by David Stout
“Captain, hold on for Sheriff Fischer.”
“Junior, we’re getting somewhere. Young woman over at the hardware store, the one right near the mill, remembers Tyrone coming in the other day. To buy licorice, like he always does. Anyhow, there was this stranger in the store at the time. Said he was interested in local speech patterns, or some such. Young woman didn’t buy that story at all. Says the guy left just after Tyrone did.”
“Well, run a check and see if he looks like the guy who was interested in Tyler’s will and the guy who visited Judah Brickstone.”
“We did and he does. Positive. Traced him to that motel run by them Asian people. Know the one I mean?”
“Sure. Listen, be careful. We got two bodies around here already. Make sure we got plenty of backup.”
“Too late, Junior. He checked out already.”
“Goddamn. Meet me there.”
Two sheriff’s department cars were conspicuous in the motel parking lot. Well, probably doesn’t matter, Junior Stoker thought. Guy probably checked out in the first place because he thought we were on to him. Wonder if he has any notion how slow I been about this thing …
Bryant Fischer was waiting for him outside the motel room.
“We vacuumed up the rug,” Fischer said. “Pulled up some stuff that looks like seeds and burrs and such …”
“Like in Cody’s field,” Stoker said.
“And we got the maid to pull all of this morning’s bags out of the dumpster. Found these.”
Stoker held up a transparent plastic bag containing several crumpled white circular pieces of cloth: gun-cleaning patches.
“Yeah, he’s been cleaning a gun, all right,” Stoker said. But something bothered him. “Don’t see any dirt, carbon, on the patches. Nothing to indicate it’s been fired.”
“We’ll keep looking. Used his real name, apparently. Willop, James B. Credit card’s the same one he used to rent a car with over at Columbia airport. Used it to buy his airplane ticket down here, too.”
“How about a return ticket?”
“Ain’t bought one yet. Police over at Columbia been alerted. Airport security, too.”
“Good. Be interesting to see what a computer check turns up.”
“In the works,” Fischer said.
“Wonder what the hell he wants, exactly. Other than to kill some harmless old people …”
“Could be he’s crazy as a shithouse rat, Junior. Motel lady said he looks like warmed-over death in the mornings. Tired, hung over, whatever. Like he’s got a lot on his mind.”
“Well, I know what that feels like. Uh, Bryant. I was thinking on my way over here. If this guy’s looking up old-timers, and one fella who’s dead already is Dexter Cody, then …”
“Right. Already arranged to have your dad’s nursing home watched. He’ll have a guard there for company most of the time. I gave orders already not to say anything about any details around here so as not to upset him.”
“Thanks for thinking.” Stoker felt grateful and humble. Also tired. “Let me know what the computers find,” he said, turning to go.
“I’ll be in touch.”
Something still nagged at Stoker. “Keep looking for gun patches that are dirty,” he said.
34
Willop was glad he had called Moira. He had planned to buy a cheeseburger or a bucket of chicken or some fish and fries and bring them back to the room.
No, she had said. He should take a hot shower, put on some good clothes (if he still had any), take a leisurely, sightseeing ride, and go out to dinner.
What for? he had asked. Because you’re tense and exhausted, she’d said.
How could she tell?
At that she had laughed. Then she’d suggested that he leave the little motel he was staying in and check in to a better place. She would send more money, if necessary.
It had taken him fifteen minutes to shower, get dressed, and pack. He bought a newspaper at the machine in front of the motel office. Just for the hell of it, Willop looked in the real-estate section. Amazing, what you could buy down here compared to the prices around New York.
Of course, you still need a job.
Willop drove in the general direction of Lake Marion (he had already decided to try the restaurant over at the big motel, maybe even check in there), but in a circuitous route. He wanted to see some neighborhoods.
He turned down a road he hadn’t driven before, then turned onto a cul-de-sac. Several houses at the end stood shrouded in pines, facing a circular court. Yards big enough for privacy, especially with the trees, but houses grouped just close enough to give a feeling of togetherness …
Jesus, Willop thought. Is that what I want?
One of the houses had a for-sale sign in front. Willop stopped, checked the realtor’s name on the sign, then easily found the advertisement in the paper. Damn, could that price be right? Four times as much for that house in Jersey. We could probably scrape up enough right now.…
Willop got out of the car, stood next to it, breathed deep. Pines and clean air. Birds.
What kind of work could he do here? Hell, he was a broken-down ex-newspaperman. And what about Moira? No, she wasn’t the problem on that score, she was a lot more willing to take chances. He was the problem.…
Hey, what about the people in these houses? They work around here, don’t they? Were they all smarter than he was?
Willop heard a door open a few houses away. A young woman leaned out of the entryway. Ah, there, calling to her little girl in the front yard, telling the child to come inside. The woman saw Willop, stared at him, face uncertain. Willop raised his arm, forced a smile. The woman waved back and smiled a big smile.
Yes, he and Moira could live in a place like this. They could have a yard, fence it in for the kids to play in, get a dog.…
Willop thought of Moira, wanted her standing next to him, wanted to put his arms around her. He could almost smell her perfume and her hair and her skin. Oh, man. No time to get horny …
He drove around some more, loving the quiet. From somewhere he heard a siren, maybe two sirens. Damn, ain’t heard that sound much, he thought. There, that was just another example of how much more tranquil it was down here.…
Willop thought of his mother, wondered if she had loved the smells and the sounds around here. He didn’t like to think of her too much when he thought of South Carolina.…
Without planning to at all, Willop thought of Bestwick. No doubt about it: She smelled great, and she was really built.
No you don’t, he told himself. Don’t even think for a moment … Yes, he was missing Moira.…
She had helped him a lot, Bestwick had. Maybe it meant she liked him a little. Willop liked that thought. Or maybe it just meant she wanted to help one of her own. Whatever … Willop hoped she had not risked too much. He would remember, and maybe pay her back, somehow. Or maybe use her again …
The traffic was light on the way over to the big motel by Lake Marion, and Willop reflected again that life could be a lot less congested, a lot slower, here, or someplace else away from the New York area. As he played the soft music on the car’s FM radio, Willop thought that if Moira was just sitting next to him now, his evening would be complete.
There was valet parking at the restaurant, and the young man who took the car and gave him a claim ticket was smiling and friendly. So was the restaurant hostess, who told him it would be just a few minutes, and she could seat him over near the window if he liked, and would he like to have a drink at the bar while he waited?
The bar area was in a dark-oak motif, and the walls were decorated with Civil War scenes by Currier and Ives and color photographs of famous stock-car drivers. Cluttered but cheerful.
Feeling in the mood to really relax, Willop asked the cheerful bartender for a martini on the rocks with the top-shelf gin, whatever it was, and not enough vermouth to hurt anything.
“I‘ve been using the same bottle of vermouth for five years,” the bartender said.
>
It was beginning to sound like Willop’s kind of place.
He was about half done with his drink (the bartender hadn’t been bullshitting, he really did know how to make a martini) when the hostess came by to show Willop to his table. She seated him over near the window, and he sat down in a fine mood. He resolved not to let Moira’s absence bother him, but rather to savor the thought of her. The gin seemed to make the task easier.
A young waiter brought him a menu, and Willop said he could use another martini just like the first one, and he slumped into his chair to decide what to eat. The death of the Trib and the decision he had to make about Delmar Springs and when he could afford to buy a new car were little problems that he could handle. And he would have a life with Moira. He would …
Willop ordered prime ribs and a baked potato and asked if he could have a Caesar salad, even though he was alone and the menu said it was normally made for two. The waiter said sure, they did it all the time, no problem.
Willop took a gulp from his second martini (the bartender hadn’t lost his touch) and felt altogether good about himself for the first time in—how long?
He studied the people at the other tables. There was a man alone, just like him. Probably on the road on business. And there was a family: father and mother in their, oh, early thirties probably; freshed-scrubbed kids, a boy and girl, learning which fork to use and behaving just right. And there, there was a couple out on a date, for God’s sake. The way they smiled at each other … Maybe they were already married and it was their anniversary or something.…
For a moment, Willop considered asking the waiter to see whether the couple would have a drink on him. No, no, don’t overdo it.
Willop was on the bottom half of his second martini. Ah, good friend, you’re fading fast. He felt the gin in a good way, so far, but he would be careful. Probably not order another drink till after he’d eaten something.
The Caesar salad was not the best he’d ever had, but it wasn’t bad. The beef was almost as rare as he preferred, and the flavor was good. He’d eaten worse meals in New York, and for twice as much.
He chuckled at himself when he realized how sentimental he had become. Well, part of it was the gin. Nothing wrong with that. But most of it was from his talk with Moira.
He realized, as he’d savored the last of his beef and scooped the remnants of the potato out of the skin, how deeply he loved her. It seemed to Willop that if he could have Moira with him permanently (or as permanently as you could have anything in life), and have a house with a little bit of lawn and enough room in back for a garden, and some neighbors to have over for some beer and hamburgers on summer nights …
Man. Then if there was enough time left over for some golf, and a couple of decent guys to get out with …
Dammit, Willop thought. I want that, and sooner rather than later. I mean, what else is there?
Well, there’s a couple of kids and going to PTA meetings and saving up for college.… Yeah, there is that. The trick is figuring out whether all that other good stuff is harder or easier to come by if I go with Delmar Springs. Yeah, that was the trick card in the whole deck.…
But Willop was in too good a mood, he had his priorities too much in order, to let the decision about Delmar Springs vex him. Hell, plenty of people would love to be wrestling with a decision like that.
He was going to make things permanent with Moira, and they were going to settle down, no matter what kind of work he—they—did, and where. Just look at the people around me, he thought. Plain people, family people. Good people. And I’m gonna be like them. I might even discover God, or He might discover me.
Willop let himself think about the puzzle. Yes, he would chew on it a little, maybe see a fresh angle or two, but he wouldn’t let it consume him. Not tonight, anyhow …
Maybe he should just call the sheriff, ask for an appointment, tell him everything he had found out. Or maybe that hard-ass Stoker, he might have more pull. Wonder if he’s enough of a pro to try to look objectively at what his daddy did. Can’t count on that …
But what could I tell them? Willop thought. That Brickstone did a half-ass job? Shit, I ain’t asking for a new trial.… Or tell them to just do some detective work, forty-plus years later? Sure, that’s it. And while I’m at it, I can just tell them I’m nuts, because they’ll think that anyhow.…
The tooth in the autopsy picture. Like maybe the older girl bit the guy. Well, maybe she did. They missed it at the time. So what? And now they’re going to go all over Clarendon County—maybe Sumter, too—and ask all the older men to hold their hands out so they can check for bite marks? Sure, that’s it.…
I can tell the sheriff and this guy Stoker that the old deputy, Cody, seemed kind of shy about answering any questions. And so what … Hey, tell ’em about that old Tyrone, how he didn’t want to be bothered with me. No, more than that. Like he was hiding something, or afraid …
Something did bother Willop, but he couldn’t quite pin it down. Or maybe it wasn’t one thing, but two or three things he couldn’t connect.…
Goddamn, Willop thought. It ain’t like it’s on Perry Mason.…
What cop anywhere is going to check into a case that was already stamped “solved” more than forty years ago? There, that was the point. Cops everywhere, they all claim they got plenty to do keeping up with today’s crime.
Maybe I should just write what I find, try to sell an article to The New York Times Sunday magazine. If it was good enough, and I got some civil-liberties lawyers to notice it, especially some angry young black ones … Hey, maybe. At least tell the world what happened, even if it wouldn’t do any good. Whoever said Truth and Justice went hand in hand?
Willop was wondering whether to have the pecan pie plain or with vanilla ice cream when he overheard some conversation from the next table. There were a man and his wife and their two young sons, ages twelve and ten or thereabouts. The father was explaining in a serious way, in quiet tones the boys could pay attention to, about death. That much Willop had discerned without even trying. There had been a death in the family (sounded like an uncle, maybe, or a grandfather), and the father was talking to his boys man-to-man.
Willop saw the waiter coming. He would order the pie with vanilla ice cream on it, and never mind the calories.
“… so just remember the lesson. It only takes a moment, just a tiny bit of carelessness with a gun …”
“I know.”
Willop tried to tune out all other sounds.
“Well, I know you know, son. All the same, if you’re wanting a gun for next Christmas …”
Dishes clattered nearby. Shut up, shut up, Willop wanted to shout.
“… thought he knew all about guns, too. Probably handled them all his life, being a deputy and all …”
“Would you care for some dessert, sir?”
Willop ignored the waiter, trying desperately to hear.
“… and now he’s dead as can be. All because of a little carelessness. Dead by his own gun …”
“Sir? Some dessert?”
“Uh, no. Thanks. Just give me the check.”
Mechanically, Willop gave the waiter a credit card, realized after the waiter had gone how stupid that had been, that they would be able to trace him easily from the credit card if they (who?) were looking for him. But Willop didn’t care. The fear had deflated him like a punch in the stomach.
He left the tip in cash, stumbled out of the dining room, bumping a couple of tables but not looking down to beg anybody’s pardon, ignored the hostess’s good-bye smile. He waited for an eternity while the kid brought him his car, then gave him a dollar tip and drove away. Not too fast, not too slow, Willop thought. Just away, away, away …
He drove back toward the motel he had left, then thought no, no, no, they would look for him there. He was a fool, in way over his head.…
Down a side road … Must not, must not go into a ditch … Careful in the dark … Familiar. Why? Oh, the road to the mill, to the
mill. Ahead was the hardware store, used to be the company store, a big shape there in the dark. Right across is Tyrone’s shack.…
No! Nothing there, no shack, nothing standing against the night blue … Slow the car, slow the breathing, open the window, can’t hear any night sounds over the breathing … Smell, smell, smell the smoke, the wet ashes of the wood, and Tyrone.
Roll up the window and drive, drive, drive.
35
Willop drove away from Manning, toward Columbia, avoiding the main roads. He would be safer in Columbia; more people, he could disappear more easily, until he figured out what to do.…
But no, they would find him there easily. He couldn’t go near the airport, they would have it staked out.… Who would? Stoker and his cronies? Was that it? Was he the one who had something to lose in all this? Or …
Jesus, the car … Trace it so easily if he even went near Columbia …
Would they (he?) try to kill him, or just frame him? Maybe both … Frame him, then arrange a jail suicide …
Ahead, he saw a little store with a gasoline pump out front. Light still on …
He pulled over, parked in front of the gasoline pump, went inside, tried to act casual. Only customer in the place …
Need the tank filled, Willop told the man. Help yourself, the man said, then come on back and pay me. Need some black coffee to go, Willop said. Coming up, the man said. Best damn coffee anywhere …
Willop paid the man, made his good-bye as friendly-sounding as he could, got into the car, and drove off. The coffee was sitting in the well between the seats. He’d need it later, because he was going to find a road heading north, and he was going to drive out of Clarendon County, out of South Carolina, was going to drive all night, heading north, north, north.…
There was no comfort in the empty roads, only terror. It would be easy to pick him out; he would be stopped on an ink-black stretch of lonely road, and he would be handcuffed. Or maybe just killed on the spot, and nobody would have to know. This was South Carolina, still South Carolina.…
He was falling into the trap, doing what he (they?) wanted, running, running.…
