by Jason Deas
“You’re a real son of a bitch,” Bobby seethed.
“That’s funny. I think that is the same thing Peter Banks said. No,” Benny said correcting himself. “No, I think he called me a prick. Maybe it was an asshole. Nevertheless, let me preface choice number two by declaring this is not blackmail in case you begin to feel that way. Blackmail is a threat and I in no way want you to feel threatened since you do have choices here.”
“Get on with it, Mr. James. I have a feeling, despite your semantics, that I am still going to feel blackmailed.”
“You may be right,” Benny replied. “We are in a bit of a grey area here. Anyway, choice number two. My client has expressed he does not necessarily desire to be reunited with his biological mother and father. He has stated that in his mind the pair who kidnapped him are the only mother and father he wishes to ever know.”
Bobby took a breath and slumped down in his chair as his shoulders relaxed.
“I have taken a real liking to the boy, but I am in no position to support him financially. Right now he is staying at my house, which I believe he has become quite fond of. It just so happens I have another place where I spend the majority of my time. I have been meaning to officially call it home for some time. I would be willing to sell the house to Red, or excuse me, William James Baker, and officially call my other residence home if it will bring closure to this issue.”
“How much do you want for it?” Bobby sneered.
“Market value,” Benny answered. “This isn’t highway robbery; I’m a fair man. Two hundred thousand dollars for the house. He is also going to need a monthly allowance. The kid will need to eat and pay utility bills you know.”
“If I agree to this, what happens to the original documents and the information you two know?”
“The document will go into a safe deposit box in case the monthly payments stop, and Ms. Martin and I will forget this situation ever arose.”
“How about this?” Bobby countered. “I give you a lump sum, say five hundred thousand dollars, and you give me the document and I never see or hear of you again?”
Benny made a split second decision. “Deal.”
Chapter 75
There was a knock at R.C.’s motel room door. It was Benny.
“How you doin’?” Benny asked, with a slice of Sicilian embedded in his intonation.
R.C. nodded hello, holding the feather chest-high with a clinched fist. When he realized what he was doing, he tried to casually drop his hand behind his back.
“After I ask your name,” Benny began, “I’m gonna ask you why you’re holding a feather behind your back. Please, don’t tell me you don’t have one.” Benny paused as R.C. held a frozen pose. “So, what’s your name, kid?”
Benny loved this approach. He was about the same age as R.C. but he found it sometimes effective to play the role of a father who was scolding his son. Benny knew it rattled some personality types. R.C.’s forehead beaded up with sweat.
“Kent,” R.C. said. “Name’s Kent.”
“The desk jockey with the shitty coffee told me you call yourself R.C.?” Benny stared. “What’s with the Clark Kent bullshit? Are you using different names to hide anything in particular, Chief Hidden Feather?”
“Who are you?” R.C. asked. “You only seem vaguely like a cop.”
“I only vaguely am.”
“Why don’t you come inside? I have nothing to hide,” R.C. said.
There was a round table nearly falling apart near the draped window, bracketed by two rickety and well-abused chairs. The two men sat.
“Do you happen to know the current events of this town?”
“I do.”
“So, you understand why I am concerned that you are a stranger in Tilley using fake names and holding a bird feather?”
“It doesn’t look good, does it?”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Would you believe me if I told you it was a long, long story?”
“I will believe you for a few minutes,” Benny promised. “That is, until I have a reason not to.”
“OK.”
R.C. told Benny two sentences about his childhood. The detailed revelations that followed dealt with his crisis in Vietnam. R.C. told Benny about Miles, the guns, the betrayal, and Myra.
Benny held his cards close to his chest, concealing the information Ned previously uncovered. The name Miles was new information. Benny asked for his last name and R.C. told him, thinking he would be unable to find him with the name change, and even if he did it would be too late; he would be dead.
R.C. held up the feather and waved it in Benny’s face. “When he killed Myra—he wrote ‘Birdsongs’ on the wall. He’s fucking with me!” R.C. entered into the beginning stages of working himself into a rant.
“Relax,” Benny said. “Do you mean that Miles is doing this to you?”
“Relax?” R.C. clenched both fists on either side of his forehead. “Relax? Yes, Miles is the person doing this to me. Could you relax, if you were me? Let me answer that for you—Mr.?—I’m sorry, but I didn’t get your name?”
“Benny. Benny James.”
“Mr. James—no—you couldn’t relax.”
“Relax Ray Clint.”
“You need to leave.” R.C. stood.
Benny did as requested. R.C. watched, pulling the heavy drapery back, giving himself an opening to see the taillights of Benny’s Jeep disappear around the corner. As soon as the automobile was out of sight, R.C. cranked up his motorcycle and parked it in the back of the Tuck ‘Em Inn. He gathered his few belongings and placed them together under the window in the bathroom. Opening the window he knocked out the screen that was screwed in place. Peeking his head out to ensure no one was watching, he made sure he would fit out the window. After multiple attempts, R.C. discovered the best method for making a quick exit.
Chapter 76
Benny sat at his desk in a haze of mental computations. There was a rapping at the door. Benny answered the door and as Rachael entered, she spotted Vernon sitting on the couch with his hands on his forehead, seemingly not noticing she had entered the room.
Just as she was about to look away from him he looked up. “Hey Rachael.” His voice was heavy. Benny’s face, she thought, held more weight.
“What’s happened?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Vernon answered. “It’s what Benny and Red uncovered.”
“Red?” Rachael asked confused.
“Yeah,” Vernon answered. With Benny’s nod of approval, he told her about the birdsongs, the Byrds, Ray Clint Boyd, and Miles.
After her initial shock wore off, Rachael asked, “Where the hell is Ray Clint now? Why aren’t you arresting him?”
“As far as we know,” Benny said, “Ray Clint hasn’t done anything wrong. We only have our suspicions, a thirty year old murder, and an odd theory. And now we have a new name, Miles. We don’t have any evidence we can hold him on. If we take the chance of arresting him and he gets out after the judge finds out we don’t have anything substantial, he walks.
“We can’t take him in on a hunch and risk him leaving town when he gets out. Same thing if we bring him in to the station to further question him about this Miles character. Vernon has a man on him.” Benny was reassuring himself as much as the others.
“Officer Mandolino is in the room next door at The Tuck ‘Em Inn. Last we heard, Ray Clint was in his room flipping through all of the news channels. Thank God for the paper thin walls. He’s trying to find out what the media knows. Officer Mandolino reported he can smell cigarette smoke and it sounds as though Ray Clint is beating something against the bed. He’s obviously nervous. Officer Mandolino said the motorcycle that was out front when I visited is now parked out back.”
“The meeting the Chief called with us, is in an hour,” Vernon reminded Benny.
“What does he want with you two?” Rachael asked.
“He’s worried.”
“It hasn’t been ten days,” Rachael protested.
“He said you guys had ten days!”
“He’s got ants in his pants,” Benny quipped. “He thinks the whole world is looking at him. He can’t stand thinking people think he’s a dope.”
“Are you going to tell him what you know?”
“I don’t know,” Vernon replied. “Are we Benny?”
“I think we have to—to some degree. We have to let him know we’re on to something.” Benny scratched his head. “We’ll tell him about Ray Clint but we’ll leave out all of the other stuff.”
“Connie needs me to help her move a dresser,” Vernon lied. “Sorry,” he winked to Benny. “Gotta run. I’ll see you there.”
Chapter 77
Chief Neighbors was in a different sweat suit, sitting behind his desk, when Benny and Vernon arrived. He was fidgeting and tugging on his moustache. His eyes were crazy machines. As they entered, Neighbors tried to stand up and banged his knees on the underside of the desk; he plopped back down into his swiveling seat.
“Well, well,” he stuttered, relinquishing all niceties with nervousness. “Should I ask the FBI for their help?” His eyes flitted back and forth like a mad tennis rally.
“Chief,” Benny said. “Relax. Have you had any sleep lately? You look like shit. Looks to me like you haven’t slept in two days and you’ve had way too much coffee.”
“Yeah boss,” Vernon piped. “You look like death warmed over.”
“Do you two know what they are saying about me out there?” Chief Neighbors looked scared.
“I do,” Benny lied. “They’re heralding you as an unflinching head of operations. Just this morning, channel six referred to you as a chess mastermind waiting to announce checkmate.”
“Really?” Chief Neighbors sat up and squared his shoulders.
“Yes,” Benny lied again.
Chief Neighbors stood up and bobbed his head with new confidence. “I got ‘em all fooled,” he said pointing his finger at Benny and then at Vernon. “Some of them goddamn idiots think I’m just some backwoods hick cop and they’re finding out that I’m not. You guys really got something? Am I doing the right thing?” Chief Neighbors asked raising his eyebrows and pointing hopefully again at Benny and Vernon.
“Yeah Chief, we do,” Vernon answered. “I’ll let Benny tell you about it.”
Benny did just that. Chief Neighbors listened like a kid being told Santa was his mommy and daddy. He was already planning something before Benny was halfway through his sugary fairy tale explanation of the preceding events. Chief Neighbors’s eyes flashed in a way neither Benny nor Vernon liked.
Chapter 78
As soon as the men left, Chief Neighbors dialed digits. He was going to be the hero. He wished he had a Trans Am with a phoenix painted on the hood to hightail it over there like Burt Reynolds in Smokey and the Bandit. Little did he know he had half-ass information. He called in the cavalry. He, of course, was at its lead as it descended upon the Tuck ‘Em Inn.
R.C. heard them coming and he was ready. He threw his bag that waited under the window out onto the outside ground below. The engraved baseball bat was of course included. He pushed the bike down the street a ways, fired it up and drove to his pre-planned hideout.
Chief Neighbors called Rachael’s cell phone before leaving, imagining his star rising and his name in lights.
Her crew arrived on the Chief’s coattails. As the crew coasted into a makeshift parking space, the cameraman hopped out on the run as Rachael did the same. Lights. Camera. Action.
Chief Neighbors had his gun drawn. His unscarred boot kicked the door to room 114 of the Tuck ‘Em Inn open and he entered, holding his gun with a straight arm outwards, sideways, like a gangster. He was ready to pop off a few rounds like Billy the Kid or John Wayne as he flew into the room. It was empty. He signaled for Rachael to kill the taping.
Chief Neighbors looked at Rachael with his best puppy dog eyes. He was lost. All dressed up with nowhere to go, Rachael thought.
“What do I have to do to get you to lose that tape?” Chief Neighbors asked pointing to her cameraman.
“Let Benny and Vernon have the ten days you promised them and I will destroy the tape.” Rachael realized his jittering hand still had a firm grip on his gun.
“All right,” Chief Neighbors sighed and holstered the weapon.
“What I was trying to tell you on the phone when you disconnected me is there is more to the story, Chief,” Rachael offered.
“What?” he looked at her quizzically.
“Yeah! I advised you on the phone not to do it, but you hung up on me and wouldn’t answer when I tried repeatedly to call you back. This guy here,” Rachael said pointing fingers and waving arms as she motioned her limbs about the room. “Ray Clint Boyd is his name,” she stated. “He’s kind of like a decoy,” she said trying to calmly spell it out for the Chief.
“He’s a what?”
“A decoy. He’s not who you’re looking for. He’s being set up.”
“By who?”
“Miles Davenport.”
Chapter 79
R.C. wrestled the bike through the sand. Driving a motorcycle through sand was tricky business. As he made his way to the heart of the cove, he looked for footprints. Finding none, he traveled on in peace. His boat waited for him right where he left it. He loaded his bag and pushed off for the island in the distance. He rowed like a Harvard tryout. Before he knew it, he was saying “Land Ho.”
R.C. had made the trip to the island on a previous occasion as sort of a test run. He knew his time at the Tuck ‘Em Inn was limited. He also knew after reading the papers and watching the news coverage, someone would eventually make connections to the murder thirty years earlier.
At two different pawnshops the week before, he bought a one-man tent, a sleeping bag, a battery operated lantern, and a camp stove. He didn’t want to risk starting a fire and raising suspicions with plumes of smoke emanating from the small island so close to shore. He brushed away a pile of cleverly laid leaves and sticks to reveal his stash of canned foods and drinks in a hole, hand dug in the soft earth.
R.C. opened a can of beef stew and heated it directly in the can over his camp stove. He wasn’t much of a drinker but he cracked open one of the six beers he stored in his hole. As he sipped the suds, he knew it probably was one of the last beers of his life. He glanced at his bag and saw the butt of the baseball bat sticking out through the unzipped end of the satchel. R.C. decided he would see the sun set and rise a couple more times before he finalized his revenge. Going back to town immediately would be too dangerous he decided, and he hoped a two-day disappearance would lead the police to believe he left town.
After his hobo dinner, he stripped naked and ran down into the lake like a child. Reaching waist deep level he dove, flipping and thrusting his body through the water like a dolphin. Surfacing, he floated on his back, peering up at the stars and crescent moon. R.C. thought of Sly, the diner, and the little trailer with no electricity. The solitude and peace of his time working there filtered through his veins, calming his mind.
He wished with all of his heart he could just forget this whole ordeal and return to work the rest of his days amidst the tranquil walls of Sly’s Diner. Mentally, he already traveled this way to the crossroads. Already headed down a one-way path with no exit or return, his decision cemented, R.C. blocked the oncoming thoughts that wished to dream further about other possibilities. His next thoughts turned to crashing the baseball bat into Miles’s skull.
Chapter 80
Vernon sat at his desk, staring at his cell phone and waiting for it to ring. He was rapping his fingers on his forehead, the desk, his leg, and everywhere else his arm took it, seemingly out of his control. He was reminiscent of a crack addict in need of a fix. Both his legs moved and jittered, as if he were about to wet his pants. He looked like a man desperately waiting for a place to relieve himself. Vernon had not dealt with this sort of stress before and it was crawling under his skin and nesting. He turned his computer on and off
and back on again. He stood up, walked around his desk, and sat back down again. His brain was moving so fast he could not think at all. He needed some reassurance from Benny.
Vernon heard the door slam and Chief Neighbors walked in equally as nervous. Like a drunk sobering up to a cold bucket of water Vernon straightened up, held his body still, and tried to act as if he was under control. Chief Neighbors looked dreadful. His facial expression told of a man who had just been caught with his pants down.
“Who the hell is this Miles Davenport character?” Chief Neighbors asked.
“I’m putting the finishing touches on that now, Chief,” Vernon lied.
“You two have two more days,” he barked.
“You’ll have your man,” Vernon answered, with a forced confidence.
Chief Neighbors went into his office and slammed the door. Vernon heard his office chair squeak loudly as he apparently fell into it with an emphatic freefall.
Chief Neighbors, still uniformed, sat in his office staring at his gun, which lay in the middle of his desk. A fleeting thought crossed his mind with imagery of the gun in his mouth and his bloody defeated self, arms outstretched, face down on the fake mahogany surface. He was better than that, he thought. His two-track mind turned to sex. He hadn’t been laid in a couple of weeks and he was more depressed about that than anything.
An angel knocked at his door. It was Lola.
“Come in,” he invited.
Lola strutted in and accidentally slammed the door behind her with a confidence that stemmed from an undisclosed well of aspirations hiding behind her shirt. Chief Neighbors’s eyes lit up.
