The Godwulf Manuscript

by Robert B. Parker

  “Tabor,” I said. “Mark Tabor, seventy-seven Westland Ave, apartment forty-one.”

  “Thanks,” Quirk said. “Thanks for the drink, too. See you.”

  I let him out. He was clearly sick with worry about me getting killed.

  Chapter 19

  The next morning I went over to the university and put a tail on Hayden. I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I knew he was involved in two killings and that Terry was involved in none, but I couldn’t prove it. I could nail him for manuscript-naping or whatever, but I was willing to bet that the university wouldn’t press charges, and even if they did, with a good lawyer and a first offense what would happen to him? I could threaten to tell his wife about Cathy Connelly, but he wasn’t likely to confess to murder to placate his wife. But he knew I knew, and it had to bother him. He might do something stupid, and if I kept after him I might catch him doing it.

  So in the fresh of morning when Hayden showed up for his nine o’clock class in pre-Shakespearean drama I was lurking about the north end of the corridor, and when he came out fifty minutes later, I was at the south end of the corridor getting a drink from the bubbler. While he conferred with students in his office about image patterns in The Play of the Weather and Gammer Gurton’s Needle, I studied the announcements and grad school advertisements on the bulletin board down the corridor.

  Surveillance on a guy that knows you is hard, and it’s much harder when you’re trying to do it alone. In the long run it’s not possible. Eventually Hayden would catch me and there was nothing to do about it. On the other hand, before he did I might catch him, and anyway, I didn’t know what else to do.

  Hayden ate lunch in his office from a brown paper bag and a thermos. I didn’t. By three o’clock that afternoon I was pretty sure how Hayden would spot me. He’d hear my stomach rolling. At four Hayden went to his Beowulf class. As soon as he was safely into his lecture I ducked out and bought half a dozen hamburgers at McDonald’s. On the way back I bought a pint of Wild Turkey bourbon at a package store and was back in time to pick Hayden up after class and follow him to the parking lot.

  Following him through the rush hour traffic was two-handed work, and I didn’t get to my supper until we were through the Callahan Tunnel and into East Boston. By the time we got to Lynn Shore Drive I’d eaten three cold hamburgers and swallowed about two inches of the pint. A cold McDonald’s hamburger is halfway between a jelly doughnut and a hockey puck, but the nine-dollar bourbon helped.

  I sat at the head of Hayden’s street with the motor idling and the heater on until nine o’clock, when I ran low on gas and had to shut off the motor. By ten fifteen I was cold. The hamburgers were long gone, though the memory lingered on the back of my throat, and I was almost through the bourbon. During that time Hayden had not come to me and confessed. He had not had a visit from Joe Broz or Phil, or the Ghost of Christmas Future. The Ceremony of Moloch had not shown up and sung “The Sweetheart of Sigma Chi” under his window. At eleven o’clock the lights in his living room went out and I went home—stiff, sore, tired, crabby, dyspeptic, cold, and about five-eighths drunk.

  The next day we did it all again. This time I brought along a satchel of sandwiches and a large thermos of coffee. At the end of the day my stomach felt better, but I didn’t know anything more, and I had discovered new dimensions of boredom.

  On the third day things picked up. It was raining again. Hard and steady. Everything was frosted with slush. Hayden had a class from four to five, and it was dark when I stood in a doorway across the street and watched him get in his car in the parking lot. He was turning over the engine when two guys got in with him. One in front, one in back. The windshield wipers went on, then the headlights. The car began to back out of its space. My car was parked on a hydrant one hundred feet from the doorway and I was in it with the motor running when Hayden’s car turned out of the parking lot. I stayed close behind him. Too close really, but it was dark and wet and I was worried. The two guys that got in his car didn’t look like poets to me, and I didn’t want to lose Hayden. He was all I had, and if something became of him, nothing much good would become of Terry Orchard.

  We turned south on Huntington Avenue, past the new high-rise apartments, a hospital, another college, and out onto the Jamaicaway. Big houses, mostly brick, set well back and sumptuous, lined the road. Elms that had survived the Dutch disease arched over it, and to the right in an extended hollow was Jamaica Pond, wooded and grassy under the gray slush. Hayden’s car pulled off the road and parked on the shoulder. I drove on by, turned left into a side street beyond, and parked.

  I cut through the backyard of a large brick Dutch colonial house on the corner and came out opposite where Hayden’s car was parked on the shoulder across the street. I didn’t see any of them. The hard rain and warm weather were causing the wet slush to steam and a fog to rise from the rotting ice on the pond. I ran across the street and came up behind Hayden’s car. It was empty. I realized that I had my gun in my hand though I didn’t recall taking it from the hip holster. I stopped and listened. No sound but the rain and the cars on the Jamaicaway whooshing past on their way to Dedham and Milton. My stomach buzzed with tension.

  There were tracks in the slush leading down toward the pond. I followed them into the mist. Closer to the pond it was so dense I could only see a few feet ahead.

  I half expected to see Beowulf jump out of the bog and rip the arm off something.… “My God, Holmes, those are the footprints of a gigantic hound.…” I was wearing a hip-length wool jacket, and the rain was soaking through along my shoulders. The wet wool smelled like a grammar school coatroom. Ahead of me I heard a kind of low wail. I stopped still in the dark. In front of me there were indistinct figures. I looked at them obliquely as I’d learned to do a long time ago in Korea, and they came into sharper focus. Hayden was the one making the mournful noise. He seemed to be having trouble standing, and one of the other men had him under the arms. He stepped away and Hayden slumped to his knees and began to wail louder. The man who hadn’t been holding him brought a long-barreled pistol from his side and placed it against the back of Hayden’s head. I turned sideways as you do on the pistol range, and yelled, “Freeze!”

  The guy with the gun snapped around and I felt the thump in my side simultaneous to the muzzle flash and before I heard the shot. It felt like I’d been hit in the ribs with a brick. I staggered, steadied myself, let out my breath, and brought my gun down on the middle of his chest … slack … squeeze … and my own shot exploded. He fell over backward. His buddy was shooting now, and a bullet thunked into a tree beside me. Out of the edge of my vision I saw Hayden crawling for some bushes. I ducked behind the tree. There was no pain yet, but my whole left side was numb and I felt a little dizzy. It was quiet again. Up on the Jamaicaway the headlights were fuzzy in the fog and the whoosh of their passage was cottony. The rain droned down. I slid down the tree and stretched out, belly down in the slush, and peered around the edge of the tree. I couldn’t see anyone. Still on my belly I began to inch backward.

  About ten feet in back of the tree was a big old blue spruce whose bottom boughs skirted out six or eight feet around the bottom. I inched backward under them and lay still. Nothing moved. I was feeling dizzier, and the first twitches of hurt were cutting through the numbness in my side. The slush was cold, and underneath the tree the earth had started to thaw and turn to mud. Inching backward for ten feet had scraped a lot of it up under my coat.

  I wondered if I’d die here. Face down under a spruce tree in the mud trying to keep a double murderer from getting shot by two hired thugs. I felt like I wanted to throw up. The noise would locate me. I swallowed it back. More silence while I fought the nausea and the cold.

  After what seemed to be the duration of the Christian epoch, I saw him. He had circled the tree where I’d first hidden and stepped out so that had I still been there he’d have been behind me. He was good; it took him maybe a second to realize I wasn’t there and where I probably
was. He spun and I put three shots into his chest, holding the gun in both hands to keep it steady. His gun bounced out of his hand and plopped softly into the slush. He fell more slowly sideways and joined it. I crawled out from under the tree and over to him. I felt in his neck for the big pulse. There wasn’t any. I crawled on over to his buddy. Same thing. I got up and looked around for Hayden. I didn’t see him, and getting up was an error. My head spun and I sat down backward. The jar of it set the pain in my side to moving.

  “Hayden,” I yelled. No sound.

  “Hayden, you dumb sonova bitch, it’s Spenser. You’re all right. They’re dead. Come on out.”

  I got hunched over on one hip and put my gun back in the holster. Then I got both hands onto the trunk of a sapling and pulled myself up.

  “Hayden!”

  He appeared from behind the bushes. His glasses were gone, and his wet lank hair was plastered down over his small skull.

  “They were going to kill me,” he said. “They were going to kill me. They … they had no right …”

  Hayden looked at me blankly. His eyes were red and swollen and his face, without glasses, looked naked.

  “They were supposed to kill you,” he said.

  “Yeah, we’ll talk about that, but gimme a hand.”

  The numbness was about gone now, and the blood was a warm and sticky layer over the pain.

  “We were allies. We were working together. And they were going to kill me.”

  He backed away from me, up toward the road. I let go of the tree and took a step toward him. He backed up faster.

  “They were supposed to kill you.”

  I took another step toward him and fell down. He was now backing up so fast he was running. Like a cornerback trying to stay with a wide receiver.

  “Hayden!” I yelled.

  He turned and ran up toward his car. Sonova bitch. At least he didn’t kick me when I fell. I heard his car start but I didn’t see him pull away. I was busy with other things. Two more tries convinced me that I’d have trouble walking up the hill, so I crawled. It was getting harder as the dizziness and the nausea progressed.

  Chapter 20

  I don’t know how long it took me to get up that hill to the street. Every few feet I had to rest, and the last hundred feet or so I had to drag myself along on my stomach. I pulled myself over the curb and rested with my cheek in the gutter of the road and the rain drumming on my back. The pain drummed even harder in my side, and there was a kind of counterpoint throb in my head. Then, suddenly, there was a big red-faced MDC cop standing over me in the glare of headlights and the steady pulse of the blue light. I didn’t know how long I’d been out or where I was exactly.

  “Just lay there, Jack. Don’t move around.”

  “I’m not drunk,” I said.

  “I can tell that, Jack. The left side of your coat is soaked with blood.”

  “I’m not drunk,” I said again. It seemed very important to keep saying it. At the same time I knew he knew I wasn’t drunk. He’d just said that he knew that. “I’m not,” I said. The cop nodded. His face was red and healthy looking. He had a thick lower lip and a fine gray stubble on his chin. His partner brought the folding stretcher and they inched me onto it.

  “Jesus Christ,” I said.

  Then I was looking up at the funny big light that diffuses the glare and the tubes and apparatus and a woman in a white coat, and I realized my coat and shirt were off. “I been shot,” I said.

  “That was my diagnosis too.” She was bending over and looking at my side closely.

  “Bullet went right through, banged off a rib, probably cracked it—I don’t think it’s broken—and went on out. Tore up the latissimus dorsi a bit, caused a lot of blood loss and some shock. You’ll live. This will sting.” She swabbed something on the wound.

  “Jesus Christ,” I said.

  A nurse wheeled me on the table down to have the rib X-rayed. Then she wheeled me back. The same ruddy-faced MDC cop that had picked me up was sitting on one of the other treatment tables in the cubicle off the emergency room. His partner leaned against the door jamb. He was skinny with pimples.

  “I’ll need a statement,” ruddy-face said.

  “Yeah, I imagine. Look, you know Quirk, homicide commander?”

  He nodded.

  “Call him, tell him I’m here and need to see him. He’ll come down and I’ll give the statement to both of you. You been through my wallet yet?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay, you know my name and my line of work. It’s important that Quirk gets what I have to say. A guy might get killed, and he’s the key to a couple of murders.”

  The doctor returned with my X rays and pushed past Pimples into the room. “As I said, rib cracked. I’ll tape it and bandage the wound, then we’ll put you to bed. In two or three days you’ll be back on your feet.”

  Ruddy-face said to his partner, “Go call the lieutenant, Pooler.”

  Pooler said, “How come he gets special treatment? I say we get his statement and let Quirk know through channels.”

  “That’s what you say, huh.” Ruddy-face took out a big wooden kitchen match and stuck it in his mouth and chewed on it.

  “Yeah, how come because the guy’s got a private license we have to kiss his ass. Quirk’ll get to his statement when he’s ready.”

  Ruddy-face took the match out of his mouth and examined the chewed end.

  “You be sure and call the lieutenant by his last name when you see him, Pooler. He’ll like that. Makes him feel he’s popular with the men.”

  “Jesus Christ …”

  Ruddy-face got a very hard sound into his voice. “Goddammit, Pooler, will you call the lieutenant? This guy got shot, two other people got killed. Lieutenant’s going to see him anyway. If he knows him maybe he’ll want to see him sooner. Why would this guy make up the story? ’Cause he’s queer for the lieutenant? If the guy’s right and we don’t call we’ll be directing traffic in South Dorchester Christmas morning.”

  Pooler went. The doctor was busy wrapping my rib cage and ignored them both.

  “Where am I?” I asked her. “Boston City?”

  “Yep.”

  When the doctor got through a nurse wheeled me up to a ward bed. The ruddy-faced cop came with me. His partner stayed down to wait for Quirk. The ward was half-empty and depressing.

  “It’ll be full by morning,” the nurse said. She cranked up the bed and she and the cop slid me onto it.

  “Doctor says give you a shot to help you sleep,” she said.

  “Not yet,” I said. “Wait until I’ve talked with the cops.”

  Ruddy-face nodded at her that he agreed.

  “Okay,” she said to ruddy-face. “Tell the floor nurse when you’re through and we’ll come in and give him his shot then.” She left. Ruddy-face sat down beside the bed.

  “How you feel?” he asked.

  “Like I been kicked in the side by a giraffe,” I said.

  He fumbled inside his coat and brought out a pint of Old Overholt.

  “Want a shot before the nurse gets back?” he said.

  I took the bottle.

  “Crank me up,” I said. He raised the head end of the bed so I was half-sitting, and I inhaled half his bottle.

  I handed him back the bottle. He wiped the top off with his hand in an unconscious gesture of long practice, and took a long pull. He handed it back to me.

  “Finish it,” he said. “I got another one in the car.”

  The liquor burned hot in my stomach, and the pain was a little duller. Quirk arrived; Belson was with him. Quirk looked at the bottle and then at ruddy-face. I put the bottle down empty on the night stand away from ruddy-face.

  “Where’d he get the bottle, Kenneally?”

  Ruddy-face shrugged. “Musta had it with him, Lieutenant. How ya doing, Frank?”

  Quirk said, “I’ll bet.” Belson nodded at ruddy-face.

  “Okay”—Quirk turned to me—“lemme have it.”

&nbs
p; Belson had a notebook out. Ruddy-face got up and moved to the end of the ward, where he broke out a new match and began to chew on it.

  “I’m fine, thanks, Lieutenant. Just a little old bullet wound.”

  “Yeah, good, let’s hear it all. There’s two carcasses downstairs right now that the MDC people brought in from Jamaica Pond. I want to hear.”

  I told him. He listened without interruption. When I got through he turned to Belson. “You see the two, Frank?”

  “Yeah. One of them is a gofer for Joe Broz, Sully Roselli. I don’t know the other one. His driver’s license says Albert J. Brooks. Mean anything to you?”

  Quirk shook his head and looked at me. I shook mine too.

  “CID is looking into him,” Belson said.

  “Right, now see what you can do about getting a leash on Hayden. Pick up and hold.”

  “Yates will be disappointed,” I said.

  “Can’t be helped,” Quirk said. “Hayden’s a witness to attempted murder and two homicides. Got to bring him in.”

  Quirk looked back at me thoughtfully.

  “Two of them in the dark,” he said. “Not bad.”

  He nodded at Belson and they left. As they went out Quirk said to Kenneally, “Tell the nurse we’re through. And don’t give him any more booze.”

  By the time the nurse got there I was halfway under again and barely felt the needle jab.

  Chapter 21

  I woke up in bright daylight, confused, to the sound of a monotonous deep cough from the other end of the room. I shifted in the bed and felt the pain in my side and remembered where I was. The coughing went on down the ward. I creaked myself around on the bed, dropped my legs over the side, and got myself sitting up. All the beds were full. I had a hospital johnny and an adhesive sash around my torso. Very natty. I stood up. My legs felt spongy, and I braced myself with one hand against the bed. Steady. I walked the length of the bed. Not bad. I walked back to the head. Better. I U-turned, back toward the foot. Then I started down the length of the ward. Slow, shaky, but halfway down I didn’t have to hold on. An old man with no teeth mumbled to me from one of the beds.