Muscle Memory

by William G. Tapply

  The priest was reading Scripture. I kept my eyes on Mick. His head was bowed and he had his face in his hands.

  I wondered if Danny and Erin had spotted him.

  The funeral mass proceeded exactly like all the others I’d ever been to. I hoped the believers who were there were more comforted than I was by the familiarity of the words and rituals and prayers and songs.

  The priest delivered a short homily on the subject of life everlasting, the sacrifice of Jesus, and the blessing of faith. His singsong voice was gravelly and hesitant, as if he were trying to find the right balance between grief and celebration. He spoke of Kaye’s important roles as mother, wife, friend, and teacher, and I got the impression that he hadn’t known her all that well.

  He concluded with a quote from Scripture, said “Amen,” nodded toward one of the front pews, and Gretchen Conley stood up. She hesitated, and I saw Lyn reach up and give her hand a squeeze. Then she moved to the dais and laid a piece of paper on the lectern.

  She cleared her throat, looked at us, tried to smile. “Kaye…” she began. She stopped, looked down to where Danny and Erin were sitting, and gave her head a little shake. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

  She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, coughed, cleared her throat again.

  “Kaye Fallon,” she began, and this time her voice was clear and firm, “was my friend.” And then she spoke lovingly of Kaye’s goodness and generosity and loyalty, the special friendship they’d shared for so long, Kaye’s love for her children, all that she’d contributed to her students, the lives she’d touched. She told stories about their college days and the times when they’d both had young children, and in a couple of places soft laughter rose up from the mourners.

  It wasn’t until she said, “Good-bye, my dearest friend,” that she shook her head, covered her face with her hands, and began sobbing. The priest moved to her side, put his arm around her shoulder, and guided her back to her front-row pew, where Lyn stood up, hugged her, and helped her to sit down.

  The priest returned to the altar, mumbled a benediction, and then the organ began to play. Everyone stood, and the pallbearers and Danny and Erin and Gretchen and Lyn began moving back up the aisle with Kaye’s casket.

  I looked down front for Mick.

  But he had disappeared—slipped out the side entrance when everyone was looking in the other direction, I assumed.

  The church emptied from the front to the back, and I had to wait my turn. By the time I got outside, Kaye’s casket had already been loaded into the hearse, and the funeral cars were lined up behind it with their engines running, ready to begin their procession to the cemetery.

  A crowd was milling on the steps and the sidewalk in front of the church, shaking hands with the priest and murmuring their sympathies to Danny and Erin, who were standing on the top step.

  I scanned the crowd. I wondered if Mick had managed to slip into one of the funeral cars.

  Then I saw Patsy. Or maybe it was Paulie. In his dark silk suit, he could have been mistaken for a pallbearer or a funeral director. He was moving among the people. Now and then he stopped and went up on tiptoes. As I watched, he paused at the sedan that was waiting in the line directly behind the hearse, shielded his eyes, and looked inside.

  He was looking for Mick. I figured he wasn’t the only one.

  I went over to the priest, who was bending to an elderly woman and holding her hand in both of his. I grabbed his arm. “Excuse me, Father,” I said. “I’ve got to talk to you.”

  He turned and frowned at me. “Not now, my son.”

  I pulled him to the side. “I’m sorry, but this can’t wait.”

  “Can’t you see—”

  “Where’s Mick?” I said.

  He shook his head and turned away from me.

  I yanked at his arm. “Listen,” I said in an urgent whisper, “there are men here who want to kill him. I’m Mick’s lawyer. I’ve got to get to him before they do.”

  “This is God’s sanctuary,” said the priest. “He is safe here.”

  “Like hell he is. I don’t know what he’s told you, but—”

  “I heard Michael’s confession this morning.”

  “Well, good,” I said. “If he told you the truth, then you know I’m telling the truth, too. Vincent Russo’s men are here, and if they get to him before I do…”

  The priest jerked his head back. “Russo? Here?”

  I nodded.

  He fingered the cross that hung around his neck, narrowed his eyes, and scanned the crowd. Without looking at me, he said, “I gave Michael my word. God’s word.”

  “The only sanctuary for Mick is with the police,” I said.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, then turned to me. “How do I know you are who you say you are?”

  I hastily fumbled a business card from my wallet and slipped it to him. He glanced at it, mumbled something that sounded like a prayer, then whispered, “The rectory.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t want to point,” he said. “Those men might be watching us. If you look off to my right across the lawn, you’ll see a white house. Michael is waiting in my office, in the rear, on the first floor.”

  I glanced over and saw a big old white colonial set well back from the street and surrounded by ancient maple trees. “How’d he get there without being seen?”

  “There’s a tunnel. From the Underground Railroad days. You should take it, too. So they won’t follow you.”

  He told me how to find it, said, “God speed,” crossed himself, and turned away from me.

  I slipped back into the church, went down to the front, and ducked through the curtained archway at the side. A narrow stairway led down to a big meeting room in the church basement. Folding metal chairs were arranged in rows facing a podium, and tacked to the walls were childish crayon drawings of animals.

  I crossed the room, followed a long corridor, and found the furnace room. I slipped inside, pulled the door shut, latched it from the inside, and stood there, trying to control my breathing while my eyes adjusted to the dim light.

  The metal sliding door that the priest had described was directly behind the big oil burner. It had no knob, and except for the fist-sized hole that served as a handle, it blended in with the wall.

  As I began to slide the door open, I heard the rumble of a voice from outside the furnace room. I froze. There were two male voices. Then the door rattled.

  I wasn’t going to wait. I slipped through the doorway, slid the metal door shut behind me, and found myself in a cool, musty, absolutely dark place. The priest had said the dirt-floored tunnel went under the lawn for about a hundred yards and ended at stone stairs that led up into the rectory.

  I moved as fast as I dared in the darkness, trailing my right hand along the damp granite wall and holding my left arm up in front of my face to fend off cobwebs. I kept listening for footsteps behind me. But aside from the echo of my own shuffling feet, I heard nothing.

  The sliding wooden door at the top of the stairs opened into an empty closet, and the closet door opened into a bathroom. I stood there for a moment, blinking at the light, waiting for my eyes to adjust.

  Then I went directly to the priest’s office.

  I tried the knob. It wouldn’t turn. I tapped softly on the door.

  A minute later I heard a soft voice. “Who is it?”

  “Mick, it’s me. Brady. Let me in.”

  “Go away. Stay out of this.”

  “Russo’s boys are looking for you. They might have followed me. For Christ’s sake, open the door.”

  He waited so long that I thought he might’ve slipped away. Then the door pulled open a crack. I pushed my way inside, and Mick shut the door behind me. He stood there leaning back against it, frowning at me. “How’d you find me?”

  “The priest.”

  “Sonofabitch,” he mumbled.

  “I convinced him that your life was in danger.”

  “Yeah, so what else is
new?” He shook his head. “I had to come today, Brady. I had to say good-bye to Kaye.”

  “Sure,” I said, “and now that you have, it’s time to do the right thing.”

  “The cops?” He smiled. “No way, man. Not yet.”

  “Look,” I said, “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I for one would like to avoid having Danny and Erin end up orphans.” There was a telephone on the priest’s desk. I reached for it, but Mick grabbed my wrist.

  “Don’t do it, Brady,” he said.

  “I’m calling Horowitz,” I said.

  Mick kept his powerful grip on my wrist.

  “Come on, Mick,” I said. “Let go.”

  He smiled and shook his head. “I’m sorry, man,” he said softly, just before his fist smashed against my cheekbone and everything went utterly black.

  When you’ve been knocked unconscious, it’s impossible to tell whether it’s for a second or an hour. So when I opened my eyes and saw Patsy kneeling beside me, my first thought was that Mick had slugged me just an instant earlier and that Patsy had nailed him.

  Then Patsy said, “Where the fuck is he?” and I knew Mick had made it.

  “Huh? Who?” I mumbled, feigning more confusion than I felt.

  “Fallon, God damn it. What’d you do with him?”

  “Dunno what you’re talkin’ ’bout.”

  “He was here, right?” said Patsy. He grabbed my shirt and shook me. “Did you see him?”

  So he didn’t know. He was guessing.

  “I was waiting for the priest,” I said. “I wanted to talk to the priest.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m looking for Mick,” I said. “We’re both looking for Mick, right?”

  Patsy narrowed his eyes. “Then who slugged you?”

  “Huh?” I touched my cheek. “Tripped on the rug. Must’ve banged my face on the desk. Hurts like hell.” I shook my head slowly. “Kinda dizzy. I think I’m gonna puke. Get me a glass of water, will you?”

  Patsy frowned, then let go of my shirt and pulled away from me. I figured he didn’t believe me. On the other hand, Mick wasn’t here. And Patsy wouldn’t want anybody to vomit on his pretty suit. He stood up and brushed his hands over the front of his jacket. He looked down at me, frowning uncertainly. Then he said, “We’ll take care of you later, pal.” He turned for the door.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “How about that glass of water?”

  “Fuck you,” said Patsy. Then he was gone.

  Mick’s fist had caught me flush on my left cheekbone, but in the bathroom mirror it was just a little red lump. Barely noticeable. I touched it gingerly with my fingertip. It hurt right through the bone and into the middle of my brain.

  But my head was clear and the dizziness had passed.

  I splashed cold water on my face, combed my wet fingers through my hair, straightened my necktie, and declared myself presentable.

  I thought of calling Horowitz. But I saw no purpose to it. Mick was gone.

  I walked out of the rectory, stood on the front steps, and looked over toward the church. The funeral cars had left, and so had most of those that had been parked along the street.

  I glanced at my watch. Eleven-thirty. I knew the ceremony at the cemetery would be brief. After that, the mourners would gather at the Conleys’ house in Concord. I didn’t intend to miss that.

  To be on the safe side, I’d wait a couple of hours before I showed up at Lyn and Gretchen’s. I figured I’d find a takeout somewhere in Lexington center, buy myself a sandwich and a Coke, and then head for Walden Pond in Lincoln. I’d have myself a picnic with Thoreau’s ghost, see if any trout were rising, think Transcendental thoughts, ponder life and death and Nature’s ways—my version of a religious observation in a sacred place.

  I lit a cigarette, crossed the rectory lawn, and started up the sidewalk to where my car was parked.

  Then I stopped.

  A young man wearing a checked sports jacket and blue jeans was leaning against my front bumper. I didn’t recognize him until he turned and lifted his chin to me.

  It was Will Powers. And parked directly in front of my BMW was an old black Volkswagen Beetle.

  A black bug.

  Darren Watts had called it a “backbug.”

  Sixteen

  I WALKED UP TO Will Powers and held out my hand. “I didn’t see you in there,” I said, nodding toward the church.

  He shook my hand. “I was sitting in the back row. I saw you.” He grinned and touched his cheek. “What happened?”

  “Bumped into something,” I said. “Nice you could make it here today.”

  He shrugged. “She was a good lady. Those were her kids, huh?”

  I nodded.

  “They’re like my age.” He shook his head. “Their mother got murdered. God, that really sucks.”

  “It sure does.” I cleared my throat. “Were you waiting for me, Will?”

  “Yeah,” he said. He patted the fender of my BMW. “Remembered your car,” he added with a quick smile. Then the smile disappeared. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I know you do. I was just going to get a sandwich and a Coke and take it over to Walden Pond. Why don’t you join me?”

  He nodded. “Okay. Sure. Sounds good. Walden Pond. I never been there. Heard about it.” He smiled. “Believe it or not, Mrs. Fallon used to talk about that book. She knew I like nature and stuff, told me she thought I’d like it. Never tried it, though. I’m not much of a reader.”

  “Well,” I said, “Walden is a good book and a pretty place. Maybe it’ll inspire you.” I got into my car. “Follow me.”

  I found a parking slot in front of a deli in the center of town. Will pulled his black VW alongside of me. I got out and went to his window. “Why don’t you just double-park here. I’ll pick up something for you. What would you like?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno. A sandwich, I guess.”

  “Corned beef? Pastrami? Ham-and-cheese?”

  “That sounds good. Ham-and-cheese. And a root beer, if they have it.”

  I bought a Reuben sandwich for me, a ham-and-cheese for Will, two little bags of potato chips, a Coke, and a root beer. Fat kosher dills came with the sandwiches, wrapped separately in their own waxed paper.

  I kept my eye on Will in my rearview mirror as he followed me out of Lexington, through the Minuteman National Park on what they were now calling Battle Road, which was actually Route 2A, and onto Route 2. We turned left on Walden Street and pulled into the parking area across from the pond. Will parked beside me.

  I got out, threw my jacket and tie in the backseat, and retrieved the bag that held our lunches. Then Will and I headed down to the pond.

  Walden is a kettle pond, formed by the giant hunks of ice that broke off and stayed behind when the glaciers retreated northward from this part of the world more than ten thousand years ago. Icemelt from the glacier flowed south, carrying with it millions of tons of sediment, which built up around the left-behind hunks of ice, and when the ice melted, a kettle-shaped pond was formed, roundish and deep, with no islands, inlet, or outlet, and surrounded by high banks.

  Thoreau dropped a codline through the ice to map Walden’s bottom and found that it was over 100 feet deep in places. He speculated that its name derived from the phrase walled-in, a reference to the steep wooded banks that surrounded it, although “Walden” might’ve been the corruption of an Indian word. Most likely, Thoreau had concluded, it had just been named after some Englishman named Walden.

  On this June noontime, crowds had gathered on blankets on the sand beach near the road, and more folks plodded along the mulched path that encircled the pond. There were clusters of young mothers with toddlers in bathing suits splashing in the water and digging in the sand, male and female executive types in business attire—like me—with their bag lunches, and hippies and pilgrims of all ages who’d come to pay homage to Thoreau’s shrine.

  Will and I followed the path almost halfway around the pond, a
nd down near the cove where Thoreau had built his cabin, we found a couple of private boulders to sit on.

  We unwrapped our sandwiches and pickles, ripped open our potato chip bags, popped the tops of our sodas, and looked out at the rippled water.

  Walden was a pretty good trout pond. If it had been calm, I might’ve been able to spot a rising fish or two.

  But a freshening easterly breeze had blown up. It felt ten degrees cooler than it had in the morning, and dark clouds had begun to skid across the sky.

  I munched my sandwich and didn’t say anything. Will knew he had to talk to me. I figured I’d give him the chance do it in his own way.

  He waited until we’d finished eating and had lit cigarettes. “I told you a lot of lies,” he said softly.

  I nodded. “I know you did.”

  His face jerked up. “How’d you know?”

  “When I saw your car. Darren saw it, too.”

  He frowned. “Who’s Darren?”

  I shook my head. “Why don’t you just tell me what you want to tell me.”

  “Yeah, okay,” he said. He looked out at the water. “I lied to you about Mrs. Fallon. I didn’t really feel bad about it until—until I had a chance to think about it.” He laughed quickly. “I lied about me, too. I was scared. The fact is, Mr. Coyne, I, um, I did kinda follow her. They said I was stalking her. I didn’t think of it that way. I just thought she was so damn pretty and nice and—and sexy, you know? Anyway—well, I guess I did try to kiss her. But see, it wasn’t anything she did. I told you she flirted with me? Well, it wasn’t like that. She never came on to me. Or anybody, as far as I could see. It was me. She was just being nice, and I…” He shook his head. “Anyway, Moyle kicked me out of her class, and that made me mad. I never meant to hurt or scare her or nothing. But I know he was right. I never should’ve tried to kiss her.”

  I turned to look at him. His head was bowed, and it looked as if he might start crying.