Ice on the Grapevine

by R. E. Donald

  Teresa pulled on her oldest pair of jeans and a faded cotton tunic, slipped her feet into the cool, cracked leather of her oldest sandals. Now she would be herself again. Today she would think about what her future could be, would be, without Greg, and without Hellen. She would make resolutions. She would make plans. She would talk to her parents and her brothers about her life in the city, and about how she sometimes regrets leaving the steady quiet pace of the farm, and about how maybe now she will be willing to meet the neighbor they have long wanted to introduce her to. Just meet him. No promises.

  Teresa had no intention of escaping from one prison just to enter into another.

  Before she drove away, Teresa backed her car up to the carport and loaded everything she could of Greg's into the trunk and backseat of her car. She would dump them somewhere on her way to the farm, in a restaurant dumpster in Langley, or in an empty parking lot in Aldergrove, or even in a ditch beside the road. Anywhere, that is, that Hellen would never go.

  It was early evening and the tavern wasn't busy, just a couple of loners at the bar and a few tables of twos and threes, talking quietly and drinking beer. A Reba McIntyre song played on the jukebox. Hunter sat with Russell Kupka in the shadows. The detective's hands kept moving, scratching his unshaven cheek, adjusting the strap of his watch, pushing his sunglasses up on his nose. "What if your suspect doesn't show?"

  Hunter shrugged. The man was only five minutes late, hardly long enough to be a concern. His biggest worry was that he and Russell might be recognized. He pulled the ball cap lower over his face.

  Russell put his hand up to straighten his hair, probably remembered that he was supposed to look scruffy, and scratched his scalp instead. "The local cops can't wait around all day."

  Hunter glanced at the two plain-clothes policemen from Ferndale, Washington. This was their jurisdiction. They had ordered two beers as part of their cover, and were sharing a plate of nachos. It was a warm day, so they were wearing shorts and tee shirts. "They'll be fine," he said to Russell. "I don't think Ferndale is a high crime town."

  Russell spent the next few minutes watching Pat Stevens, dressed as her "Ruby" alias in low slung white jeans, a crimson silk sleeveless blouse top tied short just below her breasts, floppy straw hat and designer shades. "She's nervous," he said, and sniffed. "That's her second cigarette already. You sure it was a good solid ID?"

  Hunter had given the LA detective the best vantage point, so he himself could only see Pat's left elbow from where he sat, but he suspected she wasn't half as restless as Russell was. "She picked him out of the photo line up you put together, no hesitation. She knows what she's got to do. She's told him she has a tape Greg made of his transaction with Brantford. If he was scared enough to kill Greg, Pat knows he'll think about getting her out of the way, too. She'll make it work." He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "She's doing us a big favor, putting herself at risk like this. We'd better not let her down, chief."

  "Don't lay that on me, Rayne. This was all your idea. I still don't know why I went along with it, letting a civilian plan a sting." He scowled into his drink, then stretched his shoulders. "So when I've heard enough, I'll stand up, and they'll make the arrest. I hope they're on the ball." The detective glanced at the Ferndale officers as he adjusted the earpiece that would pick up the signals from the wire inside Pat's blouse. The conversation would also be recorded. "I hate this waiting."

  "Haven't done many stakeouts, have you?" Hunter said drily.

  Russell glowered briefly, then started playing with a coaster, spinning it like a top. "Don't look now, but here he is."

  The man walked into the smoky gloom of the tavern, scanning the tables. He wore a cowboy hat and sunglasses, just as eager to hide his identity as the rest of them, but Hunter had no trouble recognizing Inspector Tom Donohue of U.S. Customs and Immigration. Hunter lowered his head, obscuring his own vision with the peak of his cap, and pretended to be digging in his jeans pocket for change. Russell turned his face toward Hunter and said, "So... how's the wife and kids, Norm? You going to be able to stay for another brewski? Your treat." He took a sip of beer, whispered, "He didn't make us. He's sitting down. Shhhh."

  Hunter smiled. He had no intention of saying anything.

  Russell listened intently to what was coming through his earpiece. He kept his head turned toward the trucker beside him, but trained his eyes on the couple across the room, trusting that his sunglasses would mask the direction of his gaze. "So," he heard Donohue say, slipping into a chair across the table from Pat, a.k.a. Ruby. Ruby the call girl. Ruby the high class hooker. Pat, the woman who'd been haunting the corners of Russell's mind since the night he'd made love to her. "You've got something for me, I believe."

  "You must want it real bad," said Pat. She had tucked her waterfall of hair up under the wide brimmed hat, and wore the big sunglasses in an attempt to keep Donohue from recognizing her. She hadn't been sure whether or not he had ever seen her working at the Blackburn. They hoped he'd take her as the call girl he'd heard about at the time of the transaction with Colin Brantford, and nothing more. Russell found himself recalling the smell of her hair. The hair of a hooker.

  "If you say so. I haven't heard the tape, so I don't know. Do I?"

  "Cut the crap, cowboy. I was there the night Greg made the tape. I saw it all go down from inside of Colin's Mercedes. I saw Greg and Colin get into your car, the Washington plates. A Ford, isn't it? White. So, tape or no tape, I know exactly what went down, and the kind of damage it can do to your... uh... career." There was an audible intake of breath as she took a quick drag on her cigarette. "Tell me, how did Greg find out where you worked?"

  "How did you?"

  "Like I said, I was Greg's partner. How did he find out? He never told me."

  "Greg didn’t know. How did you?"

  " How much did he want from you? Five thousand? Ten thousand?"

  "You say you're his partner. You know so much, you tell me."

  "I forget, Inspector Donohue."

  Donohue scowled and looked around quickly. "No names, bitch."

  "You can call me Ruby." She took a leisurely drag, blew the smoke toward the wall. "Since you don't want to name a figure, I will. Let's say Greg asked you for ten thousand. Okay with you?"

  "What's your point?"

  "Well, I figure now it's worth much more than that. About four times more."

  "What?!"

  "I know what else you did," she said.

  "You know what's on the tape."

  "No. Read my lips. I know what else you did," she repeated. "You lucked out, cowboy. You were in the right place at the right time. Or let's say, Sharon and her husband were in the wrong place at the wrong time. You almost got away with it, didn't you? If it wasn't for me, no one would ever put it together, would they?" It occurred to Russell how she might have been right. If it hadn't been for that damned trucker's persistence in poking around, trying to prove his buddy innocent, none of them, himself included, might ever have looked beyond Ray and Sharon Nillson. Even now, he had his doubts about Rayne's theory, and didn't care to think of the consequences if they were wrong.

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "You put Greg in that trailer because those poor dumb truckers were there to take the fall."

  "You're crazy."

  "You killed him. I know you killed him." Cool and self-assured. She was good. Russell felt an absurd surge of pride, as if she were his to be proud of. He had to remind himself she was just a hooker.

  "Yeah, sure. I didn't kill anybody, but if you think I did, then prove it."

  Watching Donohue's face, listening to the tension in his voice, for the first time Russell began to think Rayne could be right.

  "I can't prove it, but I'm sure once the police know what to look for, they'll find enough evidence to put you away." Russell felt the bulge of the search warrant in the rear pocket of his jeans. Would the paint on Donohue's mountain bike match the paint on the rim of Williams'
trunk? Would the brown hairs found on the driver’s side headrest match Donohue's? Would they find something more?

  "Fuck you."

  "No, pay me. It's that easy, cowboy." Pat shifted her position, leaning back, and the mike picked up the rustle of fabric.

  Donohue didn't answer. He just sat ramrod stiff and glared at her. Russell shook his head. "He's not giving us dick," he whispered to Hunter. "Sweet fuck all." He turned his head toward Donohue and caught Donohue staring at him. His heart lurched and he cursed silently, turned away again and started babbling to the trucker the first nonsense that came into his head. "You ever slept with a professional, buddy? Purely as a business transaction, of course. Like, barter, you know? I'll fix your toilet if you lay my carpet, you know what I mean?" What if Donohue wasn't guilty, but he figured out what was going on and made a complaint? Would there be official repercussions? Russell's stomach tightened with dread at the thought.

  Hunter Rayne glanced sideways at him, concern showing on his face for the first time. "What's wrong?" the trucker asked.

  "He might've made us," whispered Russell, unable to hide the resentment that was building in his gut toward Rayne. "He's clammed up. I told you it was too much of a risk to use an amateur in this sort of operation. At the very least we should've sprung for a two way." Not for the first time this afternoon, Russell cursed himself for letting this happen. It would turn out to be a waste of time and money, and he would look like a total fool.

  "You think he wouldn't notice? A teleprompter would've been nice."

  "Shhh..."

  Pat a.k.a Ruby was still trying. "Look. You must make a good ten grand every time you bring some of that fluffy white stuff across the border. Put it down to the cost of doing business. You give me a couple weeks worth of your profits, I go away. I'll move to Montreal, forget I ever saw you. You can wake up every morning without wondering if this is the day you're going to get busted, the day you're going to lose your job and your wife and your free..."

  Donohue leaned across the table. "You want to know where that money goes?” Russell could tell from the way the trucker’s eyes shifted that he could hear Donohue’s raised voice himself, even without a wire. “It goes to doctors, it goes to hospitals, it goes to therapists, and I need every penny of it."

  Russell sensed Pat's hesitation, but she continued. "You look pretty healthy to me, cowboy."

  "It's not for me. It's for my son. He's only five, and he..."

  "Whoa, there. Stop. I don't want to hear about your son. He's your problem, not mine." She sounded shaken. "Just do a couple extra deliveries, pay me off and I'll be out of your life."

  "He needs..."

  "Shut up! I said I don't want to hear about it."

  Donohue's back stiffened and he clenched his jaw. "You heartless bitch. You're playing with fire."

  She laughed. Russell could tell it was forced, that she had become uncomfortable with her role. "What're you going to do? Kill me right here?"

  Donohue said nothing, but his breathing became faster, uneven. His lips were clenched so tight they turned white at the edges. Russell sucked in his breath. Guilty or not, Pat was starting to get to Donohue.

  "Well?" Pat repeated.

  "Give me the tape." Donohue's voice shook. What Russell could see of Donohue's right arm was moving, as if he were reaching for something in his pocket, or tucked in his waistband. Russell snuck his own hand inside his jacket, inching up toward his shoulder holster. He heard the trucker beside him whisper, "Shit."

  "Forget it," Pat was saying, blowing smoke across the table.

  At the same split second that Donohue stood up, knocking over his chair, Russell leapt from behind the table, his gun drawn. "Freeze!" he yelled. The two Ferndale cops scrambled to their feet and went for their weapons.

  Too late. Donohue had reached across the table and grabbed Pat's throat. As she opened her mouth to scream, he thrust the barrel of his .38 between her jaws. "Back off!" he shouted in Russell's direction. "Back off and let me out of here, or I'll blow the back of her head off." Russell stood there, frozen, his gun still aimed at Donohue's chest. "BACK OFF!" Donohue jerked Pat's head around and her hat fell to the table. He grabbed a handful of her hair.

  "Russell. Put your gun down." It sounded like his father's voice, calm and soft as velvet, but it was the voice of Hunter Rayne. Russell could only think of what a sticky mess Pat's hair would be if Donohue pulled the trigger, matted with blood and bone. He lowered his gun.

  "Don't anybody follow us," said Donohue. He wrapped Pat's hair around his fist and yanked her toward him. Her sunglasses fell and were crushed under her knee as she scrambled across the tabletop, gagging on the gun. Her eyes were wide with fear.

  "I see anybody walk out this door in the next five minutes, and she's dead. You understand?" He was speaking directly to Russell. "DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" He had the gun at Pat's throat now, his left arm clamped around her ribcage as he dragged her backwards toward the door.

  Pat's eyes were on Russell, a silent plea for help. They bored like a laser into his brain and he thought his head would explode if he didn't chase that bastard and grind him into the dirt. He opened his mouth, drawing a breath to shout, "NO!", ready to run, but...

  "Say yes." That calm voice in Russell's ear again, like water on the flame of his panic. Someone thinking for him when his own mind had shut down.

  Russell slowly let out his breath. "Yes," he said, nodding. "Yes. I understand." Inside his head he began to pray for the first time in a decade. Please, God, don't let him hurt her. Please, God, get us out of this mess. Please, God, show me the way.

  "This way." Hunter moved off toward the rear exit, but the detective didn't follow. Instead, he started toward the front door. One of the Ferndale men blocked his way. "Russell," said Hunter, raising his voice. "You heard what he said. Come with me. Now."

  Russell and the two plainclothes officers followed Hunter through the rear door, which opened up behind a dumpster in the rear of the parking lot. Hunter held up his hand for the others to halt while he peered around the dumpster. As he had hoped, Donohue had taken Pat to his own vehicle, a white Ford Taurus. The man wasn't about to hijack someone else's car. Donohue wasn't a professional criminal, a fact that made him less predictable and possibly more dangerous, because he was acting out of desperation.

  Donohue paused awkwardly beside the driver's door. Hunter could almost see him thinking. How would he get Pat into the car without taking the gun off of her? How could he get out of here with his hostage? He was tentative and uncertain, tried to mask it by being rough. He maneuvered her around to the passenger side, made her stand with her hands on the roof of the car while he got out his keys and opened the door, then had her get in, sliding across to the driver's seat while he sat next to her with the gun pressed against her neck. His lips moved.

  "What's he saying?" Hunter asked Russell, who was cupping his ear to keep the noise of traffic from drowning out the transmissions from Pat's wire.

  "He's apologizing. The stupid fuck is apologizing."

  Hunter nodded. Donohue's panic had already subsided a good deal, and it might be possible to reason with him. "Stay here," he said.

  "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Russell grabbed Hunter by the arm and spun him around.

  "I got her into this, I'm going to do my damnedest to get her out of it. You're not responsible. Stay here," Hunter repeated and walked out from behind the dumpster, casual and slow, as if he were strolling on the beach. He threw off his cap and tucked his sunglasses in his shirt pocket, then put both hands, fingers locked together, on the top of his head. Just as Pat turned the Ford into the exit lane, Hunter came out from behind a minivan and stepped in front of it. The car lurched to a stop. He shot a reassuring smile at Pat, nodded to Donohue. "Hello, chief," he said. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

  "Get the fuck out of the way!" yelled Donohue.

  Hunter kept his voice low. "Give me two minutes. Then I'll step out of your way and y
ou're free to go. Just two minutes. I'm not armed." He lifted his hands clear of his head to show they were empty. "I'm not even a police officer. I have no intention of keeping you here against your will, nor the authority to do so."

  "Are you crazy?"

  "Maybe." He smiled, putting his hands back on top of his head.

  Donohue's jaw worked, and he scowled. "One minute. If this is a trick, she's dead." His gun pressed into Pat's throat. "So talk."

  Hunter spoke, slow and even. "If you run, Tom, they will find you. Think about it. Where are you going to go that they won't find you? If you're able to elude the police, as a fugitive you'll never be able to see your wife and child. They'll suffer for you. They'll go through hell not knowing where you are and when your ordeal will end. And it will end. Badly. You know it will. You know the law. The worst thing you can do now is run."

  "I've got no choice."

  "Yes. You have a choice. Just like you had a choice when you sold the drugs. Just like you had a choice when you put Greg Williams in that trailer. You're a smart man. You knew the risk, and you made the choice to take it. From what I understand, you had good reason to. Well, you've gambled and you've lost. The game is over. You can't avoid paying a penalty for what you've done, but you can minimize your losses."

  Donohue swung his head from side to side. "Fuck," he said. "Goddamn it. Fuck."

  "You don't want to hurt anyone, Tom. You're a good man who has made a tragic mistake. Don't make it worse for yourself and your family. Slow down and think about it. You'll know what to do."