by John McEvoy
As soon as the mare was in the trailer, Collier said, the little man “stuck her with a needle,” which he assumed contained a tranquilizer.
Then, Collier said, the men drove cautiously down the dark country backroads in their two-vehicle procession. They went just a few miles, he estimated, before they pulled off the asphalt and up a narrow dirt road leading onto a property Collier had never seen.
Jud motioned for Collier to get out of his truck. Jud and the little man then unhooked the trailer from Collier’s pickup and sent him on his way, another $1,000 in his jacket pocket.
“I don’t know what they done with the trailer,” Collier said. “I asked the little fella where we were when Jud gave me my money. But he never said. He just give me this real hard look, so I didn’t ask him nothing else. I just took my money and got out of there.”
But, Collier said, about a year and a half later he was hired on a short-time basis to work cutting back undergrowth on an off-the-road piece of property. The road leading to the work site looked “mighty familiar,” Collier said, and he eventually became convinced that this was where he and Jud and the little man had parted company.
“I found out it was land owned by that Mr. Rexroth, the Willowdale fella,” Lucas Collier said.
Doyle closed the folder and looked at the two agents across from him at the table.
“We had Lucas Collier going over mug shots last night,” Karen said. “He didn’t come across the man called Jud. But he absolutely, positively ID’d the ‘little man’ as Ronald Mortvedt. He said that was a face he could never forget.”
Damon leaned forward, arms on the table. “Do you see it now, Jack? We’ve got Mortvedt, the horse killer, tied to Rexroth, the collector of insurance premiums on murdered horses.
“We’re in business here, Jack.”
It was the first time Doyle had ever seen Damon Tirabassi grin.
Chapter 26
It was a few minutes before eleven o’clock on a cloudless Thursday night. The nearly full moon gleamed a Velveeta yellow in the high summer sky. The retractable skin of Willowdale’s pool/pavilion complex was pulled back to reveal the relatively bright night, which in turn made visible the female form that circled Rexroth’s blading track. As bright as the moonlight was, her face was still not discernible in the darkened pavilion. All that was visible were the iridescent elbow and knee pads, glowing a light green, as she skated in leisurely fashion, throwing in a pirouette or two in every other loop.
Rexroth, who sat behind his vast desk reading computer printouts, occasionally raised his head to glance at the circling figure, but did not speak. The only sounds in the building were of the whirling of her wheels and of the woman’s breathing as she made her rounds over the track.
At five seconds before eleven, Rexroth heard movement behind one of the ceiling-to-floor curtains that hung from the expanse of windows back of his desk. He knew who it was, but couldn’t help turning to look.
Ronald Mortvedt slipped into the pavilion. His entrance, as always, served to send a shudder through Rexroth. No matter how many times he met with the ex-jockey ex-con, Rexroth could never come close to feeling comfortable with him-this, despite the fact that in almost every moral and ethical sense they were blood brothers. Maybe that was why Mortvedt made the publishing magnate so uncomfortable.
Also disturbing, Rexroth had found, was the little man’s great gift of stealth. He always arrived right at the appointed time, easily eluding the Willowdale security setup. That’s what makes him so good at the jobs he does for me, Rexroth thought, with a mixture of admiration and unease. Rexroth well understood that Mortvedt was, to the unsuspecting-as his victims almost always were-as deadly as cobra venom.
Rexroth realized from the start of their relationship that the only way to meet with Mortvedt was like this, at night, at Willowdale, where secrecy was best maintained.
Mortvedt, as always, remained out of sight behind one of the pavilion’s drawn curtains until Rexroth dismissed the blader.
“Darlene,” Rexroth announced, “that’s enough for tonight, sweetheart. You’re excused. And thank you.”
After Rexroth heard the far door close, he signaled Mortvedt to come forward.
As was his custom for these night meetings, Mortvedt was dressed all in black: long-sleeved jersey, jeans, cowboy boots, all the color of his slicked-back hair. His eyes were impassive and he sat perfectly still, strong hands on the arms of the chair. He was not there to apologize for the Bolger disaster, that was clear to Rexroth.
Rexroth said, “What went wrong?”
Mortvedt shrugged. “Motherfucker picked the wrong night for a walk in the rain,” he said nonchalantly. “Bad luck for us-I couldn’t do the horse-but worse luck for him.”
“Yes, I’d say worse luck for him,” Rexroth replied. “And damned bad luck for me, too, and Willowdale. The Bolger incident has been all over the media. The fact that you apparently covered your tracks, that they have no leads or suspects-well, that’s fine, but….”
“But fuckin’ what?” Mortvedt said quietly. “Ain’t no way to pin that thing on me, and you should know it. You should know it,” he repeated. Mortvedt shot a steady, black-ice look at Rexroth, who not for the first time felt a powerful feeling of regret that he’d ever decided to welcome Mr. Ronald Mortvedt into his employ.
Mortvedt said, “Boss, where you hidin’ your nearest john in this here mansion?”
“Oh,” Rexroth said, standing to point. “Take that door at the far end of the pool. There’s a sauna room, then a washroom.”
Sometimes Rexroth, when making his motivational speeches dressed in his General George Patton regalia, advised his employees that “there are different ways of looking at looking back.
“A philosopher named Santayana used to say that if you didn’t know history, you were doomed to repeat it. A baseball pitcher named Satchell Paige, on the other hand, advised never to look back because something might be gaining on you.
“Both men were right, in their own way,” Rexroth-as-Patton would shout, “both men were wise. It’s up to RexCom employees to distinguish between the validity of these views when applied to the situation at hand. Deciding which wisdom fits at the proper time is what makes for a leader in the mighty media army of RexCom troops. It is all about choice, people!” Like all of Rexroth’s utterances, this one was always greeted with a wave of orchestrated applause from the carefully prepped employees.
In Mortvedt’s brief absence, Rexroth wondered to himself exactly what kind of a choice he had made when he launched his alliance with the little Cajun killer. Even now he had to fight off the memory of Aldous Bolger’s horribly battered features that he’d been forced to view when visiting the crime scene in the Willowdale stallion barn.
Mortvedt slipped back into his chair across from Rexroth’s desk. Eyebrows raised, he asked, “You been sick, boss?” He nodded at the hospital cart and tray of food nearby.
“No, I haven’t,” replied the suddenly irritated Rexroth. Ordinarily, he limited the knowledge of his hospital-like cuisine preferences to members of the immediate staff. Rexroth could not imagine how he might explain this idiosyncrasy of his to Mortvedt, and he did not attempt to do so.
As he looked at Mortvedt’s lean, sharp-featured face where the little man sat at the edge of the lamplight, Rexroth thought, I’ve known him four years now, and in every one of those years his sociopathy has become more obvious. Rexroth realized just how fearful he was of the ex-convict.
Rexroth noticed that his desk clock read 11:23. The end of their association was very near.
He said, “Ronald, I’ve got one more job for you. Then, I think it will be in the best interests of us both if we stop doing business together.”
Mortvedt’s always morose face darkened even further upon receipt of this news. The little man leaned toward the light. His hands tightened on the arms of the chair.
“What’s the problem?” Mortvedt said. “Yeah, I laid the wood to that clumsy farm
manager of yours. That was his fault for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And I didn’t leave a goddam trace of anything in that barn. These hayseed cops ain’t got a clue,” he said dismissively. His eyes locked onto Rexroth’s, challenging him. “So, what’s the fuckin’ problem?”
Rexroth attempted to summon all his powers of amelioration and persuasion. He didn’t want Mortvedt to become an enemy. Rexroth needed to usher him out of his life as smoothly as possible.
“The problem is this: we’ve stretched the envelope, you and I. Oh, certainly,” Rexroth continued expansively, waving his huge cigar, “our work together has been ultra-efficient and effective. You’ve done a marvelous job, accomplishing everything assigned you. But,” Rexroth said with a shake of his head, “I’m convinced that we’re at that point where we are uncomfortably close to pushing our luck past where it will go.
“What you did to Bolger, no matter how much it needed to be done considering the circumstances you were in, raises the stakes for us considerably. Insurance fraud that involves dead horses is one thing. Action bordering on the murder of a human being is quite another.
“Nothing lasts forever, Ronald. I’ve decided that we are just about at the end of our line together. I want you to kill one more of my equine liabilities. His name is Mister Mulvey. He’s in stall five in the stallion barn. You can do it any night you choose within the next two weeks. And that will be the last one you do for me. That’s why,” Rexroth said, reaching into a desk drawer for an unmarked envelope. “I’ve readied this for you.” Mortvedt took the envelope, noting, without expression, the thick packet of bills it contained. He looked at Rexroth expectantly.
“There is seventy-five thousand dollars there, all fifties and hundreds. You may count them if you wish. This represents your final fee, plus a bonus for excellent work done in the past. Consider the latter a farewell gift.”
Mortvedt saw that Rexroth was determined to end their relationship in this abrupt way. He felt a wave of resentment. All the dirty work I’ve done for rich boy here, and he calls the final shot without asking me? he thought. His expression darkened, but he said nothing.
Mortvedt tucked the cash-filled envelope into his boot. When Mortvedt did so, Rexroth noticed the ankle holster on Mortvedt’s right leg. Then he realized it wasn’t a holster for a gun, but a knife scabbard. Light briefly reflected off part of the knife blade before Mortvedt pulled his jeans leg back down over his boot. Rexroth felt himself hosting another involuntary shudder.
But knowing now that Mortvedt was, indeed, going to go along with this parting of the ways, Rexroth began to relax. This was going to work. Mortvedt was not going to present a daunting obstacle to his plans, or any kind of obstacle at all.
Mortvedt stared at Rexroth for a moment. Then he quickly rose from his chair and left without a backward glance. Rexroth stared at the curtained doorway through which the little man had slipped. The curtains continued to shift for several seconds after Mortvedt had disappeared, though Rexroth was unable to discern the presence of any summer breeze. The night, Rexroth knew, was dark, deep, and as silent as the black-clad figure that must be now moving to his car, hidden as always on one of Willowdale’s farthest borders.
Chapter 27
Jack drove Caroline and her children to Lexington’s Blue Grass Airport, following as closely as he could the ambulance transporting Aldous from the hospital. A midday summer rainstorm had just subsided, but no rainbow followed. As Helen and Ian talked quietly in the backseat, Caroline looked straight ahead from her passenger seat, eyes shielded behind dark glasses. The weight of depressed reaction to what had happened to Aldous bore down on all of them.
Turning onto New Circle Road, Jack said, “Well, at least Aldous seems happy to be going home.”
Caroline thought for a moment before replying. “Relieved, disheartened, terribly disappointed-all those things more likely,” she said. “That big dream he had of making a mark on American racing as a brilliant farm manager, to have that torn away from him, it’s almost as bad as the crippling. He wanted it so badly.”
“Don’t say crippling,” Jack responded. “You can’t say that yet. You don’t know that to be true.”
Caroline reached over and patted Jack’s knee. “You’re right, we don’t,” she said. “I hope I’m wrong and the doctors are right, that he’ll get his speech fully back, that the knee replacements will work out over time. But what was done to him will be with him all the rest of his life. And all our lives as well. There’s a crippling involved in all that, I can tell you.”
She turned to look out her window, attempting to muffle an involuntary sob.
Traffic entering the airport was light. Jack pulled up to the curb behind the ambulance, whose attendants were carefully lowering Aldous’ wheelchair to ground level. He sat in it with his legs in their casts straight in front of him, his big hands gripping the chair handles. Discomfort was evident on his broad face, but he attempted to reassure the watchers by smiling.
The Bolgers were to take a series of flights from Lexington to Auckland, arranged to accommodate Aldous and his wheelchair. Aldous had insisted on this plan. “If I’m to be chopped and chiseled, I want it done on home ground,” he’d told Dr. Sill at Central Baptist. Dr. Sill had okayed Aldous to travel three days earlier. He told Jack admiringly, “This man’s got the pain tolerance of a Thai kick boxer. He’ll be able to make that journey all right.”
Jack waited as the Bolger party checked in at the Delta counter. It was a slow Tuesday morning and the process was quick. Caroline politely waved off an airport attendant who volunteered to wheel Aldous to the gate. “Thanks, we’ll handle it ourselves,” she said politely. “Jack, are you coming?” she asked.
“I’ll say goodbye here,” Doyle replied. He moved forward to kneel and embrace the children. “Be good, you Kiwi rascals,” he grinned. “I’ll be checking up on you.” Standing, he turned to Aldous, who began to speak. Aldous’ voice was soft and halting as he struggled to convert ideas into sound. Jack winced at the painfulness of this slow process, then tried to hide his reaction.
“Keep your eyes open wide,” Aldous finally managed to get out. “Guard those horses-and yourself, Jack.” He fell silent after this taxing effort, then turned his head to look down the corridor to the Delta gate. It was their signal to leave.
Caroline smiled at Jack, who took her in his arms, face pressed into the fragrance of her hair. He felt her tremble as he held her tightly. “We hardly got out of the starting gate,” he whispered to her.
Caroline laughed quietly. She kissed him briefly on the lips, then put her head on his chest for a moment. “Maybe there’ll be another start another time, Jack,” she said. “Thanks again for all you’ve done for us.” Then she turned away and began to wheel her brother down the corridor, her kids on either side of Aldous’ wheelchair. None of them looked back.
Doyle exited the terminal and walked to his car in the airport parking lot. He sat for nearly an hour, restlessly drumming his fingers on the Accord’s steering wheel, turning the radio on and then, quickly, off. Blue Grass Field was so compact he had no trouble spotting the Delta aircraft when it finally taxied away down the runway, then lifted off.
As the plane faded out of view, Doyle turned on the ignition and started the car. He felt as if something had again been lost to him. He realized he hadn’t experienced such a feeling since his brother Owen died. But the spreading emptiness in his chest, the tightening of his mouth, even the reflexive narrowing of the eyes to thwart tears-“tough guys don’t cry,” his father had insisted in his drunken rages-were terribly familiar to him.
He put the car in gear and sped out of the airport.
Chapter 28
The phone call from Byron Stoner’s impeccable office at Willowdale to the thoroughly messy kitchen of Earlene Klinder’s weather-beaten one-story home on the outskirts of Louisville went through at nearly ten o’clock at night.
Stoner sat at his orderly desk, having completed his
review of that day’s RexCom business results. All had gone well, he was glad to find, so there was no need for him to go through the process of ordering a change in the blader line-up.
This was the end of a typical working day for Stoner, one that extended from seven in the morning until well after the dinner hour, and he was tired. He just had one more thing to arrange, then he could repair to his second-floor suite of rooms in the Willowdale mansion. Stoner was re-reading Robertson Davies’ Deptford Trilogy, thoroughly enjoying again the depiction of life in his native Canada. But, first, a phone call.
When, two days earlier, Rexroth had told Stoner what he needed done, he did so with “complete confidence that you can find a way. You are truly a marvel at this sort of thing, Byron,” Rexroth had said, and Stoner couldn’t help but feel the flush of elation that always accompanied one of his employer’s infrequent compliments.
Earlene Klinder was tired, too. Resting her forearms on the dish-laden kitchen table, she was tempted to put her head down between them and go to sleep. Her teenage twins, Earl and Earlette, were in the living room squabbling over which television show to watch. The twins had fought once they’d learn to talk, and hadn’t stopped in the dozen years since. Earlene tuned them out as best she could.
Reaching for the radio dial, she flicked on the Reverend Roland Ruland’s program. The Sports Preacher was segueing from a dissertation on Samson and Delilah-“Samson, the premier power lifter of his time, until he was brought down by the ayerobic dancing wiles of old Delilah”-into what he termed his “feature presentation lesson of the night.
“Picture the Orange Bowl on a New Year’s night,” Reverend Ruland boomed, “Florida ’gainst Nebraska, and a huge and hungry crowd on hand. But all the concession stands are locked up tighter than a miser’s safe! There’s no food or beverage to be had!
