“What the hell would he be going down to that racetrack for?”
“I don’t know what they’re doing,” Cory said. “I mean, there they are, they came out tonight, everything like we thought they’d do, but now I don’t get it. They aren’t leading us to any money.”
“Maybe Tom’s helping the guy get away from here.”
“At forty-five miles an hour? Besides, he could’ve done that last night. Or today.”
“Get up closer,” Cal said. “Let’s see what they’re up to.”
“They’re driving,” Cory said.
“Come on, Cory, close it up.”
“You can’t see inside a car at night.”
“Close it up, goddammit.”
So Cory moved up much closer, not quite tailgating the Ford, and they drove like that awhile, trying to figure it out, getting nowhere. Then, way ahead, Cory saw the lights of the next roadblock and said, “I gotta ease back,” just as Cal yelled, “Goddammit!”
“What?” Cory’s foot was off the gas, the Jetta slowing, the Ford moving toward the distant roadblock, its brake lights not yet on.
“He’s alone in there!”
“What?”
“Pull over here, pull over here, goddammit!”
A closed gas station was on the right. Cory pulled in, drifting past the pumps as he said, “What do you mean, he’s alone in there?”
“Tom! I could see those lights down there through his windshield, and he’s goddammit alone in the goddam car! Stop!”
Cory stopped. “Then where is he? Maybe he’s lying down in back.”
“For a roadblock? He isn’t there,” Cal insisted, and a black car suddenly passed them on their left and angled to a stop across the front of the Jetta. Cal’s one eye stared. “What is this?”
The driver of the other car got out, looking over its roof at them, and, of course, it was Ed Smith. Cory reflexively shifted into reverse as Smith took a step down the other side of his car, as though he wanted to come around and talk to them.
Cal didn’t give him the chance. All at once he was lunging out of the Jetta, and when Cory turned to him, he had that automatic in his hand. Cory yelled, “Don’t!” at the same time Cal yelled some damn thing at Smith and lifted the automatic as though to shoot Smith, and in the same instant Smith laid his own hand on the roof of his car, with something small and black in it that coughed a dot of red flame and Cal went reeling backward, the automatic dropping onto the gas station’s concrete.
Cory screamed, and tromped on the accelerator, and the Jetta tore backward past the pumps, the open passenger door not quite hitting them but rocking as though it would come off its hinges, until Cory pounded his foot on the brake and the door slammed.
Ahead of him across the gas station, Smith was striding forward, that gun in his hand down at his side. Cory spun the wheel, shifted into drive, and tore away from there northward, leaving Cal and Smith and the Ford and the roadblock and everything else to shrink and disappear in the rearview mirror.
Absolute panic compelled him to drive hard for three or four minutes on a road with no traffic until he overtook a slow-moving pickup and had to decelerate. As he slowed, the panic receded and clear thought came back, and he knew he had to go take care of Cal. He was the younger brother, but he’d always been the one with brains, the one who went along with Cal’s stunts but then—sometimes—got them both out of trouble when things went too far.
Cal was hit. Shot. How bad?
Cory made a U-turn and headed south again, and would have missed the gas station this time if he hadn’t seen that roadblock far ahead. But there was the station, and Cory pulled in, went past the pumps to where he’d stopped the last time, and stopped again. Smith and the black car were gone.
Afraid of what he would find, Cory got out of the Jetta and looked around on the right side of the car. Cal’s automatic lay on the pavement where it had fallen, but there was nothing else there. No Cal.
Cory got back into the car, put the automatic on the passenger seat, and drove this way and that so he could use the headlights to look at every part of the gas station property. He found nothing.
There was a night-light inside the station office. Cory got out of the Jetta again and looked through the windows there. He looked everywhere. Cal was gone.
13
State Police Captain Robert Modale looked at the artist’s rendering of the bank robber, crumpled and greasy from having been in a desk drawer in Brian Hopwood’s gas station, and now that he knew the truth, he could see it, he could see that face, the same face as the man he’d talked with just yesterday up in the St. Stanislas parking lot. They’d talked about Lyme disease, and who would have ever guessed he was this fellow all along? The felons a man met up with usually weren’t that bold.
Captain Modale was a calm man, not given to extremes of temperament, but even for him this was a moment out of the ordinary. A lesser man might have sworn or punched a wall, but Captain Modale merely clenched his lips and flared his nostrils a little and nodded down at that picture he held in his unshaking left hand and thought, I’ll know you next time.
At the moment, eight-fifty on this Sunday evening, the captain was standing in the brightly lit living room of an old fellow named Jack Riley, whose report of a stolen revolver, a .22-caliber S&W Ranger, had started the unraveling of tonight’s events. Riley, bright-eyed and eager, perched on the forward edge of the easy chair where he obviously usually spent his time watching that television set over there. His granddaughter, Suzanne Gilbert, a good-looking woman if a little peremptory in manner, seeming apparently none the worse for wear after having been knocked around and tied up by the bank robber, sat on the arm of the same chair, her right hand protectively on her grandfather’s left shoulder. Brian Hopwood, still in his dirty work clothes, stood beside the sofa, talking on Riley’s phone to his wife, explaining to her all that had happened and reassuring her, possibly, that everything was all right now. Trooper Oskott stood at semi-attention over by the front door.
They were all waiting for Captain Modale to sort things out and decide what to do next, but by God, there was a full dossier here of things to sort out. There were too many people in this incident, it seemed to the captain, and too many relationships.
Start with the bank robber, who everyone here had known as Ed Smith, a name that had produced thousands of results upon the captain inputting it into the onboard computer in the cruiser, none of them seeming to be helpful in any way. So start with Mr. Ed Smith, whose name was certainly not Ed Smith, but who, for convenience’ sake, would be given that name, at least for now. What were the relationships between Smith and the other people in Pooley—or Fred Thiemann, too, let’s not forget the fellow just recently shot down by the captain’s own officers just across the road there—and how deep and long-standing might those relationships have been?
On entering this room, after being driven down here by Trooper Oskott from Barracks K, greeting the people already assembled here by the troopers who’d been the first responders to Jack Riley’s complaint, the captain had dropped onto the dark wood coffee table in front of the sofa the yellow legal pad he’d brought along with him, so that he could accept the Wanted poster Hopwood insisted on handing him, and now he sat down on the sofa facing that pad, Riley and the Gilbert woman to his right, television set to his left, Hopwood standing at the end of the sofa to his left, and took a retractable pen from his pocket. Clicking it open after putting the Wanted poster under the legal pad, he said, “I’d like first to close with this fellow Smith, and everybody’s relationship with him.”
Suzanne Gilbert, as though she might become offended, said, “Relationship? None of us had a relationship with that man.”
“I never even met him,” Jack Riley added.
Brian Hopwood, just off the phone, pulled over the small wooden chair from beside the television set, sat on it as though afraid to make it dirty, and said, “I only saw him that one time in my life, this afternoon, when he came in for gas.�
�
“But you recognized him.”
“Not right away. But I thought about it, and when he came back in to get his change—he didn’t use up the cash he gave me—I had it doped out who he was, and I went ahead and did one of the dumbest things I’ve ever done in my life.”
“You did exactly what a good citizen should have done, under the circumstances,” the captain told him, though he himself didn’t believe it even while he was saying it.
Nor did Hopwood. “A good citizen with a death wish,” he suggested.
The captain decided to let that drop. Facing the others, he said, “So none of you had had dealings with this man before today.”
With seeming reluctance, as though still troubled by that word “relationship,” Suzanne Gilbert said, “Well . . . I saw him last night.”
“Ah,” the captain said, not showing his surprise. “And where was that?”
“Just outside there,” she said, nodding at the front window. “I was driving by, and he was walking along the road. You don’t usually see people walking around here.”
“No,” the captain agreed. “You just happened to be driving by?”
“No, I often drive this way after work,” she said, as though he’d accused her of something and she was determined to rise above it. “If Jack wants to talk, he’ll have the porch light on.”
“Ah. And was the porch light on?”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“I was asleep in front of the damn TV,” Riley said. “Again.”
“And you saw this man,” the captain said. “Just walking, you say?”
“Yes. I thought it was strange, so I stopped and asked him if I could help with anything, and he said he was staying with Tom Lindahl—”
“The man whose parrot was shot.”
She looked blank. “I’m sorry?”
So these people hadn’t heard that part of it. “Nothing,” the captain said, not wanting a distraction.
But Hopwood said, “Somebody shot a parrot?”
“Tom Lindahl’s parrot.”
“I never knew he had one,” Hopwood said. “Why would anybody shoot a parrot?”
“To keep it from talking,” Jack said, and actually cackled.
“Jack!” his granddaughter said, reproving him, and squeezed his shoulder to make him behave.
To her, the captain said, “Let’s get back. This man you talked to last night said he was staying with Tom Lindahl.”
“Yes.” She looked a little confused and said, “So then I thought it was all right.”
Hopwood said, “He had Tom’s car, at the station, I know that car.”
Suzanne Gilbert said, “Did he do something to Tom, too?”
“We don’t know, ma’am,” the captain said. “He isn’t at home, and neither is his car.”
Hopwood said, “That fellow stole Jeff Eggleston’s car. From my place.”
“The black Infiniti,” the captain said. “Yes, I know, we’ve put out a bulletin on it.”
“What I mean is,” Hopwood said, “if he’s got Jeff’s car, he can’t have Tom’s. You can only drive one car.”
“Then we have to assume,” the captain said, “that Lindahl is driving his own car. Does anybody have any idea where he might go?”
“Nowhere,” Hopwood said, and Suzanne Gilbert said, “When I talked to that man last night, he said Tom Lindahl was a hermit. I think that’s true.”
The captain paused, trying to think of a question that might help him move forward on this problem, and in the little silence the front doorbell rang, startling them all. The captain said, “Trooper Oskott can answer.”
The trooper turned, opened the door, and spoke briefly with somebody on the porch. Then he turned back to say, “To see you, Captain.”
“Thank you.” Rising, he told the others, “I think we’re just about finished. Let me see what this is.”
“I’d like to get home,” Hopwood said.
“I’m sure you would,” the captain said, and went out to the porch, where a plainclothes state police inspector named Harrison said, “How’s it going?”
“Confusing.”
“Well, this may help a little. Mrs. Thiemann gave us a statement.”
“Yes?”
“She says her husband was part of the group that went out looking for the fugitives yesterday.”
“I saw them there,” the captain said. “He was teamed up with the missing householder here, Lindahl, and this fella we’ve been calling Smith.”
“She says, her husband told her, they went up to Wolf Peak—”
“That’s right.”
“And up there her husband shot and killed a man.”
Now the captain could not hold his astonishment. “He did what?”
“Some old wino, bum, something like that.” Harrison shrugged. “He got excited, Thiemann, he thought it was one of the bank robbers, and shot him.”
“I swear I don’t understand this situation,” the captain said. “One of them’s a bank robber, another of them suddenly ups and kills a man—and a parrot—and the third, an ordinary fellow his entire life, goes missing.”
“The thing is,” Harrison said, “Thiemann would have turned himself in, but Smith talked him out of it, said it was to protect Thiemann.”
“It was to protect Smith.”
“Well, sure. But Thiemann couldn’t stand it. His wife said it drove him crazy.”
The captain looked across the road. “So he came down here to confront Smith. Nobody home.”
“Lucky for Lindahl,” Harrison said, and corrected himself. “Lucky for somebody.”
“This Smith,” the captain said, “robs a bank in Massachusetts, escapes, gets this far, hooks up with two other people, ordinary people, everybody starts going nuts.”
Harrison said, “You think he did it to them, somehow?”
“I truly don’t know,” the captain said, and looked out from the lighted porch at the dark road. “We are not going to know,” he said, “what this is really all about until Tom Lindahl tells us. I do wish I could lay my hands on him.” He nodded at the darkness. “Yes, Lindahl,” he said, “I would really like to know where you are.”
14
Around nine-thirty, Bill Henry yawned, stretched, pushed back from the desk where his latest Field & Stream had lain open and unread for some time now, and got to his feet. One more yawn and he said, “I think I’ll walk around a little.”
Max Evanson, his usual partner on the overnight shift, looked up from his People magazine in some surprise: “Walk around what?”
“The track. The building. Just around.”
Max still didn’t get it. A traditional kind of guy, who only believed in, as he’d said more than once, “meat and potatoes,” he wouldn’t see any reason for Bill or himself or anyone else on night guard duty at Gro-More to get up from his comfortable chair in security unless his shift was over. He said, “You’re gonna walk around the track? It’s, what, it’s two miles, mile and a half, something like that.”
“I’m not going to walk around the track,” Bill said. “That’s not what I mean at all. Look, Max, I’m outa here the middle of next month, just in time for Thanksgiving, I’m feeling a little different about the place, okay? You get it?”
“No,” Max said.
“I’ve been working here thirty-seven years,” Bill said, “the last five in this dumb security office, and pretty soon I’m not gonna be working here any more.”
“I’m fourteen months behind you,” Max said, as though it were a prayer.
“Well, fourteen months from now, you’ll feel the same way I do,” Bill assured him.
“And what’s that?” The skepticism twanged in Max’s voice.
“Not nostalgic exactly—”
“Nostalgic! For this place? The people running this outfit here—”
“No, not nostalgic,” Bill insisted. “It’s just— You spend so much of your life at a place, you know you’re gonna leave it, you won’t reall
y miss it, but still you want to fix it in your mind before you go.”
“It’s fixed in my mind,” Max promised him.
“Well, I’m gonna take a little walk around,” Bill said. “Mind the store.”
“Huh,” Max said.
The way it was set up, because of insurance and getting people bonded and all that, security at Gro-More had been a special set-off company since just after World War Two. The track contracted for security arrangements from that company, everything from staff for crowd control to spy cameras, and the employees of the subcompany shared in the not-very-good health and pension benefits available to the rest of the track’s workforce.
For most of his thirty-seven years here, Bill Henry had been assigned crowd control out by the entrance gates, and he’d enjoyed it. It was pleasant out in the air, and more interesting than the occasional stint in front of the betting windows, showing the uniform and the holstered sidearm and looking stern, just as though there was a chance in hell one of these bettors would suddenly up and rob the place. Never happen.
So what they did with the security employees, as they got older, nearer retirement, less intimidating out in public regardless of the brown uniform and the holstered firearm, was move them to the overnight guard detail. A simple, easy life if you liked to read, which most of the guys did. A short workweek, reduced pay, but retirement was right out there at the end of it, so not really a problem.
Parts of the track were kept locked at night, like the money room downstairs and the tellers’ cages upstairs, but most of the rest of it inside the security wall was open, illuminated just enough to satisfy the fire code. Leaving the office now, Bill walked first down the corridor past more offices and then out to the rail near the finish line, down to his right. The main dirt course was a long oval under the dim lights, extending left and right, with the slightly smaller turf course a green river within, and then the interior lawn, a different green, with its ornamental fountain and some perennial flowers that were starting at this time of year to give up the ghost.
At night, empty, the track looked much bigger than in the daytime, as though it could probably be seen from the moon, though he knew that was impossible. Bill liked the size of it at night, and the emptiness of it, and the fact that, in all that big empty space, there was never even one echo. It was as though the track absorbed sound, making the place restful and eternal and also just a little spooky.
Ask the Parrot p-23 Page 15