Red Means Run

by Brad Smith

  “Thought you quit that,” Mary said.

  “I did.”

  “Why would you start up again?”

  He shrugged, pulled on the smoke, as if in defiance of something.

  “Okay,” she said, as if she knew why and wasn’t going to make an issue of it. Not now, anyway. “How does your hay look?”

  “Pretty good. I get it baled without being rained on, be all right.”

  “What’s the weatherman saying?”

  “Shit. My next life, I’m going to be a weatherman. You ever notice that we can split atoms and put men on the moon and build computers the size of your fingernail, but there’s nobody out there can tell us what the weather’s going to be like tomorrow? Might as well flip a coin.”

  “You been working on that speech?”

  “Nope. I winged it.”

  She smiled. “So you’re going to be a weatherman?”

  “Why not? You get paid to be wrong half the time. I’ve been doing that all my life for nothing.”

  “Well, let me know when you start. I’ll watch you.”

  The horses in the pasture were approaching the barn now, heading for the water tank. They came lazily, stopping now and again to pull at tufts of grass. Smoky, the black gelding who thought he was still a stallion, was in the lead, as always.

  Mary had a sip of beer and stretched her stubby legs in front of her. She was looking at the horses in the field, but her mind was elsewhere; Virgil could tell.

  “You’d really be helping me out if you could take this mare for even a couple weeks,” she said.

  “You’re like the damn weatherman with your couple of weeks,” Virgil told her. “That buckskin was going to be here a couple of weeks; it’s been seven, eight months. That roan was going to be here a couple weeks; it’s been a year at least. Don’t start on me with your couple of weeks.”

  “All right. Geez.” Mary took another drink of beer. She looked at the Jeep parked on the lawn. “That was Kirstie’s, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah. The cops held it in evidence until after the trial.”

  “Why?”

  “I guess if there were any questions about the DNA samples they found or something like that. Doesn’t matter now. Does it?”

  “I was going to call you when I heard about the verdict,” Mary said. “But I didn’t know what to say.”

  “It wasn’t going to bring her back,” Virgil said.

  “Were you surprised?”

  “No.” Virgil took a drink of beer, rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. “The money always wins. Alan Comstock is worth what—a hundred million, two hundred million? I never thought they’d get a conviction.”

  “So I guess you just have to live with it,” Mary said.

  “I guess.”

  “Doesn’t seem right.”

  “No.”

  She turned in the chair to look at him, but he didn’t look back. The horses had reached the water trough and Smoky and the buckskin were drinking. When the thoroughbred gelding came for a drink, Smoky nipped at him to remind him who was boss.

  “So what’s the story with the mare?” Virgil asked, knowing he shouldn’t.

  “I got a call from Don Lee at the SPCA this morning. Guy named Hopman has a farm back behind here on the Irish Line. Was six months behind on his electric bill, so the county went out to cut off his power. There was nobody home and the worker noticed an illegal power line running to the barn. He checked it out, thinking the guy was running a grow-op maybe, and instead he found six starving horses and some dead pigs. No food, no potable water. Same old story.”

  “Dirk Hopman,” Virgil said.

  “You know him?”

  “I sold him some hay last winter. I should say I gave him some hay last winter, because he never did pay me for it.” Virgil tipped the bottle back. “Showed up here with a sob story, said he had money coming the end of the month. So I let him have fifty bales. I even delivered it.”

  “Well, he must have eaten it himself,” Mary said.

  Virgil drank off his beer and got up and went into the milk house for two more bottles. He handed one to Mary, even though she’d barely made a dent in the first. He didn’t sit down. He had a drink and watched the horses at the water trough for a while, and then he walked to the trailer and looked through the slot at the animal inside.

  “She’s wired,” he said.

  “You’d be wired too, what she’s been through.” Mary came up behind him. “There was a gelding there I had to put down. Don Lee talked some people into taking the other four, but he recommended I needle this one too.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because as far as I’m concerned, Hopman was trying to kill these horses. I didn’t feel like being an accomplice to a sonofabitch like him.”

  Virgil turned to look at her. “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”

  “You talking about me?” she asked.

  “I’m talking about both of us.” He shook his head and glanced at the weathervane atop the machine shed. “We’ll put her in the corral behind the barn. She’s not ready for that bunch in the pasture yet. I’ll start her on some hay and a little bit of grain.” He took a couple of steps, then turned back. “This has got to stop, Mary.”

  “You’re right about that.” Mary walked to the rear of the trailer. “Let me take her around. She knows me a little now.”

  They put the mare in the pen where Virgil kept the cattle during the winter. The herd was in summer pasture now, in the field by the bush lot at the back of the farm. Virgil ran the pump to fill the water trough while Mary went up into the haymow and threw down a bale. Virgil gave the mare a sliver off it, to see how she reacted. The horse wouldn’t come near while Virgil was in the corral. She backed herself into a corner and watched him.

  “She’s got some trust issues,” Mary said.

  “Give her a few days.” Virgil looked at the skinny, scared mare for a moment. “She needs to be wormed, you know.”

  “I know that, Virgil. Do I tell you how to cut hay?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me if you did.”

  They walked around to the truck and trailer, hoping the mare would eat if they left her alone. Mary picked up her beer from where she’d set it on the truck bumper and had a drink, watching the horses around the water tank.

  “Why would a man acquire horses and then not bother to feed them? What kind of person can do that? Can you explain that to me?”

  “No,” Virgil said. He was looking past her, to the roadway.

  “There’s a lot of things I can’t explain. For instance, I have no idea why the cops would be pulling in my driveway right now.”

  Mary turned. A dark blue sedan was approaching slowly along the lane.

  “How do you know it’s the cops?”

  “I just do.”

  THREE

  Joe Brady sat in the passenger side of the unmarked cruiser, attempting different variations of the name Virgil Cain in the database on his laptop. Sal Delano drove, his head finally clearing from the oversize hangover he’d awakened to that morning. Today was his first time working in plain clothes since he’d transferred to the Kingston department a year earlier, and he’d done a little too much celebrating last night.

  “I got nothing on this guy,” Joe said. “He had to come from somewhere.”

  “Is this the place?” Sal asked.

  Joe looked up. “Yeah. That’s the dead wife’s Jeep.”

  They pulled in the driveway and saw a man and a woman standing beside a Ford pickup by the barn. Sal parked fifty yards back from the truck and shut off the engine. Then they sat there, at Joe’s suggestion, watching for a reaction. Sal guessed the man was in his early forties, six feet tall; he was a bit of a roughneck, with a couple days’ growth of beard, large hands and forearms, dressed in jeans and a worn shirt and work boots. The woman was older, short, with long gray hair.

  “That him?” Sal asked.

  “That’s him,” Joe said. �
�I recognize him now. From court, during the trial.”

  “You ready?” Sal asked, and Joe, by way of answering, opened the door and got out. Taking the lead, of course.

  “Are you Virgil Cain?” he asked, approaching the man. Sal followed a few feet behind, watching closely.

  “Yeah.”

  Joe produced his investigator’s shield as he introduced himself and Sal before turning to the woman. “And you are?”

  “Mary Nelson.”

  “And what is your relationship to Mr. Cain?”

  “My relationship?”

  “She’s a veterinarian, here to look at a horse,” Virgil said. “I don’t think she’s a criminal but I can’t say for sure. What can I do for you boys?”

  “We want to talk to you about a conversation you had with Michael Dupree ten days ago in a bar called Fat Phil’s.”

  Virgil nodded slightly, waiting.

  “Why don’t you tell us about it?” Joe suggested.

  “I don’t remember it being much of a conversation.”

  “You don’t remember threatening to kill Mr. Dupree?” Sal asked.

  “I never threatened to kill him. Is that what he’s saying?”

  Sal opened his notebook. “You don’t remember saying, let’s see, ‘Somebody ought to do the world a favor and blow your fucking head off’? You don’t remember that?”

  “I remember that,” Virgil said. “I wouldn’t call that a threat. That’s more of an . . . opinion.”

  Sal glanced at Joe.

  “Where are you from, Mr. Cain?” Joe asked. “Were you born in New York?”

  “I’m Canadian.”

  “Canadian,” Joe repeated. Which explained the futility of his Internet search. He hadn’t gone international, hadn’t thought about it. He asked Virgil for his date of birth and, once he had it, nodded at Sal to continue before trudging back to the car.

  “I think that could be construed as a threat,” Sal said. “Particularly since a few hours earlier, Mr. Dupree had managed to get an acquittal for the man charged with the murder of your wife. It’s almost understandable that you would be feeling . . . vengeful.”

  “Is that how I was feeling?” Virgil asked. “How would you know how I was feeling?”

  “You advocated blowing the man’s head off.”

  “And you’re here to arrest me for it?” Virgil asked.

  “We are here to talk to you about it,” Sal said.

  Mary stepped forward, as if to run interference. She turned to Virgil. “Should you have a lawyer here? I can call somebody.”

  “For a comment I made in a bar?” Virgil asked.

  “But you’ll admit that you have a problem with Mr. Dupree?” Sal suggested.

  “I’ll admit I had a few drinks and shot my mouth off,” Virgil said. “What’s Dupree saying, anyway? For a guy who defends murderers for a living, sounds as if he’s got pretty thin skin.”

  “We’ll get to Mr. Dupree in a minute,” Sal said. He glanced toward the car, where Joe was busy at his laptop. Then to Virgil, “Have you ever been to Burr Oak Golf and Country Club?”

  “No. I’m with Mark Twain on the subject of golf.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’ve never been to the . . . Burl Ives golf club.”

  “Burr Oak.”

  “Never been.” Virgil indicated the surroundings, the frame house with the patched roof and the weathered barn, the ten-year-old pickup in the drive. “I look like the golf and country club type to you?”

  “Have you ever been arrested?” Sal asked. From the corner of his eye he saw Joe walking over from the car.

  “Sure.”

  “What for?”

  “Lots of stuff. I was a rambunctious youth.”

  Joe, approaching, shot Sal a look of triumph. “Ever been arrested for attempted murder?” Joe asked.

  Virgil glanced from one cop to the other. “Look, if you guys are here to charge me with threatening the lawyer, get to it. Otherwise I’ve got work to do.”

  Joe had a notebook in his hand. “In 2001 you were arrested in Quebec for the attempted murder of a man named Finley. You were convicted of aggravated assault and served time in prison. It appears you have a thing for lawyers, Mr. Cain.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “This Finley was a lawyer too.”

  “Just a coincidence. He could’ve been a tinker or a tailor, wouldn’t have made any difference.”

  “Well, Mickey Dupree was no tinker,” Joe said. “And you left him in a sand trap on the seventh hole at Burr Oak Golf and Country Club.” He hesitated, looking over at Sal while obviously coming to a decision. Then he turned back to Virgil.

  “You’re under arrest for the murder of Michael David Dupree. You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to an attorney, you—”

  Virgil glanced at Mary while Joe read him his Miranda rights. Sal put the handcuffs on him as Joe finished.

  “You look after the livestock?” Virgil asked her.

  “Of course. Do you want me to call someone?”

  Virgil shrugged and Sal led him to the car and opened the back door.

  “Wait a minute,” Virgil said as he turned back to Mary, who hurried forward. “Can you drive that Jeep into the machine shed overnight? There were a couple morons here earlier and I think they fell in love with the sound system.” He smiled, and indicated Sal and Joe Brady. “Not these guys, two other morons.”

  Claire had been heading out the door of the station when Marina at the front desk stopped her and said she had a phone call.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  “Judge Harrison.”

  “Can it wait?”

  Marina raised her eyebrows, as if to ask whether Claire was serious. Claire took the phone.

  “Claire Marchand.”

  “Ms. Marchand.” Claire’s last name arrived in a splendid baritone; Harrison had never managed to shake his Scottish burr, despite having been in the country for over forty years now. Claire imagined she was talking to Sean Connery. “I need to see you.”

  “I’m just on my way to Woodstock,” Claire said. “This Mickey Dupree thing.”

  “No, you’re on your way here,” Harrison said. “To talk to me about the Mickey Dupree thing.”

  “Now?”

  “Now is perfect. Nice of you to offer.”

  “Shit,” Claire said when she gave the phone back to Marina.

  “Where’s Joe?”

  “Said he was heading for Woodstock,” Marina said. “Took Sal with him. Sal’s wearing a suit.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “No. I can call him.”

  “No,” Claire said. “He can chase his tail for a while, I guess. How bad can he screw that up?”

  “Is that one of those questions you’d rather I didn’t answer?” Claire shot her a look before heading out the door for the courthouse. As she pulled into the parking lot, she saw Miller Boddington sitting behind the wheel of a black Maserati and talking on a cell phone. Claire parked a few feet away and got out. Miller’s window was down and he watched her as she walked past. He raised his voice for her benefit.

  “I’m at the courthouse right now,” he said into the phone.

  “I’ve been summoned by the old Scotch man. And right this minute I’m watching the cop who arrested me walking by my car. Oh, she heard me. She’s giving me a dirty look.”

  Claire kept walking, sorry that she had looked his way. In her opinion, Miller Boddington was a despicable piece of shit who didn’t deserve a look, or a thought, or anything else from her. Unfortunately circumstances required that she did think about him. She tried to console herself by thinking about him behind bars. But even there, he would be treated better than the animals he’d abused.

  She heard the car door open and then footsteps behind her. Miller kept talking into the phone.

  “Gotta tell you, for a cop she looks great walking away.” Claire cut across the
lawn, moving quickly, past the statues and the stone fountain in front of the courthouse. She could tell that the diminutive Miller was hustling to keep up.

  “Yes, sir, she’s got a great ass,” she heard him say. “It’s a god-damn shame she’s got her head up it.”

  Claire stopped abruptly, turned, snatched the cell phone away from him, and tossed it into the fountain. Then she went inside.

  Judge Harrison was in his chambers. District Attorney Alex Daniels was also present, looking like a high school sophomore with his cowlick and fuzzy cheeks. They were talking about their respective vacations when Claire walked in.

  Miller Boddington slumped in behind her, presumably pissed that his cell phone was now wet and worthless. Claire expected him to tell Harrison about her offense but apparently the little man was keeping his grievance to himself. He sat across the room from her, his runty legs barely reaching the floor, and kept silent for the time being. He was wearing black pants and a white dress shirt but no jacket. He had taken to dyeing his hair black and combing it straight back from his forehead of late, making him look like a miniature Latin dictator in a B movie. When Claire glanced over, he tilted his head to one side and then shook it almost imperceptibly, as if he was profoundly disappointed in her.

  “Investigator Marchand,” Harrison said. “Did you and Mr. Boddington carpool?”

  “Yeah, we’re old friends,” Miller said. “She’s had me in handcuffs.”

  His tone was leering and Claire wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a response, choosing instead to look expectantly at Harrison.

  “By now we have all heard the news of Michael Dupree’s death,” Harrison said. “And since Mr. Dupree was counsel to Mr. Boddington, we need to talk about this trial date we have set for next Friday. Obviously, we will not be proceeding at that time. However, given that this case has now dragged on longer than the War of the Roses, I thought we should have this little get-together today to lay a blueprint for the future.” Harrison raised his voice for emphasis. “In other words, Mr. Boddington, I am preempting any attempt on your part to arrive in court next week, claiming ignorance of these latest developments.”