The Midnight Plan of the Repo Man

by W. Bruce Cameron

  Alan made a miffed sound but I was in no mood to apologize. I wiped sweaty palms on my jeans.

  After a few minutes Strickland came back in and sat in his chair, regarding me warily. “The librarian confirms you spent a couple of hours going through the microfiche. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “Because I didn’t think you’d believe me. I mean, I know how weird it must sound, me dreaming about it.”

  Strickland snorted. He gave me a long stare, like he didn’t know quite what to do with me. “We had a psychic one time on a missing child, waste of time. The little girl was taken by her uncle, just like we all figured. Is that what you are, a psychic?”

  Everyone in northern Michigan seemed to have psychics on the brain. “No, sir,” I answered, dreading the idea that he might somehow know that my sister was running what was, in essence, a psychic hotline. He didn’t mention it, though, surprising me with his next question.

  “You hear voices in your head sometimes, Ruddy?”

  I swallowed. “Well, yeah. How did you—”

  “I hear you’ve been spending some time with Deputy Timms’s fiancée,” he interrupted.

  “They’re not engaged!” Alan and I blurted together.

  Strickland arched his eyebrows at my reaction. “She told me they were only talking about getting married, sir,” I explained more calmly.

  The sheriff stood up and stared out his window. A gray fog was rolling through the town, erasing the details of the trees visible from his office. “It’s my job to protect the citizens of this county,” he told me after a minute.

  “Tell him you’re a citizen, too,” Alan urged.

  “Yes sir, but I’m a citizen, too,” I said.

  Strickland turned back to me. “You’re an ex-con,” he corrected icily. “You’ve got psychiatric issues. And you’re running some kind of game here, I just don’t know what. Probably taking advantage of Alan’s family. I want you to stay away from Katie Lottner.”

  “No!” I responded without thinking. Probably not too many people said that word to Strickland. His face turned dark.

  I jumped agitatedly to my feet. “Look, do you think I wanted this? I didn’t ask to dream about Alan Lottner. I didn’t even know the guy!”

  “You’ve been saying you did know me,” Alan murmured.

  “I mean, I’ve been saying I did know him but I didn’t, okay? I just had this dream, this horrible…” I squeezed my hands into fists. “I came here to tell you about it. If I hadn’t, you never would have found him and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “You will sit in that chair until I tell you otherwise.”

  I sat back down. Strickland regarded me for a long moment. “You’re a confused man, McCann, and every time I see you, some of that confusion rubs off on me. But on one thing I’m very clear. I will not have you messing with Katie Lottner’s head. She’s burying her father tomorrow and in her state of mind you probably look like some kind of hero.”

  “Burying me? You mean they’re having a funeral for me tomorrow?” Alan demanded.

  “You tell her about Lisa Marie Walker?” Strickland asked.

  I swallowed.

  “I thought not. She know about the voices?”

  I just stared at him.

  “Here’s where we stand. I’m going to continue my murder investigation. If I find you have been withholding important information from me I am going to see you prosecuted and you will go back to prison. I’m tired of your brand of happy horseshit.” Strickland opened his door and stuck his head out into the hallway. “Deputy!” he shouted. He turned back to me. “The deputy will take you back home. We’re finished here. I truly hope I don’t have to talk to you again, McCann.”

  My neck was bent as I followed the deputy out to the patrol car and slid inside. The sky was dark and his windshield wipers came on before we’d gone a mile. Alan finally seemed to realize I couldn’t very well answer his questions, and before long I felt him slip away into his sleep state. The deputy didn’t have much to say, either.

  At the Black Bear, two kids were playing at the pool table, clacking the balls together by hand-rolling them. It took me a long time to register the significance: I couldn’t remember the last time parents had brought their children with them to the Bear.

  Jimmy slid up next to me. “Hey, Ruddy, here.”

  I looked blankly at the wad of money he was shoving at me. “What is it?”

  “I worked out a payment arrangement with Milt, and he said you’d already paid fifty dollars, you know, on that check scam I fell for, so I’m paying you back.”

  “No, hey, you should hang on to it.”

  “S’okay. It’s from tips.” I stared into Jimmy’s guileless eyes and then took a full survey of the room. Several tables had people sitting at them, doing something almost unheard of at the Black Bear: eating. Jimmy jumped up. “I’ve got to run. Maybe if it slows down we can play some pool later?”

  “If you think we can beat them,” I said, pointing to the kids. Jimmy shrugged, grinning.

  There weren’t any bar fights between the families for me to break up that night, so I went home feeling like events were conspiring to render me useless.

  As I pushed open my front door, Jake glanced expectantly behind me to see if Jimmy was coming home, too.

  “We talked about this, Jake. You have to love me more. I’m the one who feeds you.”

  Yeah, his look said, but you don’t let me up on the bed.

  I eased down onto the floor and put my arms around my dog. Alan was still asleep and I felt unusually alone in the world. Jake seemed to sense it, his pink tongue coming out for a reassuring lick. I sighed. Alan asked me why I couldn’t treat people the way I treated my dog—but why couldn’t anybody treat me like Jake did?

  * * *

  As soon as he woke up the next day, Alan started talking. First he wanted to speculate on why I had flunked the “state your name” portion of the polygraph—his theory, that the two of us were somehow melded together, “my truth” mingling with “his truth,” made me peevish.

  “I don’t want any part of you mingling with any part of me, Alan,” I said. Then he wanted to talk about his funeral. We were going to go, weren’t we? Would Marget be there, even though she had divorced him? Was it going to be at Burby’s? That made sense, but what nerve the man had.

  “How come you’re not answering me?” Alan asked after a while, sounding frustrated.

  “You seem to be doing a good job of holding up both ends of the conversation,” I noted.

  “Well, maybe that’s because you’re not saying anything.”

  I didn’t say anything. Just call me Mr. Irony.

  “What’s wrong?” Alan pressed.

  “What’s wrong? You mean besides having a dead man in my head who won’t shut up?”

  “What a hurtful thing to say.”

  “Oh that is so you, Alan. ‘What a hurtful thing to say.’ You talk like you’re on British television.”

  “What is your problem?”

  “My problem is that sometimes I just want a little peace and quiet. I would like to spend some time by myself. Is that so hard to understand?”

  “Well how are we supposed to accomplish that?”

  “I don’t know!” I went to my closet and pulled out a suit, brushing impatiently at the dust that had settled on the shoulders. I felt Alan restraining himself from commenting. “Yes, we’re going to your funeral,” I said.

  Alan fell asleep soon after that, but he was awake and ready to assess my wardrobe as I was getting dressed. He seemed unhappy I hadn’t purchased a new tie since the last century and fussed over the lack of shine in my shoes, which just served to make me insecure about myself. “I don’t think it really matters, Alan,” I griped. I was standing in the bathroom, willing the razor nick in my chin to stop bleeding. “Maybe you should worry less about me and more about whether it’s going to be an open casket.”

  “Oh, that’s funny.�
��

  “Sorry, Jake, you can’t go,” I informed my dog for my amusement. Neither Alan nor Jake reacted.

  The sun was so bright it made me squint as I drove to East Jordan. I swung my truck into Burby’s lot, parking in the back because of how many cars had turned out. “You’re drawing a pretty good crowd, Alan.”

  “I didn’t think I had that many friends,” he responded, sounding a little awed.

  I didn’t tell him that I thought some of the people were probably there out of curiosity: This town didn’t dig up very many murder victims. I squeezed into the main room, standing in the back because all the seats were taken, and let Alan attend his own memorial service.

  Marget and Katie both wore black. With her curly hair falling to her shoulders, I thought she looked stunning, but sternly reminded myself that this was her father’s funeral and that I should keep all thoughts chaste and appropriate.

  A minister stepped forward, led a prayer, and then began speaking about Alan. “I have no idea who this guy is,” Alan muttered. We listened: Apparently Alan was a kind man, a wonderful father, a generous person who often volunteered to help decorate the church for holiday services. “I did that one time,” Alan complained. I shut my eyes, hard, and he stopped talking.

  As the preacher spoke, I gradually became aware that people were glancing at me, cutting their eyes in my direction when I wasn’t looking directly at them. It made sense: I was the guy who found the body. I wondered what the local rumors were saying about me. Psychic? Repo madman?

  Katie picked up on all the looks and swiveled around in her seat, finding me with her clear blue eyes. I gave a solemn nod, and she raised her fingers in a small, childlike wave. I heard Alan catch his breath. Deputy Timms, sitting next to her, turned and saw me, the blood roaring into his face. I stared back impassively.

  When the minister finished, he spread his hands and invited all those gathered to say something about Alan, and there was a long, awkward silence. I wondered if I should step forward, since I probably knew him better than anybody there, but before I could open my mouth or consider what I could say that wouldn’t sound totally demented, Katie stood up. She turned and brushed the hair out of her eyes, one hand unconsciously grabbing her dress at the hip as if to hold herself up.

  “My dad…” She cleared her throat and looked around the room. I caught sight of Nathan Burby standing in the corner, looking unctuous, and was nearly felled by the heat of my anger. “My dad called me Kathy. He liked to go running, and when he got back we would walk together. He told me I could be anything in the world I wanted to be.” Her mouth trembled. “I knew he didn’t leave us.” Her eyes flashed at her mother, briefly, before settling back on the people in the room. “He would never leave. I knew in my heart something really bad had happened to my dad.” Her tears ran down her cheeks, and when she inhaled it was like a hiccup. “I didn’t want him to be dead, but I knew that’s the only reason he wouldn’t be there when I was growing up.” She gave us a crooked smile. “He was the best dad in the whole world.”

  Her wet eyes probed the room and when they found mine I was wiping the tears away. Alan and I sat there, both crying, and the stares were now frank and openly curious as they assessed me and my reaction.

  Marget stood and hugged her daughter and they both wept, while people swarmed around, wondering how to help.

  I caught sight of Sheriff Strickland watching me from across the room. His expression was, as always, dark and unreadable, but I knew he couldn’t be happy to see me there.

  After a time the room broke into individual groups and then developed some organization: People would file past a display of photographs, sometimes touching Alan’s coffin, before murmuring something to Katie and Marget and then shaking Nathan Burby’s hand on the way out the door. I waited until Timms was involved in a conversation across the room before stepping forward. I took my time looking at the pictures.

  Alan had always been tall and thin, with very dark eyebrows and curly hair that he’d passed on to his daughter. Sometime in the eighties he allowed too much hair to pile up on his head until he looked like a Chia Pet, but his clothing was always pressed and clean. He had lean, muscular legs and arms. In most of the photographs he was not smiling, though whenever he was caught holding his little girl he was grinning through even, white teeth.

  “That one is from her fifth birthday party,” he said in wonder. Katie was a little brown-headed girl who always seemed to be wearing muddy dresses and chocolate face paint.

  I went and stood in front of the coffin, tentatively setting my hand on it. “I’m in there,” he breathed in awe.

  Actually, no, I wanted to tell him, you’re in here, inside me.

  I met Marget next. She was a pale, pretty woman, thin, with a weary expression in her eyes. I told her how sorry I was and she nodded distractedly. It must be difficult to be the official widow of a man you divorced many years ago.

  I held out my hand for Katie, but she surprised me by pulling me into a tight hug. “Thank you so, so much for coming. It really means a lot to me. I know my father would have appreciated you being here.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I told her, which sounded stupid to my ears—the loss had taken place a long time ago. We were here for closure.

  Katie steered me slightly to the side. “Most of these people were the same ones who said my dad ran away. Do you think they admit that? No, now they all act like they knew something bad had happened the whole time.”

  I didn’t know what to say to this. I shrugged, cursing my inability to help her. I wanted to slay dragons for this woman, pull her out of a burning building, be her hero, instead of just standing there like a tree trunk.

  “You heard? They said he was shot in the head.” Katie put her hand to her mouth. “Do you think he suffered?” Her eyes searched mine.

  He’s dead.

  No, I’m not.

  “No! I mean, no, he didn’t suffer, Katie. I can promise you that. Your father died almost instantly and never felt a thing.”

  “I never even knew I was shot the second time, I just fell down. It didn’t hurt at all,” Alan told me.

  “Katie?” A woman her mother’s age touched Katie’s shoulder, and I took my cue and said good-bye.

  Nathan Burby held out a hand as I headed for the door. “Very good of you to come,” he murmured, acting as if he’d never seen me before.

  “What will happen to the memorial now that you have a real body?” I asked curiously.

  He frowned, not liking the question. “That hasn’t been decided yet.”

  “You were going to show me where it is.”

  His eyes turned cold. “You’re not a cousin.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You’re the man who found Alan’s body. Why did you come here and lie to me?”

  “I can’t believe the nerve of this man,” Alan choked angrily.

  “I don’t know, Nathan, why did you lie to me?” I asked pleasantly.

  He clearly regretted engaging in conversation with me. “Good-bye, thank you for coming.”

  “Poor Alan, do you think he suffered?”

  Burby blinked at me.

  “Not from the shot in the head, I’m sure he didn’t feel that. But that shovel had to hurt, don’t you think?”

  The color drained from his face. I leaned forward. “I know what you’re thinking, Nathan. I was in prison, right? I’m sure somebody from Strickland’s office told you that by now. So I couldn’t have been there, hiding behind the trees, watching the whole thing. But if that’s the case, how do I know? See, that’s what you should be wondering about. How do I know?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he responded faintly.

  I slapped him a little too hard on the shoulder, sensing the room drop into quiet at the sudden noise. “Sure you do, Nathan.” I winked at him. “See you soon, pal.”

  I walked out into the late afternoon sun.

  “My God, Ruddy, tha
t was amazing. You just got right in his face.”

  “He killed a friend of mine. Pisses me off,” I explained. The blood was still pounding through my limbs and I half hoped Burby would follow me outside and try to start something. If he wasn’t available, I’d take Timms.

  After a bit I’d calmed down and Alan and I decided to check out his memorial, which turned out to be a restful park bench set beneath some trees. Off to the side was a large boulder with a brass plaque bolted into the rock. IN LOVING MEMORY OF ALAN LOTTNER. WE WILL NEVER FORGET YOU. I sat down and let Alan work through his feelings.

  “Second day in a row with some sunshine. We’ll be covered with mosquitoes before you know it,” I remarked after a while.

  “Why would a funeral director and a factory board member want to kill me? Why would they deprive me of my family, of my little girl?” Alan asked plaintively.

  “It was something you saw that day, I’m convinced of it,” I replied, thinking of Wexler’s shocked expression when he spotted the car bouncing past. Burby didn’t appear so surprised, but his profession probably gave him a lot of practice masking his reactions.

  “But what did I see? They were just standing there!”

  We thought about that for some time. When we stood up from the bench, the parking lot was only half full, and people were leaving in a steady trickle. Nathan and Marget had stepped outside to talk, Burby probably trying to settle his bill before everyone left. He and Alan’s widow were conferring in low, almost intimate tones.

  Then she raised her face, smiling, and the two of them kissed. I heard Alan gasp in shock, and I stood there a moment, my mouth open.

  “Alan,” I finally said, “I think I know why you were murdered.”

  20

  Why They Died

  “How can this be?” Alan whispered, stunned.

  Burby and Marget went back inside, their arms linked. I turned away from the funeral home so no one would see me talking to myself.

  “It’s the most basic motive in history, Alan.”

  “No, wait—even if you’re right, it doesn’t make any sense. Why would Wexler want to get involved? It was Wexler who hit me with the shovel, and he … I’m pretty sure he shot me, I don’t know how I know, but it was him. Why would he do that?”