by Dave Balcom
I poured a cup of tea, and then braced her in her corner of the newsroom to voice my opinion that, “Readers of the Record could give a rip what an old hack like me had to say,” and that I shouldn’t be included in the lead crime story.
Her answer was thoughtful and direct, “Tough.”
I tucked my tail firmly between my legs and scuttled back to my work station where I concocted some completely innocuous quotes, attributed them to me, and moved on with my task.
The lead story carried both Julie’s and Jan’s by-lines and would be held open until the last minute tonight in case Charlotte and Ray were apprehended before deadline.
The second piece, which was pretty interesting, was a timeline of the entire story, starting with the land acquisitions in the 1980s. I made a couple of calls to Jan, who was working in her office, for confirmation on a date or two, and then, before I could interrupt her again, she plopped her reporter’s notebook down on my desk. “The dates are all in here, highlighted in pink, sweetie,” she said before marching back to her own job.
A third piece came with the suggested title: “Oil or Houses? Mineral Valley future at crossroads” fit my idea of meaningful reporting. It took readers from the “what happened” directly to the “what does this all mean” phase.
In that piece, Patrick Lynch was quoted extensively about how Mickey’s will was being implemented, and how theft by fraud charges were being lodged against Charlotte and Crocker in addition to the charges of murder, conspiracy to commit murder, and the rest of the laundry list of charges that went with their attempt to cover up their plot.
Finally, about four in the afternoon, I filed the last of the three pieces with my initials in the slug, identifying my work as complete.
Julie came out a few minutes later with a proof of the front page printed out from a Quark Express document. “Will you take a shot at these headlines, Jim?” She asked as she dropped the “mini” on my desk. “I don’t need it before four-thirty.”
I was proofing pages, suggesting headline tweaks and generally enjoying myself at about six when Jan came in. “Pizza’s here.”
She sounded tired to the bone.
Julie came out of her office with “final proofs” of the first four pages of the newspaper all pretty much dedicated to the Penny Point story in all its fragments.
“We’re out, as far as I’m concerned. I just talked with Fish, and he told me there’s literally no chance we’ll receive an update before press tonight. I’m ready to send this stuff and then go drink.”
Jan nodded and patted her hand. “Send them, then go share some pizza, I put some cold beer in the fridge, too. It’s an exception. After you’ve confirmed all the pages are in hand in Traverse, you should run on home.”
Julie nodded and went back to her office.
Jan put her lips near my ear, “I just talked to Patty. She’s coming along fine, but I also talked to her dad, and he doesn’t think she’s ever going to be normal again.” She sounded ready to cry. “I met with the staff, and we all agreed, that when she’s ready, she can come back at whatever capacity she thinks she can handle. I’m pretty proud of my folks.”
I didn’t have anything to say to that. In the break room we found everyone but Julie there, pizza boxes were open, and everyone had a bottle of beer open in front of them.
“Mizz Coldwell,” Lisa Schmidt said in her Alabama drawl, hoisting her beer bottle in a toast-like gesture, “this here is a nice treat. Y’all think this beer thing could become s.o.p. for production nights?”
The rest of the women broke up in giggles. Jan raised an eyebrow and rejoined in the same spirit and similar drawl, “Lisa, child, we could probably handle that in our budget if we could eliminate some more of those nasty credits we write off for typos in ads.”
“Start plying this gal with beer, Miss Jan, and you ain’t seen nothin’ in typos,” Rhonda quipped, in her own imitation of Lisa’s drawl.
Everyone was reveling in those good spirits that come from working to exhaustion doing something worthwhile. I sat back and realized I was in a privileged place. These people were accepting me as one of their own; otherwise they would never have let themselves go like this in my presence.
I found only two beers left in the fridge. I grabbed one for Jan, and opened a Pepsi for myself. A few seconds later Julie came in. “All gone, once again.”
She grabbed the last beer from the refrigerator, “Last one?”
Jan nodded and threw a look of gratitude at me. Julie continued, “Looks like I’m headed for the Copper Kettle after all.”
“Here, here,” said Schmidt to much giggling by the rest of them. “But the pizza is definitely cheaper here, and better too. Eat up, and then we can walk to the Kettle.”
When everyone else was gone, I helped Jan clean up. Neither of us had much to say as we made our way to the inn.
63
My first apprehension was finding Zeke in the back of the unmarked car parked next to the inn.
There was a nightlight on in the kitchen, and Big Mike had given us keys to the back door. It was after 10 p.m., but I thought it early for the place to be so dark.
I halted Jan at the bottom of the back steps, before I stepped up to unlock the door, but it was unlocked. I motioned her to be quiet and to stay there.
I opened the back door and stepped into the porch. The screen to the kitchen was closed. I recalled that it would squeak of stretching spring when opened. I passed by it to a set of sliding doors that would let me into the family room where we had played cards the night before.
I peeked in, but there was just the faintest glow from the light above the kitchen stove, and the heavy shadows inside that room could have hidden your worst nightmare.
I gently pulled the slider open, and it just whispered as it moved on its track.
I listened for some response to that noise and just heard the sounds of the old house: The hot water heater ticking as it cooled, the hum of a fan from a downstairs bedroom.
The night sounds of crickets and frogs, the ever-present hum of insects and the sighing gurgle of the river and firs told me that I was overreacting to Hansen’s decision to kennel his partner.
I relaxed a bit and started back for Jan but I froze at what I saw.
“I told you he’d be right back, didn’t I?” Charlotte whispered. She had her arm around Jan’s throat, and her shotgun was pointed directly at me.
“Go into the kitchen, Mr. Stanton. Ray’s in there, and he’d like a chat with you. Us gals will be right behind you; won’t we Jan?”
Jan’s eyes were wide, straining to look right and up where Charlotte’s mouth was, but she couldn’t see that far. The look gave her a terrified appearance, and I didn’t blame her.
I backed up and opened the screen door into the kitchen. Ray was sitting on one of the bar stools at the kitchen. He had a nine millimeter in his hand, aimed at me.
“Jim,” he said softly, “good to see you again. Come on in; sit down.”
I surveyed the kitchen, and he knew I was looking for signs of violence. “No, no mess, no fuss. The old man went quietly, just like the trooper did. They’re downstairs, and they can’t help you.”
“How did you put the dog into the car?”
“You ask the strangest damned questions,” he said with mock surprise and a shake of his head. “I gave the trooper a choice, dog in car or dog in dirt. He put the dog away.”
“And the other trooper, outside?”
“He’s sleeping.”
I heard Charlotte and Jan come in the back door. Charlotte had the muzzle of her sawed-off pump gun pressed into Jan’s ear. “Sit down there, Jan,” Charlotte purred.
Jan pulled a chair out, away from me at the table that was to the left of the bar and behind me. Ray was across the bar facing me and had us both under his gun. When Jan sat down, the distance between us was three feet, with Charlotte standing in the middle of that space. I thought it was a pretty cagey move given Charlotte’s obviou
s state. She appeared to be in need of some kind of fix, almost twitching with desire and anxiety.
“So, Charlotte, Ray,” I started in a conversational tone, turning back to watch Ray. “Why’d you call this meeting?
Ray shook his head like a father who is chastising his child. “Jim, Jim, Jim. You are the reason we’ve called this meeting. You have completely fucked us. Remember, like I told you at the T.C. cop shop, we don’t ever let anyone walk away with fucking us. Never.”
Charlotte struck me with the butt of her weapon, right between the shoulder blades, just above where the ladder-back chair ended. The pain shot down my spine and the force of the blow pushed me into the bar.
“We came here to kill you. Both of you. You meddled with us from the start,” she said. The almost sexual excitement in her voice was plain to hear.
“You guys going it alone, Charlotte? Or is Crocker with you?”
“Crocker? No, he’s not with us. He’s with Ricardo, wherever they are.”
“A loose end?”
“We tidied him up before you butted in the last time,” she said, and hit me with the butt of her gun again, driving the air out of me with the pain.
“Ray, did you know that?” I gasped.
“Ray only knows what I tell him; right Ray?” she said. “I told him he had to kill that cop in the hospital, and then you butted into that, too. I told him he might be killed in that place, but if he wasn’t I’d rescue him.” She laughed, “And I did that, too, didn’t I, lover? I always deliver.”
Ray just chuckled, his arms resting on the counter, his auto dangling in his right hand.
Charlotte gave a nasty little chuckle. “I have led Raymond around by his dick since I was sixteen. Sometimes I thought I was in love with him, I really did. Right, lover?”
I could see Means tense a bit, his stare which had been dedicated to me broke, and he squinted his eyes a bit, like he was trying to make sense of where she was going.
“He never understood that sex and narcotics did nothing for me. None of them – Ricardo, Frank or Ray – none of them ever understood. They never understood that the way I feel this instant, holding this gun on you, knowing I can blow you away at any moment… This just wets my panties.” Her laugh sounded just a bit more insane this time.
“It’s all about being tough enough, you dig? It’s always been about proving I was tough enough to exert control. That’s it, really. The control. I own you people right here and right now.
“Yea though I walk through the valley of death I shall fear no evil because I’m the toughest bitch in the valley…”
I interrupted. “But this all worked out to nothing, just like Mickey said it would before you killed him. You don’t have his property. You don’t have his money. This was all for nothing!”
“It wouldn’t have been if you hadn’t stuck your nose in. You fucked us, Stanton, and nobody ever gets away with that. By this time tomorrow night I’ll be a wealthy stranger in a place where they don’t extradite to the U.S., and everyone will remember that nobody gets away with fucking us.” She hit me again, and then in one smooth motion pointed the shotgun at Means and blew him out of his chair.
“Jesus,” I screamed. The muzzle blast from her shotgun had gone off no more than a foot from my left ear… I was in agony and nearly deaf. The sound disoriented me like one of those stun grenades used in hostage rescue situations.
Scrabbling to keep my balance and not fall out of my chair, I saw her struggling with Jan. Jan had jumped up as Charlotte was trying to cycle the pump gun, and had grabbed it. The two of them were locked together, both of them hanging on to the weapon for their lives.
I pushed myself up from the chair and island, staggering into their dance, still disoriented from the blast of the weapon. I saw Charlotte’s eyes lock on mine just as she pivoted and threw Jan into me.
Her sudden move forced me to put my arms around Jan and our combined momentum and my weight forced Jan to let go of the shotgun. We staggered back into the table, locked in an awkward embrace, her face just below my chin. I saw Charlotte working to cycle the shotgun as I felt a tug at my left waist.
Jan spun away from me, and had the police special up in both hands just as Charlotte lowered the muzzle of the shotgun at us.
Jan’s first shot tore the shotgun out of Charlotte’s left hand, and the shotgun, pointing straight up, went off as Jan fired again, this time taking Charlotte in the center of her chest.
The force of the bullet sent Charlotte back into the refrigerator where she braced herself for a second, trying to regain control of the shotgun.
Jan rushed to her and put the muzzle of the handgun right between Charlotte’s eyes. “Drop it, now,” she said in a frightened voice.
I reached them in one step and snatched the pump from Charlotte’s right hand. I saw her left hand dangling at her side, and I picked it up and put in on top of her head. It was bleeding freely, a bullet hole right through the hummingbird tattoo on the webbing between her thumb and forefinger.
I forced her into a sitting position and started to put her right hand on her head, but then I left it where she had it, covering the hole in her chest.
I steered Jan back to a chair, and took the revolver from her before dialing 911 on my phone.
The smell of burning gunpowder and bodily fluids were a stench in the kitchen. After I hung up from the emergency operator, I looked at my phone and spoke into it, “Zeke!”
I heard nothing. I looked at Charlotte. She was sitting on the floor, her eyes closed. Her breath was coming in short, rapid gasps.
“Jan,” I said. She turned away from watching Charlotte. She looked like one of those pictures you see of survivors in London or Berlin after an air raid.
“Jan, honey, can you go downstairs and see if you can find Big Mike and Tom Hansen? Ray said they were downstairs. Can you go look?”
She seemed to think about it, then she just turned back to watch Charlotte.
I was about to start talking to her again, when the volunteer EMT truck pulled into the back yard. Zeke started barking at the flashing strobes.
Not taking any chances with Charlotte, I switched on the outside and porch lights. “We’re in here,” I yelled. “Hurry!”
The two volunteers came hustling up the steps and into the kitchen. One knelt next to Charlotte, the other, taking a quick look at Jan, went to her side.
He helped her up and into the family room where he found a throw from the back of a couch and wrapped her up in it. He settled her in a chair, whispering to her all the time, telling her she was going to be all right.
“I’m not sure we can save this one,” the first guy said, nodding at Charlotte. “How’s Jan?”
“Shock,” the other tech said. “Let’s stabilize this woman and put her into the ambulance. We’ll call a chopper from Traverse to meet us en route, see if we can keep her alive that long.”
As they started to work on her, I leaned into them, and pointed at her. “Make sure she’s unarmed; I don’t trust her, and she’s real dangerous.”
The two guys exchanged a look before the senior of the two went back to taking off Charlotte’s jacket and cutting away her blouse and bra. He then checked down her legs. “She’s clean.”
“Look at her waist in back,” I said.
He felt back there. “Nope, she’s clean. Hell, man, she’s nearly dead.”
“Don’t turn your back on her; trust me,” I hissed at them as I headed for the basement to find Big Mike and Tom Hansen.
Ray had used Hansen’s own handcuffs to secure him to my bed. Both men were gagged with duct tape. Mike was loosely tied to the headboard. He had a surprised expression on his face; Tom was just seething mad.
I used his keys and turned him loose. I untied Mike and pulled the tape off his mouth. He still had that look I interpreted as shock on his face, so I told him to lie still until one of the techs could look at him.
“Not serious,” the tech said after a few seconds. “Jus
t a bad experience, I think. I’ll ask Doc Collins to come and take a closer look at him.” Turning to Mike, he pushed him back on the bed. “You stay put until Doc says you can move.”
I went back up and found Jan shivering in the sitting room. The EMTs were clearing the scene when Sgt. Fish stormed into the kitchen.
He stepped out of the way as the two techs wheeled Charlotte into the night, then went straight to Hansen who was sitting with Jan, holding her hand.
“What ‘n’ hell went on here,” Fish started in. “Tommy, what the f… Jan, are you all right?”
Jan gave him a wan smile. “I’ve been better, but I’m not shot or anything.”
I took Fish outside and told him the whole story since Jan and I had come into it. I then took Tom’s place so he could tell his version while I sat with Jan.
Dr. Collins, a retired general practitioner, came in while Fish and Hansen were outside. He went down, and brought Mike upstairs.
Then he pushed me away and started looking after Jan. After a few seconds he turned to us, “Gentlemen, can you pour this lady a drink? I’d like one as well.”
64
By the time Fish and all his technicians were through, it was well into the morning hours of Thursday. Jan had been interviewed three times, taped twice. I had been questioned in three separate interviews, recorded as well.
“Jesus Christ Almighty!” the state policeman exclaimed once again, walking back into the house from the back porch. “I’ve been on the force for seventeen years. There’s just never been anything like this here, ever. I gotta know. Are we done?”
I was as fed up with him as he was with me. “As far as I know. There’s a guy in prison somewhere who may be part of this, maybe not. But if Charlotte was telling the truth everybody else is dead or accounted for.”
“I just talked to Lawton, and he’s more worried about your girlfriend than about this case.”
“I’m worried too. Until I met her she’d never fired any kind of weapon. I’m worried just how she’s going to handle this.”
