by John Dunning
“Nobody anywhere’s about to stop me if I want to quit. The money ain’t that good, and it’s a pain in the ass when you gotta watch what you say around the sumbitch all the fuckin’ time.”
“Then fuckin’ quit and for Christ’s sake stop talkin’ about it.”
“If I do quit, it’ll be my own choice, and I’ll do it in my own good time.”
“You ain’t gonna do a goddamn thing. Just gonna talk, just like always. Talk-talk-talk-talk-talk.”
“You’re gonna push me one time too many, Willie.”
“Talk-talk-taaaaaalk,” Willie said in a croaky parrot voice.
“Listen, you son of a bitch—”
“Let’s just shut the hell up about it, that’s all.”
They stood smoking for a while.
“Where the hell is that Preacher?” Wally said.
“He’s on the phone,” Willie said with exaggerated patience. “Didn’t he just tell you he was gettin’ on the goddamn telephone?”
“What’s he gonna be, on the telephone all damn night? It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here.”
“You’ll be warm enough when you get to California.”
“You gonna stay here and take care of the truck?”
“Somebody’s got to. You’d just fuck that up too.”
“Willie, I’ve really had enough of you and your bullshit.”
Willie yawned loudly as the lights went out and a door slammed. I eased down below the ramp level and the Preacher’s gaunt silhouette came around the corner. The three of them crossed the street and got into a car. I waited till they were half a block away, then I ran back for my own car. As I pulled onto the highway, I could see them stopped two blocks away at a red light. Easy to follow in a small town, as long as I stayed back far enough and they didn’t see my car. But in the next block I had to run a red when they were on the verge of disappearing around a corner.
I had a flashing vision of Lennie Walsh hiding in the weeds with his ticket pad.
I hoped they weren’t going straight on to California now.
I felt new waves of weariness and I knew I’d never make it.
They drove out to the edge of town and turned into a long dirt driveway that led back to a house surrounded by trees. I parked and waited till I could see some lights: then I walked back through the underbrush, keeping low as I approached the house and taking it slow as I went. I reached the edge of the trees. I could see them going back and forth between the house and a garage off to one side. I stood still, hiding myself behind a big ponderosa, and at some point they finished whatever they’d been doing in the house and moved out to the garage. A long open space was between my tree and the house, a gap where I’d be a sitting duck if anyone walked out through that half-opened door. I took it anyway: walked across as if I’d been born there and flattened against the dark outer wall. I eased down to the edge, peeped around, and froze.
I was looking down the length of a Ford station wagon, a dozen years old and sporting current Oklahoma plates. Around and beyond it were several dozen bookshelves, all packed with books, most draped with sheets of plastic, I assumed to protect against blowing wind and snow when the door was up. The station wagon had been backed into the garage, the tailgate was up, and the three of them were loading boxes into it: Daedalus boxes, I could see through the windshield and across the front seat. They were being stacked three across, four down and three high, making a solid block, unlikely to shift even on a long ride. Thirty-six boxes, ideal for shipping: I did the math. Four stacks of octavo-sized books could fit in each box: ten books per stack… fourteen hundred books, give or take a dozen or two.
“Here’s your big list,” Preacher said, handing a sheet of paper to one of the Keeler boys. “Study it tonight.”
“What time do you want to leave?”
“If we can get out of here by seven, we can be in Salt Lake City tomorrow night. That’ll give us plenty of time to work the bookstores the next day.”
“Salt Lake’s always pretty good,” Wally said.
“That’s because nobody else thinks it is,” Preacher said. “People don’t know what to look for.”
“Maybe we’re gettin’ better too,” Wally said. “Don’t you think we’re getting better, Preach? Bet you never thought us yokels would ever learn this stuff.”
“Don’t brag on yourself too much. Vanity is a sin in the eyes of the Lord.”
“I’m goin’ to bed,” Willie said.
Wally laughed. “You gettin’ up in the morning to see us off?”
“Not if I can help it. I’m sayin’ adios right now. Don’t shake me unless the world’s ending.”
“Don’t speak too lightly of that,” Preacher said.
He reached up and slammed the tailgate shut. Wally began turning out the lights and I moved away, back into the darkness.
I could still hear them when they came out. Preacher was telling Willie to call him once they had some idea about the damages to the truck. “We’ll be in the Motel 6 in Salt Lake. After that I can’t say. We’ll probably go south across Nevada. You know I don’t like to stay in Las Vegas.”
“No books there anyway.”
“You can catch us in Burbank at the Motel 6, but probably not before next Thursday or Friday, just before the fair sets up.”
They walked in the shadows across the yard. “I think this is gonna be a good year,” Preacher said. “Good all around. We got some nice things that ought to move fast at the prices I put on ’em. Next year maybe we’ll go back East.”
They went inside. I waited till the lights went out, then I backtracked out to the highway, picked up my car, and checked into a motel.
I took a shower and called Erin. She answered on the first ring.
“By God, it’s good to hear your voice,” I said.
“Well, listen to this. Should I be relieved, angry, or something in between?”
“I was hoping for overjoyed. Maybe even sexually aroused?”
“I’ve never been interested in phone sex. Mildly overjoyed might be the best I can do on such short notice.”
“How the hell can anybody be mildly overjoyed?”
“I have superb control of my emotions. Where are you?”
“Motel in Monte Vista. I may be going to California.”
I told her what had happened. I talked for ten minutes.
“Wow. I should pay more attention when you talk to me, shouldn’t I?”
“Yes, you should. That’s why you sent me out here, or so I thought.”
“And now you want to go to California.”
“I’m on the fence about it. It may be a colossal waste of time and money. But on the other hand…”
“You don’t want to lose them.”
A long silence spread out between us.
“I think you should go to California,” she said. “Aside from having fun at the book fair, you can do a little work to shore up our alternate suspect theory.”
“Have we really got a chance with that?”
“Colorado isn’t very clear on it. But if you can find enough evidence to raise a reasonable doubt, that someone else may have killed Bobby, we’d have a real chance to raise it. Those books could be the key. We’re moving them out of the house tomorrow.”
“Good. Who’s moving them?”
“A fellow from town will do the lifting and toting. Parley will be there to watch, along with somebody from the DA’s office.”
There was a pause, then she said, “We thought about it, talked it over, and there seemed to be more reasons to notice the DA in now than there were not to tell them. If these books do become evidence, which looks increasingly likely with your discoveries, we can’t spring their significance on them at the last minute, as much as I’d like to. I’d like to have Parley examine that fireplace ash while the DA’s there, but there’s a possible downside to that. I don’t want them finding something we didn’t expect. Laura still seems determined to protect Jerry no matter what, and it would
be nice if she didn’t incriminate herself any more than she has in her effort to do that.”
“So we need to know first if there’s a chance of anything else in there.”
“Yep. This is actually a good test of her story. But let’s talk to her again and make sure before we do something we can’t undo. If she waffles, we do nothing with the grate, we keep it to ourselves and leave whatever’s there alone.”
“Are you okay with that?”
“Sure. My first duty is to defend my client.”
“Good. I’ll stick with the books for now. Where are they being stored?”
“There’s a room they use for an evidence locker just off the sheriff’s office. Parley’s going to examine each book for signatures and anything else he thinks you might find interesting.”
“He seems pretty diligent.”
“I think he’s great. A good old country lawyer. I can trust him to do things right the first time.”
“Unlike some people you know.”
I asked about strategy and she said, “As of this moment, paint Bobby as a shadow man who knew strange people and was into things his wife didn’t know about. But we’ve got a lot of work to do there. We’ll need to know a lot more about him.”
I listened to the telephone noise. At some point she said, “He must’ve changed a lot since I knew him. I remember him as a happy-go-lucky kid, always laughing, always so open about everything. He wore his feelings on his sleeve.”
More time passed. “I’m lining up some good expert witnesses,” she said. “I’m getting a psychologist to come talk to our client. We’ve got to bring him in from Chicago, but he’s really superb in the fields of coercion and mental stress. I’m hoping he’ll help us construct a good case for why our client lied.”
I noticed she still couldn’t say her client’s name.
She had seen all of the DA’s evidence. “I’ve got copies of the deputy’s report, the autopsy, the fingerprints and ballistics from the CBI. If necessary we’ll get our own experts to go over it and put our spin on it. We’ll see how it goes. They’re putting a lot of stock into her confession. And there’s no question she handled the gun.”
“And the gunshot residue is inconclusive.”
“She admits she washed her hands, scrubbed ’em red, in fact, trying to get the blood off. If we can get her confession suppressed, I’ll feel a lot better.”
“How’d your second interview go?”
“It was okay. Easier somehow than the first. I stayed cool and so did she, for the most part. She cried once; other than that, she was almost like any other client. Of course we both knew better. I explained what we’re going to do and how, all subject to change. And I interviewed her at some length about what happened that morning.”
“Any surprises?”
“We’ll have to comb through it all and talk to her again. I’m having my notes typed up this morning and I’ll send a copy to McNamara. You can see the report when he gets it.”
“Did you see Jerry while you were in Paradise?”
“Only for a moment. As you can imagine, Bobby’s parents are not real eager to help our case. They used ‘going to church’ as an excuse.”
“How did they wind up with the kids?”
“They came out and offered, and that’s what Social Services decided.”
“And Laura has no say at all in it.”
“She’s not in a real good position, Cliff. They tend to look at what’s right for the kids, not what the defendant wants. And they’d always rather place children with family.”
“So what’s gonna happen to Jerry?”
“That’s not clear yet. His mother was schooling him at home. Old Mrs. Marshall used to be a teacher, long ago, so they may just leave him there till the trial’s over. None of this is set in stone. Social Services still has it under advisement. There’s a lawyer in the county who’s been assigned as guardian ad litem—protector of the children. My guess is they’ll leave them there till we all see how the wind blows.”
“You’ve been busy.”
Softly she said, “Yeah. And it’s never too early to begin preparing for the possibility that we’ll lose.”
“Did the old folks remember you?”
“Oh, sure. I think they blame me for letting Bobby get charmed away from me. Because I wasn’t forgiving enough, somehow I caused his eventual death.”
“There’s logic for you.”
“I’d like you to try talking to Jerry, if you ever stop wandering in the wilderness.”
“Why me?”
“Because, in addition to being good with thugs and killers, you’re pretty good with kids, kittens, and other furry creatures.”
“I’m good with women too,” I said, and I heard her cough.
“The old Marshalls,” I said. “What kind of people are they?”
“I always thought she was a really sweet woman. He’s a bit cold, but you can’t have everything. So what are you going to do now? You’ll have a fine time trying to follow those guys across nine hundred miles of open country, if that’s what you have in mind. They’ve seen your car, you know.”
“I don’t need to follow them. I know where they’re going.”
17
I got almost eight hours’ sleep and was back on the road by nine. I wasn’t about to go over that pass again, even in daylight. The weather forecast was for slippery conditions at the top of the world, with gale-force winds and blowing snow. Instead I went up 285, connected with 50, and stayed with the main highways on the longer, saner loop back through Gunnison and on south to Paradise. I had ten days until the Burbank Book Fair opened in north L.A. It was a two-hour flight from Denver. I could put the time to good use and catch up with my book suspects later. I still had no idea what I’d learn from them; this was nothing more than a grand hunch. But if all else failed, I could buy something great at the fair. I could schmooze with old pals and write off the whole trip as a booking expense. There are worse ways to spend one’s time and money.
I arrived in Paradise in the early afternoon and went looking for Parley. I checked at his house and the café, then went on up to the Marshall place. At the top of the hill I saw his car among several others: Lennie Walsh’s police cruiser, two black sedans, and a medium-sized, closed-bed truck with a ramp that extended onto the front porch. I pulled into the yard, got out, and started across the yard. Suddenly the judge was standing in the doorway in a plain black business suit, a matching hat, and a red tie, a picture of authority even without his robe. I was astounded to see him there.
“So who’re you?”
“I’m with Mr. McNamara, Judge.”
“Let me guess. You would be Janeway, the one that started all this goddamn trouble.”
“That could be one way of looking at it. I’ll be glad to apologize if that makes any difference.”
“Don’t get smart with me, son. Where’d you get to know so much?”
“I’m a book dealer.”
“And I’m Whistler’s great-grandfather. Where’ve you been all day?”
“I had to go down to Alamosa.”
“What for?”
“Personal business.”
“What personal business would you have in Alamosa?”
“Well, Judge, I can’t exactly talk about it. That’s what makes it personal.”
He bristled. “If it had anything to do with this case, I’ve got news for you, it ain’t personal. Are you a lawyer?”
“No, sir, I’m not.”
“Then how about getting the hell out of here? We’ve been doing just fine without you, and you can see McNamara later on in town.”
“I’d rather stay, if it’s all the same to you.”
“If it was all the same to me, I wouldn’t have said get lost just now, would I?”
I put on my appeaser’s face. “Judge, may I please make a point?”
“Let me make one first. How’d you like to spend the night in jail?”
Suddenly Lennie appe
ared in the doorway, his timing too perfect for coincidence. He stood smiling malignantly behind the judge, just out of the old man’s sight.
“I came up to assist Mr. McNamara,” I said. “That’s really all I’m doing.”
“What makes you think Mr. McNamara needs your help?”
“Because I know books. And he doesn’t.”
“This boy thinks a lot of himself, Judge,” Lennie said. “He’s a real piss-ripper.”
“Where the hell did you come from, Deputy? Don’t you know better than to walk up behind me like that?”
“Heard your voices. Sounded like you might need me for one thing or another.”
“I need you for anything, I’ll call you. Goddammit, make yourself useful. Go tell Miss Bailey this Janeway fellow’s finally out here.”
“Yessir.”
A moment later the young prosecutor came out. She was sharp-looking in her own dark suit with amusement showing around the corners of her mouth. “Well, if it isn’t the elusive Mr. Janeway,” she said. “Ann Bailey.”
We shook hands. “Okay if I take him in, Your Honor?”
Inside, I spoke to her in a whisper. “What the hell’s the judge doing up here?”
She took a moment to answer. “Maybe he’s just unorthodox.”
“How does he think he can preside over a case if he gets involved in it?”
“That would be his problem. And maybe yours.”
“Maybe yours in the long run.”
“We’ll see. I guess His Honor felt an irresistible impulse.” She took a deep breath. “This is a very big deal you dumped on us, Mr. Janeway.”
“Makes you want to rush right back to town and dismiss the charges, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, right. I was thinking more along the lines of, it gives her a great motive we didn’t even know about.”
“I see. She killed him for his books, is that what we’re thinking now?”
“People have been killed for less than that. How solid are your notions of the values of these things?”
“I didn’t know I had given out any solid values.”
“They might be quite valuable: Wasn’t that how McNamara put it?”
“I don’t know, I wasn’t there when he said it. Anything could be quite valuable.”
