Saratoga Payback

by Stephen Dobyns

  Charlie continued toward the Mazda. Maybe Janey and Victor were together. The motor was off and the windows were frost-covered. Snow had already covered the windshield. Charlie pulled open the door. The car was empty. He again flashed his light around the snow near his feet, looking for footprints, but only vague indentations led up the drive.

  He turned back to the Mercedes, meaning to get inside, warm his hands and use his cell phone. Again he received a shock. Radial cracks extended from two bullet holes in the middle of the windshield. The wipers swung back and forth across them. Charlie hurried toward the door, slipped and fell against the hood. The Benelli slid away from the crook of his arm and skated across the slick surface. Lunging after it, he grabbed the pistol grip just before the shotgun slid into the snow on the far side. He lay there for a moment, catching his breath and feeling the vibration and warmth of the diesel motor beneath him. It was almost comfortable. Then he slithered back off the hood and got into the car.

  There was no blood. The gun had been fired from inside the car. A few shiny specks of glass were on the dash, but his light reflected off more bits of glass on the other side of the window, glistening among the drops of melting snow. So Victor had fired at something or someone with his .45. Charlie sniffed, thinking he’d detect gunpowder, but he only smelled potato chips.

  He dug out his cell phone and called Janey. Eventually voicemail picked up, so he called again. He expected that she was with Artemis, but he couldn’t imagine why she’d be there.

  This time a sleepy voice answered. “Yes?”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m in bed, of course. What is it?”

  “Why’s your Mazda out at Artemis’s?”

  “Are you serious? Wait a moment.”

  Charlie heard footsteps, a door opening and more footsteps.

  Janey came back on the line, breathing heavily. “Emma’s not here. She wanted to drive out to Artemis’s so she could ride for an hour or two before school. I told her she couldn’t. I didn’t think it would be safe. She must have taken the car. Where is she? Is something wrong?” Janey was almost shouting.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “That’s not a very comforting answer, Charlie.”

  “I just haven’t seen her yet, that’s all. She’s probably with Artemis and Victor. I’m out at her place now, but it’s snowing hard and the power seems to be out. I’ll call you later.”

  “Wait a minute, what happened at Campbell’s?”

  Charlie had hoped to avoid this part of the conversation.

  “Tell me,” Janey continued, “what’s going on?”

  “I gotta go. Campbell’s okay. I’ll call back when I know more.”

  “Wait . . . !”

  But Charlie didn’t wait. He didn’t want to tell Janey his fears and what had happened at Campbell’s farm. He didn’t want to say that a man had had his throat cut. Instead he again called Artemis. The phone rang and rang and then switched to voicemail, which only told him to leave a message. Next he called Emma. The call went straight to voicemail. A mechanical voice said that it was unable to take his call right now. Then Charlie called Victor and got one of Victor’s jazzy messages: “Hey, hey, hey! Maybe I’m here, maybe I’m there, maybe I’m nowhere. Catch me if you can!”

  “Fuck you,” muttered Charlie, ending the call.

  He wanted to phone Hutchins, but he didn’t have the lieutenant’s private number. So he called the police station. Charlie identified himself and said he needed to talk to Hutchins, that it was very important. The officer on duty said that she couldn’t accept private calls.

  “It’s not a private call!” shouted Charlie. “It’s an emergency!”

  “Shall I transfer you to 9-1-1?” Her tone was clipped; she hadn’t liked being yelled at.

  Charlie lowered his voice and tried to sound reasonable. “No, I’m sorry. I just saw him out at Fletcher Campbell’s farm, where a man was murdered. Now I’m at the next farm down the road. It belongs to Artemis. Something’s wrong. A police officer is missing and, and . . . a car’s been shot up. Please call Lieutenant Hutchins and tell him we need help . . .” Charlie asked himself what else he could say without sounding like a nutcase. “Hutchins knows I’m here. He told me to call him, but I don’t have his private number. Just call him, for Pete’s sake!” He was shouting again.

  The officer’s response was chilly. “I’ll see what I can do.” The connection went dead.

  Charlie rubbed his jaw and wondered if pounding his head on the dashboard would make him feel better, but the relief, he knew, would be brief. However, while making his separate calls, he’d kept one hand and then the other pressed against the dashboard heating vent. Now they felt almost normal. So at least I’ve temporarily saved myself from frostbite, he thought with some irony. Again he called Artemis, Emma and Victor; again they didn’t answer. Where were they? He pulled his cap firmly down on his forehead and retied his scarf. Why was the house dark, what had happened to the lights? Climbing out of the Mercedes, he decided to find out.

  Charlie flicked off his flashlight to see if he could get used to the dark so he could approach the house without being seen. But the clouds were impenetrable and there was no glow from the moon. He couldn’t even see the snow, which beat against his face. Moving forward, he felt his way along the side of Janey’s car and then into the further vacancy of the invisible driveway. Once more he flicked on the light. He felt a sort of caffeine rush; a prickling of the skin that he realized was adrenaline. He welcomed it. The feeling would keep him warm.

  —

  Artemis’s sprawling ranch house was built on the side of a hill and, as Charlie approached, the highest side slowly grew visible through the storm: a two-car garage and above it was Artemis’s wide living room. His hands were nearly numb with cold again. He had tried to warm them by turning off the light for a minute or so and sticking one hand or the other into his coat pocket, which entailed moving the shotgun from one hand to the other and putting the flashlight in the empty pocket. It was like, he thought, some ridiculous dance. Then he’d turn the light on again to get his bearings and the process would start over.

  Parked in front of the garage was an older-model Honda Civic. He guessed it belonged to Paulie Durkin. Were these the tire tracks he’d been following? But no, Charlie remembered the Honda being parked outside the dressage barn late Monday afternoon. The car belonged to Richie. He felt a sense of relief. He glanced inside; the car was empty. Shutting the door, he took a few steps toward the house and stopped. But who was Richie? Artemis had hired him back in September, more than a month before Charlie had run into her at Home Depot. Yes, but who was he? Artemis said he was a good worker and didn’t talk much. She’d said she felt lucky to have him. But that meant nothing. Why was his Honda parked by the garage? Charlie’s relief began to fade.

  As Charlie approached the back entry next to the double doors of the garage, he kept imagining someone lurking just outside the beam of light or hurrying up behind him with a knife. Twice he spun around, swinging the light in an arc and trying not to slip. But he saw no one. The hairs on the back of his neck seemed permanently in a stand-up position. His stomach felt as it once did when he’d climbed the extension ladder onto Janey’s roof to find the source of a leak. He’d been forced to sit motionless on the shingles for five minutes just to settle his nerves. His knees hadn’t simply felt weak, they’d throbbed.

  Reaching the house, Charlie stared up at the darkened picture window of the living room. Artemis’s dinner party had been less than a week ago, but now it seemed in the far-distant past. He expected the back door to be locked, but it was open. Changing his grip on the Benelli, he pressed his flashlight along the short barrel, awkwardly holding them together while keeping a finger of his right hand near the trigger. Another silly dance, he thought. Then he stepped inside.

  Water from melted snow
had puddled on the cement floor of the garage and wet footprints led across to a second door and the stairway. Charlie thought they must belong to Richie, but the idea brought no comfort. The two names went back and forth in his mind: Paulie or Richie, Paulie or Richie? Next to the door was a light switch. Charlie flicked it and nothing happened. He shone his light back and forth. Artemis had two vehicles: a 1982 Porsche 928S and a gray Toyota Tundra. Both were in the garage, and the Porsche was under a red car cover for the winter.

  Across the garage next to the door leading upstairs, Charlie saw the metal box with the circuit breakers. Switching off his light, he made his way toward it in the dark. Then, as he shifted the shotgun to his left hand, he bumped a snow shovel leaning against the wall. It fell to the floor with a clatter. Charlie crouched and listened. There was no noise but the wind. Then he sighed. Had he always been so clumsy?

  Reaching the metal box, he flipped the toggles. Nothing happened. Whatever was wrong with the lights, the problem wasn’t here. Maybe the wind had knocked down a wire after all, or maybe it had been cut.

  Charlie climbed the stairs to the kitchen, trying to make no noise, though why it mattered after all the noise he’d already made, he had no idea. What he really wanted was to sit down on the stairs and rest. He hated being terrified. His terror was like a second person, a smaller person, thrashing around inside him. But if the footprints he’d followed through the garage were Richie’s, then he’d nothing to worry about. Wasn’t that true? And that was when Charlie realized he was wrong. Possibility had moved to probability to certainty. Richie and Paulie were the same man. Charlie paused on the stairs. He wanted to turn around and go back outside. He wanted to take the shovel that he’d knocked to the floor and shovel his car free. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He could go outside and wait for the police. Then he paused again. He thought of all that had occurred since he’d found Mickey lying dead on his sidewalk. The images were like lights flashing past him. Safety couldn’t be a choice. He had to move upward.

  The kitchen door was open. He raised his shotgun and stood still, listening. He knew for certain no one was asleep. He wasn’t sure they were in the house or even alive. He thought of those cop shows where the cops had lights attached to the barrels of their shotguns. If Charlie had to shoot quickly, he’d either have to drop the light or fire with one hand, which meant the kick of the shotgun would throw off his aim. Had things always been so complicated or was it age, as he stumbled forward from one senior moment to the next? He thought again of the term Victor had once used: “the dwindles.”

  Charlie moved through the kitchen and into the living room with its large picture window. At least the house was carpeted and his feet made no sound. He stood at the glass with his light off, but he could see nothing—no distant lights that might signal approaching police vehicles. Turning, he walked quickly through the dining room and den, keeping his light pointed down at the floor. Nothing was out of the ordinary. No overturned tables and chairs, no blood on the rug. Even so, he felt he was being watched from just beyond his light. Negative thoughts, he told himself. He tried to push them away, but they only took a step back and waited.

  The trouble was that if Richie or Paulie Durkin had been a ranger, he’d only have to wait. He could probably kill Charlie with just his little finger. Despite the Benelli, Charlie felt like a fly hunting a hawk.

  Along one side of the house, looking out toward the two barns, Artemis had a garden room about twenty feet long and eight feet wide, with a slanted glass ceiling and glass walls. The plants were towering “jungley things,” as Charlie called them, with spiky green leaves. There was also a large yellow hibiscus, which Artemis had identified for him, and an oversized, multiheaded red geranium. Along with the plants were white wicker armchairs and four wicker tables. Artemis called it her “cocktail solarium.”

  Shining his light around the room, Charlie thought of how obvious the light would be to anyone outside. Then, as the light traveled across the glass, he noticed something to the left of him. Again he felt a little surge of adrenaline. Moving closer, he identified two bullet holes about chest high. There was no glass on the tiles beneath the holes, and Charlie knew the shots had been fired from inside. As he touched a hole with his little finger, he guessed the bullets were .45 caliber. The holes had probably been made by Victor’s Smith & Wesson Chief’s Special.

  Charlie pressed his light against the glass to see what might be outside. But there was nothing: no body and no blood. Just snow. So possibly the snow was covering something, like a corpse, or possibly Victor had fired at someone standing out in the yard and missed, or possibly something else. Turning out his light, Charlie decided he had too many possibilities. He saw nothing from the glass. Again he hoped to see approaching headlights, but he saw only darkness.

  Hurriedly, he left the garden room and went down the hall to the bedrooms. Artemis’s room was empty, but the bed was unmade. The closet door was open; some clothes had fallen from their hangers and several pairs of shoes were knocked about the floor. This didn’t suggest that someone had searched the closet; rather, someone had been in a rush to get dressed, just as the unmade bed might suggest that Artemis had been sleeping, but had been woken unexpectedly. Charlie wasn’t sure what to make of this.

  Cold air blew from someplace, as if a door had been left open. It came from the next room down the hall. Charlie hurried toward it. The door was splintered and hung from only the top hinge; just beyond, a bed and a bureau had been knocked aside. Someone had tried to barricade the door and someone else had broken through. The bedroom had been used by Emma. Her book bag for school was on a chair. A small table by the window had been tipped over and a desk light lay beneath it. The window itself was open.

  Charlie leaned through the window and pointed his flashlight down toward the snow six feet below, moving the light back and forth. After a moment he saw the indentations of someone who had jumped, maybe more than one person. The falling snow obliterated any footprints, leaving only a shapeless sprawl. The indentations led off across the yard, perhaps toward the barn.

  Working to calm his fears, he tried to guess what had happened as the terror within him thrashed and thrashed. He was sure that Artemis had been woken by someone breaking through the basement door and got dressed. But after that, something must have especially scared her. What did Paulie Durkin shout at Campbell’s wife? “Are you ready to die?”

  Then she had run to wake Emma and together they had barricaded the door. Charlie imagined their fear as someone tried to smash through. So they’d fled through the window. Had Paulie gone through the window as well? Most likely.

  Charlie threw his right leg over the sill. The window seemed too small for him. His cap and winter coat, the flashlight and the shotgun—he seemed to fill most of the opening. His muscles felt stiff and reluctant. He put the flashlight in his coat pocket, gripped the Benelli and leaned out into the dark. As he drew his left leg up to the sill, he started to fall. There was no help for it. He let himself go.

  Twenty-two

  Charlie lay on his back and tried to catch his breath. The ground, even covered by eight inches of snow, was rock hard. Snowflakes fell across his face. Opening his mouth, he felt them touch his tongue like a caress. He wanted to whine and complain and go home, but he could do none of those things. After another moment, he rolled over and pushed himself onto his knees. Then he stood up. His back hurt and he stretched. The flashlight was still in his pocket and he still held the Benelli. He wedged the shotgun under his arm and drew his gloves from his coat pockets. To heck with bare hands. If he couldn’t do damage with six shots, then he might as well surrender; might as well tell Paulie Durkin to start slashing. His fingers would be useless unless he could warm them. His lambskin leather gloves were lined with rabbit fur. Janey had given them to him for Christmas and Charlie was glad to have them.

  In the dark, he could see nothing, but he sensed the
house looming up behind him and so he guessed the general direction of the two barns. He began shuffling in their direction. He recalled a line of shrubs to his left and the driveway to his right, so if he got too far off track he’d end up at one of those places. He tried to count his aches and pains, but they were too numerous to itemize. He’d banged one knee against the window frame and hit his shoulder and hip against the frozen ground. And there were also other bruises. Better to forget them, he thought, better just keep moving.

  As he thought this, his foot caught on something and he tumbled forward. He landed on something large, soft, lumpy and cold. Quickly, he rolled away, guessing what it was before he could find the words to articulate it. He let go of the Benelli and scrambled to his feet, thinking he’d found Victor and that he was dead. He dug in his pockets for the flashlight, cursing the thick gloves that he had just been feeling self-satisfied about.

  The first thing Charlie saw when he turned on the light was a black duty boot and he felt relief. It wasn’t Victor; it was a sheriff’s deputy. Right away his relief turned to self-reproach and he shook his head. He wished he knew the man’s name, but he didn’t. But he wished he had a name to apologize to.

  The body was partly covered with snow, but the dark blue uniform was obvious. He was hatless and balding: a middle-aged man with a belly. His throat had been slashed, straight through the trachea and esophagus. In the light, the shiny, pink mass of tissue and blood had an electric brilliance. Charlie shut off the light and stepped back, appalled.

  But he found no comfort in the dark and he imagined Paulie Durkin lurking nearby. He fumbled with the light and again cursed his gloves, shaking one loose so it dropped to the snow. The light flicked on and Charlie spun around, expecting to see someone. But the falling snow created a white wall and he saw no one. In any case, what could he do? He’d dropped the Benelli when he’d tripped over the dead deputy and now he had to find it. Examining the snow around him, he shuffled his feet, moving in a circle until his boot bumped against the shotgun. He snatched it up and wiped off the snow with his bare hand. Then he retrieved his discarded glove.