My drinking career lasted twelve years. I got sober after warrants for unpaid traffic tickets resulted in a "sentence" to 20 AA meetings. I sat in that room hating everyone and everything, but it didn't last. I began to identify with what I was hearing. In time, I came to accept that I had a disease.
I approached Hal Solomon for help after hearing him speak at a meeting in Beverly Hills. He agreed to walk me through my steps. Only later did I realize that Hal was a major stockholder in the media company that had just fired me. We both found the irony amusing.
A light breeze sang across the barren desert. It rolled a clenched fist of tumbleweed along the blacktop with a dry, scraping sound. I yawned and turned back toward the Saddleback motel.
In my room, I booted up the computer and found another E-mail from Jerry. After a short loading period, the screen turned green and a drunken leprechaun starting dancing around a pot of gold. It was a flash-animation e-card, expressing friendship and gratitude, "even if I did have to pay you." I saved it.
Next was Hal Solomon's response to my query:
Your question puts me in mind of a quotation from George Bernard Shaw, who wrote: 'The true joy in life is to be used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being a force of nature instead of a selfish, feverish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy.'
My answer is that you are ready.
You should go forth into the world and identify another noble cause to which you can dedicate yourself, i.e. do a mitzvah. Extend yourself at your earliest convenience.
As for myself, I must confess to a growing sense of boredom. I believe it is related directly to being retired and wealthy. Therefore, please inform me if and when my assistance, (intellectual, financial, or otherwise) is required. You may count on me, as always . . .
And remember that you are valued.
Hal.
Nine
Sunday Morning, 7:37 AM
"You know what I need you to do, right?"
We were in the motel office. I stood and motioned Jerry into the rickety chair behind the metal desk. My old, reliable IBM ThinkPad chirped happily and played a musical chord. "I use this one if you want to borrow it."
Jerry was amused. "Callahan, I'm the one who tracked your country ass down, remember? Shit, we traded E-mails for weeks. You think I need to use this wimpy little piece of crap?"
"I just thought maybe . . ."
"Do you even know what the term 'hacker' means?"
"Hey, I know you're good with computers," I said defensively. "But I thought you could use mine too, maybe as an extra or something."
"I'll use my own," Jerry said firmly. "Check this out."
He stood up, went to the back room and unlocked two deadbolts. The door swung open and Jerry waved at a gigantic collection of electronic apparatus. "Enter the 21st Century. Your laptop is to this gear what a Model T Ford is to the space station."
For the first time, I looked closely. I assumed his stuff was mostly stereo equipment, but I had seriously underestimated my friend's capabilities. I whistled. "What is all this?"
"Took me years," Jerry said, proudly. "Every time I fixed a computer I lifted a part or two and left used stuff in its place. Take this video card. I swiped it from a new Dell. I did the same thing with the memory, hard drives, and most of the peripherals." He touched a tall stack of electronics. "This is a state-of-the-art Pentium IV 1.5 megahertz system with 500 megs of ram running off a 64 megabyte G2 video card. I got me two 50 gigabyte firewire hard drives viewed on a ViewSonic 2l-inch monitor with a .24 dot pitch. Thus, the world is at our fingertips."
"I was afraid you would say that."
"Say what?"
"Whatever it was you said."
Jerry was getting excited. "These hick towns don't have DSL or a cable modem, right? So I have a two-way satellite that gives me 1.5 megs of bandwidth to upload and download. I use proxy servers routed from Puerto Rico, so I can't be traced if I go somewhere I shouldn't be going, you know? Since the U.S. basically owns Puerto Rico, I can gain access to all government, state, and local records."
"All of them?"
"It's not that hard, Mick. All DotGOV. Websites are networked out of Norfolk, and they give access to their employees. Since the level of information accessed depends on status, status levels are traded like baseball cards by the really good hackers. You just need to know what newsgroups to look on."
I sat down behind the desk. "You're amazing," I said. "How the hell did you learn all of this?"
"They have desktop computers in coffee shops and bookstores all over. You can rent by the hour. I just never had the kind of money it takes to buy stuff for myself until I started fixing people's gear instead of lifting cars. Then I eventually got this cool stash together. Impressed?"
I shook my head in admiration. "Absolutely, and now I'm going to put you to work. A friend of mine named Hal has serious money and good contacts. He will be helping us out from Europe." I gave him the E-mail address.
"Way cool," Jerry said. "You sure you're up for this, then?"
"You paid me the five bucks."
"That I did." Jerry spread his arms wide to indicate his gear was warming up. "And now I'm set to kick some serious ass."
"Okay," I said. "Forget checking for alibis, because damned near everyone in Dry Wells was in that park and her death happened in broad daylight. I think we need to look for people who might have had a motive."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to find out how Lowell Palmer got rich. Also, give me detailed bios on Glenn Bass, Loner McDowell, Doc Langdon, also Bobby Sewell and his gang. Go into old newspaper articles from the local and state papers, all the public records, law enforcement and so on."
"I know the drill. Where are you going, Palmer's ranch?"
"Bingo. I'm going to grill Will Palmer and maybe see if I can stir up some trouble by acting like I know something." I turned in the doorway. "By the way, where the hell were you last night?"
Jerry looked sheepish. "I had a couple of beers and got lonesome, so I went out looking for Skanky. But I couldn't get her to sneak away with me."
"You're living dangerously."
"Yeah. That Mexican guy saw me, so I really had to haul ass. I came back, locked myself in, finished the beer and fell asleep in the office. Sorry."
"I think we each need to know where the other guy is at all times. And considering Bobby is one of our prime suspects, you'd best avoid Sewell and his gang from now on. Sorry Jerry, but that includes Skanky."
"There's something really weird going on around here, isn't there?"
A dead man with his hands tied behind his back and his fingertips sliced away qualifies as weird, all right. I shoved the image aside. "I've just got a hunch, a gut feeling," I said, lying like a rug. "When I'm sure of something, you'll be the first to know. I'm taking my cell phone along so I can check in."
"Okay."
I paused in the doorway. "Hang in there, Jerry. You'll be able to see your girlfriend again. I should be back in a few hours."
I clipped the cell phone onto my belt, started up the Ford and pulled out onto the highway. I headed south on Highway 93, towards the mountains and a little town called Currie. After a few moments I opened the window and inhaled the perfume of the sage.
Nevada is a beautiful state in its own primitive way, despite the garish gaming establishments. It has long, open spaces and stunning high deserts with mountains that are dotted with single-leaf pinon trees and bristlecone pines. The state sprawls over 110,540 square miles and much of it is virtually uninhabited. Miners, among them the Irish who built Carson City, have pulled gold, silver, copper, zinc, and even uranium from the ground. Ranchers and farmers have successfully raised livestock and harvested alfalfa, wheat, vegetables, and even hardy fruits. It's rich land.
On the Bell ranch, slender deer would gather in the thick brush near a water supply, venturing out to
drink only at dusk or in the cool of the dark. I had milked cows in the brisk cold just before sunrise, squirting precious streams to the feral cats crouched in the barn's open, wood-framed windows. There were bobcats and coyotes and badgers, a seemingly endless supply of gophers and jackrabbits, magpies that dotted the landscape with thin black and white feathers.
I dialed my cell phone. A woman answered the telephone on the third ring. "Palmer's residence," she said. She was young and seemed anxious.
"I'd like to speak to Wilson, please," I said.
"Hold on," she said. There was a moment of confusion and fumbling; the receiver was handed back and forth.
"This is Will Palmer."
"My name is Mick Callahan."
"I had heard you were in town. I remember catching your old television show a time or two. What can I do for you?"
"Will, I was very sorry to hear about your sister."
"It was a terrible shock. You knew my sister, then?"
"Many years ago."
No mention of watching Sandy and I conversing. If Will Palmer had no idea what I looked like, then he was lying about having seen the television show. Or perhaps he did know of me, but had something to hide. We hadn't even met yet, and he was already getting on my nerves.
"I was wondering if I might visit you for a few minutes. I'm not far away."
"I assume you have something significant to discuss since you have already expressed your grief at the passing of my half-sister?"
What a chilly personality, I thought. He sounded narcissistic and passive-aggressive. I decided to be cool, direct and firm. "Will, I'd like to talk to you in person."
He bit. "Where are you?"
"Out on the 93."
"Take 93 past the 229 cutoff to Humboldt Forest. We're maybe a couple of miles north of Currie."
"I've got it. Is this a good time?"
"I'm not desperately busy, Mr. Callahan. Perhaps you can enliven my day."
Dial tone.
Sudden trauma can cause odd behavior; the larger the shock, the more bizarre the conduct. Grieving people have been known to break into giggles at the funeral of a beloved relative, for example. Gentle family members may suddenly have temper tantrums, drink excessively, and even find themselves in trouble with the law. But there was something far too cold, calculated, and deliberately insulting about Will Palmer's performance.
The Palmer spread was set back from the highway, right after the turnoff from the 93. The barbed wire fence and barred metal gate were nearly invisible. I hit the brakes and backed up, spraying dust. Thirty yards behind a smattering of small pines sat a cinderblock wall, about six feet tall. Huge twenty-foot gates, with a garish metal "Palmer Ranch" logo above them, were centered in that wall. The gates were open and I drove through.
On the left I saw a large half-sunken potato cellar, common to this part of the country; the door made of splintering wooden planks. To the right, more trees and a rocky slope that tapered out of sight. Straight ahead sat a blue one-story wooden house with a porch railing; beyond it a larger wood-and-brick two-story house, also with a wooden railing. The second house was painted red. A horse corral stood between these two dwellings and a full garden framed the back yard of the larger home. Further in the distance I could make out a grain silo, a large white wooden barn that seemed freshly painted, and some large animal pens.
Far to the rear of the property sat a cluster of dilapidated old mobile homes; three or more, located near a side gate. Past the gate lay a dirt road, likely something private that returned to highway 93 and curved south and east. I opted for the larger house, the red brick and wood two-story. I started along the left side of the two homes, but as I passed the empty horse corral realized that this was the back entrance. I turned around.
Wilson Palmer was seated comfortably on the wooden porch of the two-story, smoking and rocking in a chair. He had his booted feet up on the wooden railing and stared at me with studied insouciance. There was a blur of motion, the slamming of a screen door. I saw a scantily clad female with dark hair return to the darkness within the house. I parked and got out. A sickly-sweet smell struck my nostrils; Palmer was finishing a joint. He ground it out beneath his heel and got to his feet.
Close up, Will was as strikingly handsome as a movie star. His hair was dark and perfectly coiffed; black eyes cold and flat. He greeted me with a thin smile. "Mr. Callahan, I'm Will Palmer. Have a seat."
Ten
Sunday Morning, 8:46 AM
Will Palmer and I were natural enemies; cobra and mongoose. The tension was palpable and immediately filled the gaps between pleasantries. My counseling supervisor would have called it 'counter-transference,' and I suppose that's true enough. But the harsh fact is that I flat-out disliked the arrogant little bastard, and he returned the sentiment.
Palmer's aura of narcissism and smug superiority was a visceral presence. I needed to try to shake him up. I decided to be indirect, avoid activating his defenses. Otherwise things could very rapidly spiral out of control, because a man like Will Palmer actually had a very fragile ego. It would be difficult to get his mask of arrogance to slip, but I had come here to see what lay behind it.
"I was looking forward to meeting you, Mr. Callahan."
"The feeling is mutual. I heard a lot about the Palmer family growing up, but I never knew anyone but your sister when she was still a child."
"You never laid eyes on us?"
"Not up close." I found myself slipping into a drawl that matched Palmers. Maybe try for some kind of a narcissistic twin- ship? But then he'll know you're stroking him. He's a smart bastard. Something about Will Palmer made my flesh writhe. It felt like a form of projective identification, so perhaps he had borderline-psychotic features, too. Better tread lightly.
His tone dripped sarcasm. "Why, how nice for you, then, I'll bet you're just thrilled to be here. Would you like a drink?"
"No, thanks," I said. My eyes wandered to the joint lying crushed on the porch.
"Too late to ask for a hit."
"I'd pass anyway."
"Have a seat. I trust this won't take long?"
I shrugged. "I'll stand." I meant to use height as an advantage.
It had no visible effect. Will Palmer yawned in a contrived show of disinterest. "So what can I do you for, Callahan?"
A female figure appeared, blurred by the screen door and hidden in the dark living room. "Honey? Do you need me to bring you anything?"
"What's the matter with you? Can't you see we're having a conversation?"
"I'm sorry." She turned on a dime and vanished. I felt frozen, at a loss for words. I couldn't recall meeting anyone quite as cruel as Will Palmer. He was Darin Young squared.
"Okay, I suppose you're just heartbroken about Sandy," Will said, "got anything else on your mind?"
I felt myself losing ground already. "I just wanted to talk with you." Cattle started to moo somewhere to the south.
"Okay, where is it Mr. Callahan?"
"Where is what?"
"Your hidden camera."
That explained part of the obnoxious attitude. He was paranoid that I was on the job. "No camera. I'm out of work again."
"I heard you had fallen on hard times. Otherwise, what would you be doing spending your holiday weekend in a dump like Dry Wells. Am I right?" We stared at one another and time crept by. I noticed that Will Palmer seldom blinked.
"Are you always so detached?"
"What do you mean by detached?" Palmer responded. He was not smiling.
"You just seem . . ."
"Bravo," Palmer said. He clapped his hands together. I jumped a bit. Palmer read my nervousness, enjoyed having startled me. "That was an absolutely dead-on impersonation of a sensitive therapist."
I'm losing this round. Instead of me getting to him, he is getting to me. What is it about him that throws me off?
"You seem angry." It was a weak, very textbook stalling tactic. I regretted it instantly.
"Reflection of feeling
, Callahan? You can do better than that."
"Sorry, observation is an occupational hazard." I downshifted and forced myself to relax. I've got to find a way to bond with him. Maybe if I opened up a little?
At precisely that moment, as if reading my mind, Will Palmer leered and said: "Did you fuck her?"
My stomach went sour. "Excuse me?"
"Oh, come on, Mr. Callahan. We both know practically everyone in town fucked my sister. Did you?"
"I-I knew her as a child." Christ, he's got me stammering . . .
Palmer closed his eyes as if preparing to nap. "Then why bother, Callahan? You have no career left to speak of, you weren't fucking Sandy, and you're boring me. Go away."
My pilot light popped on; heat rose up from my rib cage to turn the world black and red. I almost kicked the legs of the chair out from under him. My voice sounded strange; low and tight: "You know, maybe I just remembered something I need to do."
"How about you go do it, then."
I started towards the car. This is exactly what he wants. He thrives on it. "You know something, Will?"
Without opening his eyes: "What?"
"You might want to try going to charm school."
"That so?"
"You don't, someday somebody's likely to rearrange your face so bad you'll drown when it rains."
"Have a nice day, Mr. Callahan."
I got into the Ford, feeling completely defeated both professionally and personally. I drove away.
Eleven
Sunday Morning, 10:45 AM
Thirty minutes later: FOR SALE.
I was not prepared for my reaction. The sight of the weather-beaten black mailbox set into concrete and brick brought tears to my eyes. I pulled to the side of the road and sat quietly in the trailing cloud of dust. The long, unpaved driveway was now overgrown with cactus and dried weeds. A man could still walk it, if he navigated carefully between the needled guardians. I had taken Hal's advice.
Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels) Page 8
