by Brad Smith
He punched some information into a computer and indicated for Claire to walk around the counter to look at the screen.
“Five phones,” he said. “Three credit cards, one on debit. And one with cash. This doesn’t show the serial numbers.”
“The cash transaction is my guy, I’m guessing,” Claire said.
“But can you print me out the info on the other four anyway?”
“Sure thing.”
“How does it work with this other one? With no contract?”
“Simple. You buy a phone and a SIM card. You make a call to activate it and it’s good for X number of minutes. Fifty, a hundred. Depends on which card you buy.”
“You don’t have to give a name to activate it?” Claire asked.
“Nothing.”
“Who said anonymity was dead?”
The kid smiled at that while he waited for the printer to finish.
“Were you working that day?” Claire asked. “The twenty-sixth?”
“I was.”
“Do you remember selling the phones?”
“Just the one.”
“Oh?”
The kid grinned somewhat sheepishly and pointed to the computer screen. “The Motorola. It was a girl from the college. A dead ringer for Julianne Moore, she was, could’ve been her younger sister. Red hair, and these huge blue eyes. I offered to come over to help set up her phone.”
“I bet you did. Do you remember who paid cash?”
“No. But I can tell you he didn’t look like Julianne Moore.” In the mall parking lot, Claire found numbers for the four cell phone buyers on her laptop and managed, surprisingly, to reach all of them. Talking to each, she didn’t get the feeling that any of the four had been on a killing spree in the last couple of days. That included Julianne Moore’s kid sister.
Kingston Koffee was on the east side of town, on the banks of Rondout Creek. Buddy Townes’s Cadillac was parked on an angle near the front entrance. It was an aged Sedan de Ville that Buddy had owned since before Claire had come to town eighteen years earlier. She was quite certain Buddy had not washed the vehicle in that time.
She could see him at a booth along the side windows, sitting alone. His thick mane of hair was nearly white now and coiffed in the manner of certain country singers of his vintage. He was less meticulous about the rest of his appearance. Claire had never seen him in anything but worn jeans and cowboy boots. In the winter he wore a leather bomber jacket, and in the summer faded dress shirts with pearl snap buttons.
Buddy was a victim of Buddy and nobody else. He’d actually been a pretty good cop, on certain levels at least. He was a smart guy who knew right from wrong but who never learned to work within the system. Procedure was too slow for him and after a while, he began fudging the lines. He once told Claire that maybe he’d watched Dirty Harry too many times. When he wasn’t inventing evidence that might help a case, he was hiding evidence that wouldn’t. Add to that a chronic drinking problem and a propensity for trying to fuck anything that moved, and he soon alienated everybody he worked with, even the people who liked him. He washed out of the force when he was forty-two. Now he worked when he wanted to as a private investigator, mainly for Mickey Dupree in recent years. To Claire’s way of thinking, he was still a smart guy who knew right from wrong. But it didn’t appear that he cared either way anymore. Maybe he’d decided that it didn’t make a difference if he did.
EIGHTEEN
Virgil slept until nearly noon and then got up and built a fire along the edge of the woods and cooked the bacon and eggs. He’d forgotten to bring utensils, so he scrambled the eggs with a stick and ate everything with his fingers, straight out of the pan.
After rinsing the pan in the creek, he walked back to the front edge of the woods and watched the house and farm for a time through the binoculars. He was reasonably certain that the cops were no longer watching the place but couldn’t be entirely sure. The forest he was crouched in was out of sight of the neighboring farms, so as long as nobody out for a hike stumbled upon him he could stay indefinitely. But staying here wasn’t going to help him. He knew he had to go back into town. There was somebody he needed to talk to.
At around six o’clock he spotted Mary Nelson’s Ford F-250 pulling in the drive at the farm. Virgil trained the glasses on her and watched as she got out of the truck and walked into the shed. Turning the pump on, he knew. When she came out, she stood by the pasture fence as the horses walked toward her. Funny how fate had turned. Mary had persuaded Virgil to take the horses on and now it fell to her to look after them.
Virgil smiled. “That’ll teach you.”
Looking at the sun, he decided he would start walking toward town. Sticking to the woods, it would be close to dark when he got there. He headed north at first, moving the half mile or so to the Irish Line, then followed it east, keeping to the woods. The air was warm, although the sky had clouded over, and Virgil suspected there would be rain before morning. Which meant he could have a wet walk back. A couple of miles along he came to a lane, which he knew to be part of Dirk Hopman’s farm. He could see the barn and the house a half mile away. There appeared to be some horses in the corral behind the barn. Virgil stopped when he saw them. Mary had told Virgil that Hopman was forbidden to keep any animals on his property while his charges were pending. Maybe the charges had been dropped but Virgil thought that was unlikely. That would require the blessing of Mary and the SPCA—and that was beyond unlikely.
Virgil trained the binoculars on the corral. Several horses were bunched together in the tiny paddock, picking at some strands of hay on the ground. There was plenty of pasture on either side of the barn, but to put the horses in either field would be to expose them to anyone driving by. Behind the building they were hidden, at least from the road out front.
Virgil lowered the glasses. He couldn’t think of any good reason why Hopman would be hiding horses on his property. Or why a man who had starved his last bunch of horses would bother to obtain more. Whatever the reasons, Virgil didn’t know what he could do about it. He toyed for a while with the notion of coming back later, when it was full dark, and stealing the nags. He could stash them at his farm and get word to Mary. Of course, it was a foolhardy idea and one that he didn’t entertain very long. He was already wanted for complicity in two murders. He didn’t need to add horse thief to his résumé.
He was about to keep walking when he spotted a flash of red in the trees along the side road that ran between the Irish Line and his farm. Raising the binoculars again, he saw it was Mary Nelson’s pickup. And it was slowing down as it approached the Hopman farm.
And then it was pulling in the driveway.
“Shit,” Virgil said out loud. Mary must have spotted the horses from the side road. She had promised that she’d be watching the place. He waited in the trees, wondering what to do. If nobody was home at Hopman’s, Mary might take note of the animals and leave. But if Hopman was there, it could be a different story.
Virgil watched as the truck came down the drive and then disappeared from his line of vision, obscured by the barn. The wind was in his face and he heard the truck door slam shut. He waited another two minutes and then, when Mary never reappeared behind the barn, Virgil began to move.
Goddamn it, Mary.
He kept to a row of trees along the left side of the lane, making sure the barn concealed his approach. He could hear voices when he was a couple hundred yards away, animated and loud. There was a broken wooden fence running from the front corner of the barn to an overgrown orchard beside the farmhouse. He made for the fence, keeping close to the sidewall of the barn. Looking through a crack between the boards he saw Mary and Dirk Hopman, faced off in the yard.
“—shit you caused me,” Hopman was saying.
Hopman was bigger than Virgil remembered. He was wearing dirty overalls with no shirt beneath, his shoulders and arms matted with hair. He had on a greasy trucker’s hat.
“You’re not to have horses here,” Mary
said. “Do you think you’re bigger than the law?”
“I got no horses here. You think you are the fucking law?”
At that point, one of the horses behind the barn whinnied loudly. Mary gave Hopman a triumphant look and started for the barn. He pushed his way in front of her, towering over her. He had to be two hundred and fifty pounds. Don’t touch her, Virgil thought. Please don’t touch her. He wished Mary would get in her truck and leave.
“You need to mind your business, old lady,” Hopman said. “They got hay and they got water.”
“Who has hay and water?” Mary asked. “The horses you denied having a minute ago? Your word doesn’t mean anything. You starved horses before and you’d do it again.”
She tried to walk around him and this time Hopman moved within inches of her, actually bumping her with his large gut. Don’t touch her, Virgil thought. Get in the truck and go, Mary. Get in the truck and go.
“You’re gonna report me anyway,” Hopman said. “You know what you cost me last time?”
“Go,” Virgil said. He realized he whispered the word this time. His pulse was running now, his breath coming quick.
Mary hesitated, and it seemed she suddenly realized what she was up against. She looked up at Hopman for a moment longer and then turned and started for her truck. Virgil exhaled.
“Don’t call this in,” Hopman warned her.
Mary turned, indicated the barn. “Where are they going?”
“None of your business. Don’t call this in. You’ll be a sorry old woman. You think I’m joking?”
Mary walked to the truck, moving quickly now. But her silence seemed to convince Hopman of what she would do. He jumped toward her and grabbed her by the hair as she was opening the door. Pulling her back roughly with one hand, he gripped her throat with the other and slammed her against the truck. Mary’s eyes grew wide as she choked, grabbing at the hand around her neck.
“Call it in and I’ll kill you,” he said harshly.
Virgil was over the fence and on the run. Hopman heard him at the last minute and managed to make a half turn. Virgil landed an overhand right on Hopman’s temple, causing the big man to grunt in pain. Virgil grabbed the bill of the dirty cap with his left hand, pulled it over Hopman’s eyes, and jerked him forward, then landed several right hooks to the man’s jaw. When Hopman staggered, Virgil gripped the greasy overalls with both hands and swung him around in a wide semicircle, slamming the crown of his head into the truck fender. Hopman bounced off the sheet metal like a cartoon figure and hit the ground heavily. He lay on his back with his knees up and his mouth open. He didn’t move.
Mary was holding her throat, trying to figure out what was happening. “Virgil!” she exclaimed. And then, puzzled, “Virgil? What in the hell are you doing here?”
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked her.
“I was driving by,” she began and then stopped. “It said on the news you were in Canada.”
Hopman made a gurgling noise and moved his feet as if he were trying to walk, even though he was still flat out on the ground. Virgil indicated the truck.
“Let’s go.”
He got behind the wheel and Mary climbed in the passenger side. When they reached the road, Virgil hesitated for a moment and then headed back toward his place. It was only a few minutes away. And even if the cops happened to drive by, they were used to seeing the Ford F-250 there by now. He felt Mary’s eyes on him as he drove, watching him as she gingerly rubbed her throat where Hopman had choked her.
He parked where Mary usually parked when tending to the horses and got out, ducking into the milk house and indicating for Mary to follow.
The sun was setting now, and in the little room the shadow from the windows threw crosshatches against the wall, illuminating the cobwebs there. Virgil’s pulse was still running from the encounter with Hopman. He stood looking at Mary and after a moment smiled at her, then opened the old round-shouldered refrigerator and took out two bottles of beer.
“We might as well have a cold one while you’re trying to figure out whether or not to turn me in,” he told her.
Mary took the beer from him. A good sign. “I’m still trying to figure out just where in the hell you came from,” she said.
“Swung down from the trees like Tarzan.”
“Never mind your nonsense. Tell me. How did you know I was there?”
“I didn’t. I was passing by.”
Mary gave him a long, disbelieving look and then sat down on one of the wooden chairs. She took a drink of beer.
“How is it that Hopman’s got more horses?” Virgil asked.
“Virgil,” she said after a moment. It sounded like a warning.
“What?”
“I think you have bigger problems than Hopman. Like this murder charge they have you on?”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, that. And the breaking out of jail. And then the other murder charge. Shouldn’t I be frightened out of my wits right now?”
“You don’t seem to be.”
“Maybe not from where you’re standing. What are you doing, Virgil?”
Now Virgil pulled the other chair over and sat. “I didn’t kill anybody. But the cops are convinced I did. Which means they aren’t looking real hard for anybody else. So I need to find out who actually did it, and I couldn’t do that while I was in jail.” He laid things out in a line, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
“So why are you hanging around Hopman’s? Do you think he’s involved?”
“I wasn’t hanging around. I was walking to town.” He paused.
“Through the woods.”
“Walking to town,” Mary said. “It’s twelve miles.”
“I know how far it is.”
She took another drink of the beer and again ran her fingers across her throat where Hopman had choked her. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot, Virgil. I must lead a sheltered life because you’re the first person I’ve ever known who’s been arrested for murder. I know that both Dupree and Comstock were rather disreputable characters. I’m vain enough to think that I look at things from a moral, rather than legal, standpoint. But you had reason to hate both of these men. And apparently you committed an act of violence in Canada that landed you in prison. So I have to consider that you’re capable of doing what they’re accusing you of.”
Virgil considered this. “But if I was the killer, and I thought you might turn me in, wouldn’t I just kill you?” he asked.
“No, you wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not a disreputable character. There’s that moral consideration, remember? And besides, you like me.”
“How do you know that?”
“You offer me beer even when you’re angry with me. And you let me take advantage of you when it comes to dropping off abused horses.” She had a drink, thinking. “Oh—and you told me about your dreams.”
“Like hell I did. I don’t have any dreams.”
“About becoming a weatherman.”
Virgil laughed and stood up. He looked out the window to the road. “Do you think Hopman got a look at me?”
“No. It happened so fast I didn’t even realize it was you until after it was over. Don’t worry about him. I’ll take care of that.”
Virgil kept looking out the window. “So what are you going to do, Mary?”
“I guess nothing, for the time being. Everybody thinks you’re in Canada anyway. Don’t they?”
“I’m hoping.”
“There is something else,” Mary said. “There’s the possibility that some overzealous cop might shoot you. If that were to happen, then I’d be stuck looking after these horses forever. I have a few dollars in the bank, Virgil. If you want to give yourself up, I’ll hire you a good lawyer.”
“I appreciate that,” Virgil said.
“But the answer is no.”
“I guess it is.”
“Lord, you’re stubborn.” She watched him
looking out the window and waited for him to agree with her, or to argue the point, or something. When he didn’t, she asked, “Has that served you well in the past?”
He smiled and turned toward her. “I need a vehicle, Mary.”
“What?”
“Walking back and forth to town gets old pretty quick.” Mary exhaled heavily and got to her feet. “I still have my old Dodge in the parking lot at the clinic. I didn’t trade it in when I bought the Ford. It has the business logo on the door, so it’s pretty good cover for a desperado on the run. But then, you knew all that—that’s why you brought it up.”
Virgil smiled again.
Mary finished her beer and put the empty on top of the fridge. “So all of a sudden I’m Faye Dunaway to your Warren Beatty.”
Virgil frowned, following her outside. It came to him as he was getting in the passenger side. He laughed.
“I get it,” he said. “Bonnie and Clyde.”
NINETEEN
Mary’s “old” Dodge was a 2007 Ram, which made it fourteen years newer than Virgil’s truck, which he presumed was still in the possession of the Ulster police. The truck was a V6 with overdrive. Power windows and seats, a CD player. Virgil assured Mary that in the event he was arrested while driving the truck, he would say he stole it.
“If you don’t, I will,” she told him before driving away, leaving him standing in the clinic parking lot, the truck keys in his hand.
He had found Buddy Townes’s home address in the phone book earlier. The place was on Sycamore Street, past the maritime museum and the old rail yards, a little shoebox bungalow perched on a sharp incline. Virgil parked along the street a hundred yards away and shut the ignition off. It was just past nine o’clock.
The house had no driveway. There were three vehicles parked along the curb out front. Any one, he reasoned, could belong to Townes. A brown van with the fender wells rusted out, a cream Toyota with a spoiler on the trunk lid, and a dirty Cadillac from the late ’80s. Virgil was betting on the Caddy.
He wasn’t sure what to do next. Buddy Townes could be in for the evening. There were lights on in the house, and he could see the occasional flickering from a TV screen. Virgil wasn’t thrilled with the idea of walking up and ringing the bell. And so he waited.
