by Ted Wood
He grunted. “Ever price an orchid?” He waved his hand at his plants. “This is what you can afford when you're on a pension. Geraniums, African violets, a few hibiscus, wandering jew.”
“Price isn't everything. These are beautiful.”
“You're Bennett, aren't you?” he said softly.
I looked into those pale eyes. There was no expression there. “Yes, I am, Mr. Wilcox, and I'm here to say I'm very sad at what happened to Randy. My father died the same way.”
“Then you understand,” he said. He turned his head away and fiddled with the leaves of a geranium plant. I waited until he had composed himself.
“I got a pot of coffee goin',” he said.
We went back into the kitchen where he plugged in his coffee maker. It was half full. Neither of us said anything until it had come almost to a boil. Then he poured two cups. “What do you take in it?”
“I like it black, please,” I said.
He handed me the cup and nodded towards the living room. “Sit down. An’ take that coat off.”
I slipped out of my parka and hung it over the back of a chair and then went into the living room. He took the armchair opposite the TV. I sat on the couch.
“Did you take that woman's money?”
“No sir. I didn't. Somebody put it into my lunch pail.”
He sipped and nodded. “I believe you, after what happened to Randy.” His lips were pursed, tense. “He told me what you said to him.”
“He told you what was going on?”
“Yeah. He told me.” He looked older as he huddled with his grief. “You want to know when he told me?”
“Let me guess: last Sunday,” I said.
Wilcox nodded. “Right. He sat right where you're sitting, with Jeannie next to him and he told me. Told me he'd spoken to you and he figured you were a good guy or he'd never have said anything.”
“What do you make of it?” I kept my tone brisk. He was that kind of man. He would be ashamed of letting his sorrow show.
“I think that Lewicki was murdered. By the cops,” he said. “And now I think that my son was murdered to shut him up.”
“What did the inquiry say? I've been working nights, I didn't get to the hearing.”
He set down his coffee cup next to a big fern on a stand beside him. “They said he must have been careless with the charges.”
“Would he have been?”
Wilcox shook his head. “For sure not. He's been drinking, heavy, since his run-in with the police. There must have been mornings he went into work with the shakes. But Monday he was cold sober. Didn't even have a beer with me on Sunday night. Said he was off it, for keeps. So his hands were steady Monday.”
“Where was his helper when this happened?”
“That's the queer part,” Wilcox said. “He says he had a headache. He went back to his lunch box to get some aspirin. Very convenient.”
“If he was that hung over he'd have stayed home,” I said. “Guys don't work with explosives unless they're up to par.”
Wilcox cleared his throat. He didn't meet my eyes. “Yeah, well that came up. This guy, his name's Nunziatta, he said that lots of days young Randy had been hung over. Only he'd always come in, so he came in as well.”
“Did he say how Randy was that day?”
“Said he was normal, didn't seem like he'd had anything at all to drink. Said it was Randy's idea that he went and got an aspirin. He was in the lunchroom when the blast came.”
I sat for a moment, trying to remember the procedures my father had told me about, years ago. “Was all the explosive accounted for, all the detonator caps, everything?”
“Everything was buried. What wasn't blown up in the blast,” Wilcox said harshly. “They dug out everything they could, but it's not like going over somebody's parlor. You know what it's like in a stope. Miners did the looking, not police.”
“What do you know about this Nunziatta?”
“Nothing much. He'd worked with Randy for a year. They got on pretty good. They used to drink together a lot over this last while, since Lewicki got killed. But from what I hear, Nunziatta used to quit earlier than Randy. He'd have a few, then go home. Randy'd stay till closing most nights.”
“Did you talk to him after the hearing?”
“I didn't want to talk to anybody,” Wilcox said. He cleared his throat again and when he spoke his voice was louder. He was working to control his emotion. “Like my wife died two years ago. My daughter married an accountant at the mine. They moved to Toronto and she never calls me or writes anymore. Randy was the only one I had left.”
“I'm sorry, Mr. Wilcox.”
“It happens. I suppose,” he said. He picked up his coffee cup and gulped the rest of the contents down. “I came home and sat right here and thought about what I could do. And there didn't seem like a hell of a lot. Even if I can prove somebody murdered my boy, he's still dead.”
“Nothing can change that. But if there was a proper inquiry, the guy who did it could end up in jail. And the police could be convicted. That would be a monument to him.”
He looked at me coldly. “Then you're home and dried. No charge against you. Is that it?”
“The charge is phony. It isn't going to stick.”
“But it's there.”
I looked at him, wondering whether I could trust him. Most likely I could. He didn't seem like a blabbermouth. But on the other hand, he didn't need to know. I compromised.
“My future isn't in this town,” I said. “I'm here to do a job; when it's done, I'm gone.”
He narrowed his eyes. “That could mean anything.”
“I'm not saying any more. But you can trust me.”
He got up and went over to the dresser. He took out a can of Players cigarette tobacco and rolled himself a smoke before he answered. When it was lit he said, “I've been wondering how long it would take to send somebody like you up here. We're a long way from Toronto. Things can go wrong for a long time before the government gets around to doing anything about it.”
I said nothing and he sat down again. “I take it you're here to put an end to the corruption in the police force.” I didn't answer but he raised one hand. “Don't say anything. I guessed that when Randy told me you'd had a word with him at the arena. So I was thinking, if Randy had spoke up when it happened, none of this would've happened. Now what happens if I come forward?”
“It will create a scandal. But that's all. You're not an eyewitness. People will believe you but a court wouldn't. Things will go on like they are now. Only you'll be in danger.”
“Then you're in danger as well,” he said.
“That's part of the job. And anyway, they think they've got me in a corner, with this charge hanging over me.”
“How can I help?” he asked. “I want to find out what really happened to my son and why.”
“You could talk to Nunziatta. Just as Randy's father. See what he says, see if you think he's as clean as he sounds.”
He nodded and smoked the last of his thin little roll-up. Then he stubbed it and said, “Okay then, that's what I'll do. But in the meantime, you're in danger. I've got something for you.”
“For me?”
He stood up. “Wait there.” He went through the kitchen and I heard him patter down the basement steps. When he came back he was carrying an old Lee-Enfield rifle. I recognized the military stock, a war-surplus weapon from World War Two. He snapped the bolt open and handed the rifle to me.
“This thing is accurate at four hundred yards.”
I took it, frowning. “You want me to have this?”
“For two reasons,” he said. “It'll give you some fire-power, and it'll get it out of the house. I've been thinking a lot about using it.”
“Who on?” I looked at him. He didn't seem the type to commit suicide.
“On that bastard Ferris,” he said. “Since Randy died I've been sitting here thinking of getting him in my sights and pulling that trigger. I've done it before o
n guys I didn't know. I'd just been told to hate them.”
“Do you have any shells?”
“Yeah.” He opened the dresser and took out a box. Three were missing. When I looked at the gaps he said, “Three shells, three moose. One a season when I was still hunting. I'm good with that thing.”
“Then I'll take it, and thank you. They took my gun when they arrested me.”
He took the rifle from me and slipped out the magazine. “Let me load it,” he said. I watched as he lovingly filled the mag. It was something he had done often. He handed it back to me. “Carry this in your pocket. You ever use one of these things?”
“My dad had one. The Mark Four, U-sights, just like this. He'd carried one in the British Army.”
“I like the sound of him,” he said and when I'd put the magazine in my pocket he shook my hand. “Thank you for coming over. I'll talk to Nunziatta and call you.”
“The phone calls have started,” I said. “My wife's disconnected the telephone. I live at Forty-six Bluejay Street.”
“Then I'll be in touch,” he said.
He walked me through to the kitchen and I transferred the magazine to my parka pocket and draped the parka over the rifle. It didn't hide it but it made it less conspicuous. “Thanks for the help,” I said and left.
I stopped the car halfway back to town, put my parka on and laid the rifle, complete with magazine, on the backseat, under the blanket I keep there to catch most of Sam's hair when he rides with me. Freda didn't need to know I was armed, I decided. It would only make her more anxious.
By the time I got home Irv Goldman was back. He and Fred were in the living room, having a drink. Irv is not much of a drinker. They were sipping sherry. “Grab yourself a cold one,” he commanded. “I've got news.”
I pulled a Labatt's Blue out of the fridge and joined them.
“How did you get on with Berger?” I asked after I'd given Fred a quick buss.
“Very productive,” Irv said. “He wants a meeting with you, tonight.”
“Where?”
“Out of town.” Irv grinned. “He's in real Dutch with these clowns, I could tell that. He was jumpy and evasive. When I suggested you come over there, he just about had a kitten. So he said he'd see you outside town, on the old logging road that runs west from the highway. He says it's plowed out and there's a cleared spot a mile in, where they used to store equipment.”
Fred frowned. “Sounds kind of remote.”
“Privacy's hard to come by in Elliot,” I said. “If we meet in a public place we'll be seen, and everybody knows both of us. Word would get back to Harding. Out there we're not likely to have a car come by. Maybe the odd couple heads out there for a spot of Mom and Pop, but otherwise we're on our own.”
“What time?”
“Eleven,” Irv said. “By then the hotel'll be busy enough that nobody's gonna notice if he leaves. He's jumpy, Reid. I think he knows how rough these people play.”
Fred spoke next. “If he's so aware of what's going on, he must have some reason for putting up with it.” She shrugged. “I mean, a guy with nothing to hide would have gone to the authorities as soon as the chief moved in on him. He knows it's not legal. Why has he been putting up with it?”
Irv nodded. “I thought of that one, too. I've called Toronto to see if he's got a sheet. I'll know tomorrow. He stood up. “Now I've got to catch that flight. The case should be over by Wednesday of next week, and I'll come back up.”
I stood up and shook his hand. “Thanks for the help, Irv. Left to these bastards I'd still be inside.”
“Worry not. You've got friends in high places.” He grinned and we shook hands, then he bussed Fred and we saw him out and waved him good-bye.
Fred shut the door and said, “I've got a butterflied leg of lamb. How does that sound?”
“Great,” I told her. She was still looking tense. I hugged her. “Once I've met with Berger and set him up, this is winding down. We could be out of here by the weekend.”
“You're forgetting about my class,” she said, trying a smile. “What's going to happen to all my actresses?”
“You can sign them all up with your agent,” I said and she grinned, glad to have the subject changed for a while.
Our evening was quiet. We didn't talk about the case. Instead we sat pretending to watch television. There was a hockey game on but it didn't hold the interest of either of us and finally I switched the set off and we played cribbage. I was glad when the clock crept up to ten-thirty.
“Well, I'm on my horse,” I said. “The last act is about to begin.”
“Let's hope so.” She stood up. “Should I come with you?”
“No. He won't want any witnesses. But thanks anyway.” I put a sweater on over my heavy shirt and then my parka and overboots. It's a maxim of mine that in winter you always dress as if you're going to have to walk home. Fred watched me, then asked, “Are you going to take Sam?”
“No. I thought I'd leave him here with you. I'm just going to talk, there's no reason for having him along.”
She grinned at me crookedly. “You wouldn't lie to me, would you Reid?”
“I'm a lousy liar,” I said, squeezed her hand, winked and left. I drove out of town to the logging road. As Berger had told Irv, it had been plowed out. I drove in for a mile and found the clearing, a place about an acre in extent, slashed out of the scrubby trees. It too had been plowed and I pulled in. There was no other car there.
I sat for a minute in silence, enjoying the warmth of the car. Then I checked my watch. It showed five to eleven. I felt tense. For too many days I had been the guy on the low end of the totem pole, the one unpleasant things happened to. I felt uncomfortable, and now my discomfort became too much for me. I wanted an edge, the way I would have arranged things if I were in charge. I got out of the car, taking the rifle with me, leaving the car motor running. I inserted the magazine into the rifle. The weight of the spare shells in the pocket of my parka felt comforting. I was probably overreacting, but it felt good to be in charge of my own activities again. With my heavy mitts on I couldn't use the trigger on the rifle, I would have to shuck them to fire, but I worked the bolt once to feed a shell into the chamber. It seemed like overkill, but the old tingling I had experienced so often in ‘Nam was in my blood.
I walked across the clearing and into the trees, forty yards from the car. It was cold for mid-November, ten below. Later in the winter this would seem like a mild spell. After the warmth of the car I hugged into the collar of my parka and breathed through my mouth, stopping the hairs in my nose from freezing. In the spillover light from my car headlights I could see my breath like a cloud beside me. I stood still and listened.
A car came up the road. I heard it a moment before the headlights flickered through the trees on the roadside. Then it pulled into the lot. It drove up nose to nose with my car and a man got out. He walked to the driver's side of my car and I could see his right hand hanging at his side, holding a gun.
I put my right hand to my mouth and pulled off my mitt with my teeth. With my thumb I eased off the safety from the rifle and raised the gun across my chest, ready to swing it and fire. The man stood beside the door of the car for a moment and then he fired, three times, through the side window. I raised the gun and fired, taking out the back tire on my side of his car. The man yelled in alarm and ran, across the clearing and down the road on the other side. I came out of the trees and followed him, pelting as hard as I could in my heavy winter gear.
TWELVE
I was gaining on him and he stopped suddenly and pointed his gun. I reacted instinctively, diving to my left, rolling away so his shot sailed past me, yards wide. Then I crouched up and blazed off a round just over his head. “Halt! or the next one's going through you,” I shouted.
He wailed, like a child. “Don't shoot me. Please.”
“Drop the gun. In front of you.”
He tossed it away from him as if it were hot. Maybe he thought this would be like a We
stern movie, the pistol would go off and shoot me neatly through the heart. It didn't. The hammer was down on a dead round. I stood up, keeping the rifle on him. “On the deck,” I told him. He looked at me helplessly, not understanding, his hands on his head. “On the ground. Sit,” I said. He sat down and I came up to him, keeping the rifle aimed at his chest.
“Don't shoot me. Please.” He was babbling. “Please. I didn't mean nothing. I knew you wasn't there.”
I bent and picked up his gun. It was a Colt police special, like the one I had handed to Ferris that morning.
“Who sent you?”
“Whaddya mean?” He squirmed around to look up at me, his voice pleading. I glanced back up the road where the headlights were blazing through the trees, but there was nobody there. He had come alone.
“Whaddya gonna do?” his voice was high and frightened.
“I'm going to find out why you wanted to kill me,” I said and prodded him with the gun muzzle. “Who sent you?”
“Ferris.”
“Sgt. Ferris?”
“Yeah. That's him. He sent me. Gave me the gun, told me to come out here, pull up at the front of your car like I done, an’ shoot you.”
“Where did you get the gun?”
“He gave it me.” The voice was still high and frightened. He could have been lying but it didn't sound like it.
“Who else came with you?”
“Nobody. He said not to bring nobody else. Said I was to shoot, then get back in the car and come back to town.”
“And then what?”
“Nothin'.” He almost squawked it. “Just go home. That's what he said.”
“What's your name?”
“Frank Nunziatta.”
“Well, Frankie, you're in a whole mess of trouble,” I said. “You just tried to murder a man. You'll get ten years for that.”
“I knew you wasn't there,” he pleaded.
“That's not going to cut any ice when I turn you over to the OPP,” I said, keeping my voice angry.
“The OPP?” His voice was still fearful but it was puzzled too.
“Yeah, the OPP. You don't think I'm going to give you back to Ferris, do you?” I laughed. “Hell, you should thank me for it. You'd be found hanging in your cell tomorrow morning if I did that.”
