Linwood Barclay

by Zack Walter 03 - Lone Wolf (v5)

  “So,” he continued, “they find people like Timothy McVeigh, who fight back against the government, who fight against the suppression of the truth, who fight to preserve decency and the family and preserve moral values, and frame them for monstrous acts like what happened at Oklahoma City. Mr. McVeigh was the kind of person with the courage of his convictions, who was willing to strike back at the government to let them know that they can’t get away with these kinds of things.”

  “What you’re saying is,” I said slowly, “Timothy McVeigh didn’t do it, he was being framed, but it was the sort of statement he would have wanted to make, and if he had, that would have been okay?”

  Timmy thought about that for a moment, pursed his lips out, and nodded. “I think you’re starting to get the idea.” He slapped the tops of his thighs as though congratulating all of us. “Some people, it takes them a lot longer to get their head around this. You got it right away.”

  “Dinner!” shouted Charlene from the kitchen.

  Timmy motioned for Dad and me to follow him. When Wickens’s back was turned, Dad sidled up next to me and twirled his index finger beside his head, the international “they’re crazy” gesture.

  “Stop it,” I whispered.

  There was a long wood table in the oversized kitchen, up close to an open window that looked out toward the barn. Everyone was gathered there, taking their seats.

  Timmy glanced out the window, toward the barn. “Dougie,” he said, “is that the van I see sitting out there?”

  Dougie craned his neck to look. “Appears to be.”

  “Didn’t I ask you to back it into the barn?”

  Dougie, in an exaggerated display, bounced his fist off his forehead. “I forgot.”

  “Jesus, Dougie, you’d forget your ass if it wasn’t already in your pants.”

  Charlene, at the stove, whirled around. “You leave him alone!”

  “Fine, fine, whatever,” Timmy said. “Dougie, run out there, put away the van, and let the dogs out of the barn. We can toss them some dinner scraps out the window.”

  Dougie excused himself, and a few minutes later I could hear Gristle and Bone charge toward the house, then gather under the open window, growling and snorting. Then there was scratching outside, as the dogs jumped up against the house, high enough that their slobbering snouts appeared briefly at the window, then disappeared.

  “Down!” Wickens shouted, and the jumping stopped.

  When Dougie came back in, we all took our seats, Wickens at one end, his wife at the other, her chair backed up to a pantry door with a lock on it. The rest of us filled in the spots between, May at one corner by her father, head down.

  Wickens lowered his head. “Dear Lord, please bless us and lead us into righteousness, and welcome the guests at our table, and we thank you for this food, and ask that you say a special prayer for our friend Morton, who was taken by one of your creatures, and we trust that it is all part of your divine plan, amen.”

  “Amen,” said the rest of the family, all except for May, who had started to cry.

  “There, there, sweetheart,” said Timmy, slipping an arm around her.

  “It was an awful thing,” said Dougie. “I remember him saying to me, just before he went out, that he was going to find that damn bear once and for all. Who could have guessed that it would be the bear who got him.”

  How many more times, I wondered, would it be drilled into us how Morton Dewart had come to an end?

  The family started passing around food. There was a roast of beef, a few rare slices already cut and lying in a pool of watery blood, some breaded fish fillets, boiled vegetables and mashed potatoes, slices of white bread stacked on a plate. Wickens produced, from his pocket, a jackknife that he used to spear slabs of meat and drop them onto our plates. It was plain fare, basic home cooking, and it was, to be honest, pretty good. I didn’t realize, until I started digging in, just how hungry I was from working around the camp all day.

  I reached for a slice of bread, slathered it with butter. “You’d seen the bear around here before, had you?”

  Jeffrey piped up. “Not me, but Grandpa says it was around a lot.”

  Timmy smiled. “And it’s a good thing you didn’t run into him, or he’d of had you for breakfast, young man.”

  “Chief Thorne’s talking about getting a party together to go after him, kill him,” Dad said. “Was that your idea?”

  “Uh, nope, but it’s a darn good one,” said Wickens. “Isn’t that a good idea, everyone?”

  Much nodding around the table.

  “You know what’s funny,” said Dad, and every time he opened his mouth he was making me nervous, “is that they didn’t find a rifle anywhere near where they found Morton. He must have taken one with him, right, if he was going out to kill a bear?”

  What on earth was he doing?

  I’d never have told him this had I thought he was going to bring it up with the Wickenses. This was the sort of information you held back until the time was right.

  The table suddenly became very quiet. Wickens glanced at Wendell and Dougie, his wife looked at May, and May kept her head down. Only Jeffrey had something to say. “That’s totally weird, huh? Where would his gun go? Where do you think it went, Grandpa? Do you think the bear would have taken it? Can you imagine that, a bear walking through the woods with a shotgun?” He cackled, then noticed that no one else was laughing. “Sorry,” he said.

  “That’s okay, Jeffrey,” said Timmy Wickens. “But you know, he might actually have picked it up, walked a ways off into the forest, and dropped it. I’ll bet you it’ll turn up eventually.”

  I was betting he was right. And I was willing to bet that it would be in the next day or so.

  “Tell me about Mr. Dewart,” I said.

  May would have been the logical one to answer this, I figured, but she looked too distraught, so her stepmother Charlene stepped in. “He was a nice boy. From the city, but he was working up this way and got to know May, and it was just like having a third son around here. They was really hitting it off nicely. He was lots of help around here, good at fixing things, tuned up our cars and everything.”

  “He seemed a bit funny lately though,” said Jeffrey, making a butter puddle in his mashed potatoes.

  May spoke. “Jeffrey, eat your dinner. You’ve had enough to say tonight.”

  “I was just saying, that’s all. He—”

  “I said, eat your dinner and keep your thoughts to yourself.”

  Jeffrey frowned, took a forkful of mashed potatoes, the dam breaking and the butter flowing out.

  It was quiet for a while after that. Periodically, Wickens or one of the boys would sling a piece of fat or a scrap of bread out the window, and the dogs would fight over the snacks, snarling and barking. “Let’s give ’em some fish,” Wickens said, sticking a fork into a fillet and tossing it out the window. The dogs went into a frenzy. I thought of Bob’s stringer, empty but for some severed pickerel heads.

  “Oh no,” said Charlene, looking down. “There’s another one of those goddamn field mice.” She pointed down by the baseboard, where a small gray mouse was inching along tentatively.

  “Everyone quiet,” Wickens said, and a hush came over the room. He reached for the knife he’d used to serve the roast, held it by the blade between his thumb and forefinger, then, faster than you could blink, launched it and hit the wall. The blade went through the mouse, pinning it to the baseboard, where it twitched and wriggled.

  “Awesome, Grandpa!” said Jeffrey, who scrambled out of his chair to yank the knife out of the wood, the mouse still impaled on the end of the blade. He handed it triumphantly to his grandfather. Wickens flicked the knife with his wrist, sending the nearly dead rodent sailing out the open window. Outside, the dogs growled at each other, fighting for the tidbit.

  Wickens wiped the blade on his pants, then used it to spear another piece of meat on the table.

  “Anyone for seconds?” he asked me and Dad.


  “Nothing for me,” I said.

  “I’m stuffed,” said Dad.

  12

  AS I DROVE DAD to the lawyer’s the next morning in his pickup, he said, “I feel a bit bad, talking to Bert Trench about evicting the Wickenses, when they had us to dinner last night and all. I mean, it’s not much of a way to show one’s gratitude.”

  I glanced away from the road long enough to look at him. “Are you kidding me? Were you at the same dinner I was at?”

  “It just doesn’t seem very grateful, that’s all.”

  “Dad, we’ve been over this. You think they had us for dinner because they like us? They were putting on a show. It was like opening night on Broadway. How many times did someone remind us that Dewart was killed by a bear? The whole fucking family was in on it—well, May didn’t really have that much to say. But even the kid mentioned how Dewart had been killed by a bear. It’s like they were trying to implant memories. By the time the evening was over I was convinced I’d seen Morton Dewart head out to kill that bear. And why do you figure they wanted to do that?”

  Dad gazed out the window.

  “Dad?”

  “Well, it could still be because he was. And they need to talk about it. Wouldn’t you feel the need to talk about it? I mean, from the very beginning, ever since those damn dogs chased you back over the fence, you’ve been just bound and determined that those dogs killed that man, that they’ve been covering it up. It’s like you think Wickens meant to kill that man with those dogs, that it was deliberate, and you’re basing that on what? Betty’s glance at a corpse, and some feelings you’ve got, and a missing rifle.”

  “Oh, and while we’re on the subject, what the hell were you thinking?”

  “What?”

  “Last night? Bringing up that thing about the rifle? Were you out of your mind?”

  “What are you talking about? You’ve been going on like it’s a big deal, so I thought I’d mention it, see what they thought.”

  I took a deep breath. “Dad, if there’s no rifle, that’s because Morton wasn’t out hunting for a bear, and if he wasn’t out hunting for a bear, that means everything Timmy Wickens and his family of nutcases is telling us is a lie, which is exactly why we don’t bring up the thing about the rifle, because it tips them off.”

  “Oh,” Dad said. He tapped his fist lightly on the dashboard. “Well, okay, let’s say we go on your theory. Why the hell would Wickens want his own daughter’s boyfriend ripped apart by those dogs?”

  I thought of my daughter Angie, now in her second year at Mackenzie, majoring in psychology. I could imagine releasing the hounds on some of her boyfriends.

  “I don’t have an answer for that,” I said. “Maybe that’s something we should start looking into.”

  “We?” Dad said, glancing over at me. “That’s something that we should look into? We should start looking into why the Wickenses would have wanted to kill that man? You know, that’s why they have police forces, Zachary. They look into that sort of thing.”

  “Okay, let’s turn on the Bat signal and Orville’ll get right on it,” I said.

  Dad clenched his fist tighter. “Stop picking on him,” he said.

  “What do you care? What’s he to you that you defend him? Is this because he’s Lana’s nephew? You don’t want to point out what a doofus he is because it’ll hurt your chances of getting between the sheets with her?” Dad’s eyes widened. The angrier he looked, the more I felt egged on. “And you never did tell me whether you two are taking precautions. The last thing I want is a little baby brother.”

  “Shut up! For God’s sake, just shut the hell up! Pull over! Pull over! I’m getting out!”

  “Dad! You’re not getting out! You’re on crutches, for Christ’s sake!”

  “I don’t care. Stop the car!”

  I wanted to point out that, technically speaking, we were not in a car, we were in a truck, but did not. “I’m not stopping,” I said. “Look, I’m sorry. I won’t make fun of Orville anymore.” Dad eyed me warily, perhaps to see whether I looked sincere. I was not sure just how convincing I looked. The truth is, I was trying very hard not to laugh, not unlike when Sarah stubs her toe, and I try to look concerned, but she sees something in my eye and says, “You think this is funny, don’t you?” At which point, I pretend to have a coughing fit.

  I said, “I’ll behave myself. I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but I’ll do my best. I’ll treat the uniform with respect, even if I have some reservations about the guy inside it.”

  Dad looked at me for another second, decided, I guess, that that was the most he could expect for now, and turned his eyes front. We came down the hill into Braynor, traveled through the three blocks of downtown and came out the other side, and parked along the street outside a beautiful, old, three-story, if you counted the dormers, Victorian home that had been turned into a law office.

  I got out, went around to help Dad step down, and noticed staple-gunned to the wooden light standard by the truck more Braynor fall fair flyers, listing, in print too small to see unless you went right up to it, some of the big events, including a parade, the lawn tractor races Dad had already warned me about, a massive roast beef dinner, various rides and games.

  “This is what you want to involve me in?” I said, nodding my head at the flyer.

  “I don’t want you doing any damn thing you don’t want to do,” Dad said.

  We mounted the steps of the old house and walked right in, since it was an office and not a residence. Inside, the charm and architectural significance I imagine must have once been there had been eradicated. The place looked more like, well, a lawyer’s office, with a receptionist’s station, some chairs and magazines.

  I approached the middle-aged, slightly frumpy woman at the desk and told her we had an appointment to see Bert Trench, and she said he would be right with us. Dad plopped awkwardly into one of the chairs and I took one next to him.

  “Look how old these magazines are,” Dad complained. “Hey, look, they’re going to impeach Nixon.”

  A heavy wood door opened and a short, mostly bald man in glasses strode out, hand extended toward Dad. Bert Trench looked to be in his mid-forties, and judging by the lopsided roll of flesh that hung over his belt, spent more time behind his desk than at the fitness club, if Braynor even had a fitness club.

  “Hey, Arlen, how nice to see you,” he said. His voice squeaked. “I don’t think you’ve been in here since we did the paperwork on your place. Good heavens, what’s happened to you?”

  Dad struggled to his feet to shake hands. “Just something stupid,” he said. “Slipped.”

  “Let’s help you into the office here.”

  “This here’s my son Zachary,” Dad said.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said as the three of us went into the office. Bert made sure Dad was comfortably settled in one of the two leather padded chairs opposite his desk before he went round and took his spot. I sat down, glanced at a framed photo on Bert Trench’s desk of a stunningly beautiful, dark-haired woman I guessed was in her late thirties.

  Trench saw how the picture had caught my attention, then looked back at Dad. “Arlen, I read the piece in the paper today, by that Tracy girl, about the trouble at your place. A bear?”

  Dad glanced at me, looking for a signal as to whether we were going to get into this. I did a small shake of the head. That wasn’t why we were here, exactly.

  “Awful thing,” Dad said. “Just terrible.”

  “I can’t imagine,” Bert Trench said. He turned to me, reached for the framed picture. “This is my wife, Adriana. Arlen, her picture wouldn’t have been here when you were last in.”

  Dad smiled, sort of shrugged. “I don’t exactly remember, Bert.”

  “Adriana and I got married a year ago. This is number four! One of these days I’m going to get it right, and I think she’s the one. Although I said that with numbers one, two, and three! Had you seen my other wives, Arlen?”

  Dad shook his hea
d, so Bert got pictures out of his desk, displayed them for us. They all looked like beauty queens. Bert must have had something that appealed to the ladies, besides his lumpy tummy, bald head, and squeaky voice, that was not immediately evident.

  “Anyway,” Bert said, gathering up the photos of his exes and tucking them away, “it’s good to see you. Exciting times all around, huh? You see the paper today? Looks like they’re going to let the gay boys into the parade. Council couldn’t find a way to say no. Either let ’em in, or cancel the parade altogether, and if you ask me, it would have been better to take a stand and cancel the parade.”

  “What’s the story here?” I asked, recalling Timmy’s remarks about this, and the manager of the grocery store with the petition he wanted me to sign.

  “Oh, sorry,” said Bert Trench. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “The city,” I said. Dad and Trench shared a glance, as though this would help explain a lot of things that might come up later in the conversation.

  “There’s always a fall fair parade,” Dad said. “Beecham’s Hardware, the high school band, the local cattlemen’s association, the racing lawnmowers, 4-Hers, Henry’s Grocery, Braynor Co-op, that kind of thing, they’re all in it. There’s these homo activists want to put a float in the parade, or march, or do synchronized wrist flicking, I don’t know. The town council said no, so the gay boys were going to make a civil rights case out of it, so the town backed down, decided to let ’em in.”

  “They were going to go to court to be allowed into a parade like that?” I asked. “You’d think you’d do everything in your power to get out of a parade like that.”