by Brad Smith
“He won’t be back this way,” Claire said. “Joe should have told you, though.”
“Is this guy dangerous?”
“Not to you.”
The couple seemed to take her at her word. Good thing, as what she said was pure speculation on her part, and a tad careless to boot. They went into the house for a few minutes and then came out, got into their car, and drove off. When they were gone, Claire walked back down to the river’s edge. She stood looking over at Kesselberg and imagined herself on the opposite shore, facing the spot where she stood. If she were Virgil Cain, in a stolen rowboat, she would have headed for the marsh. No question. It had been a stupid move, coming here and exposing himself to all these people.
And Claire didn’t think for a moment that Cain was stupid.
She walked to the nearest horseshoe pit and picked up a shoe and tossed it. She missed the other pit altogether, so she threw each of the remaining shoes, finally ringing one off the post. She walked over and sat down on a creaky Adirondack chair. Taking her cell from her pocket, she called the station, got Marina on the line.
“What have you got on Virgil Cain?”
“What have I got?”
“Yeah. I assume Joe asked you to check him out.”
“Joe didn’t ask me anything,” Marina said. “His whole attitude is we got the guy. Game over.”
Claire sighed. “And all of a sudden it’s game on.”
“What do you mean?”
“The guy escaped custody. You didn’t know?”
“I just walked in. I’m not even supposed to be here. I’m on midnights.” Claire could hear Marina hitting some computer keys. “Holy shit.”
“Yeah.”
“So where is he?”
“No idea. Joe and the boys have canine on the trail. See what you can find, Marina. Apparently he did time in Quebec. I assume he was born there but I really have no reason to assume that. Or anything else. But do what you can. If I don’t know where he is, I might as well try to find out where he’s been.”
“Jesus Christ,” Marina said. “An escaped convict. That’s kind of scary, isn’t it?”
“Scary? I was thinking more along the lines of inexcusable.”
“Well, yeah.” Marina paused. “It’s actually kind of romantic too, when you think about it. Sort of like Butch Cassidy or somebody like that. You remember Butch Cassidy, with Paul Newman?”
“Yeah, well, this guy isn’t Paul Newman.”
“Oh, I know,” Marina said. “I was just saying.”
“See what you can find,” Claire said and hung up. Maybe Marina was right. Maybe on a certain level, theoretically speaking, it was kind of romantic. But Claire wasn’t going to allow herself to think about that until she had the sonofabitch back in custody.
The sun was climbing in the sky and already the day was hot. She wondered how far Cain could have gotten. She walked back to her car and was about to leave when she saw Joe Brady coming down the gravel road. He had his jacket off and the sweat was rolling off him in rivulets. Claire waited for him by the car.
“You fall in the river?” she asked.
“Very funny.”
“Well?”
Brady stopped. He was actually breathing heavily. From walking.
“The dogs lost the trail in a creek up there a ways,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “He’s heading east. He waded in the creek.”
“Bullhead Creek.”
“I guess. They’ll get him, though. He could’ve only stayed in the water for so long. Canine’s got a dog on each bank. They’ll pick up his scent, wherever he came out.”
“It won’t matter,” Claire said.
“Why the hell not?”
“You’re on the wrong side of the river.”
“What?” Joe asked. “Why do you say that?”
“Think about it,” Claire said. “He could have rowed his little boat right into the mouth of that creek. Instead he pulled up on these people’s doorstep, said howdy-do, petted their dog, and posed for group pictures for all we know. He wanted us to know he was on this side of the river. Which means he doubled back.”
“And went where?” Brady asked.
“I’ve been thinking about that. You got somebody watching his farm?”
“Well . . . no.”
“Why not?”
“He’s not gonna go there. He knows we’ll be watching it.”
“You just said you’re not.”
Joe stood there, sweating quietly for a moment. “All right. I still say he’s heading east. You’re giving him too much credit. He’s not that smart.”
“He’s been smarter than us so far,” Claire said and got into the car. “Send me a card when you reach the Atlantic.”
She grabbed another coffee on the way and drove straight out to the farm on Windecker Road. She attempted to do the math as she drove, but there were too many variables. The only thing she knew for sure was that Cain had escaped at shortly after four o’clock the previous afternoon. The Walker woman had been certain about that. What Claire didn’t know was how long it had taken him to find a boat and cross the river, which direction he had traveled once he had, and which route he would have taken to get back across. In fact, she didn’t know for certain that he had crossed again. Maybe Joe was right and he was heading for Massachusetts.
But she doubted it.
Approaching the farm she noticed the Ford F-250, parked in the same spot by the barn. As she pulled in the drive Mary Nelson walked around the corner of the building, leading the skinny mare by a rope. Claire drove over and parked well back, not wanting to frighten the horse.
“Hello again,” she said as she got out.
Mary nodded to her but never broke stride. When she reached the pasture in front of the barn, she opened a gate and released the rail-thin horse into the field. The other horses there began moving at once in the direction of the new arrival.
Claire walked over. Mary glanced toward her.
“Give me a minute here. I want to see how these other knuckleheads respond to that mare. Here comes the stud now. If he’s okay with her, she’ll be all right.”
Claire watched as the dark stallion trotted up to the skinny mare and made a circle around her. She appeared nervous, jerking her head and sidestepping when he came near. But after a few moments spent sniffing and nuzzling her, he wandered off. The mare’s tension seemed to vanish and in a few moments she was picking at the grass.
“Does that mean the stud’s okay with her?” Claire asked. Mary now turned to Claire. “So far, so good.”
“It’s a man’s world, isn’t it?”
“Well, he sure as hell thinks so,” Mary said. “I’m still a little doubtful about the whole concept. But I’m just a silly old woman.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Come on.” Mary walked toward the pump house. Claire watched as she stepped inside and a moment later the noisy pump started up, and the plastic line spewed water into the trough. Mary came out and looked at the flow.
Both women turned at the sound of commotion in the field. The paint gelding had trotted over to check out the new arrival and now the stallion was running him off.
Mary smiled. “See? Sometimes testosterone is a good thing.” She looked over at Claire. “So what’s up?”
“Just having another look around,” Claire said. “You took off before I could ask you the most obvious question yesterday. Do you think Virgil Cain killed Mickey Dupree?”
“Oh, I have no idea. You guys are the professionals. You must have some pretty compelling evidence if you arrested him. Have you ever arrested somebody for murder and it turned out he was innocent?”
“No, I haven’t,” Claire said. She decided not to point out that she didn’t arrest Virgil Cain.
The water trough was nearly full and Mary went into the shed to shut off the pump. Claire watched the stream from the pipe slow down and then trickle out to nothing. When Mary came back, it was clear she had somethin
g on her mind. She took her time, watching the horses at their grazing.
“Although,” she said after a bit, “given the circumstances, the trial and the acquittal, you might think that if Virgil was of the mind to kill somebody, he would kill Alan Comstock.”
“Maybe he was just getting started.”
“Maybe he was,” Mary said. “But the day he was arrested, he’d just got done cutting that hay field over there. Which reminds me, I have to hire somebody to bale that up. But yes, he’d just finished cutting hay and he and I were sitting by the milk house there, drinking beer and arguing about whether or not he was going to take that mare off my hands. Now I personally have never seen anybody on a killing spree. Is that generally how they act?”
“It varies from killer to killer,” Claire said smiling. “You’re going to pay to have his hay brought in? I thought you were just an acquaintance.”
“Most of those horses in that field were forced on him by me. One way or the other, they’re going to have to eat this winter. Whether Virgil’s in jail or not.”
Claire nodded at the explanation.
“But while we’re on the subject of putting people in jail,” Mary went on, “there’s a jackass named Hopman who lives not three miles from here who’s responsible for that mare’s condition. We found starving animals on his farm, we found dying animals on his farm, and all he got was a misdemeanor charge and now he’s back on the property. And rumor has it he’s going back in the horse business.” She paused. “You know, while we’re on the subject.”
“I’ll make a note of that,” Claire said. “Not exactly my bailiwick.”
“He had horses from Miller Boddington too,” Mary said. “Is that your bailiwick?”
“As a matter of fact, it is. I arrested Boddington.”
“And when’s he going to trial?”
“Unfortunately, Mickey Dupree was Boddington’s lawyer,” Claire said. “So I would have to say, not any time soon.”
“I knew he was Boddington’s lawyer,” Mary said. “Wouldn’t that mean that horse lovers everywhere would have a motive for killing Dupree? But then you say you have compelling evidence that Virgil did it.”
“When did I say that?”
Mary shrugged. “I guess maybe you didn’t.”
“You know he escaped custody, right?”
“I heard about it on the news.”
“I have a theory on where he’s heading,” Claire said.
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” she said. She waited a moment, trying to read the older woman. “Has he been here yet?”
Mary indicated a machine shed across the yard. The sliding door was open to reveal an empty bay inside. “Been and gone, is my guess,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Kirstie’s Jeep was parked in there yesterday. And today it’s not. Unless your people had it towed in.”
“That would be to presume too much of my people,” Claire said. She stood looking at the empty building for a time. “Shit.”
“You thought you were ahead of him?”
“I wasn’t sure,” Claire said. “I just figured things out this morning. But I don’t know how he got here. If he walked all that way, well it’s about thirty miles so it would have taken him all night. Of course, he could have called a friend to come and pick him up.” She glanced at Mary. “He could have called you to come and pick him up.”
“He wouldn’t know how to reach me,” Mary said. “Except at the clinic and I wasn’t at the clinic last night. Besides, if he called me, I would probably turn him in.”
“Would you?”
“I would be obligated to,” Mary said. “Your department is saying that he killed a man. Isn’t that how it is?”
“That’s how it is.”
Mary started toward her truck. “I have to get back to work.” Claire fished a card from her pocket and gave it to the vet.
“You’ll call me if you hear from him?”
Mary looked at the card and then nodded as she put it in her shirt pocket.
“You will call me?” Claire persisted.
“Like I said . . . probably,” Mary said. She got into the truck and drove off.
Claire watched her leave and then headed toward the house. There was one thing she wanted to check on. She went under the yellow tape and inside, through the kitchen, and into the living room. The small drawer on the rolltop desk was open. The credit card was gone, and so was the passport. She didn’t need to check the false bottom to know that the five hundred dollars was gone as well. But she did anyway.
She drove back to the department and sat at her desk and made the calls she needed to make. First she got the border patrol on the line and informed them that the Virgil Cain they’d been on the alert for was now traveling with a passport. She called Visa and asked them to let her know if Cain used his card. The woman on the other end asked if she wanted the card canceled and Claire said no. She wanted Cain to use it; that way she could track him. The Ulster County sheriff’s department had the details on the Jeep, since they had so recently had the vehicle in their impound; so she retrieved that and put it out as well. She considered not calling Joe Brady for a while. Presumably he and the dogs were still on the trail, stumbling around in the thick woods east of the Hudson. Maybe Joe would bump his head on a tree limb and smarten up a little. In the end, she did call him, out of respect for Patterson and the SWAT guys. The dogs too.
THIRTEEN
Jane heard the news at a luncheon in Woodstock with Edie Bryant and a group of women who wanted to bend the congresswoman’s ear about the proposed gas drilling in the area. Edie had invited Jane along, suggesting that the exposure to the group would be good for her, on a subliminal level. It helped that everyone at the lunch was on common ground. Nobody wanted the drilling in their backyard.
The luncheon began at one o’clock, at a new restaurant in a converted lumber mill on the east edge of town. The women present were well heeled and possibly overinformed, and the discussion around the table was what Jane expected: an abundance of talk about the power of grassroots, amid a faint undertone of privileged outrage. Nothing was accomplished, of course, although the group did receive a guarantee from Edie Bryant that she was with them all the way.
It was over dessert, with the conversation rambling here and there, that Jane learned that Virgil Cain had broken out of jail. One of the women had a husband who was retired and spent a good portion of his day listening to a police scanner. It was nearly three o’clock when he called her cell phone to tell her about the escape.
“How does someone do that, in this day and age?” one woman asked.
“He won’t be out there long,” another said. “They’ll get him.”
“Well, I’ll be keeping my doors locked until they do.”
Jane begged off soon afterward. Edie had to leave as well and they walked out to the parking lot together.
“There you go,” Edie said. “Pretty glamorous, right?”
“Can they stop the drilling?” Jane asked. She had tried to keep her mind on the purpose of the lunch, but she was thinking about the news. More specifically, she was wondering if Alan had heard.
“Probably not. As long as there are people out there who’ll sell them or lease them their land, who are we to try to stop them? This is America, darling. You start telling people what they can and can’t do with their own property and you’ll become very unpopular very quickly.”
“What about the groundwater issues?”
“That’s really the only thing they have going for them,” Edie said. “Clean water is always a hot button. But then the drillers make all kinds of guarantees that the water table won’t be affected. Guarantees that are impossible to keep, mind you, but people who stand to make money only hear what they want to hear.” She paused. “But there’s one good thing about it all.”
“What’s that?”
“This thing won’t come to a head for at least a year.” Edie smiled. “I’ll be re
tired by then. See you later, sweetie.”
And with that she got into her Prius and drove off.
Jane headed home, driving quickly, still hoping that Alan had not heard about the escape. She got her answer before she even entered the house. The front door was locked and she had to use the code to get in. Alan was sitting at the dining room table, eating a Domino’s pizza and wearing a six-gun and holster over his sweatpants. There was an assault rifle of some kind on the table beside the pizza box. Looking through the French doors to the kitchen, she saw a shotgun on the counter.
“Did you set the alarm?” he asked.
“No.”
“Set it.”
She went back to the keypad by the front door and did so; then she came over to sit down at the table. “They’ll pick him up in no time. They probably already have.”
“Not yet, they haven’t. I called those assholes downtown and told them to let me know. Then I called dickwad at the Gazette and told him too. They haven’t got him.” He paused dramatically.
“It might be up to me to get him, Jane. I’m prepared for that.”
She exhaled heavily. He had shifted back into movie talk. Not a good sign. “What did the police say?”
Alan took a large bite of the pizza and talked with his mouth full. “They offered to send a patrolman here to babysit me.”
“That’s good.”
“I told them to fuck off.”
Jane shook her head and looked at the large pizza in the box, already three-quarters gone. “Why would you do that, Alan?”
He took a drink from a can of Diet Pepsi. “You don’t know? This is the same police department that tried to convict me of murder. And now they’re claiming they’re gonna try and protect me? I don’t think so. I’ll get to the bottom of this. I think there’s a very good chance they let him go on purpose.”
“What?”
“Come on, Jane. When was the last time anybody escaped from prison around here?”
“It wasn’t exactly prison, was it? I heard it was a lockup in some little town along the river.”
“Exactly! Why the fuck would they be holding a cold-blooded killer in a tin can like that? That doesn’t strike you as suspicious? No, the fix is in. They’re gunning for me. Fucking cops. They want this nut job to do their dirty work for them. They couldn’t get a conviction so this is plan B. He got Mickey and now he’s coming after me.” He drank more soda. “I’ve got Walter on it.”