Death Benefits: A Novel

by Thomas Perry

  But since the day when Stillman had arrived, everything seemed to happen too quickly; events came at him like punches. Looking at things in retrospect was not a good way to decide whether to duck, run, or hold your ground. It was a good way to figure out how you came to be lying on your back, gazing up at the sky in queasy regret.

  24

  The plane came in over Logan International at sunrise, so its circling to take its turn at the runway kept bringing the sun into Walker’s eyes. He said, “Want me to rent the car this time?”

  “I think we’d better wait on that,” Stillman answered. “A place that small, I’d like to try to sneak up on it.”

  Stillman’s description was accurate. They took a cab from Boston to Lowell, then a second cab across the New Hampshire border into Nashua, where Stillman had them dropped off at a car-rental agency beside an enormous shopping center. He rented a black Ford Explorer. He took a second look at the rental papers and said, “Pretty good. There’s no sales tax here.”

  As they put their suitcases in the back, Stillman looked at his watch. “I’ve got to do some shopping. Let’s drive over to that mall.”

  From then on, Walker seemed to spend most of his time going in and out of the mall entrance. Every time he returned from stowing Stillman’s purchases in the back of the Explorer, Stillman had another load for him. Once he found Stillman in an electronics store, and later at a bookstore, then at a luggage store. Finally, he returned to find him at a large food court strolling from counter to counter surveying the menus.

  They bought food and carried it on trays to a quiet table. Walker said, “I can see why the sales tax would be an issue for you.”

  Stillman smiled. “I’m just trying to make our stay in New Hampshire a safe and happy one, as my new guidebook says.”

  “So far it hasn’t been bad,” said Walker. “Kind of a roundabout way to get there, though.”

  “I suspect the number of men who come to a rural area on vacation wearing three-thousand-dollar suits is pitifully small. We’ve got to be reasonably inconspicuous. I also suspect that a car with New Hampshire plates draws a little less attention than one with out-of-state plates. The tinted windows might help keep our faces from becoming too familiar. And I picked up a few things that are easier to get here than in a small town.”

  “How much more do you have to do?”

  “That’s it. Now we eat. By the time we’re done, people on the West Coast should be up and at their desks.”

  When they had eaten, they split up again to find pay telephones. Walker’s was in a hallway that led to rest rooms. One of the phones was being used by a young woman in a paper cap and a maroon shirt that was the uniform of the Mexican-food stand where he had bought his lunch. She was talking in dramatically inflected Spanish, and it sounded to him as though she was giving a disparaging assessment of whoever was on the other end of the line.

  He moved in beside her, picked up the unused telephone, and dialed Gochay’s number.

  “Yeah?” He would have been relieved that it was Serena’s voice once again, but the tone was cold.

  “It’s me again,” said Walker. “Right now I’m thinking about that little spot right in front of your ear, where the skin is unbelievably smooth and white. I wish I could put my lips there and tell you a secret.”

  The girl beside him spun her head, gave him an approving smile, then raised her free hand in a thumbs-up sign. Walker returned the smile uneasily and she turned away to continue her own conversation.

  Serena said skeptically, “Did somebody tell you to say that?”

  “Of course not. Who would tell me that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you read it in one of those magazines they give you on airplanes.”

  “No,” he said. “This time it was about places I can’t afford to go, and diseases I hope I don’t have. I spent most of the time trying to figure out why I don’t understand you.”

  “Who do you think you understand?” The question made Walker lapse into silence for a moment, but she was already on to another subject. “You were in the Miami papers again.”

  “Did it say whether the police had found out who those two guys were?”

  “If they know, they aren’t saying. I’ll see what I can find out about that too,” she said. “You’re on a pay phone again, aren’t you? My caller ID doesn’t say anything. Are you in New Hampshire yet?”

  “I’m in Nashua, in a mall. We’ll be leaving for Keene when I hang up.”

  “I checked it out for you.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Sure. The state amphibian is the spotted newt. The state motto is ‘Live free or die,’ and the song is ‘Old New Hampshire.’ I’d hum a few bars, but I’ve never heard it.”

  “I guess that’s all I need to know.”

  “Keene has only twenty-two thousand people, but that makes it the largest city in that part of the state, so it’s where people in the villages around there shop.”

  “Villages? We’re talking villages?”

  “They’re all little places with a few hundred people. Think of a place that used to have a textile mill that closed fifty years ago. Now it’s dairy cows and tourists. Figure a church with a steeple, the old mill, covered bridges, and a lot of antique shops. Tell Stillman not to shop around for hospitals. There’s only one.”

  “He’ll like that.”

  “He should. Go back to him and get this over with. Let me know where you are.” The line went dead. He put the receiver back in its cradle and walked back along the mall.

  He saw Stillman drinking a cup of coffee near the exit to the parking lot. He was staring out at the soft gray light beyond, apparently lost in thought. But when Walker was still a hundred feet away, Stillman stepped outside and walked toward the Explorer, paying attention to keeping his cup level.

  When Walker caught up with him, Stillman handed him the car keys. “Do you mind driving?”

  “No.” Walker took the keys and climbed in, then watched Stillman step in beside him, guarding his coffee.

  Stillman held out his cup. “Want a sip? I figured one of us had to drive, so I only got one.”

  “No, thanks. Where am I going?”

  “North on 3, west on 101 to Keene. It’s sixty-two miles.”

  Walker drove out on the highway, then began to watch for signs. When he had found 101 and was up to speed, he said, “Did you find out anything on the phone?”

  “Our two unnamed assailants are still unnamed. Their photographs haven’t rung any bells, their prints aren’t on file anyplace, their guns were stolen from a store in California a couple of years ago. The FBI told Rex McClaren they’re doing a lot of lab work.”

  “What kind of lab work?”

  “Beats me,” Stillman said. “They don’t mind wasting money, but they don’t seem to think they are. Rex got the impression that their interest was piqued by something they found that they’re not talking about.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think that’s what Rex wishes. Probably it’s just that they’re wondering why they don’t already have fingerprints for two guys like that. You can’t blame Rex for wishful thinking, though. He’s aware that he has some responsibility to protect the people who work for him, but he’s not sure how to go about it.” Stillman fell into silence and sipped his coffee.

  Walker drove to Keene past New England towns like the ones Serena had described: Wilton, West Wilton, Peterborough, West Peterborough, Dublin, Marlborough. Keene was the same sort of place, but bigger and livelier. Main Street was wide and pleasant, and led up to a circle with a town hall and an eighteenth-century church with a tall steeple. Here and there along the street were buildings that had probably been here since the Revolution, but as the numbers grew higher, the buildings seemed more modern and functional. There were restaurants, stores, a movie theater.

  They drove around for ten minutes, looking. Finally, Stillman said, “Well? What do you think of it?”

&nb
sp; “It’s not all that different from little towns in Ohio,” said Walker. “A lot older, I guess. But the people don’t seem any different. It doesn’t look like the sort of place where either of those guys in Florida would choose to live.”

  “True,” said Stillman. “But does it look like a place you’d drive to from New York or Boston to get your optical work done?”

  25

  At one o’clock they registered at a Days Inn, and Walker began to unload the bags of purchases Stillman had made in Nashua and carry them into Stillman’s room. Stillman was busy. Walker saw him open a box and take out a new video camera, remove the battery, put it into the charging unit and plug it in, then move to the next shopping bag.

  Walker carried his suitcase into his own room, then returned to the Explorer. He carried Stillman’s suitcase in and lifted it to Stillman’s bed. “What’s in here, anyway?” he asked. “Did you buy a set of weights?”

  “Just some electronic gear I bring along sometimes on this kind of case.”

  “What kind of electronic gear?”

  Stillman answered out of his distraction. “Tape recorder, voiceactuated. Listening equipment. Nightscope, an old scanner, that kind of thing.”

  “Old?”

  “Yeah, pre-1994.”

  “Is that when everything went to hell in the electronics industry?”

  “No. That’s when it got to be illegal to manufacture them to tune to eight hundred megahertz. That’s the frequency of cellular phones.”

  “You bought a video camera too?”

  Stillman stopped perusing the instruction booklet and held up the little camera. “Nice, isn’t it?” It was barely larger than the clenched hands that held it, and had a small screen on the back.

  “What’s it for?”

  Stillman set it aside. “When you’re my age, your memory goes.”

  “What now?”

  “Go through those bags and take out the clothes that are your size. Pick out something to wear that looks like what the people we saw on the street are wearing.” He reached into his suitcase and took out the dead man’s sunglasses. “While you’re at it, spend some time looking closely at these glasses. Memorize everything about them.”

  It was just after three when Stillman knocked on Walker’s door. He was wearing a pair of jeans, a short-sleeved summer shirt, and a pair of Mephisto walking shoes. He was carrying a leather bag that was just a bit too small and thick to be a briefcase. Walker appraised him. “You look like a bank president on a trout-fishing trip.”

  Stillman raised his eyebrow and moved in past him. “Then we’ll be very convincing.”

  “Who are we convincing?”

  “Whoever is at Foley Optical. You ready?”

  “I guess so.” They stepped outside, and Walker began to move toward the parking lot.

  “Leave the car,” said Stillman, and began to walk toward Main Street. “When you want to be easy to find later, the best thing you can bring is a car. We don’t.”

  “Since you always lose the damned things, it’s probably just as well. What else do I need to know?”

  Stillman said, “We’re going into the store. You are the customer. Your name is David Holler. You live in Los Angeles, but you’re on vacation. You forgot your sunglasses. Now, think back on what you saw when you were looking at the dead guy’s sunglasses.”

  “Okay, I’m thinking.”

  “Order a pair just like them.”

  “I thought people don’t order them on vacations. Besides, I don’t need a prescription. My eyes are perfect.”

  “That’s why you’re the customer,” he said as he reached into his pocket. “Pay for them with this.” He held out a shiny plastic card.

  Walker took it, glanced at it, and saw the name and the Visa logo. “A fake credit card? I know this is your field, not mine, but why do something illegal when you don’t have to—for practice?”

  “It’s not a fake credit card,” Stillman said patiently. “It’s a real credit card. The bills go to a real address, and my accountant pays them on time. David Holler has been a treasured employee of Stillman Associates for upwards of ten years. He just doesn’t happen to have a literal, biological existence. I use him now and then.” He reached into his pocket again and held out another piece of plastic.

  Walker accepted it with dread. When he looked at it, he put it away even more quickly. “A driver’s license?”

  “That’s not legal either, in case you were wondering. All I can say for it is that it’s not evil. Nobody’s screwing Mr. Foley’s optical store.”

  “How did you even get my picture?”

  “From your personnel file. I figured we might need it.”

  Walker said wearily, “Who signed for our hotel room and rented the car?”

  Stillman smiled. “Me: Bill Taylor.” Then he turned serious. “It’s important that you pay with the credit card. I want to see what he does with it when you do.”

  “Okay,” said Walker.

  They approached Foley Optical, and Stillman said, “Don’t worry about this, and don’t pay any attention to what I’m doing. Just buy yourself the right kind of sunglasses, and we’ll get what we want.”

  They went inside, and Walker looked around. It seemed to be like every optician’s that he had ever seen. There were frames of all shapes and sizes on special racks attached to the walls, and every inch that wasn’t occupied by frames was a mirror. There was a low counter along the right side of the shop with seats in front of it, and the wall behind it was another big mirror. At the rear was a higher counter with a cash register and a computer, and beside that was a doorway into what seemed to be a small workshop. A tall man in late middle age with a bald head and hands that looked abnormally soft and clean came through the workshop door and smiled. “Hello. Can I help you?”

  Walker said, “Yes, please. I’d like to pick out some sunglasses.”

  “Do you have a prescription?”

  “No,” said Walker. “I have twenty-twenty vision.”

  “You’re lucky,” the man said. “Even at your age, that’s not as common as you’d think.”

  “I know,” said Walker. “What I’d like is a good, sturdy set of frames. Metal with a gold tone.”

  “And the lenses?”

  “Dark green, but really dark, so when you look at them from the front they look almost black.”

  “Let me get some frames and sample lenses to start narrowing things down.” Mr. Foley sat at his seat behind the counter where he fitted glasses and reached up under the surface, then came back with a set of keys on a big brass ring. He used one to open the lock on the case.

  Walker went through the surprisingly long and complex process of making choices. Each decision he made was based on the pair of glasses he had found in the dead man’s pocket. When he had finally found the right shade of lens and the right frames, he said, “Perfect.” He saw Stillman give a slight nod.

  Mr. Foley was walking back toward the workshop. “Let me see, though. I’m not sure if I have this size in a plain tinted lens right now.”

  Walker looked toward Stillman, but Stillman ignored him. He had opened his leather bag, and was fiddling inside. Walker saw the distinctive titanium gleam of the new video camera. Stillman moved the bag about an inch, aiming it at the mirror behind the counter, then closed and zipped it.

  Foley returned. “I’m sorry to say I don’t have it. Are you gentlemen from the area?”

  “No,” said Walker. “California. We’re here on vacation, and I forgot my sunglasses.”

  “If you’re going to be here for a day or two, I can get the lens from my supplier as early as tomorrow morning,” said Foley. “I could have them in for you by this time in the afternoon.”

  “How much are they?” asked Walker.

  “One ninety-five for the frames. The lenses will be another fifty-five. Two fifty total.” He looked apologetic. “But at least there’s no sales tax here.”

  “I guess I’ll take them,” sa
id Walker. “I can wait a day.” He felt a certain vindication of his lifelong habit of buying cheap sunglasses.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask for a deposit. Would half be okay?”

  “Do you take credit cards?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then you might as well charge it all now. It’s easier to keep my records straight.” Walker took out the David Holler credit card and rested his thumb on the fake driver’s license, but Mr. Foley didn’t ask for it, so he didn’t offer. Foley typed some numbers on his cash register, swiped the card on a magnetic reader, then waited for a few seconds while Walker held his breath. The tape printer began to type, scrolling out a receipt. He tore it off, plucked the pen out of his breast pocket and handed it to Walker, then watched him sign.

  Next he said, “Don’t leave yet. I have to take a couple of measurements before you go.” He ushered Walker to one of the seats at the counter and sat across from him. He put the frames on Walker’s nose, held a small ruler across the top of them, made some notes on a pad, measured the distance to the top of Walker’s ear, fiddled with the frames a little, then said, “Good. One more moment.”

  He went to the computer keyboard behind the counter, and Walker could hear keys clacking. “Name . . . David Holler . . . local address?”

  “The Days Inn over on Key Road.”

  “Would you know the number there?”

  “Sorry, I—”

  “It’s okay. I’ll only need to reach you if my supplier doesn’t have what we need or something, and if that happens, I’ll look it up. Home address?”

  Walker surreptitiously tipped his wallet under the counter so he could read his driver’s license. He lived in Los Angeles.

  “Phone?”

  Walker made one up.

  “Thanks,” said Foley as he finished typing. “I don’t know if we’ll need any of that, but there’s a two-year warranty on the glasses. If you break them, we’ll replace them, no questions asked.”

  “Thanks,” said Walker.

  “I’ll call this in to my supplier now, and see you tomorrow.”

  Walker looked up and saw Stillman’s reflection in the mirror. Stillman’s reflection gave a small nod. Walker said, “Good-bye.”