by Ed Gorman
"I don't think so."
"Well, then he ought to be. He'd fit right in."
Gosh, who wouldn't want this guy for their dad? Between being a bully, a child pornographer, and an anti-Semite, he'd be a delight every night around the hearth. At Home with Hermann Goering.
"I know about the photos you took of your daughter."
He didn't say anything. He just looked at me. I'm sure he was wondering if I was Jewish.
"You cocksucker."
"I'm just giving you a chance to prove you didn't kill her."
"Rick Hennessy killed her."
Henry and Frank were telepathically linked. The beast was picking up on his master's shift of mood. He moved slightly away from Caine, going into a crouch. And I'll be damned if there weren't tiny amber lights showing in the irises of the mad dark canine eyes.
"Henry's going to tear your nuts off, mister." Then he snapped his finger behind his back. It was quiet enough for me to hear.
"Then he's going to die for the privilege."
You get a lot of arguments in both directions about shoulder rigs. I've always preferred them myself, even if they are a tad more awkward than the holster on the belt.
I had my .38 out and aimed directly at Henry's face. "I'll put one right between his eyes."
"You sonofabitch." But angry as he was, he bent down and took Henry's collar and gave it an almost imperceptible tug. Cool it, Henry.
But Henry wasn't having any.
He leapt at me with perfect grace and timing. He was in mid-arc when I shot him. I wasn't lucky enough to get him between the eyes. I had to settle for two bullets in the throat.
Henry seemed to freeze in midair. I had a perfect slow-motion portrait of his face—silver spittle flying from his mouth, mad eyes madder than ever, teeth startlingly white, startlingly sharp. And then he flung himself to the ground. That was how it looked, anyway. A hundred and fifty pounds of dog hurling itself to the sandy back driveway. Blood started firing from his right ear. It was ugly to see and I half wished I hadn't killed him. He started choking and gasping.
The wailing, it took me a moment to realize, didn't belong to Henry but to Frank Caine.
He dropped the wrench, then dropped to his knees next to the dog. He was sobbing and wailing and rocking back and forth and touching the throat wound gingerly. And then sobbing all the more.
I wanted to feel sorry for him. I couldn't. Henry was the victim here. He hadn't asked to be raised this way.
"You fucker!" Caine screamed at me suddenly. "You fucking sonofabitch!" He was now as crazy as Henry had been. He stood up. He started walking toward me.
I kept my gun drawn. I aimed it right at his chest. "Don't be stupid, Frank. I'm going to get in my car and drive out of here."
"You fucking sonofabitch!"
"You said that already. You shouldn't have sicced him on me."
"I didn't give him a command. I didn't say jack shit to him."
"No, but you snapped your fingers, and that was the signal for him to jump me."
"You sonofabitch."
I walked backwards to my car.
He bolted towards me without warning. Ran up to my car and spit on the windshield. And then started pounding with his fists on the windshield. "You fucker!"
I got the motor going in the rental and backed away. For a few yards, he followed me back up the drive, just as Henry would have. But I gave it more gas and he soon fell away.
He turned slowly back to Henry. Then he was on his knees next to the dog, and sobbing again. I tried hard not to feel sorry for him. But I guess, despite myself, I did. He'd destroyed all hope for the dog to have a good life. But in some perverse way, Frank probably loved the big snarling mutant animal. Love is a strange thing sometimes.
Tandy was at the pop machine. Her blue-jeaned bottom was nicely rounded as she bent over to retrieve the Diet Pepsi can. She tangled her head to see me. "Want one?"
"Please." I dug in my pocket and produced the right change.
The machine was located at the end of the first-floor corridor. Early afternoon, the motel lot was pretty deserted. A fifteen-year-old Pontiac covered with NRA and BUCHANAN stickers had collapsed in front of one of the rooms. The only other cars belonged to us.
She handed me the can and said, "Guess what I did this morning?"
"What?"
"Went over to the railroad roundhouse and found out where all the trestle bridges are in and around town. There are four of them."
"Good idea."
We started strolling down the corridor toward her room. A cleaning cart stood in front of an open door. An aged Mexican woman smiled at us.
"Noah wants to come along."
"Well, he played a detective on TV. He should know what he's doing."
She laughed. "Right." Then, "I told him he didn't need to because you were going with me."
"I bet he loved that."
"He told me you were a jerk."
"You tell him what I thought of him?"
"I think he already knows." Then, "So will you go with me?"
"Sure. When?"
"About an hour."
"Just walk upstairs and knock on my door."
When we reached the stairs, she said, "You know this morning when you kissed me good-bye?"
"Uh-huh."
"You didn't kiss me very long."
"I'm sorry."
"It was my breath, wasn't it? I used Binaca and everything."
"Your breath was fine. God, kid, relax, OK?" I pulled her to me and held her.
"I know I'm crazy."
"No, you're not. You're just insecure. Real insecure."
"You would be, too, if you'd grown up around Laura." Then, "I can feel you." We were pressed pretty tight.
"Merely an errant afternoon erection."
"I like it."
"So do I, actually. It's sort of a teenage thing. Holding a girl in a public place in the afternoon. Makes me feel young."
"Maybe you're the one who's crazy, Robert."
I kissed her sweet little mouth. "That's a distinct possibility."
I called Chief Susan Charles.
"You're going to be hearing about me."
"I already have. You killed Frank Caine's dog."
"I feel like hell about it. Caine is the one who should have been shot. He was the one who raised the dog that way."
"He wants to press charges."
"Fine."
"I told him to forget it. I told him that a lot of people wanted to kill his dog. Even the folks at the pound. Henry attacked a couple of teenagers who were hunting in a field last fall. He nearly killed them."
"I sure could see that guy killing his daughter."
"So could I," she said, "if we didn't already have a confession from Rick Hennessy."
I sighed. "You find out anything new about our private-detective friend Kibbe?"
"He'd been here eight days, from everything we've been able to piece together."
"You find out who he was working for?"
"Got hold of his wife. She said she wasn't sure. Said he rarely talked about business because it always upset her. Said her brother has an Amway distributorship and was always trying to get Kibbe to join up."
"I have new respect for Kibbe. Resisting Amway folks isn't easy."
"He gave his wife the phone number of the motel here where he was staying and said he'd probably be back in a week, week and a half. He called her four or five times while he was here. Then for three days, she didn't hear anything at all. Until I called her and told her what had happened to him."
"You find a notebook on him?"
"Notebook?"
"You know. A list of people he saw or anything. They usually have to keep detailed records of where they went and who they saw. They copy it and send it along with the invoice to the client."
"No notebook, sorry."
"Now what?"
"There was an autopsy. No surprises. So now we ship the body to Chicago."
"You shipping his effe
cts back, too?"
"Such as they are. There wasn't much."
I thought of what the nurse at Dr. Williams's hospital had told me. "You find a paperweight with the effects?"
"A paperweight? Why would he have carried a paperweight around with him?"
"Just curious."
And now, being a good cop, she was curious about my curiosity. "Why'd you ask me about a paperweight?"
"Oh, damn."
"What?"
"Just realized what time it is. Got an appointment."
"Tell me about the paperweight."
"I'll call you when I get a chance."
I hung up quickly.
I probably wouldn't have thought of it if I hadn't seen the cleaning cart in front of Noah Chandler's open door.
I knocked on the metal doorframe and said, "Noah?"
The cleaning woman came out of the bathroom. "Mr. Chandler is gone for a couple hours, he said." Barely an accent. If she was an illegal immigrant—illegals finding Iowa a haven in recent years—she'd been here assimilating for a long time. More likely, she was a legitimate citizen and maybe she could help me.
"I was having a couple of drinks here last night. This morning I realized I'd lost my watch. I've looked several places. But I just now thought of Noah's room. Mind if I look around?"
"Fine."
"You didn't happen to see a watch around here, did you?"
"Sorry, I didn't."
I realized now, her English was so good that my first reaction to her had been racist. A Mexican maid? She had to be an illegal. Father Hesberg at Notre Dame once noted that all white people are racists, and that what matters is to recognize that fact and fight against it within ourselves. I think he's right. Whenever I hear a white person say "I don't have a prejudiced bone in my body," I try real hard not to laugh.
I spent five minutes looking. Nothing very interesting turned up. She kept busy in the john.
Since I didn't like Chandler, I was pleased to find that he kept a stack of autographed glossies of himself in one of his bureau drawers. Probably went to strip malls and handed them out, even if you didn't know who he was and didn't want to take one. Take one or I'll kill ya.
There was a small, multicolored pad next to the phone. He'd scribbled on several pages. I flipped through them. Most of the notes pertained to the TV show. But there was one interesting one.
Then there was Kibbe's name with a 312 area code next to it. Chicago. How and why would Chandler have Kibbe's phone number?
I tore the page off and stuffed it into my pocket.
I spent a few more minutes looking around but found nothing. I poked my head in the bathroom. She was bent over the toilet bowl with a brush. I felt sorry for her. This was probably going to be the rest of her life.
"No luck," I said.
"I'll say a prayer for you."
"Thank you. Very much."
A tough life like hers and she was praying for me. That's why I have such a difficult time being a cynic. For all the nastiness of the human soul there always seems to be a counterbalancing amount of goodness.
She was going to say a prayer for me.
Laura West was polishing her silken, sun-blessed legs. Her regal blonde head was bent down, carefully eyeing every square millimeter of her gams. They were well worth polishing. She sat in an armchair with her feet stretched out on the bed while she worked.
She said, "Tandy's in the john getting ready."
"Fine."
She said, "I'd appreciate it if you'd knock off the bullshit with Noah."
"What bullshit?"
"What bullshit? Right. Innocent Robert. Everybody's favorite good guy. Well, Noah may look like a Hollywood cream puff, but he isn't. He's bright and he's sensitive and he doesn't appreciate your attitude."
"Is that why you won't marry him? Because he's so bright and sensitive and you want a caveman type?"
"For your information, I love Noah at least half as much as he loves me. I just wanted to wait a few years before we get married. But he's the possessive type."
She polished her legs some more. She wore only a T-shirt and panties. Her full breasts dared me to look at them. I couldn't help myself. Even as she was chewing me out, I was occasionally looking at her breasts.
"He wants what I want, Robert. And that's to save the show. We've got a book deal and a big European tour riding on the fact that the show continues. Without it, we have nothing."
"To be honest, I'm more concerned with her losing her powers than losing the show."
She looked up at me angrily. "What good are her fucking powers if she can't use them for anything?"
"Well, she helped me find a couple of bodies and solve a couple of murders."
"Yeah, right. And you know how much money she made on the deal? Exactly nothing. Zip."
"I don't think she looks at her powers that way."
"Well, that's how I look at them. And you can think whatever you want. I could give a shit, Robert. You and I have never liked each other and we never will. My job is to protect and guide my little sister commercially. Noah's trying to help me. Yes, we're making money off her—and yes, I've become very accustomed to the life the show has given us—but I genuinely want Tandy to have some money, too. The people who have these gifts usually lose them after age thirty-five or so. The Russians are right about that. I want Tandy to have enough money to live reasonably well the rest of her life."
I was about to say something but Tandy came out. She had changed clothes. Wore a black sweater and black slacks. Her rust-colored hair looked rustier than ever. She looked crisp and sexy.
She sensed the mood instantly.
"Maybe I should get you two a fight promoter," she said. "Maybe you could slug it out on TV."
"Robert was just telling me how he doesn't give a damn if you end up broke."
"And Laura was just telling me," I said, "how she doesn't mind exploiting you and your gift at all."
"It's kind of funny," Tandy said. "Having a good friend and my sister absolutely despise each other." She slid her hand in mine. "We'll probably be back around dinnertime."
Then she led me to the door.
Behind us, Laura said, "Just remember, Robert. I expect you to be nice to Noah from now on."
In the car, as we drove to the first of the trestle bridges, I said, "I can't believe Chandler's all that touchy-feely. He just looks like this big, slow, dumb guy who happened to look like everybody's misconception of a private eye."
"Oh, yeah. Very sensitive. He's been through it all. EST. Primal scream therapy. Back-to-the-womb therapy. He's 'in touch' with himself."
"He and Laura seem an unlikely pair."
She looked out at the afternoon shadows. Another furiously beautiful autumn afternoon, tractors working in the fiery autumn cornfields, a scarecrow with flung-wide arms embracing the very essence of this time of year, sleek mahogany-colored colts running in the hills, and over everything that melancholy smoky scent of fall, the one that conjures up nights by the fire and winter pajamas and hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows bobbing on the surface.
"He's nice to her."
"When he's not screaming at her," I said.
"Believe me. She's no picnic. She's cheated on him a few times and he knows it."
"Ah, love."
"I'm scared, Robert."
"I know."
"And that's why you're talking so much. Because if we stop talking about other stuff then we'll have to talk about this, won't we?"
"Yeah."
"What if we don't find anything?"
"Then we don't find anything."
"Then the image I had was wrong. Or just a dream of some kind. That didn't mean anything."
"You'll find something."
"But if I don't, then my powers won't have come back, will they?"
I took her hand. "We're going to find something."
"Oh, God, I hope you're right." Then, "Am I wearing too much perfume?"
Tandy, the walking bundle
of insecurities.
"No. Not at all."
"I just wondered because you opened the window a ways."
"I just wanted to smell the autumn afternoon."
"Honest?"
"Honest. Now, please, Tandy. Just relax, all right?"
"You don't think I'm crazy, do you?"
I looked over at her and laughed. "No, but you're driving me crazy."
FIVE
If you grew up in small-town Iowa, a trestle bridge likely played some part in your life. The adventurous, who sometimes included me, liked to stand on the top span while the train hurtled through below. Or you could take a stopwatch and see if you could best your previous time scrambling up the brace. Kids can come up with some pretty neat games. Or, when the bridge wasn't shaking with a train, you could sit on the top chord, dangle your legs, and fish in the river or creek below. I used to do this on sunny Saturday mornings back in the sixties when I was struggling toward teenhood. I had my pole, my night crawlers, my sack lunch of Ritz crackers and Kraft cheese slices, three cans of Pepsi, and my Ray Bradbury paperback. I went through a period when I wouldn't read anybody but Bradbury.
Anyway, the trestle bridge.
I became a half-assed expert on trestles simply because I parked my ass on so many of their top chords. You have your timber deck truss and your straining-beam pony truss and what they call your simple truss. And many others types as well.
The bridges we saw today were all of the lattice-truss design, the first one being in a field behind a manufacturing plant.
When I pulled up and killed the engine, Tandy said, "God, I want to puke. I really do. My stomach's a mess."
"C'mon. You'll be fine."
"I won't pick up any vibes, Robert. I know it."
"Then you want to go back?"
She frowned. "I'm being a pain in the ass, aren't I?"
"Yeah."
"I'm sorry."
I sighed. "How about we make a deal?"
"A deal?"
"Uh-huh. Every time you apologize for yourself from now on, you pay me five dollars."
"Five dollars is a lot of money."
"That's the point of it." Then, "I know why you're apprehensive. That makes sense. But I also know that on at least two occasions in the past, you were able to locate bodies the police couldn't—and that you found them through sleep images. Last night, you had another image like that. At least relax enough to give it a good try. Maybe you'll turn up something."
