An Absent God

by Vincent Wilde

  “I made coffee and I can whip up some bacon and eggs, if you’d like,” Abby said.

  I was suddenly starving, and it had been ages since I’d had a good old-fashioned breakfast.

  She poured me a cup of coffee and retreated to the kitchen.

  Tony looked smart in blue dress pants and a white cotton shirt. He turned to me, and I shivered with a little electric jolt.

  “Sleep well?” he asked.

  “Fine, except when I moved my head. This bump hurts like hell.” I grabbed a cinnamon bun covered in pecans and glazed frosting and put it on my plate. “Rodney’s an even better host when he’s—”

  I stopped. I didn’t want to drive Jessup too far into the ground. After all, he couldn’t fight back. Or could he?

  “Yeah, I know. The pressure’s off from Rodney, but it may be on from Carol.”

  I cut into the bun, glaze dripping down its side, and put it in my mouth.

  Between chews, I said, “Do you think Carol had anything to do with this? She may want to keep you on the case, but I’m sure she has no use for me. The one and only time we met I was in drag.”

  Tony chuckled. “Must have been entertaining.”

  “It was the evening after Stephen Cross disappeared. I had to infiltrate the ranks, so to speak. Carol and Janice Carpenter were not amused. Rodney actually took it better than both of them. Of course, he tried to convert me to a religious heterosexual on the spot. ‘Hate the sin, love the sinner,’ you know.”

  “Obviously, he didn’t succeed.”

  “Har har. One of his many failings. You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Oh, that.” Tony sipped his coffee. “Why don’t you ask her this afternoon if she had anything to do with her husband’s murder? What do you think she’ll say? She and the kids are arriving about three. I think she’s in shock. Ever since Rodney was implicated in the Boston business, her life has been turned upside down. Nothing that I’ve uncovered, which isn’t much, has pointed in her direction. I think she’s been treading water in this relationship for years.”

  “When you two showed up at my apartment, he said Carol and the kids were in danger, too.”

  Abby returned from the kitchen with three steaming plates of food. She must have been a waitress in a previous life because the dishes were balanced perfectly on her arms. She could get a job at Han’s if PI work didn’t pan out.

  “You make quite a ruckus when you demolish a Mercedes, Mr. Harper,” Abby said as she sat down.

  I dug into the bacon, eggs, and hash browns like a guy who hadn’t seen food in twenty-four hours. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen much at all since Jessup’s murder, except a dinky hamburger the cops threw at me during questioning.

  “Please, call me Cody, or Des at the very least.” I shoveled in some breakfast. “Excellent scrambled eggs. Cooked to perfection. So you heard the shots and the crash?”

  “The kitchen’s on the front of the house. It sounded like firecrackers and then I heard a big metallic thud and glass cracking. It took me a while to run down there, but I found you both in the car.”

  “Did you see anything?” I asked.

  Tony shook his head. “I think the bump has addled your brain, Cody. Of course not. I would have told you if Abby had. Don’t ask about the security cameras. The road is out of range.”

  Abby lifted her coffee cup. “I think whoever killed Rodney took off through the woods, which makes me think that we’re not dealing with an average Joe here. There’s a rural road on the other side of the hill—perfect getaway route. I’d say this guy is more than an amateur. He knows what he’s doing. He’s used to skating on the edge. Maybe a survivalist type.”

  “A man?” I asked. “Not a woman?”

  “Just my gut,” Abby replied.

  I liked her way of thinking. My first thought was of Carl Roy and his bunch at Aryan America.

  “I think you’re on the right track, Abby. I could swear I saw an assault rifle before I blacked out, but I can’t be sure. Maybe we take a look-see at the other road this morning.”

  “M16A2?” Tony asked.

  The letters and numbers didn’t mean anything to me. “What?”

  “Military assault rifle used since the 1980s,” Tony said. “I’ll show you a picture. I don’t think we’ll find much at the road, but it’s worth checking out.” He took a piece of paper that was tucked under the right side of his plate and placed it in front of mine. It was a page from a desk calendar.

  “Abby and I checked out Rodney’s office this morning,” Tony said. “His desk lamp was still on. We couldn’t get into the drawers because they’re locked and the keys are still with Rodney at the morgue. But this must be the Lynchburg connection Rodney told you about.”

  The date was several days ago. Rodney had written one word in black ink. Ralston’s.

  “Rodney has plenty of phone books in his office, including one for Lynchburg,” Tony said. “Ralston’s is a shooting range north of town.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” I said.

  Abby stayed at the house while Tony and I took off for Lynchburg. We decided to check out the other side of the hill after we got back. Lynchburg was about thirty miles from Rodney’s home, as the crow flew, but a little farther by road. Tony had taken the remotes out of the Mercedes before it was towed off and had parked his used Crown Vic in the garage next to Carol’s car. As we drove away I told Tony about the cassette tape I had received at Han’s. He didn’t seem overly concerned, although thinking about the voice on the tape and the shooting made me want to duck when we turned out on the road.

  “I think he got the fish he was after,” Tony said as I fidgeted in the seat and eyed the woods suspiciously.

  I was pretty good with directions, so I could tell that we were traveling southeast toward Lynchburg. The spitting rain had stopped overnight, but the sky was still overcast with high gray clouds whose bottoms looked like fuzzy cotton balls. The sun popped out once in a while through breaks in the ceiling.

  The Vic roared along in its loosey-goosey manner. I patted the dashboard and waited for Tony to initiate a conversation, but he seemed absorbed in his driving. We traveled through a rolling countryside dotted with homes and farms.

  “You never told me about yourself,” I finally said.

  I still hoped to get to the bottom of the gay question. Instinct told me I was on the right track.

  Tony kept his eyes on the road. “Not much to tell, really. The family’s from Mexico City. We still have relatives there. My parents immigrated to Phoenix, and I was born shortly after. Abby came along two years later. My dad worked as a security officer for a bank. He was killed in a shootout. That left me in charge of the house, taking care of Mom and Abby.” He took his eyes off the road briefly and looked at me. “Had enough?”

  “No,” I said, and I meant it. I was getting to like this guy more and more and not just from the crotch perspective.

  “Glutton for punishment,” he said. “I served a few years in the army—just missed Kuwait. Came back, went to school for a time at Virginia Tech. Did some police work and then became a private investigator. I couldn’t stand the bullshit in law enforcement. My sister left Mom in Phoenix and came to Virginia to join me in my business. I tried to talk her out of it, but . . . ”

  “I think she’s got the knack. Must run in the family. How did you meet Jessup?”

  A smile arose on his handsome profile.

  “Nothing glamorous, if that’s what you’re thinking. I worked for the cops in Buena Vista for a year. I guess I was drawn to the town because of its Spanish name. Rodney Jessup was always well known around western Virginia. I hadn’t heard of him before I moved here, but when I finally met him, I realized what a big deal people thought he was. When he was looking for a PI he came to me. Had nothing to do with religion. I’m Catholic.”

  “There’s enough investigative work around here?”

  Tony laughed. “Plenty. You live in New York City. You’ve
seen it all. Believe me, everything that goes on in New York goes on in a small town. You name it—murder, suicide, drug dealing, adultery, kidnapping, extortion. The country is crawling with creeps. Most of the stuff I do is pretty standard—divorce, disappearances. In fact, Abby and I have been thinking about moving up in the world. Maybe to a bigger city.”

  It was my turn to smile. “New York, perhaps?”

  “Wasn’t exactly what we had in mind. Richmond, maybe.”

  I sighed. I could not see myself living in Richmond no matter how good looking the man. I wanted to tell Tony that I had some dreams of my own about PI work, but I didn’t want to get into the nasty details about how Chris Spinetti had sworn to make my life a living hell if I ever tried. But Chris was out of the picture and maybe it was time to start thinking seriously about a career change. Norm was nice and Han’s was what I needed for a rest and a change, but spending my life washing dishes? No way.

  The Lynchburg skyline appeared on the horizon between hills. It was bigger than I thought. The shooting range couldn’t be far.

  “Why did you leave the local police department?” I asked.

  “Short story. Longer psychological evaluation. Let’s just say it wasn’t a comfortable fit.”

  “Well, all this history has been great,” I said, “but let’s cut to the chase. About this gay thing?”

  Tony turned to me and this time his brown eyes smoked in a controlled burn. “Would you let that drop? You’re like a broken record. If I was gay—and I’m not saying I am—I wouldn’t want a man to push me into a relationship.”

  “Okay, I can take a hint. You can’t fault a guy for trying.” I definitely needed to back off, but I wondered if I didn’t have another closeted cop on my hands. They were always trouble.

  “Ralston’s should be just up the road,” Tony said. Clearly, he wanted to change the subject.

  The range was busy. The lot was filled with pickup trucks and sedans and we heard the muffled shots inside and the louder reports from the outside gallery.

  We got out of the Crown Vic and walked to the locked entrance, a gray metal door with a small window secured by robbery bars. The door buzzed and the lock clicked. Tony opened it and we stepped inside.

  Contrary to my expectations, the man in charge, a decent-looking guy in his midforties, was no beer-swilling redneck. He was wearing a dark blue logo shirt with the initials RM in script below the name. I assumed RM stood for Range Master and not the man’s name. In back of the RM, behind three-inch thick Plexiglas and under lock and key, were an assortment of pistols and rifles for rent for the unarmed customer. The muffled reports from the indoor range echoed up front.

  “Can I help you gents?” the man said.

  Tony introduced himself and pulled out his credentials. RM’s eyes flicked nervously.

  “I’d like to get some information regarding anyone who might be shooting here with a military assault weapon,” Tony said.

  RM looked at Tony and then at me, focusing on the bandages on the right side of my head, and then said, “Our customer information is private.”

  “I understand,” Tony said, “but perhaps you could—”

  “You’d have to get a subpoena or search warrant for that.” RM wouldn’t budge.

  “This is regarding the murder of Rodney Jessup,” Tony said. “The gentleman with me was driving Jessup’s car when he was killed.”

  RM’s eyes widened and then softened a bit. “I heard about it right after it happened. A shame. I liked Reverend Jessup. I was going to vote for him. He must have been set up; he was such a good man.”

  I fought the inclination to stick my fingers in my mouth. “Any information you could provide might help us find his killer,” I said.

  Tony gave me a “shut up” look and said, “Even the past month of your sign-in logs would be useful.”

  RM smiled slightly. “I guess I could do that. You can look at it over here—out of the way.” He slid the bound book, which had been open in front of us, down the counter.

  Tony and I scanned the names, about two hundred and fifty of them. Tony even went back an extra month, but we agreed none of the names meant anything to either of us.

  Tony returned the book, handed RM his business card, and thanked him for his time. “If anyone is practicing with a M16A2, would you please let me know?”

  “We’re real touchy about that,” RM said, “with the federal ban in place.”

  “I understand, just let me know if you see anything,” Tony said. “By the way, are you the owner?”

  “A co-owner,” RM said.

  Tony shook his hand and we left.

  On the way to the car, I said, “You’ve got a nice, soft touch. You got what you wanted without forcing it.”

  Tony smiled. “That’s usually the way I am.”

  “I would have stolen the book when he wasn’t looking.”

  “That’s the difference between you and me,” he said. “Brains versus criminal behavior.”

  “I don’t think that’s a compliment.” I stopped at the car and pulled out my cigarettes. “Do you mind if I smoke before we head back chez Jessup?”

  Tony shrugged. I lit up.

  “Why would Rodney Jessup have Ralston’s written on his calendar?” I asked. “What did he know that we don’t? He was going to fill us in at breakfast.”

  “Rodney was spooked,” Tony said and then looked back at the range office. “Something else bothers me. If he’s the co-owner, he doesn’t see every customer who comes in. We’d need to interview the other co-owner and all the employees to get anywhere. I think he pushed the book over so we would be out of security camera range. He was trying to hide his actions as best he could.”

  I pointed to the camera above the door. “They have video of everyone who comes in here. Who knows how long they keep it. Maybe our guy inside knows more than he’s telling, but doesn’t want to rat on a good customer. One who might be doing something illegal regarding the ban. It would look bad for the range.”

  “Could be.”

  “This fag tastes like shit,” I said. “What is it—the Virginia air? Pretty soon you’ll have me off cigarettes.” I crushed it out on the pavement.

  Tony smiled. “Good.”

  “You’ll have a harder time breaking me of another habit I have—one that has to do with whips.”

  “Get in the car. We’ve got a crime scene to investigate.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said and got into the Crown Vic.

  Tony shook his head. “I can’t believe you. You don’t take no for an answer.”

  “You’re right.”

  I would get him in the sack yet.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  WHEN WE GOT BACK TO RODNEY’S IT WAS ALMOST lunchtime. Abby had made sandwiches, which we wolfed down. We piled into the Crown Vic and headed to the other side of the hill, all of us on edge when we swung out where Rodney was gunned down.

  The road Abby had mentioned at breakfast was more of an access path for hunters than anything else. It was rocky and ill defined. There were no clear tracks, although it looked as if someone had driven a motorcycle up the trail recently. I thought it was fresh, not even a day old. Tony thought the same. How many motorcycles were there in western Virginia? We seemed to be getting nowhere at warp speed. I looked at my watch. It was almost one p.m. Carol and the kids were expected at the house in another two hours. Not a pleasant thing to think about. I didn’t even know where I’d be sleeping tonight. Carol was sure to kick me out. Oh well, at least I now had enough of her money to pay for a motel.

  “Do we have time to walk the hill?” I asked.

  “If we hurry our butts along,” Abby said. “We better damn well be at the house when Carol arrives. She’s more of a hard-ass than Rodney ever was.”

  I appreciated Abby’s assessments more and more.

  Tony parked the Crown Vic near the highway and then we walked down the road. The path led into the woods, then it split. Obviously, h
unters needed more than one trail for whatever they were after here. Deer? Turkeys? Bear?

  When we came to the fork, I decided to take the right side. Abby and Tony took the left. We promised to return to the same location in forty-five minutes. As we walked away, a thought came into my head. “Is it hunting season?” I called out.

  “Archery and firearms,” Tony said.

  “You’re shitting me, right?”

  “No,” Abby said.

  “We don’t have hunter’s vests. We could get killed.”

  “Make lots of noise,” Tony said. “Sing something. No one will confuse you for a deer. Good thing you’re not wearing brown.”

  “Thanks for nothing. I’ll have to figure out what I want to sing. Some show tune, I suppose.” I scowled. “By the way, I never wear brown.”

  They laughed and I struck off into the woods. It wasn’t hard to make noise. I purposely stepped on dead branches, snapping as many of them as I could. I picked up a hefty downed limb and struck it against tree trunks as I walked. As noisy as I was, there wouldn’t be a deer within a mile of me. I tried not to distract myself so much I’d miss something important. I started thinking about what to sing—a number from Carousel, Cabaret, Annie? I decided on “My Friends” from Sweeney Todd, a beautiful ode to straight-edge razors as instruments of death. The woods were soon filled with the sound of my not-so-Broadway voice.

  The hill rose upward quickly and the climbing got a bit rougher. I soon realized my level walking courses in Manhattan had not prepared me for the rocky terrain of the Virginia wilderness. And this hill, or small mountain, wasn’t that big. I huffed and hoisted myself past a large hickory tree as I neared the crest. At the top, I found myself in a grove of tall naked oaks surrounded by pines. It was like standing in a cathedral and the silence was overwhelming. The absence of sound reminded me of that frigid winter day in New Hampshire when I found Stephen Cross, his body encrusted in snow. I shivered at the thought of that day, the blinding whiteness, tragedy, and tears. Finding him drained me so much I could barely walk down the mountain. I had to call John Dresser, his boyfriend. I could barely get out the word “Hello,” before I broke down.