Saratoga Payback

by Stephen Dobyns

  Around eight, Charlie called Fletcher Campbell. He’d gone out, his wife said.

  “D’you know when he might come back?”

  “I’ve no idea. I’m always the last to know what he’s doing.”

  “Ask him to call me. It’s important. Doesn’t he have a cell phone?”

  “It’s in the kitchen. He always forgets it when his mind’s on something else.”

  Like me, Charlie thought. “Did Lieutenant Hutchins from Saratoga contact him?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Charlie couldn’t think of the woman’s name, but her worry began to sound like irritation. “Is the sheriff’s patrol car still in the driveway?” asked Charlie.

  There was a pause. “Yes, it’s still there.”

  At least that’s something, thought Charlie. Next he again called Artemis. A man answered and it took a while for Artemis to get to the phone.

  “I was jumping.” She was out of breath.

  It took a second for Charlie to realize she meant horses. He asked if anything had happened during the night. No, it hadn’t, except she’d slept poorly.

  “The best thing would be for you to get out of town,” said Charlie. “Go down to New York and see some plays, or whatever you do.”

  “I couldn’t possibly, Charlie. I’m much too busy. Three of my girls are competing this weekend. Jenny’s volte is lopsided and Pat’s horse wobbles.”

  “It won’t help if you’re killed.”

  Artemis sighed. “Yes, but death would spare me the embarrassment.”

  —

  The morning passed without further incident, which was either a good thing or bad. Charlie couldn’t tell. It continued to snow and the wind whistled through cracks at the edges of the storm windows. That night Victor would again park his car in Artemis’s driveway. He’d have a pizza and several blankets. His pistol, a black .45 semi-automatic Chief’s Special, would be beside him on the seat next to his phone. Artemis had him on speed dial. If she called, the first thing Victor would do was shoot his gun into the air. “It will create a diversion,” Charlie said, “and alert the deputy.” The barn had an alarm system, but not the house. In any case, the police would be on their way.

  Eddie Gillespie stopped by around eleven. He made no mention of the previous night’s intruder. Charlie gave him a ham sandwich. Eddie sheepishly promised to be there that evening in time for dinner. What were they having? Charlie wasn’t sure. Eddie promised to spend the night on the couch. Charlie was touched by his change of heart. Was it out of loyalty, friendship or a sense of duty?

  But Eddie’s wife was still in Florida. “I get lonely by myself and I can’t cook,” he said. “And like you said, I need the money. Just don’t get me killed.”

  Charlie tried to calculate how the killer would respond to his failure of the previous night. Would he lie low or would he rush forward to finish his work as fast as possible, thinking the police wouldn’t expect it? As for the killer’s identity, he was sure it was Paulie Durkin, the army ranger. Was he absolutely positive? Pretty positive, at least almost.

  Afer Eddie left, Charlie went to the computer to try to track down Durkin, but no way could he get a quick answer from the Veterans Service Records in the National Archives. He’d have to write a letter and wait, or e-mail a form and wait, or fax a form and wait, or contact the New York Veterans’ Affairs office and wait, or hire an independent researcher and wait, or drop everything and fly to Saint Louis to visit the National Personnel Records Center and stand in line. Or, in order to look through the member directory of the Ranger Register, he’d have to contact the U.S. Army Ranger Association in Fort Benning. Or maybe he could hunt out a vet or a former ranger to help him. With Emma’s help, he also visited the 75th Ranger Regiment’s Facebook page, where he began to sift through names, searching for men who’d been in the rangers at the same time as Durkin. Whatever he did, it would be a long process and he needed the information about Paulie Durkin immediately. “Argle-bargle,” said Charlie. “It’s all argle-bargle.”

  —

  Shortly after two o’clock, Charlie drove across Saratoga to Hutchins’s modest Cape Cod, having called the police department and learned that today Hutchins had again called in sick. It was still snowing and trucks were either plowing or scattering salt. Charlie took pleasure in thinking he might interrupt Hutchins taking a shower or having sex with his wife. And as he leaned on Hutchins’s doorbell, he arranged his face into an expression of kindly innocence.

  A small dog yapped manically. This was followed by Hutchins shouting: “You’ll get no treat; you’ll get no treat!” Then the door opened.

  “What kind of treats d’you give your dog?” asked Charlie.

  “What the hell do you want now?” Hutchins wore a white terry-cloth bathrobe. Balancing on one slippered foot, he tried to push away a small Maltese with the other. The dog hopped back and forth, evading him.

  Charlie raised his voice over the dog’s yapping. “Have you learned who broke into my house?”

  “We’re working on it.” Hutchins bent down and plucked the little dog up into his arms. It began furiously licking his face.

  “You personally?”

  Hutchins wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I’m staying in touch by phone. I get regular calls.” He kept bobbing his head to escape the dog’s pink tongue.

  Charlie thought he detected a touch of apology in Hutchins’s voice. They were still talking through a crack in the door. “Will you let me in? It’s freezing out here.”

  Hutchins grudgingly opened the door about two feet and Charlie slipped through. He heard the sound of a daytime game show on TV and the sound of dishes clattering from the kitchen. The little dog bounced around Charlie’s feet. “What’s the dog’s name?”

  “Ozzie. It was my grandfather’s name.”

  Charlie nodded sagely. “Was he a cop?”

  Hutchins ignored the question. “Just tell me what you want and get outta here! I want to go back to bed and take a nap. I’m sick, for chrissake!”

  “I thought policemen never slept.”

  “That’s postmen.”

  Charlie took off his hat and unzipped his coat. “What have you done about looking for Paulie Durkin?”

  Hutchins looked vaguely embarrassed. “This Paulie has no record. I ran a check on him. I’ll get a photo from the military tomorrow, or the next day. Are you trying to do my work for me? The sheriff’s investigators are giving him a lot of attention. We just can’t locate him. But our theory that the killings are connected to the horse-napping remains a strong possibility.”

  “You going to keep a closer watch on my house?”

  “That’s our plan.” Hutchins paused to blow his nose.

  “Why don’t I feel relieved? This guy’s an army ranger. He can probably blow through you guys like blowing a dandelion clock.”

  “Give me a break, Charlie, we’re doing what we can.”

  “What about Campbell and Artemis?”

  “The sheriff says one or more deputies will be at their places all day and night. And Campbell has those dogs, plus his security guy’s an ex-cop. And he’s got an alarm system. Artemis is more of a problem, but besides the deputies, the troopers will keep a close eye on her. She’ll be okay.”

  Charlie still didn’t feel relieved. “Victor’s parked all night in her driveway so don’t arrest him.”

  “Is he armed?”

  “I believe he still has his pistol license.”

  Hutchins’s frown was his default facial expression. He used it now. “Just what we need is to have that wild man shoot up the scene.”

  —

  On Facebook with Emma’s help, Charlie found the names of four men who had probably been rangers with Paulie Durkin. He was able to talk to two of them. Neither remembered Paulie, nor would they give Charlie the names of others
to call. Charlie had introduced himself as a PI and they hadn’t liked that. Both said he would have to go through official channels. It was like talking to the same person twice.

  Around five o’clock, Charlie drove out to Rosemary’s diner. The shotgun was on the seat beside him, as well as a box of shells. It was still snowing and several inches covered the pavement. Plows were out and there was little traffic. His wipers smeared the snow across his windshield. He needed new blades.

  Part of Charlie wanted to return home, pick up Janey and Emma and head down to Orlando for a few days to be jollied by Walt Disney’s oversized mice and ducks. This part of himself he called his bad part. His good part wanted him to hide in the snowy dark and wait for an army ranger who might kill him. What’s wrong with this configuration? he asked.

  Victor was asleep in the king-sized water bed he shared with the Queen of Softness. He lay on his back in his Las Vegas pajamas and snored, while the water rocked gently to his breathing. His dentures were on the bedside table, smiling affably at Charlie.

  Charlie shook Victor’s foot. “Hey, wake up.”

  It required increasingly violent shaking before Victor woke. “Cut the shit!” Then he saw Charlie. “Jesus, Charlie, I was up all night.”

  “You didn’t sleep?”

  “Just a few quick catnaps. Anyway, I was too scared to shut my eyes.”

  “Did anything happen?”

  “Yeah, it started snowing. Some troopers stopped a couple of times. The sheriff’s deputies changed shifts. And one of her stable hands was wandering around between five and six.”

  “Which one?”

  “I couldn’t tell. But I didn’t see anybody else, I swear it.”

  “And you’ll be back again tonight?”

  “I promised, didn’t I? I’ll just take a few more blankets. Is it still snowing?”

  Charlie nodded. “There’ll be a lot of it.”

  Charlie’s next stop was at Fletcher Campbell’s. A sheriff’s deputy was leaning against his Impala, smoking a cigar. He held up a hand for Charlie to stop.

  Charlie lowered his window. “Havana?”

  The deputy’s eyebrows shot up. He was a thin guy with a gray, cadaverous face. “Say again?”

  “The cigar.”

  “Nah, it’s a Romeo and Juliet. You can go up.”

  “You seen anything?”

  “Not a peep. It’s a wild-dog chase, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Charlie parked and waded through the snow to the front door. The security guard, or retired cop, answered the bell. He was more somnolent than suspicious. He escorted Charlie to Campbell’s office at the back of the house. Campbell looked up from his desk.

  “You went out earlier?” asked Charlie, brushing snow from his coat.

  “I’d some errands, that’s all.” Campbell leaned back in his swivel chair in front of the picture window. Like a bull’s-eye, thought Charlie.

  “Make sure you carry your cell phone next time.”

  “Stop mothering me, Charlie. I’m still here. Nobody got me.” He gave what Charlie thought of as a forced laugh, more a pleasant cough than a laugh.

  “Glad to hear it. D’you remember what I said about the break-in at my house this morning, or were you asleep when I told you? We could have been killed.”

  Campbell pushed a hand through his shock of white hair. Maybe his red face got a little paler. “I remember all right. Those beer cans were a good idea.”

  Charlie nodded. “My daughter thought of that.”

  “But, Charlie, machine-gunning your own coats and jackets! The cops will have a field day with that sort of foolishness!”

  “It was a single shot from a shotgun. I fell.” He assumed that Campbell had been talking to Lieutenant Hutchins or maybe the sheriff’s men. “Is there anything else you can tell me about Matthew Durkin?”

  “A wimp, like I said, unless he got angry. He got in a fight with another guy one morning, a bigger guy. I had to pull him off. I never knew what it was about. But you must have talked to him.”

  “I remember very little. I was only around him for a couple of days and then he was arrested. He seemed mild and soft-spoken, even shy, though it might have been the drugs.”

  “Maybe his son takes after him.”

  “I doubt it. His son’s an army ranger. The best thing would be for you to go to Miami for a week or so.”

  Campbell returned to his boastful manner. “I’d be a coward to do it.”

  “Better a coward than dead. So nothing happened last night?”

  “One of the dogs barked once, which put us on alert. But nothing happened.”

  This didn’t make Charlie happy. “Can you get another security guy?”

  Campbell reached back, drew his revolver and put it on the desk. It was a shiny Colt Python with a six-inch barrel and a nickel finish. “How many do I need, Charlie? An army? Two of my stable hands are armed and I’ve got Leon at the front door; I’ve got dogs, and sheriff’s deputies are parked outside. I got video cameras. I even have a safe room with a steel door. But the whole business strikes me as bullshit. Even if someone’s prowling around, you’re the only one who thinks it might be Durkin’s kid.”

  Charlie began buttoning his coat. He could tell that Campbell was frightened but trying not to show it. “I’d feel better if he hadn’t been a ranger.”

  —

  Sitting in his Golf in front of Campbell’s house, Charlie considered what to do next. His socks were wet from the snow and he felt chilled. He wanted to drive over to see Artemis, but he’d talked to her earlier in the afternoon and there was nothing left to say, except to tell her again to be careful. In fact, the last time he had called, she’d said, “Charlie, this is just what you said before. You’re being excessive. The sheriff’s deputies are parked outside. I give them tea and cookies.”

  So Charlie didn’t have the courage to call again, or at least for another hour or so. Instead, he called Victor.

  “I got here about ten minutes ago. I’m in the driveway with my gun in my lap and there’s a deputy by the barn. A trooper stopped by five minutes ago. Already I’m bored. Talk radio gets shittier and shittier.”

  “I hope you’re keeping the radio low enough to hear anything suspicious.”

  “Charlie, I’m keeping it so low I could hear a crow fart.”

  So Charlie headed back to Saratoga. He hated these times of waiting. They made him feel lonely, stuck by himself with nothing to do. A dark hiatus, he called it. These were the times James Bond used to screw beautiful women. Then he laughed.

  —

  Janey had gone to the mall and Emma was visiting a friend. Charlie was alone in the house with Bruiser. He sat on the couch, holding the dog with one hand and the Benelli with the other. When Janey got back about seven, she began making spaghetti carbonara, adding peas, mushrooms and pecorino Romano. Eddie Gillespie showed up around eight and immediately sat down at the dinner table.

  “None of the food in my house is interesting.” He pushed the mushrooms to the side of his plate and passed on the green salad.

  After dinner, Charlie moped around on the second floor for an hour or so, while Eddie sat downstairs watching sitcoms. He had a high, nasal snicker, and each time, the sound felt like a needle poked into Charlie’s ears. Eddie had also brought a small police radio that crackled constantly.

  Because he’d slept little the previous night, Charlie went to bed around ten, stuffing toilet paper in his ears and putting his head under the pillow so he wouldn’t hear Eddie’s noise. He dreamt he was trying to swim in an Olympic-sized pool with lane markers and LCD timers. But instead of water, the pool was full of sand.

  When Eddie shook his shoulder several hours later, Charlie briefly dreamt he was falling downstairs. Then he opened his eyes. Janey flicked on the light.

  Eddie stood by the
bed waving his crackling radio. “There’s trouble at Fletcher Campbell’s! The troopers and the Saratoga sheriff are on their way out.”

  Charlie jumped from bed. His eyes felt gluey. “What sort of trouble?”

  “Bad trouble. Somebody’s missing.”

  Pulling on his jeans, Charlie began looking for his boots. “What time is it?”

  “Around one thirty.”

  “You’re going out there?” asked Janey anxiously. “It’s still snowing.”

  “I can’t help it.” Charlie picked up the Benelli and headed for the stairs.

  “Wear a scarf!” called Janey.

  Twenty

  The security lights illuminating Fletcher Campbell’s front yard were nearly eclipsed by the flashing red, blue and amber lights of an ambulance and a half-dozen police vehicles parked in the circular drive. The colors dyed the white front of Campbell’s house and tinted the falling snow, while the house windows themselves remained dark. Police radios chattered to one another, reminding Charlie of a pond full of sex-crazed frogs in spring. Sheriff’s men strung yellow tape around the house, the barn and all the space between. Forensic guys hurried back and forth. Officers with flashlights went in and out of the house, and a small crowd had gathered by the entrance of the barn. Charlie took a flashlight from his glove box, tugged his Red Sox cap firmly down onto his forehead and tied his blue scarf tightly around his neck. Best to leave the Benelli on the seat, he thought. Then he made his way toward the barn. The path was a smear of prints from the deputies’ and troopers’ duty boots. Falling snowflakes glistened briefly on the muddy surface and then vanished.