by Matt Witten
"No, I'm tired of it."
"Me, too!" Derek chimed in.
Would wonders never cease.
A few minutes later, after I set the kids up with magic markers so they could draw pictures of their favorite Yankee players, I went upstairs to call Hack Sr. There was no answer at his house in South Glens Falls, so I tried the widow's place. Sure enough, he picked up the phone with a cough and a hello.
"Mr. Tamarack, this is Jake Burns."
Another couple of coughs, then: "So fucking what?"
Okay, so that's how we were playing it. I steeled myself. "Look, I want you to know, I haven't told the newspapers or the cops about you having sex with your son's wife."
He didn't say anything or even cough, but I could hear his labored breathing.
"And I'm hoping I don't have to tell them about it."
"You son of a—"
"Calm down. And don't go into one of your fits, either. Just tell me: what did you and Zzyp talk about yesterday?"
Of course, I wasn't sure Hack Sr. really did talk to Zzyp yesterday—or ever. But if I sounded sure, maybe I'd confuse the old man into admitting it.
As it turned out, though, I didn't need any tricky subterfuges to get him to open up. "If that's all you want, why didn't you just say so in the first place? Hell, I'll be glad to tell you that. I already told the cops ten minutes ago, when they came by here."
It was good to know that despite Chief Walsh's attitude problem, he was following up on the lead I gave him. "Okay, so tell me."
"Sure. This fellow Zzypowski called up yesterday. First he asks for Susan. I say she's not home, but I'm her father-in-law and campaign manager, and can I help him with something? I'm not really her manager, but sometimes I tell people that just to keep 'em off her back."
"Uh huh."
"So the guy says yeah, you can help me with something, and I can help you. Says, I got information vis-à-vis your campaign opponent that'll shoot him dead out of the water. Says, you give me twenty grand and I'll lay it on you. Even claims the deal is legal. 'Opposition research,' he calls it."
"So what'd you tell him?" I asked impatiently.
"I say, hey, if this is for real, I'll go for it, sure. Pay the twenty myself out of my pension. God knows I won't ever be needing that money. Not in this lifetime, anyway."
"Did he explain what you'd be getting for your money?"
"No, he wanted to show me in person. I was stuck babysitting all day yesterday, so we were gonna meet at his office today at noon. Only by the time I got there, the cops were crawling all around and he was dead."
I thought about what the old man was telling me. It made sense. It was logical.
It might even be true.
"So who do you think killed him?" I ventured. "Pierce?"
"Why Pierce?"
I frowned into the mouthpiece of the phone. "Isn't it obvious? Pierce must have found out that Zzyp was going to sell you information about him—"
"Whoa, hold on. Zzyp wasn't gonna sell me any information about Pierce."
Huh? "But you just said—"
"No, I didn't. Zzyp was gonna sell me stuff about Will Shmuckler."
Oh, Lord. I just sat there with the phone in my hand. Then Hack Sr. started cackling, and it hit me that he was pulling my leg.
"Got you there, didn't I?" he said.
"You're just bullshitting me, right?"
"Makes you think that?" he asked, still laughing.
"Give me a break. Zzyp had the goods on Pierce, I have the photograph to prove it. If he wanted to sell you something, that's what he would sell."
"Hey, I don't give a flying fuck in a rolling doughnut if you believe me or not. I'll tell you, though," he added teasingly, "them cops seemed to believe me pretty good."
Aspirin or no aspirin, some little imp was banging bongos in my brain. "I don't get it. Why would you lie about this?"
"Hey, if I was lying, it would be darn good campaign strategy, don't you think?"
"What do you mean?"
"Use your noodle. You're telling the cops Zzyp had dirt on Pierce. Meanwhile I tell the cops Zzyp had dirt on Shmuckler. When the media gets hold of it, they'll put it all together and figure out both of those guys had motive to kill Zzyp. The only one who comes out of this smelling like a rose is Susan. She'll win with sixty percent, easy."
Downstairs, my kids were begging loudly, "Daddy, has it been a grownup minute yet? We're hungry!" Trying to shut out their voices, I said into the phone, "I can't believe you'd pull this."
He gave a half-chuckle, half-cough. "Hey, never underestimate an old union man."
"But whoever shot Zzyp probably shot Jack, too! Don't you want your son's killer to get thrown in jail?"
Hack Sr.'s voice turned harsh. "My son is dead. Susan's not. You don't get it, do you? I'd do anything for Susan. Anything."
It sounded like he was about to hang up, so I spoke quickly. "Listen, you crazy old man, you better go back to the cops."
"Why should I?"
"You tell them the truth about Zzyp. If you don't, I'll tell them the truth about you and Susan."
But Hack Sr. didn't answer, just slammed down the phone. I wanted to call him right back but the kids were climbing up the stairs, whining for their waffles. Then the doorbell rang and the kids whined even louder. Bernie started crying. He assumed, quite rightly, that the ringing doorbell meant his dinner would be delayed even longer.
Once again my gut urged me to scream. This time I held it in. I clamped my mouth shut, afraid that if I opened it I'd explode, and headed for the door. It was Will. He stood there in an old gray windbreaker, looking distressed—not at all like a guy who might be elected to Congress in less than two weeks.
"Care for some waffles?" I asked.
"Did the cops talk to you yet?" he asked in return.
Both kids were crying now. "Shmuck-man, if I don't toast a few waffles this very kid minute, somebody in this house is gonna die. Either the kids will kill me or I'll kill them."
Seven minutes later, with the waffles toasted, cut, and drowned in syrup, Will and I made our way to the living room. "So what were you doing in this guy Zzypowski's office?" he said.
"How'd you know I was there?"
He shot me a puzzled look. "Didn't you get my phone messages?"
Jeez, I'd forgotten all about those messages. "I've been kind of busy."
"The cops brought me in and questioned me all over again, after they found out you were in Zzypowski's office. They wanted to know if I sent you."
"Well, you didn't, so I assume you just told them the truth."
"Of course. But why were you there?"
"To get to the bottom of Zzyp's nefarious activities. I think he was holding out on me about something."
"Like what?"
"He got killed before I could find out."
Will frowned. "This is so infuriating."
"No kidding."
"Did you hear the latest poll?"
"Yeah, you told me a couple of days ago—"
"No, there was a new one today, on 'Live at Five.' Pierce: twenty-three; the widow: twenty-three; and good old Shmuck: twenty-four."
"What?!"
"That's right, I'm actually ahead."
There was a sadness in his voice, but I ignored it. "Wow. Congratulations, Congressman Shmuck!" I put out my hand and slapped him five, but his hand barely slapped back. "Come on, jump up and down!"
"I know. I should be happy, but I'm not." Slumped down low in the sofa, he looked gloomy and forlorn, nothing like the Type A guy I knew and more or less loved. "This whole murder business has wiped me out."
"I know what you mean," I said. Having been a murder suspect myself once, I knew it was no barrel of monkeys.
He gazed up at me. "Did you ever feel like you were in someone else's body?"
I sat on the sofa beside him. "You're afraid of going to prison," I said.
"It's not just that," he replied. "Everywhere I go, people talk to me about al
l this surreal weirdness I know nothing about. Like the Hack's murder, and you getting shot at, and now this whole new murder. And I'm realizing, I never—never—get to talk to anyone about any of the things that made me want to run for office in the first place. Things like the environment, or health care, or foreign policy for God's sake. Once—just once—I'd like for someone to ask me about East Timor."
"But that's politics, Will. Even without these murders, it would still be like that."
He got up and paced up and down the living room. "But my campaign was supposed to be different. I had such big plans." The sparkle returned to his eyes as he went on. "I was gonna fly in twenty ex-death row inmates who turned out to be innocent, and hold a big press conference so the voters could really see these men. And I was gonna do another press conference with parents whose kids died because they didn't have health insurance. And I was gonna buy a bunch of guns on the Internet or at gun shows or somewhere and hold them up at my speeches to show how we need tougher gun control."
"You can still do all that, Will."
"No, I can't. I don't have the money to organize it, and anyway I'm too numb from all the bullshit. I'm, like, where's the next shock coming from?"
"Actually," I said hesitantly, "I can pretty much tell you where it's coming from."
He eyed me sharply. I didn't relish giving him the news, but I figured he should be prepared. "Hack Sr. told the cops he got a call from Zzyp right before he died, and Zzyp offered to sell him some dirt on you."
"That's preposterous!"
"Of course. The old man's lying through his teeth."
"But why?"
"To make it look like you had a motive to kill Zzyp."
"He's trying to frame me?"
"Yeah. So people won't vote for you."
Finally Will understood. His eyes widened in dismay, then he sank back down onto the sofa.
I gave him a light, joking punch on the shoulder. "Hey, be flattered, Shmuck-man. For him to frame you is a compliment. He thinks you're a legitimate threat to win the election."
Will put a pillow over his head, and when his voice came out, it was muffled. "Yeah, there goes my big one-percent lead, all right." He removed the pillow and gave me an earnest look. "Jake, the hell with politics. Maybe I should just quit the race."
"You're not serious, are you?"
He threw up his hands. "Look, what's the point? So far my campaign is connected somehow to two people getting killed. And you and your sons almost got killed, too. It's not worth it."
I stared at Will with concern, thinking again how out of character he was acting. I wasn't used to seeing him in this Hamletesque "to be or not to be" mode. For a moment I wondered if there might be some hidden reason why Zzyp's murder had hit Will so hard. But that didn't make sense—I mean, Will had never even met Zzyp.
The silence between us grew uncomfortably long, until Will broke it with an unhappy laugh. "Nah, screw it," he said, "I'm not really serious about quitting, hell no. I'll go ahead and play their game. I'll futz with the truth and make personal attacks and ignore the issues and do anything else I have to do to get elected, just like every other goddamn politician." He pointed an emphatic finger at me. "But once I'm in office, by God, that's when I'll get to do what I want to do. I'll fight for what I believe in."
As I stared into his brown eyes, which were now shining with righteous passion, I thought to myself: Is this how all politicians start out? Was Richard Milhous once an innocent, well-meaning man?
You know, he probably was.
After Will left, I grabbed a waffle for myself and finally listened to all those phone messages. There were calls from Andrea, the media, and prospective campaign volunteers. Trying to act like a responsible husband after all the stress I'd been causing the family lately, I called Andrea back at Grandma's house. But I ignored everyone else. I didn't have time.
The kids and I piled into the car and headed out to the Daily Saratogian. I gave Judy the photo of Pierce, Sarafian, and that fateful envelope. The photo would be prominently displayed alongside tomorrow's big expose.
That job accomplished, we headed north to Grandma's. We had a pretty peaceful evening, all things considered. Then again, peaceful evenings are a lot easier to have when you're surrounded by trees and crickets and stars.
Andrea entertained us with the tale of her successful B and E into Jeremy Wartheimer's office. The kids were thrilled to have a Mommy who was a real live burglar—although, as our five year old solemnly pointed out, "Mommy's a good burglar, not a bad burglar." As for Hannah, she stopped being quite so ticked off at me, now that her daughter's tenure was no longer in danger.
To keep the mood calm, I downplayed my involvement in Zzyp's death. No need to get Grandma all riled up again. Also, I was hoping to avoid getting Bernie upset to the point where he would pee in Grandma's sheets again tonight.
So after we watched a few innings of the Yankees crushing the Tampa Bay Devil Rays by about 200 to 0, Grandma headed for her room while the rest of us went downstairs to bed. I had no trouble falling asleep, but then I had the strangest dream.
I dreamed someone had a hand over my mouth and was whispering softly in my ear, "Say one word and I blow your wife's head off."
I tried to wake up, but I couldn't. Then I tried to scream, but I couldn't do that, either. It was like there was something covering my mouth—
Oh, shit. Something was covering my mouth.
This wasn't a dream.
16
Again the whisper came: "Now stand up. Real slow, and real quiet."
The hand finally came away from my mouth. I stood up—real slow, and real quiet. Andrea, with her usual fall allergies, kept right on snoring behind me.
I still couldn't make out who I was dealing with. Out here in the woods, far from the city lights, all I could see was a shadow. I didn't even see any gun, but from that rude remark about blowing Andrea's head off, I assumed he had one. I say "he"; it was hard to tell from the whispering, but I thought the person was a man.
I felt something in my back—a gun barrel. Good thing I hadn't tried to call his bluff about the gun. The barrel prodded me forward, and no words were required for me to figure out what he wanted: I was supposed to walk forward and out the door.
Only one problem. It was so dark, I walked straight into a wall. I stubbed my toes, but more important, made a loud bumping noise that sounded to my terrified ears like a thunderclap. Andrea had always had an amazing talent for snoring her way through any noise short of a hydrogen bomb. She better show that talent tonight—or she'd get killed, too.
Wait a minute. She'd get killed, too—what was I thinking? Was I expecting to get shot?
Yes, I realized, that's exactly what I was expecting. I panicked, and walked into the wall again. Another—and louder—bumping noise. The gunman gave a low, angry hiss. "Sorry," I whispered, inanely apologetic, like I was somehow at fault.
On my third try I made it out the door into the downstairs hallway, with the gunman close behind. "Outside," he whispered hoarsely.
"Let me get my shoes," I whispered back, trying to gain time.
He answered with his gun barrel. So outside we went, after I stumbled into two more walls looking for the outside door. By the time I made it out there, my big toes were smarting. Of course, that was the least of my worries.
The gunman followed me out, and as soon as he shut the door behind him he started breathing loudly, in uneven rasps. I still couldn't see him, but now I knew who he was. He must have been fighting to keep his breath quiet the whole time we were inside the house.
"Mr. Tamarack!" I said. I wouldn't be thinking of him as "Hack Sr." anymore; any man with a gun in his hand automatically becomes a "mister." "What are you doing here?"
Even as I said it, I knew it sounded dumb. It was perfectly obvious what he was doing here: holding a gun to my head and threatening to shoot me with it.
Another thing he was doing was going into a coughing fit. I didn't offer to
get him a glass of water, though. That's one disadvantage to holding guns on people—they may call you mister, but they're less eager to do you favors.
There must have been clouds covering the moon and stars, because I couldn't even discern the outline of Mr. T.'s body. I tried to tell from the sounds he made whether the coughing was making him double over. If so, then maybe I should make a run for it. Since I could barely see him, he could probably barely see me.
But as my two sons had noticed earlier, "probably" can be the scariest word in the English language. What if Mr. T.'s night vision was better than mine? There was always the danger that he was a big carrot eater, and right now he was watching every move I made with owl-like eyes.
Before I could make up my mind about fleeing, the coughing fit subsided. Then Mr. T. rasped, "To the pond!"
"Why?" I asked, for lack of anything better to say.
I felt that familiar gun barrel at my ribs. "Go!"
So I went.
From Grandma's house to the pond, there's a narrow gravel road about seventy-five yards long. With giant spruce trees looming on either side of me, I was more or less able to steer myself down the middle of the road.
A cold wind was blowing against my chest, through my thin cotton pajamas. The small, jagged gravel bit into my bruised toes, but I barely noticed. My eyes were desperately searching the darkness for some kind of weapon, like a long stick. Judging by the sound of crunching gravel, Mr. T. was staying a steady couple of yards behind me. I needed to distract him somehow.
"I don't get it, Mr. Tamarack," I said. "Did you kill Zzyp?"
When he didn't answer, I stopped and turned toward him. He stopped too, and snarled, "Keep moving."
I kept moving. "And what about your son? You killed him too, didn't you? But why?"
Mr. T. still didn't answer. It wasn't fair. I thought murderers were supposed to be eager to talk about their evil deeds to whomever they were about to kill. Some perverse instinct to brag, or confess. That's what happens in all the movies and TV shows. So why wasn't it happening now?
I talked faster and shriller, still trying to get Mr. T. flustered. "You killed your son because he was beating Susan, right? And because you wanted her all to yourself. You only had a couple of months left to live, and you couldn't wait."
