I took a single hesitant step over the threshold, and the large dog raised a hairy eyeball at me. The rott didn’t growl exactly, but she rumbled like a distant avalanche, so I stopped dead still. In my present condition, I couldn’t have protected myself against a decrepit Chihuahua. I stood in the doorway like an idiot, watching her heaving shoulders for a long time.
“Ma’am,” I said as gently as I could when there seemed a pause in the sobbing, “I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry.”
“You don’t know what you did?” she said, raising her ruined face to look at me. Her makeup had smudged between the dog and the tears. She looked twenty years older and very unhappy. “You don’t know what happened to Lonnie?” she blubbered. “They burned off his poor sweet face with a blow torch,” she said, “then dumped his body out by the airport. God, he was my last contact with Mac.”
“They?”
“Probably some of Mac’s hired hands,” she sputtered. “Probably somebody like you.”
“Ma’am,” I said softly. “Can we sit down and have a cup of coffee or a drink or something? I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”
She sat all the way up, glared at me, shouting, “You work for Dr. William MacKinderick, right?”
“I did once,” I lied. “You know he’s dead or missing and a suspect in a murder?”
I could have sworn she said, “Pshaw.” Then she added, “That cowardly son of a bitch wouldn’t have the guts to kill himself. Or anybody else for that matter. Now get out of my house before I set Lilly on you.”
Lilly raised her giant head and seemed to smile at me in a very unfriendly manner. I closed the door very quietly on my way out. This time I read the name on the mailbox. Ms. Helen Truley. But I suspected that at one time it had been Mrs. Helen MacKinderick.
I wanted to go home, to sleep until spring, to try to explain to Whit what I’d been through. I strongly suspected that she wouldn’t be all that interested. Our single conversation since New Mexico had been brief and to the point.
“Enjoyed your Thanksgiving visit,” she said, without preamble. “And thanks for calling to let us know you weren’t coming, you son of a bitch.”
I started to say I was sorry, then I started to explain, then I decided to hell with it. “In the old days, Whit, you would have known that something terrible had happened,” I said.
“Something terrible did happen,” she said. “You want Musselwhite to do the divorce, or should I have one of the partners here do it? In spite of the way you are, sonny, let’s be civilized about this. I’ll come out to get the rest of my things soon. I’ve found a little house down the street from my folks.”
“Can we talk?”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
There’s no answer to that.
When I called my son, his cell phone number had been changed and unlisted.
After I slipped out of Evergreen, glancing over my shoulder now and again to check for the baying of a dog bad enough to eat rocks, I went down to the Denver library to see what I could find out about Lonnie Howell. His death bothered me. Two days after he got home from Montana, while he was packing for his trip to Mexico, a person or persons unknown had broken into his apartment, drugged him, and taken him out to one of the unfinished developments southwest of the airport where he had been tortured at some length, then shot in the head several times with a .22 pistol. Because he had been abducted in Denver, then killed in Arapaho County, there was a question of jurisdiction, so the whole thing passed over to the state boys, then just passed over. Nobody in the Denver Police Department, the Arapaho County Sheriff’s office, or the CBI seemed to remember Lonnie Howell.
I went back over the mountains to Delta to see Lonnie’s uncle, who had led me to him in the first place. Mr. Howell was still drunk, living in his recliner on TV dinners and pints of Four Roses, and bitching about how long it was taking to settle Lonnie’s estate without a will. I asked if he was going to spruce up his place, but he said hell, no. He was going to take Lonnie’s money, by god, and retire to Mexico and buy a nice little place on the beach.
For a hundred dollars he let me rummage through Lonnie’s crap scattered around a small bedroom in the back of the carless garage. I didn’t much like what I found. An eight-by-ten of a young, bone-thin Lonnie with a squad outside a burning village. Two of the men looked like Nung mercenaries. The squad’s tiger-striped fatigues were conspicuously devoid of marks of rank, unit, or even nationality, and none of their weapons were U.S. government issue. Their eyes were miles past the thousand-yard stare—dark and hollow, sad and deadly. Those kinds of pictures usually meant Operation Phoenix or some other phantom group of terrorists and assassins usually sponsored by the CIA or some other off-the-record outfit. That was bad enough, but when I dug up a photocopy of Lonnie’s orders for the general discharge, a name leaped off the page at me. They had been signed by Captain William MacKinderick. I was suddenly very sick at heart.
When I showed the photograph to Mr. Howell and asked if Lonnie had stayed in touch with any of the guys, he laughed, cheap whiskey breath filling the fetid room. “Any of those boys look like fellas you’d stay in touch with, Bud?”
“He ever mention any names?”
“Naw. He just said the outfit was called the Phenix City Jammers,” he said. “You know, Phenix City, Alabama, ’cross the border from Fort Benning. Guess the officer was from there. I took basic there before Korea,” he said. “Bad, bad town, and the fuckin’ army’s fulla pussies anyway. That’s why I told him to join the Corps.”
“Which one’s the officer?” I asked.
“The only one smilin’, I’d wager,” he said, pointing to a tall, bald man with a smile that reminded me of Lilly’s, all teeth and bad news. He had a jaw like a stone sledgehammer, cheekbones that looked as if they had been chipped from flint, and his left ear looked as if it had been half chewed away. “Reckon you’d buy a used car from this guy?” the old man asked, chuckling.
“I think I did,” I said.
“Oh,” he said. “Sorry.”
“The same time,” I said, “but a different war. I was just a bored RA lifer looking for excitement.”
“Find any?”
“Didn’t we all?”
Old man Howell didn’t say anything, just lifted his pants enough to show me his artificial leg. “Some of us a little more than we wanted,” he said. “Keep the picture,” he added, then asked, “You gonna find out what happened to my nephew?”
“I’m afraid so,” I said, then handed Mr. Howell one of my cards.
“I wasn’t kidding about the used car thing, though,” he said.
“What?”
“Yeah, I see his ads on the TV all the time,” he said. “Smiling Jack’s. Over in Greeley.”
“Thanks, Mr. Howell,” I said. Greeley wasn’t that far out of my way. Hell, nowhere was out of my way now.
Smiling Jack’s smile had disappeared behind eighty pounds of hard fat and expensively capped teeth, but his eyes hadn’t changed. The look he gave me when he found out I had bluffed my way into his office to toss the photograph on his desk would have killed a rattlesnake at close range.
“What the hell you want, buddy?” he asked without preamble.
“I want to know about this kid,” I said, pointing at Lonnie.
“I’m in business, buddy,” he said. “What’s it worth to you?”
“Name your price,” I said.
“Five hundred?”
“Deal,” I said, then paid him.
“What’s to know?” he said after he had carefully counted the money, folded it into his money clip, then stuck it into his pocket. “Just another fuck-up who chose to join my operation instead doing a long stretch in the brig.”
“What for?”
“Nobody ever asked,” he said. “No need to know.”
“Why did he get a general discharge?”
“He burned out quicker than most kids,” he said. “It was the quickest way
to get him back to the states and keep him quiet.”
“Burned out at what?”
“Interrogation,” he said simply.
“How long did it take you to burn out?” I asked, but his only answer was a smile as thin as the edge on a straight razor. “You know, I’ll bet you own a junkyard, too.”
“I might,” he said, confused for the moment. “Why?”
“And a chop shop?”
“Get the fuck out of my office, you asshole, before you wear out your welcome,” he said, standing quickly.
“You know a guy named Bobby Chenoworth?” I said. “Down in El Paso?” Bobby was an old bandito half-breed who had several junkyards and a reputation for survival.
“I might.”
“Next time you talk to him, tell him CW said hello,” I said.
“‘CW’ who?”
“He’ll know,” I said. Bobby owed me a large favor for finding his runaway teenaged son, lost among criminal yuppies down in Mazatlán.
“You want your money back?”
“Not after it’s been in your pocket, partner,” I said, then walked out.
I drifted back to Meriwether, in no hurry to face the mess I suspected I’d find at home or deal with these revelations about my friend, Mac, be he dead or alive. I suppose in the back of my mind, I had secretly suspected that he was alive. But that would mean that I would have to accept the idea that he had bludgeoned Sheila Miller. And I couldn’t get my mind around that notion.
Mostly, I just made myself stop thinking about it. I caught the tag end of a long, lazy Indian summer. Or perhaps the beginning of another open winter, another in the long seasons of drought we’d suffered lately, harsh dry spells that seemed to come along more often these past few years.
Everything else seemed almost fine, though. Everybody seemed to have bought Johnny Raymond’s version of the events leading up to his death. He’d solved the murders, tracked down the perpetrators, and died trying to bring them in. Or if the cops didn’t buy it, they’d kept their mouths shut, and Johnny had been buried with proper honors. The charges against Arno Biddle had been dropped for lack of evidence because of my photo, and he had moved back east to be closer to his daddy’s sugar tit. The judge had released Mac’s money, so Musselwhite and I had settled up. I paid off my expenses, socked a pile of money in the bank, sent Les some kicking-around money, and put a down payment on Whitney’s house in escrow, the first move toward our property settlement. She still wouldn’t talk to me, but her lawyer seemed to be a kind, rational person. I had the pickup serviced, then stashed it in the rear of the garage. After all those hard-sprung noisy road miles in the truck, my Outback felt as comfortable as old man Howell’s rocking lounger. Over the days, I had a few drinks, spent a couple of afternoons drifting down the Meriwether River in an old raft, bothering the occasional trout, but usually watching the fish eagles embarrass me. Mostly, though, I sat on the front porch of Whit’s house drinking slow beers, enjoying the gift of the lowering sun, playing with the cats, watching them bring me trophies—voles and sparrows, garter snakes and bits of trash out of Whit’s moldering compost heap—wearing my Walther PPK/S .22 under my arm because the Browning seemed too much firepower—too heavy for whatever trouble came my way—and waiting for the other boot to drop.
But when it dropped it wasn’t a boot, it was a trainload.
It began with a call from Lorna one Saturday morning. I seemed to have reached that point in life when women no longer felt inclined to say Hello or How are you? or How’s it hanging, buddy?
“Sughrue,” she said quickly when I answered, “I’m selling the house and all Dr. MacKinderick’s things to an investment group. Tomorrow. They’re planning to turn it into a high-end bed and breakfast. If you’d like something to remember him by, a memento, so to speak, you best get here this morning before the inventory starts.” Then just as quickly she hung up the telephone.
So I went over to the house. Lorna had dressed down in her version of widow’s casual—black designer jeans, a gray cashmere sweatshirt, tiny Italian backless pumps, and a small gold chain around her neck holding what I suspected was a single three-carat diamond—and kept her makeup subdued. She seemed perfectly normal, or in completely hysterical control. She also kept her sunglasses on so I wouldn’t see her drugged eyes. She kept conversation at a minimum, too. She almost said something when I picked one of Mac’s Hebrides paintings, the one with the shingled beach and the crofter’s cottage, but she stopped for a moment, then her complaint slipped out.
“Why don’t you take one of Carrie Fraizer’s little pieces?” she said, then covered her mouth quickly. “Or take them all.”
“You don’t want me to have this one?”
“Oh, hell,” she muttered between her fingers. “Go ahead.” Then she clicked down the hallway on her tiny heels, something angry in the switch of her hips, something insane in the stiffness of her back.
“So you’ve decided that he’s dead?” I said to her retreating figure, but she ignored me. So I stepped into the den to pick up a half-empty bottle of Lagavulin.
When I got to my house—I had to start thinking of it as my house—I had visitors. A moving van was parked in the alley, a Hertz rental car behind it. Whit has flown out, I thought as I pulled into the driveway in front, stashed Mac’s things in the office, grabbed a beer, then resumed my seat on the front steps. But before I could crack the can, the storm door opened, and running footsteps crossed the porch. I feinted right, then turned left, catching the kid under the arm and tossing him over my shoulder. He rolled to his feet in an instant, then met me halfway across the yard. He’d picked up some new moves from karate class, but I blocked them, then stung his cheeks with quick jabs. He switched to a new style, probably karate, and tried an ax kick to my chest, but I caught his foot with both hands, flipped him, then pinned him in a pile of leaves and kissed his grinning face until he shouted in embarrassment, “Dad!” Looking over my shoulder. I heard a car pull up in front.
Lester and I stood up, brushing leaves off and smiling. The kid was tall for twelve with long and lean muscles like his dead father, but he had his mother’s sweet face.
“You’ve let the boxing lessons go,” I said.
“Mom says it’s a barbaric sport.”
“And the martial arts aren’t?” I said.
“Mom says they teach self-confidence and respect for life.”
“She’s right,” I said as I heard car doors slam behind me. “Respect her judgment,” I added. “Always. It kept me alive once or twice.”
“Sorry about the cell phone stuff, Pop,” he said. “Can I call you?”
“We’ll set up a time on e-mail, okay?”
“Sounds good,” he said, punching me on the shoulder. “Mind if I run over to Scooter’s house to shoot some hoops?”
“Ask your mom,” I said, then he turned and dashed toward the house. Through the briefly open storm door I could see Whitney directing two burly guys in green khakis. She gave me a flat, empty glance.
“Sughrue,” somebody said behind me. “Why don’t you rake your leaves?”
“They’re Mother Nature’s debris,” I said to Agent Morrow. “Let her rake them.”
“We have a few questions,” she said.
“Sure,” I said as I walked back to my beer, Morrow and Cunningham on my heels. I cracked the can and sat down.
“You mind not drinking that right now?” Morrow said. “It’s not even noon.”
“It’s my breakfast,” I said, took a long pull on the beer, then asked her, “What can I do for you guys?” Cunningham blushed, and I could tell that Pammie didn’t know about the tape, and he didn’t know about her earlier part. I had them by the nuts, so to speak, but that was no reason not to be polite.
“You moving?” Morrow said.
“My wife’s truck,” I said.
“We understand you’ve been out of town?” she said. “You mind if we ask where?”
“You mind if I ask why?”
“You know the drill,” she said.
“Sure,” I said. “First, you guys show me your IDs, then I turn into a quivering mass of confessional jelly, right? But not today, okay? I haven’t seen my son in months. So I’d appreciate it if you came around later. And then let me know why you’re in my front yard.”
“Have you been in contact with Dr. MacKinderick?”
“I thought he was dead,” I said.
“There’s been some activity in his bank account,” she said. “A large payment to you, for instance, through your lawyer.”
“All properly billed and arranged long before his disappearance,” I said.
“Have you been looking into the murders of his patients’ partners?”
“Talk to my lawyer,” I said. “I’m sure you know about the injunction. And call before you come back, okay? I’m sure you’ll be in town for a few days.”
“Why don’t we come back later?” Cunningham said, opening his mouth for the first time. Morrow nodded slowly. “Thanks for your time,” he added almost gratefully.
As they drove away, I pulled out a cigarette. I could have their jobs, but they could make my life hell on the way out.
I sat on the steps, set fire to the cigarette, and ignored the girls scratching to get out. Then I heard the storm door open, but not shut.
“You’re smoking again,” Whit said behind me.
“Be glad I’m not shooting smack,” I said angrily, without turning around.
“You don’t have any right to be angry with me,” she hissed.
“Not you,” I said, “them.” Her anger seemed to click up a notch every time I talked to her. I didn’t understand it.
“What was the FBI doing here? What the hell have you gotten yourself involved in?”
“The fucking idiots think I know something about Mac,” I said. “What happened to his money, where he is, all that shit.”
“Do you?”
“I found out a lot of things about Mac,” I said. “None of them particularly good. But the rest of it, no, I don’t know a thing.”
“Will the FBI be back?”
“I’ve got a tape of them behaving badly,” I said. “They won’t be back.”
The Right Madness Page 23