Cutter's Run

by William G. Tapply

  “Lemme take care of that,” said Hood. He pulled a folding knife from his pocket, opened it up, wiped the blade on his jeans, and used its tip to pry out the pellet. He held it in the palm of his hand. It was about the size of a pin-head. “See?” he said. “Number nine birdshot. It’s what I keep in that old gun for scarin’ off the kids when they come around drunk, throwin’ beer cans on my lawn, yellin’ names at me.”

  Dickman took a sip of his iced tea, then put his glass on the step. “Arnold,” he said, “I’m afraid we’ve got a problem. I’m hoping you can clear some things up for us.”

  Hood shrugged. He was holding his glass in both hands and looking at Dickman over its rim. “I figure this has somethin’ to do with Miz Gillespie.” He glanced quickly at me, then back at the sheriff. “I told Mr. Coyne here everything.”

  “You didn’t tell him about the Klan, Arnold.”

  “That ain’t—” He stopped himself, took a sip of tea, then shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Dickman pushed his face close to Hood’s. “Don’t fuck with me, Arnold. You fuck with me, I’m gonna cuff you and take you in for shooting at us. I’m gonna call it attempted murder, and Mr. Coyne here is a damned honorable witness to it, with a wound in his leg to prove it. I should remind you that unless you’ve got a couple hundred thousand dollars laying around so’s you can hire yourself a real lawyer, you’re gonna end up with young Johnny Boynton for your PD, and that boy hasn’t won a case in three years. That what you want, Arnold?”

  “You fuckin’ hit me, man,” he mumbled. “I can bring charges.”

  “I don’t remember hitting you,” said Dickman. “Do you remember anything like that, Mr. Coyne?”

  I shrugged. “I didn’t see anything.”

  Hood frowned at me for a minute, then shook his head. “Yeah, okay. I joined up.”

  “The Klan, you mean,” said Dickman.

  Hood shrugged. “But I changed my mind, so I quit.”

  “Why’d you join?” said Dickman.

  He shrugged. “You know.”

  “No. Tell me.”

  Hood glanced at me, then looked out toward the woods. “Niggers,” he mumbled.

  “I didn’t hear you,” said Dickman.

  Hood turned to him. “Niggers, for Christ’s sake. Why would anybody join the Klan?”

  “That,” said Dickman, “is a question I’ve often asked myself. Never could come up with a good answer. So tell me. Who else around here belongs?”

  Hood shook his head. “I don’t know nothin’ about it. I told you, I quit.”

  I touched Dickman’s arm, and he glanced at me and gave me a little nod. “Mr. Hood,” I said, “when we talked the other day, you told me that Charlotte Gillespie’s color didn’t bother you.”

  “I told you,” he said, “that I didn’t know what color she was when I rented my cabin to her. I told you we did the deal over the phone and she mailed me a check.”

  “Actually,” I said, “you told me it didn’t matter to you whether she was green or purple—I believe those were the colors you mentioned—as long as you got your check.”

  Hood shrugged. “Maybe I said that.”

  “Now you’re saying it did matter?”

  He shrugged and looked down into his glass.

  “So when you saw her and realized she was—”

  He looked up at me. “A nigger?”

  “When you realized that,” I said, “how did you feel?”

  “Stupid,” he said.

  “Angry?”

  He shrugged. “I guess I felt like I’d been tricked.”

  “She made you look like a fool.”

  He nodded. “Maybe.”

  “She should have mentioned it to you.”

  He nodded again.

  “That she was black.”

  “That she was a nigger.”

  “So when you saw her…”

  “I didn’t do nothin’,” he said. He turned to Dickman. “I ain’t done nothin’, Sheriff. So, okay, I went to a couple meetings and they give me a hood. Big laugh, right? Ol’ Hoodie’s got his own hood? But I ain’t broken any laws. First Amendment says I can join whatever I want to join, and then I can quit if I want. And that’s just what I done.”

  “And you want us to believe that you never laid eyes on Charlotte Gillespie until after she moved into your cabin?” I said.

  “I guess you’ll believe what you want to believe, Mr. Coyne. But that’s the way it was. When I seen her on the road, seen that she was a—a colored lady, I said to myself that she’d be outa there in six months, and meantime, I didn’t need to have nothing to do with her. I was waitin’ for her to complain about that old water pump, which don’t work right, or the propane hot water heater, which ain’t too good either, or the fact that there’s no place to plug in the TV, or maybe the mice or the porcupines. Then I’d tell her she could shove off if she wanted to. But she never complained.”

  “So you tried to scare her away,” said Dickman.

  “What, them swastikas?” Hood shook his head. “I didn’t do that.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “No, sir. I didn’t.”

  “But you know who did.”

  Hood frowned. “If I’d a knowed who done that, I guess I’d’ve plastered his ass with a load of number nines. That’s my property up there, regardless of who’s livin’ in it.”

  “You’re saying you don’t know who made the swastikas?” said Dickman.

  Hood nodded slowly. “Yup-suh. That’s what I’m sayin’. That’s just what I’m sayin’.”

  “You quit the Klan, huh?” I said.

  He nodded.

  “Then what’s that Confederate flag doing in your kitchen?”

  “You lookin’ into my house? You can’t do that. That’s my fuckin’ house, and what I got in it ain’t nobody’s business.”

  “So you still are with the Klan, is that it?” I said.

  “Nope. I quit. Don’t mean I can’t keep that flag there if I want. Anyways, what if I didn’t quit? So what?”

  “We are gravely concerned about Charlotte Gillespie,” said Dickman. “We are hoping that she is all right. Because if it turns out that she isn’t all right, we will round up every goddam white sheet in York County. And before we let them go, we’ll be sure that every one of them knows we had some long conversations with Arnold Hood.” He tapped Hood on the leg. “Do you get my drift, Arnold?”

  “I guess so,” he said mildly.

  “So if you happen to know anything that might help us in this very important investigation, you had better unburden yourself.” Dickman leaned toward Hood, so close that their noses almost touched. “Because if I should find out that you knew something but didn’t tell me,” he said softly, “I will be very upset. And I assure you, Mr. Hood, that the weight of the law will fall on your shoulders so hard it’ll drive you into the ground clear up to your tits. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Hood mumbled.

  Dickman stood up. “I want you to give some serious consideration to what I’ve told you,” he said. “Then maybe we’ll have another conversation.”

  Hood looked up at him and nodded.

  “Come on, Deputy,” said Dickman. He put his hand on my shoulder, and we started toward the car.

  “Deputy?” said Hood. “You didn’t tell me you was no deputy, Mr. Coyne.”

  I turned around. “And you didn’t tell me you were a Klansman, Mr. Hood.”

  We were almost to the car when I touched Dickman’s arm. “Wait a minute,” I said. I went back to Hood, who was still sitting on his front steps watching us. “Something’s been bothering me,” I said to him.

  “Something’s been bothering me, too,” he said. He jerked his head in Dickman’s direction. “You boys. You’re what’s been botherin’ me.”

  I smiled. “The other day you told me that you didn’t meet Charlotte until after she’d moved in, right?”

  “That’s right.”


  “You never showed her the place ahead of time, or took her up there when she was ready to move in?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a hard place to find if you don’t know it’s there,” I said. “You must have drawn her a map or given her directions.”

  “Nope,” he said. “She never asked, and I never offered.”

  “That’s hard to believe,” I said.

  “Well,” he said, “I cain’t help that. I’m tellin’ you, I didn’t know she was a nigger when I rented it out to her, and I admitted to you that if I’d’ve known, I wouldn’t’ve rented it to her. But when I seen her, I didn’t do nothin’. I didn’t make those damn swastikas, and I don’t know where she’s at, and that’s the truth.”

  I nodded. “Okay. Thanks for your help.”

  I started back for the sheriff’s car.

  “Hey, Mr. Deputy,” called Hood.

  I stopped and turned to face him. “What?”

  He was grinning. “You taken a poke at Susannah Hollingsworth yet?”

  I shook my head. “Jesus Christ,” I said.

  “’Cause if you ain’t,” he said, “you’re about the only man in York County. Had a piece of her myself, oh, back damn near twenty years ago when she was still sweet and tender.”

  I looked hard into his eyes. “You’d better be careful, Mr. Hood,” I said.

  He arched his eyebrows, thrust out his lower lip, and nodded thoughtfully. “You, too, Mr. Coyne.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. A friendly warning, that’s all. Miss Susannah ain’t that tender anymore. And she sure as hell ain’t sweet.”

  CHAPTER 22

  WE WERE CREEPING OVER the back roads heading back to Alex’s place, and I was staring out the side window pondering what Arnold Hood had said about Susannah, when Dickman said, “Well? What do you think?”

  I turned to look at him. “About what?”

  “Mr. Arnold Hood’s story.”

  “I think that pulling a shotgun on us was incredibly stupid,” I said. “I think that Arnold Hood is an ignorant, crude, bigoted man. But I don’t think he made those swastikas, and I don’t think he did anything to Charlotte Gillespie.”

  “Why not?”

  I shrugged. “I guess he strikes me as too stupid to be a convincing liar.”

  “He lied to you the first time you met him, didn’t he?”

  I nodded. “He did.”

  “And you believed him then.”

  “You’re right. I did.”

  “Arnold Hood is crude and bigoted, all right,” said the sheriff. “But I don’t think he’s stupid:”

  “So what do you figure he was lying about?” I said.

  He shrugged. “A good liar mixes in truth with the lies. Figuring out which is which is the trick. A mildly self-incriminating truth, like admitting to prejudice and using the word ‘nigger,’ makes the lies sound plausible. I’d start with the reason he pulled that shotgun on us.”

  “He didn’t intend to kill us or anything,” I said. “Hell, it was loaded with birdshot. He said he was mad because we removed his ladder. Makes sense to me.”

  “A good lie does make sense,” said Dickman. “You didn’t see him when he came around the corner of his house. He was holding that pumpgun down alongside his leg, and I’ve got the feeling that if we hadn’t scrambled into the bushes, he would’ve kept coming until he had us point-blank. A load of birdshot at ten yards makes a pattern about six inches wide. Blow one helluva big hole in a man.”

  “You think he did intend to kill us?” I said.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Not because of the ladder.”

  “Well,” said Dickman, “if it wasn’t because of the ladder, it was something else.”

  “Like Charlotte Gillespie.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Here’s what’s bothering me,” I said. “Hood says that Charlotte just called him up out of the blue and asked to rent his place. She wasn’t from around here. He didn’t advertise the place. So—”

  “So you’re wondering how she knew about it?” said Dickman.

  “Yes. If Hood’s telling the truth…”

  “Those deer hunters,” he said. “The ones who rented it. They were from Portland.”

  “She could have known one of them,” I said.

  Dickman smiled. “That’s pretty good thinking, Deputy. Arnold should be able to give us some names.” He shrugged. “Not sure where that would lead us. But worth a follow-up. I’ll take care of it. I want you to steer clear of Arnold Hood for a while.” He glanced at me. “Got it?”

  “What?”

  “You stay away from him, Deputy.” He pulled into the driveway and stopped beside my Wrangler. He left the motor running and glanced at his watch. “You’ve got just about enough time to get to Pine Point without breaking the law. It wouldn’t do for a York County deputy sheriff to get nailed for speeding.”

  I nodded and got out of the car. I bent to the window and said, “I’ll fill you in.”

  “Damn right you will. Why do you think I deputized you?”

  He shifted into reverse, lifted his hand, and backed out of the driveway. I turned and went into the house.

  Alex was not behind her bookcase partitions. I found her on the deck with her heels up on the railing and her rocking chair tilted back. A sheaf of papers lay on her lap, and her head rested against the back of the chair. She was wearing sunglasses, so I couldn’t see her eyes. I figured she was napping and decided not to disturb her.

  I went upstairs, washed my face and hands, and combed my wet fingers through my hair. It was a few minutes after four-thirty. I didn’t want Ellen Sanderson to have to wait for me at Pine Point.

  Downstairs I snagged a Coke from the refrigerator, then went out onto the deck. Alex sat forward, slipped her sunglasses down onto the tip of her nose, and looked up at me over the tops of them. “I was just going over some stuff,” she said, putting her hand on the papers on her lap. “Guess I dozed off. The sun feels good. So how’d you and the sheriff make out?”

  “Well, it turns out that Arnold Hood belongs—or once belonged—to the Klan. He tried to shoot us. I got hit in the leg. I’ll tell you all about it. But now I’ve gotta go meet Ellen Sanderson. Don’t want to be late.”

  I bent to kiss her, but she twisted away from me. “Not so fast,” she said. “You tell me you got shot—and then you think you can breeze out of here without telling me the story?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m all right, and it’s really kind of a funny story. When I get back, I’ll tell it to you with all the proper embellishments. Okay?”

  “I guess I have no choice.” She thrust out her lower lip in a parody of a pout.

  “If you’re good, I’ll even show you my wound,” I said.

  “Wow,” she said. “There’s an incentive.”

  I glanced meaningfully at my watch, and this time when I leaned down, Alex gave me a good shot at her mouth. When I kissed it, her arm hooked around my neck and held me there, and I couldn’t help remembering how Susannah’s mouth had tasted, and how her lips and tongue worked differently from Alex’s.

  And I knew I was a despicable man for comparing them. Returning Alex’s kiss felt like a lie.

  I gently put my hands on her shoulders and broke it off. “Keep that up,” I said in what I intended to be a cheerful tone, “and I’ll never get to that meeting.”

  She nodded and smiled. “Well, good luck, Deputy.”

  “Be sure to lock the doors and—”

  “Don’t worry about me, Brady.”

  “Well, I do.”

  She nodded. “Sure you do.”

  I kissed the top of her head and got the hell out of there. I hadn’t really lied to her yet. But I had not told her some important truths, which amounted to the same thing, and it left me with a knot in my stomach and an acid taste in my throat.

  Some people, I knew, could lie without compunction. Their only
worry was getting caught. Perhaps Arnold Hood was like that. But I was not. I had, of course, told my share of lies, and regardless of the fact that I had rarely been caught, every one of them had managed to punish me.

  I followed Route 160 out of town, hooked onto Route 25 heading east, and followed it over the gently rolling landscape through Kezar Falls and Limington and Standish, and as I drove I tried to put thoughts of Alex and Susannah out of my mind and focus on my upcoming interview with Ellen Sanderson.

  Route 25 passed under Interstate 95 in Westbrook. Following the directions Ellen had given me, I continued on to Route 1, headed south, and after a few miles came to a left turn marked by a sign that read “Pine Point and Prouts Neck.”

  Ten minutes later I pulled into a parking area that fronted a narrow beach along a tidal river. On the left a large gray-shingled building crowded against the high-tide line. This, I assumed, although I saw no sign, was the clam shack. An open veranda faced the water overlooking a small marina. A few sportfishing boats and sailboats and other recreational craft were moored there.

  I climbed out of my Wrangler and headed toward the building. Running alongside it into the water was a concrete boat ramp, where a pair of guys with long-billed caps were wrestling a Boston Whaler up onto a trailer. A few fly rods bristled from the Whaler, and I was tempted to go down and ask about the fishing. I’d heard there was excellent striped bass fishing in this area.

  Then I heard a voice calling, “Mr. Coyne?”

  I turned around and made a visor of my hand against the low afternoon sun.

  “Over here.”

  I looked up to the veranda on the back of the clam shack and saw a hand wave. I waved back, then climbed the stairs and sat down across from Ellen Sanderson.

  When I’d met her in her office, she’d had her hair up in a complicated bun, and she’d been wearing a dark blue business suit with a silk blouse underneath. Now she was wearing jeans and a bulky sweatshirt with “Colby College” on the front and long dangly silver-and-turquoise earrings. Navajo, I guessed. Her dark hair, which was lightly streaked with gray, hung down her back in a loose flowing ponytail, held in place with a turquoise silk kerchief that matched her earrings.