Final Winter

by Brendan DuBois

  And she had done well, scoring high honors in almost everything. But her previous life, before her parents had died in that car accident. . . gone.

  And the other lead, slim as it was, had led to this address. Adrianna’s apartment, which she had shared with her aunt - one Elyse Annanova - had been flipped so many times with new tenants that no one had any memories of an older woman and her young niece who had lived there. The few neighbors home this day that he approached also gave him blank stares. Him being a white man in a suit in this neighborhood, asking nosy questions, probably didn’t help either, though a local grocery store had helped just a bit. The older man there, wearing a spotless white apron and welhshined black shoes, had said, ‘No, sir, I don’t remember anything about that woman and her aunt. But I have somebody who might know something. That’d be Mamma Garrity. She lives over on Prospect Street now, but she used to live here, and I don’t like to speak ill of the elderly, but my God, that woman can talk a hole through a tin pot, and if that woman and her aunt lived here, she’d know, by God.’

  So by way of thanking the helpful grocer, Brian had bought a couple of six-packs of Coors that he didn’t want. Now he was on Prospect Street - a bit of punnish humor from the Big Guy Upstairs? - and he got out of his rental car and walked up to the small house, ready to ring the doorbell and keep on digging.

  And why was that? he thought. Because it was his job, or because he was pissed at the cold treatment he had gotten this morning from Adrianna?

  Who knew? Brian rang the bell.

  ~ * ~

  The two young American men came over to Vladimir and Imad, gave them quick nods. Then one of them took off his sunglasses and said something. Vladimir couldn’t understand what he said, the boy talked so fast, and so he replied, ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I said, man, what the fuck is up here?’ the youngster said. He had a goatee and there were earrings in both ears. His companion kept his glasses on and nodded, arms folded. There were tattoos on both forearms. His companion said, ‘This place is protected, dude. You can’t be painting your truck here. Do you have a permit?’

  Vladimir thought as quick as he could, but these two young males in front of him seemed as foreign as if they had stepped out of a spaceship from Mars. Imad said quietly, ‘Why don’t you mind your own business, then?’ The young man with the folded arms stepped forward and said, ‘This place is our business, dude. Earth is our business. Protecting it is our business. And we don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, but we came here for a day of rock climbing, and we see this...this fucking mess here. What’s up with that?’

  The boy without the sunglasses said, ‘Like I said, do you have a permit? Do you? This is National Forest land, man.’

  The young girls had been busy, taking the gear from the rear of the Jeep, and one shouted out something and the guy said, ‘Jackie’s right, man. You get your stuff cleared up and out of here, and like now, or we report you to the rangers. Got it? Get your shit clean and out of here. You don’t belong here.’

  Imad stepped forward and Vladimir grabbed his arm. ‘Please,’ Vladimir said, ‘We’re almost done. We will be on our way shortly.’

  ‘Nope,’ the tattooed guy said. ‘Out now.’

  Vladimir said, ‘Perhaps a payment for your troubles, some compensation, and—’

  And then the goateed one, the one with earrings, actually spat at Vladimir. Spat on the ground!

  ‘That’s what we think of your cash, man. Nothing. We can’t be bought. So get the fuck out, or the rangers get the call.’

  The two strolled away and Imad looked at Vladimir, eyes dark with fury. ‘We can’t let them call the police or the rangers or anyone else. You know that.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Then what do you plan to do about it?’ he demanded.

  ‘I... I... something must be done,’ Vladimir said.

  ‘Yes, but what?’

  Vladimir stammered, then went silent.

  He looked over at the Jeep where the four were still busy, though they kept on looking over at him and Imad.

  Imad looked at Vladimir with contempt, and said, ‘You. Brave man who plans to kill millions. Strike a blow. Smash. Be a barbarian and kill. All talk. All empty air unless you are safe, away from seeing what you are doing, what must be done. You don’t want to get your fingers dirty, your precious fingers. Am I right? Am I?’

  Vladimir felt the burning of humiliation in his cheeks as the young savage in front of him spoke the truth. He could not say a word. He just nodded.

  Imad now looked satisfied. ‘Good. I will do what has to be done, Russian, so you know. I will do what has to be done, and from you there will be no more dismissive words or gestures or insults. Understood?’

  Another nod.

  Imad said, ‘I did not hear you, Russki.’

  ‘Yes,’ Vladimir said. ‘Understood.’

  ‘Good.’ Imad strode to the truck and Vladimir stood there, just watching, an observer.

  From the Jeep Wrangler, some more laughter, and a shout from one of the men: ‘I don’t see you moving, asshole. Get moving or you’ll regret it!’

  And so Vladimir stood.

  ~ * ~

  The interior of the living room was dark, with the lights on low and the shades drawn. Mamma Garrity was an old woman, in her eighties or nineties, who moved slow and whose dark skin was wrinkled and lined, but whose tongue was sharp to go along with an equally sharp mind. She had invited Brian in after he had shown his identification, and now he was sipping a lukewarm glass of lemonade as she sat across from him in an overstuffed easy chair that looked like it was ready to swallow her whole. For about a half-hour she had talked to him about growing up in Cincinnati, about her youth and courting and marriage and two sons and three daughters and numerous grandchildren and greatgrandchildren, about her hip-replacement surgery and her sore knees and cataracts, and using the listening skills that he had developed over the years at the NYPD Brian had nodded at all the right places, until finally Mamma Garrity had slowly used up her memories and stories, and had seemed to focus .

  ‘Mmm ... Detective Doyle, you’re asking me about that Scott woman...and her aunt - correct?’ she said.

  ‘That’s right, ma’am,’ Brian said, trying not to show any expression as he swallowed the warm, sour mixture. By his side was a fireplace, blocked off, with rows of photographs lined up on the mantelpiece, photos of families and young men and old women and serious-looking men in uniform, firefighter uniform, Navy uniform ... a whole spectrum of an old woman’s life, frozen forever with photo paper and chemicals.

  The old woman said, ‘Yes, I remember her now. Elyse Annanova...kept to herself. A well-dressed woman. Went to church every Sunday. A clean, quiet life...and then her niece moved in suddenly. There had been death in that young girl’s family. So she came in and she kept to herself - the both of them. Just went to church every weekend, saw them in the local markets...kept to themselves. Quiet neighbors. Wish we had more of them.’

  ‘Did you ever see if they had any visitors?’

  ‘Not that I can recall...you see, it was different, back then. Before the money came in. Before those yuppies bought up buildings and such...not that I mind much, I mean, money is green and doesn’t really care what color your skin is, am I right?’

  Brian said, ‘Yes, I believe you’re right.’

  Mamma Garrity smiled at him, like a retired teacher pleased at the progress of a long-ago student. ‘Yes ... yes, I do believe I’m right. So. Is there anything else I can help you with?’

  He managed another sip of the sour lemonade. ‘No, I’m afraid that’s all. I’m very grateful for your time, Mrs Garrity.’

  She smiled. ‘It’s so nice to have visitors...and this pains me to say this, detective, but...well, you said you’re with the Federal government, am I right?’

  ‘I’m attached to the Federal government, yes, in assisting them with inquiries about certain issues.’

  ‘Like Miss Scott’s life, right
?’

  ‘That’s one of my roles, yes.’

  She nodded, her smile in place. ‘And this all confidential, am I right? Everything I say to you is just as if I was talking to the government. Right?’

  This was going in an odd direction. ‘Yes, you’re right. All confidential.’

  Mamma Garrity seemed pleased as she nodded again. ‘Good. I’ve been wondering for a very long time who I should complain to. You see, ever since I moved here, after my oldest son moved to Detroit and gave me this home, I haven’t been getting my money. And I wonder if you can help me out.’

  Brian said, ‘You mean your Social Security?’

  She laughed. ‘Oh no, not that. My Social Security comes right as it’s supposed to - one of the few things in God’s world you can count on. No, it’s the other money that I’ve missed, ever since I moved. The support money.’

  Brian’s head felt foggy, as if he had woken up from an unexpected afternoon nap. He had been seconds away from leaving this musty old house and tossing the Adrianna Scott file into his luggage, ready to ignore it for another few weeks. Until this.

  ‘Mrs Garrity, I’m sorry that I don’t understand about the support money, but if you let me know what it’s about I’ll see that you get it.’

  Now she was a bit suspicious. ‘Including the past months? I warn you, it’s going to be a large number.’

  ‘Sure. Whatever it is, I’ll make sure.’

  ‘Well ... I hate to bring it up, but I was promised. And the others, we were promised, too, and we all got those checks, month after month. After a while, you got to depend on them. We surely did. And trust me, I think I might be the last one alive...but still, a deal is a deal, right?’

  ‘Yes, you’re absolutely right,’ Brian said, looking at that old, calm face. Mamma Garrity’s words were making his fingertips tingle at the thought that something was going on.

  He said, ‘Tell me all about it, right from the beginning, and then I’ll take care of it.’

  Another sweet look. ‘That’s nice. I mean, we were told never to open our mouths, never to say anything. And we were told that if we did say something the money would stop, and the IRS would be called in, and we’d have to pay back taxes and penalties, and maybe even go to jail - for breaking our deal. So I’m not in trouble, am I? I mean, I’ve always kept my end of the deal. I’ve never said anything, until right now. It’s her fault, you know, since the money’s stopped. She broke the deal first.’ The old woman’s voice was now defiant, and he found himself liking her spirit.

  ‘And who’s “she”, ma’am?’

  The old woman seemed to struggle for a moment, and then said, her voice just above a whisper.

  ‘Adrianna.’

  Oh, Brian thought. Oh, shit. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘From the beginning, Mrs Garrity. Tell me what happened.’

  She said, ‘Oh, it was some years ago. Right after she had graduated from college. She came back and talked to me and talked to Mrs Grissom, from upstairs, and Mister Conklin, he served in the Navy, he was downstairs. Just the immediate neighbors, the three of us. She showed us some paperwork that said she was working for the government. For the CIA. It was a very important job that she was going to get, very important, but there was one thing she asked us to do, and it wasn’t really a lie, it was part of the program, to get in. She said officers needed a...what did she call it? What do you put on a book? You know...a . . .’

  The tingling in Brian’s fingers was now up to his forearms. ‘A cover. That’s what she said. A cover. Am I right?’

  A little series of nods, like an old bird dipping her beak into a water glass. ‘That’s right. A cover. She had to have a cover story in order to do her job well, and she asked the neighbors if they would help her out. And who wouldn’t? Such a nice girl! And she promised us that we would be paid, every month, one hundred dollars, if we told the same story to anybody who came by and. asked questions about her.’

  Brian tried to pay attention to what he was hearing, but his mind was racing along on another path. He thought about a young Adrianna Scott who had graduated from college, who had gotten an interview with the Central Intelligence Agency, was going through the vetting process. Somehow, she has something in her past that must be hidden. Something that can’t be uncovered by the back-ground checkers in the employ of the CIA. She’s fortunate in that her circle of neighbors are poor and are quite limited in number. So payments - all right, bribes - are made to present the perfect cover story. And what was the perfect cover story?

  Brian said, ‘Ma’am, I’ll be able to pay some of your back payments today, and I promise that you’ll get the rest by the end of this week. But can you tell me, what was the story that you were asked to provide?’

  ‘Well! It was all kind of strange, you know ... it was very simple. We were asked just to tell anyone who came by to ask questions that Adrianna had moved in with her aunt at a very young age. When that wasn’t the truth at all.’

  ‘I see. And when did Adrianna move in with her aunt?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know the date...but I do know that she was a teenager, a young girl. A very pretty young girl but a teenager nonetheless. And unlike the other girls of her time...she was different.’

  ‘How was she different?’

  And the old woman gave Brian a knowing look, one mature adult to another. ‘Oh, come now, Mr Doyle. You know what I mean. Tight blouses, tight jeans, skirts up to here ... wearing that awful jewelry...strutting their wares so the boys would notice. But not Adrianna. She spent two years here, I believe - before going off to college — and not once did I ever see her with a boy. She was very serious, too serious. Always seemed to be studying...like she had some big goal in front of her ... and we respected her, yes, we did. Which was why we agreed to that odd request of hers.’

  ‘And her aunt? What was her aunt like, during all of this?’

  Mamma Garrity clasped her hands together. ‘Oh, the poor dear. Do you know what happened to her? She died, just before Adrianna left for college.’

  ‘She did, did she? And how did she die?’

  The old woman made a cluck-cluck noise as she shook her head. ‘Poor dear was murdered. Suffocated in her own bed by someone who held a pillow over her head. Can you imagine that? What an awful coincidence, just as Adrianna was getting ready to move out.’

  Brian nodded slowly, feeling cold. ‘Yes. What an awful coincidence.’

  ~ * ~

  Vladimir saw the whole thing unfold in front of him, as if he was an extra in a stage production, destined to observe and stand still and watch all that happened.

  Imad strolled over to the four young men and women, confidence in his step, one hand held out in a friendly greeting, the other behind his back, holding the automatic pistol. There was bile at the back of Vladimir’s throat as he saw what was going on, and a part of him that he thought was civilized, a part that he had left behind in Mother Russia, that part of him wanted to warn the four rock climbers out there - children, really - of what was approaching them. For death was walking near, with a friendly smile and a hand held out in friendship. He wondered if this was what it was like in Palestine, when the suicide bombers approached a school bus or a nightclub or a pizza parlor with that same mystic confidence that they were doing God’s work.

  Vladimir did not believe in God, had never believed in God. But now, in this American desert, he was sure that he believed in the Devil.

  One of the young men called out something and Imad replied in a friendly voice as he approached them. He said something else, and the four came to him. Vladimir thought, how sly, he got them to come to him and—

  Imad’s hidden hand whipped out, and Vladimir saw the confusion in the rock climbers’ eyes. What could this mean? How was this happening? How had a safe day of rock climbing and adventure and a lunch eaten in the wilderness and a night ahead planned, perhaps a restaurant with a good meal and cold beer and lots of laughs and lovemaking later - how had it turned into this?

  H
ow?

  They started to move but, like sheep before a wolf, they moved too slow and they moved separately. If they had been smarter and tougher - there were four of them against Imad -maybe something could have been done. But this was not a day for maybes and—

  The first shot seemed to hit the tattooed man in the chest. He fell to his knees. The next shot caught the other young man in the side as he was turning, his goateed face twisted in fear and horror.

  Vladimir thought, the Arab boy’s doing well, shooting the men, the obvious threats first, and now—

  Now the women were screaming, turning to flee.

  Imad shot each of them once in the back.

  He paused.

  All four young people were moving some. The tattooed man was on his knees, hands at his chest.