My only purpose in coming up here had been to make sure Dad was okay. Aside from a twisted ankle, he was okay. But now I felt held here, as stuck to Braynor as those flyers were to the phone booth. Bad things had already happened up here. A man ripped to shreds in the woods. Another man fatally stabbed. A lawyer’s house burned to the ground.
A farmhouse full of nutjobs.
And a young woman and her son trying to escape.
I got to the truck without even glancing at Dad, turned the ignition, threw the gearshift into drive, and shot out of Braynor like the entire town was rigged to explode at any moment.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Dad said. “You took long enough. Where’s Leonard the Diaper King when you need him? I’m about to wet my pants.”
“I think I beat you to it,” I said.
16
THERE WERE CHORES TO BE DONE when we got back to Denny’s Cabins. Given how rattled I was, it was good to have something to do. I emptied cans of garbage, hauled a pail full of fish guts up to the pit in the woods and buried it, cut some grass on Dad’s racing tractor, taking care to go easy on the throttle. Sitting on the mower, the vibrations from the engine and the three rapidly rotating blades in the housing below my feet had a calming effect on me that was not unlike a massage. The constant buzz from the steering wheel traveled up my arms and into my shoulders like magic fingers.
I said barely a word to Dad on the drive back from town. Sometimes, I think, when I’m scared—and I’ll be totally honest with you here and tell you I was plenty scared—the things I’m afraid of seem more real if I start talking about them. I ground my teeth until we got back to the camp, bolted from the truck, forgetting to go around the other side to help Dad get out, and went about my duties.
There’d been plenty to unnerve me since arriving here earlier in the week. The shredded body of Morton Dewart. The bizarre dinner at the Wickenses. Those dogs. The murder of Tiff at the co-op, which might or might not have anything whatsoever to do with the events of the last few days.
But nothing had shaken me as much as my run-in with Timmy Wickens on the main drag of Braynor. There’d been menace in the air before, but now I felt it directed at me personally. And I am not, as you may have gathered by now, what you might call a heroic figure.
I believe the term I used in my conversation with Trixie Snelling was “weenie-like.”
It’s a terrible thing to be weenie-like and still have, at some level, some commitment to do the right thing. A moral conscience matched with physical cowardice is not a winning combination.
“How’s it going?” Bob Spooner asked, poking his head into the storeroom, where I was checking to see how the worm supply was going. Betty and Hank Wrigley had helped themselves to a couple dozen that morning while Dad and I were in town, and left a note to that effect so that we could add it to their bill.
I jumped. “Jesus, Bob, you scared me half to death.”
“What’s with you? You seem a bit on edge.”
I just waved my hand in the air in frustration. “Long story, Bob.”
“Hey,” he said. “You’ll never guess who I had on my line this morning.”
“What?” I said. “Who?”
“She took another run at me. Audrey. Saw her break the surface, knew it was her. Almost had her in the boat this time before she spit the plug out.” He rubbed his hands together.
“One of these days, Bob,” I said.
“You know what I think?” Bob said, leaning in the doorway. “I think she knows. I think she knows it’s me. She’s a smart fish, and she’s a mean fish, and she’s playing with me. I can feel it.”
“Maybe,” I said. I dug my fingers through the dirt, drew them up. Still lots of little wiggly guys in there.
“You ever have a goal like that? Something you’ve waited years to achieve? That’s what Audrey is to me. Hauling her into the boat, that’s my ultimate dream. I get her, I could give up fishing after that. It wouldn’t matter anymore. They could put me in a box, drop me six feet into ground, toss the dirt in.”
“My goals these days are rather short-term, Bob,” I said. “I want to see Dad get back on his two feet and me get the hell out of here.”
Bob cocked his head curiously. “What’s up?”
I shook my head. “I’m not going to dump all this stuff on you. This is your vacation up here. Enjoy it. Go fishing. Hunt down Audrey. Whatever problems Dad and I have to deal with, well, we’ll deal with them.”
Bob shrugged. “You need to talk things over, you know where to find me. Think I’ll grab myself a nap, go back out again this aft. Leonard keeps wanting to hang out, go fishing or hiking. All he wants to do is talk about this goddamn resort of his. If he actually gets to build that thing, this lake won’t be worth a shit anymore. Your dad thought of lodging any sort of objection with the Braynor council?”
“I think Dad sort of has his hands full at the moment.”
“Well, if he gets a minute, he should do that. The only way you can stop something like that is to mount some sort of opposition.”
“Bob, I hear ya. You might want to mention it to Dad yourself.”
He mulled that one over. “Yeah, good idea.”
Bob stepped aside to let me out of the storeroom. I strode over to Dad’s cabin, throwing the door open so hard it hit the wall. “Dad!”
“In here,” he said. He was in his study, hanging up the phone. “I’ve been calling some other lawyers. I tried two other ones in Braynor, figuring I’d try to get someone close before going to other towns, and the moment I mention who I want them to send a letter to, they say they’re too busy.”
“This town’s scared of the Wickenses,” I said. “I’m scared of the Wickenses.”
“Maybe I should drop it. If those people really had anything to do with setting that other lawyer’s house on fire, I mean, do I need those kinds of problems?”
“I don’t know, Dad.”
“And by the way, what the hell happened out front of Lana’s, anyway?”
I ignored the question. I didn’t want to talk about it. “Here’s an idea, Dad. Why don’t you put this place on the market and sell? Get the hell out of here. Fast as possible. Buy another fishing camp someplace else.”
“That’s your plan? To run away? And who do you think would buy this place, knowing they were going to inherit tenants like the Wickenses?”
I ran a hand over the back of my neck, tried to massage it. I was feeling a bit tense.
“I think we need to have another chat with Orville,” I said. “A really serious chat. I’m willing to put aside the fact that he seems to be a total asshole to see if we can get something done here. There are more things going on than I realized at first.”
“Like what?”
I told him about May Wickens and her son. How she desperately wanted to get away from her father. How her son was on a daily curriculum of hate and prejudice.
“How’s that your problem?” Dad asked. “Don’t we have enough problems without taking on hers? I want them all out of there, and I guess that would include her and her boy. She can figure out how to get away once they’ve moved someplace else.”
I was silent. There wasn’t much to admire in what Dad said, but it made a lot of sense just the same.
“You got a number for Orville?” I asked.
Dad dug out an address book next to his computer, folded it open to a particular page, and handed it to me. “This his cell?” I asked, and Dad nodded. I punched the number into the phone on Dad’s desk.
“Hello?”
“Orville? Zack Walker.”
“What,” he said flatly.
“Listen, I’m sorry about everything at the café. I think you and I need to get past all that crap, because there’s a real problem out here, has to do with the daughter at the Wickens place. May. That’s her name. I think she’s in real trouble and I think we need to find some way to help her out. I’m willing to stop being a pain in the ass to you if you’ll come out so we ca
n talk about this.”
“I kinda got my hands full with a murder investigation,” he said. “Remember?”
“I understand. Are you still coming out here tomorrow morning to look for the bear?” I kept any skeptical tone out of my voice.
“Depends. On how things go with Tiff’s murder. But if I get a chance, I’ll swing by later this afternoon, about this other problem of yours.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.” And I hung up. I picked up the phone again, impulsively, and dialed Sarah’s number at The Metropolitan.
“Hey,” I said.
“How’s your dad?”
“Okay.”
“Say hi to him for me.”
“Sarah says hi.”
“Hi,” said Dad. He got out of his chair and, using his crutches, edged past me. “I’m making coffee,” he whispered to me. “Want some?”
I nodded. What would we do without coffee? “How’re the kids?” I asked Sarah.
“Same old same old,” Sarah said. “Fights over the car, seeing as how we’re down one with you up there. Paul’s ignoring curfew, Angie would rather date than study, I want to kill myself. There was a story on the wires the other day, mother kills her entire family. I thought: Been there. How ’bout with you?”
“Okay. Listen, you got Lawrence Jones’s number there?”
There was an instant chill from the other end of the line. “What do you want Lawrence for?”
“There’s kind of a situation up here I’d like to bounce off him.”
“Bad things happen to you when you associate with Lawrence,” Sarah said, using the voice she did with the children when they misbehaved.
“That’s not totally true,” I objected. “Bad things happen to Lawrence when he associates with me.” It was true that, the first time Lawrence and I had worked together—he was doing his thing as a private detective and I was writing about it—he’d taken a knife in the gut and nearly died. But it was also true that the reason he hadn’t died was that I’d shown up at the right place at the right time.
Arguing these points with Sarah, however, was unlikely to score me any.
“That’s not very funny,” Sarah said. “What could possibly be going on up there that you’d need Lawrence’s help for? You want him to do a stakeout on a bear?”
“There’s no bear,” I said.
“There’s no bear? Tracy didn’t say that in the story she filed. She says the coroner said the guy, what was his name?”
“Dewart.”
“That a bear killed him.”
“It’s a long, long story, Sarah. Have you got Lawrence’s number in your book or not?”
She gave me two. His home/office and his cell.
“A couple other things,” I said. “I know we’ve probably run a million stories on this, but can you look up what sort of services there are for women? Like shelters?”
“Abused women?”
“Well, sort of. I mean, I don’t know if there’s actual physical violence, but—”
“Zack. What the hell are you getting into? I thought you were helping your father run the camp?”
“There’s a woman up here, her name’s May Wickens, and she’s got a son, and she’s kind of under the thumb of her father, who doesn’t want to let her move out, and has threatened to hold on to her son if she tries.”
“Jesus. And what does this have to do with you?”
“Sarah.”
“Look, tell her to get a good lawyer.”
I laughed. “Yeah, fat chance in this town.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll see what there is, but the services are probably mostly in the city. I can’t imagine there’s much like that up in Braynor.”
“And one last thing.”
“Shoot.”
“Does the name Orville Thorne mean anything to you?”
Sarah took a moment. “No. Should it?”
“He’s the local police chief, and from the moment I’ve gotten here it’s been bugging me. He reminds me of someone, and I can’t figure out who. I feel like maybe I’ve run into him before someplace, like maybe doing a story for the paper, or something. I thought, if that was the case, maybe you’d recognize it.”
“Hang on,” Sarah said. I could hear her tapping some keys. “I’m just keying the name into the system.” She was referring to the paper’s library system. If we’d ever run a story with Thorne’s name in it, it would come up. “Is that Thorne with an ‘e’?”
“Yeah.”
“There’s nothing,” she said.
“Google?” I said, glancing at Dad’s computer. I could have checked myself. But Sarah was already on it.
“Absolutely nothing,” Sarah said.
“Okay, thanks. It was worth a shot.”
“Can you send me a picture?” Sarah said.
“What?”
“A picture. Maybe I’d recognize him, too, even if the name doesn’t ring a bell.”
I glanced over to the shelf where Dad’s digital camera sat. I knew Dad used his computer to send guests pictures he’d taken of them with their catch.
“I might be able to pull off something like that,” I said. “Leave it with me. Listen, while you’re keying in names, I’ve got another one for you.”
“Fire away.”
“Timmy Wickens. Maybe Timothy Wickens. Or Tim Wickens. If he’d ever been arrested, it’d probably be Timothy.”
“Arrested?”
“Sarah.”
“Okay, hang on. Nothing in our own files. Let me check Google…. Okay, there’s a writer…”
“I don’t think that’s him.”
“And a hairdresser in Reno.”
“Definitely not.”
“And a story here, from, like, five, six years ago, it’s just one name among a dozen, bunch of people arrested for causing a disturbance at a Holocaust memorial event in Pittsburgh. They were Holocaust deniers.”
“Read me some of the names.” I grabbed a pen and Dad’s yellow legal pad and began scribbling.
“Uh, other than Wickens, there’s Randall Stilton, Gregory Bent, Michael Decker, Charlene Zundman—”
“Hang on. Charlene? What was that?”
Sarah repeated it. Then she read the rest of the names, all of which I made note of, but no other ones rang any bells.
“Anything else come up?”
“Nothing,” Sarah said. Then, with more gentleness in her voice than before, “Zack, you’re being careful, right?”
“Of course,” I said.
“There’s nothing dangerous going on up there, is there?”
“Of course not,” I lied.
“Because, I’ve had enough, you know?”
“Sure,” I said. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“Lately, you seem to have this knack for attracting trouble.”
“Yeah, well,” I said, “those days are over.”
17
MY NEXT CALL was to Lawrence Jones.
I got his machine when I phoned his home/office. I left a message, saying I would try his cell, which I then did.
“Jones,” he said.
“It’s Zack,” I said.
“Zack, my man, how’s it going?” In the background I could hear some piano, probably one of Lawrence’s jazz CDs.
“Pretty good, you know, more or less.”
“Yeah, well, people don’t usually call me unless they’ve got a problem, so I’m guessing you’re going to work up to it slowly.”
“Am I catching you at a bad time?”
“Just sitting in my car, listening to some Oscar Peterson, parked down the street from a motel where Mr. Corporate Executive is boffing his secretary, and by the time I get the photos back to his missus he’s going to be a lot more agreeable when it comes to working out the terms of the divorce.”
“I didn’t know you did that kind of work.”
“Oh, Zack, I bet you still believe there’s a tooth fairy, too.”
“This is a long-term job you’re working on?”
“I’ll be done soon as this guy walks out and gives his sweetie a kiss goodbye for the camera.”
“You got anything lined up next?”
“Zack, there’s always work. We live in cynical times. Did you know that people don’t trust each other anymore? It’s a very disturbing development, but it pays the bills. What’s on your mind?”
“I’m up in Braynor. You know Braynor.”
“I know I got called one all the time when I was in high school. The teachers thought I might be gifted, and I always did my homework. Of course, I also got ‘browner,’ but that might have had more to do with my skin tone.”
“Braynor’s an hour and a half north of the city. Lakes and mountains. Fishing. Wildlife.”
“Sounds nice. I’m not due for a vacation.”
“I’m up here at my dad’s place. He’s got some cabins he rents out. Lawrence, there’s a whole lot of shit going on up here and I think I could use your help.”
“I see. What sort of shit?”
“Well, there’s some people up here you might find interesting. They think the world’s going to hell in a handcart because of blacks and gays.”
“Hmmm,” said Lawrence. “That makes me a kind of double-header worst nightmare for them. Tell me more.”
I did.
“I could come up tonight, maybe tomorrow,” Lawrence said.
“I haven’t cleared this with Dad,” I said. “But I think he’d be prepared to hire you. He was ready to pay a lawyer. And if he’s a bit short, I can—”
“Zack, shut up. Every day I get, I thank you.”
I swallowed. “Okay.”
When I was finished talking to Lawrence, I found Dad plopped onto the couch, reading the Braynor Times I’d bought him at the grocery store.
“Poured you your coffee,” he said, nose in the paper. “Cream and sugar’s already in it.”
I grabbed my mug off the counter and sat down opposite him. “I’ve called in the cavalry,” I said.
“I figured, with your newspaper connections, it’d be Superman,” Dad said.
I told him about Lawrence Jones. That he was an ex-cop, an experienced private investigator, and, as a bonus in dealing with whatever the Wickenses might throw at us, black and gay.
Lone Wolf Page 14
