Bobby Farraday was a kid I’d known in grammar school. We hadn’t been friends. He was a frail, somber boy, frequently absent. When the rest of us frolicked on the playground during recess, Bobby would sit and watch us with his round sad eyes. He died of leukemia sometime in the summer after fourth grade. I hadn’t had a conscious thought of Bobby Farraday for more than thirty years.
Sunday was a brilliant May day. It would be wasted if I didn’t take myself fishing. But the Bobby Farraday dream lingered. It was a death dream, of course. One might logically expect to have a death dream or two after hearing a volley of gunshots whiz overhead on a quiet Cambridge street.
And somewhere on the fringe of my consciousness, I was aware that there were other, deeper levels to my dream. I struggled to decipher it. But try as I would, its meaning eluded me. It made me feel edgy and vaguely depressed, and it dampened my enthusiasm for fishing.
Horowitz called a little before eleven. “What the hell happened last night?” he said.
I told him.
“I got a call from the Cambridge cops,” he said. “They called it an alleged shooting.”
“It wasn’t alleged,” I said. “It happened. There were two witnesses.”
“The only thing they came up with was a broken windshield on an old Chevrolet.”
“No empty cartridges?”
“Nope.” He paused, and I heard his bubble gum snap. “Listen, Coyne,” he said. “Your name has been popping up around here lately.”
“What do you mean?”
“For one thing, this goddam Secret Service agent was asking questions.”
“They were following me,” I said. “Not doing a particularly good job of it, either.”
Horowitz laughed. “Yeah, I heard you made one of ’em. Of course, they’d been on your tail for a few days by then. They dropped you.”
“I figured they did. Otherwise they would have witnessed an assassination attempt.”
“On you,” he said. “Right. Anyway. I also got a call from a certain state senator, and—”
“What state senator?”
“I think you know, Coyne.”
“Swift?”
“None other. He told me all about it, on account of you told him I could be trusted, which I can, though I don’t like playing these fucking games. Both Swift and this female agent tell me you suggested they give me a jingle. Then this thing last night.”
“And?”
“And nothing, if you mean do we know who’s taking potshots at SAFE enemies. Far as I know he took a whack at numbers one and two and then moved on to number seven which, as you know, is you. Doesn’t look like he wants to tangle with big-name politicians. You got any ideas?”
I hesitated for a moment, then said, “Well, I can give you the name of someone with a motive to shoot at Walt Kinnick, and maybe at me.”
“But no motive to shoot a state senator, huh?”
I hesitated. “Maybe him, too.”
“Who is it?”
“His name is Howard West. He’s the estranged husband of Walt’s lady friend.”
“A stalker type, huh?”
“Maybe. Yes.”
“Okay,” said Horowitz, “that would certainly explain Kinnick. But why would he shoot at you and Swift?”
“He saw me and Diana having dinner together. And Diana used to work with the senator and went to a party at his house. If West is really crazy jealous…”
“Hm,” said Horowitz. “That’s a motive, I guess. What about means and opportunity?”
“I don’t know. He was in Cambridge last night. He saw me and the lady together.”
“Where’s this guy live, do you know?”
“Westwood. But—”
“But what?”
“But I guess I still think SAFE is behind it.”
“Yeah,” said Horowitz. “Probably. Still, I guess we ought to check this Howard West out.”
“What about protecting other people on that list?”
“On the basis of what?”
“Three of them have been shot at already.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Be nice if we could protect everybody. Unfortunately it doesn’t work that way. You’re not having any other useful thoughts, are you?”
“Yeah,” I said, “I’m having thoughts.”
“Well?”
“They’re pretty vague,” I said. I didn’t think Horowitz would place much credence in my dreams. “I haven’t figured out if they’re useful or not yet. When I do I’ll let you know.”
“Make it snappy, Coyne. One of these days this nut might kill somebody.”
“That,” I said, “is certainly one of the thoughts I’ve been having.”
After I hung up with Horowitz, I retrieved the SAFE newsletter with its enemies’ list from the rolltop desk in the corner of my living room. After Wally and Senator Swift, enemies number three through six—the Connecticut governor and the two United Stales senators from Massachusetts and the Congressman from Rhode Island—had apparently been skipped. Brady Coyne, the seventh enemy, had been next.
Eight was the senator from Vermont, and nine was a United States congresswoman from Maine. If Horowitz was right, the next target of the assassin would be Wilson Bailey, enemy number ten.
I didn’t want to underestimate this shooter. He had shot Wally, and it almost killed him. Senator Swift had saved himself by his reflexes. I had been plain lucky, although, as I remembered it, I must have heard or sensed something, because I had flinched and ducked behind a car an instant before the first shot was fired. Otherwise, maybe I’d have been killed.
That’s what my Bobby Farraday dream was all about.
I dialed Wilson Bailey’s number. His answering machine picked it up. “Hi,” came the woman’s cheery voice. “You’ve reached the Bailey household. I guess no one’s home right now. Please leave a message and we’ll get back to you.”
I swallowed hard before I responded to the dead Mrs. Bailey’s invitation. “Mr. Bailey, it’s Brady Coyne again,” I said, “if you’re there please call me right back. It’s very important.” I left my phone number.
I skimmed through the Sunday Globe while I waited for Bailey to return my call. There was a long piece by Alex comparing safety procedures and evacuation contingencies at the Seabrook and Plymouth nuclear power stations. It was strong, frightening journalism. I told myself I should call and congratulate her. But I didn’t want to tie up the phone in case Wilson Bailey tried to reach me.
I remembered the man’s testimony. His wife and daughter and unborn child had been murdered in an utterly random act of violence in a small-town library, I tried to imagine being Wilson Bailey, the horror of it. I found it unthinkable.
Two o’clock came and went. No call from Bailey.
I found a map and located the town of Harlow, where Bailey lived. It was near the Ware River, a decent trout stream in the middle of the state that I fished occasionally. It looked as if it would take about an hour and a half to drive from Boston to Harlow.
I went to the phone and dialed Alex’s number. Her answering machine invited me to leave a message. “Good article,” I said. “You’re a helluva reporter, lady. I’m going fishing. I’ll call if I don’t get in too late. I’m feeling a bit hug-deprived.”
I gathered together my fishing gear. I found myself wanting very much to talk to Wilson Bailey. After that, maybe I’d feel more like trying to catch a trout.
32
I PONDERED MY BOBBY Farraday dream all the way out to Harlow. The more I thought about it, the more ominous it seemed. I knew enough about dream interpretation to understand why I’d had that dream. But that didn’t help me to figure it out.
The SAFE enemies’ list told me that Wilson Bailey lived at 78 Aldrich Street. The kid at the 7-Eleven store in Harlow had never heard of Aldrich Street. But he had a town map, and together we located it. I bought a can of Pepsi, thanked the kid, and followed the directions I had written down from the map.
Harlow ap
peared to be a typical old New England mill town whose mill had long since been closed down and which now survived as a bedroom community halfway between Springfield and Worcester. It was a reasonable commute to either city, and as I navigated the streets I saw considerable evidence that optimistic real estate developers had targeted Harlow during the boom of the seventies and abandoned it in the collapse of the eighties. There were many building lots that had been cleared but not built on and unoccupied homes with piles of raw dirt and For Sale signs in front.
The dwellings on Aldrich Street were small and neat and of the same vintage, all cut from the same half-dozen architectural plans. They were set back from the road among tall pines on large lots. I drove slowly, checking the mailboxes out front for street numbers. Kids pedaled their bikes in the street and played basketball in the driveways. Men rode mowers back and forth across their front lawns. Young matrons wearing cotton gloves and T-shirts and shorts knelt on the edges of flower gardens.
It was a pleasant residential street, the kind of place where the neighbors got together for barbecues on summer Saturday evenings, and the kids swam in each other’s pools, and the grown-ups pitched horseshoes and played volleyball. A nice street for raising a young family.
Aldrich Street was a dead end. Number 78 was the last house on the right. Number 76 next door had a For Sale sign out front. The house appeared empty. On the dead-end side of Bailey’s house lay undeveloped woodland.
A Plymouth station wagon was parked in his driveway. His lawn had been mowed within the past few days. The gardens were neatly edged and mulched. The foundation plantings of azaleas and rhododendrons rioted in full pink and red bloom.
I parked behind the wagon, got out. and slammed the door. I walked up to the front door and rang the bell. I heard it jingle inside. I waited, then rang it again. A minute or two later a fat old golden retriever came sauntering around from the back of the house. He sat at the foot of the steps and looked up at me.
I descended the steps and scooched down beside him. I scratched his ears. “Do you live here, boy?” I said to him. “Is your master out back?”
He cocked his head at me as if he understood what I was saying. I stood up, and the dog stood, too. He started around the side of the house. I followed him.
It was a typical suburban backyard, with a swing set and a small above-ground pool and a metal toolshed and a flagstone patio with a gas barbecue grill and a picnic table and some folding aluminum lawn furniture.
I squinted into the afternoon sun and saw Wilson Bailey sleeping on a chaise on the patio. He was wearing sneakers and chino pants and a white polo shirt. The dog went over and lay down beside him. I followed him.
“Mr. Bailey…?” I began. But I stopped. Because I saw the dark puddle under the chaise and I knew Wilson Bailey would not answer me.
He was lying on his back. His eyes stared up at the sky. His mouth was agape and a trail of crusted blood ran from the corner of his mouth and made a dark stain on the front of his shirt. The back of his head had been blown away. The weapon lay on his chest. It was short and ugly. Bailey’s right thumb was curled inside the trigger guard.
His left arm was folded over the gun and across his chest. He was clutching something in his left hand. I bent to look at it. It was a photograph of a plain round-faced young woman and a very pretty little girl.
I wedged two fingers up under his jawbone. His skin was the same temperature as the air. I felt no pulse.
I backed away from him and sat heavily on a lawn chair. The dog came over and laid his chin on my leg. I stroked his nose for a moment, then lit a cigarette. I stared at Wilson Bailey lying rigidly on the chaise while I smoked the Winston down to the filter. Then I stood up and went to the back door. It was unlocked. I went into Wilson Bailey’s kitchen and dialed 911.
I sat on the front steps to wait. The dog waited with me. Within a couple of minutes I heard the sirens, and then two cruisers skidded to a stop in front of the house. I waved toward the backyard, and two of the cops jogged in that direction. One stayed out front to talk to the kids on their hikes and the neighbors who began to gather there. The other cop came to the front steps where I was waiting.
“You called it in?” he said.
I nodded.
“The detectives are on their way.” He turned his back on me, folded his arms, and stood there watching the street.
A rescue wagon arrived a minute later, and then another cruiser, and then a couple of unmarked vehicles. I continued to sit on the front steps patting the dog and smoking, and the cop stood there ignoring me.
The uniformed cops kept the curious neighbors in the street and off the front lawn. They draped yellow crime scene ribbon all the way around the yard. Official people kept moving back and forth from the back of the house to their vehicles parked in front. Distorted voices crackled from police radios. After a while a graying man in a green plaid sport coat came along and said something to the uniformed cop who was guarding me. The cop sauntered away and the guy in the sport coat sat beside me on the steps. “You’re the one who called it in?” he said. f nodded.
“Lieutenant Morrison, state police.” He held his hand out to me.
We shook. “Brady Coyne. I’m a lawyer.”
“Mr. Bailey’s lawyer?”
“No.” I shook my head. “It’s a long story.”
“You better tell me.”
So I did. I began with Wally Kinnick’s testimony before the state Senate subcommittee where Wilson Bailey had also testified, the SAFE enemies’ list, Wally’s getting shot, my conversation with Senator Swift, the Saturday night gunshots on the Cambridge street. All of it. Except I didn’t tell him about my Bobby Farraday dream. It was beginning to make sense to me, but I didn’t think it would to the lieutenant.
“So you came out here to warn Mr. Bailey?” said Morrison.
I shrugged. “Warn him. Or ask him why he was doing it. I wanted to talk to him. I thought I understood what he’d been living with. It seemed like a better reason than most to try to shoot people.”
“It looks like he shot himself.”
I nodded. “I know.”
“Stuck the muzzle in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”
I nodded again.
“How do you figure it?”
“Me?” I said.
“Yes.”
I shrugged. “I guess he felt he just had to do something.”
“So he was number ten on that list, huh?” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “It was his turn.”
Morrison nodded.
After a minute,” I said, “That gun…”
“It’s a Valmet,” said the lieutenant. “Pretty common assault weapon. Made in Finland. Semiautomatic. Modeled after an automatic military weapon they make. Fifteen-round magazine.”
“What’s the caliber?”
“It’s 5.56 millimeter.
“That’s .223,” I said.
He looked at me and shrugged.
“You should talk to Lieutenant Horowitz in Boston,” I said.
“Horowitz has been on this case?”
“Sort of.”
Morrison was silent for a moment. Then he said, “We got a little problem here, Mr. Coyne.”
I looked at him.
“No note,” he said.
I remembered that Bailey had spoken without notes at the subcommittee hearing. When asked to hand in his written statement, he had instead given the committee members a photograph of his wife and daughter. “That photograph he had in his hand,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“I think that was his suicide note, Lieutenant. I think he believed that photograph says it all.”
He smiled quickly “Yeah, I guess maybe it does at that, doesn’t it?”
33
LIEUTENANT MORRISON SAT WITH me for a while longer. We didn’t talk anymore. I figured he was just keeping track of me. Or maybe I was some kind of suspect. I didn’t really care.
A rescue wagon drove a
cross the lawn and around the side of the house. A few minutes later it returned and disappeared down Aldrich Street. It didn’t bother to sound its siren.
Gradually the onlookers in the street went back to mowing their lawns and playing basketball in their driveways and pedaling their bikes and weeding their gardens.
I rode with Lieutenant Morrison in the backseat of a state police cruiser to headquarters in Springfield. Another cop followed behind us in my car. I gave my deposition to a tape recorder, telling my story and answering the lieutenant’s questions.
It was after dark when I got home. There was one message on my answering machine. Alex’s voice said, “I’m glad you had a chance to go fishing. Nice day for it. Call me when you get in, if it’s not too late, huh?”
I went out and sat on my balcony and decided I didn’t want to talk to anybody.
When I got to the office Monday morning, I said to Julie, “Hold my calls, kid. And cancel anything on the calendar. I don’t want to be disturbed.”
She opened her mouth, gave me a quick hard look, then closed it. She nodded. “Okay, boss.”
I fiddled around with paperwork all day There was plenty of it. But my mind kept wandering, and I frequently found myself swiveled around in my chair with my back to my desk, staring out the window at the concrete and glass of Copley Square.
My console didn’t buzz and my phone didn’t ring all day.
At five o’clock Julie tapped on my door, then opened it. Without speaking, she came to my desk and laid a sheet of paper onto it. “Your calls,” she said. “You’ll notice that Alexandria Shaw called several times. You should call her back.”
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