was a little too blatant in the way he was sniffing out the apartment for traces of Stacey - Elsa closed the door and hugged her groceries and tried to put up with it but when she saw the sadness in his face at not finding anything in the apartment other than her, she snapped. ‘You’re not the only one who cared about Stacey.’

  Hope stopped his wandering eyes. ‘You talking about her big sister?’

  ‘I’m talking about all the other lowlife hoodlums she was attracted to.’

  ‘The way Ario Flinger reacted to rivals I wouldn’t have thought there would be too many around at all.’

  ‘Until he met you. Then it all changed for him. All ended for him.’ She put her groceries down on the table and pulled out a bottle of red wine from the bag. She took it to the kitchen bench where she uncorked it and filled two glasses.

  ‘That’s a big bottle,’ observed Hope. ‘Were you expecting company?’

  She handed him one of the glasses. ‘This is what my life has become.’ She waved her glass at the room as though in a toast. ‘Photographs and labels. It’s what I’ve got left.’ The way she drank she left no doubt she was in practice. ‘It seems unfair,’ she continued on the other side of her gulp, keeping the glass close, ‘ that I wasn’t playing a game and yet I still lost. I lost big.’

  She picked up the bottle and gazed into it. ‘So, that’s what I’ve got keeping me company. Photographs and labels.’ She fired a hard look at Hope. ‘There is of course the occasional policeman who comes with his own unique version of the death of my sister, telling it like a pick up line.’

  Hope leaned against the kitchen bench. ‘What cops?’

  ‘There’s one who’s attached to the hospital.’

  ‘Attached?’

  ‘Engaged to one of the nurses. There were others. Asking questions and offering condolences. And apologising for not being able to do anything more on account of the man who had dragged her into her demise already being dead. That’s when your name comes up.’

  ‘I see.’ Hope sipped his wine but didn’t taste it. He had never seen the point of decorating alcohol with fruit.

  ‘Is that why you’re here? You want to tell me how you shot off Ario Flinger’s face?’ She hurriedly gulped some more wine just in case she was right.

  Hope, however, shook his head. ‘I haven’t come to tell you anything. I’ve got a question.’

  ‘Alright, let’s do it standing up. What do you want to know?’

  ‘Flinger deserved what he got, but it wasn’t he that turned Stacey bad. She was rotting long before he came into her life. How she got messed up in the first place, that’s what I want to know.’

  Elsa went to refill her glass only for Hope to grab her wrist.

  ‘I get the feeling that’s a story that hasn’t been told in a while,’ he said.

  ‘What story?’

  ‘How she got damaged.’ His grip tightened. ‘You’re the last person in the know who isn’t just a photograph on the wall. That’s why I’m here.’

  The heat in the eyes that turned on him was in stark contrast to the ice in the voice.

  ‘Our father was shot to death in the town of Sacksville.’

  Hope felt her hand gripping the bottle to the point where he let go for fear of being cut by broken glass.

  ‘Sacksville?’

  ‘Sacksville, New York.’

  ‘I’m sorry. How did it happen?’

  Elsa seemed to be aware of the bottle’s plight herself and put it down and dug her fingers into a straightened elbow.

  ‘No one has ever said what happened. He was out with his best friend for a night on the town. All I know is he never came home.’

  Hope nodded grimly. ‘On young girls it must have made a deep impression. One day you have a father, the next day you don’t. Did Stacey talk about it?’

  ‘She told me once how she thought about it every day. What more could she say.’

  ‘And the best friend had nothing to say? Not even to the police?’

  ‘He was too scared. And nothing could be said to make him change his mind.’

  ‘Which means there were some very bad people involved. Probably gangsters. Was your father into something?’

  ‘He was a school teacher,’ snapped Elsa. ‘So was his best friend.’

  Hope looked at his glass of wine, wishing it was something he found more agreeable. ‘Is the friend still alive? It might be time he was asked by someone who really wants the answers.’

  Elsa stared at him a long moment. ‘What are you talking about? It happened twenty years ago.’

  ‘All the more reason then. Better than fresh flowers on her grave is bringing answers for the questions that haunted her.’

  ‘You would kneel by her gravestone and whisper the bloody truth?’

  ‘Yes, I would. I would make truth my prayer.’

  ‘Very noble. But you would be more than likely talking to stone from the outset. After so many years, he is more than likely long dead himself. Which means Stacey is now closer to the truth than you.’

  Hope shook his head. ‘Many of this world’s truths would not be befitting where Stacey is now. If I’m only talking to stone, it will be the stone with her name etched into it.’

  ‘So, you’re serious?’

  ‘I’ll leave tonight.’

  Elsa looked at him wondrously. ‘You are just like her. An extremophile.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘That’s the word I came up with, to help me understand her. Because that’s how she did things. Always to extremes. Never taking risks into account. Or more exactly, only feeling good when the risks were outlandishly high. I mean, here you are, both eyes blackened and looking for a fight. Stacey would approve.’

  ‘I’m going to pay Sacksville a visit with or without your help.’

  ‘Amit Henton.’ Elsa recoiled as she said it, as though it were a foul taste in her mouth. ‘I would appreciate it if you find your answers not to j
ust tell stone. I would like to hear about them too.’

  23. ‘Your indigestion has arrived.’

  The Sacksville cemetery was off Route 66 on the way to Pontiac. The surrounding fields of blooming Sunflowers added colour to the reverential grimness of the loosely rowed headstones. According to the chiseled dates, Amit Henton had been interred here six years ago. The name and dates, however, were all that were revealed. Not even a parting line of poetry or prayer to accompany them. And certainly nothing about being sadly missed. The headstone marked the site of Henton’s resting place without taking much credence to the possibility anyone would care.

  A visitor, however, had come; albeit with a Colt .45 in hand. It was George Hope and he was dressed in black: it included his suit and the kerchief soiled with blood and tears covering his face. Although the stains were lost upon the blackness, the bitter taste was unfading upon his lips. He had the lonely cemetery to himself. The rhythm of the insects in the grassland may have been befitting for a warm afternoon in timber country, but was too slow by far for a New Yorker on a mission. Hope was frowning down at the headstone and he aimed the pistol.

  ‘The silent witness,’ he murmured. ‘How is your sleep? Comfortable?’ He fired a magazine of shots into the low grade sandstone, tearing up the name in chunks until it was all but erased. He stopped to admire his handiwork awhile before reloading. ‘No one will be able to read your name now. But at least they may pay more attention to it.’

  He picked up the black cargo bag at his feet. It was heavy with guns and ammunition. His hands in black leather gloves gripped the handles tightly as he walked out onto the rugged gravel road that was within earshot or Route 66. The thick tree line was sparing him from the sun’s rays but the same went for the incessant mosquitoes - Hope waved at them as he stood and waited.

  The first car that came his way was a shiny green Chevrolet coupe. The solitary occupant was a stern looking heavily bearded man leaning into the steering wheel. He had the vehicle doing at least fifty, leaving a trail of dust in its wake.

  Hope put up his thumb to bum a ride. The car didn’t slow and in fact may have even sped up. This might have been explained by Hope wearing the kerchief over his face, though he got the impression he would have needed to be dressed in dollar bills to rate the attention of someone like that. As the coupe sprayed him in dirt, he dropped his thumb and raised the Colt. He cracked off three shots, taking out the right rear tyre. The coupe slid off to the side and smashed into a tree. There it came to rest. Enough brake had been applied to keep the driver inside.

  Hope strode that way and aimed his gun at the bewildered man’s head. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘You gonna’ kill me?’ said the man through his beard, still gripping onto the steering wheel and staring out straight ahead.

  ‘The bullets went low for someone wanting to kill you, didn’t they? But bullets do go higher than that when they’re provoked and this busted up piece of junk isn’t much of a thing to trade your life on. So, why don’t you get to work.’

  ‘Get to work?’

  Hope opened the door. ‘You’ve got a flat to fix.’ He prodded and nudged the man out with the gun in his back.

  The man was wearing an expensive charcoal grey suit. But with his bewildered look he wore it cheap. ‘If you let me live, I won’t say a word about you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t take that as a compliment, my friend. Despite the beard, I’d say you were a salesman. Am I right?’

  The man nodded. ‘In ladies shoes.’

  ‘I see. Well, a salesman who can keep his mouth shut is a rare thing indeed. But at least try doing that while you’re switching wheels. After the car is repaired and I’m away, you can talk as much as you want. In fact, I insist. Tell whoever cares to listen that there’s a new man in town who has come to make havoc. His name will require a war to learn.’

  ‘Being a good Christian, I must implore the man behind the mask to reconsider what he is doing.’ murmured the man, steeling himself. ‘The cemetery you seem to have emerged from, the police will send you back to for eternity. They are quick with a gun in these parts and they do not like anarchy one bit. There are no riches that could make this worthwhile.’

  Hope respected his courage. ‘You can live by your advice and I will die by mine. If I am holding a wrench instead of a pistol it will be because I have already blown your head off and that will be because I can’t use both tools at the same time.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll get do this,’ said the man, taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. ‘I will get it done. I didn’t bang the tree too hard. The car will still operate. It has always run well. But the damage will draw attention. Law enforcement notice cars in these parts.’

  ‘Let me worry about that.’

  Hope crouched back against a tree and watched the salesman go to work. The man had quite a belly pressing against his britches and before long perspiration was streaming down his forehead. He worked with the same vitality that he sold shoes - at least, judging by the newness of the car he was able to afford. Sensing he was moving a tad too fast, Hope said, ‘Easy on the jack. Remember you’re liable to get your vehicle back at the end of all this. And make sure the nuts are good and tight.’

  By the time it was done, the sun was just beginning to pale ahead of its final splash into sunset.

  ‘Good,’ said Hope, standing up, holding onto his pistol while the man continued to hold his wrench.

  Another car passed by. There had been precious few and fortunately no more had stopped to offer assistance - although Hope might have got driving sooner had one bothered to pull over still intact.

  ‘So, what happens now?’ the man asked anxiously.

  Hope picked up his jacket from the bonnet and tossed it at him. ‘I drive and you walk.’

  The man scratched his forehead anxiously as though anticipating a bullet in the back the moment he turned. ‘You’re not even going to tie me to a tree or something?’

  ‘In your sweaty condition it wouldn’t be nice for the tree.’ Hope tossed his cargo bag into the car and climbed in after it. He sped off with a grinding of gears and a parting hoot of the horn.

  The drive into Sacksville took fifteen minutes. It was not much of town: by the time he got to the brakes he had almost gone from one side to the other. It seemed Route 66 was a little too smooth and a little too quick these days for towns such as this to catch much of the traffic. There were diners and bars and hotels and pool halls and, for those without the capital to venture into any, there were shadowy steps outside shut up stores on which to congregate.

  Hope chose a dark patch of the main thoroughfare to park. He pulled the kerchief off his mouth and took the cargo bag with him.

  The police station was situated on a quiet adjoining street alongside a garage and a farm tool supplier and across from a cluster of residential buildings up to three stories high. The police station itself was a small single story brown stucco building and had an unassuming sign on its porch and one light on behind its barred windows.

  Hope returned the black kerchief to his face, brought his pistol to hand and walked inside. It was predictably easy: police stations never locked their doors.

  ‘Hands in the air!’ Hope screamed at the two policemen eating plates of stew at a desk with paperwork scattered around them. ‘Your indigestion has arrived.’

  ‘What the hell,’ cried one of the cops, who was lanky and had a long drawn out face. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

  Hope set the gun at him. ‘It is if you think cops getting shot is funny.’

  The other one, who had chubby cheeks and a remarkably flat cranium, held out a placating hand. ‘It won’t come to that. What can we help you with?’

  ‘That’s more like it,’ said Hope.

  ‘If it’s guns you want, forget it,’ snapped the lanky one. ‘You’ll have to shoot us before we let police issue weapons run wild on the street.’

  ‘Does it look like I nee
d a gun?’

  ‘Then what is it? Some coins?’

  Hope paid the lanky man closer heed. He had a pencil mustache that had seen its fair share of tweezer time. His shirt hung loosely off his shoulders, the badge on the breast pocket bobbing in the folds

  ‘I want your current logbook,’ snapped Hope at him.

  ‘I fucking knew it,’ came the belligerent reply. ‘You’re FBI, aren’t you? One of Hoover’s sucklings.’ He turned truculently to his partner. ‘This is what they do. I heard they done it in Texas. And now they’re doing it here. They send out their raw recruits to raid local police stations. So they get to feel they’re big men just like the criminals. It’s pig manure, if you ask me.’

  ‘I could tell you you’re wrong,’ snapped Hope, ‘but I would rather just shoot you in the face.’

  ‘I’ll get the logbook,’ said the chubby cheeked policeman and he hauled himself out of his chair, his chubby neck spilling out over his collar and his lips clenching into straight lines.

  ‘Yeah, get it, Harold,’ said the lanky one, ‘and the first entry in the new one will tell how the FBI, too gutless to try anything in the boroughs of New York, came all the way out to Sacksville to prove how tough they can be.’ His eyes bore into Hope. ‘A fucking Hoover crony. The Captain will take care of this in his own good way.’ The carotid artery on his neck was throbbing; he appeared too wound up to even take a breath though had air enough to add, ‘The Captain fuckin’ hates the FBI even more than me. And why not? You solve one case a year and expect every newspaper in the country to put you on the front page for it. Is that why you want the log book? So you can see if there are any cases you can claim to have solved.’

  ‘You’d better get the log book quickly, Harold,’ yelled Hope with a flash of gun at the broad-faced man. ‘Your partner here is going to earn a bullet.’

  ‘Alright. Just take it easy.’ The man hurried around the counter to a filing cabinet in a back corner. He extracted a large leather bound notebook from the top drawer.

  As Hope observed his progress a wry smirk formed under the kerchief. Walking into the police station with a drawn weapon and a mask was the first time he had ever been mistaken for law-enforcement - his purpose mistaken for some kind of inter-agency liaison. No wonder he had never been caught.

  24. ‘A New Yorker might be aghast at how sleepy a town such as this can get.’