Out Cold

by William G. Tapply

  “Coyne,” said Nick into the telephone. “Brady Coyne. Right.” She spelled it, listened for a moment, then looked up at the ceiling and smiled. “Oh, yeah. More comin’, too, they’re saying. Hey, what the hell, it’s winter in Siberia, you know?”

  She hung up, put the phone back under the bar, and said, “You’re all set. It sure isn’t fancy, but it’s pretty comfortable. They got satellite TV and a little coffeemaker in every room. Joanne says if you don’t get there by seven the key’ll be under the mat in front of unit four.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I said. “They didn’t want my credit card or anything?”

  Nick shrugged. “Around here we assume people are honest until they prove otherwise. You can pay up in the morning. So where’re you headed?”

  “Here, actually. Churchill.”

  She smiled. “That’s pretty funny.” She turned to the guy who was sitting beside me. “You hear that, Jerry?”

  He looked at her. “Hear what?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Never mind.” She picked up Jerry’s empty beer bottle. “Ready for another?”

  Jerry nodded, and the guy beside him said he needed another beer, too.

  Nick fetched two bottles of Budweiser from the ice chest, snapped off the caps, and put them in front of the two men. Then she came back to where I was sitting. She braced her elbows on the bar, put her chin in her hands, and looked at me. “So seriously,” she said. “You on some kind of secret mission or something, you can’t tell me where you’re really going?”

  “I told you,” I said. “I have arrived at my destination.”

  “Churchill, huh?”

  I nodded.

  “Churchill is nobody’s destination,” she said. “Even those of us who ended up here didn’t do it on purpose.”

  “I’m here on purpose.”

  She smiled. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t even want to ask.”

  “You can ask.” I said. “I’m looking for somebody. Man named McKibben. Dr. Judson McKibben.”

  Nick narrowed her eyes at me for a quick moment, then shrugged. “How’s your coffee?”

  “You can top it off,” I said.

  She picked up the coffeepot, filled my mug, then wandered down to the other end of the bar.

  I leaned toward the red-bearded man named Jerry on the stool next to me. “What about you?” I said to him.

  He turned. “What about me?”

  “Do you know Dr. Judson McKibben?”

  He shook his head and looked back up at the television.

  “Does that mean you don’t know him,” I said, “or that you don’t want to talk to me?”

  With his eyes still on the TV, he said, “I got money on this basketball game.”

  “So what about McKibben?”

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “I’m just trying to enjoy my beer and watch my game, okay? I don’t want to talk to nobody. I just wanna relax, because pretty soon I’m gonna have to go home and have supper with my wife, and it’s for damn sure that I’ll have to talk to her, and then I won’t be all that relaxed.”

  “I’m sorry I bothered you,” I said.

  Jerry shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Nick wandered back to my end of the bar. “Hey, Boston. You ready for something to eat?”

  I glanced at my watch. It was a few minutes before six. “Good idea,” I said. “Let’s see your menu.”

  She shook her head. “No menu. Most folks who come here to eat know what we got and what they like. What do you like?”

  “What do you recommend?”

  She smiled. “This isn’t exactly your Boston gourmet dining experience, you know. This is just your basic roadside café out here in the sticks. We got chicken and pork chops and steaks. Ribeyes and New York sirloin. You pick your meat, we can fry it or bake it or broil it, rare, medium, or well. Nice big salad, choice of dressings. Peas or carrots or green beans depending on what night it is. Beans tonight, I think. Fries or mashed. Or pasta or rice, if you prefer. Or we can make you a sandwich.”

  “A ribeye sounds good,” I said. “Medium rare. Fries, Russian dressing on the salad.”

  She shrugged. “You got it. I’d grab a booth if I were you. Sometimes it gets pretty cramped and rowdy at the bar on a Saturday night.”

  “Nick,” I said, “you didn’t answer my question about Dr. Judson McKibben.”

  “You didn’t ask any question that I remember,” she said. “You said you were looking for him, and that doesn’t matter to me one way or another.”

  “So would you know how I might find him, then?”

  She looked at me, and at that moment somebody from the other end of the bar yelled, “Hey, Nick. We’re gettin’ dry down here.”

  She touched my arm and said, “Catch you later,” and she went to take care of them.

  I picked up my coffee and took it to one of the booths against the wall. A couple of minutes later a slender dark-haired girl came over and put a paper placemat and some silverware wrapped in a napkin in front of me and filled a glass with water. She was wearing a long-sleeved yellow jersey and tight black jeans tucked into cowboy boots. She looked about fifteen.

  “You ordered the ribeye, right?” she said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Ready for some more coffee?”

  “I’m all set for now,” I said. “Are you Nick’s daughter?”

  She smiled. “You think I look like her?”

  I held up both hands. “That’s a trick question, and I refuse to answer it. She mentioned that she had a daughter, that’s all.”

  “I wouldn’t be insulted if you said I looked like her,” she said. “I think she’s gorgeous, don’t you?”

  “She’s very attractive,” I said. “You both are.”

  “Hey, thanks. You were right. Nick’s my mom. Most people don’t see it because she’s blond and I’m a brunette, you know? I’m Gaby. Gabrielle. I help out on weekends. She won’t let me work during the week. She says my full-time job is school. Let me go see about your salad. I’ll bring you some bread, too.” And before I could open my mouth, she was gone.

  I went into the men’s room to wash my hands. When I came back, a man was sitting in my booth. It was the big guy with the bald head and the bushy mustache who’d been playing pool.

  He was holding a can of Coke. His big hand went all the way around the can.

  I slid in across from him. “How you doing?” I said.

  He nodded. “I’m good. Name’s Harrigan. Nate Harrigan.” He held out his hand.

  I reached across the booth and shook it. “Brady Coyne,” I said.

  “Haven’t seen you in here before.”

  “Nope,” I said. “First time. Nice place.”

  “On your way through,” he said, “or staying for a while?”

  “Staying overnight.”

  “You got business here in Churchill?”

  “Actually,” I said, “I’m looking for somebody, and—”

  “Dr. McKibben, huh?”

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  “So you got business with the doctor?”

  I shrugged. “You could say that.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “It’s personal.”

  “Between you and him, huh?”

  “That’s right. That’s pretty much what personal means.”

  He stared at me for a moment. “So, you and him old friends or something?”

  “Not exactly. We have mutual acquaintances.”

  “Mutual acquaintances,” he said. “You said you were looking for him?”

  I nodded.

  “Meaning you don’t know where he is.”

  “That’s right. I don’t. I hoped I’d find him here in Churchill. I know he’s from here, and I know he owns property here. Assuming he’s here now, I figured I’d give him a call, set up an appointment, transact our business.”

  “I doubt if he’d appreciate that,” sa
id Nate Harrigan.

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “Dr. McKibben likes his privacy, that’s all.” Harrigan’s mustache was so bushy that you couldn’t see his mouth move when he spoke. “He likes to be left alone, and we here in Churchill, we all respect that.”

  “You’re telling me I should leave him alone.”

  Harrigan smiled and nodded. “That’s it.”

  “Why does he want to be left alone?” I said. “Is it because of his daughter?”

  “You’re pretty nosy, aren’t you?”

  “I just want to talk with McKibben. What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal is simple. He doesn’t want to talk to you. He likes his privacy.”

  “And you’re—what? His guardian?”

  Harrigan nodded. “You might say that.” He reached into his hip pocket, took out a leather wallet, flipped it open, and showed it to me. It held a badge.

  “You’re a cop?”

  “Chief of police,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let me tell you why I want to talk to Dr. McKibben.” I took out the photo of Dana Wetherbee that Shirley Arsenault had given me and slid it across the table to him.

  He looked at it, shrugged, then arched his eyebrows at me. “Who’s this?”

  “Her name is Dana Wetherbee. She was here in Churchill last month.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes,” I said. “She mailed her brother a Christmas card. It was postmarked from Churchill.”

  “I don’t recognize her,” said Harrigan. “Anyway, what’s this got to do with Dr. McKibben?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe nothing. His name came up, that’s all. I’d just like to ask him about her. Take another look at that photo. She was just a young girl. Sixteen. Now she’s dead. She had a miscarriage and died in the snow in my backyard in Boston a week ago Tuesday.”

  “She’s dead?”

  “Yes.”

  Harrigan touched the photo with his fingertip. “Jesus,” he muttered. “In your backyard?”

  I nodded. “My dog found her. She was covered with snow. I carried her inside, laid her on my sofa, put a blanket over her, called 911. But it was too late. It’s not clear whether she bled to death or froze to death. I feel kind of responsible.”

  Harrigan looked up at me. “That’s a rough one, all right.”

  “Yes, it certainly is,” I said. “Very rough. And since then, two other women have died. Murdered, actually. They seem to be connected to Dana.” I tapped the photo. “So now maybe you can understand why I’m so anxious to get ahold of Dr. McKibben. All I need is his phone number or an address.”

  Nate Harrigan pushed the photo across the table to me. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t see what good it would do. All it would accomplish would be upsetting Dr. McKibben. I’m pretty sure talking to some stranger from Boston about the death of another pretty young girl wouldn’t make him very happy, and next thing you know, the chief of police who let it happen finds himself back where he started, driving a fork lift at Sullivan’s lumberyard.”

  I took the printout of the Ursula Laboratories logo that Gordie had given me. “Do you recognize this?”

  He looked at it and shrugged. “Sure.”

  “You do?”

  “Dr. McKibben’s old business. That was his logo. He sold the company three or four years ago.”

  “I saw a truck with this logo on it in Boston a week ago,” I said.

  “So?”

  “I don’t know. There’s a connection, but I don’t know what it is. That’s why I want to talk to Dr. McKibben.”

  “I’m telling you,” he said, “just leave it lay.”

  “I was hoping, in the interest of truth and justice, you’d want to help me here.”

  “All I want,” he said, “is for you to leave Dr. McKibben in peace.”

  I shrugged. “I guess I’ll have to find another way, then. When I talk to him, I’ll be sure he knows that you did your best to keep me away.”

  “I guess you don’t get it.” Harrigan leaned across the table. “Let me put it this way. Stay away from Dr. McKibben. How’s that? Clear enough? Get it?”

  “I get it,” I said.

  “Good.” He put his hands on the table and pushed himself into a standing position. “So we understand each other?”

  “I understand you,” I said. “But I don’t think you understand me.”

  “No? How’s that?”

  “I don’t do well with threats.”

  “I don’t remember threatening you,” he said.

  “Excuse me, then,” I said. “I guess I didn’t understand you after all.”

  “I gave you an order,” he said. “It wasn’t a threat.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Well, in the spirit of clarifying our understanding, let me explain it to you this way. I don’t do well with orders, either.”

  “Let me clarify, too, then.” He put both hands flat on the table, bent down, and pushed his face close to mine. “When you wake up tomorrow morning in unit four in Bruce and Joanne Sweeney’s motel, mister lawyer, you will pack up your stuff, climb into that green BMW of yours, and you’ll start driving south, and you won’t stop until you get to Mt. Vernon Street, and—” He stopped and glanced over his shoulder.

  Gaby, the waitress, was standing there with a bread basket in one hand and a bowl of salad in the other.

  “Sorry, honey,” said Harrigan. He stepped back.

  Gaby put the bread and the salad in front of me. “You want more coffee? A drink, maybe?”

  “More coffee would be good,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll be right back.” She turned and walked away.

  Harrigan watched her go, then turned to me. “Just go home, Mr. Coyne. Best for everybody.”

  “I appreciate the advice,” I said.

  He held out his hand. “Sorry how I spoke to you. People tell me I’m not very tactful.”

  “You’re not.” I shook his hand. “How do you know those things about me?”

  He smiled through his mustache. “I’m a cop. It’s my job to know things.”

  “And you’re good at your job.”

  “I am.” He touched his forehead with the side of his forefinger, a little mock salute. “Enjoy your ribeye,” he said. Then he turned and walked away.

  Twenty

  I watched Chief Nate Harrigan lumber over to the door. He waved at Nick behind the bar, patted a couple of men on the back, shrugged his beefy shoulders into his coat, and stomped out of the restaurant.

  The place was filling up. The booths along the wall and the tables by the front windows were occupied—couples of all ages, the young ones with two or three kids—and more people were milling around the bar and the pool table and in the entryway.

  Saturday night at Nick’s Café. I suspected this was it for excitement in Churchill, New Hampshire.

  I finished my salad and was munching on a hunk of bread when Gaby delivered my ribeye. She slid it in front of me, picked up my empty salad bowl, turned to leave, then hesitated.

  She was looking down at the table where I’d left Dana’s photo.

  “Do you know her?” I said to Gaby.

  “Huh?” She looked at me. “Oh, this girl? No, I don’t think so. Should I? Who is she?”

  “Her name is Dana.”

  “She your daughter or something?”

  “No,” I said. “She’s a friend of a friend. She ran away from home a while ago.”

  “And you’re looking for her? Is that it?”

  I shrugged. “Kind of, yes.”

  “You think she’s here? In Churchill?”

  “She might have been.”

  She smiled. “Here? Really?”

  “I don’t know.” I picked up the photo and handed it to her. “Take a good look.”

  She frowned at it. “She’s cute.” She shook her head and handed the photo back to me. “I guess not. Sorry.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I gotta go. We’re getting busy. Can I
get you something else? Steak sauce?”

  I shook my head. “All set.”

  “Okay. Enjoy your meal.”

  I did. It was a good ribeye, thick and juicy, marbled with fat, and cooked perfectly. The fries were crispy, and so what if the beans came from a can.

  I was sopping up steak juice with the last fry on my plate when Nick slid into the booth across from me. She took an idle swipe at the tabletop with her bar rag and cocked an eyebrow at me. “So how was your ribeye?”

  I nodded. “Good. Excellent.”

  She looked down at the table, then up at me. “You were asking about Dr. McKibben.”

  I nodded.

  “Get any answers?”

  “Not many.”

  “Nate Harrigan give you a hard time?”

  “Threatened to run me out of town.”

  She smiled. “You scared?”

  “No. Curious.”

  “Nate’s a pussycat. He thinks, because he’s a cop, he’s supposed to be tough, but it doesn’t come naturally to him. He’s actually a pretty good officer. He’s fair, he’s good with kids, he cares about people. He just wants things to be peaceful.”

  “Protect and serve,” I said.

  “Really,” she said. “Don’t worry about Nate.”

  “I wasn’t. It’s just, you mention Dr. Judson McKibben around here and the air suddenly gets chilly. Makes you wonder.”

  “It’s not a secret,” she said. “Just small-town stuff, you know?”

  “No,” I said. “I really don’t know.”

  Nick slid out of the booth. “You want some more coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.” She gathered up my empty dishes and walked away.

  She was back a minute later with two mugs. She put them on the table and resumed her seat across from me. She picked up one of the mugs, took a sip, and looked at me over the rim. “The McKibbens are an old Churchill family,” she said. “Settled here right after the Civil War, bought up a big hunk of land, grew apples, raised sheep, built the cider mill down on the river, did better than most. Over the years they gave a lot of money back to the town. People around here have always felt obligated to the McKibben family.”

  I sipped my coffee and nodded.

  “Up until recently,” she said, “a kid from Churchill who actually graduated from high school was considered some kind of prodigy. A few of them might go off to the state college in Plymouth. Once in a while somebody got accepted at the University in Durham or maybe lucked into some school in Florida or California that’s looking for geographical diversity. Mostly they quit school and joined the army or went to work for their uncle or got married and had babies or had babies without getting married, or they took off for Boston or New York and never came back again. So when Judson McKibben got into Harvard—medical school, no less—well, he was pretty much a hero.”