There were no streetlights on the side roads anyway. A change of weather was occurring rapidly. Very light mist was thickening into a fog that belonged near the sea and not in the mountains. It draped itself on tree limbs like sheer gray-white silk. His headlight beams sliced through it, but it instantly came back together behind him. It was as though Nature was cooperating and giving him the cover he needed to remain anonymous. These were roads he rarely traveled. People living on them wouldn’t be accustomed to seeing him. He had, after all, successfully kept away from the Hacker brothers all these years. It was a friendship he had begun to regret even before that night. Afterward, he immediately found excuses for not joining them no matter what they wanted to do. His retreat hadn’t angered them; it amused them. That’s how sick they were.
When he arrived, he saw that all the lights were out, except, of course, for the lights in the pale gray clapboard farmhouse-style home with Queen Anne posts and railings next door. The house looked old and deserted, in desperate need of paint, repair and any kind of loving care. The front porch had one small wall lantern beside the door. It was all so peaceful that for a moment he actually wondered if he had imagined the phone call. Perhaps his guilty mind had conceived it. Maybe he had fallen asleep and had dreamed it. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
After he slowed and then turned to go around the garage to the pathetic-looking body shop behind it, however, he saw the light seeping out from under the rear door. The building itself was an obvious afterthought.
The main garage was constructed with a dirty-gray stucco finish. The body shop was a wood-framed building with cheap metal siding, some of which had literally fallen off and much had buckled. It had a flat roof and, in the rear, a pipe chimney for a coal- and wood-burning stove that assisted an oil burner that was much too small for the building. He recalled how they and the men they hired worked with coats on during the winter. The floor was still hard-packed dirt and sawdust. The walls were peppered with pictures of nude women from old calendars.
When he was younger, it was a neat clubhouse after hours in which they could drink and smoke. The lack of parental supervision turned the Hacker brothers into R-rated Huckleberry Finns. In those days, they somehow fit the description of heroic because they could drive without licenses and basically do whatever they pleased.
He parked, turned off the engine and sat there for a moment. It was never easy to stand up to either of them. The restraints that kept most boys chained to some variation of the Marquess of Queensberry Rules in a fight were not even a small consideration to them. Headbutting, elbowing, kicking someone in the balls and even biting were not only fair and smart but expected. They were proud of their motto: Do unto others before they do unto you. Bart understood they had gotten that from their alcoholic father, which was practically his only attempt to pass down any wisdom he wanted his sons to inherit.
Bart got out of the car, tried to drink from that well of anger he had dipped into earlier, and started for the rear entrance. It was deadly quiet around the body shop, too. The fog had thickened here as well. There was no traffic on the road behind him. It looked as if everything living, even bats and owls, had deserted this part of the world. However, off about an acre or so, a dog was barking hysterically at something. When he reached the door, he heard music from a local radio station. He opened the door and stepped in.
Marvin was sitting in an oversized cushioned chestnut-brown chair, the arms of which were torn and leaked some of the stuffing. He picked a piece of it and rolled it between his large thumb and forefinger as he broke into a smile. He wore coveralls and a faded blue short-sleeve shirt that clearly exposed his large forearms and biceps. He was unshaven, the three- or four-day growth looking like dead moss on his granite cheeks and jawbone.
‘Mr Stonefield himself,’ he said. His teeth were yellowed with nicotine stains, highlighted in the weak overhead illumination cast by the naked bulb that hung like an icicle dripping light. There was one other light on, a lamp in the rear next to what served as a desk, a crate on concrete blocks with a black folding chair.
Marvin saw how Bart was looking at the body shop. It looked even worse than Bart remembered. Marvin rose as if he was growing rapidly out of the chair.
‘Not as fancy as Stonefield’s, huh?’
‘What do you want, Marvin? Why did you ask me to come here tonight? I thought we said enough to each other.’
‘Yer never usta be in such a hurry ta get outta here, Bart,’ he replied, still holding that impish smile. ‘Yer spent a lotta time here, fuckin’ around. Weren’t yer the one who got that pot shit for us to smoke?’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘Not that long.’
He crossed over to a shelf and picked up what Bart could see was an old Sullivan County newspaper. It had yellowed with time. Marvin opened it so the front page could be clearly seen. The lead headline and story was about the sexual assault. The picture was of the state investigator, Lieutenant Marcus.
‘Remember this bitch?’ Marvin asked, folding the paper and holding it up. ‘I swear she had balls. She had a mustache. I remember that – fuzz over her lip here,’ he said, running his finger over the area above his own upper lip. ‘I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I remember I asked her why she didn’t shave and she looked like she would shoot me right then and there. Would have been good for yer if she had, huh?’
‘What’s the point, Marvin?’
Marvin lost his smile and put the paper back on the shelf.
‘I figured out a way to make me feel better.’
‘Feel better? About what?’
‘You know what?’
Bart shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Yeah. I bet you don’t. Anyway, I decided to be smart this time, since you’ve gone so far with her. You and yer father stole away many of my customers, shithead. I figure yer owe me for that.’
‘We didn’t steal anyone away. Anyone who came to us came because they wanted to. We don’t have to solicit for business.’
‘Yeah, I know. What I said was just a – what’dya call it – excuse to make yer more comfortable with what yer goin’ to do, asshole.’
‘What am I going to do?’
‘Get me five thousand dollars. I’ll give yer two days. I want to make some improvements here,’ he added, smiling. ‘So I can compete with Stonefield’s.’
‘Five thousand dollars!’
‘That’s cheap. Yer probably goin’ ta spend that on all yer preparations for yer weddin’. If she’ll marry yer after I talk to her, that is.’
‘Talk to her? You couldn’t talk to her without confessing and you know where that will get you,’ Bart fired back. He had rehearsed the line many times.
‘Hey, I know a little bit about broads. She couldn’t turn me in without turnin’ yer in and that would make for a helluva weddin’ afterward.’
‘I wasn’t there,’ Bart said. ‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘You were there. Yer were in the truck, stoned outta yer head, but yer knew it all. Yer told that cop just what we told yer ta tell her – that we all come back here and played cards until two in the mornin’. Yer what they call an accessory, an accessory to the rape of the girl yer goin’ ta marry,’ he said, widening his smile. ‘Which puzzles me anyway. How the hell can yer marry her? Jesus, yer must be desperate or somethin’.’
‘I should have turned you in,’ Bart said. How many times over the last six years had he told himself that, but he had been very frightened the year it happened. He knew what it would do to his parents and how it could affect his father’s business. The more time passed, the harder it became even to consider it.
‘Shoulda, coulda – the words of a loser, right? Yer a loser this time, Bart. Be grateful I’m askin’ fer only five thousand.’
‘That’s now,’ Bart said. ‘You won’t stop asking for money.’
Marvin smiled. ‘This could get a lot worse, jerk-off. Wi’ my brother gone, the second guy coulda been you. W
ho’s ta say otherwise?’
‘What would that get you, stupid?’ Bart said, his anger returning now. He stepped forward.
‘Get me a deal. I know what lawyers can do. I’d turn – what’dya call it – state’s evidence, and give them a high-end perp. See? I watch television and learn shit, too.’
‘Maybe I’ll beat you to it. I have better connections to the district attorney. Now that I’m marrying Victoria, I have realized I have to speak up,’ he said. He could see Marvin hadn’t considered that logic. He lost his grin and came toward him.
‘I’d kill yer the next day,’ he said. To reinforce the threat, he thrust his left hand out and pushed on Bart’s chest hard, hard enough for him to feel pain. Bart stepped back. Marvin came forward. ‘In fact, maybe I’ll find a way ta rape yer fiancée again, only I’d go about it slower this time and enjoy it more. I’ve been thinkin’ about it. Did ya know Lou got his in, too. Thing is she was out of it by then and didn’t enjoy it. I think we forgot to tell yer that part. Yer were too stupid stoned to appreciate anythin’ anyway.’
Bart instinctively crouched a little and turned his shoulder defensively. Marvin had his hands clenched and each fist looked like the short-handled sledgehammer that was on the shelf to his right.
‘You’re an animal. You always were. Both of you. I’m glad your brother was killed,’ he said defiantly.
‘Shut yer mouth, Bart. I’m gettin’ pissed and might not offer yer the deal.’
‘Take that deal and shove it,’ Bart said, regaining his posture.
Marvin’s eyes seemed to brighten and sparkle like the wick on a firecracker. He swung his right arm around and caught Bart on the side of his neck. It spun him around and in an instant, driven by an impulse he would debate as good or bad for the rest of his life, Bart scooped up the short-handled sledgehammer and came back at Marvin Hacker with a blow that struck him squarely on the left temple. His eyes seemed to pop and then rise up as if he was looking quickly at the ceiling, and then his large frame sunk into itself, his legs folding up and his arms flying out as if he was trying to fly. He fell on his rear end. Bart would swear later that he turned to look up at him with surprise, but it was probably just the way his head fell back with the rest of him.
He didn’t move.
Bart froze, leaning over him, poised to deliver another blow if necessary. He looked as if he had frozen in place, a statue of rage. Gradually, especially when some spittle trickled out of the right corner of Marvin’s mouth, Bart began to relax. A shocking realization seemed to rise up his legs, through his torso and into his head as the rage was replaced with fear. Slowly, he knelt down and touched Marvin’s cheek. His eyes were already glass. He snapped his hand back as if he had just touched a hot stove.
‘Jesus,’ he whispered and slowly touched him again, shoving him a bit to see if he would wake. Then he felt his wrist for a pulse, moved quickly to search for it on his neck and, feeling no rhythm, stood up. He looked at the sledgehammer in his hand and then at Marvin’s temple. A trauma formed like an ink blot.
He stood there, unable to think for a moment. Then the thoughts followed the silence in his head, rushing in as if each question was being asked by someone else standing with a group of people who could easily be a jury of his peers.
Why did you come here?
What were you talking about that caused you to have such a violent argument?
Why didn’t you just turn around and call the police if he was blackmailing you?
He was unable to think of any answers. He put the short-handled sledgehammer back on the shelf, turned and started to flee, and then stopped. He went back, grabbed the sledgehammer and went to the rear door. He looked at Marvin’s body. Maybe he wasn’t dead. Maybe he just couldn’t feel the pulse because it was so weak, and maybe he would wake up. He’d be very angry, but he couldn’t go to the police either. There was a way out of this. If Marvin recovers, I’ll tell Victoria everything and he’ll be unable to do anything more. He’ll just go away, mostly to protect himself.
He opened the door slowly and peered out. It was still dead quiet and the road still looked deserted. He closed the door softly behind him and hurried to his car, the sledgehammer in his hand. He looked at it before he opened the car door. He, too, had seen detective shows and police procedurals on television. He returned to the body shop quickly and re-entered. Marvin had not moved. Practically tiptoeing now, Bart went to the shelf and scooped up the Sullivan County newspaper. He wrapped it firmly around the sledgehammer, glanced at Marvin again and then left.
When he got into his car, he placed the wrapped sledgehammer carefully on the floor and started the engine. He didn’t put on his headlights until he was out on the road. He checked to make sure there was no one nearby watching him leave and then he sped up, turning on his headlights just before the bend in the road.
In moments, he was driving rapidly away. He realized he was speeding and slowed down. Being pulled over by a traffic cop would be dangerous. He was still too close to the scene of the crime. It wasn’t a crime, he told himself. It was self-defense and, ordinarily, he could have successfully argued that, but how could he do it without bringing up the subject or creating all sorts of suspicions?
Instinctively, he knew where to go and what to do. In fact, the idea came so quickly that he was surprised at his own scheming. He didn’t know he had it in him to be so devious. If he had such a dark strand of thought alive inside him, who didn’t? Maybe, deep down, we were all as bad as Marvin. The rest of us were simply better at keeping it under lock and key. Well, tonight it had to have its way.
Less than an hour later, he pulled into his parking spot by the dock at Echo Lake. He took his boat keys from the glove compartment and then carefully picked up the sledgehammer wrapped in the newspaper. When he got out, he paused and looked around. It was as deadly quiet here as it had been at Marvin’s garage, but here the fog was even thicker.
He quickly went down to his boat, put the sledgehammer, still tightly wrapped, on the driver’s seat and completed removing the boat cover. After he untied the rope used to keep it secure in its docking slot, he got in, started the engines and headed out slowly, slipping into the fog like someone trying to avoid being detected while escaping Nazi-occupied France. He could see the tree line on the right side of the lake and felt he was far enough out. He took the sledgehammer and tossed it overboard beside the boat. It sank, but the water-soaked newspaper unwrapped itself and floated to the surface. He cursed, scooped it up and crushed it into a ball. He didn’t throw it back in the water. He could imagine it coming up again and floating about until it was caught on some bush on the shore where it dried in the sun and was eventually discovered. Innocuous enough, but it was still a lead.
He headed back to the dock. He thought he saw someone about a thousand yards to his right. The fog had thinned, but it was still too thick to be sure. He worked as quickly as he could to tie up the boat and cover it again, and then dropped the balled newspaper pages in the garbage can. For a moment, he stood there looking out at the lake. It would never be the same place to him now, he thought, but it was a sacrifice worth making. He walked back to his car, feeling exhausted now, not so much from the physical effort as from the emotional rollercoaster. He took a deep breath, started the car and drove away slowly, sliding through the night.
Shit, he thought when he was more than halfway home, I never called Victoria to tell her I was on my way.
When he entered the apartment, he found her dozing on the sofa beside the telephone. He was very quiet, first going to the bathroom to check what he looked like. He was still quite flushed and there was a slight redness on his neck where Marvin had struck him. He washed his face and his hands and brushed his hair. Then he walked softly back to the living room, took a breath and sat beside her. He leaned over and kissed her. She opened her eyes slowly.
‘I thought you were going to call,’ she said, sitting up.
‘I was, but then I thought that would
waste five minutes, five minutes I could use getting here.’
She smiled. ‘How did it go?’
‘Exactly as you described – boring – but we’re fine. Now, we’re fine forever,’ he added.
Her smile deepened. He filled his eyes with desire and she widened hers with delight.
Then he took her hand and stood. She followed.
Neither said a word.
They spoke instead with their lips, their eyes and their hands.
He made love to her as though it was for the last time.
And he saw how much that pleased her.
‘I hope it’s always like this,’ she said.
‘How could it be otherwise?’ he replied.
NINETEEN
Rob Luden stepped back like someone who wanted another view of the body, a view from a different angle. He actually tilted his head a bit as he studied the corpse and put on a pair of plastic examination gloves.
Ralph Baldwin, who had been on the town police force for nearly ten years, looked at him oddly, almost angrily. There was a general understanding that detectives were better at handling and solving crimes. They had actually gone to school for it. Still, Ralph resented being thought to have limited capabilities. He had come out of the military, where he had experience as an MP, which was, in his opinion, unfairly assumed to be all about rounding up unruly soldiers on liberty. There were robberies and assaults and even two murders during his term.
Because he was a local, born and raised in the township, he had inside information on the first job opportunity in the police department and he was proud of his resume. It should have brought him more respect.
Ralph was thirty-six, married with two children now, a son of eight and a daughter of seven. His wife, Dorothy, whom he met after he left the service, had a good job at the Universal National Bank. She had recently been promoted to loan officer and was close to making more money than he did, which both pleased and annoyed him. One could safely say he had a surly manner about him. He always began anything new with a cynical attitude. He even had a banner over his workshop in the basement that read Prove It To Me. He had yet to grant this relatively new town detective a modicum of respect, but Rob Luden seemed oblivious to that, which only reinforced Ralph’s opinion of him.
The Incident Page 22