Long Gone Man

by Phyllis Smallman

  With Singer stretched out on the bed, Lauren began removing gravel with tweezers, checking Singer’s body for slivers and grit with a magnifying glass.

  Lauren picked out a small stone. “My dad was a doctor, my mom a nurse. In a remote community with no vet, when they weren’t treating humans they doctored everyone’s pets. I helped.” She leaned closer. “My dad had magnifying goggles that he could put on. They had built-in lights with batteries. Very neat. I could use them now, but this will have to do.”

  Singer’s body jerked in pain.

  “Sorry,” Lauren said. “I have to get every piece out or it will fester. Any seeping or swelling tomorrow and you’re off to emergency, like it or not.”

  The doorbell rang. Lauren raised her head to look at Singer.

  Singer smiled. “I don’t think killers ring the doorbell.”

  Lauren nodded. “I’ll go then.” She covered the wounds she was working on with a fresh towel and gently drew the covers up over Singer, lifting her arms and putting them on top of the coverlet.

  Singer stopped Lauren at the door. “Turn off the overhead light, will you?”

  Lauren flicked the light off. “Was it bothering your eyes?”

  “Naw, just thought if we’re having guests I’ll look better in the dark.” There was no need for anyone else to know how weak she was.

  “Wilmot,” Lauren said when she came back. “I told him you were resting, but he’s insisting.”

  “Fine, bring him in, but leave the light off.”

  Lauren sauntered to the bed, jutted a hip, and planted her fist. “You still trying to get your man?”

  “Maybe I’ll rest up for a day or two first.”

  But the dim light didn’t hide her injuries. Wilmot asked, “What happened?”

  “An accident.”

  “Really?” Wilmot said. “Where did this accident happen?”

  “Here.”

  “In the home?”

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, in the home.”

  “They say most accidents happen in the home.”

  “Happens like this, it’s time to move.”

  He smiled and scanned the room. There was a straight-backed wooden chair in front of a desk. He went and brought it to the side of the bed and sat down. “Why don’t you tell me about this . . .” He paused. “Accident.”

  “An SUV came too close . . . moved over too far and dropped a wheel . . . got out . . . went for a long slide . . . not really the outdoors type.”

  Wilmot sat forward. “Do you want to press charges against the other driver?”

  She ignored the question. “What do you want? Why are you here?”

  “Your fingerprints yielded some interesting facts.”

  Singer closed her eyes.

  He waited, wanting to see her eyes when he told her what he knew. She remained silent. Wilmot surrendered. “Alex Warren. That’s you, isn’t it?”

  “That’s me,” she answered without opening her eyes.

  He waited for some explanation, the justification that would normally come from someone on the wrong side of the law. Nothing. “Why did you change your name?”

  She laughed softly. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  Thirty-two

  With a great show, Wilmot took a sheet of paper from his jacket and read from it. “Alex Warren, wanted for breaking into a government office and destroying records of draft dodgers in California, arrested for drunk and disorderly conduct in New Haven, and arrested for assaulting a police officer in Georgia.”

  “He needed assaulting.”

  “Colorful background.”

  “Great art is always messy to create. My life is a work of art in progress.”

  Wilmot leaned back and crossed his legs. “I can’t help but wonder how many other incidents there are, how many more names you’ve had.”

  With a faint laugh, Singer said, “Your job does offer challenges, doesn’t it?”

  “Aren’t you going to ask if I’m sending you back to the US to answer these charges?”

  “If you think I shot Johnny you want me right here where you can get at me, so you’re not going to let me go anywhere.” Her eyes opened. “But not with the gun we gave you. It wasn’t the murder weapon, was it?”

  His lips were set in a stubborn line.

  Singer added, “It doesn’t take a genius. Why would you be out there searching the grounds if you had the weapon? I figure we had the wrong gun. Maybe Johnny had the gun we found, which would mean whoever was here was someone he had an issue with, someone he was threatened by, or maybe someone he was threatening. I don’t know. The murderer had a second gun, shot Johnny, and took it away with him.”

  “Playing detective?”

  “Not too much else to think about up here, is there? Quietest place I’ve ever been. I’m used to bars and clubs, with loud music playing and glasses clanging. Not used to hearing my own thoughts. Damn boring.” She closed her eyes again. “I’m far less interesting than I thought I was.”

  “It looks like your life hasn’t been totally boring today.”

  “No, that’s true, I didn’t lack amusement today. Now if you aren’t going to arrest me or tell me anything interesting, I need to get my beauty sleep.” She didn’t open her eyes to see how he took this.

  After a few moments, her breathing changed, became slower and deeper. She’d fallen asleep.

  Wilmot was amused and a little shocked. He laughed quietly to himself. He must be losing his touch; he’d never had a murder suspect fall asleep during an interview. He was used to deference and apprehension from the people he interviewed. His position stirred fear even in those who were guilty of nothing but breathing. But not this woman. She’d seen it all before and had a very good idea of how much power he had and how he’d use it.

  He considered her. There was a thick towel under her head. Her wet, gray hair was spread over it to dry. The left side of her face was red and angry with abrasions, but under the scratches her skin was pasty. Both arms showed deep gouges on the insides of her forearms. Her hands, turned palm up, were covered in heavy gauze bandages. Her injuries seemed to be exactly what she said they were.

  On the night table was a glass of water, a box of tissues, over-the-counter painkillers, ointment, bandages, and tweezers. Lauren Vibald was taking very good care of this woman she claimed to have known less than twenty-four hours.

  He sat watching Singer, considering what part she played in John Vibald’s death. She hadn’t been particularly upset about him finding out her real name. None of the offenses would get her extradited and all of the charges were too old to be of much interest to any police force. They were just the beginning of a colorful life, nothing more. But what had she been doing since the early seventies? He knew there were probably more names that could be attributed to her, more crimes to add to the list. There was something her fingerprints hadn’t yielded, a story the computers hadn’t told. He’d just have to go back and dig harder.

  In sleep her face relaxed and softened. There was so much to distract you when you first met her—the long hair and the crazy clothes. Now all he could see was her beauty.

  Must have been something when she was young, he thought. This was quickly followed by the thought that she was still something. The strong bones and halo of wild hair gave her an aura of power even in sleep. An image from a painting seen long ago came into his mind, a picture of a fierce female warrior, lashings of swords crossed over her breasts and hair blowing out behind her. He couldn’t identify the painting and didn’t need to, the image was enough.

  A turbulent life for sure, the records showed that, but where were the signs of it on her personality? In his experience street people were most often furtive and nervous or downright crazy, living in worlds of their own. Not this woman. She was different. He wanted to know what
made her different.

  And he wanted to know what had brought her to Glenphiddie Island. Was it murder? He intended to know all her secrets.

  He’d had only a couple of hours sleep himself and he was full of envy for her escape. Finally, telling himself he was wasting time, he got reluctantly to his feet, sorry to leave the peace he felt sitting there.

  Thirty-three

  Wilmot raised a finger as if in afterthought. “By the way, which program was your husband on that said he lived on Glenphiddie?”

  “What?” Lauren said.

  “There was a TV program about your husband, one that said John Vibald lived on Glenphiddie Island.”

  She shrugged. “Not that I know of.”

  “Strange, Ms. Brown said she saw him on television, on a program.”

  Her eyes betrayed her. “Oh that,” she said. “Well that wasn’t about John.” She smiled, pleased to find the right track. “It was about the island, and John was just mentioned in passing. I have no idea what the name of it was.”

  “Maybe one of the others will remember.”

  She frowned. “Lots of people were mentioned.”

  “Do you know when it was shown?”

  Her frown deepened and she shrugged.

  “What channel was it on?”

  “I’m not really interested in that kind of show. John would have known.” Her mouth turned down in a bitter twist. “He was interested in anything that mentioned him. He was the most interesting person he knew.” Remember what Singer said, Lauren thought. “It was part of being in the public eye.”

  Wilmot asked, “How long have you known Ms. Brown?”

  She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “You mean how many hours?”

  There was no doubt that this part of their story was true. But Wilmot knew there was some thread that bound the two women together tighter than the strangers they claimed to be, and Lauren Vibald was the woman who would tell him what it was. But not yet. He smiled at her. “Thank you, Mrs. Vibald.”

  Wilmot went to the police sedan parked in the drive. Corporal Duncan was officially off duty but she’d worked through the morning, slept four hours, and come back on duty without complaining.

  He opened the passenger door and leaned in. “I’ll walk down to Steven David’s. You wait here.” He looked back at the house. “It won’t hurt Mrs. Vibald to see the car and worry, to feel our presence. After about forty-five minutes go down to the Pyes’; just remain outside and wait for me.”

  He saw Duncan’s mouth purse and knew she was biting back angry words. “Sorry for all the hanging about. I promise I’ll make this up to you.” He tried to lighten the moment. “I shouldn’t think you’ll have to worry about them running out here to confess. But if they do, lock them in the back and take them to the station immediately.”

  Duncan turned her head to gaze out the opposite window.

  Wilmot cursed under his breath.

  Sgt. Wilmot wanted to see for himself just how easy it was to get from one house to another through the woods, and he wanted time to think over the interviews to come. He checked his watch: 6:10.

  Lauren Vibald would likely call the other band members and tell them he was coming, so they’d be expecting him. Were they like some kind of cult up here? If so, John Vibald had definitely been the leader, but just how strong a hold had he had over them?

  Only a short way into the trees he hesitated. The woods seemed eerily silent, as if all nature had paused to watch this stranger who intruded in their midst.

  Wilmot lifted his head, listening and trying to capture every trembling suggestion of sound. He didn’t feel right here. He forgot to think of murder.

  Thirty-four

  The rain forests of British Columbia were different from the Quebec woods of Wilmot’s childhood. In this forest, the trees were taller and greener, evergreens instead of hardwood. Mixed in with the firs was the red, exposed skin of arbutus trees, bark shedding and limbs stuck out at weird angles, gnarled and swollen like the joints of an arthritic elder. They were the only relief from the endless green. This forest would never blaze with changing colors in the fall, but that wasn’t the only difference.

  He walked along, head down and eyes searching the rough trail for pitfalls, and tried to think what else was missing. Suddenly it came to him. He couldn’t hear his footsteps. He was walking on moss-covered rock, and the deep thump, like walking on a drum, of an eastern forest was absent.

  A crow cawed. Wilmot searched for the source of the familiar sound. How long had it been since he’d been entirely alone outside? Maybe never. He felt oddly vulnerable and unimportant.

  Beside the trail, a Douglas fir, over a hundred feet tall, had crashed to the ground. Caught up in its roots were large rocks that had been torn from the earth with the tree. Wilmot stepped closer and the ground slid out from under his slick city shoes. He caught himself, regaining his balance but feeling shaken. A fall, a broken bone or even a sprain, could be a disaster.

  Glenphiddie Lake sat in a bowl just below John Vibald’s mansion and took up about twenty acres, including the wide belt of woods that surrounded it. In total, there were about one hundred acres of flat land between two mountain ranges, most of which belonged to John Vibald. Everyone on the island was aware that developers from Vancouver wanted to buy the land and its lake to build luxury summer homes and bring hundreds of new people to the island.

  Debate raged. Some wanted the expansion, while others were fighting hard against it. In the end, it had come down to one man. No houses could be built without the water. John Vibald had held the future of the whole island in his hands. Now he was dead, and the land belonged to his heir—a very good reason to kill.

  The trail came to the lake. Beams of light fell from the sky to the surface of the water. Sun and shadows painted the still surface where the reflection of the jagged peak shimmered and dragonflies danced. The beauty of it was shocking and overpowering. A deep sense of peace suffused Wilmot. Standing there, actually seeing the lake and smelling the crisp scent of evergreen air, Wilmot felt he should be silent and worshipful.

  He pulled himself away and took the trail back into the woods, but at the treeline he stopped for one last look.

  Wood smoke filled the air. Wilmot stepped out of the woods and saw three buildings set in a meadow. They appeared shabby and run down.

  Wilmot checked his watch. It had taken fifteen minutes, but he had stopped at the lake for probably five minutes. So someone walking briskly could go up through the woods, shoot Vibald, and be back in under a half hour.

  Thirty-five

  Steven David held a glass in his hand when he opened the door.

  Wilmot introduced himself.

  The front door opened into the living area of a log house the warm color of honey. Over the living area, the ceiling soared to two stories with floor-to-ceiling windows facing west towards the dying sun. “Magnificent,” Wilmot said in awe.

  Steven shuffled ahead of Wilmot and pointed to a leather chair opposite the one he fell back into.

  Wilmot started off asking the questions that every interviewee expected as he studied the man across from him.

  “I spent the evening here with Chris Ruston playing chess,” Steven said in response to the first question. “He stayed overnight because of the weather.”

  “Did either of you leave the house?”

  “No. We were together the whole time, except when Chris went outside for a cigarette. I have asthma, so smoking makes me wheeze. I made another pot of coffee and did the dishes while he had a smoke.”

  “How long was he gone?”

  Steven shrugged. “Don’t know. How long does a cigarette take, a couple of minutes?”

  “But you said you were able to do the dishes and make coffee. That’s more than a couple of minutes.”

  “Maybe he smoked more t
han one cigarette.”

  “Could he have been gone a half hour?”

  Steven David turned his hands palm up. “Perhaps.”

  Wilmot changed tactics. “This is a very remote place. How did you all come to live here?”

  Steven smiled. “I’m the only real Canadian. I used to come here in the summer when I was a kid. I loved it. Years ago, Vortex was playing Seattle and we had some time before a job in Vancouver, so I talked the band into coming out here to Glenphiddie Island. The Utt family owned the land then. Do you know them?”

  Wilmot nodded.

  “It was for sale, dirt cheap. John made the family an offer and they accepted. Just like that we bought the top of a mountain. It was the only thing any of us had ever owned. Touring around, it was all we talked about.” He pointed to a woodbin. “Put another log on the fire, will you?”

  Wilmot got to his feet and added a log to the grate. He used an iron poker and rolled the logs together, watching the sparks fly up. “All of you owned it?”

  “Not quite. The rest of us only own the property our houses sit on. John owns the remaining land.” He held his glass over the table beside him. It clattered onto the tabletop as it left his trembling hand. “John and Aaron both became Canadian citizens.”

  “Not Mrs. Pye?”

  “No, Thea is still an American.”

  “I heard that you and Mr. Vibald had a violent argument shortly before his death. What was it about?”

  “John found out I am writing a book about our days in Vortex, about life on the road.”

  “And Mr. Vibald wasn’t happy?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he didn’t want the truth about him to come out.” Steven crossed his legs, smoothing down the material stretched over his knee. “John didn’t make his money from records and performing. At best we were just a bar band. Alan was the real talent. He had his pick of bands to choose from, and other guitarists were always stealing his riffs. I still hear them when I turn on the radio, but none of them are as good as Alan. That’s why John kept him so close.”