Cat's-Paw, Inc.

by L. L. Thrasher

  “There was no reason for you to suspect him.”

  “True, but maybe if I’d put it together with the fact that he’s been acting like a crazy man all week and maybe if I’d given a little more thought to just why Vanzetti was in Mackie in the first place…”

  “Hindsight’s twenty-twenty.”

  “That’s from a song. Don’t you have a good Bible quote to cheer me up?”

  I thought about it for a while and finally said, “’If the goodman of the house had known what hour the thief would come, he would have watched.’”

  “You want to decipher that for me?”

  “Hindsight’s twenty-twenty.”

  Phil yawned. “Well, anyway. Harkins isn’t saying much about just what pie he’s had his fingers in, but he did say no one else in the Department is involved. I think he’s hoping to bargain with his information about the drug business. As near as I could figure out, he isn’t directly involved with anyone in Mackie. He has a contact in Chicago and helps arrange safe passage and fucks up as many busts as he can. That was him three years ago when our big bust went sour and you started yelling about police corruption. You were right. You remember who was on the investigating committee?”

  “Harkins’ golfing buddies.”

  “Yeah.”

  Allison suddenly began thrashing around in her sleep. I stood up and took her hand and told her everything was okay. Her eyes opened.

  “Did you like what I wrote?” she asked.

  “What you wrote? What did you write?”

  “On the tree.”

  “From A to Z? Yes, I liked that a lot.”

  “My legs are gone.”

  “They’ll be back. Try to sleep now.” She didn’t hear me. She was already asleep.

  Phil was staring at me. He said, “Oh, shit,” very quietly. He stood up. “I gotta get going. I’ll be back in the morning. Tom says she should be able to talk by then.” He walked to the door then turned and said, “She’s seventeen, Bucky.”

  “I know that.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The room was filled with the gray light of early morning when I woke. Allison was still sleeping soundly. There were muffled sounds of the hospital coming awake and I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep again so I took advantage of the difference in time zones and made some phone calls. I had just finished the last one when a nurse came in and ordered me out.

  I walked slowly down the hall to a visitors’ lounge. I watched my reflection in a set of double glass doors I was approaching and realized I was walking the way my great-grandfather walked in the months before he finally died of extreme old age. At the lounge I got a cup of coffee from a machine and managed to get a few sips of it past my swollen lips. I wondered if I’d ever kiss again. Or eat. Eating was a more urgent need at the moment but everything in the vending machine was solid and salty.

  I went back to Allison’s room. A different nurse was just closing the door on her way out. She said she hoped my name was Zachariah. I said it was.

  “You better get in there,” she said. “She seems to think you’re dead.”

  Allison was sitting on the edge of her bed holding the telephone receiver up to her ear. When she saw me, she replaced the receiver. Her chin trembled. I sat down beside her and put my arm around her.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “You talked to me last night. I thought you’d remember me being here.”

  She shook her head. “I just remember… being in the trunk.” We sat quietly for a minute then I asked who she’d been calling. “Nobody. I was trying to decide who to call. Tell me what happened.”

  Her breakfast arrived and I filled in the missing parts while she ate.

  When she was finished I rolled the tray out of the way and pulled a chair up close to the bed.

  “Tell me something, babe. I understand why you couldn’t call the police in Mackie. For all you knew, every cop in town was mixed up in it. But why not tell the Portland police? Or the state police? Or the FBI?”

  She smoothed her blankets and settled Mr. Smith comfortably at her side. “At first, all I could think of was getting away. After you picked me up, I didn’t really think at all for a few days. I was so tired and felt sick all the time. I just wanted it all to go away. Then, when I felt better, I realized everyone thought I killed Daddy and I didn’t think anyone would believe me. I was afraid they’d think I just picked the Chief of Police because I saw him on television and he was from Mackie. I didn’t have any way to prove he was there and I thought he would have someone, maybe another policeman, claim to have been with him at the time Daddy was killed. I kept hoping he’d confess or get caught somehow else and then I wouldn’t have to do anything.”

  “Allison?”

  “Yes? You look terrible.”

  “I know. Why not tell me?”

  “I did. You didn’t believe me.”

  “But if you’d told me who it was, even if I didn’t completely believe you, I sure as hell wouldn’t have handed you over to him. I would have believed you anyway. There was something important I should have given a lot of thought to that I didn’t.”

  Allison batted her eyelashes dramatically. “Innocent until proven guilty?”

  I smiled as much as I could without undoing Tom’s handiwork. “That, too. But what I meant is that there had to be some reason why your father was in Mackie. He wasn’t just passing through. Mackie’s had a major drug problem for years and it made sense that he’d be here to contact someone who was involved in it. I’ve suspected for a long time that someone in the police department was mixed up in it. Harkins never occurred to me for some reason.”

  “There’s another reason why I didn’t tell you, but you aren’t going to like it. The thing is, I thought you were a little crazy.”

  “You thought I was crazy? Why?”

  “Honestly, Zachariah, you thought I murdered my own father and you didn’t do anything about it. You didn’t turn me in to the police. And you seemed to like me.”

  “I did like you. I do like you. And as far as you being a murderer, well, there are murderers and then there are people who happen to commit murder. I never thought you were a murderer at heart.”

  “Well, it seemed a little strange to me.”

  “Phil Pauling will be coming to talk to you this morning. He’s the cop I was always calling from the motel. He’s the Chief of Police now. He’ll be more than happy to explain my behavior to you. He’s an expert on the subject.”

  “Why do I have to talk to the police? I thought it was all over.”

  “You’re an eyewitness to a murder, babe, and a kidnap victim. The DA should be around with a stenographer later on to get your statement. Don’t worry about it. Harkins confessed and there won’t be a trial.”

  “Okay. Zachariah? Where’s my father?”

  “He’s… nothing’s been done yet. I talked to the FBI this morning. He was in the army during World War II. We could arrange for burial at a national cemetery. How does that sound?” She said it would be fine. “I also called Fanhaven Academy. Mrs. Mayhew wants you to call as soon as you feel up to it. I called the IRS, too. Your dad had a lot of money with him, but I don’t think you’re going to get it. The IRS has staked a claim to it and they usually get what they want.”

  “I don’t want his money. It’s from drugs.” Her voice was tight with anger. She picked up Mr. Smith and hugged him tightly. “I suppose I’m being hypocritical. After all, that’s how he supported me all these years. My clothes, my jewelry, Fanhaven, everything was paid for with drug money.”

  “Don’t hate him, babe.”

  “I don’t hate him. I don’t feel much of anything for him. I’m sorry he’s dead but I can’t mourn for him. He was never there. How can I miss someone who was never there? I just wish I knew why he stayed away from me.”

  “My dad’s fifty-two. Yours was almost that old when you were born. I don’t imagine fatherhood comes easy at that age and when your mother died, he was faced with raisin
g you alone. Maybe he just didn’t think he could handle it. But I think it probably had more to do with his being involved in crime. Maybe he didn’t want you mixed up in that kind of life. Maybe he thought staying away from you was the best thing he could do for you.”

  Allison didn’t say anything and after a moment I said, “Mrs. Mayhew said he already sent the money for your tuition and expenses for another year at school.”

  She held Mr. Smith in front of her, staring intently at him as if he held the answer to an important question, then she hugged the bear to her and said, “He did take care of me, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did,” I said and then I held Allison for a long time while she cried for the first time for her father, whose dying thought must have been fear for his daughter standing in the dark behind the curtain. I hoped he could somehow know that she had survived.

  She was calm, if a bit red-eyed, when Phil arrived. He said, ‘Hey, there little darling. You’re looking better this morning.” He looked at me. “Carrie’s waiting for you downstairs. Goodbye.”

  Allison was looking at me frantically, her eyes pleading for me to stay and protect her from the big, bad policeman. I lingered by the door, not so much to reassure her as to watch Phil in action. He took her limp hand in his and very quietly said, “My mama died when I was six.”

  Allison’s hand tightened on his and I knew by her expression that she had just bonded for life with a man she’d never seen before.

  I left her in good hands.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  For the first time in its history, Mackie made the national news. All three networks had great fun juxtaposing the tape of Harkins’ “We’re trying to solve a murder here” speech with footage of Harkins, handcuffed, ducking into the back seat of a patrol car.

  Allison was caught by the cameras as she was leaving the hospital flanked by the Chief of Police and a battered PI. In response to the questions thrown at her, she politely thanked the media for understanding her reluctance to discuss her father’s death and for respecting her right to privacy. Phil Pauling’s fingerprints were all over that little speech.

  With typical fickleness, the media lost interest in the case a couple days later when gang violence erupted in Portland. We were left in peace to enjoy the warm, lazy days of the first week of September, during which a number of minor events occurred.

  In the throes of collective guilt, the citizens of Mackie inundated Allison with enough flowers to make a Rose Festival float and with offers of jobs, homes, and money. She declined everything but the flowers.

  Two tabloids offered her tidy sums of money for exclusive interviews. She turned them down but they ran stories anyway. The term “love nest” was never actually used but much was made of the number of days—and nights—she had spent in Portland with me. She laughed herself breathless reading the stories aloud to me.

  She stayed at Carrie’s house, spending her nights in the spare bedroom upstairs and her days delighting everyone. Melissa dubbed her “Owie” and followed her everywhere. Tom cooked all his specialties for her while I sucked disgusting, supposedly nutritious concoctions through straws. Carrie raided my safe and took her on lengthy shopping sprees. Phil Pauling proposed to her several times. Allison finally accepted one evening but it was too late by then.

  Phil and Patsy had been remarried that morning in a brief ceremony memorable mostly for the bloodshed. Phil wore his best faded jeans and a nearly new blue chambray shirt. Patsy’s red hair was vibrant above her white tennis dress. Her sister had three kids in tow and hissed reprimands at them throughout the wedding. Old Judge Callahan droned through the brief ceremony, ignoring the fact that the happy couple’s nine-year-old had a bloody nose and the two of them were having a whispered argument over whether he should bend his head forward or backward. The judge had to “ahem” loudly to get their attention for the “I wills” but they seemed to enjoy the kiss and, beneath a wad of bloody Kleenex, Philip the Second’s grin was ecstatic. After the paper-signing, the judge stomped out of his chambers and everyone hugged and kissed and Patsy elbowed Phil in the ribs when he stage-whispered to me, “Hot damn, no more child support payments.”

  A private courier tracked me down at Carrie’s house and asked me to sign for two envelopes. I took them out to the picnic table, where everyone was lingering over lunch. I opened the small envelope first. Carrie stood behind me and leaned on my shoulders to read the letter with me, secure in her belief that people who had shared the womb could have no secrets from one another. In a round, childish hand, the note said: “Dear Zachariah, My friend says I’m not worth the price of a Maserati. You’ll have to settle for another Chevy. Love forever and ever, Nikki.”

  “Hmm,” Carried said. “Who on earth is she?”

  “He. The boy who was kidnapped.”

  “Oh, yes. You forgot to mention his sexual orientation.”

  Any further discussion was forestalled when I ripped open the larger envelope. Old money fell out. Hundred dollar bills. Lots of them. I counted them out into fans of ten bills each. When I finished, I had ten fans. There was a moment of awe-stricken silence.

  “My god,” Tom said. “Tax-free, too.”

  Carrie said, “Did I happen to mention I have a birthday coming up?”

  “No kidding.” I gathered up five fans and handed them to her, saying, “Happy birthday.” I said, “Happy belated birthday” to Allison and gave her the other five. She protested, but Tom and Carrie overrode her objections with a detailed explanation of the foolish ways I would squander the money if I kept it. Pretty soon the conversation turned to a discussion of the price of backyard swimming pools.

  I had a phone call from Jefferson Bundy. Our conversation consisted largely of his saying “you son-of-a-bitch” in between laughs. He hung up after extorting a promise of free paperhanging the next I was in Portland with time on my hands.

  I received an exorbitant bill from the wrecking company that had hauled the Nova out of the ravine. They offered to ship my toolbox to me C.O.D. upon receipt of payment.

  I sent Jason Finney a bill I felt sure he would consider equally exorbitant. It was carefully itemized and included the wrecking company’s charges. I received payment in full by return mail.

  My bruises went through an impressive spectrum of color changes. Eventually, I began to feel that I might reach the solid-food stage before Melissa’s new brother or sister did.

  I bought a car, a Camaro a few years younger than the Nova. No wing windows, but its previous owner had lavished money and attention on it. The cash he had poured into its care and feeding came from kiting stolen government checks and his dad didn’t want to store the car for the next five to seven years so he gave me a good deal on it. It was gleaming black with orange flames on the hood. I promised Carrie I’d have it painted.

  A janitorial service got the blood stains out of the carpet but I was going to have to re-paper the family room walls. I figured I might as well do the upstairs while I was at it, so I assigned Carrie the task of picking out paper.

  I bought Allison a one-way ticket home.

  Her decision to return to Connecticut was made late one night when she came downstairs in her blue nightie and joined me on the couch where I was spending the night. I didn’t leave a lot of extra room so she solved the space problem by stretching out on top of me. She put her fists one on top of the other on my chest and rested her chin on them.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi.”

  “Do you remember the promise I made you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I think I broke it.”

  “Both parts of it?”

  She studied my face for a long moment then said, “Yes, both parts.”

  She flattened her hands and lay her cheek on them. I twined my fingers through her hair and tried to think about the problems inherent in a relationship between two people separated by more than a dozen years and by an even greater disparity in experience. Coherent thought was diff
icult with Allison where she was. I had a sudden vivid image of the look on my mother’s face if I showed up at my thirtieth birthday party with a seventeen-year-old on my arm. Allison raised her head and asked what I was laughing about.

  “Nothing. Get off me, babe. We need to talk.”

  She got up and watched expectantly as I sat up, throwing off the covers. I was wearing gym shorts. She looked disappointed.

  I took her hand and led her into the kitchen. We sat at the table with the room lit only by the moonlight streaming through the window. Moonlight became Allison.

  “You’re going to make me go home, aren’t you?”

  “Not make you, no, but I think you should. The people at school may not be your family but they’re as close as you come to one. They care about you. Running away isn’t fair. If you don’t want to stay, at least go back and tell them goodbye properly.”

  “What if I don’t want to stay?”

  “You have friends in Oregon. Allison, these last couple weeks haven’t been exactly ordinary. I think you need some time to put things into perspective and I think you can do that better back at school.”

  I had neatly sidestepped the major issue. Allison got right down to the nitty-gritty. “How old is Tom?” she asked.

  “Thirty-nine, almost forty. It isn’t the number of years between us, babe. It’s your age. I don’t think you’re old enough to be sure what you want. You’ve never even dated. I don’t want you to stay and then find out your feelings for me were based on a need for security and a sense of gratitude.”

  “You think I’m suffering from hero-worship?”

  “If you are, it’s a bit misplaced. I seem to remember handing you over to a killer.”