“What makes you think these killings were the work of a death squad?”
“Because it was after the third death that the threats started coming, and the threats mentioned the execution-style killings.”
“You’ve received threats?”
“Yes. The Community has, by letter and telephone. They say we’re communists and deserve to be shot. And there’s been repeated vandalism. A number of liberal organizations in the river communities have shut down because of the threats and vandalism. I wouldn’t accuse Elysius Culhane of being behind it, because I don’t think he’s that stupid, but I certainly do accuse him of creating an atmosphere that supports that kind of vigilantism and terror. I’ve heard him defend and praise the Salvadoran and Guatemalan death squads on a number of occasions.”
“So have I, but right-wingers tend to talk like that. Have you reported these threats and the vandalism to the police?”
“Of course.”
“And?”
“Nothing’s happened.”
“Do you think the police are choosing to do nothing about it?”
“I’m saying they haven’t caught anybody.”
“Do you think Chief Mosely is covering up something?”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “No, I’m not saying that. But I don’t have a lot of faith in his passion for pursuit of equal justice for all. Mosely is a lackey of Elysius Culhane. It was Culhane who convinced his fellow town officials that Mosely was the perfect candidate for our chief of police.”
“How do you know that?”
“I have a friend who’s a village trustee. It’s no secret that Dan Mosely was Culhane’s choice. It doesn’t mean that Mosely would cover up a crime, but I say it does mean that he’s very tuned in to Culhane’s sensibilities; I just don’t believe he’d go out of his way to ease the problems of individuals or groups Culhane disapproves of. He seems a decent enough man, but I’m sure he feels grateful to Culhane for plucking him out of the jungles of New York City and plunking him down here in Cairn, where he can walk out of his office after work and sail off into the sunset on his catamaran.”
“I’ve been waiting for you to mention Gregory Trex. I would think he’d be a prime suspect for threats, vandalism, and membership on a death squad.”
“Vandalism and threats, sure,” she replied matter-of-factly. “I’m not sure he has enough brains to be on a death squad.”
“You don’t need a lot of brains to pull a trigger, Mary.”
She merely shrugged. “You’re right, of course. It’s just that I find it hard to get all that mad at Gregory.”
“Really?” I said, making no effort to hide my surprise at her reaction—or lack of it. “That’s funny; I didn’t have any trouble at all getting mad at him.”
“I noticed,” she said, and smiled. “But then, you didn’t watch him grow up. I’ve been a member of the Community of Conciliation and lived here in Cairn for more than twenty years. Gregory’s very limited, you know. He’s the perfect example of the dull little fat boy everybody laughed at and picked on, and who grew up to be town bully. He was in a class for the educable retarded in school here, and he spent a year in a psychiatric hospital after he once tried to kill himself. They put him on some medication when he was there, and he seemed to be a lot mellower when he got out. His father’s one of the nicest men you’ll ever want to meet, and he blames himself for what’s happened to Gregory. I don’t want to go into a lot of detail, but that family has seen more than its share of tragedy.”
“A lot of families have seen more than their share of tragedy. It’s not an excuse.”
“I know. But it was Culhane who got Gregory all worked up again with this war and patriotism business. Jesus, it was Culhane who suggested to Gregory that the poor boy enlist in the Marines. Can you imagine? He spent a week bragging all over town about what he was going to do before he actually did it. He did manage to get a recruiter to sign him up, but he was back from boot camp in less than two weeks. His story was that he was too good for the Marines, that he was showing everyone else up. He was discharged on a medical, of course. My point is that Gregory Trex is a victim. The real enemy of Gregory, you, me, and all the other people in the world is a man like Elysius Culhane. Men like Culhane can’t stand the thought of living in a peaceful world.”
“It’s usually the Gregory Trexes of the world you have to deal with, Mary, not the Elysius Culhanes.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head adamantly. “That’s treating the symptoms, not the disease.”
“Gregory Trex is a symptom that will kill you.”
“The only way to stop being manipulated by men like Elysius Culhane is to refuse to deal with, to fight, their surrogates—people like Gregory. When enough people refuse to fight, then the fighting will simply stop.”
“Gandhi, Martin Luther King, and the Community of Conciliation would have lasted about five minutes in Nazi Germany or Pol Pot’s Cambodia. Pacifism can only work in a basically just society, where the majority of people are basically just. The problem, Mary, is that it takes only one Gregory Trex with a machine gun to wipe out droves of pacifists, and Trex wouldn’t give it a second thought if he thought he could get away with it. What do you do about that?”
“Wait for him to run out of ammunition.”
“You’re joking, of course.”
“I am not,” she said evenly, drawing herself up slightly.
“He’ll simply reload.”
“Then we wait for the people who supply him with the ammunition to stop manufacturing it.”
I had better things to do than debate pacifism with Mary Tree, and I didn’t want our meeting to end on a sour note. I bowed slightly, extended my hand. “Thank you, Mary.”
She took my hand in both of hers, smiled warmly. “I take it you don’t think much of the pacifist philosophy.”
“My philosophy is do unto others as you would have them do unto you, but keep a sharp lookout for the bad guys. There have always been bad guys, Mary, and there always will be. They’ll roll right over you if you let them; first take everything you own and then take your life. If you’re not prepared to fight and die for certain things, then you probably don’t have much to live for.”
“But you believe you also have to be prepared to kill for certain things.”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re back to the danger of being manipulated by demagogues, cowards, bigots, and hypocrites like Elysius Culhane.”
“No.”
“Who tells the good guys from the bad guys?”
“I do.”
“Only you?”
“Only me. Dying and killing are very personal things.”
“Men should only, say, fight in wars they personally believe in, and refuse to fight in others?”
“Yep. And then accept the consequences of that decision if the government wants to throw you in jail, or even kill you. It’s a hell of a lot better to die for what you believe in than to die—or kill—for something you don’t believe in. Each individual must make his or her own decision.”
“That makes you an anarchist.”
“God, I hope Garth doesn’t find out about it. He already has enough names to call me.”
Mary Tree laughed lightly, then gripped me gently by the shoulders. “That reminds me of something I have to give you. Just wait here a minute.”
I waited, kneading my sore left arm and gazing out the bank of windows at the river. She was back a few minutes later, looking slightly flushed. She was carrying a plastic shopping bag, which she handed to me. It felt heavy.
“This is just between you and me and your brother, Mongo,” she said, her pale blue eyes bright with excitement and warmth. “I’ve been negotiating with a small record company in Los Angeles that wants to sign me to a new recording contract. These are copies of demo tapes I’ve been working on for the past year. They’re not as clean as they should be, and a couple of rhythm tracks still have to be laid in, but, since you say yo
ur brother is such a fan of mine, I think he might enjoy listening to them. I’ve written a lot of the songs myself, which is a departure for me, but there are a number of new Harry Peal songs, and Dylan even gave me one. They’re also doing some uncredited backup vocals. I’ve autographed the tape slipcases.”
“Good grief, Mary,” I said, hefting the plastic bag. “There must be enough music here for three or four albums. Talk about collectibles. I’ll certainly enjoy listening to the tapes, but I’m going to be sure we’re standing in Garth’s apartment when I give these to him. He’s going to lose control of his bodily functions when he hears what I’ve got here.”
Mary Tree’s smile grew even broader, warmer. “Also, I want you to bring him out for the day when this other business is behind you. We’ll poke around the antique shops, have a picnic lunch up in the quarry, and maybe go sailing, if you’d like.”
“I’d like. As for Garth, well, words cannot express.”
“I’ve got everyone else lined up out in the foyer. They’d like to say hello. Okay with you?”
“Fine with me.”
I followed her across the ballroom, stopped just before we reached the archway, and took her arm. She turned toward me, a puzzled expression on her face. “Mary,” I continued quietly, “I don’t want to frighten you, but I’d like you to be very careful for … a while. Until we get this matter of Michael’s death cleared up, I want you to watch out for yourself. When you leave the house, even if it’s just for a walk into town, always take somebody with you. Okay?”
She studied me for a few moments, and when she spoke her voice had grown slightly husky. “Mongo, you think Michael was murdered, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, feeling my stomach muscles flutter, “I do.”
“You didn’t seem so certain before.”
“I got certain when you told me Michael had supposedly used the canoe without permission. There was a time when Michael loved boating and swimming, and I was willing to grant the possibility that he’d decided to celebrate the new life he was planning to start with you people by going back to doing the things he’d once enjoyed; if so, his being out in a canoe on the Hudson might be explainable. The river kicked up on him, he capsized and drowned.”
“But now you don’t believe that’s what happened.”
“No. What I’m not willing to grant is that he’d use somebody else’s property—in this case a very special, handcrafted canoe—without asking permission. Michael was a gracious and rigorously courteous man, a stickler for respecting other people’s privacy and property. He would never have taken that canoe without permission. I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell you my suspicions, not only because I didn’t want to frighten you but because somebody might think you know more than you do, and that could place you in danger. But then I realized that people are bound to find out that I’ve talked to you, and just that fact could be dangerous. That’s why I want you to be careful. Yes, I believe Michael was murdered. Now the questions become who did it and why.”
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