Grass Roots

by Stuart Woods

  Perkerson tossed the briefcase and raincoat onto the front seat, got into the car, and punched the remote control. The door slipped upward, and he nosed into the alley, pointing the controller at the door behind him. He turned left and stopped. The alley before him was filled with an enormous garbage truck. Two men were emptying cans into an automatic feeder.

  Perkerson made a conscious effort not to make quick, panicky motions. He turned and looked up the alley behind him. A large, brown UPS truck sat there, twenty-five yards behind him, empty. He turned and faced forward again, sitting very still. His pulse and breathing were suddenly up sharply. What were his options?

  He could abandon the car and walk. Not a good idea; the police would be all over the place in a minute or so; a good two minutes had already passed since the shoot. The whoop of police cars could already be heard in the distance. He could back into the garage again and leave the building by the front entrance—an even worse idea; he’d be walking straight toward the police. Or he could sit here and wait for the garbage truck to move.

  As he considered his options, he glanced into the rearview mirror and saw the UPS deliveryman climbing back into his truck. Momentarily, the truck moved toward his car and came to a halt a few feet behind him. He could see the driver drumming his fingers on the wheel.

  There was nothing to do but wait. He couldn’t even shout at the rubbish collectors; he didn’t want to attract attention to himself. He reached into an inside pocket, retrieved his sunglasses, and put them on. He crossed his arms and rested a hand over his mouth. The garbage men weren’t paying any attention to him, but if they did, he wanted them to see as little as possible. Now they would see a hand and some dark glasses. He glanced into the rearview mirror again; the UPS man was climbing down from the truck. Perkerson’s blood was pounding in his ears now. Sweat broke from his brow and poured down his face. He checked the side mirror; the UPS man was walking down the alley toward the garbage truck. He would pass a foot from Perkerson’s window.

  Perkerson mopped his brow with a gloved hand, and then a miracle happened: the garbage truck moved forward. Perkerson let his car creep forward behind it. He could see the UPS man in his side mirror, walking back toward his truck. The police whoopers were no more than a block away now.

  The garbage truck stopped again. But this time, it moved to the left and the alley was wider here. One of the rubbish collectors waved him on. Rubbing at his face with one hand to keep it covered, Perkerson pulled slowly around the huge truck, managing the gap between the truck and the wall by inches. He was free.

  At the corner of the next street, Perkerson jammed on his brakes as two police cars crossed his path from right to left. Slowly, deliberately, he turned right and began to accelerate. A traffic light loomed ahead at the next corner. It turned red. Perkerson stopped and checked the rearview mirror in time to see two police cars careen around a corner to their left. He looked up and saw two more heading toward him. The light changed as they sped past. He accelerated moderately and, as soon as he could, turned left, looking for the expressway. Five minutes later, he was driving north.

  Perkerson turned up the air-conditioning full blast and loosened his collar. The cold air stopped the sweat. Breathing deep breaths, he drove north at fifty-five miles an hour. He got off at Piedmont Road and drove to the Lindbergh MARTA station. The parking space from which he had stolen the car was still vacant. He pulled into it, got out with the briefcase and raincoat, checking the car for anything left behind, then walked away from it. When the commuter returned in the late afternoon, he would never know the car had been taken.

  Perkerson stripped off the driving gloves he had worn since stealing the car and walked briskly to another part of the car park, checking to see that he wasn’t noticed. He found his own car, tossed the briefcase and raincoat into the trunk, and drove away, heading north to Marietta and his comfortable new apartment. He switched on the radio.

  “We have a preliminary report of a disturbance, no, it’s a shooting, at an abortion clinic in midtown. Our mobile unit is on its way there now, and we expect to have a report directly from the scene in a very short time, so please stay tuned.”

  Perkerson drove languidly, letting the sweat dry on his body. The satisfaction came with a rush. He was back in business.

  21

  Mickey Keane got there almost as soon as the police; he had heard it on his car police radio, which was illegal, except for a retired cop. The paved area in front of the clinic was chaotic when he arrived. There were four black-and-whites parked every which way, lights flashing; women were crying, men trembling; the bodies lay where they had fallen, while a patrolman took Polaroids, waiting for the medical examiner and a photographer to arrive.

  Keane flashed his badge, which, as a retiree, he had been allowed to keep, at a uniformed youngster and stepped under the yellow tape that separated the crime scene from the sidewalk. He glanced at the bodies, at the way they had fallen, then looked up the street. There were low trees planted along the property line; he reckoned the shots had come from an elevation. Quickly, he scanned the opposite side of the street. People were gathered at office windows, looking down; in some cases they were hanging out the windows, pointing. Except for one building. The storefront at street level had its windows soaped, and on the third floor, a single window was open.

  If he had still been on the job, he would have had to follow procedure, start questioning witnesses; but now, he could follow his hunches. As he started to move, an unmarked police car screeched to a halt at the curb, and the first detectives got out of it. Keane ran over and grabbed the first man’s sleeve. “Come with me, Frank, and right now; let your partner work the scene!”

  The detective waved his partner to the crime scene and trotted after Keane. “What you got, Mickey?” he panted. The man was pushing fifty and overweight.

  “Just come on, Frank. We might have a shot at this guy. Probably not, but maybe.” Keane crossed the street, dodging traffic, and ran to the storefront. There was a doorway to one side, and Keane already had the picklock in his hand.

  “Shit, Mickey, what the hell are you doing?” the detective asked.

  “Just shut up, Frank, if you want this guy. You can blame everything on me.” He got the door opened, pulled his gun, and ran straight ahead up the two flights of stairs. At the top, he stopped and listened, putting a finger to his lips. From there, they worked automatically, covering each other as they searched the floor.

  “Nothing,” the detective said disgustedly. “Wild-goose chase. Thanks a lot, Keane.”

  “He was here,” Keane said, holstering his pistol. He walked down the hallway and paused at the entrance to the empty showroom. He ran his fingers along the wainscoting. “Dust,” he said, holding up his fingers. “Thick dust.”

  “So, dust,” the detective said.

  Keane squatted and looked along the carpet from a low angle toward the windows. “Look at that,” he said, pointing. Indistinct tracks led to and from the windows, traced in the dust on the gray carpet. Keane and the detective crossed the room, avoiding the footprints. “Your shooter was right there at the corner of the window. He left the little ventilating window in the plate glass open. Two to one you find powder on it.”

  “Okay, I’ll buy it,” the detective said.

  “He didn’t leave by the front,” Keane said, punching the elevator button.

  “Watch that. Prints.”

  “This guy didn’t leave any prints,” Keane said. “He didn’t leave nothing, not a shell casing, not a cigarette butt. Nothing. You won’t even get a shoe size from those tracks in the dust.” They rode the elevator down a floor and Keane walked to the loading platform. “He came and went this way,” he said, pointing at the tire tracks in the dust on the garage floor. “Your best shot is a witness in the alley.”

  The detective began speaking into a handheld radio. He gave the address, asked for a crime-scene team with a tire ID kit. “We’ll have some kind of idea on the car in
half an hour, if the tires have never been changed,” he said to Keane.

  “Jesus, Frank, you wait half an hour, then forget it. Somebody didn’t see him in the alley, you’re fucked anyway. This guy’s a pro. You know who he is, don’t you?”

  The detective looked puzzled. “Huh?”

  “It’s the guy who greased Chuck. Don’t you see that?”

  “What’s his name, Perkins?”

  “Perkerson. Harold Perkerson.”

  “It’s been weeks, Mickey. I’m not gonna get fixated on that guy. I heard you were.”

  “It’s him, Frank; I can feel it in my bones,” Keane said. “Old Harold’s back. Come on.” He stepped down from the loading platform, taking care to avoid the area where the car had been parked, found the switch for the garage doors, and opened them. He stepped into the alley, followed by the detective, and looked both ways. “Now looka there.” Keane grinned. At the end of the alley was a garbage truck, but there were no garbage collectors. “I’ll bet our witnesses are at the scene of the crime,” he laughed.

  They went back through the building, meeting the crime-scene team on the way, then stepped out into the street. There, behind the yellow tape, were three uniformed garbage collectors. Keane pointed. “There’s your witnesses, if you’re lucky.” He let the detective handle them, then went back to the crime scene and had one more look around. The bodies were being loaded into a meat wagon, and somebody from the clinic was hosing down the pavement. It was all over here. He went back to find the detective and his witnesses.

  “You were right, Mickey,” the detective said, as Keane approached. “We got witnesses, but no description. Nobody got a good look at the guy.” He grinned. “We got half a license number, though.”

  “Good luck with it, Frank,” Keane said, waving goodbye and heading for his car.

  “Don’t you want to stick around while we run the tag?”

  “Nope, you can have all the glory.” Keane got into his car, started it, and punched a number into his new car phone. He picked it up and listened.

  “Pearl,” a voice said.

  “He’s back, Manny,” Keane said, unable to keep the grin from his voice.

  “Is it the thing at the abortion clinic? It’s on TV already.”

  “Yeah, it’s him; I can feel him; He’s gone, though. They’ve got part of a license number, but if they ever find the car, Perkerson won’t be in it. He’s long gone.”

  “Damn it!” Manny Pearl shouted.

  Keane took a breath. “But not too far gone. He’s around. Now I’m going to find the son of a bitch.”

  22

  Will arrived at the cottage at dusk, exhausted. He had made fifteen campaign stops during the past three days, flying himself from town to town. It was Saturday night, his parents were in Atlanta, the servants at the main house were off, and he looked forward to a Sunday of rest and solitude. For days he had been unable to think about anything but the place he was visiting and the question he was being asked. He needed a few hours to think about nothing at all, and he was determined to get them.

  There was mail on the desk, most of it ignorable. Two pieces weren’t. The first was from the court, and he ripped it open.

  Dear Will,

  Elton has recovered, and is back in form, but in the meantime, my calendar is extremely overcrowded, and I don’t see how I’m going to be able to do justice to a murder trial during this session. I’m inclined to think it’s going to get held over until next session, unless I get a postponement on another big case, probably until late November. I guess you won’t mind that, but let me know if you do.

  It was signed by Judge Boggs.

  Will felt a wave of relief. He had not had time to think about the case for weeks, but it had always been there, under the surface, waiting for him. Now he could separate the trial from the election, and forget about the deleterious effect the two might have on each other. He found his address book. The phone was answered immediately.

  “Hello?” The voice high and young, as always.

  “Larry, it’s Will Lee. How you doing?”

  “Mr. Lee, I’m glad to hear from you. Any news about my trial?”

  Will told him about the Judge’s letter. “I really think it’s the best thing, Larry.”

  “Yessir, I guess maybe it is.”

  “I think the longer we’re able to put off a trial, the cooler things will be for you. It’s always good to let some time pass in a murder case.”

  “I get your point,” Larry Moody said.

  “Of course, you have a right to a speedy trial, and if you can’t stand it, I can always go back to the Judge. His letter sounds as if he’s holding out the possibility of an earlier trial, if we demand it.”

  “No, I think you’re right; we ought to wait. I can handle that. Things aren’t so bad for me. I’m doing my work, just like before.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. How’s Charlene?”

  “To tell the truth, I don’t really know. We split.”

  Will felt a stab of alarm. “Where is she? Has she left town?”

  “Oh, no, she’s moved in with a girlfriend; they got a trailer down near Warm Springs.”

  “There’s no problem about her testifying?”

  “Oh, no—no problem at all. She’ll stand up for me. Charlene’s okay, she’ll do the right thing.”

  Will was relieved. Charlene was Larry Moody’s only alibi. “I’m glad to hear it. You take care of yourself, then. If there’s anything I can do for you, call my Atlanta headquarters and leave a message. They’ll know where to reach me.”

  “I sure will, Mr. Lee, and thanks.”

  Will hung up. He should have asked for Charlene’s new address and phone number, he realized. He called information and got a listing in Warm Springs, then dialed the number.

  A familiar voice answered, honeyed and Southern. “Hello, this is Charlene. Ruby and I are out right now, but you can leave a message at the tone, and we’ll get right back to you.”

  Will waited for the tone and left his number. Then he turned to the other piece of mail. It was addressed in her clear, straightforward hand, one he would have recognized anywhere. He ripped open the envelope. There was only a single page.

  Will,

  I’ve been unhappy about the way we left things when I saw you last. I don’t want to lose your friendship. I know you’re probably overwhelmed with the campaign right now, so I’ll wait and call you after November. Things should be quieter for me at the office then, too, and perhaps we can have lunch and catch up. In the meantime, I wish you the best of luck in the race. I know you’ll do it well, the way you do everything. You’ll make a fine senator from Georgia.

  Kate

  He read the note again. It stank of detachment. Not so much as a “Dear” in the salutation; its mention of friendship, not love; its suggestion of lunch, not dinner; the gratuitous, sugary compliment at the close. He took a sheet of notepaper from its pigeonhole and wrote:

  My Dear Kate,

  Thank you for your kind note. Of course, your friendship will always be important to me. Thank you, too, for your good wishes, and I look forward to hearing from you after early November.

  Warm regards,

  Will

  Always best to be a little warmer than necessary in these situations. He addressed an envelope and sealed the letter, then wadded her note and tossed it in the wastebasket. He stamped the letter and left it in the mailbox on the front porch for collection on Monday. Then he heated a can of chili and washed it down with half a bottle of California red. He fell asleep almost immediately after hitting the bed, but not before he was gripped by a long, wrenching moment of pain, regret, anger, and sexual longing. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, he was going to stop missing her.

  23

  The dream slipped away, and Will was left with only the erection it had caused. He allowed himself to wake slowly, willing his body to return to normal. What had he dreamed? It had been so vivid, and yet, instantly, it was
gone.

  He lay on his back and watched the shadow of a tree play on the ceiling. Almost no movement; it would be a typical July day in Georgia, still and hot.

  He struggled from the bed, still groggy, and made coffee, wolfing down a bowl of cereal while he waited for the pot to do its work. Two cups later, he was able to handle the newspapers, deliberately skipping the political coverage. The funnies seemed the most important part today; he lingered over Doonesbury and Bloom County. The phone rang once, then he got up, turned off the bell, and adjusted the answering machine to pick up on the first ring. So much for that. They could do without him for this single day, probably the last he would have to himself before the primary.

  He puttered around the house through the morning, rearranging some books on their shelves, throwing out a lot of debris that had begun to fill various corners of the house, hanging a couple of pictures that had been leaning against a cupboard for months. By noon, he was hot and a little tired. Clad only in a light cotton bathrobe, he walked out onto the front porch of the cottage. It was like stepping into a sauna; heat radiated from everything. He opened the robe and flapped it to cool his body, but that only admitted more heat. He looked at the placid little lake; it would be warm from the surface to about a foot down; below that, it would be cool. Impulsively, he shucked off the robe and ran, naked, toward the water; he sprinted down the small dock and, with a whoop, flung himself as far out as he could reach. He had been right about the temperature at the surface; it was blood-warm. He had been wrong about the water below that, too; it was not cool, it was icy. The spring that fed the lake had kept it that way. Holding his breath for as long as he could, he swam underwater, letting the cold depths sweep along his heated body. He broke the surface half a minute later and let out another whoop. He hadn’t had this much fun since he was a teenager. How long since he had swum in the lake? During college? Law school?

  He swam along the warm surface for a minute or two, heading back toward the dock, then turned and dived under the surface again. He counted the seconds as he swam and got to fifty before he shot upward again, gasping for air. As he broke the surface, an odd thing happened. Behind him, near the dock, there was a loud splash. He turned, but there was nobody there. The water, however, was disturbed. Then, suddenly, before he could even take a breath, something grabbed his ankle and yanked him underwater.