by Tom Savage
—
The sun was disappearing behind the distant Sangre de Cristo Mountains, turning the wide stretches of desert a rich purple, when Yolanda heard the rattly old Jeep pull in from the highway and stop at the gas pump outside. She watched through the front window as the man got out and went around to the pump. He always served himself and came inside to pay, which was good. Her husband and his father were over in Taos, and she was alone here. Even with the sun down and the desert quickly cooling, she didn’t want to leave the air-conditioned building to fill a gas tank. Besides, she’d always been a little afraid of this man, and she was sorry Jorge and Papa Velasquez weren’t here with her.
There’d been some tourists here just now, two young couples on their way to Los Angeles stopping for gas and cold drinks, but they’d pulled out again not five minutes ago. Just her luck. She watched the man as he pumped. He was wearing his usual today: gray Stetson, work shirt, jeans, Frye boots. He was tall and powerfully built, and from this distance, with the hat, he might be mistaken for a much younger man, but she guessed his age was close to sixty, maybe even older. His longish hair and thick mustache were brilliant white, his tanned face was deeply lined, and the usual expression in his clear blue eyes could only be described as skeptical, as though he’d seen a great deal in his long life and hadn’t liked much of it. He always seemed to be frowning.
She’d known he was coming, ever since the fax arrived while the tourist couples were here. He frequently sent and received them on the bulky machine in Papa Velasquez’s office behind her, and he often used the pay phone. Papa Velasquez got along with the man well enough, laying in supplies for him—ballpoint pens, legal pads, typing paper, and Remington typewriter ribbons that had to be special-ordered from Phoenix. Papa V. supplied all the local artists and writers, but he always referred to Mr. Brown as his best customer. And maybe he was.
She glanced at the sheet of fax paper on the counter, wondering yet again why Mr. Brown, unlike the other writers and artists hereabouts, was so dependent on the Velasquezes’ fax machine and public phone. Everybody these days had a cell, or at least a regular phone, not to mention a computer—hell, even she had these things—but not Mr. Jonathan Brown. He lived all by himself in that small adobe house just outside town, with his manual typewriter and his ancient Jeep, and Rosa at the Tumbleweed Diner down the highway said he went in there for meals at least three times a week, always alone. He wrote books—mystery stories or thrillers or whatever they were called. They’d sold some of his books here on the spin rack from time to time, shiny paperbacks with pictures on the covers of angry men with guns and sexy women in lingerie, with titles like Blood Vengeance and Dark Journey and The Devil Knows I’m Dead. Mr. Brown was apparently famous, but you’d never know it to look at him. He was quiet and kept to himself.
But he sent faxes, and he received them, mostly from his publisher and his agent in New York City. He also got packages in his mailbox—big rubber-banded stacks of paper that were his stories in various stages of preparation. He explained to Papa V. that he corrected them, marking them up with blue pencils before mailing them back, and then there’d be a big flurry of faxes and phone calls from New York. Sometimes Jorge drove over to his place with messages, and Mr. Brown always rewarded him with a twenty, so Jorge didn’t mind doing it. He’d peeked inside the house, reporting back to her that Mr. Brown didn’t have much in the way of furniture, not even a TV.
This fax was from New York, too, but it wasn’t from one of the usual places. It was one of the others, as Yolanda thought of them, the ones from someone named Frank. She was better at reading Spanish than English, but she could make out a few of the phrases on the paper: subject took sudden trip and Kennedy Airport and Virgin Islands. The Virgin Islands were in the Atlantic Ocean somewhere. Who could Mr. Brown possibly know there? And who was Frank, who didn’t work for the literary agency or the publishing company but seemed to be watching someone in New York and reporting on it to Mr. Brown in New Mexico? Yolanda was curious, but she was also too scared of Mr. Brown to ever dream of asking him. And, as her husband and her father-in-law were constantly reminding her about any number of things, it was none of her business in the first place.
The brass bell above the door tinkled as Mr. Brown came inside to pay. He was frowning as he approached her across the shop, his boots clomping loudly on the wood floor, and Yolanda took a small involuntary step back. Even with the counter between them, she shrank from the force of his presence.
“!Hola¡, Yolanda,” he said.
She tried to smile, but she avoided looking directly into the cold blue eyes by glancing at the gas pump readout beside the register and picking up the fax paper. She always seemed to focus on his chin, unable to lift her gaze any higher. “Good afternoon, Mr. Brown. This just came for you. With the gas, that’ll be thirty-two dollars.”
He nodded and pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. He handed her an extra dollar and asked for quarters. She made the change and watched as he looked at Frank’s typewritten message. He read it twice through, his frown deepening, then he wandered over toward the front window, gazing off at the sunset, lost in thought.
“So,” he murmured, staring out, “the game begins.”
He turned abruptly and headed over to the pay phone in the corner. It wasn’t in a booth or anything so elaborate as that, just an ancient coin-op mounted on the wall. Nobody used it much anymore, only Mr. Brown. Everyone else had cells, even the native tribes in the local pueblos. Mr. Brown didn’t seem to have credit cards, come to think of it; he always paid cash here at Papa V.’s Trading Post. He had no friends that she knew of. She wondered if he had a driver’s license or even registration for his Jeep. Hell, she wondered if his name was really Mr. Brown. Other than the fact that he was standing over there, he might easily not exist at all. But he’d been living here, just outside Taos, since Jorge was a child, long before she came up from Mexico and married into the family, and Papa V. called him their best customer, so she was always polite to him.
Now he dropped coins into the slot and punched in a number. Yolanda busied herself with arranging the candy display and the spin rack of postcards on the counter, pretending not to listen while straining to hear every word. He was talking to an airline, from the sound of it, asking about flights to the Virgin Islands. Connecting flights, Santa Fe to Dallas/Fort Worth to Miami to St. Thomas. Nothing tomorrow, apparently, but they had Thursday. Yes, he said, yes, he wanted the earliest available. First class? Fine, whatever.
Then he did the most extraordinary thing. He reached into his wallet and produced a credit card. A credit card! He read off the number into the phone. Yolanda stared over at him, then quickly went back to the postcards. So, she’d been wrong about him after all.
But the big surprise occurred after he’d hung up the phone. Before he left, he went over to the refrigerator unit and got a can of Coke. He came back to the counter, and Yolanda rang him up. He stood there a moment, regarding her, and then he said, “When are you due?”
She blushed and raised a hand to her swelling midsection. She hadn’t expected him to notice her condition. Women always mentioned it—the two tourist girls a few minutes ago had been eager for all the details and full of nutrition advice and labor stories and the latest styles of maternity clothing—but men usually weren’t interested in such things.
“July,” she whispered, lifting her gaze at last to meet the cold blue eyes. To her amazement, he smiled, and the gruff, burnt-out look was briefly replaced by something softer.
“Felicitaciones,” he said.
“Gracias,” she replied.
The familiar scowl was back in place as he strode out the door, got into his dusty Jeep, and drove away. Yolanda felt her body relax, as it always did when he left the store, releasing the nervous tension his presence created. But today she stared after him until the Jeep was out of sight down the highway, reassessing him, wondering just who in the world this Mr. Brown really was.
—
From Virgin Cop: My Life with the VIPD by Joshua L. Faison (Random House, 1982)
After the sentencing, Rodney Harper and Wulfgar Anderman remained in custody at Fort Christian for another month while arrangements were made with medium-security prisons in Florida and North Carolina. I was part of the contingent that took them to the mainland on Thursday, May 28, 1959, two days after Rodney Harper’s sixteenth birthday. We handed them to the authorities at the Miami airport and returned to St. Thomas.
Hannah Vernon, the beautiful social worker, made the trip with us. When she said goodbye to them in Miami, Rodney did not reply or even acknowledge her as he was shepherded off to the plane to North Carolina. Wulfgar nodded to her, and he even smiled briefly before being led away to the connecting flight to Tallahassee. The two boys hadn’t spoken to each other during the flight, nor did they say goodbye to each other when they parted. They simply went their separate ways.
On the return flight to the island I contrived to sit beside Miss Vernon, and by the time we landed she had promised to have dinner with me.
—
Joshua Faison, Junior, was appropriately named: He was a younger version of his father. The resemblance was not merely physical but in his easy grace and friendly manner. He arrived in the restaurant as Karen and the retired lieutenant were finishing dessert, and his entrance was greeted with smiles and waves from many of the diners. Small island, Karen thought as he made his way over to their table.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant,” Karen said as they shook hands.
“Hello, Ms. Tyler. Thank you for entertaining my father. He was really looking forward to this evening.”
“So was I,” she replied, settling the bill as the younger man helped his father to rise and retrieve his cane. They made their way up the stairs to the hillside road. When they reached it and the elder Mr. Faison was ensconced in the passenger seat of his son’s car, with many repeated thanks for the dinner, the current lieutenant turned to her.
“Allow me to walk you to your car, Ms. Tyler.”
“Karen,” she said automatically.
He smiled. “Then you must call me Junior.” They walked up the road lined with the parked cars of the other diners, and Karen looked out at the stunning nighttime view, a thousand lights under a thousand stars.
“Dad told me a little about your articles,” he said as they arrived at her rental car. “Something about a witness to the Harper/Anderman business. Does this have to do with that movie that opens Friday?”
“Yes,” she said. “Is it opening here as well?”
He nodded grimly. “You’d better believe it! The Council on the Arts is having a benefit premiere party. Dad will be there, along with some people who worked on the film. Extras in crowd scenes, mostly, but they hired a few local actors to play small roles. They even had a young native guy playing Dad.”
“Yes,” Karen said. “I saw a trade screening in New York two weeks ago. Your ‘dad’ is in several scenes, and he’s very good. It’s a remarkable movie.”
“Hmm. Well, I was glad when they’d finished filming—it was a nightmare, all those lights and cameras being lugged up and down these hills, and helicopters for aerial shots. Not to mention the curious locals and tourists who followed them everywhere, and the infernal press—begging your pardon.”
Karen was curious. “I get the impression you don’t approve of the movie.”
Lieutenant Faison shrugged his wide shoulders. “It’s not a question of that. The movie might actually boost tourism. Lots of great footage of the island, like an expensive travelogue. But that case still affects Dad. He got that limp in a shootout with a nineteen-year-old drug smuggler. He killed the kid, and it bothered him, but even that didn’t haunt him like Harper/Anderman. I don’t like him talking about it. I mean, tonight with you was fine, but sometimes he can get excited when the subject comes up, and at his age—”
“Of course,” Karen said quickly, suppressing a brief pang of guilt. Then she grinned. “But it was the way your parents met, after all, so…”
He surprised her by uttering a deep, hearty laugh. “Oh yes, don’t I just know that! Isn’t it something? They met on the case, and they were married a year later, then I came along. If it weren’t for those two boys, I wouldn’t be here. Still…” His smile disappeared as he trailed off, watching as she got into the car. He shut the door for her. As she started the engine, he leaned down to the window and said, “This witness, or whoever it is—you just be careful, okay?” He produced a card and handed it to her. “Let me know if you need anything.”
Karen glanced at the card in her hand. It was his official police card, with phone numbers and email addresses. She dropped it into her purse. The lieutenant was clearly conveying an unspoken message, something she’d do well to remember. Despite his momentary lack of a uniform, this man was a cop, a highly placed member of the VIPD. If her unknown host turned out to be Harper or Anderman, she’d be breaking the law simply by meeting with him and not disclosing his presence on the island. But, as a journalist, she’d be compelled to protect her source. She and the lieutenant both knew this, and, all things considered, he was being very polite about it.
“Thank you, Junior,” she said. “I’ll be careful. And I enjoyed talking with your father. He’s a wonderful man.”
“That he is,” he said. “Enjoy your stay in the Islands.”
Karen turned the car around to head back the way she’d come. As she passed the hotel, she waved to Mr. Faison, Senior—Josh—waiting for his son in the other car. He waved back. She drove down the mountain, through Charlotte Amalie, and around the waterfront toward her own hotel. On the way, she passed by the entrance pillars to the most notorious house on the island. The brass plaque with the word Tamarind gleamed briefly in the headlights, then vanished in the ensuing darkness.
Chapter Four
Rodney Harper’s Diary
MAY 29, 1958
I am different from other people. I’ve always known that, I suppose. I’m not your average human being, not by a wide mile. I’m smarter, faster, better. We took IQ tests in school last year. I wasn’t supposed to know the results, of course, but they sent copies around to the faculty, and Mrs. Gould’s desk drawer is a cinch to open, lock or no lock.
The entire school, all 73 of us, were listed, top result to bottom, and you can guess who was at the top. Wulf’s name was right under mine, natch. “Genius” is officially listed as 150, and beside my name it read “180++.” Wulf got an actual number: 165. The girl below him, Mindy Thayer, was 136, and the next one after her was 128 (that ugly Darlene Provall). Everyone else came after that. I wasn’t surprised to see that Jake French and Claude Morley, the creeps who always bother us, were at the bottom. Jake thinks he’s so cool, but he’s exactly 22 points above “moron.” I know Mom and Dad were told because they keep staring at me and shaking their heads. They must have had some smart forebears way back in their family trees because they’re both morons.
The Plan has taken over my every waking moment, and at night I dream of it. One single, perfect act—to start with, anyway…
—
“Karen Tyler?”
“Yes?”
“Don Price, Daily News.”
“Oh yes. Hello.”
“Hi.”
Karen stared up at the man from the couch in the hotel lobby. She could feel a slow blush stealing across her face, and she tried to conceal it with a bright smile. But she was disconcerted; she’d assumed the photographer would be a native, but this man was a tall, lanky, dark-haired Caucasian, handsome in a lupine sort of way. He rather towered as he smiled down at her. He was wearing baggy gray cargo pants, sneakers, and a brand-new white T-shirt emblazoned on the front with a message in bold black letters: i slept on a virgin (island). Witty. He had what looked to be a pack of cigarettes and a pair of sunglasses in the pocket of the shirt, and a small, expensive-looking camera hung from a strap around his neck. She gestured
toward the couch beside her, and he sat.
She looked at her watch: 11:45. “We have a few minutes to wait, so I can tell you what I need this afternoon. A few shots of the subject and maybe a few shots of his home, if he consents to it. To tell you the truth, I’m not even certain he’ll allow you to photograph him. He’s a very private man. But try to get shots anyway. I assume you know how to do that without his knowledge, if necessary.” She gestured toward the camera. “Is that all your equipment?”
“Sure. It’s all I need. Best camera on the market—for this kind of work.” Don Price grinned, and the flash of teeth told her that surreptitious surveillance was something he enjoyed. He was apparently what her friend Gwen would call an “operator.” Karen wasn’t at all sure she was going to like him. Well, so be it, she thought, as long as he does his job….
They fell into an uncomfortable silence, and Karen leaned back on the couch and kept an eye on the front entrance, glancing over at her companion every now and then with a brief, empty smile. She wondered if she should be attempting to make small talk with him, then decided it wasn’t necessary. She didn’t mind his silence—quite the contrary. But one question did occur to her: If you live here, in the sun-and-fun capital of the world, why are you so pale? Glancing at him again, she thought better of asking it.
For his part, Don Price didn’t seem at all curious as to where they were going this afternoon. In that way, he reminded her of all the photographers she’d worked with at the magazine. Silent observers, most of them, always setting up the next shot in their minds, framing it, checking light levels and shutter speeds.
She’d spoken with Jim on the phone last night, asking him for advice on what she should wear to the interview. He’d laughed. “Demure young journalist meets tropical climate”—those had been his words. Karen glanced down at her short-sleeved, pale blue cotton blouse and slim-fit jeans over new underwear, with white sport socks and sneakers. Neat and sensible, plain and simple. She had a digital recorder in her shoulder bag with her cell phone, but after some thought, she’d left her laptop in her room. It would be enough to record him, maybe take some pen-and-paper notes, and type it all up tonight when she returned to the hotel. This was her usual procedure with face-to-face interviews.
