The Laughing Man

by Forrest, Richard;

  Clinton pulled a miniature bottle of champagne from a rear pocket and gently nudged it against the stern of the frigate. “I christen thee the U.S.S. Mellanie.” Then he came ashore as a light breeze filled the sails of the model. The ship heeled to port and began to sail majestically across the lake.

  “You had better put a string on it, Clinton,” Jan said. “It might get stuck in the middle or over near those rocks.”

  “Never reach that far,” Clinton said as he went back to his martini on the porch. “Modeled after Old Iron-sides, two thousand two hundred and twenty tons with fifty guns and a crew of four hundred and fifty. Mellanie was my wife.”

  “I remember her,” Brian said. “She …”

  “She’s dead.” He watched the model run before the wind as it cut a miniature wake on the surface of the water. “Lonely without her. Odd, how you can still miss someone even after all these years.”

  They sipped their drinks in silence and watched the small boat. “Now I’m getting worried about your model,” Brian said. “Do you have a rowboat we can use to retrieve it?”

  “Nope. Would you say it’s about at the center of the lake?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “It’s time then.” Clinton pulled a small device the size of a cigarette package from his pocket and pushed a button. A small explosion rocked the model as plumes of smoke plunged from the gun ports. In seconds, flames reached for the rigging and engulfed the sails as the Mellanie turned into a flaming pyre.

  “Jesus,” Brian said.

  It burned a few minutes and then began to sink at the stern, until disappearing below the surface. Clinton continued looking at the unmarked spot of the model’s grave. “Sort of thing one shouldn’t destroy, but give to a grandchild.” He drained the last of the martini and pushed up from the wicker chair. “Time to put the steaks on. Your time begins to run after dinner.”

  “What time?”

  “Lincoln said, ‘A lawyer’s time and advice are his stock and trade.’”

  “You help me with the investigation like Sam Spade,” Brian said, still shaken by the death of the model. “Twenty a day and expenses.”

  “Hundred an hour. Spade didn’t have a law degree.”

  “Come on, Clinton! This is Tallman, not Wall Street.”

  “Lincoln also said, ‘When you’re the only game in town, charge, charge, charge.’”

  Clinton cooked steaks, served a mysterious salad and seemed to forget his insistence on Brian’s abstinence when he poured goblets of red wine. He maintained a continual, funny monologue concerning the sins, deeds and foibles of Tallman residents. After coffee, he pushed away from the table and went back to the porch, to sit vacantly in the wicker armchair. Brian and Jan cleared the table.

  “I think he may be insane,” Jan said as she scraped a plate into the garbage. “Blowing up a ship model that must have taken him years to make, and now look at him. I think he’s asleep out there.”

  “Or thinking.”

  Clinton’s voice boomed from the porch. “Get back out here. Your time has begun to run.”

  “Should I take notes?”

  “Neatness counts.” Clinton glared. “Let’s go back to the beginning. Mary called you in Canada, but the call was terminated in mid-sentence.”

  “I can explain that,” Jan said. “I did it.” She looked with concern at Brian’s stricken face. “I didn’t know who she was talking to, only that she was out of bed. God only knows how she got the strength to make it that far in her condition.”

  “Why wasn’t I notified how ill she was?”

  “Lockwood was to call.”

  “Or Martha Rubinow, but neither did.”

  “Was there any animosity between you and Lockwood?” Clinton asked.

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Next,” Clinton continued, “Mary was about to tell you something, but was killed first. Murdered, even though everyone in town knew she had only days to live. Then, Lockwood is killed and the Rubinows become so frightened that they run away. This is followed by an attempt on your life.”

  “And the guy’s still out there somewhere, looking for me.”

  “In addition, we now find out that you are not Mary’s son, nor was she married to Brian Maston; in fact, she lied about a whole phase of her background.”

  “It could all be tied together. Unless I was born out of state, under a different name. In that case, we’ll never find out.”

  “For some reason, Mary went to a great deal of difficulty to create a whole background: a husband, birth certificate, anecdotes. The question is why. An interesting problem.”

  “Interesting? I want to find out who I am.”

  “Then find Martha.”

  “How?”

  “It’s incomprehensible to me that Harry Rubinow, with his love for money, wouldn’t be in touch with Joe Vital at his real estate office. Try checking with Joe in the morning.”

  “And if he won’t cooperate?”

  “I can’t give you all the answers.”

  Brian reached for Jan as they stood by their cars in the driveway. She stiffened and turned awkwardly away. “Please, let’s go away before they kill you.”

  “I have the feeling that wherever I go, he’ll find me.”

  “Don’t make it easy for him.”

  “I’d feel better if I could stay at your place.”

  “I suppose,” she replied with resignation. “At least I’ll know where you are.”

  “I’m going to pick up a few things at the house and I’ll see you later.”

  Brian thought about her as he drove toward the house on Ferry Road. Jan was contradictory; in some instances, strong and self-assured, in others, vacillating. He recalled what she had said about her childhood: a drunken father and a struggle merely to survive on the outskirts of an affluent town.

  As he approached the house, he cut the lights and engine and glided silently up the drive. Darkened windows stared with reproachful eyes, while the long porch lay in deep shadows. Except for ordinary night sounds and the rustle of wind in the trees, the house was still. Brian sprinted from the car to bound up the front steps and fumble for keys. In the upstairs bedroom, he quickly stuffed a suitcase with clothing and took the picture of the smiling man from its hiding place.

  As he returned to the porch and turned to relock the door, arms grabbed him from behind. A blow glanced off the back of his neck. The arms swung him around and against the wall, as another blow hit his shoulder. He kicked out and heard a heavy grunt as someone staggered back against the porch railing.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  Another punch caught him in the center of the face. Blood gushed from his nose as he wrenched free and struck out with the flat of his hand. The blow connected, and his arms were free as he ran for the steps. He fell back against the railing as a heavy body across his back caught him in a block and knocked him from the porch. He gasped with a loss of wind. Dark shapes loomed over him as he curled into a ball. The kicks began.

  They were going to kill him.

  The boots thudded into his side and mid-section. “Commie bastard! Go the fuck back where you belong.”

  From a dim recess in his mind he knew the voice. He had heard it at the bar after a thrown beer. He felt relief. Perhaps they wouldn’t kill him …

  The blows continued until his head lolled to the side and blackness came.

  Chapter Nine

  A deep instinct for survival forced his eyes painfully open to stare up at a starless sky. He was alone. He had no way of knowing how much time had elapsed. They had left him unconscious and helpless. Brian wondered how much of their drink-induced patriotism had been bought by a large black man with sunglasses.

  Struggling to his hands and knees, he crawled painfully down the drive toward the car. He pulled himself erect by the door handle. The bleeding had stopped, although caked blood had matted to his head and face. He was dizzy, and even while he was bent over retching on the grass, he knew he must
leave at once.

  He slid behind the car’s wheel to find that his pants pocket had been slashed with the thin blade of a knife and the car keys were gone. He pounded the steering wheel in frustration.

  Wondering how much time he had before the man with the gun arrived, he staggered from the car toward the house, fell at the steps, pulled himself erect and lurched toward the door. There would be hope if he could reach the phone.

  A crunch of gravel turned him toward the drive, as a car, driven without headlights, rolled to a stop behind the Mercedes. He knew who it was.

  The dark shadows under the porch overhang temporarily kept him from view as he slid along the wall toward the corner of the building. He made the side porch just before the flashlight beam stabbed through the darkness to play along the front of the house. The light made slow circles across the yard and stopped at the Mercedes. It bobbed down the drive as the man walked toward the car, the long-barreled revolver by his side revealed in the spill of light.

  Brian painfully vaulted the rail to land on all fours with a wince. He hobbled around the rear of the house toward the back yard, searching frantically for a hiding place. There was a crawl space under the house, but once interred there, he would be an easy target. The barn would be a dead end, and the aches and pains from the recent beating made it impossible for him to run across fields and outdistance his pursuer.

  A spring house stood behind the barn by the capped well. He couldn’t push himself much further, and although it was small and enclosed, with only one entrance, it might be a place to hide.

  The spring house, with its low, peaked roof and one layer of stonework above the ground, was twenty yards behind the barn. A narrow row of stone steps led down to a low door that swung open into the dark and cool confines of the small building. The narrow dimensions of the structure were further restricted by the shelves that still contained the remnants of Mary’s canning.

  As the door swung shut to envelop him in darkness, the dank, familiar smell immediately assaulted him. He had only been in the spring house a few times in his life. The last time was years ago and had been disastrous. He was only ten, and his mother had asked him to fetch some canned peppers. The door had slammed, and in his fearful and frantic attempt to open it, he had pushed the wrong way. His screams brought Mary running from the house, and she had never again asked him to return to the spring house.

  His very fear might now save him. The man with the gun seemed to know a great deal about his activities, and possibly would be aware of his consuming fear of confinement. Possession of that knowledge might cause him to give the spring house a cursory check.

  Brian wanted to yell and run from the small building, but he knew that he would only make a few feet across the yard before the man’s flashlight found him. He bit his lip until the salty taste of blood filled his mouth.

  The door banged open. The flashlight beam bounded off the far wall and then swung slowly around the shelving, still partially filled with Mason jars and crocks. The man on the steps outside must have knelt, as the light lowered to probe beneath the shelves and into the dark recesses.

  The light was gone, and the door slowly swung shut.

  Brian waited a few more minutes before lowering himself from his cramped position braced on the cross beams under the peaked roof. Then he opened the door and ran in a crouch toward the bushes by the side of the barn, where, with his elbows, he pulled himself as far under as he could.

  Early breaking light awoke Brian. His body ached in every joint, and the deep pain in his mid-section attested to the ferocity of the previous night’s kicks. He pulled himself from the bush to stagger across the yard as a car pulled in the drive. He fell prone on the grass, knowing that further flight was useless. It would be impossible to hide in the light of day.

  Jan left the car and looked apprehensively toward the house, took a few steps and called out, “Brian! Are you here?”

  He tried to get to his feet. “Jan …” His voice was a croaked mumble.

  Chief Dockery’s pajama legs peeked out from under the cuff of his uniform trousers. He shook his head slowly back and forth as he stirred a cup of tepid instant coffee in a styrofoam cup. “Let me get this straight,” he finally said. “A bunch of locals, who you don’t want to name, leaned on you?” He shook his head again. “Did quite a job it it, too. You look like hell. Now, in addition to that, there’s another guy trying to do more than beat on you. He wants to kill you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Who is he and why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Run that description past me again.”

  “He’s black and big. He must go way over six feet and at least two hundred and seventy pounds.”

  “Sounds more like a tackle for the Bears.”

  “I’m in no mood for jokes, Willie.”

  “And I’m too sleepy to make them. Let’s start with the guys who beat you up.”

  “I’m not worried about them. I’m not sure if the black guy set me up with them or, coincidentally, they had a beer-induced bout of patriotism … it doesn’t matter, they’re not my worry. It’s the other guy. He carried a long-barreled .22, like a fancy target shooter, except it has a mounted silencer. He always wears reflecting sunglasses.”

  “And he’s the same guy who ran you off the road at the reservoir and took a couple of pot shots at you?”

  “That’s right.”

  Willie Dockery made a note on the pad in front of him. “Okay, I’ll send a tow truck out to the reservoir to make sure your car’s been deep-sixed.”

  “Make sure! What’s the skeptical bit?”

  When Dockery looked up from his pad toward Brian, the earlier friendliness had fled, to be replaced by the piercing gaze of the professional police officer. “I have to play this by the book, Brian. You’re the prime suspect in a possible manslaughter case, and I play it close to the vest. I don’t want to run off on some half-assed investigation looking for a nonexistent hit man. If I completely accept your story, the state prosecutor’s going to say that Tallman P.D. is helping you build a case for your defense.”

  “What do you mean, nonexistent? The guy’s come at me—twice.”

  “Uh huh. And on both occasions there’s been one small part of your story that bothers the hell out of me.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like your staying in a sunken car for ten or fifteen minutes, breathing out of a small air pocket.”

  “When a car goes in that way, there’s bound to be …”

  “The air would be there, but would you? Secondly, it bothers me that you hid in the rafters of a spring house to get away from this mad killer.”

  “I don’t care for your sarcasm. That’s what happened.”

  “Okay, sorry. But Jesus, Brian! What kind of case are you trying to build? I suppose this same guy killed Lockwood and your mother?”

  “I think he did.”

  “Let’s go back to the spring house. It’s probably like most spring houses—a little building, mostly underground, very small and very dark.”

  “There are dozens of them still left around here.”

  “I know. My dad had one on his farm. We used to go inside and close the door and tell ghost stories. Now, according to your story, you stayed in a sunken car for a hell of a long time and then last night hid in the narrow confines of a place that’s pretty much like a … hell, dungeon? The same guy who went ape in our little lockup—claustrophobia, Clinton claimed!”

  “Are you going to do anything?”

  “The medical examiner has ruled that your uncle’s death was self-inflicted. It’s up to the grand jury to decide about your mother’s. There is one other thing that bothers me. This guy who’s after you, don’t you think that in a small town like Tallman, that if a guy who you describe as looking like Rosey Grier is wandering around, that we just might have noticed him?”

  “So, I have to get killed to prove my point?”

  “I’ll give you pr
otective custody.”

  “What’s that?”

  The chief jerked his thumb toward the rear of the police station. “We put you in number three. It’s the only cell with a northern exposure.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Dockery shrugged. “I’ll do what I can, Brian, but it won’t be a hell of a lot without some sort of independent, third-party verification. I’ll alert the men to keep a sharp lookout for the man you describe. We’ll tow your car out of the drink. I can’t give you a bodyguard; we don’t have the personnel for that. I will make sure that the motor patrols check your house every hour. That’s all I can do. Get me more to go on, and I’ll yell for all the help we need.”

  Jan put her arm on his as they left the police station. “Let’s go to my house and do something for those cuts.”

  “Okay, but I need to get an extra set of car keys from Gordon, and then I have to call Joe Vital at Harry’s office.”

  Jan worked on him for over an hour, but his body still ached in countless places. Then he called the real estate office. They told him that Joe Vital hadn’t arrived yet, and he left a message for Vital to meet him at the house on Ferry Road for an exclusive sales listing.

  He borrowed Jan’s car to drive to town and Jensen’s sporting goods store. It had just opened and was vacant, except for a lone clerk. A hang glider hung from the ceiling near the entrance, and there were long counters of fishing rods and football and baseball equipment. The cash register was on a counter to the rear, immediately in front of the gun rack.

  “Is there any problem in buying a gun?”

  The clerk looked up with a fey smile. “Yep. Guns are cannons.”

  “I mean a pistol.”

  “Have to get a police permit from your home town.”

  “A rifle?”

  “Money and a driver’s license.”

  “It’s Canadian.”

  “The money?”

  “The license.”

  “What kind do you want?”