by Fred DeVecca
He stared me down. “What do you believe?”
“I believe you know more than you’re saying about that Pasternak girl.”
More derisive laughter. “Belief is a bitch, isn’t it, Mister Lost His Religion.”
“Yeah. It’s a bitch all right. I guess I haven’t totally lost my religion. I’ve actually prayed about this thing. About Edith Marie Pasternak.”
“And about anyone else?” he asked.
“Yes. You know the answer to that.”
“Juliana Velvet Norcross?”
I nodded.
“Prayed to whom?” he asked.
“That’s one of the best questions you’ve ever asked me.”
“What’s the answer?”
I never did answer his question. Instead I asked him one. “I’ve heard you had some kind of encounter with this Edith, or Victoria, at the Blue Rock one night. Care to comment on that?”
He mimicked my voice surprisingly well as he replied, “No. I don’t ‘care to comment.’ I don’t respond to rumors and third-hand innuendo.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, in Hollywood, if you commented on rumors and third-hand innuendo, you would have time to do little else, and I have things to do. Important things.” He took a gulp from the bottle, pointed at it, and said, “Like this.” He continued, “But mainly because I don’t have to.”
“There are very few things we humans have to do,” I said.
“And answering your stupid questions is certainly not one of them.”
“Don’t you sometimes do things you don’t have to do?”
He examined the bottle as if he might learn the answer from the label. “Sometimes.”
“Then why not do this one? For a pal.”
His smile was half sardonic sneer. “Are you my pal, Raven?”
I stared out into the distance. “I don’t see you having any pals, Mooney. You had lots of people bowing to you and lots of beautiful women all over you, but I don’t think you ever had any real friends.” I looked directly at him. “And now? Now you really don’t have any friends. Except for that bottle. You sit alone in that big house with the bottle. I think you could use one. Toss me a bone and I’ll be your friend.”
I did not want to be this guy’s friend. But he was weakening. I was getting somewhere.
He laughed. “You’re not that easily bought. I wish you were.” Then he changed the subject and said, “You think you’re a smart guy, Raven, but you don’t know anything about me.”
“That’s the damn problem, isn’t it?”
“It’s not a problem. Nobody knows me. But I’ll help you out here. Because I really do need a friend.”
And then, Mooney, for maybe the first time in his life, said something sincere. “I don’t think you’re easily bought, Raven. But I think you’re easily fooled.”
“Are you trying to fool me now?”
“You’ll have to figure that out for yourself, my friend.”
So I waited. And he sipped his drink.
“Okay,” he said, bowing his head as if in surrender. “I knew that girl pretty well. We got pretty close. And yeah, we made a small scene in the Rock that night. But that was it. She couldn’t get what she wanted from me and she split, just like I’ll do once I can pull myself together, and once all this bullshit here is over, much as you folks amuse me. She went back west, as far as I know, and I haven’t heard from her since. She’s gone.”
“Did you go for a swim that night?”
“No. What are you talking about?”
“Just heard some reports about you getting wet is all.”
He frowned. “Your reports are wrong.”
“You know what really bugs me about this conversation?” I said to him. “You just lied to me, Mooney. Sure, you ended up telling the truth, but you preceded it with a lie. How am I supposed to believe anything you say?”
“That’s your problem Raven. You’re the belief guy. And the feelings guy. Go with your feelings.”
“Feelings and beliefs are inextricably intertwined.”
He laughed, and then he drank. “You talk funny. But I like you, Raven, I really do.” As he took still another drink, he said, “We’re buddies now.”
I saw red for a split second. It was blind rage. Then I got myself under control.
“A couple days ago, you said I killed Julie. Now you love me. What the hell is going on?”
Drinking can simultaneously crank you up and calm you down. Now Mooney was calming down.
“Take a walk with me, Raven,” he said. “I like your flower bridge. Let’s walk and talk.”
The Bridge of Flowers was just across the street from Clara’s house. Mooney was on the verge of telling me something, so I went along.
It was in full bloom now. It smelled sweet, and bees buzzed around us. Mooney was drinking, I was walking, and we were silent until we got to the center, when he paused in front of one of the stone benches. He stepped up on it and gazed across the relatively still river. He should have been unsteady from all the booze, but he stood straight and solid.
“I like the river too,” he said.
He climbed down, back onto the walkway, and we continued our stroll. We must have looked like two old friends instead of two guys who each suspected the other of murdering someone he loved.
“I like your bridge and I like your river, Raven,” he said. “But given my druthers, I’d always stay on the bridge. I don’t get wet.”
“Never?”
“Well, hardly ever.”
“When was the last time you got wet, Mooney?”
He actually thought it over. “When I was baptized,” he finally said.
I was surprised. “You were baptized?”
“Yeah. Holy roller stuff. In a river with a preacher.”
“Okay, now I understand what you meant when you said you lost your religion too.”
“I did. You know, I was raised by hippies. Parents had no use for religion. But me, I was a rebel, you know? I rebelled against them by reading the Bible. I had to do it surreptitiously. I’d read it under the covers in bed with a flashlight. Other kids looked at porn. Me, I read the Bible. I was a closet Bible reader.”
“So what happened?”
“I got older than twelve is what happened. But not before I went out and got myself baptized. In a friggin’ river.”
“And you haven’t been wet since then.”
“No. Don’t even like water. It’s okay to look at it but can’t stand to jump in.”
“That’s the difference between us, isn’t it Mooney? You don’t commit to anything. You look, but you’re afraid to jump in.”
“Raven, what the hell are you talking about? You haven’t jumped into anything in years.” We stopped walking, and he went on, “But now you’re at least starting to get your toes wet. Next comes the feet. Then up to the knees. Then you’re in waist deep. You might as well jump in all the way at that point.”
Mooney was right. I had started jumping into things, and it all started to happen when he showed up in town.
“Yeah, Mooney. I’m a duck. I’m always wet.”
He laughed. “Funny you should say that. That’s what Julie calls you—a duck.”
“I know.” I winced a little, but only inside.
“Lots going on under the surface. I see it too, Raven.”
He stopped at the end of the bridge, near the gate, and said, “Keep kicking those legs, Raven. That’s the only way you’re going to stir up the waters.”
“A duck kicks his legs to move, Mooney, not to stir things up.”
“How far are you moving, Raven?”
“Not very far. Not very far at all.”
Did that bother me? I didn’t think so. Moving forward hadn't been a goal for a long, long time.
“Well, maybe you should keep at it then.”
“Maybe I should.”
As he walked away—no sign of a stagger—he said, “Keep kicking, Mister Duck, ke
ep kicking.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Not Leaving on a Jet Plane
Sarah had told me to pack my bags, so I did, but we would not be leaving on a jet plane. Not just yet.
Clara was coming too. She would not let her eighteen-year-old daughter and me go running off to a strange town, so now there were three in our party.
We had three tickets to New Orleans, leaving from Hartford with a two-hour stopover in Atlanta. I was traveling light—one small bag and my daypack. Sarah, for a teenage girl, surprised me by packing as lightly as I had. Clara was just as efficient. It was an early flight—7:15 a.m.—and about an hour drive to Hartford. We were giving ourselves plenty of time to be delayed at the airport, and we allowed time to stop at the truck stop in Whately for breakfast, all of which meant it was about 4 a.m. when we loaded up my old Subaru.
Officially known as the Whately Diner Fillin’ Station, it was a classic American silver boxcar-like diner right on Rt. 91 and yes, at 4:30 a.m., it was lit up bright and red and neon and its lot was filled with long-haul tractor trailers.
The three of us sat at the counter. I ordered scrambled eggs and toast and home fries and sausage and coffee. Sarah had a monster stack of blueberry pancakes. Clara had an omelet. The clientele was virtually all male, except for Sarah and Clara.
I was sipping my second cup of coffee and reading the Boston Globe when Sarah left for the restroom. Too much time passed.
“She’s been gone a while,” said Clara. “I’m going to check on her.”
Clara left and I read some more. Then I realized that she had been gone for a long time too. So I folded the paper and headed toward the restrooms myself.
On the way I found Sarah and Clara, sitting in a booth with a bald, burly guy in a flannel shirt, all sipping coffee and deep in conversation. Sarah looked up as I approached and waved at me. She motioned for me to sit down, which I did, next to the guy.
“And that’s why I hate to haul potatoes,” he finished up.
Sarah laughed like this was the funniest thing she had ever heard. The bald guy looked pleased with himself.
“Bert,” she said, “this is my dad. You can call him Frankie.”
Bert stuck his hand out across the table for a handshake. He had a firm grip.
“Pleased to meet you, Frankie. You’ve got a nice family here. On your way to the Big Easy?” he said. “I love that town.”
“Yeah, me too,” I replied.
“Business or pleasure?”
“We’re visiting my Uncle Tommy,” Sarah said.
Bert seemed like a pleasant and amiable enough guy. Still, I wondered why they were sitting there with him. But I played dumb, not hard for me.
We chatted for a while. I even had another cup of coffee, which Bert said he would pay for. Bert told us about his wife and two kids back in Ohio. We were making a new friend. I had no idea why.
Sarah kept Bert enchanted with her wit and intelligence, while Clara and I sat there almost completely silent. We were going to be late for the flight if we didn’t leave soon, so we politely said our goodbyes and headed back to our seats at the counter to pay up.
We were almost there. Sarah was nudging me, elbowing me silently. Then she pointed behind us with her thumb, indicating that I should turn around, which I did.
What I saw was Bert rising from his seat and reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.
In his other back pocket, sticking out two or three inches, was an orange bandana identical to the one worn by Julie on the morning of the shoot.
Chapter Thirty-Six
A Good Life
You had to go up to a cash register to pay your bill. Bert was in the front of the line, and there were two other customers between him and us. I recognized the bandana.
Sarah furiously whispered in my ear, “Yeah, I see this old dude coming out of the men’s room and I see that bandana in his pocket and I had to talk to him. So I just walked up to his table and smiled. I said could I talk to him a minute; I needed to get away from my asshole parents for a while. He let me sit down.”
“That is so dangerous, Sarah.”
“Yeah, right. But what else was I supposed to do? This is important. This whole damn thing is dangerous.”
“Those bandanas are pretty common, aren’t they?”
“No. Not those bright orange ones. They’re real hard to find. I was all over the internet looking for them. There’s some knockoffs around, but that’s the real thing there. I can tell.”
Bert paid his bill. The two customers between us paid their bills pretty quickly, and then we had to decide what to do. Bert was leaving the diner and heading toward one of the big tractor trailers.
Did we want to confront him? Someone who might be a kidnapper, a murderer?
Yeah. We did. Because whoever he was, he knew something. At least we were pretty sure he did.
He was almost to his vehicle. Sarah trotted up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around, appearing a little startled. He smiled at her.
“You in a hurry, Bert?” she asked.
“No. Not really. I’m running ahead.”
“So are we,” she lied. “Let’s talk some more.”
So we all went back in for more coffee.
He did seem like a good guy, a little shy, not really sure why these strangers were wanting his time, but he was curious and bright, and willing to play along and see where this was going.
Sarah idly stirred her coffee and got right to the point. “Bert, that’s an interesting orange bandana you’ve got in your pocket.”
“Oh, is that even there? I totally forgot about it. Don’t usually carry one. I’ve been using it to wipe the mirrors.”
“Where did you get it?” Sarah said.
“Well, that’s a weird story. Couple weeks ago, I’m driving this same route, moving potatoes down south, and I’m right here at this diner. Just about this time of night too. Or morning, whatever. I drive all night. Hard to tell what time of day it is. It was still dark. Just before dawn, I guess. Like now.
“Anyway, I’m sitting there drinking coffee just like now. And this girl comes up to me, just like you did. In fact, you kinda remind me of her. How many times does an old fat bald dude like me get approached by two pretty young girls?”
“She looked like me?”
“Well, no, not really. She didn’t have that red hair. Hers was dark. Black. And kind of short, trimmed up like a helmet around her head, you know what I mean? But she was about your size. And you remind me of her somehow. The way you talk, the way you move.”
“What did she want?”
“A ride. She asked where I was going. I was going all the way to Jacksonville, Florida. She said that was close enough.”
Sarah asked, “Do you always take hitchhikers?”
“Well, she wasn’t technically hitchhiking. She was just asking sweetly. We’re not supposed to. Not good for insurance. Usually I don’t, but sometimes it gets pretty lonely on the road and I appreciate somebody to talk to.”
As good a guy as he seemed to be, I was starting to have doubts about old Nice Guy Bert. He seemed to read my mind.
“Hey, I’m happily married. I don’t mess around. Especially with young girls. If I give someone a ride, it’s just to help them out and find somebody to talk to, okay? Jeez, I’ve picked up guys, old folks, all kinds. I’m no sleazebag. Okay? Do we understand each other?”
I allowed as how we did and he continued, “It’s sixteen hours to Jacksonville and I did it straight through.”
Now I was having doubts about this dude again. “That’s a lot of coffee,” I said.
He caught my drift. “Yeah. A lot of coffee. And a lot of other stuff too. We all use them. Little pills—red ones, green ones, yellow, white. I’ve learned how to not abuse them. Only use them when I have to, and only on the job. I’m careful.
“That Jillian, though, wow, that gal was not careful. She could scarf them down like Skittles.”
“Jillian? That was the girl you drove.”
“Yeah.”
“What else do you know about her?”
“Funny you should ask. When you’re popping speed with somebody for almost a full day and you’re stuck in a small space like that, all you do is talk. And that’s what we did, we talked. I must have told her my whole life story like three times. And my thoughts on every freaking issue from sports, to politics, to movies, to religion, to family, to love, to the best pie on 95. There’s really no good pie on 95 anywhere now, by the way, not that we stopped. None of it’s really homemade anymore.”
“So what did she talk about?” Sarah asked.
“Well, as I said, I talked about a lot. And she talked a lot too, but I honestly don’t think she talked about anything. I mean she said a lot of words, but I don’t remember her revealing anything at all about who she was. It was like she was reading from some kind of script, you know what I mean. I mean, she was a great character. She was cute and funny, and wow, really, really pretty. I’m not blind. But I have no idea who she was deep down inside or anything like that.”
“Where was she going?” Sarah asked.
“Miami. To see her grandmother. She said that much. Jacksonville was right on the way.”
“When was this?” I asked.
“Not long ago. A couple weeks.”
So it was quite a while after the day Julie got taken by the river. No wonder he was not connecting the two events. I had seen enough of her performances—those not up on the big screen—to know what a chameleon she could be. She was a good enough actor to get so totally immersed in a character, both physically and emotionally, that there was no reason this guy would ever suspect he was transporting the world’s most famous missing person.
Sarah needed more than he was giving us. “I don’t get it,” she said. “You guys were in there for sixteen hours and all you did was talk. What did you talk about? She must have said something.”
He thought a moment, his brow knit in concentration, eager to please. “Well, she said a lot. But just kind of superficial stuff. She told me about her boyfriend, some kid named Bruce if I recall. Sounded like a nice boy—basketball player. Talked about high school, her favorite subjects—she liked math and science. She had a dog—a corgi named Rufus. Talked a lot about Rufus, throwing him sticks in her yard.”