by Jim Guhl
I stalled the engine again. “Dammit all!” How was I going to impress girls if I couldn’t even work the clutch? Southbound on 41, my hands gripped the wheel and my eyes searched for the College Avenue exit in Appleton. I found it, pulled off the highway, and stopped at a Mobil station.
“Do you know how to get to Appleton East High School?” I asked the man in the gray shirt with the winged-horse patch on his pocket.
“Are you really old enough to drive?”
I took a breath and tried again. “Do you know how to get to Appleton East High School?”
The man spat a shot of tobacco juice into a mason jar. He picked some dirt out from under his fingernail. Then, finally, he told me how to get to East High.
Long story short, I wasted forty minutes—another total bust. Their game was almost at halftime and none of the refs was the Cadillac Man. I knew I had to hurry to get to the third basketball game on my list.
Oshkosh North was a long ways south, and when I crossed the Butte des Morts Bridge I couldn’t help thinking about all the trouble that I had already caused. I pulled off at the other side and found a Sinclair. Inside the small office an inflatable green dinosaur hung from the ceiling—a prize, no doubt, to get kids to talk their parents into spending more money.
“Can you tell me how to get to Oshkosh North High School?”
“Why do you want to go there?”
“Basketball game,” I said.
“It started over an hour ago.”
“Could you just tell me how to get there, please?”
The man drew me a map on a paper towel like those used for wiping dipsticks. I ran for the truck, and when I feathered the clutch it grabbed just right.
Once again, it took a while to get there, search the parking lot, and poke my head in the door. Another bust. Two refs and another at the table, but no Cadillac man. I sprinted again for the truck. Was there enough time to get to Fond du Lac? I spun the wheels on the icy pavement and backtracked to Highway 41.
I checked my watch at the Fond du Lac city limits sign. It was already five minutes past nine. Shoot! The game was probably over. As long as I had come all that way, I stopped once more at a gas station where an orange-and-white Gulf sign glowed against the black sky. A young man provided the directions I needed, and guess what. He didn’t give me any crap for once.
Five minutes later I was waiting at the parking lot entrance watching an endless stream of cars leaving. By the time I drove in, there were only twenty or thirty cars left. I scanned them all in search of a black Cadillac. Nothing.
Good grief! What a waste!
I sat in the idling truck and finally decided there was nothing else to do but go home. I pulled out and drove past the front of the school. Then a second driveway appeared, leading to another small parking area. My eyes scanned the lot and spotted a dark car in the shadows. I couldn’t tell for sure if it was the black Cadillac, and I was afraid of driving in there to check. Lacking any better ideas, I parked on the road, turned off the truck, and waited.
It didn’t take long, maybe five minutes, before a man wearing dark clothes and carrying a gym bag left the building and got in the car.
Son of a bitch! It was him all right.
The Cadillac Man drove slowly out to the road, where he turned away from me. Under the illumination of a street light, the big dent in the bumper showed itself. I started the truck, worked the clutch perfectly, and followed. As he made his way to Highway 41 I kept reminding myself to stay far back. A crook like this guy was sure to be on the lookout at all times. If he caught me following him there was no telling what he would do. Most likely he would try to ditch me. Worse case, the psycho would slow down and put a bullet through my windshield.
He turned north on 41. At least it was the direction home. I memorized the tall, skinny shape of his red taillights. From a quarter-mile back I kept him in my sights.
Oshkosh came and went without the Cadillac Man taking an exit. We crossed the Butte des Morts Bridge and a weird mix of sadness and anger surged through me as we passed the place on the road where Sheriff Heiselmann was killed. I wondered what thoughts floated through the mind of the Cadillac Man. Did a creep like that even feel guilt?
We drove on and passed the billboard on the highway where Mark and I found the bullet and the cigarette—the place where he killed my dad. My grip tightened on the steering wheel. We passed the giant slide and kept going. We passed the Cecil Street exit in Neenah and he didn’t slow down—just a steady pace of sixty miles an hour.
Suddenly his right taillight blinked red as the car approached the exit to Neenah’s Main Street. Holy crap! It was the same exit I would normally take to go home. The same exit that passed by Dad’s grave. I slowed way down and turned off my headlights because Mark always said that was the best way to run undetected from the cops.
On Main Street the black Cadillac turned right and I let it get a couple blocks ahead. We crossed the little bridge over the slough and past the Hafemeister machine shop. Was he heading to my house? Was he going there to kill me? What about Mom and Sally?
Holy hell!
The Cadillac’s red blinker came on just before the railroad tracks and doused my worry about Mom and Sally. I approached slowly and watched the taillights as they cruised toward Emerald Gardens. Was the creep going after Grandpa?
I turned and followed with my headlights still turned off. The black Cadillac continued in front of Emerald Gardens but neither slowed nor stopped.
Whew.
He took another right turn and then a quick left into a driveway. I stopped the truck and waited. The Cadillac Man lifted the garage door and pulled his car inside. He emerged from the unattached garage and entered the side door of a small, two-story house. I watched as a light came on in what must have been his kitchen. Five minutes later the downstairs light flicked off and an upstairs light came on. The creep was in his bedroom. Five minutes after that, all the lights went dark.
“Gotcha!” I said out loud.
I put the pickup in reverse and slowly backed away until I was no longer visible from the yellow house. Through downtown Neenah I rolled with the headlights back on. I rolled past the mooneye spot by the library. I turned left on Oak across the Fox River and drove past the hospital before parking three blocks from home.
I snuck into the house like a burglar, drank a tall glass of milk, and tiptoed upstairs into my room. The house was quiet. My bed felt warm. I had a secret bigger than the sky.
48
Somehow I had slept. The buzz of my alarm clock brought me back to consciousness, and I remembered everything.
Jeez! Now what?
No time for a shower, I pulled on yesterday’s clothes, grabbed a Pop-Tart, and stirred a glass of Tang. Now what? Now what? Now what? Whatever was next would be up to me. I’m not sure why, but I went back upstairs to my closet and found the X-15 Instamatic Camera that Mom and Dad had given me for my birthday. I looked at the film indicator and saw that I still had twelve pictures left. I shoved it in my pocket, shouldered my book bag, and headed out into the predawn cold.
Asa’s truck was right there where I had left it on Seventh. It started right up like it had been waiting for me. I worked the clutch perfectly.
Yes!
The Chevy chugged over the bridge, past the library, through downtown Neenah, left at the tracks, and into the parking lot of Emerald Gardens. Since it was too early to wake up Asa, I put the keys on top of the front wheel.
The big part of my brain responsible for my own survival kicked in and told me to cross the tracks and zig east toward Shattuck. Then a different, pea-sized corner of my brain told my legs to walk toward the Cadillac Man’s house instead. I approached the place just as the orange sun popped over the edge of the tracks. A Soo Line engine blasted its whistle and I nearly crapped my pants.
The two-story house appeared as plain as could be in a neighborhood that most people had probably never even seen. Was it too ordinary for a killer? Was I wron
g about the Cadillac Man? Then, just as quick, it seemed perfect for him. Every snake needed a hiding place, and the more hidden the better.
The Cadillac Man’s house sat wedged between the railroad tracks and the slough. Most of the windows revealed nothing, with shades shut tight and no gaps to peek through. The mailbox was plain and black, standing out by the street—no name, no decoration, not even a number on the post. I was tempted to take a look inside but didn’t dare. Instead, I pulled out my Instamatic and started snapping pictures, beginning with a shot of the house from the street. Then I moved around to the side by the garage and snapped another. Looking left and right, I scurried around his neighbor’s house and snapped a few pictures from the rear.
My legs felt numb and my heart clanged inside me like an alarm-clock bell as I finished up my recon mission. I retraced my footprints in the snow, pocketed the camera, and got back on the street. Just then, a neighbor man pulled out of his driveway and stabbed me with a disapproving look. I kept my eyes pointed straight down the street and held my breath, forcing my legs to walk slowly. The man drove away and I exhaled. When the yellow house was out of sight, I took off running.
I entered Shattuck almost forty-five minutes before homeroom bell and made my way to the Science Resource Center. The place was empty, too early even for Mrs. Schwartz. I settled into my usual table in the back corner and ripped a sheet of paper out of a spiral notebook. With a dull number 2 pencil, I wrote three words at the top of that page.
OPERATION SNAKE DEN
I woke before the sun on Saturday morning and turned on the kitchen light. The dishes were clean, the toilets scrubbed, and the floor shone with a new coat of wax. All of that I had done ahead of time so nothing could stop me from executing my secret plan. I poured milk over the top of a bowl of Froot Loops and waited for them to get soggy. In the meantime, I converted a spoonful of orange Tang into a glass of instant nutrition and flipped on the kitchen radio, setting the volume low so as not to wake Mom or Sally.
The man on WNAM spoke in his usual boring monotone, rambling on and on about the Lake Winnebago spearing report. It had been a lousy month of February, with only a few sturgeon taken due to cloudy water. That was okay with me. The fewer sturgeon that they speared, the better my chances of seeing one while diving for lures in the river.
The radio announcer wrapped up his report with a warning.
Be careful out there, folks. People are taking their shanties off the lake, and those open spearing holes are big enough to swallow a car.
True enough, I thought. I clicked off the radio and focused on the mission at hand, opening my folder for Operation Snake Den at the kitchen table.
From the left pocket, I pulled out my notes and the photographs that I had just picked up from the film development counter at Camera & Card. I had examined every possible entry point to the Cadillac Man’s house. With a red Magic Marker, I drew a circle around the basement window on the back side.
From the same folder, I pulled out a newspaper clipping that showed the times and locations of high school regional basketball tournament games coming up on Saturday. Games were scheduled through the afternoon and evening, beginning at one o’clock. It would be a busy day for basketball referees all over the state of Wisconsin.
I had to get out of the house early, before Mom woke up and gave me more work or, worse yet, sent me to confirmation class. Ripping the side out of a brown grocery bag, I made a note and left it on the kitchen table.
GONE FISHING. BACK FOR SUPPER.
Another lie. Another brick paving my road to hell.
Grabbing my coat and hat, I faced two pairs of boots at the door. Common sense told me to step into the felt-lined Sorels. They would be warm and cozy in my hiding place, the practical option for sure. But my eyes locked onto the Eaglewings, and they appeared to be looking back. Ever since the minnow bucket incident at the Menasha dam, it seemed like they were juiced with an electric energy that was hard to explain. Maybe they were my version of Batman’s cape and brought out what little courage was hiding inside me. I stepped into the Eaglewings, laced them up, and slipped out the door.
Eisenhower stood at attention in the garage when I walked in. That red reflector blinked and waited. The spokes practically hummed. It was D day, after all.
The pillow case of tools and my Kodak X-15 fit neatly in Ike’s front basket. The light was still dim as I stepped onto the driveway and reached for the garage door. Then I froze. My eyes flashed to the stack of scrap lumber. Did I dare? Beneath the top layer of pine boards I knew that the Model 12 shotgun lay concealed in its case.
Do I bring it?
Call me a liar if you want to, but Eisenhower made the decision for me. It wasn’t so much a tug as a gravitational pull away from that gun. My grip tightened on the handlebars and my body leaned away from the open garage door. I took the hint. Yep, breaking and entering was one thing. Bust in with a gun? Cripes—even juvie wouldn’t have me. I pulled down the garage door and jumped on the pedals.
At Food Queen I swapped fifty cents of Hoot Owl money for a pack of Twinkies and a bottle of orange pop. After that, Ike hauled me and my supplies over the bridge and through town to where the railroad tracks crossed.
The Cadillac Man’s house was only visible as a hazy silhouette through a patch of ground fog hanging over the slough. I pushed through the thorny bushes that bordered the Soo Line tracks and laid Ike in the goldenrod before settling into my hiding place behind a clump of sumac. I couldn’t see much behind all those branches, weeds, and fog. Just as well, I figured. Concealment was the main thing, and my sense of hearing would have to serve me until the fog lifted. H hour would arrive in its own due course.
I checked my Timex. At 7:35, it could be a wait almost as long as the duck hunting opener, but determination was on my side.
The first hour passed without a single car leaving the Cadillac Man’s street. I had to peek a couple times as trains went by. During all of that rumbling and clanging it was dang near impossible to hear anything else. Hour two brought one more train and a flock of chickadees. At the start of hour three, I saw a cottontail rabbit hop so close to me that I almost touched it. One more train went through, and by 10:30 the fog had lifted, and the yellow house glowed in sunlight. I ate my Twinkies and drank my orange pop. If anything was going to happen, I figured it would be soon.
Hour four brought one train and two flocks of geese but still no movement from the Cadillac Man. By the time the noon whistle sounded at one of the mills, I was hungry, antsy, and sick of sitting in slush. Jeez! Lieutenant Columbo on TV never had to squat with a wet butt.
Just as I was grousing about everything, the noise finally came. Clunk! I craned my neck and leaned forward, eyes wide, heart booming. The garage door rattled open. I heard an engine start and saw white exhaust fumes drift out the open door. The black car emerged, and the Cadillac Man got out to close the garage door. It was him all right. The snake was leaving his den. I hunkered down and watched through the brush as he drove away. Everything fell silent. H hour had arrived at last. According to my math, the Cadillac Man would be gone for at least four hours. If he had two games he could be gone all day.
I must have looked suspicious, climbing out of my hiding place with a pillowcase full of burglar tools. Too bad the fog had burned away. I walked quickly between two houses and behind the Cadillac Man’s garage. From there I paused and listened before moving toward my target—the basement window.
49
On my hands and knees I realized that it was time to break things, and in my case that meant breaking everything at once—the window, my promise to Mom, the law. I had done some crazy things in my life, but never anything like this. It was crime, pure and simple—burglary, larceny, breaking and entering—the cops had a hundred names for what I was doing, and they were all as illegal as heck. Do you know what the engine on a Harley-Davidson sounds like? That’s what my heart was doing as I crouched by the Cadillac Man’s basement window and started in wit
h a pry bar.
For three whole minutes I pried, dug, and scraped at the edges of that window. I switched to a screwdriver, then pliers, and finally started stabbing between the sash and frame with a putty knife.
What’s this thing made of—titanium?
After five minutes had passed, I decided that enough was enough. I leaned back on my elbows and pulled back my right leg. The heel of my size 4 Eaglewing blasted into that small window like a wrecking ball. The sound of breaking glass was louder than a car crash.
Am I caught? My eyes darted left and right. Had the neighbors heard me? Some puke came up in my throat, but I swallowed it back down. I listened for sirens but only heard the hum of the foundry and distant rumbles on the Soo Line tracks.
Breathe in . . . breathe out . . . breathe in . . . breathe out. My heart slowly beat down. It was time to go inside. With the glass gone, opening the window was a simple matter of reaching inside and twisting the latch until the sash flopped open. I left my tools outside and crawled through, carrying only my camera. By dangling myself through the opening, I was able to shimmy down to the concrete floor. After spending several hours in the bright sunlight, I thought the basement looked as black as a cave. A sliver of light from underneath a door on the main level revealed the location of the stairs. Like an idiot, I took off the Eaglewings at the top of the steps so I wouldn’t mess up the house—a decision that I was bound to regret.
The plan was to find anything that would prove that the Cadillac Man had murdered my dad. At the top of my list was a .357 Magnum revolver that would match up with the bullet that I had sent to Agent Culper. I walked into the kitchen and couldn’t believe how normal everything looked. Dishes dried in a rack next to the sink. A folded towel hung on the oven door handle. A clear-glass cookie jar sat, half-full, on the counter. I took off the lid and grabbed one for my aching stomach.
