Flynn's In

by Gregory Mcdonald

  A very messy track came onto the road from the ditch the other side, made a wide curve in the road and, not going in a straight line at all, followed Hewitt’s tracks.

  The two tracks together made it seem that something as efficient as a cross-country skier was being pursued by something as inefficient as a donkey-powered plow.

  Cocky was following Hewitt.

  Hewitt had murdered Huttenbach, Lauderdale, Ashley and Rutledge. He had tried to kill everyone, except Cocky and Flynn.

  Hewitt was carrying a shotgun, and was expert at using it. He had hunted these woods professionally for decades.

  Flynn ran a few steps following the tracks. The pounding in his head slowed him to a walk. It warned him of renewed unconsciousness. He moved at the fastest parade march of which he was capable.

  Hewitt’s tracks went off the road, across the ditch, and into the dark woods. On the right-hand side of the road. On the opposite side of the road from his cabin.

  Hewitt knew he was being followed.

  Cocky’s churned-up track also left the road. A wide, circular area of snow in the ditch was messed up. Cocky must have fallen, struggled in the snow, gotten himself up. His track led up the other side of the ditch, into the wood.

  Flynn raised his eyes, up into the dark trees. Many still had late foliage on them. This was an early snow, for these woods. Two thousand acres of trees, and Hewitt knew every square meter.

  Strong-hearted Cocky, with no experience Flynn knew of, off the city streets, was following Hewitt, dragging after an armed, professional hunter, in the dark, in the snow, in the hunter’s own woods.

  Head down again, Flynn went through the ditch. He followed Cocky’s more erratic trail.

  Well into the woods, head throbbing, tired himself, Flynn stopped. He had just climbed a rise. Before him was a fairly open area.

  Hewitt’s clean tracks went somewhat to the right.

  Cocky’s ever-thickening track crossed Hewitt’s oddly, and went to the left.

  Many meters ahead of Flynn was a tall, dark, thick tree, leaves still on it, almost a structure by itself, looking solid, sheltering.

  Puffs of steam were coming from the side of the tree.

  In the snowing, dark night of the woods, Flynn focused his eyes on the tree.

  Cocky was leaning his back against the tree, head bowed, breathing hard.

  Before Flynn could move to him, Cocky said, “Hewitt….”

  Cocky’s white face became visible against the dark tree trunk. “Hewitt!”

  Flynn decided to stand easy, to wait. To see what would happen. If Hewitt had wanted to rid himself of Cocky, it would have been easy enough to shoot him by now.

  “I can’t chase you any more,” Cocky said to the stark wood. “I’m a crippled man. You know that.”

  The only response was the hiss of the snow.

  In a conversational tone, as if Hewitt were standing beside him, Cocky said, “I can’t catch you.” Flynn watched Cocky shake his head. “You’re old and you’re sick, you’re dying, Hewitt, but you’re a professional hunter, you know these woods, you probably even know how to get out of them, through the fence, and you’ve got a gun, and…I can’t catch you. I can’t come after you any more.”

  Flynn pressed gloved fingers against the bump over his ear. He breathed deeply, as silently as he could.

  “You killed a lot of people, Hewitt. Murdered ’em. Young Huttenbach, and crazy old Lauderdale, and that nervous jerk, Ashley. That pompous Rutledge. You gotta get caught, Hewitt. We’ve got to make sure you’re stopped. You know that.”

  The next pause was long.

  Flynn was about to step forward when Cocky said, “I can’t catch you, man!”

  Flynn waited another moment.

  The right corner of his eye detected a small movement across the clearing from Cocky. Someone was moving.

  Then this dark form moved steadily through the trees toward Cocky.

  It was Hewitt.

  And he was carrying his shotgun in the crook of his arm, in no position to be fired.

  Flynn remained silent, still, in the hissing wood.

  Hewitt’s gait was not all that certain. As he crossed the snowfield, his body was bent, his legs wobbly. At one point he stopped and took a deep breath.

  Finally he stopped within the reach of Cocky under the big tree. Hewitt held out the shotgun to Cocky, for Cocky to take.

  Cocky pushed himself off the tree. He stood as erect as he could. He waved away the shotgun. “I can’t carry it,” he said. “I’ll have all I can do to get myself back.”

  Cocky began to lurch through the snow. He fell.

  Behind him, Hewitt dropped to his knees silently in the snow. He put down his shotgun. He held onto his stomach with both hands. He doubled over.

  Floundering tiredly, trying to straighten himself in the snow, to stand up, Cocky did not look around at Hewitt. He did not see that Hewitt, too, had fallen.

  In the still, stark wood in a dark, snowing night, silently Flynn watched two men struggling quietly with their own mortality, their mortification, their pride, victims of their own experiences, their humanity, their handicaps, their dignities, their beliefs, prisoners of each other, of their own lives, of damaged bodies and believing minds, in fresh and still-falling snow.

  By the time Cocky had regained his feet, behind him, Hewitt, too, had stood with his shotgun under his arm and taken deep and, Flynn was sure, painful breath.

  With his free hand, then, Hewitt took Cocky’s arm.

  “I can walk,” Cocky said. He lurched forward and almost fell again. “It’s just that my shoes are so wet.”

  The hunter and the hunted passed the silent Flynn in the wood. Neither saw him nor heard him there.

  Struggling along courageously, back to their more certain futures, took all their combined efforts, all their concentrations.

  37

  “Good morning, Grover. Are you there at all?”

  It was shortly after nine Tuesday morning. Flynn’s head still hurt, still had a considerable knob over the left ear, but he had slept with the help of aspirin, arisen somewhat refreshed, bathed, packed, enjoyed the tea and toast Taylor had delivered without being asked.

  Outside bright sun poured from a clear sky onto the fresh snow.

  And the telephone worked.

  “I’m here, Inspector.”

  “Tell me, Grover, did you get an urgent message yesterday to telephone me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you got the number to call?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you try to call me?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t. Why not?”

  “Because I knew the source of the call, Inspector.”

  “I was the source of the request.”

  “Stacey Matson called me, Mrs. Willard Matson, crying like a loon into the phone saying I had to call you right away.”

  “You don’t observe the requests of weeping women?”

  “We have her husband in custody, Inspector. For hit-and-run. For the killing of Hiram Goldberg.”

  “I needed you to call me, Grover.”

  “Yeah, and I know about what. A crying woman, the wife of a felon, calls you, wherever the hell you are, tells you some big sob story. How did she know where to call you? I didn’t.”

  “A coincidence, Grover. She had the wit to call my house. Her call was passed on to me here.”

  “Yeah, well, she must be a pretty good friend to be calling your home.”

  “She has met my wife. They serve on some committee. The Committee to Encourage Young People to Play Together, or some such thing.”

  “You told this Matson dame to call me.”

  “Yes. I was unable to do so myself.”

  “I had just arrested her husband, Frank.”

  “One thing did not have to do with the other.”

  “You told her to tell me to call you.”

  “I can see it might not seem like the best fo
rm, Grover, but under the circumstances—”

  “And you were going to tell me to release the poor, weeping woman’s husband. Right? He killed a guy, Frank.”

  “Among other things, I was going to tell you to investigate the possibility of child abuse in the Matson family. Before releasing the husband.”

  “Exactly. I knew all that. You try to run an investigation by telephone and then tell me I’ve made a bad arrest? I’ve had enough of all this, Frank.”

  “Mrs. Matson was my only way of getting a message to you.”

  “I bet. I checked the area code of the telephone number she gave me. You’re in the mountains, Inspector. In the resort area. Hard at work playing chess with Concannon by the fire, Frank?”

  “When you get a message to call me, Grover, under any circumstances—”

  “I’m writing a full report to the Commissioner.”

  “You’re what?”

  “I’ve had it. Every week I request a transfer.”

  “Every week I request you to be transferred.”

  “Now I’m writing the Commissioner a letter telling him exactly why, Frank. The Commissioner personally.”

  “You mean, D’Esopo?”

  “That’s another thing. You’re not supposed to call your superiors by their last names. He’s Commissioner D’Esopo to you, Inspector.”

  “I stand corrected.”

  “Everything you do is bad for morale.”

  “Your morale.”

  “The morale of the whole police force. Like calling me Grover.”

  “It distinguishes you.”

  “Your sudden, unexplained disappearances. Like your present absence. And the fact that you keep getting away with it. I’ve kept a complete log. Dates, your excuses, everything. According to the records, you’ve had your appendix out twice, Frank.”

  “Healthy diet. I keep growing new ones.”

  “You keep me from bowling on the Police League. On Sunday night, for God’s sake. I’ve been complimented by being put on the Eats Committee, and you won’t even cooperate. You won’t even tell me if you like tuna fish.”

  “About this Matson business, Grover, I’ll be in the office this afternoon—”

  “Trying to do your work by telephone, while you’re off at some resort. Falling for stories any weeping women give you. I’ve had it! I’m putting it all down in black and white, Frank, you’re a lousy police officer, and I’m sending the full report to Commissioner D’Esopo personally.”

  “It won’t do you any good, Grover.”

  “I’d like to know why not.”

  Flynn decided he would say the most elitist thing he could think of before hanging up.

  “Because,” he said, “we know something you don’t know.”

  38

  When Flynn came out of his room, baggage in hand, Senator Dunn Roberts was loitering on the upper landing.

  “Good morning, Inspector Flynn. How do you feel?”

  “Like a man who has been drugged unconscious one night and knocked unconscious with the butt of a shotgun the next. Like a man who has been lied to, used, played with, insulted and imprisoned.”

  “Insulted?”

  “I’m not forgetting being served broccoli, boiled fish and tapioca pudding at one sitting.”

  “Oh.”

  The door to Suite 23 was open.

  “And what imaginative demise did you engineer for Charles Rutledge the Second?”

  “You’ll read about it in the newspapers.”

  “I’m sure. Been quite a rash of prominent men dying by accident in these environs lately.”

  “Well, they were all active men. Sportsmen.”

  “And what scheme have you hatched for the man Hewitt?”

  Folding his arms across his chest, Roberts leaned his lower back against the banister. “Your friend, Concannon, has sat up with him all night, you know.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me.”

  “He agrees with our plan. This morning, Buckingham and Taylor will drive Hewitt to a small hospital for incurables supported by the Huttenbach Foundation. And there, nature will take its course. He’d never live to stand trial, Flynn. There would be absolutely no point in your putting the wheels of justice into motion.”

  “There’s justice, and there’s justice.” Flynn took a step closer to Roberts. “You’re resigning from the United States Senate.”

  Roberts looked up in surprise. “I am?”

  “Within thirty days.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you have profited enough from your seat in the Senate. Especially has your wife’s bank account swollen each time you have cast a vote in your Transportation Deregulation Committee.” Flynn stepped back. “There’s my reward.”

  Roberts studied Flynn’s eyes. “You have some evidence?”

  “Of course.”

  Roberts looked away. He stood up from the banister. He blinked, but only once. Then he said: “You’re a gentleman, Flynn.”

  “But not,” Flynn said, heading for the stairs, “a member of The Club.”

  Jacket collar up in the bright morning, Commissioner Eddy D’Esopo stood on the front porch of The Rod and Gun Club watching the slow-moving scene in front of him.

  “How’s your head?” he asked Flynn.

  “Which one?”

  In the parking lot, Hewitt was overseeing Taylor packing things in the trunk of a car. On the other side of the car, Buckingham was pacing up and down.

  Nearby, Cocky stood, satchel in hand.

  “You all right to drive?” D’Esopo asked.

  “It’s mostly downhill from here. You extending your stay at The Rod and Gun Club?”

  “Going upstairs to pack now.”

  “Oh. Thought you might want to have another go at the locks on the refrigerator doors.”

  Hewitt was writing something on a piece of paper, using the car roof as a writing surface.

  “I’m very grateful to you, Frank.”

  “You’re very grateful to Detective Lieutenant Walter Concannon, Retired, Eddy. He’s the one who brought the murderer in. Last night, you would have been burned to death in your bed, Eddy, if it hadn’t been for Detective Lieutenant Walter Concannon. Retired.”

  D’Esopo nodded. “He’s not retired any more. He’ll be back on full pay before the end of the week, Frank.”

  Clifford was coming down the slope on cross-country skis.

  “Retroactively reinstated, if you please,” Flynn said. “Cocky never did retire, you know.”

  “Retroactively reinstated,” D’Esopo agreed.

  Across the driveway, Hewitt handed Cocky the piece of paper, folded.

  “Anything I can do for you, Frank?”

  For a moment, Flynn thought. He knew he would kick himself for not taking this opportunity to rid himself and his office, his life, of Sergeant Richard T. Whelan. But, at the moment, Flynn had the distinct desire to oppress Grover. If not oppress him, at least teach him to return telephone calls.

  “No,” Flynn said. “Nothing.”

  As Flynn crossed the driveway, Taylor backed the car out of its parking space.

  Buckingham sat in the back seat with Hewitt.

  Cocky stood clear of the car.

  Clifford slid alongside Flynn on his skis and stopped.

  Together, they watched the car go down the slope and move slowly along the road at the edge of the lake.

  Clifford said: “Why did he hate us so much?”

  Flynn turned and looked at Clifford hanging over the ski poles propped in his armpits. At his handsome tanned face, clear eyes against the bright snow, superbly cut, full black hair, broad shoulders in an expensive dark, hand knit sweater, tall, slim body on the light skis. At a young man promoted well beyond his age and experience in a glamorous, powerful job. Bursting with health, more safe from the ravages of disease and accident than others. More safe from the law. Guaranteed, as much as one can be, a permanent, important place in the big world, a voice and
the ability to use it.

  Flynn said: “Have a nice ski, Ernest.”

  Cocky was in the front passenger seat of the Country Squire station wagon, boxed chess set beside him, satchel at his feet, when Flynn got behind the wheel. Flynn had put his own luggage in the back of the car.

  Cocky sneezed.

  “The heater will work in a minute,” Flynn said, starting the car.

  “’Fraid I’ve got a bit of a cold.”

  Backing the car around, Flynn said, “We might just stop at the Three Belles of Bellingham. Pour some Jameson’s whiskey into you. Isn’t that good for a cold?”

  “No.” Cocky wiped his nose with a handkerchief. “But it would make me feel better.”

  He looked around at the huge, dark-timbered Rod and Gun Club as Flynn drove down the slope to the lake.

  “It’s a wonder that old place didn’t burn down in a minute.”

  “Ach, Cocky. The elite are ever with us.”

  Snow sparkled along the roughly plowed road. To their right, sunlight shimmered on the lake. Overhead, snow lay along the dark branches of the trees.

  “Mind my asking what was on that piece of paper Hewitt handed you?”

  With the fingers of his right hand Cocky held up the note so Flynn could read it as he drove.

  “SILY BASTIDS THINK THEY RUN THE WURLD.”

  “Truth is,” Flynn said. “They do.”

  ALSO BY GREGORY MCDONALD

  FLYNN

  It might have been an accident that brought down the Boeing 707 over Boston Harbor, virtually in Flynn’s own backyard. But it seems unlikely, with so many potential targets on board: The heavily insured Federal judge; the has-been British actor; the middleweight champ; the Middle Eastern finance minister. The motive could have been greed, murder, revenge, or even terrorism—and it’s up to Boston police inspector Francis Xavier Flynn to get to the bottom of it.

  Crime Fiction/0-375-71357-3

  THE BUCK PASSES FLYNN

  Someone is giving away hundreds of millions of dollars, and Inspector Flynn has to find out who in a hurry. As he races from Texas to Las Vegas to Russia, Flynn discovers that this is not the pastime of an eccentric billionaire, nor is it a nefarious counterfeiting scheme. Someone is looking to wreck the nation’s economy and bizarrely enough, spending a lot of money to do it. With every lead going nowhere, Flynn’s most dizzying logic is put to the test, but the clue he needs could be somewhere in his own murky past.