by Gerry Boyle
I crouched in the brush and waited. Maybe a car would come by. I’d run out with my rifle and ask them to stop and give me a ride. In Florence, Maine, it actually could happen.
And then Bobby was talking. I could hear him but I couldn’t hear any response. I moved closer, picking my way along the edge of a bramble where birds flitted away from me.
“. . . walk down and back up through the woods, see if I can flush him out. If he tries to cross here, you’ve got him. You seen Mel?”
I could see the back of the truck now, a blond head behind the wheel, an elbow out the open driver’s window. I waited. Bobby glided away, into the opening of the driveway. In the truck, Coyote waited, motionless. The truck, pulled off the road against the brush, wasn’t running.
It was thirty yards away. I lay down on my belly, the rifle in front of me, the strip of brushy edge between me and the road. I couldn’t come through it right next to him, but I couldn’t break through yet. I had to be closer, close enough that I’d be below the truck when he looked in the mirrors. I crawled slowly. Sticks and roots tore up my shirt and scratched my belly. I ignored them and kept going until I could see the round hole in the end of the truck’s exhaust pipe. And then I moved to my left.
There was a small opening in the vines and blackberry canes and I squeezed through. I heard Coyote sniff. I waited. He sniffed again. I waited some more.
For a moment, I might be visible in his right-side mirror. I had to pray he wouldn’t look. I’d be committed. I’d be lying on the ground. I’d be in a shoot-out.
I moved.
In the open and then behind the truck. Still on my belly. I waited. No sound. Then another sniff. I lay there, my heart pounding. Sniff again. Postnasal drip.
I had to get close to the driver’s door. I let my breath go in and out silently and then inched my way under the truck bed, until I was behind the right rear wheel. I waited again, my face against the gravel. I couldn’t wait, couldn’t risk a car coming by, a driver leaning out and saying, “Hey, none of my business, but there’s a guy under your truck and he’s got a rifle.”
Coyote sniffed. I moved the safety off. I counted to three. One, two, three . . .
I was up, two steps, and the muzzle of the rifle was pressed against the side of Coyote’s neck.
“Hi, Bern,” I said. “Want to sign my petition?”
I pushed the muzzle against him hard, so it made a crater in his flesh. He didn’t move.
“Don’t give me an excuse. It won’t take much. My nerves are on edge, if you know what I’m saying.”
Coyote’s face was impassive. A prison mask.
“Here’s what I want you to do. If you don’t do it, I’ll shoot you and do it myself. Your choice.”
No reaction.
There was a handgun, a semiautomatic something or other, on the seat next to him.
“Pick the gun up by the barrel and throw it on the floor. Over to the right.”
He did. The gun hit the floor with a clunk.
“Reach over to the shifter and put it in neutral.”
He did.
“Jiggle it back and forth so I can see it’s out of gear.”
He did that, too.
“Nice hair, Bernie. That look’s very big in New York. Now keep one hand on the wheel and reach down and start it up. Don’t flood it. If your hand moves one inch toward the shifter, I’ll put a bullet in your spine. Go ahead.”
He did. The starter motor growled and the motor coughed and then rumbled. He didn’t rev it. Now I had to get the door open. Should I shove him over? But the gun was over there. Make him get out this side?
The motor idled. Coyote stared straight ahead.
“Turn your head toward me.”
He turned, slowly. His eyes showed nothing.
“Open your mouth.”
He didn’t.
“I’ll shoot you. I swear I’ll blow your head off. I’m getting out of here, I’m telling you.”
For the first time, Coyote looked at me. Slowly let his mouth gape open. I moved the barrel from his neck, put it inside his mouth.
“Bite down hard. I want to see your teeth.”
He did it.
“Nice and white. You and Bobby must go to the same dentist. Now I’m gonna open the door. If I feel you loosen your grip, I’ll pull the trigger. I hope to hell you believe me.”
I reached down with my left hand and pushed the button. The door latch popped. I eased it open. Coyote stared at me, the rifle barrel clenched in his teeth like a big stogie.
“Now I’m gonna tell you to let go of the gun. Keep your hands on the wheel. You move anything and you’re gone.”
I pulled the door toward me, the gun still through the window.
“I’ll tell you when, Bern. Don’t do it until—”
“Drop the gun, McMorrow.”
I didn’t. I didn’t even look toward the voice. Melanie’s.
“Drop it, I said. Take it out of his mouth.”
She was coming from the driveway. Moving tentatively. She had a gun. I could feel it. I glanced, just my eyes. The shotgun.
“Drop it, McMorrow. Put it down.”
“Nope. You move you’re dead, Bern. Not one friggin’ muscle.”
Melanie was in front of the truck. The shotgun was pointed at me. Coyote stared at me from behind the rifle barrel.
“I’ll kill you, McMorrow.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, it’s right.”
Coyote didn’t move. The door was half open. I let it swing shut.
“Drop it.”
“No way.”
She took two steps closer.
“That’s Stephen’s rifle. Where’s Stephen?”
“You toss the gun and we’ll talk about it.”
“Where is he, McMorrow? What’d you do to my son? Oh, my God, what’s that blood all over your face? What’d you do? Where is he, McMorrow? Oh, you bastard, oh, my God, where is he? You tell me or I’ll kill you, you tell me, McMorrow, where is he?”
Her voice was shrill, screeching, near hysteria.
“You kill me and I won’t tell you,” I said.
“Where is he? What did you do to him? You bastard, how did you get his gun? Bobby. Bobby. Bobby, come here!”
Melanie was screaming. Coyote’s black eyes stared into mine. His two front teeth rested on the metal of the barrel. The left one, left from my side, was discolored. Yellow.
“Don’t move,” I said.
“Bobby, come here, Bobby!”
There was the sound of someone running on the driveway and the sound got louder and there he was, pistol down low, then out in front of him, clenched in two hands, pointed at me.
“He returns from the dead,” I said. “How was it?”
“He’s done something to Stephen. He’s got his gun. He’s got Stephen’s gun. What’d you do with him, McMorrow? You bastard, if you hurt him, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you myself.”
“Put it down, McMorrow,” Bobby said, moving behind Melanie, into the road.
“The bad news is this blood all over me. It isn’t mine.”
“My God,” Melanie gasped.
“The good news is, he’s okay. For now.”
“Where is he?”
“State secret. I’ll tell you in downtown Madison.”
“I’m gonna kill him,” Bobby said, pistol still pointed at me.
“You do that, he’s dead. You won’t find him and he’ll die of thirst or exposure or something like that. Shooting me is shooting him. It’s true. He’s hidden out in those woods and you could look for him for a week. So back off.”
“Where is he?”
“I’ll call you.”
“You’re not going anywhere, friend.”
“Yeah, I am. I’m gonna get in this truck and go. You go back to the house and wait and I’ll call and tell you where Stephen is. That means you’d better find the phone.”
“No way.”
“Yes way.”
“You’re not leaving, McMorrow,” Melanie said. “Not until you tell us where he is.”
“You’re smarter than that.”
“You’re going nowhere,” Bobby said.
“Oh, I don’t know. I had a couple of rocky years, but now this freelance stuff is kind of taking off.”
Bobby moved a couple of steps toward me.
“One more and he goes. I’ll keep shooting and Stephen’ll die. Back off.”
Melanie looked at me. Coyote did, too. I could hear him breathing. The barrel was wet with his saliva.
“Do it, Bobby.”
“He can’t leave.”
“We’ve got to have Stephen. We’ve got to find him. Is he shot?”
“He’s dead if I don’t tell you. Simple as that. Now here we go. I’m gonna open this door. You’re gonna put your guns down and lie in the road. Don’t you ever get any traffic around here?”
“No friggin’ way,” Bobby said.
Melanie looked at me. Slowly lowered the shotgun.
“What are you doing?”
“I’ve got to have Stephen.”
“He’s not gonna call. He’s gonna call the cops. He goes, we’re history. Are you crazy? We’d have to run so friggin’ fast, shit, the place would be swarming. In an hour? Shit. He can’t go.”
“Stephen,” Melanie said.
“He’s not going. You’re not going, McMorrow. You open that door, you’re a dead man. I swear it, man. You touch that door, you’re dead.”
“And so’s Stephen.”
“Don’t try it, McMorrow. You tell us where the kid is, you toss the rifle, you start hoofing it down the road. We boogie and we all live happily ever after.”
“Nope.”
“I gotta kill him.”
“No, Bobby.”
“I gotta.”
“No.”
“I’m not going back to the joint.”
“They’d love your hair,” I said. “Right, Bern?”
“You’re not leaving, McMorrow.”
“I’ll call you. Wait by the phone. Have a muffin; they’re killers.”
“I’m gonna drop him.”
“No.”
“That gun’s pointed at Stephen’s head,” I said.
“Don’t move, McMorrow.”
“Here we go, Bern. We’re gonna go nice and easy. Show me those pearly whites. That’s a good boy.”
“Don’t do it, McMorrow.”
“Here we go, Bernie. Nice and easy.”
“McMorrow.”
“Bobby, don’t.”
“Don’t move, McMorrow.”
“Bobby. Bobby. Please.”
“He shoots, say good-bye to your son, Melanie. He’s gonna die slow.”
“No, Bobby.”
“I’m telling you, McMorrow. Drop it. I’m gonna do it.
I’m gonna kill you. I’m—”
“You want these two or do you want Stephen? It’s that simple.”
“Last chance, McMorrow.”
It was Melanie. She had the shotgun on Bobby. Pointed at the side of his head.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“You’re not gonna kill my son.”
“Christ almighty, what are you doing?”
“You’re not gonna kill Stephen.”
“He’s already dead. Look at the blood on this guy. He killed him.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“He’s fine,” I said. “The blood’s from his nose.”
“Bullshit,” Bobby said.
“You’re not gonna kill my son, Bobby.”
“He’s a nice kid, Melanie. He deserves a life.”
“Shut up, McMorrow.”
“I’ll call you, Melanie. Put the gun down and you can even come with me. Drop me in Madison and I’ll tell you and you can come right back.”
“He’s not leaving.”
“Sure I am. Right now. Nice and easy.”
Bobby’s pistol was on me. Melanie’s shotgun was on him. The rifle was in Coyote’s mouth. I eased the door open. A truck came around the bend from the west.
“Shit,” Bobby said, but nobody dropped their guns. The truck had two guys in it. It slowed and stopped in the road a hundred yards away, backed up, and turned and roared off.
“Too late now,” I said.
Coyote was on his feet, on the other side of the door.
“Don’t friggin’ move, McMorrow,” Bobby said.
“Make a choice, Melanie. Your son or these two dirtbags. Keep in mind that they’re going away for a long, long time.”
I pulled the door toward me so my back was to Bobby.
“Put both hands on top of the door.”
Coyote did it.
“Now open your mouth, very slowly.”
He did that, too. I eased the gun out of his mouth but kept it pointed at his face. Then I pulled it through the window frame and had it back on his face.
“Now keep your hands up and lie down on your face in the road. Right there.”
“McMorrow,” Bobby screamed.
Coyote stretched out on the pavement.
“Bobby, don’t,” Melanie said.
I waited for the blast. One gun or the other. Waited. Then turned slowly, so I had the door between me and the two of them. Melanie had the shotgun on Bobby. He had the pistol pointed at me. My rifle was pointed at Coyote.
“McMorrow,” Bobby screamed, trembling.
“No,” Melanie shrieked.
The pistol came up, pointed at my face.
“He’s my son,” Melanie screamed.
Bobby took a deep breath.
And ran.
34
During the ride to Madison, Melanie was quiet. I was, too. The rifle went in the gun rack. It was no longer needed.
On the Anson side of the bridge to Madison, I pulled the truck over. Melanie looked over at me, her face taut with worry.
“Who’s the dead guy?” I said.
“Where is he, McMorrow?”
I looked at her. Slowly shook my head. I leaned over and opened the glove box and found a pink piece of paper, the back of a receipt. There was a pencil, too.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Melanie said.
“Nope. Who’s the dead guy?”
Melanie looked at me.
“Goddamn you, McMorrow. Goddamn you to hell.”
I wrote that down. Waited.
“How can you hold my son hostage to your goddamn story?”
“I’m doing what I set out to do. We had a deal, remember? You think I came all the way up here to visit? Now, who’s the dead guy?”
Melanie looked at me. “You son of a bitch.”
I waited, pencil on the paper. She looked away. I waited some more.
“He was some junkie. Coyote found him.”
“When he was alive or when he was dead?”
“Dead.”
I scribbled.
“Who killed him?”
“Nobody. He OD’d.”
“And Coyote just happened to be standing there when he nodded out?”
“The word was out. Well, not really out. Coyote told a couple people we were looking for a body.”
“And one just happened to fall into your lap?”
She shrugged.
“A body with a name and a dentist?”
“They all go to the clinic down there.”
“Good luck explaining that to the cops,” I said.
“Where is he?”
“Not so fast. What was I needed for?”
“Goddamn it, I want a lawyer.”
“No, you don’t. You want your son. A lawyer isn’t going to help you find him. Not in time, anyway. So let’s hear it. Why bring me into it?”
Melanie swallowed, looked out at the falls tumbling past the brick walls of the mill. She looked jowly. She looked old.
“I’ll sit here all day and all night,” I said.
“We needed a third party. Somebody to say, ‘Yeah. Bobby went to Lewis
ton to find a guy who owed him money for drugs.’ We needed somebody who knew about it before. Somebody independent.”
“And I fell into your lap.”
“Yup.”
“Except I wasn’t supposed to chase him so far.”
“Right. You weren’t supposed to go all over friggin’ New England. Now you got what you want? Where’s my son?”
I filled the back of the paper and turned it over. It was a receipt for a tire. I wrote in the margin, down the sides.
“I’m not done. What’d you want the money for?”
“What’d we want the money for?”
“Yeah. You grow vegetables, don’t even have electricity. What the hell were you going to do with three hundred thousand?”
“It wasn’t three, it was one. One for each of us. I was gonna take mine and take Stephen and go live someplace warm.”
“The two of you?”
“You got it. The two of us.”
“Did Bobby know that?”
“He never asked,” Melanie said. “Now where’s Stephen?”
I finished writing and put the piece of paper in my shirt pocket. Then I put the truck in gear. All the way to the Madison police station, Melanie called me names, said I was a double-crossing son of a bitch. This wasn’t true, because I did tell her where Stephen was.
In the presence of a policeman.
Tom Wellington at the Globe liked that part of the story.
“ ‘Go live someplace warm.’ That says it all, doesn’t it?” Wellington said, over the phone. “So much for the organic life. Bottom line is everybody wants to go to St. Thomas and drink rum. How the hell did you get her to talk to you like that?”
I looked over at Roxanne, sitting in the sun in the big chair by the window, her leg up on a wooden crate topped with a cushion.
“She just talked.”
“It’s a hell of a piece, Jack. I like the DEA cop talking about his son. The guy whose son was disillusioned. The dentist. Art is great, too. The mug shot, the family photo. And I don’t say that easily. Don’t suppose Mullaney and Begosian want to confess their sins.”
“They’ve got lawyers now. I tried.”
“They’re gonna need ’em. Think they’ll be able to convict them on the murder charge for the junkie?”
