Red Means Run

by Brad Smith

  He’d kept a casual pace pushing the wheelbarrow down the slope, but now the corn stalks were high enough to conceal him and so he ran. He realized pretty quickly that it had been years since he had last run anywhere. Back to his baseball days, in fact. Even then, he had always tried to get out of it.

  “I’m a catcher, skip,” he would say to Tom Stempler when he was his manager. “What do I need to run for?”

  “Run,” Tom would say.

  Virgil was blowing hard when he reached the far end of the field. He stopped there for a minute, catching his breath and listening. The forest before him was not as dense as it had appeared from the courthouse window. There were houses on either side within a few hundred yards, and a couple of small cabins along the river. He decided he would walk through the thicket, taking advantage of whatever cover it offered. Before setting out, he snapped a dead branch from a lower limb of a red oak and made himself a walking stick. Then he started for the river, doing his best impression of a man out for an afternoon stroll.

  Emerging from the woods, he came upon a gravel roadway that ran parallel to the riverbank. The two cabins he had seen earlier sat on the flats, between the road and the river, roughly five hundred feet apart. A Chevy Blazer was parked on the lawn beside the first cabin but the second appeared deserted. Virgil started down the road, heading for the second shack.

  He assumed the cops would use dogs to track him so he needed to use the river to hide his trail. Past the second cabin he angled his way toward the riverbank, looking at the expanse, wondering if he could swim it. He was doubtful; just running through the cornfield had winded him, and stopping to catch one’s breath in the middle of a field was a lot easier than doing it halfway across a river. Not to mention it would mean waiting until dark.

  Then he saw the aluminum punt, pulled up onto the riverbank and tied off to a willow tree. Virgil walked toward it and stopped on the slope, watching the door of the cabin.

  “Hello!” he called.

  He waited a few minutes and then untied the boat, climbed inside, and began to row, watching the cabins behind him as he did. No one appeared. There were a number of other boats on the river, fishermen and water skiers and the odd kayak or canoe, so he wasn’t drawing attention to himself.

  Partway across the river he stopped rowing and allowed the punt to drift as he watched the far shore, looking for a likely place to land. A few hundred yards to the north a small creek spilled into the river, the mouth of the stream surrounded by cattails and marsh. There were no buildings nearby. To the right of the creek, where the riverbank was solid, there were houses and a few cottages. Looking to his left, he could see Albany in the distance, and a railroad bridge spanning the river. The Rip Van Winkle Bridge was farther south, he knew.

  He pulled on the oars, swinging the bow around, and headed for the mouth of the creek. As he rowed he kept an eye over his left shoulder on the buildings to the south. Drawing nearer, he saw a number of people gathered in the yard of a green frame cottage, drinking beer and grilling food. A few men were pitching horseshoes in pits near the water’s edge. Virgil slowed, watching them for a moment, and then changed course and headed for the party.

  He rowed the punt up to the bank a few yards from the closest horseshoe pit, got out, and pulled it onto the grass. He tied it off to a log and then walked directly toward the players, who had stopped playing and were watching him with interest as he approached.

  “How you doing?” he asked as he passed.

  A couple of people nodded to him as he walked along the property line and past the cottage. A chocolate Labrador trotted up to him, and without stopping he leaned down to pat the dog on the head.

  “Who the hell is that?” he heard someone say.

  Virgil walked to the roadway out front, where he turned and headed north.

  Once he was a few hundred yards along the road, he risked looking back through the trees, toward the cottage. The horseshoe game had resumed. Somebody was throwing a stick in the river for the Labrador to retrieve.

  Ten minutes later he came to a stone bridge that spanned the narrow creek he’d seen earlier. He headed down the embankment to the right of the road and waded into the stream. It was shallow and clear, the bottom covered with smooth stones that made walking easy. His work boots filled immediately and grew heavy.

  Looking ahead he saw that the creek meandered through scrubland, bordered on either side by small pines and cottonwood saplings. There were farm buildings in the distance but to Virgil it seemed as if he was reasonably well concealed. About a mile to the east the acreage gave way to forest. He decided to stay in the creek until he reached the trees.

  Make the dogs earn their keep.

  By the time he reached the tree line, the sun was dropping behind him and his legs ached from the heavy slogging. Looking at the sun, he guessed it would be a couple of hours or so until nightfall. He sat down and pulled his boots off and poured the creek water from them. He wrung out his socks and then stuffed some dried leaves in his boots and pulled them on again.

  He started south. As he walked he became aware of how hungry he was. He’d eaten nothing since the McDonald’s breakfast early that morning. Supper last night had been a couple of chocolate bars. There was nothing to eat in the forest; it was too early for hickory nuts or walnuts and he had no way to shell them anyway. He could have picked a few tiny ears of field corn earlier, but, busy as he was breaking out of jail, it hadn’t occurred to him.

  He stayed in the woods, although twice he had to come out into the open to cross a side road. Occasionally he came upon a house built in the forest and would be forced to swing one way or another to avoid getting too close. He was in no particular hurry. He guessed the Rip Van Winkle Bridge was three or four miles away. When he got there he would have to wait until darkness fell.

  After about an hour he heard the sound of traffic and a few minutes later came upon a fairly busy two-lane highway. He hunkered down by the edge of the thicket to have a look. There were a number of houses along the road, and a gas station with an adjoining restaurant at an intersection to his right. He had no chance of crossing unnoticed. He wondered if his absence had been discovered back in Kesselberg. Maybe they weren’t looking for him yet.

  But maybe they were. And if they were, the news would be on the radio, the TV, everywhere. Killer on the loose.

  He turned toward the restaurant’s large rear parking lot, where a couple of tractor trailers and a half-dozen cars were parked. There was also a boom truck, with a logo on the door and lettering that read HENSBRIDGE CONSTRUCTION. Beneath the hydraulic boom were chained a number of lengths of concrete sewer pipe. Virgil looked back to his left. A quarter mile away several orange construction signs marked where the shoulder of the highway was being excavated in preparation for new drainage.

  Virgil walked through the bushes and dropped down to the restaurant parking lot. In the back of the boom truck he saw picks and shovels and various other tools. He stood behind the vehicle and regarded the restaurant a moment. Presumably the workers were done for the day and had gone inside for dinner, or maybe a few drinks. There were no windows in the rear of the place but as he watched, a large black man walked out and deposited a pail of garbage in a Dumpster. Virgil ducked down and waited until the man went back inside, and then he reached into the truck bed and took a hard hat and an orange vest and headed back into the thicket.

  He walked through the bushes until he drew even with the construction site up the road. He put on the vest and the hard hat and moved down to the highway, where he picked up an orange construction triangle and carried it across the road, waiting for several cars to pass first. There he gathered another triangle and walked along the shoulder to a spot where a ravine led back into the woods. He placed one triangle on the gravel shoulder and walked a few yards to position the other. He had a look at the two, as if evaluating his work, and then dropped down into the ravine and walked away.

  Back in the woods he discarded the h
at and vest. A couple of miles along he came to State Highway 23. He guessed he was maybe a mile or so east of the bridge. It would be an hour or more before nightfall, so he found a spot beneath some pine trees and sat down. He removed his sodden boots and socks again and placed them where the setting sun hit them, and then lay down on the pine straw to wait for darkness.

  He fell asleep and when he woke it was full dark. He pulled on his boots and headed back west, hurrying now. He wanted to cross the river before the moon came out. He reached the bridge in half an hour and crossed at once, meeting no one on the walkway. When he arrived on the west side he strode quickly past the tollgate, skirting the town of Catskill, and kept to the shoulder of the highway until he was past the thruway. Then he climbed down from the embankment and headed south.

  TWELVE

  Claire leaned against the grille of the Intrepid and sipped the lukewarm coffee. Beside her Joe Brady was talking on his cell phone. Before her was a sloping lawn that led to a cornfield, the corn giving way to a forest, which ran to the edge of the Hudson River. Behind her was the Kesselberg courthouse. And there she was.

  “Stuck in the middle with you,” she told Brady as he hung up.

  “Isn’t that a song?”

  “A sad song.”

  Brady was all amped up, in manhunt mode, and as such he had no time for Claire’s cryptic references. Even at his most attentive, Joe didn’t pick up on much.

  “The dogs are out,” he said. “I sent a uniform to Cain’s house for a shirt, or something of his for scent. We know exactly where he landed on the other side. We have a positive ID from half a dozen people. No rain overnight. They’ll have no problem picking up his trail. We’ll have this man in custody within hours.”

  Claire finished her coffee and looked for a place to toss the cup. “Taking him into custody hasn’t been a problem,” she said.

  “Keeping him in custody is what we need to work on.” She reached in the Dodge’s window and put the cup on the dash.

  “Let’s have a look at the lockup.”

  She had met the pudgy sheriff when she arrived earlier. It had been a little before eight and he’d pulled up in his own car, his eyes blinking and his hair tousled as if he’d just gotten up. He was like a schoolkid who was very worried that the escape was going on his permanent record. He kept saying over and over that this had never happened before. Finally Claire had sent him off to look for an area map that she didn’t need.

  She and Brady went upstairs to the room that had been, all too briefly it seemed, Cain’s cell. There wasn’t much to see. Two chairs and a table, some fishing magazines. And a steel mesh screen leaning neatly against the wall. Eight lag bolts lined up on the windowsill.

  “I have an excellent witness from the house next door,” Brady said. “Mrs. Tom Walker. She saw Cain on the roof here, right outside the window. He dropped down to the grass and took a wheelbarrow and headed toward the river. I showed her his mug shot. She said it was Cain, no question.”

  “She tell you anything you didn’t already know?” Claire said.

  “She didn’t happen to mention where Cain was going . . . ?”

  She felt him stiffen beside her but it had gotten to the point where she didn’t give a shit. She walked to the window and picked up one of the lag bolts. “How did he manage this?”

  “I have a theory on that,” Joe said. “The room and the trim were just painted. Whoever put the screen back on must have left the wrench behind.”

  Claire looked around the room. “A wrench. Wouldn’t you have seen it when you locked him up?”

  “Oh, I was never up here,” Joe said quickly. “I stayed by the radio. Sal brought him up.”

  “Where is Sal anyway?”

  When Joe didn’t reply, she turned to look at him. “I said where’s Sal?”

  “I had to drop him from this,” Joe said. He indicated the window. “This is inexcusable.”

  So is throwing your partner under a bus, Claire thought. Delano seemed like a decent kid. And Claire wasn’t buying the wrench theory anyway. She crossed to the table and noticed a small pile of ashes on one of the magazines.

  “Cain was smoking in here.”

  “So?”

  “He still had his cigarettes and his lighter then?”

  “I guess. What about it?”

  Claire looked at the open window again. She shrugged.

  “Let’s go see what the dogs are doing.”

  Brady suggested they take one car but Claire wasn’t going for that. She said she would follow him. They took the highway bridge south of town to cross the Hudson and drove along the river road to a row of cottages along the bank, stopping in front of a small green bungalow. Claire parked the Dodge out front and got out. The canine unit and SWAT team had been there since dawn, awaiting instructions from Joe. Two hounds lazed in the shade of the lawn, tongues lolling in the heat, as their handler, Ron Patterson, stood speaking with a man and a woman. Brady introduced them as Frank and Lindsay Richards. They were renting the cottage for the month. They were in their thirties, she guessed, and they both appeared a little hung over. Why not? she thought. They were on vacation.

  “Come around back,” Brady said, taking charge. “I’ll show you where he exited the river.”

  Claire had never heard of anybody exiting a river before. They left Patterson with the dogs, and the four of them walked around the little cottage and down to the shore. There were horseshoe pits and a few beer empties lying around. Across the river was the town of Kesselberg. Claire could see the steeple of the Anglican Church. She could see the courthouse too.

  Brady, like a retriever on the point, was standing by a small aluminum boat that was pulled up onto the bank a few yards away.

  “I’m guessing that’s the boat,” Claire said.

  “This is the boat he stole,” Brady said, evidently feeling a need to emphasize this subsequent crime. First capital murder. And now the unconscionable theft of a twelve-foot punt.

  “Where will it end?” Claire said to Joe, then turned to the couple. “And you guys were in the yard?”

  “There was a bunch of us here,” the man said. “We had friends over. He walked right up to us and said hello and kept on going.”

  “He petted my sister’s dog,” the woman said.

  Claire walked past the boat and looked upriver. There was a marshy area a few hundred yards away where the shore curved inward. There were no buildings at all along that stretch.

  “Petted her dog, did he?” Claire said, turning. “Man can’t be all bad.”

  “If you want to disregard the fact that he killed a man in cold blood,” Brady said.

  “No, I think we should keep that in mind,” Claire said. She indicated the marshy area. “What’s over there?” she asked.

  “Bullhead Creek,” the man said.

  “And what’s Bullhead Creek?”

  “Um . . . just a creek. Runs back into the woods.”

  “And where did he go when he finished petting the dog?”

  “He walked along here,” the woman said, indicating the edge of the lawn. “And out to the road. And then he headed that way.”

  “Toward Bullhead Creek,” Claire said.

  “Well . . . yeah.”

  “Was he in a hurry?”

  “Didn’t seem to be. Not at all.”

  Claire nodded. “Where are your friends now?”

  “They’ve gone into town for breakfast,” the man said. “We’re supposed to meet them.”

  Claire took another look at the boat and then started back up toward the cottage. As she did, a marked cruiser came down the gravel road, moving too fast.

  “Good,” Joe Brady said. “We can put those dogs to work.” When they reached the front yard, the uniform was out of the car. He had been to the Cain farm and retrieved a sweatshirt and a ball cap. Patterson was looking at the items before letting the dogs have a sniff. Claire stepped in for a closer look. It was a plain navy sweatshirt, stained a little with grease
and dirt. The cap was clean, and it had a picture of Toby Keith on the front.

  “That’s not his,” Claire said.

  “How do you know that?” Brady asked.

  “It doesn’t fit.”

  “Oh, you know his hat size?” Brady asked.

  “Philosophically, it doesn’t fit. You’re either Merle Haggard or Toby Keith. This guy Cain is Haggard all the way.”

  Brady looked at Patterson. “Shit. How’s that for your forensic science?”

  Claire picked up the cap and put it on Brady’s head, where it perched like a cherry on a sundae. “Look at that. This belongs to a woman, probably his wife.” She looked at Patterson. “The shirt will do?”

  “If it’s his, they’ll track him,” Patterson said. He looked at the morning sky. “He’s got a pretty good start, though.”

  He took the shirt to the hounds and let them get the scent. He led them around the yard and within a minute they had the trail. Patterson and the team set out after them, the SWAT guys loaded for bear with shotguns and MP5s. Brady looked at Claire.

  “I’m going to tag along for a bit. You coming?”

  “No.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  The couple from the cottage had been hanging back, as if unsure what their role was now. After Brady set off on foot behind the trackers, the woman stepped forward. “Um . . . do you need us for anything? We were gonna go meet our friends.”

  “Go ahead,” Claire said.

  The woman hesitated. There was something else, it seemed, so Claire asked her what it was.

  “Detective Brady never told us this guy killed someone,” the man said. “And we don’t want to make this about us. But are we in danger here? Should we be thinking about spending the night somewheres else?”