by Ed Gorman
I'd lost her.
I pounded the steering wheel and said, "Damn it."
"Maybe you should start watching 'Magnum P.I. '" She had grace enough to lean over and kiss me.
I took the gravel road that headed east. It ran parallel to a narrow muddy river. Even in the rain there was a fisherman out there in rubber gear in his beat-up boat. He waved. We waved back.
"That's what I like about the country," Donna said. "Everybody's so friendly."
"I'll take you to a small-town bar where the farmhands get together on Friday night," I said, remembering a brawl I'd helped break up one night. "Then you'll see just how friendly the country can get."
"That's it," she said, "spoil my fantasy. Don't you believe in Ibsen's theory?"
"What theory?"
"Boy, Dwyer. You're supposed to be an actor."
"Last month I had to get inside a lumpy brown suit for a commercial and play a potato. I don't know from Ibsen, believe me."
"Well, he had this theory about the 'saving lie.' How the only thing that saves us from cracking up is our delusions."
For some reason, that reminded me of the old woman last night, Mrs. Bridges. Was I trying to save her delusions by clearing the theater of any wrongdoing in Michael Reeves's murder?
For the next few minutes I watched the road. The rain was ceaseless, dismal. Donna twisted herself into a half-foetal and pushed her face to the window to stare out at the dying day. It was one of those times when she looked very much like a little girl. I wanted to hug her.
There was a steep dip in the gravel road, and just below the crest a small log cabin set between two towering pines appeared.
"Boy, it's like the Old West."
"Yeah, maybe Gabby Hayes is in there."
"Or Wyatt Earp—what's his name, the actor who played him? Boy, was he cute."
The owner of the cabin had made no concession to modern times. There was no place for a car to be parked. There was just a steep clay cliff where the road ended and a wide patch of dead grass where you could take a leak or put your car. I parked.
"Where you going? It's raining," Donna said as I opened the door.
"See who's around."
"Well, obviously Evelyn isn't here. She must've taken the other road."
"I know, but maybe the people inside know something about the territory. Evelyn was obviously going someplace she was familiar with. Which gives her a distinct advantage. Okay?"
"Okay," she said, "then I'll go with you."
The run through the rain was like a trip through a carwash without a car. We got to the little overhang above the door. The air was tangy. It was nice to be dry for the moment and have our senses filled with the smell of pine.
Donna did the knocking. "Man, that stuff is hard on the old knuckles." The door was scaly with bark. There was a faded flour-sack curtain on the lone window. It moved almost imperceptibly. I sensed eyes on us.
"Whaddaya want?" somebody shouted through the logs that formed the wall. It was like putting your lips to your arm and talking.
"Just need some information," I said.
I didn't know where to put my eyes or aim my voice.
"What kinda information?"
"Tell him you'd like to know the meaning of life," Donna said.
"Just some information on the land around here." I was starting to shout.
"You with the press?"
"No."
"Hold on then."
"This guy better be worth the wait," I said. And he almost was.
When the door was flung back a minute or so later, a fifty-year-old man with enough physical eccentricities to be a pro wrestler stood before us, hands on his hips and a scowl on his lips.
He had one burning blue eye; a black patch covered the other. He had fleshy, muscular arms covered with enough tattoos to fill an Oriental sampler. His shirtless torso had knockers big enough to rival a porn star's. His jeans were held up with a piece of honest-to-god twine. In case we hadn't gotten the picture yet, behind him, right in the middle of the single-room cabin, sat a big old Harley with handlebars nearly wide enough to touch either wall and enough chrome to blind you on a sunny day.
"I'm Jake."
"I'm Jack."
"Who's the babe?"
"I'm Donna."
"Jack and Donna, Jake is glad to meet ya."
And he put out a hand you could have rested a typewriter in. Donna did a much better job of disguising the pain his handshake inflicted than I did. She just bit her lip till tears came to her eyes.
We were close enough to Jake that when he raised his arm to proffer the shake, we got a good, if unwanted, look at the splendiferous black hair of his armpits. I mean this bastard could have taken his pits on tour. I've seen less hair in full beards.
But there was a problem with his pits, as there was a problem with his place. To say it smelled like a pig sty would be to understate. It was one of those high, hard odors that made you wince and then shudder and then cup your nose. (I used to have an uncle who should have put a flashing red light on the bathroom door for an hour after he was finished in there.)
"You wanna come inside?" Jake asked.
"No," I said.
"No, we like it out here in the cold rain," Donna said.
"She kiddin' or what?" Jake said.
"No, cold and rain are two of her favorite things. Put them together and she goes bug shit."
"Weird broad," Jake said.
"Isn't she, though," I said. I was going to pay for that one. "Can I ask you a question, Jake?"
"Sure." For a moment, he sounded like a pirate. I almost expected him to add, "Matey." He smiled, giving us a look at a set of teeth that could have tired out a full team of dentists.
"Why did you want to know if we were with the press?"
"Aww, hell, the election."
"Election? It's May."
"No, the Road Knights’ election."
"Road Knights?"
He flung a flabby arm toward the Harley. "I'm the president of the Knights, you know. But this is the first year in thirty fucking—excuse me, lady—years I've got somebody runnin' against me."
"The Road Knights are a biker gang and the press covers your election?"
"Well, maybe 'press' is stretchin' things a bit. It's actually just a guy named Schleimer who runs the local county shopper. He says there's a lot of interest about the Knights 'cause we're always gettin' in so much trouble with the law'n all and folks'll be curious about the election. So I'm just sittin' it out here today while all the ballots are cast at the tavern in Brackett."
"Think you're gonna win?"
He made a fist. Hell, I was impressed. "I goddamn better."
"Democracy in action," Donna said. I wanted to turn around and say to her, okay, if you're so frigging smart why don't you let me hide behind you and then wise off to him? Jake didn't catch her exact meaning, but he knew a smartass when he saw one.
"Actually, Jake, we're wondering if a car came past here within the last few minutes."
He opened his mouth very wide and threw his head back and laughed. These days everybody is an actor. "A car came past here? Where the hell would it go?"
"Through the cliff over there?" He threw his head back again and did some more laughing. Maybe he thought I was a mobile Equity man and could give him his card on the spot.
"We were coming down the asphalt into Brackett and we noticed two gravel roads. We took this one. You know what's on the other one?"
"Dead end, just like this one."
"There a cabin there or anything?"
"Yeah. But not a cabin like this one. Big fancy-ass one is what it is. The Knights tried to bust in there one night but then the doctor showed up. In these parts nobody wants to fuck with the doctor." When he cursed, he glanced at Donna as if she might lob a hot brick at him.
"Who's the doctor?"
"Guy name of Kern."
"He live in the cabin?"
"No, he lives next to his funny farm
."
"A mental hospital?"
"Yeah, but that ain't what they call it. You know, it's like the Sunrise Retreat or somethin' like that. But it's still for nut cases. You know, psychos and fags and intellectuals."
I could see that Donna was getting ready to laugh. I hoped she didn't. My jaw was still a lot closer to his fist than hers was.
"But he stays at the cabin sometimes?"
"Yeah. Even takes some of those fruitcakes along with him sometimes." He shook his head in solidcitizen disgust. "The fucking people they let run loose, it makes you wonder, just like my old man always said; it just goddamn makes you wonder."
She couldn't take it anymore, Donna couldn't. She knew that if she laughed Jake here would put me to the wall. So she started to wave us off (as if a runner on third were about to steal home) and at the same time to back out into the rain.
I tried to distract him from watching her by keeping my questions going. "So how long has Doctor Kern owned the cabin?"
"Oh, he don't own it, Kern don't. It belongs to some rich-ass friends of his."
"Who's that?"
"City friends of his. The Bridges family."
Donna, who was still backing out into the rain, stopped. "The Bridges family?"
He looked at her. "Yeah. I say something wrong?" She shook her head.
"How come she's standin' in the rain?" he asked me.
"Cold and rain, remember?" I said. "Two of her favorite things." I got another whiff of the cabin. It was like flashing on your own death. "Well, gee, Jake, I sure hope you win that election."
He raised his fist again. "Don't you worry about that. Like I told Schleimer at the shopper, I'm gonna win one way or the other."
Behind me, in the gloom, the car door closed. Even from where I stood I heard Donna burst out laughing. Thankfully, Jake didn't seem to notice.
He put out his hand again. I didn't have any choice. I said a Hail Mary and put out my hand, too. If things didn't go Jake's way in the election, he could hire out as a trash compactor.
"He was a reasonably nice guy," I said as I got the car started.
"Right."
"Well, he was civil."
"Oh, that's right, Dwyer. Maybe that's why he reminded me so much of St. Francis of Assisi. Here all the time I thought it was his bike. You know, St. Francis had a Harley just like Jake's."
"You're a snob."
She finally quit laughing and said, "No, I'm not. I just don't like bullies."
"He wasn't a bully."
"Maybe not right now, he wasn't. But I've had a number of bad experiences with bikers pulling into picnic grounds and onto beaches. They travel in packs because they want to intimidate people and that's the only reason."
This was one argument she was definitely winning. I changed the subject. "So the Bridges own the other cabin."
"Which would explain why Evelyn knew exactly where she was going. Grandma's."
We were coming up to the asphalt road. The rain was drumming now. The wipers slowed perceptibly under the weight.
We got on the asphalt and drove the two hundred yards to the gravel road running west. That's when we saw Evelyn's car.
It shot past the final yards of pines fronting the gravel road, heading for the asphalt. She hit the main road hard enough that her whole car jerked when her front wheels hit the smooth surface. But she didn't stop, nor did she look in either direction for oncoming cars. Obviously she was badly upset about something. She just swung the car onto the asphalt and started heading our way.
"Look," Donna said, leaning up to the windshield so she could see through the downpour, "she's got somebody with her."
Indeed she did. I had to look through the mosaic of raindrops to make sure that my first impulse had been correct—that I was seeing who I thought I was seeing. As their car roared toward us, I knew for sure.
Her passenger was the mysterious Keech, my fellow actor in the O'Neill play.
I wondered if Evelyn Ashton knew what kind of company she was keeping. Or cared.
"Are we going to follow them?" Donna asked, excited at the prospect.
"I think we'd better check out the cabin," I said. "They must've found something back there."
She shot me one of her looks. "You really don't watch 'Magnum, P.I.,' do you?"
Chapter 11
Jake's cabin could have served as a garden shed for the Bridges cabin. Two-storied, with a barn-style roof, the place looked like a small resort hotel, complete with a U-shaped drive that curved right up to the long porch. It was the only "cabin" I'd ever seen with mullioned windows.
"Just a nice little lean-to," Donna said.
"Maybe if Jake wins the election, they'll let him move in here."
She laughed as we got out of the car. Then she waved for me to take her hand for the run to the cabin. The rain was cold and blinding. The ground was soggy enough to pull you down like quicksand.
"Boy, I'll bet it's beautiful out here when the weather's nice," Donna said when we'd reached the porch and were safe under the overhang.
She was right. Several hundred yards ahead of us was the river, lined with weeping willows. On the distant shore were steep hills and an impenetrable forest of pines. It was almost like being in the mountains. We turned back to the front door.
Now there was a man standing there. A tall, gray-haired man in a three-piece suit. He might have been a bank president in a TV commercial. Except for the shotgun in his arms. That was a very inappropriate prop for a bank president to be carrying.
Cabins in this area seemed to be inhabited by some really strange people.
He pulled the inner door open and said, "May I help you?"
"Is there a reason for the shotgun?" I asked.
"Unless you're illiterate, you read several signs on the road leading here. They each say NO TRESPASSING. That's the reason for the shotgun."
Now that I could see him more clearly, I saw that he had a patrician face that had turned a bit jowly. He was in his early sixties or so. He had clear blue eyes that curiously held no expression, almost like a doll's. I assumed that he was Dr. Kern, the guy whom Leonora Bridges had referred to as "a family friend" and the man the biker had said everybody was afraid of.
"I'm Jack Dwyer," I said. "This is Donna Harris."
He nodded. "My name is Dr. Kern."
I tried to avoid Donna's eyes when he said that. She's got this Eureka! look that sometimes tips our hand.
"We don't mean to trespass, Dr. Kern," I said. "I guess we just kind of got lost in the rain."
He nodded. He looked sad. The shotgun he held suddenly looked ineffectual. He didn't scare me anymore. He just made me curious.
"So is there some way I can help you?" he asked.
I wasn't sure what I was going to say next. Donna, with great charm and even greater conviction, said, "We only stopped because I need to use a restroom."
"Oh, of course," he said. He indicated for us to come inside and pointed out the bathroom to her.
The interior smelled sweetly of log smoke. The rain on the roof made everything feel cozy and safe, with the big fieldstone fireplace, the rows of bookcases with a few hundred hardcovers, the simple elegance of the leather furniture. There was a TV set as big as my Civic and a dining table next to a huge stained-glass window. The table looked like it could seat about twenty people. A bouquet of red paper roses looked lonely on the long table.
"You're from the city?" he inquired.
"Yes."
He went over and laid the shotgun down on a desk. "I apologize again for the gun. The way things are these days . . . well, you understand."
"Of course."
He saw where my eyes had rested. His mouth. The blood.
"Oh, I banged myself on a door," he said, daubing at the red stuff.
I smiled. I hope I looked sincere. He seemed a decent enough guy.
"Do you live here?"
"Oh, no," he said, "I only bring some of my patients here occasionally. I have a clinic a
bout a mile from here."
"I see."
"The patients appreciate getting out. In good weather, this is a very nice environment."
"It certainly is."
We both glanced up the long stairs. I wondered if Donna had taken a couple magazines in there with her. The doctor and I were fast running out of things to talk about. I was wondering if I was going to ask about the migration habits of squirrels when Donna appeared again. To me it was obvious that she was excited about something.
"Thank you very much," she said to Dr. Kern.
"Not at all. And, as I was saying to Mr. Dwyer, I do apologize about the shotgun. We've had vandals lately."
"I understand," Donna said.
He smiled at her. She was easy to smile at even though she was six feet tall and could eat your meal and hers in three minutes flat.
He walked us to the door. We said our good-byes again and we ran to the car.
Inside, Donna said, "Boy, did I find some things out upstairs."
"Like what?"
"Like somebody went through several of the rooms up there and turned everything inside out. Looks like a bomb hit it."
I started the car and pulled away.
"Aren't we going to check it out, Dwyer?" she asked as I headed down the road.
"Yeah. But we've got to find someplace to hide until we see the doctor leave."
"Oh, yeah, right. Good thinking." She had the pure enthusiasm of a sixteen-year-old.
"So I just told Chad to leave me alone. I mean, there wasn't much he could say after he handed me a ring and I led him into the bathroom and made him watch me flush it down the toilet."
The subject was Chad, her ex-husband.
A few months ago she'd gone to Mexico on a lonely vacation to forget him. I'd been skeptical about the results, but apparently it had worked. Oh, Chad, who had dumped her for a younger woman and had then changed his mind, Chad was still around, calling her more frequently than her mother, making the sorts of promises that only somebody who has the looks of Robert Redford and the personality of John Davidson can make. She genuinely seemed to be working him out of her life. Lately, I'd even felt some pity for the bastard. I don't really wish heartbreak on anybody. I was there once myself. I lost thirty pounds and more than a little dignity.
