by R. R. Irvine
“It’s only a one-time shot, you understand,” Reisner said. “But if you’re good, who’s to say what happens next.”
“I’d like Manwaring there with me.”
“He’s got work to do where he is. Can you hear me, Kevin?”
Manwaring grunted.
“I want you and Holland to stick there and keep track of the fire chief.”
41
AS SOON as Vicki left for the airport, Manwaring and Holland picked up Stacie’s truck and headed for Ellsworth. They carried with them an unedited copy of the videotape, which they intended to deliver to Sheriff Nichols personally.
The weather had changed again. The air had a cold bite to it, as if autumn had arrived unexpectedly. A purple haze hung over the Bitterroot mountains.
Holland fiddled with the radio until he found a station with background music. “When I was taping you with the mayor and fire chief, I got to thinking about all those people who died out there in Defiance. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could talk to the dead.”
“It would have saved us a lot of trouble.”
“I was thinking about my father,” Holland said. “He was gone before I was old enough to really appreciate him. God, the stories he used to tell, and me too dumb to pay attention.”
“I’d ask my father what happened to Buttons,” Manwaring said. “I think he knew her fate but never told me. Supposedly, my mother gave her away to a good home, but I never knew for sure.”
“Maybe it’s better that you don’t.”
Rather than pursue the subject, Manwaring turned up the volume and pretended to listen to the music. By the time they were nearing Ellsworth, the signal began failing. He was about to switch off the radio, when the music was interrupted for a news bulletin.
“Police report that hostage negotiations ended tragically moments ago when two men, identified only as executives of Bonneville Industries, died in a hail of gunfire. Their assailant, police say, took his own life after the Idaho Falls SWAT team moved into position.”
Manwaring cranked up the volume but the station had gone back to music.
“It has to be Romney,” Holland said.
“And the two VPs Vicki never got on tape.”
The portable cellular phone buzzed.
“One guess,” Manwaring said.
Reisner was yelling loud enough to create his own static. “You fucked up, Manwaring. You didn’t think of the Bonneville angle. I had to pull Vicki off the plane at the last minute so she could cover your ass as usual. Well, what do you say to that?”
Manwaring sighed.
“Vicki did a phone interview with your fire chief just before he blew his brains out. We had to charter a jet to get her back here to the Broadcast Center.”
“It sounds like you’re on top of it, Herb, so what do you want from me?”
“I want your mother off my back. She’s been trying to reach me for the last four hours. My boys keep telling her not to call back, but she won’t listen. She says I’m interfering with your duties as a son.”
42
MANWARING SPOTTED his Datsun, with a FOR SALE sign in its window, as he passed Abe Strong’s service station on Main Street. A block later, he parked in front of the Big I Cafe, switched off the engine, and turned to Holland.
“Once the sheriff gets his hands on me, God knows how long I’ll be explaining things. There’s no need for both of us to suffer. Why don’t you get out of here and wait for me. Maybe you can check us back into the motel so we can get some sleep.”
“That look tells me that you want me out of the way.” Nodding, Manwaring patted the zippered pocket of his windbreaker. “I’m still carrying around seventy-five hundred dollars worth of evidence.”
“Do you think Stacie Wagstaff will get it eventually?”
“If she doesn’t, I’ll be paying dog support.”
“You can count on me for a donation.” Holland got out of the truck and walked away without another word.
Manwaring watched him all the way to the Big I before driving away. He had one stop to make before seeing the sheriff.
At Camus Avenue he turned right, then left on Madison. Two blocks later he parked in front of LaVonne’s Antiques. Lights were on inside. The atrocious toy dog on wheels was still in the window.
LaVonne was a large woman, as tall as Manwaring, with long gray hair swept back from her ears and caught at the sides with tortoise-shell combs. Her perfume smelled as dusty as her shop.
“I’ve been admiring that dog in your window,” he said.
She made a face. “It’s Victorian.”
“I’ve never seen anything quite like it. I thought it was a real stuffed animal when I first saw it.”
“The Victorians were great ones for taxidermy. But this one’s only a toy. Unfortunately, it’s been refurbished, which ruins it for true antique enthusiasts.”
“How much is it?”
“One hundred dollars.”
“I can’t get over the fur,” Manwaring said.
“You’ve put your finger on the problem, all right. That’s not fur, it’s human hair. You see, the dog’s on consignment from Gil Wyszynski, the barber next door. It’s been in his family for years. His son was the last one to play with it. By then the fuzz had worn off, so Gil glued on hair he’d swept up from his shop. I’ve had it in the window for more than a year now, more as a joke than anything else.”
“I’d want it gift-wrapped and shipped.”
“I wouldn’t want to cheat you. It’s no longer collectible as an antique.”
“It’s for my mother.”
“I’ll throw in the postage,” the woman said.
“I’d like to hang a note around its neck.”
LaVonne rummaged in her desk until she came up with a blank card and a piece of gold string.
Manwaring thought for a moment and then carefully printed:
HI. MY NAME’S BUTTONS. I’M YOUR BIRTHDAY PRESENT.
THE END
