by Rich Foster
“I am afraid there is little I can tell you. Her mother worships here. As for her daughter, I never knew her.”
“Who was Rector in 1992?”
“Which part? We had two that year.”
“Around June of '92.”
“That would be Raymond Holland. He left that summer. Kurt Bowmen replaced him. He served here until he retired three years ago, when I took over.”
“Is Raymond still in the ministry?”
“I have no idea. I could check and get back to you.”
“I’d appreciate that, Father. I would like to speak to him. Do you know what happened to Bowman?”
“He retired to Arizona, somewhere near Prescott. Chino Valley I think.”
Harry handed him his card. “Give me a call if you find out where Holland is.”
That afternoon, Harry forgot about murder and mayhem. Paula and he went home and found relief from the heat in the lake. When the thunder boomers rolled down from the hills they retreated inside and watched the lightning display from the comfort of their bed. The sky was menacing. Jagged bolts jabbed at the earth. The dark clouds pulsated with light. The rumble of thunder grew until it was cacophonous cracks that caused one to flinch. And still the rain did not come.
A brilliant flash of bluish light and simultaneous explosion shook the house. Paula screamed. Harry felt his pulse race. It recalled vivid memories of when his old house went up in a gas explosion, except this time, there were no flames and he wasn’t deaf.
Looking out Harry spotted a tree at the water line that was missing a long limb. Smoke rose from the trunk where the lightening struck, the severed branch floated in the water.
Further out, a lone boat raced for port. Then slanting rain began to fall and swallowed the boat and the lake from view. Water gurgled and splashed from the roof. Torrents of water ran down the hillsides spreading a brown turbidity into the lake.
“That frightened me,” Paula whispered.
Harry felt her tremble and pulled her close.
The storm front slid through bringing cooler air and a steady rain behind it. Gradually the thunder faded in the distance. Harry remained still, holding Paula. He listened to the steady patter on the roof and deck. He felt Paula’s rhythmic breath on his neck and the pulse of her heart against his chest. He gently stroked her back and appreciated the human warmth this side of the grave.
Chapter 9
Barton leaned against the building’s cement block wall, waiting in its narrow strip of shade. Heat waves danced across the parking lot above the asphalt as the thermometer pushed into triple digits. The rear metal door swung open. A stocky man with curly hair and too much gold jewelry strutted out as he counted a wad of hundred dollar bills. He licked his thumb and ran through another grand. A bodyguard walked beside him, muscled out on steroids and forty-eight months of pumping iron at High Desert State Prison
“Mr. Tagliero?,” Barton said softly, moving his body away from the wall.
Spinning faster than his boss, the muscle’s gun came out, the barrel aimed at Barton’s head. Vinnie eyed Barton with disdain.
“What makes you think I have anything to say to a Spade?”
One blow sent the thugs gun hand snapping up, a kick flattened his balls against his pelvic bones. As his knees folded, Barton popped him in the larynx with a short jab. The man fell choking for air. As he went down, Barton’s hand slid up the shooter’s arm and pulled the gun out of his fingers. Barton had control before Tagliero was half way to his own piece.
The air crackled with tension. Vinnie vividly recalled a day in years past when he was walking security outside a Columbia coke lab. While the deal went down, Chave Ortega got careless, he stepped off the well worn perimeter path to take a piss. Everyone nearby heard the arming trigger on the land mine. Instinctively the others backed away, leaving Chave to stand-alone. Vinnie could see the beads of sweat on Chave's face, the fear in his eyes, and how his knees shook before Vinnie backed away, too.
Vinnie noticed a bead of sweat run down his own face in the Vegas heat.
“I think you’ll talk with me,” Barton said icily, “because Mr. Marcelli told me Wops aren’t stupid.”
“Better watch your mouth. Any fool can drop a name!”
“In three seconds it won’t be a name I drop.”
Vinnie felt sweat roll down his cheek. He thought of Luis who whimpered as his legs grew tired and cramped, until he tried to dive clear, but disintegrated instead. Vinnie considered the gun and appraised the man who held it. He decided not to die.
Still choking on all fours, the bodyguard wretched on Vinnie’s alligator loafers.
“What the fuck?” Vinnie swore and kicked his bodyguard’s head. The thug fell heavily.
Barton watched with indifference. “I asked nicely, Mr. Tagliero. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. I don’t wish to kill you.”
Looking in Barton’s eyes, Vinnie knew this man would not care about the consequences if he did.
“Why don’t you call Mr. Marcelli? suggested Barton. “Then we can get out of the sun, have a drink, and act like we're friends.”
“Yeah, like I have his number? I’m not sure my boss has his number.”
Barton slipped a cell phone from his pocket, never moving his eyes or the pistol off Vinnie’s face. His thumb tapped the keys. “Here.”
Vinnie took the phone.
To his surprise, it was not a receptionist who answered.
“Gino, speaking,” came a familiar voice. The color drained from Vinnie's face.
“Uh, yes Sir, this is Vinnie Tagliero, I work for Antonio over at Club Seven-Seven. There’s a black gentleman here who says he knows you and wants me to talk with him.
Tagliero’s face grew ashen with fear.
“Yes, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir. I didn’t know, Sir.”
The phone snapped shut. Vinnie licked his lips.
“Can’t say I like it, but Mr. Marcelli says anything you want as long as it has nothing to do with his business.”
“This is personal history.”
Vinnie shrugged. “Let's go into my office.”
He stopped by the rear door and threw his $600 loafers into the dumpster.
“What about him?” Barton asked nodding at the muscle.
“Fuck him! What good is he?”
Tagliero left his muscle on the hot asphalt getting blisters on his palms and face.
The air in the club was as chilly as a meat locker. The back room of Club Seven-Seven could easily be off a B movie set, complete with photo laminate wall paneling and red-flocked wallpaper with gold floral inserts.
Vinnie dropped the bundle of greenbacks on the desk.
“Drink?”
“Sure as long as I open it.”
“You don’t trust anybody do you, Mr…?”
“Dirk.”
Vinnie held out a beer with a hand that shook slightly. His body was catching up to how close he came to taking a bullet. To steady his nerves, he poured himself three fingers of scotch.
“What can I do for you?” he sneered, hiding his fear with disgust.
“Tell me about June 12, 1992.”
“Ninety-two, how the fuck am I supposed to…” his angered voice trailed off. “Hell that was the year I graduated from Red Lake High!”
Barton nodded. “There was a party that night. A girl disappeared.”
“Yeah, a blonde piece. Can’t remember her name.”
“Alison Albright.”
Vinnie took a slug of his drink. “If you say so. What of it?”
“Tell me about her.”
“Why the hell do you care? You a cop or something?”
Barton’s eyes silently said, ‘Stupid question’.
“Yeah, well,” Vinnie tugged at his collar as if it was too tight. “I don’t know jack about her. Banged her once; that was the totality of our social intercourse.”
He chuckled, amused by his own humor.
“What about the party?”
Barton sipped his beer. Vinnie took another finger of scotch to help his voice.
“Mitch found the key. He used to be fun, before he got a hard on to be a cop. A keg, some dope, a few pills add a couple dozen kids and presto, you got a party. We were all pretty ripped when the Albright chick and another broad tried to crash the door.
Anders let them in because the Albright chick said they’d strip for us. How can you say no to that? We took them into the dining room. They were both good looking broads, but the second one didn’t seem to know why she was standing on the table.”
Vinnie freshened his drink. The AC dried the sweat around his collar.
“The blonde knew what she was doing and came prepared, she wore a red g-string and matching bra with the nipples cut out. She was hot! Hell I could use her here, if you find her. The second one was pathetic, completely fucked up, probably popping ecstasy. I couldn’t believe her! When she got her dress off she was wearing whitey-tighties. High rise briefs and not much meat to fill out her top. Man it was ugly.”
Vinnie frowned in disgust. When he killed his drink, his hand no longer shook
“What happened?”
Vinnie’s grin was lecherous. “The blonde started taking on all comers, right there on the mahogany table. Then she switched to the floor. She did anyone who came into the room, including Miss whitie-tightie, who was too wasted to know who or what she was doing, much less care who watched”
Vinnie shook his head. His interest faded, as if he had grown tired tired of hearing his own voice.
“Around two o’clock, the cops showed up. Everyone took off running.”
“What about Alison?”
He shrugged. “Never saw her again. But, two days later the little bitch tried to clip me.”
Barton arched his brow. “How?”
“Got a letter in the mail. It said, Congratulations, you fucked a fifteen year old. Statutory rape is seven years, so is the statute of limitations. Get ready to pay fifty bucks a week for seven years.”
“Expensive girl. What did you do?”
“Ignored it.” Vinnie grinned again, “I didn’t turn eighteen until August. The cops couldn’t touch me.”
“Anybody else get the letter?”
“Maybe Goodman said something. I don’t remember. You could ask him but he got the needle for shooting a bunch of holy rollers in Mason Forks, so you’re a little late.”
“You recall the other girl’s name?”
“Doubt I ever heard it.”
Barton set his beer down. “Thank you Mr. Tagliero.”
“Can’t say it's been fun.”
Neither man put out their hand to shake.
Barton walked out into the club and was greeted by the dull chatter of chips. Amidst the dim light, gray depleted men played the tables as bleached blond silicon sisters worked the floor, plying the players with drinks. Cigarette smoke cloaked the ceiling.
Stepping outside, Barton found the searing desert air a relief.
Chapter 10
Jessica Farron blanched when she saw Harry at the door on Monday morning.
“I have nothing to say to you.” The door began to close.
“It’s easier to talk with me than Lou Harding from the Clarion.” It worked with Conners why not her?
Harry didn’t think it possible, but she grew even paler. The door reopened.
“Come in,” her voice fell to a resigned whisper.
The living room was Spartan, a few basic pieces of furniture, a television held the place of honor a spot once held by the family hearth, a few magazines carefully fanned out on the coffee table and three banal landscapes on the walls.
They settled themselves in opposite corners, Harry on the corduroy sofa, she in the tartan plaid wing chair.
“Tell me about Alison Albright.”
A tear formed at the corner of her eye. She wiped it away.
“We were close. I thought she liked me. I thought she was my friend,” Her words stopped.
Harry waited. Finally he primed the pump.
“Who invited you to the party?”
“Alison.”
“Who invited her?”
“I don’t know. We had a couple of drinks at her house before we went there. Alison said her dad never noticed his liquor disappearing.”
“Were you drunk when you arrived?”
“No but Alison gave me a pill. She said it would help me relax. I was worried about being around seniors.” Mrs. Farron looked down at the toes of her sensible shoes. “By the time we arrived I was out of it. Most of that evening is a blur of images. Whatever the pill was it made me feel warm and safe, like nothing could hurt me.”
“Tell me what you do remember.”
“Loud music and a crowd of faces. They were cheering. The sound of trumpets and trombones seemed to come from the walls. Alison stood up on a table and began to dance. Hands lifted me up beside her. She swayed to the music and began to loosen her dress. Then she began to unbutton my dress. I tried to stop her but the faces booed. It seemed important to please them, so I let her. Then I was naked and we were swaying to the music, and I was living in the music.”
Jessica squirmed in her seat and pulled her legs up under her as if cocooning. She continued, “Alison caressed me with her hands. It was incredible. I never felt like that.”
Jessica’s breathing grew rapid and her tongue ran across her lips. Her eyes were glassy and she seemed to forget Harry as she talked.
“Fooling around with Will was never like that, he was all grab and poke. Get it off and done with it. But this was like Alison was a part of me. Her hands and tongue were like soft fur.”
Suddenly she jerked, shocked by the intensity of her memories. With fear in her eyes she blurted, “I’m not a lesbian, Mr. Grim. I’m not!”
Who is she trying to convince? To Jessica he said, “It was a long time ago.”
She grabbed at his excuse. “Yes, it was and I was young.”
“So what happened?”
Jessica Farron was caught in her embarrassment. She squirmed in her chair.
“A while later I realized I was naked, lying on the table. People clustered around cheering. Next to me I saw Alison wearing a Red Lake letter jacket and riding Travis Parks like a rodeo cowgirl. She was waving her arms and hollering, “Yahoo, buck-a-roo.”
Jessica looked down and wrapped her arms around herself, making herself small. She blushed as if she were still naked. “I picked up my clothes and snuck out.”
“Did you see Alison again?”
“No and I didn’t care to. I don’t know what she gave me but it wasn’t a Valium. I’m not like that Mr. Grim. I’m not!”
Harry let it pass. It wasn’t his opinion that troubled her.
“Did she say anything about leaving?”
“Yes, for weeks. Alison was going to New York or Los Angeles or Las Vegas, her dream varied. She showed me a roll of cash she saved up.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know but it was mostly hundreds. There had to be thousands of dollars.”
“Was this the night of the party?”
“No earlier that week.”
“Did she say how she got the money?”
“Only that she earned it, but how could she? Alison never had a job.”
Harry stood up. “Thank you for talking.”
“As if you left me a choice,” she said bitterly.
At the door Harry looked back. “One last question, did you murder Alison Albright, Mrs. Farron?”
He may as well have struck her. Jessica flinched as if recoiling from a physical blow.
“How could I do that? She was the only one who ever made me feel …”
Her words trailed off, leaving the sentiment unspoken and raw emotions on her face.
“Special?” Harry offered
Her face distorted in anger as she she screeched, “Get out! Get out and don’t come back!”
Harry closed the door behind himself.
Chapter 11
His phone vibrated in his jeans pocket.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Grim?”
“Yes.”
“This is Tim Willis.”
“Sorry, I don’t place the name.”
“I’m the priest you spoke with at the Albright funeral.”
Funny the way people distanced themselves from events by language, saying ‘the Albright funeral' opposed to 'Alison Albright’s funeral'.
“Oh, yes. Thanks for getting back to me.”
“Raymond Holland left the ministry after he and his wife divorced. I don’t know if that was why he left this church but it was about the same time.”
“Do you know where he lives today?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, thank you for your trouble.”
At its best, the Canaan County Courthouse was modest and utilitarian, two stories tall and architecturally non-nondescript. Its best features were the trees that hid the building from view. The lobby floor was terrazzo, chosen for its durability rather than aesthetic décor. Harry’s heels clicked on the small tiles as he crossed to the elevator that carried him to the lower level. To his right was the Tax Assessor’s Office and on the left the County Clerk and Hall of Records.
“May I help you?”
The woman behind the counter was old and her gray hair blue rinsed. Harry thought, She may well carry ancient information in her head.
“Divorce filings, please.”
“For what year?”
“Nineteen ninety-two.”
“Those would be on the microfiche. We didn't begin the use of computers until 2003. There is a machine in the corner. I will bring you the film from the archives.”
She returned with a reel of film.
“Please be careful, these are fragile. Only touch the edges of the strip.”
She reminded him of the Wallford High School librarian, all that she lacked was a repetitive, “Shh!”
Perhaps there was no connection between Alison’s disappearance and Reverend Holland’s divorce? But the two events were proximal in time, and consequentially possibly entwined?