Prisoners of the Williwaw

by Ed Griffin

  "As soon as…."

  "No 'as soon as.' Now."

  "You didn't answer my question about Villa."

  She let out a sigh of exasperation. "I live with you, right? I love this little house and all the work you've done, but I have to be clear. Any more deaths, any more drug rings or sex rings or anything and I'm out of here. I've asked Frank about returning to the mainland. I can - next month. This is my last warning, Gil. You change or it's over."

  He sat back down next to her and took her hand. "Not to worry, fine lady. Change is my middle name."

  Chapter 25

  There was no money. Frank sat in his little office in the Bering Building early on a Sunday morning in the middle of October working on his budget. The way he added up the numbers, they were going to run out of money not six months down the line, but next month - right before the general election. He wasn't too worried about the primary election this coming Saturday, but to hit the people with a big tax increase right before the general election - it was political suicide.

  He got up and stood by his grimy window, gazing across the street at his own apartment. In a few hours he would have to walk Judy to church for the 10 AM service. She was thinking of leaving him, leaving him when he most needed help, when his dream was spiraling down to disaster.

  A heavy feeling settled over him. He was alone. Adak was his crusade, not hers. What if she suddenly reversed herself about leaving him? What if she agreed to stay on Adak? Would he give up his crusade and spend his life with her? Would he?

  He could make a neat deal with Gilmore, carve out his own little niche and the hell with the rest of the world.

  He shook himself back to the present. What to do about the budget? Maybe a cup of Irma's coffee in the cafeteria would wake him up - or kill him, he thought wryly.

  His mind still on the budget, he left his office. He passed the empty council meeting room and walked down the stairs to the cafeteria, which was in the basement.

  As he went by the door to the outside, air streamed through a broken window pane. The air was fresh, invigorating, so he stepped outside for a big breath of it. For once the morning wasn't bad. It was overcast, but a wind from the south blew milder air in from the Pacific. The breeze reminded him of Lake Michigan, except there was more salt smell in this breeze.

  The cafeteria door burst open and Carl Larson pushed him aside. "Get the fuck out of the way."

  He was gone before Frank could respond.

  Larson in a hurry made Frank nervous. He entered the cafeteria and walked down the serving line. "Irma, Sam, Jeannie," he called out. No answer. Then he noticed the cash drawer open, the bills gone.

  "Irma, Sam, Jeannie," he called again. No answer. He pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen. Irma's body lay in the middle of the floor, blood draining from the back of her head. Her slacks were pulled down, her sweater pulled up. Her bra and panties were ripped off and lay on the floor near her. Terror filled her still open, but motionless eyes.

  Frank bent over her. She was dead. The back of her head was crushed. "Oh, God, where is this going to end?" he cried out loud. Was there some way to get the Feds to call this whole thing off? Too many people were dying.

  He put his thumbs on her eyes and closed them. A scene from long ago flicked through his mind - at three in the morning he put his thumbs on the cancer-ridden eyes of his mother and closed them. Life was separation and defeat.

  He rearranged Irma's clothes to cover her nakedness.

  He heard someone else come into the cafeteria and call out just as he had. It was Latisha. He got up from the body and turned to the kitchen door and met her just as she came in. He hugged her and thereby blocked her view. "You don't want to see. It's Irma. She's dead. Raped. It was Larson."

  She looked over his shoulder. "Oh God, Frank." She cried. He did, too. He hugged her tight. She hugged him back.

  Time stood still. Death swirled all around him, except for, except for - Latisha. She or some part of her, or him when he was with her, stood up to death.

  "Oh, Frank what about Jeannie?"

  As if in response, a voice from the cafeteria, a young voice, a happy voice. "Mom, Dad's coming right over. He says to start the pancakes."

  Frank and Latisha went through the door into the cafeteria, still holding each other. Latisha pulled her into the hug. "Jeannie, I'm sorry, but your mom - somebody killed her."

  "Oh, my Mom, my Mom."

  Frank felt Jeannie's cry come into his ears and stab him in the heart. He needed to act. He had to get Larson before he killed again.

  * * *

  Immediately Frank went across the street to the Marine Barracks to Joe and Maggie's apartment to get Joe to help.

  He knocked on their door. After a long wait, Joe came to the door in a bathrobe. Frank told him what had happened and Joe gripped the open door until it shook. "That poor woman. That Larson - we got to…" He couldn't finish.

  Maggie appeared behind him, also in a bathrobe. Frank repeated his news. She put her hand to her mouth. "Oh Frank, that's terrible. Poor Jeannie. Now she has no mother."

  "I'm gonna kill that Larson," Joe said.

  Frank put his hand up like a traffic cop. He couldn't have Joe going ballistic. "No, you're not, Joe. You're gonna arrest him so we can bring him to trial. If your life is threatened, well, then you do what you gotta do."

  Maggie grabbed Frank's arm. "Oh, but Mr. Villa, you need a posse to arrest Larson. Not just Joe. He's very upset. By himself, he …"

  Frank pulled his hand free. He had no time now for Maggie protecting Joe. "Joe's the police. And, Maggie, there's no one else, no posse. Listen, Joe, the police van is almost ready. It's parked behind the Bering Building. Use it. Here are the keys. Find Larson. Stop him."

  Frank left their apartment and went out to the middle of the street. Where had Larson gone? In the north there was Mt. Moffett and Mt. Adagdak. On their stark slopes he'd be easily spotted. To the south near Finger Bay, lay Razorback Ridge, but it, too, jutted up with exposed slopes. No, Larson hid someplace in the buildings at the bottom of the hill, Downtown Adak, and most likely in Gilmore's Sea Otter at the bottom of the big 'U.'

  Frank headed down the hill to the Sea Otter. A half hour later he stomped in the front door. Even though it was only 9:30 AM the smells of spilled beer, hard liquor and marijuana smoke assailed him. Without knocking, he marched into Gilmore's office. Gilmore sat at his desk using an old calculator.

  Frank stepped right in front of the desk. "I want Larson."

  Gilmore looked up from his calculations. "I heard about Irma. I feel terrible. The man is uncontrollable. I tried to make him understand that Irma worked for me."

  Frank stared at Gilmore. "I want Larson."

  Gilmore punched another number on his calculator and stared at the result. "Have a seat, Villa. He's not here."

  "Where is he?"

  "I don't know."

  "Bullshit."

  Gilmore shrugged. "Search the place."

  Frank paused. Gilmore always distanced himself from tragedy and crime. "Death follows you around, Gilmore. Three of your men die on Thursday, then Amy O'Donnell, now Irma."

  "Hold on, Villa." Gilmore stood up. "The death rate on this island would be a lot higher without me. I didn't tell Larson to rape and kill. I'm not responsible for his criminal behavior."

  Again, not responsible. Frank stood and put his fist on Gilmore's desk. "If you're hiding Larson, I want him."

  "Use your head, Villa. I'm running for your job. I don't want a sex maniac in my camp. I fired him a half hour ago."

  "So he was here. Where did he go?"

  "I don't know. I told you, I fired him."

  "After he killed Irma Wong. I've ordered Joe Britt to hunt him down."

  "And if Britt finds him?"

  "The council will decide what to do with him."

  "That should be interesting."

  Frank saw in his mind a quick picture of Fitznagel and Big Jim making jokes about Larson's f
ate. Frank had come in here demanding Larson's surrender and now Gilmore was making fun of him, humiliating him. Gilmore sat down and punched in another number on his calculator. Frank rapped his knuckles on Gilmore's desk and turned to leave.

  Someone kicked the door open. Sam Wong stood in the doorway, carrying a rifle. He raised the rifle and pointed it at Gilmore. "Say your prayers, motherfucker. I'm gonna kill you first, then your dog, Larson. My wife, Gilmore! My wife!"

  Frank put his hand up. "No, Sam." More death coming.

  Gilmore stood and held out his hands as if to show he carried no weapon … and no guilt. "Sam, Sam, it's not me. Why would I have one part of my organization attack another part?"

  "Fuck your organization." Sam raised the rifle.

  Frank reached his hand out. "No, Sam, give it to me."

  Sam ignored him. "Where is he, Gilmore?"

  "I tell you, Sam, I got rid of him."

  "You're lying, Gilmore." Sam fired the rifle into the wall beside Gilmore's head. The loud sound cracked in Frank's ear and shook his head. At the same instant he heard the dull twuck of the bullet striking the wall. This gun play had to stop.

  Gilmore sat down, then slowly lowered his hands. Frank noticed him surreptitiously reaching under his chair. A hidden gun.

  Frank stepped between Gilmore and Sam. "Come on, Sam."

  Sam stepped aside, his aim still on Gilmore. "Out of my way, Villa. I'm going to rid the world of Boss Gilmore, then I'm gonna find the animal that killed Irma."

  He had to stop this. Rudy, Rudy, come on, Rudy. Help me get control.

  The quiet, deadly voice. Use it. "Don't Sam. Killing Gilmore isn't going to get Irma back. Give me the gun."

  "Fuck off, Villa. You may be afraid to kill this son of a bitch, but I'm not."

  Frank put his hand on the rifle barrel. Behind him, Gilmore said, "Tell him I'm cooperating."

  "Are you?" Frank said without turning around. He tugged on the rifle barrel. "Come on, Sam."

  "What about him?" Sam asked pointing beyond him to Gilmore.

  Frank took the rifle from Sam and turned to look at Gilmore. "Leave Gilmore to himself."

  * * *

  A few minutes later Gilmore drove the short distance to the little house he had presented to Latisha. No doubt she had heard of Irma's death and she would be full of questions. He would have to do some fancy footwork. When he opened the door, he found her packing.

  "I've had it, Gilmore. I'm out of here."

  "What? Why?"

  "Why? Jeannie Dickinson doesn't have a mother anymore, thanks to you."

  "I fired Larson."

  "I asked you to fire him a month and a half ago."

  She slammed her suitcase shut. "I'll have somebody pick up my plates and my mother's frying pan."

  "Is it - Villa? Are you leaving me because of him?"

  "You have to be the stupidest man in the world. I'm leaving you because of you."

  "I'll change."

  "No, you won't. It's over."

  "Ten years of marriage?"

  "Over."

  Latisha picked up her suitcase and walked out the door. A second later she came back in and took her mother's frying pan off the wall. "You'd probably sell it," she said and left again.

  Chapter 26

  "I'm going with you, Joe."

  "Ain't no place for a woman, Maggie."

  Still she got dressed as fast as Joe did. This was terrible, Frank sending him out by himself to hunt Larson. No posse. No cavalry. No lawmen from other territories. Just Joe alone. A western nightmare right out of her father's video favorites.

  There was no way she was going to let him go off by himself. The very mention of the name Larson generated anger in Joe, as if Larson challenged everything he believed in, as if Larson threatened his very life. She didn't fully understand his anger, but she knew Larson was the flash point that might lead him to kill again. She couldn't let that happen.

  She put on her parka and set her face in cold determination. "I'm going." She opened the refrigerator and took out the bag of sandwiches she had prepared the night before. They had planned a little picnic for today, a walk to see Clam Lagoon and Candlestick Bridge no matter what the weather.

  She watched him pick up his revolver and gun belt, then put it down. Good, she thought. If he had a gun and blind rage came over him… well, that could be disastrous. It was not using the gun or killing someone that she feared, it was the lack of thought, the rage.

  But then he picked it up again and put it on. "Damn Larson," he muttered.

  Her heart sank.

  He gave her a perfunctory kiss. "You stay here, Maggie," he said, even though she had her parka on.

  He opened the door. She was right behind him. "I'm coming."

  Her short, pudgy legs could not keep up with his stride, but half way across the street, he slowed down and waited for her.

  Behind the Bering Building an old Chevy van was parked. It lacked fenders, bumpers, headlights and windshield wipers. The passenger side was banged in, the rear doors were wired shut, and the salt air of Adak had left little of the original blue paint on the van. A wooden sign, attached to the driver's door, said Police, Adak Island.

  Joe walked around the van, touched the metal, and kicked the tires. She noted the pleased look on his face.

  "Come on, Maggie," he said. "We gotta find Larson."

  She hefted herself into the van through Joe's side and sat down in a kitchen chair attached to the floor of the van with strap iron.

  She watched him as he tried to start the old engine. He bent his head to one side so his ear could pick up every nuance of the engine. His face was alert, and his big hand turned the ignition key like a surgeon deftly making a critical incision.

  Nothing.

  She leaned forward as if that motion would help start the van.

  Joe turned the key again. The engine coughed, coughed again, then whined and died.

  "Come on, Baby," Joe said and pulled on the steering wheel as if to coax the old engine alive. Maggie leaned forward in her chair a little more. He put his foot to the floor with a precise motion and held it there, then turned the key.

  The van coughed, backfired, and began to shake like a can of paint in the hardware store. "There she goes, Maggie!" Joe said, his hands shaking on the wheel.

  He put the car in gear and drove around the building to the road. "Larson. He'd go first thing down to Gilmore's. When I get him…. Imagine, raping and killing that woman."

  Joe's giant hands gripped the steering wheel. She saw his knuckles turn white. The steering wheel shook, but she couldn't tell if the force of his grip shook it or the engine did. She had to find a way to keep him calm. But what? Maybe there were some psychological tricks that doctors used, but she didn't know any.

  Love. That's what would help. Love. But how did you show love? Her mother used to say as she prepared her husband's lunch, "I tell you, Maggie, you show your love for your husband by how you prepare his sandwiches. You build a sandwich, you don't just throw it together. You make it a thing of beauty, color, texture, smell. Sandwiches say love."

  Maggie had worked hard on the sandwiches she had packed, one Swiss cheese, the second Colby, the third American. Each sandwich was neat, evenly thick, with no mustard or mayonnaise dripping off the edges.

  "I'll bet you're hungry, Joe. No breakfast."

  "I am, Maggie." His grip on the wheel loosened.

  She handed him the Swiss cheese sandwich. He steered around a pothole then ate the sandwich. It was gone in less than a minute.

  "Mighty good."

  Joe had to stop once, get out and wipe the mist off the windshield. At the bottom of the big 'U,' near Gilmore's place, Maggie saw Frank coming out of the Sea Otter's driveway. "There's Frank. He looks worried."

  Joe stopped on the side of the road, just past the driveway and tried to roll down the window. It didn't move. He opened the door as Frank drew near. "Larson's been here, Joe, but he's gone now. How's the van wor
king?"

  Joe smiled. "Runs like a kitten."

  "Hi, Maggie. You two be careful, now. Larson's a killer. I'm going up and see if Elvira is sober enough to talk to me. Maybe she knows where her husband is."

  Suddenly an old jeep bounced out of the Sea Otter driveway and zoomed around them. It was Larson.

  Joe pulled the door shut and stepped on the gas. The van lurched forward, but the sudden influx of gas choked the old van and it began to sputter and slow. Larson was lost up ahead.

  "Damn it," Joe said and hit the steering wheel. "Bastard."

  Maggie put her hand on his arm. "Don't worry, Joe. You'll get him." She handed him another sandwich.

  The van putt-putted along the road in the same direction as Larson. As they passed Doc's medical clinic, she saw Larson run out of the clinic and jump into his jeep. Seconds later she saw Doc run out of the clinic, his arms waving, his mouth open with what she assumed were a stream of expletives.

  Joe backed up and pulled into the clinic. As he opened the door to the van, Doc was in mid-curse. "…little prick rot off and … the son of a bitch was grabbing my drugs, but I caught him and threw a knife at him. Bastard did get some antibiotics."

  "Is he armed?" Joe asked.

  "Didn't see anything. Catch him, Joe, and cut off his prick."

  Joe pulled the door toward himself so it was only open a crack. He looked over at her. She knew he was trying to keep her from hearing Doc's words.

  "Stealin' our medicine." Again Joe's white knuckles showed as he drove off in pursuit of Larson.

  What was the origin of this rage? She knew something of Joe's history: how he had to fight his way through Aztec territory on the way to and from school, how he protected his little brother and sister, how his mom was proud of him for fighting - "You don't take no shit from nobody," how she worked in a bar and how she was killed by a nervous robber, how the police woman called his mother 'white trash,' how he and his brother and sister were split up and put in foster homes, how…

  But where was the root of the anger and where was the solution?