by J. L. Salter
“What about hotels?”
“The only original hotel is abandoned now, but still standing. Northeast corner of old downtown.” He pointed with a ball point pen. “Fronts Washington Street but Quarry Road goes along the other side. Quarry is still Adams while it’s in downtown.”
Shane wasn’t interested in abandoned hotels. “I landed here last night because I saw your sign from the Interstate. But where would somebody go if he wanted to disappear?”
“Not sure what you’re looking for, but the bad part of town is over here.” He pointed to the southwest corner of Verdeville’s perfect rectangle. Bordered on the north by the railroad tracks and to the east by Highway 231. “Folks looking for trouble can find it in there.”
“I’m not looking for problems, but the guy I need to find is already in a bunch of trouble.” He pulled out the photo and laid it on the counter.
The manager studied it. “Hasn’t been here.” He looked up. “Friend?”
Shane laughed. “Not even close. He robbed my house in California a couple of weeks ago and I think he came here to...”
“Your ex?”
“Yeah. So I need to find him... quick.”
Clay’s finger made a lazy, small circle on the area he’d previously mentioned. “That’s where I’d start.”
“Okay if I have a copy of this map?”
“Sure.” He reached under the counter. “Got plenty left. Most travelers don’t care what’s around here.”
“Oh, one more thing. Where’s Netterville Street? Supposed to be in Old Highlands, whatever that is.”
Clay leaned forward and placed the tip of his pen on the paper map. It was perhaps a mile north along Highway 231.
But Shane didn’t need to reach Bethany’s house until mid-day since she was at work, and he had no idea where that was. He thanked the manager and began to move away from the desk.
“I don’t guess you’d consider asking the police to help find that feller?”
“This guy lives below radar for the most part.” Shane set his jaw grimly. “And when I find him, I don’t think I want any cops around.”
The manager nodded. He understood.
Back in the room, Shane pulled the weapons from his locked gym bag on the top shelf of the small closet. The firearm he’d prefer was his Smith & Wesson Model 629 in .44 magnum—stolen in the recent break-in... so he’d brought his S&W Model 686 revolver in .357 magnum. It was loaded with six and had three extra speed loaders, also full. Twenty-four rounds total, plus an extra box of fifty. He pulled his hunting knife from its home-made leather scabbard. It was a Buck Model 124, the version manufactured between 1968-73, before the series displayed a model number. Shane had handled a good many blades—both civilian and military—but this Frontiersman was probably his favorite... for heft, balance, and holding an edge.
He kept both concealed until he got to his motorcycle and unlocked the fiberglass saddlebags. His weapons went on top, then he locked it. If he was at home, he’d probably carry both on him, but didn’t want to risk it in this little burg. You never know when some small town cop’s gonna get nosy or pushy. Inside his saddlebag was close enough, because Shane was never far from his Harley.
He turned the key and the bike roared to life.
While waiting for Bethany to return home, hopefully for lunch, Shane did some prep work to help locate Ricks. “Okay, Ricky-boy, where would a tweaker hang out in Verde-town if he was up to no good? And this burg probably doesn’t even have dumpsters.” When you enter hostile territory: locate the enemy, assess his strength, and prepare a plan.
With his new map and the manager’s detailed briefing, Shane rode north on Highway 231, toward downtown. As he crossed the railroad tracks, he pulled to the side. Looking west, he could clearly see why it was the bad part of town. Not merely because of the run-down condition of most tiny houses and small businesses, but weeds and trash had overtaken several lots. Many structures seemed vacant and most had been vandalized. Some buildings looked like they’d be good choices for meth labs or crack houses, if people in Verde-town did such things. Some of the dwellings were old-fashioned shotgun houses, devoid of paint. Most were also missing shingles and several had caved-in roofs. Abandoned, rusted automobiles of various vintages lined the roads and yards.
Three depressing streets south of the tracks, Shane spotted a corner saloon with metal bars on the windows and a few sorry-looking pick-up trucks outside. He could discern no name, other than Bar, but it bordered Mill Street and the highway.
Though he did not doubt the assessment of the motel manager, Shane wondered what kind of reaction he’d get from the same question here. So, inside, Shane asked where the bad part of town was.
The beer-bellied bartender sighed—expelling horrendous breath—and pointed to the pitted and stained surface of the bar immediately in front of him. “Ya already foun’ it.”
Shane ordered a bottle of beer and surveyed the dimly-lit establishment. It was the kind of dirty and dingy place where, if they had free pretzels, a smart person wouldn’t dare eat them.
An older man in the corner had been watching. Maybe in his seventies—hard to tell with his stringy gray hair and at least a week’s worth of face stubble. The man rose with considerable difficulty and hobbled over. “Bikers don’t come here anymore much.” He nodded past the dingy glass, faded sign, and rusty bars at Shane’s motorcycle. “You ain’t local.”
“Just got here, Mister. Looking for an acquaintance that might’ve hit town about ten days ago.”
“He’d be a biker too?” The old man rubbed his stubbled chin.
“No. He’d be a tweaker. Meth head.” Shane pulled the snapshot from his shirt pocket. “Skinny one on the left.”
After a moment to process that description and scrutinize the photo, he said, “I’m Cratchit.”
“Can I get you a beer, Cratchit?” Shane indicated the empty chair and the old man sat slowly. Shane signaled the bartender.
“Feller ya lookin’ fer ain’t yer friend.” It was not a question.
“Can’t say he is. He broke in to my house, conked me on the head, and took some of my stuff.”
“You figure to get it back.” Another statement. The bartender brought the beer, paused to see if anything else was needed, and then returned to his station at the bar. Cratchit took a long swallow and smiled. Bad teeth.
“So... you see anybody new in town, besides me?”
“How long ago?” He scratched his sparse gray hair.
“Probably early last week. Most likely a stolen car, could be California plates.”
“How much do ya like Nevady plates?”
Shane sized him up—ten bucks ought to suit him. Shane first pulled out a five and slid it toward the old man, but kept two fingers on one end.
“Dark blue fer-door wit’ Nevady plates drove by Mondee er Tuesdee afternoon. Made two slow passes, then stopped in th’ lot out there an’ he read somethin’... mebbe a map. Couldn’t tell.”
“Didn’t come in?” Shane kept finger pressure on the bill.
“Not then. But later—I wuz ahready gone—Murphy said there’s a skinny, scraggly feller that talked funny. Acted strange.”
“Is that Murphy?” Shane pointed to the bartender.
Cratchit nodded.
“You got any idea where the Nevada guy’s staying?”
The old man tugged at the fiver and Shane released it. “I’m on fixed income an’ ever’thing costs more ever’ day.”
Shane placed another five on the table and covered it with his entire hand. “If your information is good, I’ll come back and fix your income a little better. But this is all I can spare for what sounds like guesswork.”
Cratchit took a deep drink. “Murphy said th’ feller wuz on foot when he come back that night.”
“So he’s staying somewhere close.” Shane looked out the window. “Any cheap motels around here?”
Cratchit stared intently at the bill on the table. “A couple down
th’ highway a block er two... an’ one a few blocks west on Mill Street. But th’ newest places er down at th’ freeway exit.
Shane lifted his hand.
The old man snatched the bill and smiled so wide that Shane could count the missing teeth. Two gone from the top and three from the jaw.
“Okay, Mister Cratchit. You find out exactly where this guy is and I’ll double that.” Shane pointed to the two bills crumpled in the informant’s wrinkled hand.
Ricks would be sleeping somewhere during the day. Pretty much like a vampire.
Shane needed some rest too. But, more than rest, he needed to ride around this rundown section of town for a while. You can see a lot more from a bike than from a car or truck. Presently, he was looking for a dark blue sedan with Nevada plates. It probably already smelled like dumpster garbage.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mid-morning
Kaser silently imagined the shock on Ed Dillon’s face—or, for that matter, Dillon’s boss Durocher—if they knew how many new bodies could pile up when one does a thorough scrub of family skeletons. And Kaser was nothing if not thorough. It was exhilarating to have the freedom to design one’s own parameters in such a contract... with virtually unlimited compensation. In cash! And the bosses too terrified to ask any significant questions. Ha.
Information Kaser obtained the previous month from old man Barkley—and his Vernon kin—had opened a gold mine of other leads. Many of those new threads centered on the Slate family, which had become arch-enemies of the Vernons after that death in 1889. The question for Kaser was—how many Slate family descendants remembered, or ever knew anything about, the tragic event... and what type of records had been left by their ancestors?
In this regard, Barkley’s painstakingly preserved records were immensely helpful. Not only had Barkley’s family—including the Vernons, of course—worked tirelessly to counter those inflammatory rumors by the Slates, but they’d even attempted to track down people who’d been briefed, hoping to convince them otherwise. Of course, it was an impossible task. The old analogy was true: spreading gossip was like standing atop a tower and emptying a feather pillow’s contents into the wind. One can never track down all the feathers. But, to be frank, one didn’t need to find all of them, because such scattered rumors wouldn’t be any more traceable by Senator Fitch’s operatives than they were by Kaser.
But if a few of those feathers had a lot of color... maybe they’d show up in one search or the other. One such feather was a Vaudeville actress who’d later worked in silent movies. Kaser had found her name in Barkley’s obsessive, but convoluted, list of people he knew had heard the ugly rumors about his maternal grandfather, Matthew Vernon. Research on that actress’s name had finally turned up a few ancient clippings about the Harte Dramatic Company, including one from the week in 1907 that they’d played in Hickman, Kentucky. Only the fastidious research of a genius like Kaser could have discovered that Lynetta Taldsworthy in that traveling troupe had later become the silent movie actress Lynette Harte.
Of course, that actress was long gone. But she’d left descendents and it was possible some of them had heard the rumors about old man Vernon being a murderer. However, there was no way Kaser could have located that actress’s relatives without interviewing the remaining Slate family members. There weren’t a large number to begin with. Cut down in the prime of his life, Frederick didn’t have as many offspring as many men of that era. And there weren’t many left. Evidently, in their embittered quest for justice against the murderer of their ancestor, that family line had slowly petered out.
But one Slate relative had surfaced... and she, like Barkley on the opposite side of their lengthy feud, had kept the movement alive. It was through an interview with the Slate woman—who’d married a Bier—that Kaser first learned of correspondence with a granddaughter of the actress. Some might consider it serendipity, but Kaser knew it was good old fashioned relentless thoroughness. It was a shame the elderly Bier woman had to be dispatched to the hereafter, because she’d been lucid, pleasant, and chatty.
The small town coroner, as expected, categorized the death of Ethel Slate Bier as a slip and fall accident.
In his hotel room, Kaser scoured his massive collection of files. The finish line was in sight and he had to be certain no ends were left loose. The folder on Helana Harte Ross was not only a vital link, but its information would require another trip to California in the next couple of days.
After his September twenty-third phone conversation with the widowed Mrs. Ross—in which he’d pretended to be a biographer—Kaser realized there was a slim possibility that some of the old actress’s belongings could still exist... despite the granddaughter’s belief that all had been mistakenly discarded. If any material had survived, it might include a reference to the murder committed by Durocher’s great-great-grandfather. Kaser wondered if the aspiring politician knew any facts of that murder—rather than vague rumors—and if she actually feared it would negatively impact her campaign. Well, because of Kaser’s independent and exhaustive efforts, nobody would ever find out.
Kaser read over the notes from his follow-up phone call with Mrs. Ross on the following evening, September twenty-fourth. Helana Ross had nearly complete recall and eagerly explained everything for the person she believed was her grandmother’s prospective biographer. As he read the page, Kaser smiled faintly—he’d written it almost like a newspaper report.
During the year after Lynette Harte’s death in 1970, most of the old lady’s belongings had been moved to a sturdy brick storage building behind the main house. By then, newly divorced Helana had moved into the larger house and remained there nearly ten years. During that period, Lynette’s stored items were undisturbed. It had been the granddaughter’s eventual plan to donate most of the Vaudeville and movie memorabilia to a museum, if she could locate one which was interested.
In about 1981, Helana re-married, left the Harte homestead, and moved to Idaho with her new husband. She’d lost contact with Lynette’s material when her father, John Jr., moved into his mother’s vacant house. During his residency, John Jr. added lots of his own belongings to the brick storage building and even installed a nearby metal shed for the overflow.
In about 1995, Helana’s younger brother Johnnie relocated to New Mexico. Since both of these children had moved away from California, their father named his attorney as executor of his estate.
Near the end of 2005, the ailing John Jr. died at age ninety-four. Around that same time, two states away, Helana’s husband became ill. While dealing with the estate, the executor lawyer later swore, he was confused as to Helana’s and Johnnie’s interests, so multiple complications arose. Lynette’s and John Jr.’s furnishings and valuables were auctioned off, the main house got inside paint and new carpet, and the property was listed. A few months later, the Harte house sold and the attorney rushed to get it ready for the new owner. He hired a cleaning crew whose duties were limited and specific: clean the structures and haul away any trash. When they discovered several file boxes—filled with what they later described as old papers, letters, and pictures—they did as they’d been told and discarded them.
When Helana was notified about the closing on the Harte house, she asked about Lynette’s souvenir boxes. At first, the attorney denied any knowledge of that material. But later, after quizzing the cleaning crew, he learned when and where they’d been discarded—at the dumpster of a local grocery.
But by the time Helana got this information, numerous dumpster pick ups had already been made. Her grandmother’s cherished career souvenirs and many family belongings were long gone.
Kaser put down that page and flattened his sturdy hand on top of the attached sticky note in his own handwriting: “Maybe long gone... but maybe not. Like bad pennies, some things turn up again.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Late morning
Beth was still quite shaken by the frightening encounter with Ricks the previous evening. So rattled, i
n fact, that she forgot her phone at home. She’d kept it near her bed expecting Shane to call. But he didn’t. Did that mean he hadn’t yet reached Verdeville? Had there been a problem? Was he involved in a wreck? Or did he roll into town too late to call? Where did he stay? Is he okay?
Worrying about Shane again was painful. It reminded her of those tense times when he’d be out with a few biker buddies. They never went looking for trouble—as far as she knew—but sometimes trouble was attracted to their loud, gleaming choppers. Anxiety would seize her chest and throat until Shane returned home. In this case, however, he was not coming home. He’d left home to—.
They’d never discussed where Shane would stay while in Verdeville, nor how long he intended to visit. Since learning he was en route, Beth had fretted about his intentions, his expectations, his... whatever. Would he even want an invitation to stay over? If he did, would he understand his spot was the couch? Is that what Beth wanted? To Shane, this was probably just a hard cross country ride to locate and neutralize Ricks. Beth wondered if Shane had even given thought to the consequences of them being together again. Well, not together, but proximate. Hmm. Presumably, he’d landed somewhere in town last night and likely knew he was not welcome in her bed.
Or maybe he hadn’t even arrived yet.
But perhaps Shane was here and had already called this morning. Maybe he’d already found her little cottage on Netterville Street and had been sprawled out on her cramped concrete stoop for hours.
Well, surely Shane would realize she had to go to work. Of course, Beth had never told him where she worked—only that it was a small, local CPA office. She decided to call him.
It was nearly noon at work and Steve Packard had just left the restroom. Part of that ritual was also to pause and stare without any conversation of consequence. He obviously noticed the large bandage on Beth’s neck because he was looking right at it. But he didn’t ask and she didn’t volunteer any information. In a few minutes, Steve was back in his own office and seemed intent on his computer screen.