Red Means Run

by Brad Smith

  “Imagine that.”

  “I think we can rule her out. Who else do we have? I know that Sally Fairchild threatened Mickey the day he was killed, but Sally Fairchild is a blowhard who threatens people on a weekly basis. I’ve got nothing to tie her to Alan Comstock or your husband. On and on down the line, until I come to Jane Comstock. Actually, I passed her by once because it made no sense, but then I went back because nobody else makes sense either. And I have to admit that physically you and her are not all that close but your age is within a decade, which might be close enough for a dim-witted bartender on steroids. And I also discover that Buddy has a lot of information on Jane Comstock. By the way, Buddy has a lot of information on you too, Suzanne. Were you aware that your first husband is doing time in Florida for embezzling retirement funds from naive snowbirds?”

  “We all have our secrets,” Suzanne said. “You ever been married?”

  Claire smiled. “Moving on,” she said and hit another key. “Jane Comstock has an interesting past. Born Mary Jane Simmons, raised in the West, never knew her father, left home and ended up hitchhiking to California when she was only fourteen years old. She was a Haight-Ashbury child who went by the name Janey Julep for a time. Arrested for vagrancy. Shipped home to Montana and then ran away again, straight back to San Francisco. Pretty standard stuff for the time. But you know what else she did in California?”

  “Yeah,” Suzanne said. “She lived on the ranch with Charles Manson.”

  Claire looked from the monitor to Suzanne for a moment, then smiled. “Yeah. She lived on the ranch with Manson. Now that’s a fascinating little tidbit and one that Buddy surely would have shared with Mickey Dupree. But who did Mickey tell? And more importantly, why would it matter? It’s a pretty insignificant thing after all these years. She was only seventeen at the time, and she wasn’t there when the murders went down. There were dozens of teenagers who passed through the ranch. Outside of the usual pharmaceutical abuses of the time, there’s nothing to suggest she did anything illegal. By the time she met Comstock twenty-some years ago, her name was Jane Fitzgerald and she was working as a publicist for Columbia Records. She buried her past. So Jane Comstock is like you, another square peg that I can’t fit anywhere.” Claire straightened in her chair and tapped a couple of keys again. “So where do I go from here?”

  Suzanne sat running her fingers back and forth across her chin, as if deliberating on something. Claire watched her quietly. She thought she could smell a whiff of pot emanating from the woman.

  “All right,” Suzanne said. “There’s something that Buddy Townes wouldn’t have in his files. Mainly because nobody knows about it yet. Well, hardly anybody. Edie Bryant isn’t going to run for congress again. She’s finished next year.”

  “So?”

  “She wants Jane to take her seat.”

  Claire took a moment to digest the information. “And Jane is open to this?”

  “I think Jane has been angling for this for years.”

  “Okay,” Claire said. She paused again to think. “For your average citizen, being a Manson follower is barely a footnote. Especially forty years after the fact. But if you’re running for public office, and a US congresswoman is pretty damn public, then it’s a big deal.”

  “It’s a game changer.”

  “Yeah, I would say so,” Claire said. Looking at the screen, she exhaled heavily. “So tell me why your car was in the park.”

  “She drove me to the airport. I don’t like to leave my car in the lot there. She said she’d give me a ride then called at the last minute and said her car wouldn’t start, so I drove to her place and we went in mine.”

  “And then she keeps on going, to the park,” Claire said.

  “What about the night Alan Comstock was killed? You guys were both in New York City.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Suzanne said. “We took separate vehicles. But I remember she begged off right after the theater, said she had a headache. However, we did have breakfast the next morning.”

  “But she could’ve driven upstate, called Alan on the way on the burn phone to tell him that they caught Cain. That’s why Alan didn’t question it; he heard it from his wife. And that’s also why he didn’t fight back. She could’ve walked up, kissed him on the cheek, picked up the gun, and started shooting. And then drove back to the city. Which sets Cain up as the fall guy.”

  “It does more than that.”

  “Oh?”

  “It gets rid of a husband who was going to be a huge liability in an election campaign.”

  “Ah, yes,” Claire said. “I never thought of that.” She sat silently for a moment. “Okay then, what about your husband?”

  “Miller knew about the Manson connection. In fact, he mocked her about it just a few days ago. They didn’t like each other, and, believe me, he would not have kept quiet if she ran for office.”

  “And then he has his charges dropped and she sees her chance.”

  “Maybe.”

  Claire looked at the screen again. “Well, it’s an interesting theory. I’m not sure it all fits or not.” She glanced at Suzanne.

  “Why are you here?”

  “Just being a good citizen?” Suzanne suggested.

  “Okay,” Claire said. “With maybe a dash of self-preservation thrown in there?”

  “Possibly. I went to see her this morning. Up until now she’s held everything in check, but I think she’s off the rails. Your guy Brady told her that Cain is back in the area, and that he’s going to kill him if he gets the chance. Jane knows that solves everything. She referred to it as tying up loose ends. I actually think she sees herself helping out.”

  “How?”

  “I’m not sure,” Suzanne said. “But like I said, she knows that if Cain is dead, then everything is wiped clean. She told me to get out of her way.”

  “What else did she say?”

  “She asked me where Windecker Road was.”

  THIRTY

  It was still dark when Virgil arrived at the farm. He parked Claire’s Honda in the brush at the back of the woods and walked along the lane to the barns. The moon was out and nearly full, showing his way. The Neil Young song was playing in his head, like a constant loop.

  Look out, Mama, there’s a white boat comin’ up the river.

  The water tank was down to its last couple of inches. Virgil started the pump and, while the water ran, walked over to the house and had a look around. It didn’t appear that anybody had been there since the night Claire had arrested him and then let him go, but he couldn’t be sure. He had to assume the police were watching the place to some extent.

  After he shut off the pump he headed back to the woods, walking along the fencerow just as the sun was rising behind him. There was enough light that he could check out his cattle. He found a spot in the fence that they had nearly succeeded in knocking down while trying to get to the grass on the other side. He would have to fix it soon.

  He was suddenly tired and realized he’d only slept for a couple of hours during the night. He found a blanket in the back of Claire’s car and carried it to his spot in the cedars and rolled himself up in it. He closed his eyes but didn’t go to sleep for thinking of Claire. He saw her sitting at the counter, the towel around her neck, and he saw her at the computer listening to Neil Young, and he saw her in bed, naked on the cool sheets. He could still smell the scent of her, in his hair, on his mouth, on his fingers.

  He hadn’t been expecting any of this. The past couple of years, since Kirstie had died, he’d been on autopilot, running the farm, staying a step ahead of the bank, keeping to himself for the most part. Once in a while he’d go into Saugerties for a few beers and some chicken wings, usually at Donny’s Downtown Bar. But he had managed to eliminate the drama from his life. It had always served him poorly in the past, and while he hadn’t made any conscious effort to rid himself of it, it seemed that he had done so. Maybe it was a subconscious thing or maybe it was just the luck of the draw. Wha
tever the reason, he had been glad to leave it behind.

  But it had found him again. He hadn’t seen it coming but then how could he have? He’d been in trouble in the past but it had always been of his own volition. And while he hadn’t always been happy with the outcome, he’d always accepted it for what it was. Reap what you sow. This time was different. This time he didn’t see it coming.

  Or Claire either, for that matter.

  He didn’t want to think about her, not now anyway. He needed sleep and he knew he wouldn’t get any as long as she was on his mind. So, to push her from his thoughts, he forced himself to think about what needed to be done around the farm. The fence fixed, for one. The rest of the hay to come off. There was a tractor with a U-joint that had been clunking for a month. He went through the tasks one by one and finally his mind rested.

  When he awoke the sun was high in the sky and the song was still rambling in his head. He got to his feet and shook the blanket out. He wanted a closer look at the house and barns, but he’d left the binoculars in the Dodge pickup in Claire’s garage.

  He watched for half an hour but saw only a couple of vehicles pass by on the main road and none pull into the drive. He decided to risk walking up to the machine shed to grab pliers and a roll of wire to fix the fence where the cattle had breached it. He couldn’t spend the day sitting in the cedars.

  Walking quickly, he kept close to the fence line, thinking he could take partial cover by a post if a vehicle appeared. None did and he went into the machine shed through the door at the back. He was surprised to see that the big doors of the shed were open. He hadn’t opened them. Maybe Mary Nelson had, but he couldn’t imagine why. He gathered what he needed and put everything in an eleven-quart basket, and, just as he was about to head out, he heard tires on gravel. He walked to the front of the shed and looked out the dirty window. A navy-blue SUV was coming in the drive, idling along. The windows were tinted dark and he couldn’t see who, or how many, were inside. The vehicle got closer and he saw then that it was a BMW. When did the cops start driving BMWs?

  He looked around. If he went out the back door and started to run, he’d be seen at once. He remembered what Claire had said. For all he knew, Joe Brady was in the BMW. Virgil didn’t think Joe would shoot him down in cold blood, but he wasn’t interested in finding out he was wrong. He would wait. If they went into the house for a look around, he might be able to slip out the back door and make his way to the barn. If he could climb up into the haymow, he could hide there in the bales.

  However, the BMW didn’t stop. It had come in the lane leading to the barns and then completed the horseshoe and driven out the other lane by the house.

  In the machine shed, Virgil watched until the car was out of sight. It had just been a drive-by. Maybe it wasn’t the cops after all. A real estate agent had been after the place off and on since Tom Stempler had died. Maybe this was another one, having heard that Virgil would be going to prison for twenty or thirty years. Real estate agents were more likely to drive BMWs than were cops.

  But he couldn’t assume that it wasn’t the police. Maybe they hadn’t stopped because they were looking for the Dodge pickup. And maybe that was why the door to the machine shed was open. The cops had done it earlier, checking for the truck. Virgil couldn’t risk walking back to the woods in the daylight, not knowing when they might return. He would have to wait for dusk.

  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.

  It was going to be a long day unless he could find something to do. He could remove the U-joint from the tractor but the new parts were still on order. Then he remembered the bearings that he’d bought for the pump. He put some sockets and wrenches and screwdrivers in a toolbox and then, after checking to see that no vehicles were approaching, he headed across the yard to the pump house.

  I think you’d better call John,

  ’Cause it don’t look like they’re here to deliver the mail

  There were two windows in the pump house, one facing the road and the other, by the door, that gave a view of the house. Virgil would be able to see a car approaching from either lane. Not that it would do him any good—if anyone stopped, he would have no place to go. But they hadn’t checked the buildings the last time. They were looking for the truck, it seemed.

  He unbolted the pump from the base and lifted it onto a shelf that he’d used as a workbench in the past. He removed the motor from the pump and then took the end plate off. It took him a while, with a ball peen and a drift, to hammer the old bearing free. As he was sliding it from the shaft, he heard a car in the drive.

  He ducked down and moved toward the window by the door, listening for the car to go past the shed before sneaking a peek.

  It was the Dodge pickup. From where he stood he couldn’t see the driver but he knew it was Claire. Virgil felt a little tingle in his chest, like he was a goddamn teenager and his girlfriend had stopped by.

  He immediately heard another vehicle in the drive and looked out the front window to see the BMW returning. It drove by the pump house as well and parked just a few feet away, twenty yards or so behind the pickup. He realized it had been following the pickup. Of course, whoever was driving the BMW would assume that Virgil was driving the truck. They were about to get a surprise when they saw Claire get out.

  Virgil resigned himself to the fact that he was about to be arrested again.

  Daddy’s gone, my brother’s out hunting in the mountains, Big John’s been drinkin’ since the river took Emmy-Lou.

  The door to the BMW opened and Jane Comstock got out. Virgil knew her on sight; he had watched her sitting behind her husband every day during the trial. But what the hell was she doing here?

  Her motions seemed robotic as she walked around to the back of the car and opened the hatch to take out a gym bag.

  Claire got out of the truck then, talking on her cell phone. When she saw Jane Comstock, she reacted and shut the phone off. She walked with purpose toward the BMW. The vehicle was blocking her view and she couldn’t see what the woman was doing.

  But Virgil could. He saw Jane Comstock hesitate upon seeing Claire. Obviously she had been expecting Virgil to step out of the truck. And then Virgil saw a strange look cross the woman’s face, something between resignation and resolve. She pulled a handgun from the bag.

  Red means run, son, numbers add up to nothin’—

  Virgil kicked open the pump house door and, like the song advised, started running.

  “She’s got a gun!”

  Claire hit the ground, scrambling backward toward the truck. Jane stepped away from the SUV and fired a couple of rounds at her, kicking up the gravel in the driveway, but then seemed to realize that Virgil was coming hard on her flank. She turned the gun on him and fired it point-blank and, as he heard the roar of the gunshot, Virgil lowered his shoulder and barreled into her. He felt something tug at his ear, like a finger flicking it, and then his shoulder hit the woman full in the chest, knocking her heavily to the ground. Virgil reached wildly for her right hand, but when he found it, the gun was gone. The woman rolled away from him.

  Then he heard Claire’s voice, shouting. He looked up to see her driving Jane Comstock facedown into the gravel, her knee on the woman’s back, the muzzle of her Beretta against her head.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Jane demanded. “That’s Virgil Cain! That’s the guy you’re after.”

  “We’re going to have to talk about that,” Claire said calmly. She fumbled for her handcuffs and shackled Jane’s hands behind her. She read the woman her rights.

  Then she told Virgil he was an idiot.

  The first cop to arrive after the fact was Sal Delano. Claire had put Jane Comstock in the front seat of the BMW and was giving Virgil the condensed version of the woman’s alleged involvement in the killings. Virgil had pulled something in his right shoulder and kept trying to work it out. His ear was bleeding where the bullet had clipped
him. Claire had looked at it and given him a tissue to stop the bleeding.

  “Take Mrs. Comstock back with you,” Claire told Sal.

  “What’s she charged with?”

  “Shit, I can’t even begin to tell you,” Claire said. “But I think it’ll make the six o’clock news.”

  She watched as Sal took Jane to the cruiser and put her in the back. Sal walked around to the driver’s door and looked back at Claire.

  “You all right here?”

  “Yeah,” she told him.

  He backed around and drove off. Claire watched him until he was on the road and then turned to Virgil.

  “You’re probably going to need a couple stitches in that ear,” she said. “We can stop at emergency on the way to the station.”

  “Why are we going to the station?” Virgil asked.

  “Because I’m arresting you,” Claire said. “Escape custody. You forget about that?”

  “You can’t arrest me right now,” he said. He gestured over his shoulder. “I’ve got a pump apart in there and if I don’t get it back together, I won’t be able to water my horses.”

  “You and your damn horses.”

  Taking another tissue from her pocket, she walked over to him. She gently wiped the blood from his ear and had a look at the wound. Then she kissed him on the lips, her mouth full on his.

  “Come on and fix it,” she said and walked toward the pump house.

  “And then what?”

  “And then you’re under arrest.”

  “And then what?”

  “We’ll see,” she told him, and she went inside.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A wise person once observed that it takes a village to raise a novel.

  Or words to that effect.

  With that in mind, I would be remiss if I didn’t thank the people who helped out along the way with Red Means Run. Their contributions vary in size but not in significance.