by Brad Smith
Virgil nodded and had another mouthful.
“Let’s just say he was a pain in the ass,” she said.
“Like me, then.”
“Oh no,” Claire said. “Nothing like you. You two are barely even of the same species. Shit, that jail you broke out of in Kesselberg? Todd couldn’t have thought his way out of there in a hundred years.”
“So you divorced him because he couldn’t do stuff like escape jail?”
“Yeah. That’s exactly what the papers said when I filed.” Claire had a drink of wine. “No, I divorced him after fifteen years because I was too stupid to do it after ten. Or five. He’s an okay guy. He’s just a lost soul in constant need of a savior. And I’m no savior.”
Virgil finished his eggs and reached for the wine.
“Your turn,” Claire said. “Was the sham marriage to con the US government your only trip down the aisle?”
“You have a way with words. But yeah.”
“How come?”
Virgil smiled. “A guy like me?”
“All right, all right,” she said. She picked up the plates and carried them over to the sink. “You want anything else?” she asked.
“No. Thanks.”
She came back and sat down. “Tell me about Kirstie. I sat in on the trial a couple of days. Mickey Dupree really did a number on her.”
“He made up lies about a dead girl,” Virgil said flatly. It was the first time Claire had seen any sign of anger in him. “He tore her to shreds, just to get Comstock off. And he did it for money. He ripped her to pieces for money.”
Claire didn’t say anything for a moment. Virgil had a drink of wine and looked over.
“So what was she like?” Claire asked.
Virgil hesitated, then he smiled. “Well, I can tell you that she couldn’t cook an egg. Not that I ever saw. She was naive and she was . . . she was kind. She lost her mother when she was just little and I don’t know if that was part of it or what. She thought the best of everybody. I know that sounds like an admirable thing but sooner or later an attitude like that is going to get you in trouble. And maybe it’s not your fault but it’s trouble just the same.”
“She thought the best of Alan Comstock?”
“Yeah, and he didn’t have any best in him.”
“Was she talented?” Claire asked. “As a musician?”
“Oh yeah,” Virgil said. “But I don’t know if that’s worth anything nowadays. I don’t know if she could have made it in the music business. Turn on the radio and listen to what’s out there. Listen to what they call country nowadays. That music would gag a buzzard.”
“Was Kirstie a country singer?”
“No. Kinda rock and roll, I guess. She loved Neil Young. Her idea, I mean what she wanted Comstock to produce, was a whole record of Neil Young songs. Like that woman did with Leonard Cohen that time.”
“Jennifer Warnes. I have it here.”
“Yeah. Kirstie had a favorite Neil Young album. Rust Never Sleeps. There’s this song ‘Powderfinger,’ she used to play all the time. It’s got this great first line and sometimes when I came in from the barn she’d be sitting on the back porch with her guitar, and she’d sing it to me while I was walking across the lawn. You know the song?”
“I don’t think so. How’s it go?”
Virgil laughed. “I start singing and you will turn me in.” He poured more wine for both of them. “It’s this song, I guess it takes place back on the frontier. About this young guy left in charge of the homestead. And I guess his father’s dead, and there’s somebody named John, maybe an uncle or something, and his wife drowned, so he’s taken to the bottle.”
As he talked, Claire got to her feet and walked to a computer on a desk in the living room. Virgil turned to watch her as she powered it on.
“I’m listening,” she said.
“Well, that’s about it. Just a song, but there was something about it that she was drawn to. Maybe because it was from a different time, or maybe she identified with the kid, this young guy bucking the odds. It’s a good song.”
“What’s it called again?” Claire asked.
“‘Powderfinger.’”
Claire began to type and within a half a minute Virgil heard the song he’d been describing.
Look out, Mama, there’s a white boat comin’ up the river, With a big red beacon and a flag and a man on the rail—
Virgil walked over, and there was Neil Young on the computer screen, a live clip from somewhere, Neil wearing a straw cowboy hat and playing the shit out of an old electric Gibson guitar.
Claire sat on the desk chair and using the mouse started the song again.
Look out, Mama, there’s a white boat comin’ up the river—
“That’s the line?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
They listened to the song all the way through this time, Virgil standing beside the chair, watching the computer screen at first, and then watching Claire. She was smiling, her eyes on the screen.
Daddy’s rifle in my hand, felt reassurin’
He told me, red means run, son, numbers add up to nothin’.
Virgil noticed a strand of still-damp hair tucked behind Claire’s ear. He saw her breasts rise under the T-shirt with each breath as she watched Young and his band on the screen. She had a tiny scar at the corner of her eye he hadn’t noticed before. When the song finished he gave into impulse and reached out to touch the hair at the nape of her neck.
“Your hair’s still wet,” he said.
He felt a jolt go through her and pulled his hand away at once. Embarrassed, he walked over to the counter to retrieve his wine. When he looked back, she was turned in the chair, watching him. If she was upset that he had touched her, she wasn’t showing it.
Virgil indicated the computer. “How did you find that song so quick?”
“It’s something called the Internet. You ever hear of it?”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”
“But you don’t use it.”
“No.”
“You do have electricity out there at the farm . . . ?”
“I got everything I need out there.”
Claire got to her feet. “Do you?”
“Yeah.”
Now she was standing just a few feet from him. “So you like being alone?” she asked.
Virgil indicated the house. “How am I any more alone than you?”
“I have a social life. I have friends.”
“Me too.”
“Horses.”
He shrugged.
“Or do you have women stopping by? Spending the night?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“I’m a cop.”
Virgil stepped forward, cutting the distance between them in half. He could smell the soap she had used in the shower. Her breath was growing quicker but now her eyes narrowed and she pulled back, just slightly.
“You can’t kiss me,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Because this isn’t what’s going on here,” she said. “I’m a police officer trying to protect you. I’m trying to do my job here and what you need to understand is—”
“Shut up.”
“Okay.”
He put his hand on the side of her neck and kissed her softly. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him back, not so softly. She pushed him a couple of steps backward and onto the couch. He sat and she straddled him, their lips still together, his hand still on her neck, pulling her in. Finally they broke away and she ran her fingers down the side of his cheek.
“Are you going to shave when this is over?”
“I thought you were going to stop talking.”
“I am.”
And he kissed her again.
When she awoke it was pitch-black in the room. The candle she had lit earlier, before they had fallen into bed, had burned down. The clock said five after four. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, buttoning his shirt.
“What ar
e you doing?”
“You said Brady arrested Mary,” he said. “That means nobody’s tended to my stock.”
“She might have arranged something.”
“But I don’t know that.”
Claire sat up. The sheet fell away from her breasts and she saw him turn to look at her. He smiled and that made her happy. She was actually pretty happy even before he smiled. It had been a while since she’d been naked in bed with a man.
And she had never been naked in bed with a man who chose to leave her at four in the morning to go water his horses.
“Take my car,” she said, knowing she couldn’t convince him to stay. “You won’t make it five blocks driving that truck.”
He looked at her, and she could see that he knew she was right. He nodded.
“Hide the car and stay out of sight. Can you do that, just for the day? Joe’s not going to figure you to be at the farm but there could be somebody checking it anyway. So lay low, okay?”
“Okay.”
“You were going to leave without saying good-bye?”
“I’m not exactly going to China,” he said. But he knew what she meant. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
“You fell asleep before I did,” she said. “I lay here for a while and I had that song in my head. ‘Powderfinger.’ What does ‘Powderfinger’ mean?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What happens at the end? When his face flashed in the sky? Does it mean he gets killed?”
Virgil stood up and leaned over the bed. He pushed her hair from her face and gave her a long kiss, his mouth full on hers. When she tried to put her arms around his neck, he pulled away.
“I think it does,” he said, and he left.
TWENTY-NINE
When Suzanne pulled in the driveway, Jane was walking across the lawn to her SUV, a gym bag in her hand. Suzanne parked behind the BMW, beneath the shade of a sprawling white oak, and got out. The morning was growing warm, and she took off her jacket and tossed it back in the car before turning to Jane, who was watching her, her expression flat.
“Hey,” Suzanne said.
She was looking at the bag in Jane’s hand, and now Jane glanced down at it, as if remembering it was there. She opened the back of the SUV and put the bag inside before closing the hatch and turning to Suzanne. Her eyes were red, the lids heavy, as if from lack of sleep. She seemed spaced-out, moving on instinct.
“I was going to stop by later,” she said absently. “I would have called yesterday but I assume it was a madhouse over there. I know the scene. Unfortunately.”
“Yeah,” Suzanne said. “We can start a club, you and I. The Widows of Woodstock. Where you heading?”
“Um . . . go for a run.”
Jane was wearing khakis and sandals, not her typical running gear. “You usually run here,” Suzanne said.
“Maybe I feel like a little variety,” Jane said. “Is that all right?” Suzanne shrugged. “Well, it’s a good day for it. You want some company?”
Jane smiled. “Right. Last time you ran, you were in high school.”
“Might be a good time to start.” Suzanne hesitated. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look a little . . . wired.”
“Yeah, well I’ve been going through a rough patch,” Jane said.
“You know I have. But I’m just about finished with it now. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, you know?” She turned and looked down the winding road, as if she could almost see her way to the far side of her troubles. “The shit we put up with, right?”
“What do you mean?” Suzanne asked.
“I mean the shit we put up with to get where we want to go. You start out thinking that things will get better if you stick it out, and when they don’t, you just end up sticking it out anyway. At some point you get too old to move on. Too old to start over again.”
“I guess.”
“You guess? You know what I’m talking about, Suzanne. You know better than anybody. The only difference between you and me is that you don’t have a plan. You don’t need a plan. You’re happy with what you’ve got, Suzanne. You don’t have a restless bone in your body.”
Jane was still looking down the road as she spoke. Suzanne glanced that way, wondering if something was out there, something she was expecting. Or feared.
“If you’re saying I don’t want to run for congress, you’re right,” Suzanne said. “Looks to me like it costs too much.”
Jane turned to her. “That’s not true. It costs what it costs.”
“And what’s that, Jane?”
“You don’t need to know.” Jane walked over to open the door of the SUV.
“Where are you going?” Suzanne asked. “I hear that Coopers Falls Park is a popular spot for runners.”
Jane stopped and looked at her, but said nothing.
“You’re not going to deny anything, are you?” Suzanne asked.
“Deny. Confirm. What the fuck does it matter?”
“Christ. At least tell me it was just Dupree. He was the one telling tales.”
“It was just Dupree. I had no choice, Suzanne.” She put the heel of her hand against her forehead, as if she was attempting to settle her thoughts.
Suzanne took off her shades. “I have no way of knowing if you’re lying or not. But I have some cop asking me questions about Coopers Falls Park. You didn’t see that happening?”
“I knew you had an alibi. They can’t touch you.”
“What the fuck are you doing, Jane? Nobody cares about Manson. It was a hundred years ago.”
Jane flinched when she heard the name.
“What—did you think Miller knew and I didn’t?” Suzanne asked. “Pour two drinks into Mickey Dupree and he would tell you everything he ever knew. Nice attribute for a lawyer.” She paused. “You have nothing to say?”
“You want details all of a sudden?” Jane asked. “You never cared about details in your entire life, and now you start asking questions. Tell me—which of these three guys would you bring back if you could?”
Suzanne didn’t say anything.
“No answer?” Jane asked.
“There are other considerations here,” Suzanne said.
“Besides, do you think they won’t figure things out? Do you think the police are stupid?”
“I think that some of them are. And if one of them takes Virgil Cain down, then it’s all over. Right now, he’s the only person they’re looking at. And Joe Brady told me he was going to get him.”
Suzanne indicated the BMW. “So where are you heading? And don’t say you’re going for a run.”
“I thought I might lend a helping hand,” Jane said. “You know, as a civic-minded person. I’m so close to where I want to be, Suzanne. Can’t you see that? You, of all people, I thought would understand. I just need to tie up a few loose ends and then I’m home. You wouldn’t happen to know where Windecker Road is, would you?”
“No idea.”
Jane shrugged. “I’ll find it.” She half smiled, a dreamy look on her face. “Remember when you were a kid, when you used to count down the days until Christmas? That feeling, as it got closer and closer? That’s how I feel, Suzanne. I feel as if I’m just a day away. You remember the feeling.”
“No, I don’t. Christmas sucked at my house.”
“Well, I don’t want to be rude but—” Jane gestured at the Mercedes, indicating it was in her way.
“I’ll go,” Suzanne said. “I’m not sure about turning my back on you.”
“Oh, come on,” Jane said. “We’re birds of a feather.” She paused. “You know, I really believe I can make a difference. Do you understand that at least?”
“I believe that you believe it,” Suzanne said.
“That’s good enough,” Jane told her. “Now move your car.”
Claire sat at her desk looking at the monitor. A couple of hours earlier all of Buddy Townes’s files had been uploaded onto her computer. For all his human
failings, Buddy was very good with details, and he had enough information on the residents of Upstate New York—from the ragged lowlifes to the people who passed for high society and everybody in between— to start his own tabloid newspaper. Some of it was enough to make Claire blush, and she hadn’t blushed since, well, since a few hours ago at her house.
When she started thinking about Virgil, she lost focus on the monitor and had to will herself back to the task at hand. She had been at it for two hours. Buddy’s computer files were as disheveled as Buddy himself, and because of that, it had taken her a while to get to the pertinent information. And there was plenty to find. Buddy was sloppy, but he was extremely thorough.
Claire suddenly realized that someone was standing at her desk, and when she looked up she saw that it was Suzanne Boddington. She was wearing faded jeans and a worn T-shirt with a very young Kris Kristofferson smiling across her breasts.
“I got tired of waiting for you to come out and arrest me,” she said.
“I had every intention of doing just that when I got up this morning,” Claire told her. She looked at the monitor. “But you’re a square peg and I’m not having any luck fitting you in a round hole.”
“I hear you talked to my sister.”
“Yeah,” Claire said. She indicated a chair. “Sit down if you like.”
Suzanne sat.
“I talked to your sister,” Claire said. “And she tells me you were indeed in Boston at the time somebody pierced Mickey Dupree’s black heart. And Northwest has you on a plane for Boston that afternoon. Your sister says you paid for dinner and put it on your credit card. I’ve asked Amex for a copy of that receipt, but I have to tell you that I’ve pretty much decided to believe you on that count.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Buck up,” Claire told her. “So now I’m looking through Buddy Townes’s extremely comprehensive files for somebody else who might fit that round hole. Somebody who roughly fits your physical description.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Because Buddy met with a woman of a certain age in a bar just before he blew this pop stand yesterday. Bragging that he won the lottery. A woman that maybe kind of looked like you. A woman who in all likelihood paid Buddy off.” Claire hit a key. “So what other women were on the periphery of this thing? Well, Mickey Dupree was dating a waitress just before he died and not treating her particularly well. But she was twenty-five.”
