Cutter's Run

by William G. Tapply

  I wondered if they rented a certain cabin in Garrison from Arnold Hood for their guy stuff. Keith had denied ever renting a hunting cabin. To Ellen I said, “Would you know who Charlotte would’ve dealt with at SynGen?”

  “That would be the CFO,” she said. “Tate.” I heard a sharp intake of breath, and then she said, “Whoops. I gotta go”

  “Hey,” I said. “Wait a minute.” But the phone had gone dead.

  I gazed off toward New Hampshire. Three more names that I could, without much imagination, add to my list of suspects in Charlotte Gillespie’s disappearance—or whatever had happened to her. Tate, the CFO, was probably the one who got her fired.

  On the assumption that Charlotte and Noah were linked, the SynGen guys could be suspects in Noah’s murder, too.

  When I called Susannah’s number, Alex answered. “The Hollingsworth residence.”

  “It’s me,” I said. “How’s it going?”

  “Okay,” she said. “The state police were here poking around and asking questions. I expected yellow crime-scene tape, with photographers and forensics experts swarming all over the place dusting for fingerprints and looking for tire tracks and footprints and cigarette butts, grilling Susannah, playing good-cop-bad-cop. But there were just two of them, very polite young men. I served them coffee, and they talked with Susannah and sleuthed around for maybe a half hour, tipped their hats, and left. Paul got here a little while ago. He and Susannah are out on the deck now.” She dropped her voice. “Remember what we were saying?”

  “About their lack of passion?”

  “Yes. It’s pretty obvious. He’s very solicitous of her. Says all the right things. When he got here, they hugged each other, and he kissed her cheek, and she thanked him for coming, and…”

  “No passion.”

  “Yes.”

  “Brother and sister.”

  “Sort of. First thing he said was he can’t stay long.”

  “Being dutiful,” I said. “How’s Susannah doing?”

  “I admire her a lot, Brady. She is completely blown away by the idea that someone would murder Noah. But I think she’s been preparing herself for his death for a long time.”

  “I’ve got to speak to her for a minute.”

  “Sure. Hang on.”

  A minute later, Susannah said, “Hi, Brady.”

  “How’re you doing?”

  “I’m okay, considering. What’s up?”

  “I know this isn’t a good time, but I wondered if I could run a couple of names past you.”

  “Names?”

  “Yes. I’m wondering if these men were people Noah might’ve known.”

  “You think—”

  “I don’t think anything, Susannah. Here are the names. Gerald Stasio?”

  “Um… no. I don’t recall Noah ever mentioning that name.”

  “Roland Passman.”

  “No.”

  “Arthur Tate.”

  “I don’t… no, I don’t think so.” She paused, then said, “Who are these people, Brady? What’s going on?”

  “Probably nothing is going on that has anything to do with what happened to Noah. They used to be Charlotte Gillespie’s clients. They’re officers of a firm in Portland called SynGen.”

  “SynGen,” she repeated. “Sure. They’re some kind of research outfit.”

  “Well, I believe they’re the ones who got Charlotte fired. These guys might’ve rented Arnold Hood’s cabin for deer hunting.”

  “I guess it’s possible my father could’ve run into them if they were using Hoodie’s cabin and hunting around here,” said Susannah. “But I don’t remember him ever mentioning any of those names.” She laughed quickly. “You are taking your deputy duties seriously, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t like it when my friends are…” I let my voice trail off.

  “Murdered,” she said. “It’s okay. You can say it. I know what happened. And Brady?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m not making fun of you. If you can find out who did this to my father, I will love you forever.”

  Several responses came to my mind. Twenty-four hours earlier I had kissed Susannah and she had pressed her body against mine, and the memory of it was still vivid. “And if I can’t?” I said.

  “Oh, I guess I’ll love you anyway,” she said.

  “Susannah…”

  “Alex is a lifesaver,” she said. “I love her to pieces.”

  “Me, too,” I said. “Why don’t you let me speak to her again.”

  “See you later?”

  “Yes. Of course. Say hello to Paul for me.”

  “Sure. I’ll get Alex.”

  A moment later Alex said, “What’re you up to this afternoon?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m trying to figure it out. Want me to come over?”

  “Not yet. Call later on. Okay?”

  “Sure. You take care.”

  “You, too.”

  I disconnected from Alex, put the phone on the deck, yawned, and slouched down in the rocker. I tried to concentrate on what I knew, make the connections, play out the possibilities. But the sun was warm on my face, and with my eyes closed and my heels up on the rail I discovered that I could rock gently with no effort, and I was aware of my mind losing its focus…

  I was jarred awake by the slamming of a car door, and before I could sit up straight, young Paris LeClair, with his greenish-yellow hair and his earrings and his skinny arms and baggy pants, had bounced up onto the deck. “Hey, hey there, Mr. Coyne,” he said. He was blinking fast and flapping his hands around. “You gotta come with me, man. I got something to show you.”

  CHAPTER 27

  I WAVED MY HAND toward one of the rockers. “Have a seat,” I said to Paris. “Relax, son. Calm down. How about a Coke or something?”

  He smacked his fist into his palm. “Shit, man. Come on, willya?”

  “Can’t. I’m waiting for a phone call.”

  He skipped over to me and grabbed the front of my shirt. His yellow-green hair was flying around his face and his eyes were small and glittery. “Fuck the phone call. This is important.”

  I looked down at his hand until he let go of my shirt. “Tell me what this is all about,” I said. “Did you find out who made those swastikas?”

  “No,” he said. “And I don’t know what it’s all about. I gotta show you. Okay?”

  “Paris,” I said, “what’ve you been smoking?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Oh, man,” he said. “Are you stupid or something?”

  “It’s not about those swastikas?”

  “No.” He punched his thigh. “I’m trying to tell you—”

  “So tell me.”

  He shook his head. “Just come with me.” He hesitated, then smiled. “Please, okay?”

  I smiled. “That’s better.” I pushed myself up from the chair.

  Paris skittered around to the front of the house, and I followed him. A battered old brown Volkswagen Rabbit was parked at an awkward angle in the middle of the drive-way. He went over to my Wrangler. “We better take yours,” he said.

  I shrugged, and we got in. “Where to?”

  “Head for the place where I… you know. Where I messed up your car.”

  I backed down the driveway. It occurred to me that Paris could’ve been leading me to someone who made swastikas and strangled old men and didn’t like snoopy deputy sheriffs. I shook the thought away. “You going to tell me what this is all about?” I said.

  “I gotta show it to you.”

  I pulled onto the road and headed down the hill. “Did you watch Schindler’s List yet?”

  “Three times,” he said.

  “Well?”

  “I can’t talk about it,” he said quietly. “Every time I think about it I feel like I can’t breathe.”

  “Did you get the point?”

  “Oh, man,” he whispered. “I didn’t know that stuff. Honest to God, Mr. Coyne. If I’d known that I never would’ve… you kn
ow.” He laughed quickly. “After the first time, I tried to get my old man to watch it. He came in, took one look, and said, ‘Hell. This is black-and-white. I don’t watch no black-and-white movies.’ He’s an asshole.”

  We bounced over the dirt roads, and when we came to the long driveway into Charlotte’s place where the No Trespassing sign still sported its red swastika, Paris said, “Not here. Keep going. It’s right down this road.”

  The road was barely wide enough for two cars to pass. A mixture of pine and oak arched overhead, and underbrush grew thick along both sides. We seemed to be weaving through a narrow, dark tunnel. About a quarter of a mile past Charlotte’s driveway we came to a wooden bridge. It had no railings and was just wide enough for a single car. A stream passed under it. I stopped halfway over the bridge and gazed down at the water. “Is this Cutter’s Run?” I said to Paris.

  “Yeah.”

  Sunbaked rocks and gravel and sand lay exposed along the creek’s banks. A thin trickle of water flowed in the channel. The beaver dam upstream was still doing its job.

  About a hundred yards past the bridge, Paris said, “Here. Stop here.”

  I pulled over against the bushes, leaving barely enough room for a car to squeeze past. Paris wiggled out and came around to my side. “This way,” he said. “Come on.”

  I got out. Paris was already striding down the road, turning as he walked to see if I was following. When I caught up to him, he was standing by a break in the stone wall that paralleled the road, and I could see that an ancient tote road twisted up into the woods. It was on the other side of the stream from Charlotte’s driveway. This old woods road, Cutter’s Run, and the driveway up to Charlotte’s cabin formed three roughly parallel lines.

  “This way, man,” said Paris, pointing into the woods. “An old tannery used to be up there. This was the road that went into it.”

  “Cutter’s tannery,” I said. “I tried to catch a trout from the beaver pond yesterday. I noticed some old pilings and the remnants of the milldam. Doesn’t look like this old road’s been used for fifty years.”

  We started into the woods, following the tote road. It was just a pair of old ruts. Knee-high weeds grew in it, and alders hugged close against both sides. We’d gone no more than fifteen or twenty feet when we had to step over the trunk of a thick poplar tree that had fallen across it.

  “Come on,” said Paris. The woods pushed against us from both sides and arched over our heads, and the smell of damp earth and decaying leaves and lush, overripe foliage was strong. From off to the left came the faint gurgle of water trickling over stones. Cicadas buzzed in the trees. Dust and pollen and tiny insects floated in the narrow beams of sunlight that filtered down through the canopy overhead.

  We’d gone another fifty feet or so into the woods when we came to a heavy chain barring the way. It was attached at both ends to thick concrete pillars with iron rings embedded in them. The chain was rusty and obviously old. It looked like it had hung there since the tannery shut down.

  Paris went over to one end of the chain and scooched down. “Come here,” he said. “Take a look at this.”

  I went over and squatted beside him. He was holding a large padlock that linked the chain to the ring in the concrete pillar. The padlock was rusty and old, too. But when I looked closer, I saw scratches on its surface, as if it had been used recently.

  “This is what you wanted to show me?” I said to Paris.

  “Listen,” he said. “I went up to that cabin. I wanted to see the outhouse, you know?”

  “The swastika,” I said.

  He nodded. “I didn’t make that swastika. I told you that. I been tryin’ to find out who did, like I promised.” He shrugged. “No luck so far. So anyways, I went up there—night before last, it was. Monday. I parked in the driveway and walked in. It was late, about midnight. I used a flashlight on the way in, but when I got up there on the hill I turned it off. There was enough moon to see okay, once my eyes got used to it. Anyway, while I’m up there looking at the outhouse, I think I hear voices. It was spooky, man. I mean, there’s nobody living anywhere around there. Except the lady. Charlotte. I’m thinking about spooks, like I did something bad, making that swastika on your car, and now her ghost is after me. These ghosty voices, you know?

  “So anyways, I look in the direction of the voices, and then I see lights flashing and flickering in the woods. And they’re coming from the old tannery. And then I hear an engine down there. Sounded like a truck or a tractor or something. So I creep down me hill a ways so I can see better.”

  Paris looked up at me. “I couldn’t see much, with the leaves and everything in the way. But something was going on at the tannery. That’s where the lights and the voices were.” He shook his head. “So I watched for a while, I don’t know how long. It seemed like an hour, man, but it might’ve been only ten minutes. Spooky as shit, you know? Anyways, after a while the lights start moving down along the stream. Truck lights, see? And they’re following this old road—this one here—just kind of jiggling along, real slow. After a while, they’re gone. No more voices, no more lights. Nothing. I waited for a while, and then, man, I got the hell out of there.”

  “And you came to me,” I said.

  He shook his head quickly. “No. That was two nights ago. The next day—yesterday—I come back. I see this road and I figure it’s the one they were using. I start walking, like we’re doing, and I find this lock, and it’s pretty obvious that somebody’s using this road. I mean, that tree back there that’s across the road? You can move it. Someone chopped it down. You can see the ax marks on the end of it. It’s just to make it look like no one uses it. Last night I went back up the hill. I waited till about one A.M., but nobody showed up. Which was okay with me.

  “Anyway,” he said with a shrug, “I figured I better tell you.”

  “Why?”

  He frowned. “Huh?”

  “Why did you figure you should tell me? What do you think is going on here?”

  He looked at me blankly. “I don’t know. I mean, I had to tell somebody. I’m not gonna tell my old man. He’d just give me a backhander for snooping around. I came by your house this morning, but nobody was home.”

  “You saw the lights and heard this truck or whatever it was on Monday?” I said.

  He nodded.

  “But not last night.”

  “No. But I remembered one night last week Weezie and I were out driving around, and we were on this road sometime after midnight and we had to pull over because a truck was coming at us. Coming from this direction.” He shrugged. “It could’ve been coming from there. Who else’d be driving these roads that time of night?”

  “What day was that?”

  “When I saw the truck on the road?” He frowned, then said, “Wednesday. I’m pretty sure it was Wednesday.”

  “A week ago today.”

  He nodded.

  “So what do you figure?” I said.

  Paris shook his head. “I don’t know, Mr. Coyne. I just thought, that lady and all…”

  I stood up and lit a cigarette. Cutter’s old tannery was on Noah’s property. Anyone who would wait until midnight to use it, who would disguise his use of the old tote road by felling a tree across it, and who would bar the way with a chain and a strong padlock, was clearly intent on not being observed.

  Charlotte Gillespie could easily have seen lights and heard voices from her cabin. Perhaps Noah had, too. His “pissing platform” faced in this direction.

  Was that what had got them killed?

  Paris touched my shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s check it out.”

  I shook my head. “No. Not now. Let’s clear out of here.”

  “What?” he said. “You scared?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  He frowned at me, then shrugged.

  “My car’s parked right there on the road,” I said.

  “Oh,” he said. “Right.”

  We followed the old tannery r
oad back out. Here and there I noticed oil stains on the goldenrod that grew between the ruts. Crankcase oil, I guessed. And where the tote road ended at the dirt road, I found a bare patch of sand that held the faint imprint of a tire.

  Paris skittered ahead of me, and he was already sitting in the Wrangler when I got there. I climbed in beside him and fumbled out a cigarette.

  “Gimme one of those, huh?” he said.

  I held the pack to him. He took a cigarette and I held my Zippo for him. His hands were twitching.

  “Relax,” I said. “You did the right thing. Now you don’t have to worry about it.”

  “It was way spooky, man,” he said. “So what do you think’s going on?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I started up the car, turned around, and headed back.

  When we pulled into Alex’s driveway, Paris said, “You got your car painted, huh? So what do I owe you?”

  “Five bucks.”

  He looked at me and grinned. “Come on, Mr. Coyne. I told you I’d pay for it.”

  “I used the expensive stuff. Rustoleum. That’s what Leon recommended. You can pay me in installments if you want.”

  He peered through the windshield at the hood. “You did a crummy job. It needs another coat. Get another can of paint. I’ll give you ten bucks next time I see you.”

  He started to get out. I grabbed his arm. “You did good,” I said. “What you showed me might be important.”

  He shrugged. “I figure I owe you. And that lady. I didn’t understand about swastikas, you know?”

  I nodded.

  “But that movie…”

  “Now you do understand.”

  “Oh, yeah. I understand, all right.”

  “Listen, Paris,” I said. “You stay away from that tannery.”

  “Right.” He grinned. “Pretty spooky, huh?”

  “Absolutely.” I held out my hand, and he took it. “You’re a good man,” I said.

  He rolled his eyes. “Sure.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Yeah, well, so’re you, Mr. Coyne.”

  We got out of the car and I followed him over to his Volkswagen. Paris climbed in.