Pellam walked to the river and watched the sunset from a disintegrating bench in the scrubby remains of Maddox Municipal Park. The ambitions of the entire town were expressed in a small store behind him. The wood sign that proclaimed the owner’s name was illegibly faded, but on the facade itself was a larger message, sloppily hand-painted: Scrap Metal Bought. All Kinds. All Grades. Cash NOW!
After a dinner of a hamburger and a beer, Pellam wandered the streets again, streets he shared only with the few people meandering between the Jolly Rogue and Callaghan’s, and with packs of scrawny dogs with wild eyes but hopeful prances that sadly suggested domesticated puppyhoods.
At midnight he sat again in the park, with a beer he did not drink, watching the moon’s stippled reflection in the water, smelling the cold, marshy air and an oily smell from some distant factory or refinery.
When is he going to find me?
Yet nothing found him that night but sleep, and Pellam woke on the bench at 4:00 A.M., astonished at first at the extent of his exhaustion, then at his carelessness, and finally at his extraordinary good luck at escaping unharmed. He returned to the camper, sore and chilled, his hands shivering and the only warm aspect about him the wood grip of the Colt pressing hard against his belly.
DR. WENDY LOOKED good.
Breezy. That was the way she walked. Breezy. What did they say in high school? There was a word. What was it?
Bopping.
Right. And you had to snap your fingers when you said it. Bopping. Yeah, you see that girl? You see the way she bopped into the lunchroom?
“Yo, Dr. Wendy.”
“Morning, Donnie.”
He wondered if she sailed. He pictured her in a white bikini, with thin straps. She would have a small mound of a belly—he remembered the leather near-miniskirt—but that was okay. He wondered if she owned a boat. No, probably not; she spent all her money on clothes and weird earrings. But her boyfriend might have one.
He wondered if she spent every Sunday on his boat. He wondered what it would be like to be married to her.
He wondered if she ever went out with patients. Donnie Buffett decided he was going to ask her on a date.
She swung the door shut and did her cigarette routine. “I wanted to come right by. We’ve got the results, Donnie. The sexual response tests.”
“Okay, I’m sitting down—as if I had an option.” His smile faded and his brow creased with concern. “What’s the verdict?”
“You’re reflex incomplete.”
He had forgotten what this meant, but the way she said it, the significant tone and smile of minor triumph, he guessed it was good news.
“. . . nearly one hundred percent of these patients can have erections, either reflexogenic or psychogenic. Not all of them, but a good percentage, can ejaculate. There will be a lowered sperm count but all that means is if you want to have children, you’ll have to try harder.”
Weiser shook his hand as if they’d just completed a business deal.
“Well, there you go,” Buffett said happily, and began to sob.
The cop’s eyes flooded with tears and his breath shook out of his body in spasms. His face swelled with a huge pressure.
He tried to speak but was unable to.
What’s happening to me?
Weiser said nothing.
Buffett was choking on tears, he was drowning in them. They were going to kill him, drain away his life like spurting blood. Was he going crazy? Had it finally happened? What stage of recovery is hysteria, sweetheart? Crying harder than when he was a kid, harder than when he broke his nose, harder than when his mother died . . . He could . . . not . . . breathe . . . He struggled to control the jag. Finally he did. The air sucked in deeply and he relaxed. “I . . .” Another attack struck. He buried his face in wads of Kleenex. “I . . .” He substituted a pillow for the tissue and cried some more. Gradually the tears ceased.
“Can I get you anything?” Weiser asked.
He shook his head, gasping.
He didn’t want her to see him this way. The beautiful, breezy doctor with the spaghetti-strap bikini and the twenty-foot sailboat. The doctor with the boyfriend and her twelve-year-old daughter. But he was out of control, gasping for breath and crying like a swatted newborn.
She asked if he wanted to be by himself and he shook his head and threw his arm over his face. After a few minutes he began laughing softly. “I’m a nut case,” he wheezed.
“You don’t have any idea the kind of stress you’re going through.”
Buffett felt no Terror and no Depression but instead a roaring mania. “I don’t know why I’m crying, I don’t know why,” he whispered as the sobbing began again. “I don’t know why . . .”
Weiser did not offer any explanation. She sat for a moment, watching him, then stood, opened the window, and lit another cigarette.
AFTERNOON IN MADDOX, Missouri.
Pellam had spent hours wandering around again, playing bait. He walked through antique stores, up and down the streets, had a beer at each of three interchangeable taverns, walked some more, looking from behind his Ray-Bans for the man who was looking for him.
As he walked, he stayed apart from the crowd, he wandered slowly, he put his back toward several alleys and many cruising cars.
Pellam decided he had gotten very good at making himself a target.
At 5:00, after eight hours on his feet, he found himself in the crowded farmers’ market off River Road. The dusty parking lot was filled with stalls where farmers—traditional ones as well as past and present hippies—from Missouri and southern Illinois sold cheese and veggies and muffins and apples and—sure enough—northern watermelon. Pellam looked at the bleak gaiety of the place with its faded banners and a doleful clown tying balloon animals for a small crowd of children with soiled hands and cheeks. He heard twangy country western music vibrating out of cheap speakers.
A half hour later, Pellam decided it was time to return to the camper. He bought a bottle of wine, some cheese, crunchy Dutch pretzels, and two plums.
He clumsily discarded his boots and jacket when he entered the Winnebago. He washed his face and sat in the back bunk, eating the cold supper. Pellam did not care for apples but the only liquor for sale at the market had been apple wine. He bought it reluctantly, hoping that alcohol would be more prominent than the apple taste. This was somewhat true though it was overwhelmingly sweet. He drank half of it down, three straight glasses, and shivered hard at the sugar hitting his bloodstream.
He had an urge to see Nina but he dared not, for fear of imperiling her again. This happened so often in his life—wanting, then pursuing, regardless of the danger. Oh, John Pellam did not like this aspect of himself—how he welcomed risks. This nature had led him to be a stuntman for a time, had prodded him to make movies that critics may have loved but that lost big money for many people. He easily forgot that others might get hurt because of him. John Pellam believed in his darker moments that he carried in his heart more of his gunfighting ancestor than was good for him. And for those around him.
He rose, poured another glass of wine and, carrying the bottle, returned to the bunk. Apple wine. Disgusting. He looked at the label, a picture of attractive, thirtyish farmers, a husband and wife couple, hefting a bushel of apples onto a flatbed. He decided he detested these particular farmers and their natural, no-preservative, rosy cheeks.
He put on a Patsy Cline tape.
No. Too sappy.
He put on a Michael Nyman. Better. He noticed a magazine on the floor. It had fallen open to the horoscope page. He tried to read his and lost interest. He lay back onto the bunk.
Taurus. April 22–May 21. A bad time for investments. Career plans may go awry. Control your temper and don’t wander the streets of small cities with a loaded pistol.
When Pellam woke an hour later he couldn’t find the wine bottle. Because of the intense throbbing in his temples, he assumed with some remorse that he had finished it.
But he was wrong
.
The man who stood in the middle of the camper was holding the bottle to his lips, taking a long drink. His head tilted back as he gulped, but his calm eyes studied Pellam curiously.
The man winced—maybe at the sweetness of the wine—and set the bottle down on the table. He wiped his mouth with his fingers, the same fingers that picked up the Colt Peacemaker from the dining table and slipped it into his pocket. He walked forward toward where Pellam lay. He was handsome and young and he was wearing a suit.
Pellam was surprised at only one thing. At how much the birthmark on his cheek did look exactly like the spot on Jupiter.
He thought of many things to say. They came to him quickly. Some funny, some ominous. But he was drowsy and he had a serious headache; he didn’t feel like talking. Pellam opened his slurred eyes wide to help him focus and continued to stare.
The visitor touched the rim of the wine bottle and moved his finger in a slow circle around its perimeter. Outside, water lapped on the revetment, a truck diesel chugged in the distance.
Neither man said a word.
Pellam swung his feet around to the floor. The intruder’s hand left the bottle and strayed toward his hip, where presumably a pistol rested. Pellam moved slowly—not in fear that he might startle the man but because of the pain in his temples.
He yawned again.
The man said, “You went to Peterson.”
When he had yawned, Pellam’s eyes watered. He wiped the tears away.
The man said, “Didn’t the girl give you the message?”
“She told me.”
“Mr. Crimmins isn’t real happy you went to the prosecutor. He hasn’t been arrested so he can only assume you kept your mouth shut.”
“I don’t have anything to say about Crimmins.”
“He knows you saw him in the Lincoln that night.”
“What do you want?”
The man was big—six two or three. The clothes fit tight, as if he had very good muscles. Pellam wondered if he had had an erection when he touched Nina.
“I want to be sure you forget you saw him.”
Oh. Was that it? Was he going to leave now? Just like that? Make sure you keep telling people you didn’t see Peter Crimmins? Have a nice night.
The birthmark man buttoned his jacket and pulled on gloves.
He’s leaving.
But why the gloves? It isn’t that cold outside.
The man stepped forward quickly. Before Pellam could lift his arm to deflect the blow, the fist caught him in the side of the head. Pellam fell backwards and landed heavily in the bunk. It had been a glancing strike but on top of an apple wine hangover, the pain howled through his head. He moaned and shook more tears from his eyes.
“Damn,” Pellam gasped. “Why’d you do that?”
He struggled to his feet, grasping toward a cabinet to steady himself. Then his wrist was snared, painfully, by the man’s powerful hand and he was yanked forward into the man’s right fist once again. It connected with jaw. Pellam sank down again, stunned.
“That girlfriend of yours, her face is real pretty. The rest of her’s probably pretty nice, too.”
Pellam stood slowly and touched blood away from his cheek. He nearly fainted from the pain. When the black dots in his eyes settled and his vision returned, he leaned against the camper wall for a moment. Then he made his way unsteadily toward the bathroom.
He mumbled, “Excuse me,” as he walked past the man. He sounded polite.
“Watch it.” A pistol appeared, a dark blue revolver. He showed it to Pellam in profile, opening his hand quickly and then closing the large, still-gloved fingers. He replaced it.
Pellam leaned against the door to the bathroom. He clicked the light on, but he did not enter. He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning against the doorjamb. He heard the feet come toward him. The familiar Morse code of the camper floor creaking under the man’s weight. He smelled sweet aftershave. (Was this what Nina had smelled? Stile had smelled nothing at all, except oil and gas and asphalt and then blood, blood, blood . . .)
“What’re you doing there?” the man asked.
Pellam reached into the pocket of the bomber jacket, which was hanging next to the bathroom, and took from it Buffett’s pistol, the cold gun. As he turned, Pellam said, “I want you to lie down on the floor.”
Instantly the man dropped into a crouch and yanked the pistol off his hip.
The explosion of the gunshot was huge.
It rattled the glass windows and spattered the walls with bits of gunpowder. Cabinet doors shook, and from behind a glass-faced poster frame, a somber Napoleon rocked under the muzzle blast.
DONNIE BUFFETT HEARD the footsteps and opened his eyes. A shuffling along the corridor outside his room.
He had seen doctors—looking somewhat funny—in plastic booties. They made the same sort of sound. But he doubted what he now heard was made by a doctor. He looked groggily at his watch. Ten o’clock. Did doctors operate at this time of night?
Perhaps it was a nurse. The nurses sometimes brought around snacks and although the lights in his room were out and Buffett had been dozing, if snacks were on the agenda Buffett was going to get a snack. If this was the case he hoped it was the blond nurse. He liked her. She was gentle and chattered while she did the things she had to do. The redhead was silent and seemed to resent her complicated duties with the tubes and bottles and bags.
But he didn’t think it was either of these women. Donnie Buffett, husband of a self-proclaimed psychic, suddenly had a bad premonition about this visitor.
He groped for the telephone. But before he could grab it the door began to open.
He couldn’t run, he couldn’t hide.
But he could fight.
Buffett closed his eyes, forced his breath to slip in and out of his lungs leisurely, like a man in contented sleep. His right hand curled into a fist, a fraction of an inch at a time. The footsteps came closer. Buffett tensed the muscles in his arm. Whoever it was came up slowly on the left side of the bed. Buffett decided he would grab the guy’s crotch with his left and when he howled and doubled up go straight for the nose with his right fist . . .
He wondered if it was the man who shot him, coming back to finish the job. If the MO was the same as the Gaudia hit he’d have a small-caliber gun. A .22 or .25, which doesn’t hurt very much and doesn’t have any stopping power at all. Buffett would not die immediately and before he did he could do a lot of damage.
Basketball player, softball pitcher, jump-rope tugger, Donnie Buffett had very strong hands.
He was suddenly hungry with lust—the same feeling that seized his body just before the kill when he was hunting. His shoulders started to tremble. His arm muscles tensed.
The footsteps stopped two feet from the bedside.
“Donnie,” the voice whispered.
He opened his eyes and looked at the shadowy silhouette above him. A hand disappeared under the lampshade and the room was suddenly filled with jarring light.
A white-faced John Pellam sat down in the chair beside the bed.
“Hey, chief,” Buffett said in an unsteady voice, “how’d you get in here? Visiting hours are over.”
“The back stairs.”
“Some security. You scared the crap out of me.”
“I’ve got to talk to you, Donnie.” He stared at Buffett. No, past him. His face was pasty. The cop wondered if he was sick or if he’d fainted. Pellam held something in his hand, something small and dark.
Buffett felt his own hand start to cramp and realized it was still jammed into a large fist. He relaxed it and felt the pain subside. His heart pounded and he felt a surge of weakness melt through his chest and his abdomen. “What the hell are you doing here at this hour?” He too was whispering.
What’s he holding?
Pellam glanced down at his own hand, at the object he held. He looked back up at Buffett and said, “He broke into the camper. The man who attacked Nina, the one who killed my friend. I don
’t know how, he just got in. He hit me a couple times.” He looked at Buffett for a long moment. “I took out your gun—”
“The cold gun?”
“Right.”
“Jesus.”
“I took it out. I shot him with it.”
“Jesus, Pellam, you shot him?”
“I wasn’t going to. I was just going to arrest him. He pulled his gun out and . . .”
“He’s dead? Well, let’s think. Any witnesses? Anybody hear anything, you think?”
“There’s more,” Pellam whispered.
“Don’t panic yet. Let’s think. It was a break-in. That’s burglary, and you’ve got a right to use deadly force, even if it’s a mistake. An absolute right. Okay, let me call . . .”
Pellam held up his hand. The object was a wallet.
“Where were you parked when it happened?” Buffett took the wallet which Pellam had thrust toward him. Absently he turned it over and over.
“There’s more,” Pellam blurted once again.
The cop was still talking about what Pellam could do, lawyers he knew, what sections of the state penal code covered justifiable homicide. He opened the wallet. He stopped talking. After a moment he blinked. “Oh, my God.”
Pellam asked him, “I just killed an FBI agent, didn’t I?”
Chapter 20
PELLAM KEPT STARING at the ID.
Buffett said, “It’s over the line. Peterson wouldn’t do that.”
“It’s true.”
“Peterson wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t dare.”
“He was making it look like Crimmins was threatening Nina and me so I’d testify against him. How else can you explain it?”
Buffett shook his head. “He’s the U.S. Attorney.”
“This was the guy that threatened Nina. There’s no doubt about it.”
“Impossible.”
“She described him perfectly.”
“A U.S. Attorney is not going to send an agent to assault somebody. Maybe the guy is working for Crimmins. Or was. A rogue agent. On the take, you know.”
“No, it’s Peterson.”
“He’d be crazy. Peterson, I mean. Too much risk.”
Bloody River Blues: A Location Scout Mystery Page 22
