Killer Mountain

by Peter Pinkham

  He mounted the stairs to Wally’s room. Carver was stretched out on top of his bed reading. He peered over his glasses as Hudson swung the door open.

  “Do you have a copy of Sturgis’s will?”

  “Yes. There’s not much in it. He didn’t have much.”

  “Instructions on the handling of his body?”

  “Cremation and quick service. I gave them to John yesterday.”

  “Funeral where?”

  “O’Connor in Marblehead tomorrow.”

  “Publicized?”

  “It’s in the Boston papers. What’s on your mind?”

  “What do they do with the ashes?”

  “His daughter is his heir.” Carver looked inquiringly.

  “I want to talk with her. John can’t or won’t let me.”

  “They’re not questioning her?”

  “They did. But that was before a lot of what’s gone on. John says he doesn’t know where she is, and I believe him; they’re big on that need to know stuff.”

  Wally studied him. “You think she’ll be at the service?”

  “I don’t know, but I will.” He studied a shoe, then looked up. “If she’s under FBI guard, I’ll need an entree. You know the family, any ideas?”

  The old man wrinkled his forehead. Then Hudson saw the corners of his mouth dip, as they did the two times Wally managed checkmate against him. “Do you want to be his executor?”

  “Just like that?”

  “After he heard about the attack at your house, Sturgis gave up on life, wanted someone else to take responsibility. I had some blank forms. He signed them; I never got around to filling in my name, so we’ll use yours.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “I’ll get them. You’re not going to defraud the man’s estate.”

  “No, just pay my respects. And see who else does.” Through a front window he could see John Krestinski talking with two of his men. “Think they’d be listening in if I used the telephone?”

  “A tap goes on later today, I’m told.”

  “They tell you why?”

  “You know the answer to that. `Standard procedure.’”

  Hudson shook his head and pulled out his cell. Information gave him the number of the O’Connor Funeral Home. He rang it.

  “This is Josiah O’Connor.”

  “What time is the Sturgis funeral tomorrow?”

  “Ah...are you a member of the family?”

  “His executor. My name is Hudson Rogers.”

  “Mr. Rogers, the...ah, family has requested a private service here in our chapel.”

  “Excellent. That was his wish. What time should I come by to take care of the bill?”

  “The service is at ten. But I understood the financial arrangements will be taken care of by, ah...a federal agency.”

  “I know Mr. Sturgis would have wanted you to be paid promptly. With federal bureaucracies, it might take...”

  “Yes, yes I know what you are saying. It will be a pleasure to see you tomorrow.”

  Hudson turned to his former father-in-law. “You go for the newspaper early each morning, don’t you?”

  “Seven-thirty, why?”

  “Are agents following you?”

  “Yesterday they were practically in my trunk. I stopped a few times, making them pull over in awkward places. They got the idea and this morning stayed back out of sight. They were there, though. Caught up with me at the store.”

  “I think my car needs work. Can you follow me down to Bill’s Garage?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. Then on your paper run tomorrow I’ll be under a blanket in the rear seat. You can drop me at Bill’s and keep going.”

  “That’s not a bad idea. To keep going.”

  “Run them around the Valley?”

  “To Boston. You’re right, it’s time we carried the fight to the bastards who’ve got us cooped up here. ”

  Hudson looked at the old man with amusement. “Going to take your shotgun?”

  “Going to renew old acquaintances. Spend a little time in the city.” He turned to look at Hudson. “At one time I was rather involved with the movers and shakers of Boston, such as they were.”

  “And now?”

  “I’m going to spend a quiet day at my club.”

  “Didn’t know you’d kept a membership in one.”

  “Until today I didn’t know why I did. It’s where I met Preston Sturgis as a matter of fact.”

  “And that is?”

  “The Onyx Club, where an employee died after contact with him.”

  Chapter 19

  The chapel was just another room in the big old Atlantic Avenue house. In a pinch it might seat thirty, Hudson guessed, though for this particular event such capacity was wasted. As he peered around the corner of the door, he could see but one figure. It was a woman, and she sat in the front row. Josiah O’Connor had greeted Hudson in his low key manner and, after viewing the documents Wally had provided and had witnessed the night before, been pleased to accept Hudson’s check. The actual cremation, he said, had taken place the previous afternoon, and the woman had presented him with a letter from Miss Sturgis authorizing her to accept the ashes. No name was requested or offered

  “Mr. Rogers?” Josiah O’Connor was at his elbow. “I’m getting forgetful in my old age. There is one more paper.”

  Reluctantly, Hudson allowed himself to be led down a long corridor to the little office where business matters were handled. Here he was seated while the funeral director rummaged through a pile of papers.

  “I know I have it here somewhere...”

  The canned organ music could be heard faintly. “Can we take care of it by mail? I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

  “Why yes, of course. I did want you to have a receipt.”

  A receipt! Oh for Christ’s sake! Hudson was out of his chair, “Thank you, my check will do for that.” Swiftly he retraced his steps to the chapel. It was empty.

  He moved quickly to the front door, pulled it open, looking up and down the street. There! The woman was climbing into a white two-door Dodge a block away. She had an object that could have been an urn in her hand. Damn! His car was in the other direction. Making a quick decision, he gimped toward her car - hoping the bleeding didn’t start again - until he was close enough to see the license plate, then went faster to his Subaru. Her car took off heading south; by the time he reached his, hers had disappeared. He eased his sore rear on a pillow he’d grabbed at Wally’s house, one with colorful green, red and yellow frogs on the case, and gave a gray-bearded man a start as he pulled suddenly in front of the man’s old red Plymouth, treading hard on the accelerator. Sorry...

  Did O’Connor purposely give the woman an opening to avoid him? Why? Instructions from the ah federal agency no doubt. It couldn’t have been much of a service, he thought. He’d arrived a minute or two before the hour, and his business with the funeral director had taken less than ten.

  Sixty on Atlantic Avenue was like a hundred on an expressway. A residential road with side streets popping up at irregular intervals, Hudson had to keep focus on driving. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. A car behind was matching his speed. He flicked his eyes back to it. An old red Plymouth. Gray-beard? Gets upset kind of easy. He crossed into Swampscott with still no sign of the white Dodge. Coming out of the curve where the old Preston hotel once stood stirred a brief memory of playing on that beach as a child on holiday from suburban Cambridge. Later there was a girl the guys called Turrets... he upped speed to seventy, blurring the once-stately old homes on either side. Brakes squealed as he slowed for the junction with Humphrey Street. Just one car ahead, she was accelerating on the road to Lynn. It was also the road to Boston. And Houston and Jackson Hole for that matter. Another Humphrey Street car inserted itself, so he was two back. They stayed that way along Lynn beach and over the bridge into Revere. She gave no indication she was aware of him, no sharp turns into other roads, just a steady drive. Stopped at the light, he heard a
car backfire. His focus on the car ahead was so complete it was ten seconds before he realized inspection requirements had made backfiring cars extinct. He glanced again in the mirror; he glimpsed the red Plymouth one car back. Now that’s irritation.

  He didn’t need another problem and ran the light at the circle beyond Wonderland Dog Track. The red car got blocked by the law-abiding driver ahead of it. Both cars in front turned off for Everett, leaving him directly behind the courier. Someone sent to pick up the ashes and bring them - and Hudson inviting himself - to Loni. He had no plan after; somehow get her to talk to him. He had his initial questions, the rest to follow from the answers.

  They swung left toward the tunnel and downtown Boston. And the Onyx Club, he thought, where Wally would arrive later in the day. Maybe he’d join his former father-in-law there for dinner, if he was allowed in. He’d heard a member was allowed one guest a month.

  Suddenly all thoughts of meeting Wally vanished. The white Dodge turned onto the ramp for Logan airport! Damn! He should have expected that Loni be stashed not only not in Boston but also not in New England. Country living had relaxed him. Too much. He should be thinking more than one move ahead; that must be corrected. He inventoried; some cash and credit cards. Maybe the woman was just meeting someone; though he probably still had another damnable plane ride coming, else why meet here.

  The Dodge turned into the airport garage. Hudson kept his Subaru as far behind as he dared. He was two hundred feet back when she parked. Since she took the first open space they’d encountered, he had to drive past her to find another. He sped up and kept his face turned away; God knows how long he’d have to follow her now - if he could get on the flight at all. He thought about that. There was no backup plan available, he either was on that plane or he’d lost the chance at Loni.

  In the terminal she examined the departure schedule, then walked toward one of the corridors that led to multi gates. Part way down it was a man and a woman checking tickets. Only passengers were allowed beyond that point. He had to have a ticket to get by them, any ticket; he’d hope to get on her plane at its gate. He studied the courier from the back, camel hair three-quarter length coat, short light brown hair, brown shoes, then, pillow in hand, ran back to the ticket counters. The smallest line was three persons. He got in that one, but it was ten minutes before he reached the desk. He used the time to decide on a flight departing from one of the gates off the corridor he’d just left.

  “Do you have space on 721 to New York?”

  “Sorry, sir, that one’s sold out. I could put you on standby?”

  “How about Washington? I see you have one at eleven-fifty.”

  “Hmm. Nope, nothing there. It’s a busy season.”

  “Cincinnati at eleven-forty?”

  The clerk looked at him curiously. “Yes, sir, I have one in first class. It’s boarding now.”

  “Done.” Hudson pulled out a credit card.

  “Round trip?”

  “One way.”

  “Anyplace but Boston, huh?” the clerk grinned as he completed the paperwork.

  “It’s the time of year,” said Hudson nonsensically.

  “Luggage?” The clerk glancing at the froggy pillow.

  “No. I’ll...carry this.”

  With the precious ticket in hand, he dashed for the gates. Several waiting areas were empty; many had crowds of passengers awaiting boarding announcements. He’d noted the gate numbers with earliest departure, and those he checked first. It was eleven twenty-two. The wing of the airport was T shaped with over a dozen gates off it. In five minutes he covered them all. No camel hair coat. Could she have taken it off? He doubted it. It wasn’t that warm in here, and he saw no one who looked like his quarry. One of the ladies rooms? There appeared to be three. From the center of the T he could keep an eye on all of them. Another five minutes passed. Damn. Would she take that long? Sylvia, his first wife, often did. Cilla never. He looked at the ticket in his hand that had given him entree to the gates. Maybe she was on that plane! With Holmesian logic she had to be. Gate twenty-one. He got to the door just as they were closing it.

  His seat was at the front of the plane where he entered. She wasn’t in first class, and the flight attendant was just drawing the curtain between first class and the rest of the plane. He wouldn’t know if he was right until they were in the air. Had he ever wanted to see Cincinnati?

  He was committed, so there was no hurry checking if the woman was aboard. Will he even recognize her? He’d only seen her from the back, and she’d probably taken off the camel hair coat. He shifted from one cheek to the other until what passed for lunch had been served, then followed another passenger back as though headed for the tail toilets. Peering around the man’s shoulder, he saw her halfway back. Was he sure? Yes, the camel hair coat over her as a blanket. Holmes was right. Her eyes were closed, and she appeared to be sleeping. Lucky her. It would take general anesthesia to put him out on a plane.

  At Cincinnati he enjoyed an advantage of first class; the other passengers had to pass by on their way out. From behind a magazine he studied them. No camel hair. After the last had deplaned he looked back. She was reading a book as though in her living room. He stopped an attendant.

  “Where does this plane go from here?”

  “This is a continuing flight to Salt Lake City and Seattle.”

  Of course! There had even been an announcement about that, but he was so focused on Cincinnati...“Is there space from here on?”

  “I don’t know, sir. You’d have to check with the desk in the airport.”

  “How long before you take off?”

  “Just as soon as we’re loaded. The weather over western New York put us behind. You probably have thirty minutes, though.”

  The airport was mobbed, and the line at the check-in counter was long enough to interfere with foot traffic for other gates. Thirty minutes became twenty, then ten. Final calls were being announced for the flight when he reached the counter.

  “Can you get me back on this flight? I was on it from Boston.”

  “Salt Lake City or Seattle?”

  “Seattle.” Let’s not go through this again.

  The clerk conferred with his computer. “Here we go. It’s a window. 24A.”

  “Great! I’ll take it.”

  Again he was the last through the door. Hudson, who was always so early he had to wait for whomever he was meeting, found this unsettling. He’d never make it as a private eye; tailing had too many things that could go wrong.

  At Salt Lake City she put on her coat and headed for the exit. Hudson followed, several passengers behind. She walked toward baggage control. Why? She had no luggage - did she? - only a hand bag that presumably contained the urn. Did she have a car here? If so, he’d follow in a taxi. A lot more convenient if he could rent a car, but unless she did, he wouldn’t have the time. An elderly lady in a hard plastic seat eyed his froggy pillow, enviously he thought. He tucked it tighter under his arm.

  She was in no hurry, stopping at a newsstand and then at a rest room. Just stretching her legs. He convinced himself she was continuing on to Seattle, and was on his pillow immersed in a newspaper when she returned. The stop had forced his lazy brain to think. He’d been to Seattle. SeaTac was a substantial airport with several possible exits. One led to taxis and buses, another to the garage where, as he remembered it, private and rental cars were both parked. If this was the end of her flight, she’d probably have her own automobile, using a different exit than the one to the taxi rank. Could he keep her in sight and still rent a car to follow? No way. Unless he had one waiting. He shrunk down in his seat and turned on his cell. Information gave him the names of rental car companies at SeaTac. He picked one and dialed. Renting a car was no problem, but there was always paperwork at a desk when picking it up. He couldn’t afford that extra time. He transferred his call to the firm’s garage desk.

  “I need a little special help, and I’m told if anyone can handle it you folks can.”<
br />
  “Yes, sir?”

  “I’m on flight 721, due at SeaTac at 3:20. I need to have a car ready and waiting, not in a parking space but the garage is right outside the room you’re in, isn’t it?” The response was affirmative. “I can’t afford time standing in line but I’m willing to pay extra to have the paperwork so I can sign it and be on my way. I’ll give you my credit card number if you can do it.”

  “Do you want something sporty?”

  “No, just horsepower.”

  As the plane came to a stop at a SeaTac gate, he felt he’d done all he could. Either exit the woman took he was prepared for. She stopped for a moment, looking in her handbag at the beginning of the bridge to the garage. Hudson put his pillow under his coat and went past her at a fast pace. Now came the gamble. She could take the elevator to a number of different floors. If he followed to see which one, he’d be without means to stay with her car. His lone chance was to be ready in a car himself.

  There was a couple ahead of him at the rental car counter, but he waved a paper with his name at the clerk and got a response. She excused herself from the couple and placed a document on the counter, pointing to where his signature was required. He handed her his credit card and signed and initialed. The keys were in the car, just outside the glass-walled room. The whole process had taken less than two minutes. But he’d lost sight of the woman. For the third time since the funeral parlor he was not in contact. Following someone was a series of guesses, he thought, and you had to be right on every single one. One wrong move and you’d come several thousand miles for nothing. Well, not completely nothing. He knew for pretty certain that Loni was somewhere in western Washington. That left him only a few million places to look.

  The car was a Mercedes, that old preppie symbol of having “made it”. It wasn’t Hudson’s taste, but it had the speed he’d asked for - wasted speed if he didn’t locate camel hair. Once out of the garage...he could advertise: “Loni, need to talk. Slip away from the FBI agent protecting you and meet stranger in dark alley.”