The Dead Past

by Piccirilli, Tom

  ~ * ~

  I drove up to the back hills, a sort of mystical area of the county where the structures of town faded away to sprawling copses and scattershot cabins and trailers. The ragged timberline took over the landscape. I lost control of the Jeep twice on the unpaved roads and nearly skidded off the mountain. Although there was an intoxicating natural beauty, this wasn't friendly country in the winter. If I didn't gather my concentration I might wind up as bad off as Richie.

  It wasn't that stupid a line, I thought. Pretty awful all right, but not as bad as "gamut of inquisitiveness" anyway.

  When I got in the general vicinity of Tons Harraday's home I stopped at a two-pump gas station and asked directions. Turns out I wasn't in the general vicinity after all—Harraday lived to the east of Warner fork, where the peak of the hills met the river as the waters curved south along the grade, washing down into the valley. There weren't many road signs; some had been blown down in the storm, and some were probably still standing but invisible in the snow. The rest had been shot to pieces. I made a few more mistakes, the worst of which was when I followed a muddy trail to a dead end and had to drive a half mile in reverse back to the main road because the path was too narrow to turn around on.

  Finally I spotted a mailbox someone had dug free from the snow: MILNER. I kept going another quarter mile to the next place. The mailbox there stood covered by layers of ice, which served to magnify the name: HARRADAY. I pulled up and parked at the bottom of a long, partially graveled driveway with only a single tire track cutting across the ground. Tons rode a motorcycle, even in winter.

  Though it was more than a mile away, I could clearly hear the chops of the river. Broghin had said Richie Harraday was a creep from a long line of creeps; that could be true, but apparently Harraday's father at least had once been a logger. Lumberjack houses had the same general structure to them: mostly brick and mortar, with stone foundations, as if knowing how easy it was to cut down wood they set themselves inside homes with more permanence. Off to one side of the house a trailer sat on cinder blocks, like a newly added room slapped onto the cramped quarters.

  Before I could start for the house I heard the rough sound of running behind me, chunks of snow kicking up. I spun and two Dobermans that had never had their ears pinched stopped on a dime and stared at me without emotion. They didn't growl or bark or advance, and their nubby tails didn't wag in the slightest. They looked odd without their ears pointed, a tad friendlier maybe, but their yellow eyes gave multitudes of reasons why Dobermans are not man's best friend. They're also just about the only breed of dog that can look completely ferocious without baring their fangs. Not even Anubis can do that.

  These two were brothers, a team, standing equidistant from my left and right sides, fifteen feet away. I did my best not to swallow, blink, or breathe. All three of us were very good at playing statue and we stayed like that for a good three or four minutes, which, relatively speaking, seemed like an hour's worth of real time. If I ran I wouldn't even make it to the Jeep.

  Cripes, didn't anybody own poodles or basset hounds anymore?

  Another two or three minutes passed and I was getting tired and cold; I lifted my foot up to take a step and they both began to growl. I put my foot back on the ground very carefully and decided I wasn't really that tired or cold.

  A large man wearing a ripped, red flannel shirt and a leather vest came out of the house and casually walked up behind the Dobermans. The dogs didn't turn, their gazes nailed on me. I felt the ridiculous urge to shriek yahoos! and cover my crotch.

  He let me stew a while longer, enjoying himself. He stood at least six foot five, muscular, but with a fair amount of fat around the middle, built for the mountains.

  He had tiny features scrunched into the center of a wide face and a well-trimmed beard.

  Sweat rolled down my spine and made me itch like hell. He lit a cigarette and said quietly, "I suppose you got a reason for sneakin' around my property."

  "I wasn't sneaking." At the sound of my voice the Dobermans inched closer.

  "Fred and Barney made sure of that."

  "Are you Tons Harraday?"

  "Yeah," he said. "Who're you?"

  I told him my name and my reason for being here; I did it without moving my lips and put Edgar Bergan to shame. The story was strange and involving, and explaining it to Tons was like making my lists again, coming up short with limited information. I edited the bit about the sheriff holding back the scrap of paper. I didn't want to start a war unless I knew which side I should be on. Somewhere in there I mentioned how sorry I was that his brother was dead; he nodded and looked me in the eye as if searching for lies.

  "Can I move now?" I asked.

  "You carry a gun or a knife?"

  "No."

  "You ought to. Every man ought to." Tons slapped his thigh and the dogs ran in circles at his feet, then he petted them and yelled, "Go on. Go, get." They darted off in the direction they'd originally come.

  "I recognize your name," he said. "You're the one who helped out the Degrase family last year, right? Helped the cops find the kid?"

  I nodded. "That's right."

  "Goddamn cops can't do shit."

  I nodded more. I thought it was best to show a man who was six inches taller than me that we were of similar minds.

  "And now you're looking out for your grandmother?"

  "Yeah."

  "I can understand that," he said. "But I'll tell you, Richie didn't kill the flower lady." Tons kicked at the snow and planted his feet firmly. "Believe me, my brother couldn't hurt nobody, and I mean nobody. He was a good kid, but more than that, he didn't have the guts for it. He could be a real jerk, too, but mostly 'cause he was young." He stared somewhere over my left shoulder. "We used to go fishing. I don't even know why he broke into the lady's house for a lousy coupla bucks."

  "Did he mention it to you?"

  "Not a word."

  "Did he have a partner?"

  "For what?" Tons said. "He never really did anything. He went for a joyride or two, but I wouldn't consider that even stealin' a car. He never kept any, didn't chop 'em and sell 'em for parts."

  "What about the drugs?"

  He grunted. "Everybody does a little now and then. Richie liked coke, but he never did enough to kill himself. It was a set-up. Somebody poisoned him."

  "Why?”

  "If I knew that they'd be dead."

  "Was he hanging around with anybody in particular? New buddies? Some rougher types?"

  "Roughest Richie ever saw was me, and I taught him to stay away from my type." He was proud of that fact and proffered a grin.

  "A girlfriend?"

  "Nah," he said, but after a pause added, "I mean, he could've had a girl on the side. He liked to stay out late and kept his trap shut on where he'd been, but Richie was… he was kinda scared of women. Shy, really, when you get down to it. A quiet kid, he kept to himself." He spoke slowly, remembering his younger brother. "Too much, I think. That's what got him into… trouble." The final word fell out of his mouth with a thud, too hollow a word to express his grief. "He didn't do much. We liked to go fishing." He licked his lips and crossed his arms and spat on the ground. When he looked at me again I could see he was a man who could cage his emotions like dogs and let them out one at a time. Vengeance burned. I knew the feeling. "I want the bastard who murdered my brother. Richie had a long ways to go, but he would've learned. He would've learned."

  "Do you know if—"

  A woman's high-pitched shout cut off my question. "Honey!"

  "Yeah!" he called back without turning.

  Harraday's wife—the girl who Lowell said had settled Tons down—stood in the doorway of the house holding a blanket-wrapped infant in her arms. She couldn't have been much older than twenty, with unnaturally scarlet hair that wafted around her shoulders. Her nose was too long, lips crooked and cheeks too high, but her dark eyes overshadowed the slight imperfections and made the rest of her face appealing. She had an e
nergy about her. She glanced at and dismissed me in the same second. The baby started crying.

  "Come in and eat."

  "Please, Deena, I'm talking out here. I'll be there in a minute."

  "I've got to go to work," she said.

  "I know, babe. Just give me a coupla seconds, all right?"

  "It's your supper. I don't have time to change her so you'll have to do it." She let the door slam.

  "You through?" Tons asked.

  "I've got a few more questions."

  "Yeah, well, I got some of my own." He tried to figure my angle, deciding whether or not I could be trusted. Maybe he thought I had something to do with Richie's murder. "Whyn't you meet me at Raimi's tonight."

  "Who's Raimi?" I asked.

  "Raimi's Pub. It's out by the Turnpike on Crane Avenue, right over the tracks. Know where that is?”

  “Yeah."

  "I'll see you there around ten. That okay?"

  "Fine."

  I got back to the Jeep without seeing the Dobermans and threw it into Drive. I became overly aware of the scar tissue above my kidneys. Six years ago Raimi's had a different name. It had been Jackals then. I hadn't stepped foot inside the place since the day I was shot.

  SIX

  I took a ride past the flower shop, but Katie had a sign on the door that read BACK AT and showed a little clock when she'd return. I couldn't make out the time and decided to visit early tomorrow.

  In the morgue parking lot I spotted Anna's van. I pulled over a few spaces down and decided to wait outside rather than walk into Wallace's office and put him even more on the spot.

  The morgue had been designed to be a morgue and you'd never think it was anything else; the front of the place was slate and stone, giving it the elemental look of rock, freezing and dire and fundamental as death. It wasn't eerie, just ugly.

  I listened to the radio, hearing songs that are tired everywhere else, but, remarkably enough, in Felicity Grove they still had a bit of life left to them. I couldn't have stomached the like of Meatloaf's "Two Out of Three Ain't Bad" if I didn't have snow on the ground and the heavy scent of pine to remind me of a time when girls used to bring their AM radios to the park and watch us play football in the mud.

  It was either that or think about the note, and whenever I thought of the scrap of paper Broghin had snatched off Richie Harraday's body, of what it might explain or threaten or demand, of what he was hiding and denying, my nerves started to crawl.

  For fifteen minutes I tapped the steering wheel in time with other such classics as "Staying Alive" and "The Pina Colada Song," until the building's metal doors swung open with a jarring screech. Keaton Wallace pushed my grandmother in her wheelchair, the two of them speaking animately. Wallace had difficulty getting the smaller front tires over the single step out front, but with a little careful maneuvering, rolling backwards and sideways until the wheels aligned, they managed. Anna said something and Wallace stopped to lift his head and give out with a couple throaty guffaws as they came down the long walkway to the curb.

  In his mid-fifties, Wallace was buoyant with a childish quality that didn't go with the barbershop quartet haircut and bristly peppered mustache that made him look like Teddy Roosevelt. He grinned too much because his dentures didn't fit correctly, and he could fool you with his charm into thinking he wasn't a complex man. The truth was that he had more sides to him than you could ever be sure of: he'd had a serious mean streak until his wife left him a decade ago, and I hadn't heard him raise his voice since he remarried a woman half his age; he'd been in AA with my father for years, and hadn't only fallen off the wagon a few times, but hijacked the sucker straight to a couple of winery tours.

  Maybe I should've said hello to him, but I was afraid he might feel under the gun, with me waiting for the two of them like this. I slunk lower in my seat and caught the tail end of their conversation as Wallace helped Anna into the van's lift. He was saying: ". . . and don't let the trouble with Timmons bring you down. He's a selfish, cantankerous fool who cares more about the dollar than he does his own kids, but he'll have to comply with city ordinances."

  She nodded. "Thank you again, Keaton. I appreciate your taking the time to speak with me."

  "Oh, knock it off. I was only in the middle of—”

  “Please. I'd prefer not to know who or what was under that sheet."

  Wallace laughed. "I really do enjoy seeing you, Anna. I just wish for once we could get together under different circumstances."

  "I do, as well, and I hope when I pass on you don't insult my memory by covering me over with linen from the JC Penny's Catalogue."

  "You'll outlive me, my sweet," he said. "And while you're offering prayers and crying your eyes out, make sure that dog of yours doesn't piddle on my grave."

  "I would say we have a mutual understanding then."

  He kissed her on the cheek as she rose on the lift. "You should drop by the house more often, Anna. Come over anytime you like. In fact, maybe you, Vera, and I can go to a movie or take in a show. She's dying to see Les Miserables. Only thing is it's touring in Toronto."

  "That's more than a four-hour drive. You may as well go to Manhattan. Broadway is nearly as close."

  "But with the pain in the ass traffic and parking and the damn subways at night, I'd prefer Toronto. At least I won't have to put a ‘No Radio' sign in the back window of the wagon." Wallace dropped back a step and stared at his feet, a surefire sign he was about to change the subject. "After all these years I think I'm actually beginning to accept your ...''—he took his time coming up with the right word—“inclinations into such matters."

  My grandmother made a pshaaww gesture. "I doubt that's entirely true, my friend, but thank you for saying it."

  "Just don't tell the Sheriff I let you see the file. That's all I need is for him to start parading around, moaning and breaking my chops."

  "My lips are sealed, even under threat of torture."

  He grew concerned. "Trust me on this then. Listen to me for once, will you? Don't let that grandson of yours get in over his head, searching for clues and villains and conspiracies that don't exist."

  "And if they do?"

  "Then that's even more reason to get him to back off. But I'm telling you that that boy's body being found on your lawn was just a fluke; it had nothing to do with you personally."

  "I certainly do hope it wasn't personal. However, we have no way of knowing whether it was merely a fluke. Not yet."

  "The police will have this matter resolved shortly.”

  “The case will be solved, yes," she said. "Once again, Keaton, thank you."

  Wallace turned and reentered the morgue, the door slamming home behind him. Anna started the van and began to pull away before she saw me coming. I got in beside her, waiting for the engine to warm because the heater in the Jeep didn't work and most of my blood had congealed.

  "What trouble?" I asked.

  She waved me off. "You shouldn't eavesdrop, Jonathan. Goodness, your nose is burning red. How long have you been hovering in the shadows?"

  "What trouble?"

  "I am perfectly capable of handling my own problems. Did you learn anything more from Tons Harraday?"

  "No, but I'm meeting him tonight. What problems?”

  “Please don't concern yourself."

  "I won't so long as you tell me what happened.”

  “It was nothing, dear."

  "I can hang in there with you on this one, Anna. The more you say things like that the more circular this conversation becomes but I can keep at it as long as you can. So just tell me already."

  She gave up because she knew that in our family nobody got any rest until we knew the other's business. "Mr. Timmons is erecting a second convenience store downtown, and from what I can gather, the doorways are as equally narrow as those in his other shop, which was built long before national laws were passed allowing access to the physically disabled. I merely pointed out that he should comply with building codes."

>   "Oh. And he got huffy?"

  "A tad, but it really was nothing." With her nose in the air she dismissed the matter. "Now, if you'll let me I'll tell you what I learned at the pawn shop." The heat came up and I began to thaw. "The proprietor, Samuel Harker, told me that Margaret's lockets were hardly worth anything at all. She paid thirty-five dollars for the pair. It certainly was not the kind of loot a more professional burglar would have immediately grabbed."

  "Well, we already know he wasn't a professional, and we don't know if he grabbed them immediately. Who pawned the pieces in the first place?"

  She glanced at the traffic and said, "Why don't we discuss this further at home?"

  "I still have some things to do here. Just give me a wrap and we'll see what fits together later."

  That suited her fine, and she readjusted herself in the chair. I could see the intensity in her manner, the thrill of pulling the first thread that might unravel a mystery. "For obvious reasons Harker disliked giving me the name, but I eventually persuaded him. He finally admitted that they belonged to his late mother."

  "He sold his Mommy's jewelry?" That gave me a creepy feeling.

  "As Harker explained, she died three years ago and the lockets remained in his store until Margaret bought them. When she brought them back to have them en-graved, he was delighted she cared about them so much. That's why he so easily recognized the lockets when Richie turned up with them. Besides recognizing his own engraving, he knew the jewelry had formerly belonged to his mother."

  "He should have said so in the beginning. Who's got them now?"

  She plucked at her chin. "That's a good question, one I never thought to ask. They weren't on Richie's person when his body was discovered. I don't know how thorough a search was made of his premises."

  "No one would have cared much after the fact. Even if Richie had been guilty of the watchamacallit—”

  “Felony Murder Doctrine."

  "—the cops couldn't pin it on a dead man."

  Curves presented themselves, and I could see how intrigued Anna had become, her imagination taking over and propelling her to Agatha Christie heights of deception and puzzles. "Perhaps Richie Harraday was merely a fall guy."