Lone Wolf zw-3

by Linwood Barclay

  “So, Bert,” said Dad. “I wonder if you could help me with a little problem I got.”

  “What would that be, Arlen?” He wasn’t even looking at me now. I’d mocked the fall fair parade. Even now, he was probably pressing a silent alarm button under the desk, summoning Orville.

  “Uh, it’s about my neighbors, Bert. My tenants, actually.”

  Bert squinted. “Refresh my memory.”

  “You wouldn’t probably even know. It’s just been in the past couple of years, I’ve been renting out the farmhouse, fixed up the best of the cabins for myself. Rented it to some folks named Wickens. They moved down from Red Lake way.”

  “Wickens,” Bert Trench said quietly. “Wickens. That’d be Timmy Wickens, and his boys.”

  “Stepsons. There’s his wife, and he’s got a grown daughter, and her boy. It was the daughter, her boyfriend that got killed.”

  “I see,” Bert Trench said, picking up a pen and making circles on a yellow legal pad.

  “Bert, they scare the shit out of me. They’re shooting guns up there, they’ve got No Trespassing signs all over the place, and these pit bulls, they’re eating my guests’ fish right off the stringers, and they’re running the place down, it’s going to cost me a fortune to get it back in shape when they leave.”

  “They’re leaving, are they? Packing up?’ Trench swallowed. “That’d be a load off, wouldn’t it?”

  “Well, that’s what I’m here to see you about. I want them out. And I wanted your advice on how to go about that. How would I go about evicting them? How much notice do I have to give? And can I tell them, I don’t know, that it’s because I want to fix the house up and move into it, so they don’t think it’s personal? Because, I don’t want them getting angry with me. I don’t have a good feeling about them.”

  Bert Trench was studying his doodles. “Well, I don’t know, Arlen, I don’t exactly know…”

  “Can you write them a letter, sort of a friendly eviction notice?” I tried not to roll my eyes. Dad went on. “Something kind of official? I’ve got the right to do this, right? I mean, it’s my place and all.”

  “Sure, sure, you’ve got rights, Arlen. But, what have they actually done?”

  “Done?”

  “I mean, have they threatened you? Caused any significant property damage?”

  Dad paused. “Not exactly. But it’s a lot of little things, they add up, you know?”

  Trench doodled a bit more, and then, in what looked like a staged gesture, glanced at his watch. “Oh my, goodness, I wonder if you could excuse me for a moment.”

  He got up, left the room, and closed the door behind him. Dad and I sat in the office, alone, nearly a minute, before Dad said to me, “The hell’s wrong with him?”

  “He started looking a bit pasty from the moment you mentioned the name Wickens,” I said.

  “He did seem a bit funny, didn’t he?” Dad said. “I wonder what-”

  The door opened again, and Bert Trench strode in, but he didn’t head for his spot behind the desk. He had his hands in his pockets, and tried to look at us, but mostly was looking at the floor.

  “Listen, Arlen, and Mr. Walker, Zachary, is it?”

  I said nothing.

  “I feel terrible about this, but I should have told you when you booked your appointment that I’m just not in a position to take any new business on at this time. I’m really pretty swamped with things, I’ve got a very large client base, and what you’re asking for, what you’d want me to take on for you, that could run into a lot of hours, and I just don’t think I could give you the kind of service that you deserve.”

  “I’m just talking about a letter,” Dad said. “You haven’t got time to write them a friggin’ letter?”

  “Like I said, I’m just not able to take on new clients at the moment,” he said, trying to smile.

  “I’m not a new client,” Dad said. “I’ve already done business with you.”

  Bert Trench pretended not to hear. “There are some other law offices in Braynor, or you might want to try in Smithfield, or Jersey Falls, maybe someone there would be able to help you, I’m sure.” He’d moved to the door and was holding it open for us.

  We stood. Dad got his crutches under his arms and as we were going out the door he stopped and looked Bert Trench square in the eye. “Where are your balls, Bert?”

  I noticed beads of sweat on Trench’s forehead.

  “I’m sorry, Arlen,” he said. “I can’t do this for you.”

  “Why not?”

  Trench swallowed, bowed his head. “Couple years ago, there was a lawyer in Red Lake, he had this client, a plumber, did a lot of work at this house where the Wickenses used to live, before they moved this way and rented your place.”

  We watched him.

  “So he’d done at least a thousand dollars’ worth of work, gave the Wickenses their bill, they never paid, so this plumber, he goes and sees this lawyer, asks him to take care of it for him. And the lawyer, he sends them a letter.”

  “The Wickenses,” I said.

  “Yeah. So he sends them this letter. And the next night, his house burns down.”

  Dad and I said nothing.

  “Nearly lost his family. Got them out just in time. Nearly lost his daughter, she’s paralyzed, fell off a horse when she was fifteen, can’t move on her own, and he carried her out just in time.”

  “It could have just been a coincidence,” I said.

  “The plumber, he gets a phone call the next day. Caller asks him, does he want his place to be next?”

  Dad, shuffling on his crutches, and I moved for the door.

  “I’m real sorry,” said Bert Trench. “I just don’t need that kind of thing. But, Arlen, any time you’ve got a basic real estate deal, you call me and I’ll look after you.”

  “Sure, Bert,” said Dad. “You’ll be the first.”

  13

  “So, where does that leave us?” I said, sitting at the counter next to Dad in the coffee shop owned by Dad’s main squeeze, Lana Gantry. We were still reeling from our meeting with Bert Trench as we hauled our butts up onto the stools.

  “Hey, boys,” said Lana, her elbows on the counter, leaning in intimately toward us. As she leaned, I could see Dad trying not to be obvious about peeking down her blouse.

  “Hi, honey,” Dad said.

  “Lana,” I said, smiling.

  “How’s your ankle, sweetie?” Lana asked Dad. He turned red, being called “sweetie” in front of his son.

  “It’s okay,” he said quietly.

  “If I didn’t have this place to run, I’d come out there and stay with you till you get better.” She smiled. “I could give you everything you need.”

  Dad kept blushing, swallowed, and said, “You know Bert Trench?”

  “Yeah, sure, he has lunch in here all the time.”

  “Does he strike you as an attractive man?”

  Lana smiled again. “All those hot wives he’s had, that what this is about?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, from what I hear, what he lacks in the looks department he makes up for in technique.”

  My eyebrows went up.

  “And when he gets tired of one, he unloads her and gets another, and rocks her world, too. They don’t even mind it that much when he wants a divorce, they’re so exhausted. Don’t you worry, though,” Lana Gantry said, patting Dad’s hand. “I won’t let him lure me away from you.”

  “Um, Lana, I wonder if you could get me and my boy some coffees.”

  I looked beyond Lana at what was behind the glass. “I wouldn’t mind a piece of coconut cream pie, too, if that’s what I see there,” I said. Lana was back with coffees in a moment, a couple of creams tucked into my saucer, Dad’s black, and then she went for my pie.

  “This looks fantastic,” I said as she placed it in front of me. I put a forkful into my mouth. It was heaven.

  “You boys need anything you give me a shout,” Lana said, and headed over to the c
ash register to confer with one of the two waitresses working the room.

  “Maybe there’s other lawyers with some nuggets in their shorts who’d be willing to take this on,” Dad said.

  “Try some from some other towns, but not Red Lake,” I said. “Someone who’s not likely to run into Timmy when he’s getting gas or buying a loaf of bread. You could make some calls when we get back to the cabin,” I said, pouring some sugar from the glass dispenser into my cup.

  Dad nodded, looking down into his porcelain mug.

  “And I have a friend I might call,” I said. “He’s had a bit more experience with these kinds of things than I have.”

  Dad looked over at me. “A lawyer?”

  “No,” I said. “An ex-cop. He works for himself now. Name’s Lawrence Jones. He sort of owes me one. I’ll call him when we get back.”

  The door jingled and in walked the law. Orville Thorne took off his hat, set it on the counter, and took the stool next to Dad, even though the one next to me was empty as well.

  “I saw your truck outside, Arlen,” Orville said, not even bothering with a nod in my direction. I felt an overwhelming urge to give him a nipple-twister. “Wanted to tell you I’ve got a couple folks together to hunt down that bear. Probably be tomorrow I should think, we’ll get started first thing in the morning.”

  I shook my head, took a sip of coffee.

  “What’s the matter with him?” Orville asked Dad.

  Lana appeared, leaned over the counter and gave her nephew a kiss on the forehead. “Hey, sweetie. Usual?”

  “Sure, Aunt Lana.”

  She poured him a cup of coffee, black, then placed a chocolate dip doughnut on a plate for him. Orville took a big bite, washed it down with the hot coffee. His mouth still full, he said to me, “So what’s your problem?”

  “He remains skeptical,” Dad cut in. “About there being a bear. That it might be those pit bulls instead.”

  “That again?” Orville said, unaware that a huge doughnut crumb was hanging on to the corner of his mouth, undermining his authority.

  Dad shrugged. “Well, Orville, he does raise an interesting point. Where’s the rifle? If Morton went out to kill this bear, then where’s the rifle?”

  I leaned forward and turned so that I could see Orville’s response. I was surprised to see that he was smiling.

  “It’s in my car,” he said.

  “What?” I said.

  “Timmy Wickens dropped by the station half an hour ago and gave it to me. Said I’d probably want it for the investigation.”

  “Way to go, Dad,” I said. “So, Orville, you’re saying he came in, this morning, and gave you the rifle?”

  “Yeah, Mr. Smartypants,” Orville said. “He did.”

  “Mr. Smartypants,” I said, nodding as though impressed. “Is that part of the police training up here? They give you a list of snappy comebacks? What about Mr. Poo-Head? You should try that one. Leaves people speechless.”

  “You just remember who you’re talking to,” Orville said. “And I could still have you charged with assaulting me, don’t forget that.”

  “Jesus, I didn’t assault you, I fell on you. Right after you tripped my dad and fucked up his ankle. After we found out he was alive, which you should have been able to figure out before he actually showed up.” I leaned in, whispered, “Had it ever occurred to you to give your aunt a call and see if maybe he was with her?”

  “Jesus!” Dad said under his breath. “Do you mind? We’re in her cafe, for crying out loud.”

  “I did do that,” Orville whispered back. “There was no answer, and Aunt Lana wasn’t at the cafe either.”

  We both looked at Dad. He sat silently for a moment, feeling both sets of eyes. He muttered something.

  “What?” I said.

  “Actually, we went to a motel, after she’d been out to the cabin for a bit, after everyone went home,” Dad said. “And then she took the morning off from the cafe, let the girls handle it.” He nodded his head toward the waitresses.

  “A motel?” Orville said. He looked shocked. “Why are you and my aunt going to a motel?”

  Dad rolled his eyes. “Look, Orville, we just wanted some time alone without interruptions, that’s all. You know your aunt loves you and loves to have you drop by, but sometimes, it’s just…”

  Orville looked like he’d just found out there’s no Easter Bunny. His aunt and my dad, messing around in a motel. How incredibly sordid. And on top of that, learning he might not be totally welcome to drop by her place whenever he wanted because she and Dad wanted to get it on.

  It was a lot to take.

  “Look,” I said, “could we move this back to the rifle?”

  “What about the rifle?” Orville said.

  “What did Timmy Wickens tell you about the gun?”

  “He said he found it only a few feet away from where we found Morton’s body, under some bushes. I guess we just missed it.”

  “Shit,” I said.

  Dad looked into his coffee. “Sorry,” he said.

  “You tipped him off,” I said. “I could have guessed Wickens would produce a gun, but I never expected it to happen this quickly. Don’t you see? The fact that he came up with a gun so fast just proves that Morton never went hunting with it in the first place.”

  Dad and Orville looked at me like I was speaking in some other language. “So let me see if I get this,” Orville said. “Timmy finds Morton’s rifle, which proves Morton didn’t have a rifle. Is that what you’re saying? You know what? You know what? Maybe, instead of a bear, Morton Dewart was killed by aliens.” Orville snickered, slapped his hand on the counter. To Dad, he said, “He writes science fiction books, right? Didn’t you say that?”

  “Orville,” I said, “I’ll say this really slowly so there’ll be less chance that you’ll misunderstand.” Dad shot me a look. “What’s it to Timmy Wickens whether we have Morton’s rifle or not? If Morton was killed by a bear, well, he was killed by a bear. But if he wasn’t, but it’s in Timmy’s interest for us to think he was, then Timmy’s going to be doing whatever he can to make sure you don’t start considering any other theories.”

  Orville looked me in the eye for a good three seconds, then did, I have to say, a pretty good impression of the sound a flying saucer might make, coming in for a landing. “Voo-ooo-ooo,” he said, making his hand flat and gliding it toward the counter. Then, he walked two fingers toward Dad’s coffee mug and, in a nasal voice, said, “Take me to your leader.”

  I chuckled, took another drink of my coffee. “Okay, Orville, I got nothin’. You’re too clever for me. And besides, I guess I’d believe anything Timmy said, too, if I thought it meant he wouldn’t take my hat again.”

  Now Orville had murder in his eyes, and he was lunging in front of Dad, knocking over his coffee and the sugar dispenser, which plunged to the floor with a great crash on the waitress’s side. “You take that back,” he said, attempting to grab hold of the front of my jacket, but I had leaned back, and as Orville tried to get me, he pushed Dad back and off his stool.

  “Oh fuck!” said Dad, unable to swing around and save himself because of his one weak leg. As he began to plummet toward the floor Orville and I both jumped to catch him, getting our arms under his back before he hit the cracked linoleum.

  “You two just knock it off!” Dad bellowed, and both of us felt chastened, catching the look of shame in each other’s eyes for a second before lifting Dad back onto his stool. Lana was running over from the cash register.

  “Good God, what have you fools done to him?” she said. “Arlen, are you okay?”

  He grumbled something.

  Lana noticed the spilled sugar, the knocked-over coffee cup, and peered over to the other side of the counter. “And who do you boys think is going to clean up this mess?” she asked me and Orville.

  Orville and I craned our necks over to inspect the damage. The dispenser had shattered, spreading sugar everywhere.

  “He did it,” I
said, pointing my thumb toward Orville.

  “You started it!” he said.

  “For the love of Pete,” Dad said.

  And then we heard a cell phone. Orville looked bewildered by the interruption, then reached into his jacket for his phone.

  “Hello?” he said. His eyes grew wider as he listened. “Okay,” he said. He folded the phone shut and said to Dad, “You know Tiff, over at the Braynor Co-op?”

  Dad nodded slowly. “I think so. Tall guy, kind of goofy looking?”

  “I know him,” said Lana.

  Orville nodded. “Yeah. Well, he’s dead.”

  Lana gasped, put her hand to her mouth. “Oh my Lord. That’s terrible. He was a relatively young man, wasn’t he? Was he sick? Because I think I saw him in here just a few days ago.”

  “He wasn’t sick,” Orville said.

  Lana was puzzled. “Was it an accident? They have all that farm machinery over there. Was it a thresher? Was he caught in a thresher?”

  “Sounds like somebody put a knife in him,” Orville said. He glanced at the mess we’d made. “I’m sorry, Aunt Lana, but I have to go.” He picked up his hat, and strode out.

  “I don’t believe it,” Lana said.

  “What’s the Braynor Co-op?” I asked Dad.

  “Farm stuff. Feed, grain, tools, all that kind of thing.”

  “Seems like a funny place for someone to get killed,” I said. “A bank, a liquor store, a gas station, that’s where people get killed.”

  Dad just shook his head, like it was all getting to be too much. “What the hell is happening around here?”

  “Why don’t we go find out?” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s go over to the co-op, see what’s happened.”

  Dad thought about that. I expected him to say no, that we should head back to the camp, that there were things he didn’t need to know about, but to my surprise, he grabbed hold of his crutches that had been leaned up against the counter, and said, “Yeah, okay. Bye, Lana.”

  Dad directed me to a building nearly a mile north of town, set back a little from the road, with a parking lot out front. There were half a dozen lawn tractors on display out front, some decorative hay bales, rolls of chain-link fencing. “This is where I got my tractor,” Dad said. Like a lumber operation, there was an enclosed store up front, and a huge warehouse out back. We saw Orville’s police car down around the side of the building, so we drove down there and got out. A small crowd was gathered at the open garage door that led into the warehouse. There were co-op employees-they all wore jeans and the same dark green shirts with “Braynor Co-op” stitched across the right breast-plus Orville and one of his deputies, the coroner I’d offended, Dr. Heath, and Tracy from the local newspaper. The usual crew.