by Wilderness
The voice, Newman thought, Jesus what a scary voice. He tried to bunch the muscles in his shoulders to be ready.
Hood stepped half a step forward and brought the Walther out from behind his leg. In a lateral karate-like movement he swung the gun up over the man’s shoulder and hit him in the temple with the top of the barrel where the shells eject. It was so quick the big man never moved. The gun made a sound like a mallet hitting a grapefruit, and the man’s knees buckled. Hood hit him again on the temple. The sound was squishier. And again. The man began to sag.
Like a Peckinpah movie, for crissake, Newman thought. It was as if the man were too big to fall suddenly. And slowly, as if in slow motion, he went down and sprawled in the alley on his stomach. Blood showed at the temple in a small ooze, there was redness around it.
Hood bent over and took the man’s wallet from his left hip pocket. He pulled the man’s wristwatch on its expandable bracelet off the man’s left wrist. Then with a short jabbing motion of his right hand, the gun still in it, he gestured up the alley. “Go,” he said.
Newman first with Hood behind him ran up the alley. Newman didn’t slow at the alley mouth but kept right on running. Hood was five steps behind as they reached the car.
“Drive,” Hood said, and Newman got behind the wheel, took the keys from over the visor, and started the car. They turned right on Causeway under the MBTA elevated, and left onto the Charlestown Bridge; in City Square, Newman went up the ramp onto Route 93 and headed north.
“He didn’t recognize me,” Newman said.
“No. Not without your deaf-mute getup,” Hood said. “If he had I’d have killed him.”
“You sure he didn’t?”
“Yeah. I was watching his eyes; he didn’t show any sign of recognizing you.”
“Lucky,” Newman said.
Hood looked at the contents of the man’s wallet. “Not much,” Hood said. “Two hundred and twenty-eight dollars, and a Massachusetts driver’s license. His name is Tate. Gordon Tate. His address is the same as Karl’s. He was born in 1940.”
Newman took in a deep breath and blew it out. “That was one of the guys from Karl’s office, you know. The same one that tied up Janet.”
“I know,” Hood said. “One thing, Aaron. You shouldn’t have run right out of the alley like you did. You come to an alley mouth you stop and see what’s out there. Then you move.”
Newman was silent as the Bronco rolled through Somerville toward Medford. “I was scared, Chris. I guess I wasn’t thinking.”
Hood shrugged. Some powerboats rode at anchor in the Mystic River, narrower here by half than it was only a few miles closer to the sea where the bridge arched over it and the cargo ships sailed up it to the pallet docks.
“I wasn’t much help to you in the alley, Chris,” Newman said.
They went up slightly onto an overpass that crossed the river. “It takes learning, Aaron,” Hood said. “You got a little combat experience today, that’s all. Wasn’t much you needed to do. You spotted him first.”
“Why’d you tell me not to touch my gun?”
“Didn’t want to spook them if we could help it. Shooting might bring cops, or bad guys with guns. I don’t know. Kill that guy and maybe Karl would get nervous and be too hard to hit. I just wanted to get by without the guns if we could.”
Newman nodded.
“Guy was too cocky,” Hood said. “Big huge guys like that are sometimes. Doesn’t occur to them that they can be taken. He got too close. Should have had his gun out. Shouldn’t have gone down an alley with two guys if he didn’t. We’re not his size, but we’re not midgets. He should have noticed that.”
“I don’t know if not being a midget outside makes any difference,” Newman said. “Not if you’re a midget inside.”
Newman was staring straight ahead as he drove. Hood looked at him and sucked on the inside of his cheeks and said nothing.
14
Lieutenant Murray Vincent sat in his office at 1010 Commonwealth Avenue and fingered a thick collection of computer print-out sheets. He sat square in his chair with both feet flat on the floor and the computer sheets on his spare neat desk. As he went through them he moved his eyes methodically down the names on the sheets, turned a sheet, read the names, turned a sheet, read the names. Occasionally he stopped and went back reading more data on a name he recognized. He did this for an hour and eight minutes. Then he yelled through the open door, “Bobby.” A uniformed State Trooper appeared in the door. “Corporal Croft is out on a detail, sir. Sheet says he’ll be back in about half an hour.”
“Send him in when he gets here,” Vincent said.
In half an hour Croft came into Vincent’s office.
Vincent said, “Close the door, Bobby.”
Croft did. Then he sat in a straight chair beside Vincent’s desk.
Vincent handed him a multifold print-out sheet, folded over. There was a name marked in blue pencil. “That a familiar name to you?” Vincent said.
Croft read, “Aaron Newman. Sure. He’s the guy that saw Karl kill the broad in Smithfield and then got scared off.”
“It appears,” Vincent said, “that Newman has purchased a firearm.”
“Un-huh?”
“Whyn’t you look into it, Bobby.”
“You think he’s still involved with Karl?”
“Whyn’t you look into it and see. See exactly what he purchased, and see if you can figure out why. But don’t talk to Newman without first talking to me. Okay?”
“How’d you happen to see this listing?” Croft said.
“I try to thumb through them all each week,” Vincent said. He made a small smile.
“All the firearm purchases in the state? Every week?”
“I just sort of scan them.”
“No wonder you’re a lieutenant and I’m a corporal.”
“I take the Commonwealth’s money,” Vincent said, “I do the Commonwealth’s work.”
“Amazing,” Croft said. “A-fucking-mazing.”
“Bob, stop dazzling me with your vocabulary. Go find out about Newman and his gun. Maybe there’s something in it for us.”
Croft nodded. He took the folded computer sheet and went out.
Vincent took a brown paper bag out of the bottom right desk-drawer. From it he took a meatloaf sandwich with mayonnaise and lettuce, a nectarine, a Santa Rosa plum, half a dill pickle carefully wrapped in foil, two blue-checkered paper napkins, and a wedge-shaped plastic container in which there was a slice of homemade cherry pie. Taped neatly to the pie container with a piece of Scotch tape was a plastic fork. He spread a paper towel on his desk and carefully arranged his lunch on it. Then he took a big blue and white Thermos bottle from the same drawer and took off the cap. He poured skimmed milk into the cap and ate his lunch. He drank some milk and patted his mouth dry with the napkin and opened the pie container. On top of the pie was a small piece of paper with a heart and three kisses drawn on it. He smiled and put the paper in his desk drawer and ate the pie. When he was through he wrapped the plum and nectarine pits, along with the napkins and the plastic fork, in the foil from his pickle. He threw the foil away. He got up and went to the washroom and rinsed out the Thermos and the pie container. He washed his hands and face and went back to his desk. He put the Thermos and the pie container in the paper bag from which his lunch had come, put the bag away in the bottom right drawer of his desk. He took a toothpick from his shirt pocket and cleaned his teeth. Then he took a file folder from his in-basket and opened it and began to make notations in the margin with a blue pencil.
At two-forty Bobby Croft came back into his office and sat down in the straight chair. He took a small notebook out of his inside coat pocket, leafed through it until he found what he wanted, and then looked up at Vincent.
“Ready, Lieutenant?”
Vincent nodded.
“Newman bought a Springfield ’03 bolt-action with a scope and a box of .30/06 ammunition. Told the clerk he wanted it for competition.�
�
“Hmm-um.”
“Then I went over the BPL and looked Newman up in Who’s Who and Contemporary Authors. No mention of competitive shooting. I called his publisher and asked them if they knew anything about Newman shooting competitively. Said I was doing a story on writers who shoot and hunt for a Chicago magazine. Woman in the PR department said he gave no indication on his author’s biog sheet of competitive shooting. No mention of hunting or woodsmanship or anything remotely like it. Said she’d heard him say at lunch he wasn’t an outdoorsman. Ridiculed people who were, she said.”
“Hmm-um.”
“So why’s he want the long-range rifle with the scope? I mean, your Springfield ’03 isn’t the first gun you think of when you go to buy a rifle.”
“They were sniper guns in Korea,” Vincent said.
“Too long ago for me, Murray. I’ll have to trust your word on that.”
“They were,” Vincent said. “Bolt-action, a lot slower than the M1’s for rapid firing, but for sniping they were perfect. You don’t need rapid fire for sniping, and they had good range and didn’t jam.”
“So why does Newman want a sniper rifle? If you wanted something for protection, that’s not what you’d get. You’d get a shotgun or a carbine, something like that.”
“Right. It’s not a common hunting weapon either. Not with the scope.”
“Clerk in the gun shop says he made a point of the scope and the range.”
“Man buys a sniper gun,” Vincent said, “probably wants to snipe.”
Croft put the notebook away in his coat pocket and leaned back in the straight chair and put his hands behind his head and looked at Vincent.
“You think he wants to shoot Karl?”
“You got a better guess?”
“You think he’s got the balls?”
“No, but maybe I’m wrong. It’s too big a coincidence. Guy sees Karl do murder. Guy goes to testify. Guy gets frightened off. Guy buys sniper rifle.” Vincent spread his hands out, palms up. “What else?”
“He might have the balls,” Croft said. “He asked what I’d do if my family were threatened. I told him I wasn’t sure. I’d have to be in the spot.”
“I know what I’d do,” Vincent said.
“I told him that too,” Croft said.
“What’d you tell him I’d do?”
“I said you’d blow the guy away.”
Vincent nodded.
“Maybe he’s going to. It’s the way a guy like him would go. Long distance so you don’t get blood on your jogging shoes.”
“He’s not a bad guy, Murray,” Croft said. “He didn’t like getting scared off. It bothered him.”
“It should.”
“Murray, not everyone is like you. You been doing this, how long, twenty-something years?”
“Twenty-six,” Vincent said.
“You’re used to guys with guns. You don’t have any nerves. This guy’s a writer. Biggest showdown he’s had in twenty-six years is whether his serve hit the net or not, you know? He might have the balls.”
“I hope so.”
“So what do we do?”
“Nothing.”
“Murray, we have some reason to think that a man might commit murder.”
“Nothing,” Vincent said.
“Yeah, okay, I won’t get hysterical if Adolph Karl gets aced. He can use it. So can the Commonwealth. But what about Newman? He gets mixed up with Karl, a guy like that, they’ll mangle him.”
“Maybe, and maybe we’ll catch them at it. Then we’ll have Karl.”
“You are a cold bastard, if you’ll pardon my saying so, Lieutenant, sir.”
“Newman could have given this to us. He didn’t. He wants to do it himself, he takes his chances. If he gets Karl, that’s good for us, and him. He gets blown up trying, maybe we can make Karl on that. We don’t lose either way.”
“Suppose he’s lucky and gets Karl. Then what? We put him in the house of blue lights for the rest of his life?”
“Maybe we don’t,” Vincent said.
“One good turn deserves another?” Croft’s face was tight.
“Something like that, Bobby. We can’t lose on this one.”
“Yeah, well, I take the Commonwealth’s money,” Croft said, “I do the Commonwealth’s work.” He got up and left.
15
“So why did you take the watch and wallet?” Janet Newman asked.
“Make it look like robbery,” Newman answered.
She nodded. “The big one,” she said. “Do you think you killed him?”
Hood shook his head.
“I wish you had,” she said. “I remember him looking at me.”
Newman felt his insides tighten like a fist.
“It’s too bad they spotted us, though,” Hood said. “It will make things tougher.”
“I think it was a mistake to go down that alley,” Newman said.
Hood shrugged.
“We didn’t learn anything useful,” Newman said.
“Couldn’t know till we went and looked,” Hood said. “It’s important to know.”
“Why?” Newman said. “Why is it so important? I think we’re taking a lot of risks following Karl around.”
“There’s risks in anything worth doing, Aaron,” Hood said.
They were at the kitchen table in what had become a near nightly ritual. Janet would make sandwiches or a pasta. Newman and Hood would bring home some beer and wine. They would sit at the kitchen table in the summer evenings and talk of stalking Adolph Karl.
“You can’t do this in complete safety, Aaron,” Janet said.
“It’s a matter of degree,” Newman said. “What Chris said sounds good but it doesn’t mean anything.”
“You know it does, Aaron. I’ve read your books, you understand that.”
“No, I don’t. Not this way. It’s like you want to take risks.”
“Risks are part of it,” Hood said. “If it’s worth doing.”
“You act like the risks make it worth doing.”
Janet said, “What do you think we ought to do, Aaron?”
“I think we ought to shoot him as quick as we can and get this over.”
Hood smiled. “We agree, Aaron. I think that too, but you need intelligence. You need to know the enemy before you can make a move, and we haven’t gathered enough to figure out how to hit him and get this done with.”
Newman ate a forkful of pasta with a basil-and-oil pesto sauce. He drank some beer.
“I think you ought to try to get him in the woods,” Janet said.
Hood said, “Woods?”
Janet nodded. “He’s got a summer place up in Fryeburg, Maine. I looked it up on the map. It’s southwestern Maine, near the New Hampshire border. According to an article in the Herald American, April 18, 1976 …”
“She’s a scholar,” Newman said.
Janet went on: “He’s a real hunter and fisherman and goes to his place in Fryeburg whenever he can.”
“Do you know the address?” Hood said.
“I drove up there this morning. It’s about two and a half hours, and I looked him up in the phone book.”
“You cut class?” Newman said.
“Yep.”
“I wished you’d waited. We could have driven up together and maybe had lunch on the way back and had a nice time.”
Janet didn’t answer.
“Maybe that’s the end to work from,” Hood said. “Maybe we should go up there and wait for him to come.”
“Fryeburg’s awfully small,” Janet said. “It would be easy to be noticed.”
Newman opened another beer.
Hood said, “We could keep watching him here. I assume if he heads up to hunt and fish we could tell. Rods, gun cases, waders, that sort of thing being loaded into the car.”
Newman said, “I’m going up to bed. You folks work this out and let me know.”
They both watched in silence as he walked out of the kitchen and up the back stairs.
Janet shook her head.
“He feels bad,” Hood said. “He thinks he didn’t react well in the alley today.”
“He worries an awful lot about things like that,” Janet said. “And then he waits for me to make him feel better. And I don’t know what the hell to do.”
“Nothing to do, I guess. Just let him know you love him. He’ll work it through. He’s a good man.”
“I know. But he’s a complicated man and one with ferocious passions. Sometimes I feel …” She shook her head again.
“How do you feel?”
“Inadequate to his passions. And that makes me mad. There’s a lot of pulling and shoving in our life. And now this. It will be awful for us both if he can’t do this.”
“If he can’t he’ll be dead. Maybe all of us. You can’t forget that, Janet.”
“I know.”
“Do you really know? It’s easy to forget it sitting here in the kitchen. But we’re involved in a very serious undertaking. And if we do it wrong we may be dead.”
“I don’t forget,” Janet said. “I also don’t forget what happened to me.” Her face was bright as she said it.
“Yeah.” Hood smiled briefly. “I guess you don’t.” He got up and headed for the back door. “I’ll come over in the morning when he’s feeling better and see if we can work out some kind of plan,” he said.
“Good night, Chris.”
Hood left. Janet cleaned up the kitchen and turned off the lights and went upstairs. In the bathroom she put up her hair and washed off her makeup and put on her night cream.
When she came into the bedroom he was still awake, lying in bed leaning against a propped pillow, watching the Red Sox game on television with the sound off and listening to the play-by-play on the radio. He didn’t say anything as she got into bed and turned off the light on her side.
“Night,” she said.
“Night.”
“Are you mad at me?” she said.
“No.”
“Then why do you sound it?”
“I’m watching the game.”
“Oh.”
She was quiet.
“I didn’t do well this afternoon,” he said.
“Chris says you just need experience.”
